#additional note: her reading style is easy to get into

[diyasgarden]

We already have an ongoing correspondence about books but I’m always willing to expand my tbr even further lol. I feel like you have a good sense of my lore already…but I guess I’ll say I’m very sentimental.

Simple Passion by Annie Ernaux

I genuinely believe you'd resonate with anything Ernaux has written. While nearly all of her work focuses on one aspect of her life or another, she writes with such insightful narration that it feels brilliantly self aware and poetic. At the same time she treats every person in her life and previous less-knowledgeable versions of herself with such empathy, that even when she points out their flaws or failures it never feels harsh or cruel. All together, you're left with such insightful memoirs that feel like a life lesson hand written for you from someone older, wiser, and more experienced.

Now why I'm saying this book specifically is that she is recounting her time having an affair. It's romantic and thrilling, while equally very honest about how insane the whole experience was. It reads like a conversation and memoir at once. A Carrie Bradshaw-esque narrative elavated with Ernaux's perceptive nature. You can sense that she is also a sentimental person, more or less, just through how she remembers her past lover, and I feel like you'd really enjoy every way she explores her memories of him here.

[cloversnstrawberries]

“safespace” platonic!yandere!og michael myers & gn!bullied!teen!reader [oneshot] ! !

masterlist !

description; For a while now, you've been using the old Myer's house as a home base of sorts; previously, your bullies had never dared to rush in after you, too afraid of the history of the house. That changed one fateful Halloween night, and unknowingly, you'd just sealed yourself into a fate different from death, but not much better.

The Haddonfield Boogeyman has taken a liking to you, and that's not something you can easily retreat from once it happens. Not safely, for that matter.

additional notes; this is. extremely long and I managed to write it within two days. help. i hope you enjoy it, because it was actually really fun to write. it might be in a bit of a different style than normal, because i've been reading. so much junji ito & gothic lit and i don't know if that affects anything.

warnings; bullying, possessive behavior, overprotectiveness, Michael being unsettling, discussions of past murder (judith primarily), violence, blood & gore, murder/murder of teens (reader's bullies), slight/implied neglect (reader's parents are very lax), soft michael (as soft as he can get), kidnapping/imprisonment, and if there's any I missed, please let me know!! i do believe this is the most intense (?) one i've posted so far?? mayhaps?

w/c; 10.2k (OH SWEET MOTHER OF PEARL!)

It’s silly, stupid, some would say-- and you know it is. You know it’s not a good idea to set up shop in the old Myer’s house, and that it was, realistically, the least safe place you could camp out at in Haddonfield,

Structurally speaking, considering how long it’s sat vacant and unattended for the most part. The story and tragedy surrounding it kept squatters away, but it was surprisingly easy to sneak into.

For you, it was one of the safest places possible-- because everyone knows about how unsafe it was. An oxymoron in a way, that you claimed this old rickety house as your safe space because you know it’s dangerous.

Because your tormentors know it’s unsafe, so they’ll leave you be for the most part-- once you’re inside the house that should’ve been torn down ages ago.

It’s a nice house, but you’re sure someone will roll up to a city council meeting and propose tearing down the place. No one’s going to buy it, no amount of polishing the hardwood floors and replacing the peeling wallpaper is going to change that.

The Myer’s house could be renovated into the most gorgeous, affordable home for a good sized family-- and still, no one would buy it.

Judith Myer’s blood, spilt by her own little brother one normal Halloween night, was like a curse laid on the house. Even you have to admit, there’s a strangely foreboding, suffocating atmosphere about it that doesn’t suit how… plain it otherwise appears.

For a few years now, you’ve had your claim staked on this house. Over those few years, you’ve gotten used to that atmosphere. It even began to feel comforting, at some point-- like a hug, kind of.

Your bullies know you’re in here, but they can’t bring themselves to enter it and drag you out. Sometimes they’ll wait outside for you, but don’t take into consideration is that you’ve supplied yourself with enough snacks and various forms of entertainment to be able to wait them out most times.

Cowards, the lot of them-- that’s all they ever were to you. A bunch of unruly, rich assholes that take their grievances out on you for lack of a different outlet,

More like you’re the most interesting outlet-- you’re sure their parents have enough money to get them another way, other than razzing and beating on you constantly-- but they don’t want it.

They like watching you cry, the sickos. But that’s not a sight they get to see too often; not since you’ve almost accidentally made the old Myer’s house into your own kind of fortress,

Guarded by a moat of bad energy and an awful story behind it. Judith still lingers, maybe not her ghost like most would think-- but she’s there.

One time, you walked into her room. It was almost pristine, kept nearly the same as the night she died, you think. The blood is gone, but the chair to her vanity is still knocked over.

You haven’t gone near that room since that one time-- spotting the rotting bag of melted taffy on her bedside table, her brush on the vanity top with golden hair still stuck in the bristles; an opened bottle of lip gloss, long dried up…

It made you sick like nothing before or after could, the knowledge that this was just a normal girl. A normal girl who expected to live another day, to eat the taffy by her bed, knowing she had to clean her hair out of her brush eventually--

She never even got to screw the cap back on her lip gloss, maybe her favorite one if you think about it. A part of you wanted to do it for her, to clean up her room a little for no real reason other than self-imposed obligation.

You’re taking up this space illegally, not quite a squatter, but still a consistent trespasser. The least you could do was clean it up for a family who’ll never come back.

But then, wouldn’t that be rude to mess with a deceased person’s belongings? You stepped out of the room, shutting the door as you clutched your stomach. In your mind, you barred off ever entering it again.

You’ve only had a peak in the little boy’s room-- Michael. Such an ordinary name, and an ordinary room to match. Hell, he could’ve been your little brother, it all appeared so average from the quick look-see you’d gotten.

As soon as you realized who’s room it was, you slammed the door and vowed to never open it again. You didn’t even go near it most times, if at all.

How can someone so normal-- a child so young, just snap like that? It made you sad, thinking about it.

Eventually, you knew it’d come to this, though. When your bullies’ need to torture you overrode the fear, and they followed you into your previously impenetrable fortress.

Your safe-space desecrated, the next time to ran in-- nothing too damaging to the actual house, but your books and magazines were torn. Snacks either eaten or crushed, and the little nest of pillows and blankets you brought from home was tossed around, dirty footprints all over.

“You’re such a coward,” the head boy spoke up, and you know his dad was a real estate agent, the one that oversaw the house, you think. That’s why there wasn’t any real damage to the place.

In your anger and grief, at your one good thing being wrecked like this; you spoke up. These kids-- no, you all weren’t kids anymore by most’s standards. Well into high school, and they were still messing with you for no good reason.

Tears welled in your eyes, not from sadness but from rage. You’d been chased in by two other kids, who were now behind you. Two kids were already inside along with the head boy,

You were surrounded, 5-to-1, and stood no chance. Not because you couldn’t fight physically, but because you knew the consequences of fighting back against these daddy’s money types.

They’ve broken bones before-- your bones, but if you so much as left a scratch on them, they ran to their parents and the repercussions were… dire.

You’d nearly been booted put of school before, because you left a tiny, already healing bruise of one of the girl’s arms after you shoved her down so you could flee.

“Look who’s saying that!” It’s not like you haven’t fought back with your words before, but it’d never been this up close as of late. You’d grown too comfortable, taunting the kids through the door as you did.

Poking a sleeping bear. You really wished this method could’ve lasted a bit longer, hopefully until after you finished high school and left Haddonfield; but beggars can’t be choosers.

You’re lucky it’s worked for this long anyways.

Before the kids could say anything, you started on a tirade. Letting out every little grievance you’ve had over the years-- they can’t let you have this one good thing.

They all get friends upon friends, secret admirers and good partners; they participate in school, they’re active in the community-- meanwhile you’ve been shunned for a good half of your life, resorting to hiding in an abandoned house while they were out living their best lives.

Once you were done, chest heaving up and down, did they say anything further. They mocked you, of course they did-- and when you asked “So what are you gonna do now, huh? Break a couple fingers? Strangle me? Kick me until I’m bruised all over--!”

They called you unoriginal, then grabbed ahold of you. They wrapped rope around your wrists and ankles-- then started dragging you upstairs.

No.

And they didn’t tell you their plan, but you were smart. You picked up on it, especially from how they were talking about the recent breakout from the nearby mental institution.

The institute currently home to none other than the Haddonfield Boogeyman himself, Michael Myers. Or, more accurately, no longer housing the man.

He was among the escaped, one of the few that hadn’t been rounded up after the transport bus crash-- it was October 31st.

You were doomed.

They dragged you to the little boys room, the atmosphere you’d become accustomed to suddenly cranked up to 11, choking you, clinging to the inside of your throat like cling-wrap. Making it hard to breathe, as they tossed you into Michael’s room,

And boy, did they really not want you to leave without their help. They tied you to the wooden poster of the bed, and you couldn’t help but cry.

Ghost stories about Judith staying behind were all fine and dandy, but the very much alive perpetrator being on the loose? The one who’s spent the past god-knows-how-long confined in a mental hospital, since he was a child?

That was a real threat, because it was to some extent predictable and unpredictable what he’d do next. There was no set guarantee that he’d stop by his childhood home, but there was a chance.

And the bullies knew it.

“Stop! Stop, I’m sorry--!” You hated groveling, but this was a real threat. This wasn’t funny-- it hadn’t been for a long time, but this time you can’t comprehend why they’d be laughing at all.

It’s not funny.

You could die. Even if it’s a slim chance of happening, there is a chance nonetheless. A chance greatly increased by Myer’s unpredicted ‘discharge’ from the hospital.

As always, they didn’t care. They were all giggles and smiles as they bid you farewell-- you heard another door open, then a scraping sound as something was set down in front of the door.

You’re sure it was Judith’s vanity chair, that they’d pressed under the door handle. Why? Why do they hate you so much-- there wasn’t even a promise of them returning, either.

Even if the Boogeyman doesn’t show up like you’re afraid of, they might just leave you here to rot with the house. No one would come looking for you, you don’t think-- unless they’re pointed in this direction by your bullies.

What an awful way to spend your Halloween night, huh? Not like you had much planned in the first place, but still.

This isn’t a position you wanted to be in right now. Or ever, thank you very much.

It got dark out a while ago. Inside here, somewhere, there's a clock that still works. Or maybe you’re already going crazy, imagining the ‘tick-tick-tick’ to try and make something for you to do.

Restrained as you are, it’s not like you can do much besides slump against the bed and wait it out. Hope your exhaustion from coming down after an adrenaline rush takes you out sooner or later, because it’s getting awfully boring.

Boredom overrode fear, maybe because you’re loopy from said exhaustion, but too high strung and uncomfortable, sitting on the hardwood floor with your wrists and ankles tied, to take a little nap as it is.

Throughout it all, you kept your eyes shut. Not because you particularly want to sleep, (though you do want to, if only to pass the time quicker) but because you’re trying to pretend you’re anywhere else but here, on this night, at this hour.

Your only other hope at being released right now was if some stupid kid got dared to come in here, like they did every Halloween. But the outlook wasn’t too good, considering the different framing the Myer’s house had with Michael’s recent escape still fresh on everyone’s minds.

Distantly, you can hear kids laughing, screaming, playing around-- all in good fun. You ache, sad that the experience of it had been cut short for you. For years now, you’ve stayed inside as much as possible.

Even on Halloween, and it hurt. Childhood cut short because some rich kids decided to make you their stress toy, punching bag, and scapegoat all in one.

When you hear a creak downstairs, you fight with yourself not to open your eyes. It’ll be pitch black anyways, your reason with yourself. It’ll only make you panic even more.

It was futile, trying to convince yourself that it was just the house settling. For hours, all you’ve been able to hear for the most part was the house settling.

This was different.

Someone was downstairs-- no joking, no yelling at their friends, no egging each other on; and it wasn’t a cop either, because they’d be shouting by now, telling anyone in here to get the hell out before you’re arrested.

It was uncanny, how quiet this person was-- both literally and with their movement. You first heard them faintly, on an especially creaky board near the front door. Then nothing-- until you heard them on the 3rd step, the one that’s about to cave at any moment from termite damage.

A primal kind of terror curled deep in your gut, the hair on the back of your neck stood straight up; silence again, until you think the person stopped moving.

Straining your ears, you heard a semi-familiar scraping noise. Whoever it was, was standing in front of this room, and was planning on entering it.

Your eyes flung open, desperately blinking as you tried to force your vision to adjust to the darkness. Surprisingly, the room was a lot lighter than you’d think it be.

No doubt aided by the moth-ravaged curtains serving as the only barrier(s) between the moonlight shining in through the windows.

When the door opened, your heart soared for a moment-- someone wearing work-boots and a mechanic’s jumpsuit. An adult, a scarily quiet adult, but hopefully a responsible one.

All hope was dashed when you looked up at your savior-- and saw a sun-bleached, cheap Captain Kirk Halloween mask staring back at you. Something glinted off the moonlight, you looked down and sure enough; he was clutching a large kitchen knife.

Maybe it was an impersonator, or not Michael at all-- But something made you doubt both ideas. The kitchen knife was a big giveaway, not the plastic kind with fake blood, or a retractable prop one.

It was real, as real as your terror-- was this a hallucination? That thought soothed you more than it should have. Or maybe a dream-- and that’s what made you work up enough courage to speak,

“…Hello.” Voice croaky and trembling, it took away from the casual aspect of the greeting. Trying your best not to look at the knife, or the unsettling mask, you took to staring at the person’s boots.

They looked bloody, drying and tacky-- and you did your best to ignore that for right now. The floor was interesting. Yeah, you opted for looking at the floor instead as you continued, introducing yourself with a shaky voice.

The person didn’t answer you, but they didn’t attack you either. You looked back up at their mask and-- wow, you must look pathetic, you realize now. Eye’s puffy and red from crying, lips chapped and bitten to hell and back, your voice nasally from your stuffed nose.

After a couple minutes of agonizing silence, the person started to move forward-- slow, almost placatingly so, like they were dealing with a startled animal.

You think that’s a very apt comparison, right now. As you jerk away, uncaring as the wooden post dug into your spine-- glancing at the person’s knife, you tried to swallow past a lump in your throat “Don’t hurt me-- please. I-I don’t have much to say, uhm, other than that.”

In all honesty, you don’t think you’re that important of a person-- in everyone else’s eyes, that is. You won’t be missed by a good majority of Haddonfield, and that’s what makes you want to live this through.

For a moment, the person stopped dead in their tracks-- and slowly shook their head. That could be interrupted one of two ways,

One, they have agreed to not hurt you. They shook their head as in ‘okay, i won’t hurt you’, or the more likely option in your mind-- considering they still held onto the knife-- they were disagreeing with your plea.

When they went to move again, you jerked back again. It didn’t do much, and wouldn’t do much unless you suddenly gained the ability to fuse with objects, that is.

The person stopped dead in their tracks again-- even taking a few steps back, and shook their head again. You piped up, despite the way your heart pounded and blood rushed in your ears.

“I-I don’t know what you mean. By that-- the shaking your head.” Almost as an afterthought, you tacked on “I’m sorry.”

Make no mistake, it was a genuine apology. Originally brought on by fear, yes, but you did regret not understanding them nonetheless.

When they started moving again, they were slower. You would’ve felt insulted, being treated like a wild animal ready to bolt-- if this had been a normal situation.

Right now, though? You appreciate how careful they seem to be, as they make their way to the little desk pushed up near the head of the bed.

The placement of the furniture in this room was odd, in your humble opinion-- the desk was where a nightstand would be, but what you assume to have been the nightstand was pushed under a window on the far side from the bed.

Then again, you can’t really expect interior decorating to be the specialty of the homicidal 6 year old that once lived here.

Reaching into the second drawer down, the person pulled out a little journal-- and crouched down to grab a pencil off the ground, before standing back up.

they’re too comfortable here, you anxiously realized. Almost like they’d put that stuff there-- but this can’t be Myers. If or was, wouldn’t he be hacking at you with his knife by now?

The stranger (which you’re hoping and praying isn’t who you think it is) set their knife down on the desk, much to your surprise. You don’t want to touch on why it surprised you, not right now, anyway.

Again, the person moved slowly, this time without the knife-- which let you relax enough to stop trying to actively fuse with the wooden bed frame. For now, at least-- who knows what the near future may hold, maybe you’ll succeed in it.

Weirder things have happened, and weirder things are happening right now-- as the stranger plops down on the floor, just a few feet away from where you sat restrained.

You couldn’t help but smile, as they sat criss-cross applesauce-- half delirious and sleep-deprived, yes, but a smile nonetheless.

Flipping to a page, that was random to you, hut didn’t seem to be to the person, they put the pencil to the paper and started writing something.

Refraining from trying to discern what it is they’re writing. you waited patiently until they stopped and turned the pad to face you,

Heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach, you read the words (god he presses hard with that pencil, even left dents in the paper from what you can tell) written on the pad.

“I won’t hurt you. It’s too easy.”

Simultaneously relieving and distressing-- the confirmation that you won’t be hurt (for now, you’re choosing to believe this person), but the ‘reassurance’ that it’s because you were too big of a target. Too obvious of a target,

If only your bullies had taken that sentiment to heart, too. Then you wouldn’t be here in the first place.

Curiosity outweighing your caution, you ask “What’s your name?”, despite being about… 85% sure you know who this is.

Turning the pad back around, he scribbles something else. When it’s facing you again, you can very clearly ready what name he’s written down.

“Michael”

You can tell yourself ‘It’s a common name!’ all you want, but that didn’t stomp out the feeling of dread as your suspicion was proven correct.

This was the one thing you’d hoped desperately to be wrong about. Guess life just hates you like that, huh?

You’d say it couldn’t get any worse-- but this is actually going pretty well, all things considered. You aren’t dead, and he’s actually communicating with you-- so that’s something, right?

“Is… was this your room?” For once, his answer was immediate-- he nodded. You suppose there was no reason to hide it, your face must be showing that you figured it out already.

It fell silent, and you didn’t know how to feel about that. Glancing around, you spotted an older edition of Clue sitting on a bookshelf nearby-- right on the top.

Looking back at the man-- Michael, the Michael Myers, which is a fact you’re trying not to dwell on too right right now-- you hazarded to say “Do you wanna, uh-- do you like board games?”

Tragically, he didn’t respond as quick this time. Leaving you to wallow in your own thoughts, wondering if you’d misstepped right into his steadily growing roster of victims.

a short, almost jerky nod, following by him abruptly standing made you jump. Hilariously, he seemed to jump as well; just a little twitch of his hands, but it was reaction nonetheless. You think that’s the closest you’re going to get to scaring a guy like him.

Then he headed to the bookshelf, and easily grabbed Clue from the top. He hadn’t always been this tall, obviously-- you spotted a step ladder, rusted and coated in dust like a majority of the room (and house as a whole) is;

It’s a cute thought, the idea that the kid this bedroom belonged to needed a step ladder to grab a boardgame. As you looked closer, you saw quite a few boardgames up there that you hadn’t noticed before,

The idea that Michael Myers was such a mundane kid, with an interest in board games-- liking them so much that he needed to have a step ladder of his own because he accessed them so much, was a jarring idea.

Another jarring idea-- or realization, more like, is that he must’ve been watching your line of sight very closely to immediately figure out that you were referring to the Clue game.

Before you could get pulled into a panic attack in full (you’ve narrowly been avoiding such a thing by pretending that this was some dream, and you had managed to fall asleep against the dusty children’s bed), Michael came back and sat down again,

This time, he was a little further away. He set the box down, and started opening it-- before you stumbled over your words, remembering that you were a little tied up right now.

“Do-- can you undo the rope around my wrists?” Slowly, ever so slowly, Michael’s head rose from where he’d been looking down to set up the game, black eyeholes eventually meeting your gaze.

Another nod, and he stood. Walking over to the desk, you realized your mistake in wording-- and as you feared, he picked up his knife again.

You’d said undo, not untie. It’s not a stretch to think that meant you have permission for him to cut the rope.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t catch any flesh while he does, yeah? When he walked back over, closer than he’d been this whole time, you valiantly fought back the urge to scream. To tremble, kick, try to fight--

Something about the way he crouched down by your side, still taller than you, with the knife gleaming made you feel vulnerable like never before. It made you feel exposed, flayed open and waiting to prepared into clean cuts of meat for packaging.

Michael was careful with it, his hold almost gentle on your arms, silently telling you hold still as he hooked the knife under the ropes and began to pull up.

Must’ve been a pretty damn sharp knife, or maybe some exceptionally cheap rope on your bullies’ parts, but either way, he got you free pretty easily.

Avoiding any sudden movement, testing the waters; you lowered your hands down to your lap. Michael stayed there a few seconds more, before quickly walking back to desk the drop the knife off on top.

When he came back, you’d already started sorting the cards-- which had gotten a little jumbled in the box. He set up the board, meanwhile.

Is it a very sad thing to say, that you felt more connected to this enigmatic, urban legend-esque serial killer (well, he killed one person definitely and a few other were suspected, but the knife didn’t paint a very good picture) than you did your classmates?

In part, that may be your fault. Alright, it may actually be mostly your fault-- but you were self-isolating for a reason.

You wouldn’t want any possible close friends to incur the wrath of your tormenters-- and become another victim, just for being near you.

Something tells you that Michael wouldn’t-- literally couldn’t-- succumb to that fate for obvious reasons. Maybe that’s why, as you two played a couple rounds of Clue before a cop came nosing around the place, you felt the safest you ever have.

And when the cop did show up, Michael was gone in an instant, almost like a ghost; but you knew better. He just had very quiet footsteps, the kind you would think impossible to achieve with his height and all.

You stayed in that room, waiting until you were sure Michael was gone to shout for help-- the cop came, and you hoped it gave Michael ample time to hide or run if need be.

And you didn’t rat on him-- to show your gratitude for him, y’know, not killing you. And being the closest thing to a friend you’ve both been allowed and allowed yourself to have as of late.

The cop walked you out-- but not before you noticed a little note folded on the accent table near the front door. “meet again?” it read, the pencil still lying next to it.

Taking a short detour, you quickly scrawled "yes :)" and while the smiley face was shaky at best, you hope he'd get the message. Besides, something tells you he'd understand that you were being rushed by the cop right now.

Because something also tells you that he's still here, watching-- you just don't know where. It's the way your skin crawls under the feeling of eyes on you, that tips you off.

When you leave the Myer's house this time around, you don't dread exiting it, some part of you afraid that your bullies had waited it out on the porch, or the yard. Maybe it's because you have a cop escorting you out this time,

Or maybe it's the lingering feeling of the Haddonfield Boogeyman himself keeping on eye on you. Presumably, of course.

The next time you visit the Myer's house, you aren't being chased in for once. If you were, there'd be no real reason to hide in here anyways. Your tormentors evolved, now being able to enter what you previously considered you safespace.

But you had to be sneaky regardless, as the country sheriff had been observed walking around the premise. Maybe to catch Michael, who was still on the loose as far as you knew, or to prevent foolhardy kids from entering the house on a dare.

That'd always been an issue, but before now the cops never cared to do much. The kids almost always psyched themselves out after taking a few steps into the house anyways, and there was hardly any vandalism to worry about.

Now, however, it was far more about keeping the kids themselves safe rather than the house. When you got there, the country sheriff was nowhere to be seen; there was a cop car in the driveway, but you recognized it as one of the ones used for false speed traps.

There was no one in there, and no cop in the house either. The car was enough to deter most, but you've been coming here for a while. They've done something like this before, especially around Halloween.

The difference came with the fact that it was November 3rd, and they usually did away with the deterrent by now. They have good reason, considering you know Michael Myer's is definitely in the house, or at least visiting regularly, but it's a little annoying.

Knowing they'll keep this up for a while longer, indefinitely, and you haven no way of telling if they suddenly decide to plant a cop inside the house to switch things up.

You entered through the back kitchen door, something you don't often do. Usually, when you enter this place, you don't care how you enter it-- just the closest possible entryway.

Which was usually the front door, or a window on the side that's easy to open from the outside. But this time, you get the luxury of picking where you get to enter from.

You brought a wrist watch with you, to monitor the time. Your parents never cared about how late you stayed out before,

But after a cop showed up at their door, you in tow, informing them that you'd been 'hanging out' in the old Myer's house (of course he left out the part where your ankles were bound), suddenly they had something to say about what time you returned home.

And maybe you'd think it was annoying, if you didn't know they had good reason for it. Honestly, you don't know what possessed you to come back here. To agree to meet up again, with a known murderer.

Years of isolation and ostracization at the hands of your peers and bullies alike must've corroded a part of your brain, is your theory. Your need for friendship and belonging was so big that you settled for meeting with a Boogeyman for social interaction.

A Boogeyman that was both parts legend and fact, because when you headed upstairs-- and was almost scared so bad you tumbled down the stairs, when you saw that sun-bleached mask staring back at you.

There was no way you could stifle the little shriek you let out when you felt a hand, large and warm and real-- wrap around your upper arm, your entire body going tense as you were pulled forward, and you could already imagine how it'd feel to have the blade of a kitchen knife lodged deep in your stomach and--

But no pain came, your eyes screwed shut out of terror, you didn't keep track of where he was taking you. In this blinding moment of fear, you forgot all about why you came here in the first place.

This was a bad idea, coming back here when you'd escaped last time by the skin of your teeth, and a few rounds of playing a murder mystery board game with a real mysterious murderer.

When you were pulled to a stop, static filling your ears as your heart pounded a mile a minute, you didn't open your eyes at first. Not until Michael let go of you, and your eyes promptly shot open.

It was only 5:12PM, so there was still some sun shining in through the motheaten curtains, but it wasn't much and you knew it wouldn't be staying for long. It casted long, eerie shadows into the room.

But nothing could compare to how to fell on Michael's mask, making it even more menacing than before. Who thought that a cheap reproduction of William Shatner's face was strike such fear in you?

He was just standing there, which you guess you can't fault him for. When he noticed you were looking at him, he pointed to the floor, near the foot of the bed. Where you'd been sitting last time.

Taking the hint, you quickly plopped down, this time unhindered by ropes restraining you. Funnily enough, you were subconsciously treating Michael as a dinosaur; a T-rex, to be specific.

You moved slowly, trying not to trigger his prey drive or whatever. Trying to make yourself seem as small and weak as you could, to try and keep up his sentiment of “I won’t hurt you. It’s too easy.”

Awkwardly clearing your throat, you tried to start a conversation as Michael walked over to the bookshelf again. "Uh-- so... how have you been?" Obviously, he doesn't respond.

Honestly, you don't know where you're going with this. You try to save yourself, by adding on "Have you been good?", and after a moment, you saw him nod from behind-- as he stood, facing the bookshelf.

He didn't reach up for any game, just slowly turned to face you; when you finally realized he was giving you room to choose, you panicked and squeaked out a little "Sorry--"

Comically, you'd forgotten that was a game-- and game he had, apparently, as he pulled away a few other games and got it out from the back. Task failed successfully, as your math teacher always said back in 7th grade.

When he came back over, you weren't any less high strung. He didn't seem to care-- maybe he didn't even notice-- and went about setting up the game. You busied yourself with reading the manual, having forgotten how to play it.

You weren't perfect with it, though. Sometimes you'd mess up, and it'd lead to Michael moving your piece back to where it'd been, or just pointing at the manual again; sitting innocently beside you on the floor, easy access.

Eventually, when you finished up the first game, only 34 minutes had passed. The sun was almost completely down, but something kept you rooted to your spot for a little longer. A few more rounds of Sorry, and you were well on your way to worrying your parents;

It was only 7:18PM now, but it was November. The sun was long set, and you were getting antsy to leave. After your fifth game concluded, you quickly blurted out "I have to go home."

You tried your best to catch Michael before he started setting up for another round, to minimize any irritation-- but it was obvious he'd been expecting to have another go at it.

Slowly, as everything he seemed to do was either methodically slow or terrifyingly quick with no in between yet to be seen, he lifted his head and stared at you point blank. His eyes hidden behind the mask, but that didn't mean there was any room for you to delude yourself into think he didn't have his full, undivided attention on you.

"My parents will be worried, they're already, uh, suspicious of how late I stay out." Michael doesn't move at all, staying still as a statue, just like you are. You don't make any move to get up, not until you get his express permission.

No matter how human he seems, playing board games so innocently with you-- the fact he was a cold-blooded killer never left your mind. There was no lead-up to his original snap, when he slaughtered his sister in the room just across the hall.

There's no reason to think you'd be an exception to that. One moment it could be fine, and the next you'll be bleeding out on the floor; it made you uneasy, for good reason.

Relief flooded you, a weight lifted from your shoulders as Michael nodded, the relief was pulled away when he stood and approached you-- but reinstated when he got close, just to extend a hand and offer to help you up, it seems.

Palm up, slow with his movements. Like he was dealing with an especially skittish dog. You felt like one, cornered as you were-- but you took his hand, and he was...

Well, it was like he tried to be gentle, but he didn't know how to be. He pulled roughly, but the way his grip faltered when you stumbled-- how he caught you with his other arm, almost desperate. Like he didn't know his own strength.

That terrified you more than the idea that he'd stab a knife through you. The idea that it was more likely for him to accidentally hurt you, how he was trying to restrain himself but it'd always end the same way.

In your panic, you didn't realize the way you'd grabbed onto him. Almost like a hug, one you pulled away from quickly. His arm lingered on your back, barring you from gaining any meaningful distance from him. Before you could think to panic some more, he let you go.

Grabbing onto your hand, he led you out of the room. Down the stairs, and to the living room. He didn't drop your hand once, even as he opened the door and pulled it open for you,

It was you, who wrestled away from the hold. You were on edge, freedom so close you could taste it-- the frigid midwestern wind blowing against your face had never felt so nice, a reprieve from the stifling presence that is Haddonfield's own personal Boogeyman.

Belatedly, you realized what he'd done. He walked you to the door, and he let you pull your hand from his grasp. if he didn't want you too, it'd be easy to not let it happen. His arm stayed where it was for a moment, before dropping heavily by his side.

You took a few small, miniscule steps; careful as you crossed the boundary between the inside of the house and the porch. Michael made no move to stop you,

A part of you wanted to run, a vestigial part of the human mind; buried, fear for something so closely human but so damningly not. Something that landed in the uncanny valley, when it should be human but something was off.

Michael Myer's was the only thing that's ever dredged up this forgotten kind of terror, something that was bigger than you'd ever be resided in him, you think. Deep down, though, you knew you two were similar. Similar enough for him to take mercy on you, for whatever reason.

Similar how? Well, you just don't know, but it's all you can think of as to why he's doing this. Why he not only let you go, but asked for your return-- not to cut a loose thread, but to play board games.

A few steps further, and you stood on the edge of the porch. When you turned around, seeing Michael standing in the doorway like it was normal; like either of you were normal, softened something in you.

Fear loosened it's hold on you, and in that moment, all you could do was smile and give a little wave, saying "I'll see you again?" He nodded, slow again. Smile growing wider, you let yourself giggle-- why? You don't know, you didn't find anything funny. It just felt right.

"Okay. I'll... see you later, I might get grounded for this, so it might be a while." You flashed a little thumbs up, before turning around and staring at the three short steps before you.

Feeling freer than you had in years, a bit of your childhood returned to you-- the childhood stolen by your bullies, you let yourself take a few steps back; gaining a running start, you hopped all three stairs.

Landing hard on the concrete, you wobbled a bit. Legs shaky from sitting for so long, but you didn't fall. If you had, you probably would've scraped your knees-- and the idea of it was freeing.

Being able to get hurt in such a meaningless way, getting hurt in a way kids should be getting hurt. Not coming home with broken ribs after school, before shutting yourself away in your room and seldom going outside, But coming home with a big smile, despite the shallow cuts on your legs.

When you turned around again, the door was closed-- but you saw a hint of movement from the window beside it, and sure enough, you saw the telltale white of Michael's mask.

You spared another wave, before you were off on your way.

5 months.

It's been roughly 5 months, since you started hanging around Michael. The feeling of guilt comes and goes on a whim, when you'd remember who this really was. A few more murders, some rich people from the nicer part of Haddonfield; the news attributed it to Michael Myers, which you couldn't argue with.

You could turn him in. You should turn him in, should've done it ages ago, you know-- but you can't bring yourself to do the right thing. It's wholly selfish, your want to keep him a well-hidden secret.

As sad as it was, he was your only friend. He didn't ask questions like your parents, questions that never lead anywhere-- it didn't matter if you told them the truth or not,

Whether or not you said "it was awful, the kids are still bullying me" or "it was okay" when they asked "how was school?", you always got the same kind of meaningless, cookie cutter response.

Sometimes it was more insulting, though, when you used to answer truthfully. Condescending, as your mom once again told you to "Think of what they're going through" and it irked you. She's the one who took the brunt of the bills, had to do the co-pay after you got a cast for your broken arm.

Those kids... they aren't bullying you because their life is bad. The worst they've gone through is their favorite perfume being out of stock, or their siblings got to have the TV remote the night prior.

Why should you give them that kind of consideration, when they obviously didn't spare you a second thought? You had a metal bat by your bed for a reason, walking everywhere with a small switchblade nestled in your coat pocket.

You never used it, but even Haddonfield could be dangerous-- there were three main sections of it, the Diamond District, a gated community for the ultra rich; the suburbs, and the closest to 'slums' as it got.

Where you lived, far from the white picket fences of the suburbs, and the glitzy modern exteriors of the Diamond District

But now, you practically live at the old Myer's house. Your bullies are still after you, but you always try to lose them before making it to the Myer's house. You hated them, but you didn't like the possibility of Michael going berserk on them.

He's probably snap at you too, and you wouldn't know how to cope with it-- for the remaining few minutes of your life, that your only friend would turn on you on a dime. Even though you knew it from the get, that this was dangerous. This agreement.

Sometimes you slept over, and you'd tell your parents that you finally made a friend. They wanted to meet them, but you'd just say they're shy, or something along those lines.

It was on accident, the first time you did it. It was in the dead of winter, bundled up in your outerwear while in the house. It was cold, and Michael was kind enough to wrap a few blankets around you.

And you kept delaying leaving, as cold as it was in the old Myer's house, you knew it'd be worse outside. You ended up falling asleep, waking up when the sun began to rise.

Michael came in, and handed you a granola bar. You don't know how he sourced it-- sourced snacks he'd give you, but you never thought to ask. You wanted to, but you never actually considered prying.

You scarfed it, before saying your gratitudes, goodbyes, and rushing out the door-- your parents were surprisingly lax with it. Under the false pretense that you'd been safe and sound in a warm house, with your friend from school.

Besides, everyone assumed that Myer's had moved on back then. There was this 3 month gap between his killings, and even when that broke, they were sparse enough that your parent's still didn't care much.

It was early April, and it was getting nice out again. You've managed to avoid your bullies trailing you as of late, by... just letting them whatever at school. It's not like they want to brave the cold weather anyways, so you knew sooner or later they'd start harassing you outside of school again.

Even if you let them hurt you at school, do whatever they please-- it still won't be enough. It'll never be enough, nothing will for people like them. You just can't wait to graduate and get the hell out of dodge.

The past few weeks, they've been trying to follow you. Every time they did, you managed to lose them; probably because they weren't too intent on it yet. They liked toying with you, but didn't care enough to keep following after a certain amount of times.

As a diversion, you've been sitting around the park a lot, in a little grotto near the playground no one plays on anymore. It's wooden, rotted, and should've been torn down ages ago-- the swings are still functional though, if a little squeaky.

It wasn't a stretch to assume you'd succeeded in tricking them; that they assumed this was your new home base. Again, no matter how much you hated them, you didn't want them dead.

And you definitely didn't want to be the one responsible for leading them to their death; to the murderer you deemed a friend, your only one. It was a moral dilemma. Michael was still a killer, and you should turn him in--

But you don't. Again, it was selfish, but he wasn't... doing that much harm right now. Just a few people, rich people who you have no connection to. It makes you sick, the fact you, by default, don't care that much.

You care, you care when you realize they were people with lives and families, that they were just like Judith. Ever since you started coming to the old Myer's house, you've been making a picture of her in your head.

Those people, too, had taffy left uneaten by their bedside. Hair brushes to clean, caps that needed to be screwed back on lip glosses; not those items exactly, you're sure, but the allegory stood the same.

The guilt is unbearable somedays, the idea that you're also partly responsible for those people's death. If you'd just turned in him, then you wouldn't have gotten in this deep.

just a bit longer, you tell yourself. I'll... report him if he kills anyone else, but maybe he's getting better, you think-- knowing more than well he isn't.

He's stagnant right now, but that's because he's satiated. Maybe by your near-daily meetings, the feeling of human contact that he probably hasn't felt since he was child. Since before he was locked up from such a young age.

i hope it stays that way, and deep down, you know it's in vain; recognizing that hope will do no good in situation like this, when dealing with a man-- an entity-- like Michael Myers.

This can't be real. It's a nightmare, it's a nightmare-- you can scream it all you want, but it won't take away from the scene before you.

You were toying with danger, with death itself; you stared in its face and dared to call it a friend, and look where that got you. It was always going to end like this, wasn't it? And you knew, you knew it would but that didn't stop you from it.

A lonely child will always seek the comfort of anyone who offers it without hesitation, and no matter how much you've grown-- how close you are to being an adult, teetering just on that edge,

Once a lonely child, always a lonely child. The bruises have healed, but it still feels like they're marring every inch of your skin; ribs that were broken are just fine now, but if you move too quick you swear you can feel them like you'd felt them back then.

"Why?" Your voice is choked, and you haven't felt this afraid in a long time. Cowering as you were, in the far corner of the attic. A large circular window loomed behind you, casting light onto you like Heaven was calling you home.

Do you even deserve Heaven, though? You might not have been the one to wield the knife, but you're guilty by association. There was no blood on you, but your hands were still painted red.

All five of them, crumpled on the ground; they looked so scared, but something in the back of your mind told you that they'd never understand true fear. This was momentary, before they met their swift end,

They didn't know the fear of anticipation. The fear of never knowing what would happen next, when or how it would come about; but just knowing that it would. That you weren’t at the end of the tunnel just yet, and fearing that you never would be.

Michael just stands there, unmoving. His head tilted like a curious bird, like the crows you fed at the park sometimes. He wasn't wearing the mechanic's suit anymore-- you'd bring him clothes when you could, picked up from thrift shops or garage/yard sales;

It felt even more damning, the red staining his previously pristine sky blue t-shirt. The shirt you’d given to him. Blood once again caked on his shoes, after he'd worked so hard to clean them when you expressed discomfort at it once.

The mask never came off, you never saw his face-- but at this point, you feel like any face that wasn't the mask wouldn't be Michael's. The most you've seen was up to his mouth, when he'd eat with you sometimes.

Again, as you pull your knees to your chest, and fight to hold back a shuddering cry, you ask "Why? Why would you do this?"

And he just stands there. He just stands there and stares at you like he always has, like he always will. You've long come to terms with the fact that he doesn't speak, and in your opinion it makes him a little easier to interact with.

Slow, steady steps-- he turns, and walks to entrance of the attic. He climbs down, leaving you alone for now. With no way to tell the time, you just sit there. The sun doesn't dim, since it was just a little past noon when you got here.

When you saw that note on the accent table near the door, telling you come up to the attic. You didn't question it, you didn't think anything was amiss until you were halfway into the room and Michael stood between you and the exit, bloodied and pointing to the heap of bodies.

Bodies that had once been so full of life, active in the community; beloved by most, feared by others. The golden boys and girls, the ones everyone strives to be or envies in some ways, unless you happen to be their punching bag.

Even with how terrible they were, it wasn't meant to end like this. You shake and tremble as you press your face against your knees; you don't forgive them, you never would, but they have lives.

Had lives, something you were never afforded the luxury of, holed up in your room half the time, and hanging out with the serial killer that did them in the rest of the time.

Michael was being loud, louder than you've ever known him to be. All you could think was maybe... he was trying to ease your worries? Wordlessly let you know that he wasn't going to sneak up and add you to that pile?

For once, you hear when he comes back up. You don't look up, fear seizing every muscle and making you unable to move an inch-- until he's just a few feet away, and your head flies up from where you'd pressed it against your knees.

He was sitting on the floor, right in front of you-- he was writing in a notepad, the same one he used when you first met. Michael's used it since then, but usually just communicates with shakes or nods of his head.

When he turns the book around, it's hard to read the words-- not for lack of light, but because of the way your tears blur your vision. When you're able to blink them away long enough to read, you almost can't believe what he wrote.

"Didn't mean to scare you. They were hurting you, and I didn't like it."

Didn't... didn't mean to scare you? He-- he brought you up here, just to find him covered in blood and pointing at five dead bodies!

five dead bodies of people you knew, even if you didn't like them, you still knew them-- and you knew this was likely to happen, but you tried to convince yourself it wouldn't. For your own sake.

"Are... are you going to..." Kill felt like too heavy of a word right now, too real, so you opted for "...Hurt me too?" Voice small, smaller than you think it's ever been. God, you feel like a child again, asking your mom why the kids at school didn't like you.

Small and helpless, lost and unable to come up with answers on your own. Michael shook his head quickly, and it made you jump-- it wasn't often that he moved quickly like that. He stopped immediately, and turned the notepad around and quickly scrawled something, before turning it back to you.

"Never hurt you" It was hastily written, messy in a way that disturbed you, when addressing Michael. He didn't even add punctuation. For a third time, you ask "Why?" But this time with more intention, knowing what exactly you were asking about.

He didn't move for a bit, and turned the notepad around more slowly, and his pencil hovered above the page-- like he was really thinking this through. A few minutes passed, moving at an agonizing crawl, before he finally turned the notepad around so you could read it.

There were a couple messages scribbled out, but you didn't bother to try and make them out. He'd finally settled on a simple "Because you're my friend."

"How do I know you won’t hurt me?" It was a hard pill to swallow, the knowledge that you just... there's no way to confirm that he won't. He's unpredictable in a way that scares you, because you can't even begin to wrap your head around how he operates.

This time, the answer came quickly; it was messy again, the handwriting, and it made your heart sink to the bottom of your stomach. It made you turn inward and ask why you did this to yourself, why you couldn't have just turned him in at the start.

There's no one to blame but yourself, and that's what hurts the most-- you knew the risk, you took it, and now you're reaping what you sowed.

"I don't hurt what's mine", written in dark letters; once again, he was pressing too hard with the pencil. Once, you thought it was endearing, but now you can't help but realize why he pressed so hard in the first place.

Michael didn't know how to be gentle. Yes, he tried, but there's no telling that he won't give up eventually. For a while, you just stare at the words, at the claim-- he doesn't turn the notepad away,

It's damning, it's a vice gripped around your heart; a steel wire wrapped around your throat. Rope around your wrists, a lock on the door. Everything that can and will be used to keep you here,

To keep you with him.

"I want to go home." You choke out, but he just shakes his head. Oh, how badly you want to scream, to shove him and run; it's broad daylight, surely he won't follow you.

But he's... God, you hate to admit it, but he's all you have. And-- and the bodies, oh god, you're going to be blamed for it, aren't you? It's a perfect story in the making, you've been tormented for so long, so publicly.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say you went mad, that there was something innate to the ground below the Myer's house; a curse weaved into the floorboards, that makes anyone who spends time in the house lose it eventually, if they're capable of such a thing.

That you took the knife in your hand, and slit their throats yourself.

The notepad was facing you again, and you hadn't even noticed he was writing in the first place. It was an explanation for his refusal, but it only made your skin crawl,

"This is your home.", and you just sit there and stare again. Slowly, Michael sets the notepad down. Slowly, he inches forward-- you don't flinch, eyes glazed, staring at where the notepad had been.

Then, his arms are wrapped around you-- and you just... you just melt. You cry, there's no way you can't. You weep until you have nothing left, face tucked into Michael's shoulder.

The blood, still a bit tacky at first, clung to the front of your shirt as well. Michael pulls you as close as he physically can, without merging you two into one continuous being.

He's right, isn't he? This is your home now, and has been for a long time. Before Michael showed up, even, you were spending nights in the Myer's house. Despite the history, it felt leagues safer than your own room.

When your tears are all dried up, still hiccupping and trembling, Michael carefully picks you up. Handling you like glass, but it's unnatural. Stilted-- not a performance, but it's new to him.

Going down the ladder was a slow process, and you were half asleep from pure exhaustion when he set you down on a mattress-- his old bed. You sat, slumped sideways against the headboard as he pulled the cover back and helped you lay down,

He tucked you in, and the thought crossed your mind that his parents must've done this for him when he was younger. They were a normal family, the Myer's-- over the years, people had tried to prove that Michael's snap was caused by abuse, or neglect, or something bad that happened to him in his early development.

But nothing was found on the topic, if anything, the digging exposed the Myer's as the picture-perfect American family. No reason for a 6 year old to kill his sister, other than he just wanted to.

Demonic possession was also a proposed explanation-- more by the townspeople than actual professionals, but it had merit, didn't it? Something about Michael was off, and even if you removed the mask, you're sure it wouldn't change anything.

By the time you're drifting off, weighed down by bone deep weariness from all that happened, Michael is still sitting at the foot of the bed, off on the edge. He isn't watching you, his head facing forward, but it was still unnerving.

When the news of six missing teenagers hit, the town went into a frenzy. Michael has long since dropped the bodies off in the forest-- he didn't want it stinking up the house, because he knew it'd make you uncomfortable,

They found the bodies there, but that didn't stop the cops from searching the Myer's house one last time. That night, Michael took you on a walk, and you two visited the park his parent's used to take him to often.

You were actually swinging, while he kind of just sat on it. Nobody saw you two, there were no reports of you still being alive. Everyone assumed you'd died with your bullies, but your body was elsewhere.

That you fought more than your bullies had, or maybe less-- either way, you died further away from them.

Isolated, just like you’d been in life; even in death, Michael’s sure those horrible kids would make to not be near you.

The cops never considered the possibility that they were killed elsewhere, and dumped later. An oversight on their part, but Michael obviously wasn’t going to correct them on it.

Michael cleaned the attic, not like they'd check it anyways. They never did when they searched the house, and Michael thought it was ridiculous. It was almost too easy to avoid them, but he didn't want to take a chance with you.

He doesn't know what he'd do without you now that he has you. There's no solid reason why he spared you that first night, the 'it's too easy' had been little more than an excuse to spare you, or why he kept sparing you. Why he began to look forward to your meetings.

Something about you was comforting to him, a comfort he hasn't felt in so long that it feel alien now that he's feeling it. Those kids had it coming, he thinks. He's considered going after their parents, as well-- for raising such awful brats.

To torment someone like you-- it both enraged and confused Michael to no end. You were the most innocent person in his mind, even if it was just dumb luck that he found you when he did; that he wasn't in a bad mood.

He doesn't know what comes next, but all he knows is that he'll keep you by his side the whole time. Maybe... you two could move, he'd take on a false identity and flee to Canada with you. Pretend that you're his... younger sibling, because he doesn't think he can get away with claiming you as his child. He isn't all that much older than you, in the grand scheme of things.

As long as you're by his side, then he doesn't really care about what comes next. He just wants you, and to keep you safe and happy. Michael isn't familiar with this, with being soft or gentle; but he'll try for you.

He'd do anything for you, if he's completely honest with himself.

[int-writersmind]

Hanging On The Telephone

Pairing: Peter Parker x Gn!Reader

Sequel to Potential Customer (but could be read as a stand-alone)

Summary: After lending Peter your favorite vinyl, you wonder when you'll see him again...to get your record back of course! No other reason...

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2.8k

Author's Note: I imagine the album that Reader gives to Peter as Parallel Lines by Blondie but it's neutral enough to be whatever you want it be. The opening track is Hanging on the Telephone so use that info to your discretion.

Also I'm buzzed on two glasses of rosé editing this so bare with me lol.

~

It had been a week since that day at So-So Records, a few days since you met Peter Parker, a few days since you lent him that album. You try to not be glued to your phone, anxiously waiting for a response like a desperate thirteen-year-old, but still you wonder when he’ll reply. 

It was early one morning when the text finally came. You, in your apartment’s kitchen, sipping on your favorite hot beverage startling when your phone chimes.

I think I’ve found my new favorite album, read the text, This is Peter by the way. Peter Parker?

You respond: I had a feeling, You know, I don’t lend my albums out to just anyone.

Then I must be special.

You smile to yourself, covering your face when you realize what you are doing.

“Are you smiling at your phone?” Your roommate says, coming out from her bedroom. “Funny video, or that guy from the store?”

“Uh, the latter, he finally got back to me.”

“Ooh, so what’s next?” Your roommate goes to pour a glass of juice from the refrigerator, you turn in your chair to face her.

“I guess I'll get my record back.”

“Boo! That’s so boring! Make it interesting, call him and set up a meeting or something.”

You roll your eyes, “Calling? What am I? Fifty?”

“I think there’s something classic about calling, much more personal than texting.” Your roommate plucks your phone from your hand. You reach for it but your roommate pushes you back with great ease. “It’s easy, I’ll do it for you.”

“No! Don’t you dare!”

Ring ring!

“Hello?” You hear Peter’s voice faintly from your phone’s speaker. Your eyes go wide in fear, your roommate tosses your phone back to you, and you almost drop it like it was a game of hot potato and the spud was literally burning your skin. You suck in a deep breath before–

“Hey-Hi Peter…ugh so sorry I must have ah–misclick–”

You hang up instantly, much to the shock of your roommate. “What-Why the hell did you do that?!?”

“I don't know! I got nervous!” You start to pace back and forth. “Shit, I-I got to call him back.”

“Yeah, duh.” You throw a pillow from the couch at her on your way back to your room.

With the click of the door, you let yourself lean and slowly slid down onto the floor. Phone in hand you stare at the call screen, fingers hesitating on Peter’s number. You take a deep breath before finally pressing Call.

“Hello…”

“Hey, everything ok?” Even through the phone, Peter’s kindness shines through, like you can almost hear his smile through the phone. You kinda feel like a dick for panicking and hanging up on him earlier.

“Yeah, yeah, I was just…being stupid.” You shake your head and cover your eyes with one of your eyes.

“No, don’t say that.”

“It’s fine,” You go to change the subject, “So, the album, any standouts.”

“Well, I would definitely say that opening track has to be my favorite. Every time it ended I just wanted to restart it. A definite addition to my playlist.”

“Hmmm, that’s something I would like to listen to.”

“I’ll show you sometime,” You try and fail to suppress a smile, “Though it’s pretty much one giant mashup of styles and genres.”

“The playlist of a madman.” You joke.

As you listen in, you can hear wind passing by on Peter’s end. “More like the playlist of someone horribly unorganized.”

“Ha, wish I could relate, but I’m much too anal to let that happen.” You move your hand away from your face, letting your head fall against the door. “I know this is gonna sound crazy but what are you doing…I mean because, I like, hear the wind passing by and...”

“Uh, er, I’m running…yeah a nice little run.”

“Oh let me leave you to your run.” You say, “We can always talk again later.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Police sirens go on by on the other end, “Ah, I think I should hang up now, don't want to run into something crazy.”

“I get it, text me some time?”

“Will do.”

“Oh and Peter,” You say. “We should set up and time and place so you can give me back my record.”

“Just when I get use to playing it all the time,” Peter responds sarcastically, “I’m kidding, I’ll let you know when I can.”

~

At work, you couldn't help but sneak glances at your phone, one part hoping another text would come through, another part hoping that it wouldn’t.

On your lunch break you had an extra few minutes left before clocking back in, you decide to visit your store’s listening room. Well it was more like the back of the store where there was a wall cut-out, curtain, and small table with a record player and a two pairs of headphones. You pick up a small selection of 7 inch singles, trying to figure out what kind of mood you were in. you pull the curtain close to give a smidgen of privacy, picking up one of the headphones your co-worker swore he cleaned.

Halfway through one 7 inch, when you decided that you were in a different mood, you feel the curtain move, you look up to see–

“Hope you don’t mind,” Peter, in the flesh, fully cements himself inside the admittedly tight space. “Your co-worker said I would find you here.”

“And found me you have,” You switch the 7 inch to something else, a song that Peter might know. “Have some time to spare?”

“For you, of course.”

You look away, trying to hide your blush under the guise that you were reaching for the other pair of headphones. Peter graciously accepts, placing them atop of his head, as you set the record player to start.

As the track starts, you sideways glance at Peter and he does the same to you. You laugh it off as the opening notes begin to go through your ears.

It takes Peter a beat before he notices what song is playing–the opening song from the album you lent him. You sheepishly smile at his recognition before slowly moving to the music, a basic shimmy, then a head bob, then as the song reaches the first chorus, mouthing the words. Peter just smiles at you, and gives a modest head bob to the song the whole way through. 

As the song fades out, ending you and Peter’s private little listening party, you both take off your headphones and just stare at one another for a moment. “You know…I would love to keep playing music but…”

“Oh yeah… I was just in the area and I just–decided to pop in.”

“Without my record?” You say sarcastically.

Peter shuts his eyes in embarrassment. “Oh yeah…it’s just..um…god I honestly just forgot it–”

You place a hand on Peter’s arm to stop him from going on, before quickly removing it. “Don’t worry about it…” You pull the curtain just slightly back, glancing at your co-worker who was glancing at his watch repeatedly. “You can always just…return it to me at…my place...Oh my god, that was so forward–”

“No! I mean yes? Uh…yeah I can definitely return your record to your place.” Peter stumbles out, “I mean I already know where you live.” Peter’s eyes go wide in shock, his face turning red.

You just chuckle to defuse the situation, at least you weren't the only one who felt so awkward in this situation. Your skin felt warm, your heart was beating so fast it felt like it would drill straight through your ribs. 

Is this what it felt like to have a crush? Oh my god, did you actually just say crush? But, you didn’t know what else to call this feeling you had towards Peter. Hell, you barely knew the dude, only sharing a few things with one another, but at the end of each encounter, you were just itching for more. It was kind of embarrassing but honestly, who cares.

“How about you come over to my place around 8:30-ish? My roommate’s working the nightshift.”

“I can make that work.”

“Cool” You say. “Plus, I promise to tell you exciting little factoids about the album and others if you let me.”

“Oh please do so,” Peter leans in close, quite close actually, “It would make little nerd me so excited.”

For just a split second you think about leaning in, closing the gap between the two of you with your lips– Now that was too far, crazy talk. 

You settle for a quick glance at his lips before looking at his eyes, clearing your throat before turning to leave the listening area. 

You lead Peter to the front of the store, hands wringing in front of you, as you turn and face Peter.

“I’ll text you my apartment number, 8:30?”

“8:30-ish” Peter responds with a finger snap. You do the same with a nod of your head, as you watch Peter leave.

~

Why did you agree to meet at your place?

You think about what you proposed at the record store, standing alone in the middle of the living room in your apartment. You didn’t know whether or not to dress up so you settled for what you wore at work today with a long cardigan to cozy it up.

You pace back and forth, chewing on your fingernails on one hand, admittedly, overstressing about tonight. Was this like a casual drinks thing? A nice meal paired with casual drinks? Or was it really just a simple handoff and ‘Thanks for lending me the record, I never want to see you again, buh-bye!”

You stop short, pushing all those thoughts and then-some out. You decide to go simple and order a New York delicacy–pizza. If this was something then it would be fun, casual. If it was a simple handoff then, well, more pizza for you. A win-win honestly. But as you place the order, deep down you knew, you just knew that this wasn’t gonna be a simple handout.

~

Knock-Knock

Man that pizza delivery guy definitely deserves a great tip for speed, efficiency–

“I assume this is for you?” As you open the door there’s Peter, pizza in one hand, record in the other. “Or I just paid and stole someone' else's dinner.”

“Our pizza if you’ll indulge me?” You take the pizza from Peter, and with your other hand you gesture for him to come inside. “Oh, how much do I own you? Since the pizza was my idea and all.”

“Don’t worry about it,” As you close the door behind you, Peter does a quick 360 of your cozy shared space. “This is–”

“Small?”

“Nice. I was gonna say nice,” You walk the pizza over to the wall that served as the kitchen, getting your finest paper plates. “It would be more strange if you lived in some Friends level apartment.”

You notice Peter walking to another section of your living room, where your music set-up was, a fine turntable and modestly priced speakers. Which all sat upon a piece from IKEA that held you and your roommates record collection.

“You ok with soda?” You call out.

“If that’s what you're drinking,” Peter glances at you, “Then that’s what I’ll be drinking.”

You nod as you prepare a pair of pizza on separate plates and pour your favorite soda into slightly dusty glasses.

As you make your way to the main area of the living room, you set everything on the coffee table before standing next to Peter. “And to think I thought you weren’t a serious record collector.”

Your lips form a straight line, nodding your head, “If I let the wrong people know I secretly love collecting vinyls, they’ll never leave me alone.” You joke.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Peter hands you the borrowed record, which you take from him. You squat down, looking for the right place to put it, Peter follows you downward.

“While we're here…maybe I can show you something else?”

“Hmm, some music that will change my life?”

You roll your eyes, “No, just my personal faves.”

Your fingers skim over a few titles, before you select one, some indie, folky singer you actually saw in person. “But only if you wow me with some factoids, as promised.”

“Of course, I never break a promise”

~

A third record plays as Peter and you are lost in conversation, the scraps of pizza lying on the coffee table. The two of you are close to one another on the couch. You with your head resting on one hand, elbow resting on the back of the couch, Peter holding his glass in front of him.

“...And once I had the record in hand it made the long lines and freezing temperatures worth it.” You turn and hide your face in your hand. “God, I just realized how crazy that sounded.”

“No,no, that was a great story,” Peter lightly places a hand on your leg. “I can tell you're very passionate about this and I bet,” Peter scoots in close, “You really love working at So-So.”

You glance away before facing Peter’s smirking face again. That smirk that makes your stomach tie up in knots. “I mean why else would I work long hours for shit pay. But meeting certain customers also makes it worthwhile.”

“Like clueless customers who come in for some obscure album from the 70s that he doesn’t even bother to buy?”

“Yeah, even customers like that,” You remove your other hand from your head to rest on Peter’s, trying to ignore the burning sensation inside of you telling you to stop. “I know this is stupid but…I’m glad you walked into So-So.”

“Can I say something stupider?” Peter makes a face that makes you laugh. “What I meant to say,” Peter takes your hand, “I’m also glad I walked into So-So.”

The two of you just stare at one another, and it’s like you can almost feel a magnetic pull towards him. Like when the two of you were leaning on that wall at So-So, or when he walked you home and his fingers brushed your thigh, or in the listening room when you just wanted to seal the deal. You had so many thoughts racing through your mind it was hard to focus on the moment. 

Peter leans in closer, bringing you right back into the now, You close your eyes as his lips ghost over yours, his breath falling over your lips–the record stops, end of the side.

“Leave it.” Peter whispers before pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss was messy, a little hungry, as if each other's lips were the only way to satiate each other’s appetite. Peter places his cup on the coffee table as he brings one of his hands to cup your face.

His lips, god his lips, were coated in the artificially sweet taste of the soda, making him even more irresistible. You couldn’t help but let your hands wander up his chest, your fingers playing with the top button of his shirt, the closest to his neck, wandering fingers pushing themselves inside, feeling warm skin.

Great minds think alike as one of Peter’s hands goes to your waist, his long, slender fingers, going up your shirt, pressing lightly on the skin. You can’t help but sigh at his touch, as his hand slowly travels upward. You swing one leg over both of his, so that you’re basically straddling him, letting your hands go to his neck, as both of his hands fall to your waist.

Ending the moment too soon, Peter pulls away from you, letting his forehead rest against yours, but casting his gaze downwards as to not look at you. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Now why would you say that?” With one of your hands, you use your thumb and pointer finger to gently push Peter’s face upwards by his chin, causing him to look you right in your eyes. “I wanted you to kiss me. Hell, I've wanted to kiss you since you walked me home.” 

“It’s…it’s not that I regret kissing you, I’ll never regret that…it’s just…” Peter sighs, “I don’t know what this, the two of us, can be after tonight. I don’t know if I’m in a position right now for something…something more serious.”

You chuckle a little, “Bold of you to assume I wanted to ask you to be my boyfriend right now.” You say with a smile, you let your finger flick down his bottom lip. “I can do causal, Peter Parker.” You lean in close, your thumb blocking your lips from his, your voice lowering, “Can you?”

Peter sighs into your mouth, a smirk forming on his lips, “I can, but can I ask you one thing?” You nod your head, “Can I borrow some more of your records? I think your taste is starting to rub off on me.”

“Only if you promise to return them to me.”

“If this is what a return looks like…then count me in.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Read Part 3-> Fragile (warning includes smut!)

Thanks for reading! Ah, I can't believe I finally did the sequel to Potential Customer, I already have the last two parts written (since I wrote them in tandem with the og) so expect those soon, but this one was strangely difficult to write. Anyway...anyone want some smut w/ this pairing? That's coming soon, since my fever dream venom peter smut post got so many notes so quickly, lol. Anyway bye void!

masterlist

[nintendowife]

I completed Hanaemu Kare to & Bloom (Him, the Smile & Bloom) on Nintendo Switch a couple of weeks ago. "Hanakare" is an otome visual novel with a small twist - there are four female protagonists and they each have their own love interest. Flowers are the central theme of the game and they are incorporated in each of the stories.

The presentation of Hanakare is very nice. Art, music and professional voice acting form a holy trinity of pleasantness. Too bad the four female protagonists aren't voiced and they don't get their own sprite in dialogue boxes. The background art looks detailed and inviting. The CGs are high in quality and there's a good amount of them on each route.

The UI looks good and sophisticated, with soothing earthy tones. I've developed some presbyopia in recent years and it occasionally causes me problems trying to read in games, mostly when playing handheld on Switch. In Hanakare I found the dialogue font easy to read and the text was not too tiny. The only text I had trouble reading was the smaller print in the flower book entries.

The characters are nice, they have good interaction and I like how they're all working adults. Ami is an interior designer, Serina works in a flower shop, Fuuka is an office worker in a trading company and Miku works in a botanical garden. Each of the love interests work in Fill Flower, a popular chain of flower shops. There's a handful of side characters as well who all were a nice addition to the cast. Store manager Kozue Arisawa was my fave.

My favorite protagonist was maybe Ami, I liked her looks, sophisticated style and her confidence in her own abilities. Determined and somewhat selfish Fuuka was a close second. My favorite love interest was the energetic, devoted and sincere part-time worker Wataru, very likeable character. Ginnosuke's cheeky attitude made him another favorite of mine. I'm not sure which would have been my top favorite route.

Hanakare is a truly perfect specimen of slice-of-life. No teleporting into fantasy worlds, solving crimes or getting abducted by aliens - just nice down-to-earth stories about daily life of people and their relationships. There's no common route so don't go expecting some grand storyline. There's some humorous events in the game too but I would have welcomed more of them.

Each route has three different outcomes which represent best, normal and bad end: Glow end, Bloom end and Wither end. The overall vibe is cozy and relaxing but some conflicts arise in the bad ends. One of the bad ends was true red flag material, but at the same time it was also the most interesting ending.

The post-game Special stories don't have their own CGs which is fine, but what bothered me is that they ended very abruptly. Finishing all the routes and special stories unlocked 2 completion CGs to the gallery. There's a Halloween themed DLC story available as well. I didn't play it as I couldn't be bothered to create a Japanese eShop account to purchase it.

The ability to jump into any character's route from title screen without a common route is a welcome feature. Unfortunately the chapter select is limited to viewing just the selected chapter at a time, then returning back to menu, meaning you can't use it for achieving different endings. There's also a baffling choice of making it impossible to rewind and replay scenes from the dialogue log.

I played the Japanese release and the English translation of the game was ok. There were some minor typos and grammar errors (as in most otomes I've played). Worst issues were occasional mixed pronouns (referring to a male but using she/her) which was confusing. That said, the translation was better than I had initially anticipated. It wasn't perfect or even very good but I enjoyed my time with it. Note however that English is not my first language and I probably don't have particularly high standards for translations.

Hanakare is on the shorter side, I completed all content in 25 hours according to Switch. It didn't overstay its welcome and didn't inconvenience player by having to repeat a common route multiple times. I thought it was a refreshing change to the typical otome formula. With some better UI features, better localization and a little more emphasis on humor the game would have improved its standing on my otome ranking list. It still gets my recommendation as a game well worth looking into if you have a hankering for some slice-of-life.

[anxious-pisces]

it's more of a reminder for myself, but anyway... flower dance

easiest: Shane (talk and give him pizza on 19th, 20th, 21th, 22th)

easy: Harvey, Sam, Leah (loved gifts sold at the saloon) talk everyday since day 1 and give loved gifts until 4 hearts (don't know for how long, never tried, too lazy to calculate)

also kinda easy: Haley (talk everyday give all the daffodils esp on a birthday)

easy, but need everyday work (parsnip seduction): Alex, Sebastian, Emily, Maru, Penny

need to go to the mines, so it's a bother: Abigail parsnip won't work, rain

pray to Yoba for good luck: Elliott

parsnip seduction

4 hearts worth 1000 friendship points

focus on one person

talk with the target every single day (except during special animation, like when Seb is smoking) 24 days 20 pts each = 480 pts

plant 15 parsnips on day 1, get the recipe for basic fertilizer after the first harvest. then plant no less than 20 parsnips with it. you should get at least 3 gold quality parsnips

give your target two gifts every week. in total, you must give 8 gifts: 5 normal quality and 3 gold quality parsnips (5 normal 45 pts each; 3 gold 56 pts each. this is 393 pts. plus 10 pts every sunday for gifting 2 gifts last week, so it's an additional 30 pts)

complete the introduction quest 100 pts

so you get a total of 1003 points, which is enough for a dance. but each step is necessary cos it's the bare minimum

notes

if you didn't know, every day you don't talk to a villager will result in the loss of 2 friendship points

Maru loves cauliflower, so it would be a better gift than gold parsnips

Abigail stays at home during rainy days, and if it's on wednesday, you'll have to go to the mines (ugh) to get amethysts, and she dislikes all vegetables

Elliott... dunno where to start. it's pure luck, cos you can't talk to him when it's raining. I love fishing and I spend all my first week by the ocean. usually I reach lvl 3 in fishing on the third day of spring and buy crab pots on spring 4th. I usually have at least 9 crab pots by the seventh of spring and sometimes that's enough to catch lobsters in time. a lot of praying. it really helps to speak only to him in order to get a bulletin request.

Sebastian, loml, I get at least 8 good quality flounders in the first week, so no parsnip nessesary (but I do spend all my time by the ocean except when I run to talk to him). also if you tell him that you like reading comics in one of his dialogues you'll gain an additional 30 pts.

I guess you should still talk to Haley everyday and give her all the daffodils, since her loved gifts are kinda hard to get at the beginning but birthday helps like a lot

Haley, Abigail and Sam dislike parsnips. (and it will definitely rain, so Elliott will stay at home. this means parsnips will be good for everyone, except those four)

for me, it's easier to complete the introduction quest at the egg festival (talk to Pierre later) and before that I only met the bachelor(ette) for the bulletin requests also check saloon everyday for dish of the day and a travelling cart on friday and sunday

I'm sure there are easier ways to get it done, but this is what fits my gaming style (fishing, talking and no mining). treasure chests also provide a lot of useful items that make everything way easier

also english isn't my first language, I just wanted to practice. sorry for the mistakes

[veinsfullofstars]

Precious babies - I’m sure nothing bad will ever happen to them.

(ID: Reference sheet for my Kirby OCs, Para Dee and Bow Dee. Visually, Para is a young Waddle Dee with light orange fur, a pale beige face, peach cheek blush, brown eyes, and yellow feet. He wears large round glasses taped on the sides of his head and a green-and-brown plaid bowtie, and there is a little curl of fur swooping up from his forehead. Bow is a smaller Waddle Dee with red-orange fur, a beige face, pink cheek blush, big black eyebrows, brown eyes with a hint of sea-foam blue on the bottom, and gold-yellow feet. She wears a large navy-blue bow on the back of her head, the ribbon rimmed in pale-blue and wrapped around her head in the style of Kirby’s Fighter headband. Additional information below the cut. END ID.)

Just their kid versions at the moment, but there might be teen and adult refs for them in the future depending on how much story stuff I get around to showcasing. I got a couple other story-pertinent characters in mind as well, but they’re still deep in concept stages, so no refs for them just yet, haha. Also, if you guys want refs for young Dedede and Meta, lemme know.

Sketch started some time in 11/23, render started 12/13/23, finished 12/20/23, updated 03/11/24, updated for color correction 11/02/24. NOTE: This was originally posted on my deleted account on 01/08/24. | Childhood Friends AU Masterpost

(OC info updated as of 05/29/25)

—

Some fun facts about Para Dee:

-His name is just a shortened version of “Parasol Waddle Dee” - in addition to reflecting his Copy Ability, he has yet to find another name that he feels fits him better, so he keeps it as a nickname for much of his childhood and beyond (a common practice among Waddle Dees).

-He is around DDD and Meta’s age, and a little older than Bow.

-He is the middle child in a pretty big family, raised by two caring parents and a whole host of relatives on either side. Much as he loves his family, being crammed in a veritable mosh pit of siblings gets to be a bit much for him sometimes. He hangs out with DDD and co. partially to get away for a while, partially because he was probably going to get roped in with them anyway.

-He shares a deep love of books and learning with Meta, though his interests lean more towards math, science, and mechanical engineering, with space being perhaps his biggest hyperfixation. Seriously, this lad can go on about nebulae and starships and quantum mechanics for hours if you let him.

-Para has an unfortunate habit of “Um, actually”-ing people about topics he knows (or thinks he knows) well, annoying his friends at best and making him an easy target for local bullies at worse…

-Unlike his friends, Para is not a very active or adventurous soul. He is easily startled, chronically un-athletic, and unlikely to harm a fly let alone another person. He much prefers quieter activities like reading and stargazing, especially from the comfort of his own home. The only physical activity he seems to enjoy is rollerskating, though all he does is leisurely roll around the park while watching the others fail at doing cool tricks.

-Though reluctant about most things, Para is especially afraid of heights. Even being slightly up off the ground has him scrambling to cling to the nearest solid object (usually DDD, who has probably picked him up, possibly with the intent to throw).

-While his friends go on about their lofty goals of being kings and knights, Para’s ambitions are relatively lax. He’d like to go to university off-world to study rocket science when he’s older, maybe even learn to build them one day, but that’s about as big as his dreams get, and even those could be narrowed down further to just seeing a real interstellar starship in person. Sometimes, he imagines flying through space on one, seeing all those stars he loves so much up close and personal, even if the idea of being up that high makes his little heart stutter in his chest…

—

Some fun facts about Bow Dee:

-She is named, unsurprisingly, for the bow on her head, which she has been wearing since she was a baby and practically refuses to remove without a lot of coaxing (stars help anyone who tries to take it off by force). She keeps both the name and the bow for much of her childhood, though she might not keep them (or her pronouns) forever…

-She is the baby of the group, a couple years younger than DDD, Meta, and Para.

-She comes from a relatively small family, taken care of by her two (extremely cool) moms and an older brother who is often away with lessons or hanging out with his friends (usually to get away from his "obnoxious baby sister"). As a result, she is on her own more than she cares to be - hence why she follows DDD and his friends around like an overeager puppy all the time.

-She thinks Meta is the coolest person ever from the moment she meets him. She hovers around him constantly whenever the gang is together (to his slight annoyance), sometimes even mimicking his poses and gestures without meaning to (usually while Meta is mimicking DDD the same way).

-Bow was born with a Copy Ability atypical for Waddle Dees, that being Water. At this point in her life, the most she can do is manifest bubbles at will and maybe manipulate small puddles if she focuses hard enough. Sometimes, in moments of high stress, she can summon powerful jets of water from nearby rivers, lakes, or even pipes beneath the ground (something that has definitely gotten her into trouble more than once). She will get the hang of her powers with enough time and practice, especially as her interests in oceans, sea life, and sailing grow over time…

-Bow finds it hard to sit still and loses focus easily if she’s not already invested in something (much to her teachers’ frustration). But when she is invested in a task, she will go all in on it until either her energy runs out or something else grabs her attention.

-Bow loves sports and most outdoor activities, constantly bouncing between favorites (though she probably enjoys swimming and surfing the most) and getting super competitive when teams are involved (much to DDD and Meta’s delight, and Para’s dismay).

-On that note, she is the only one of the four who has ever successfully landed a kickflip without getting hurt (at least after the first time).

-Bow - who often forgets that she is the smallest person in the room - will challenge anything to a fight if it makes her angry enough. Literally, she will look a feral Gigant Edge directly in the helmet and put up her little fists like she has any chance at winning. The only exception to this is bugs - she will perish before letting a bug anywhere near here (something DDD never lets her live down).

-If she had a mouth, she would bite.

[animehouse-moe]

Spy x Family OP3: Kura Kura

Okay, there's a lot of stuff that I'm unfamiliar with in terms of proper names and terms with this opening, but it's just so damn cool that I have to talk about it. Building on the styles of the first two openings, it brings a sense of familiarity that's completely outshone by the incredibly creative approach that OP3 brings with it.

Yes, it's the best Spy x Family opening even though the new season isn't out yet. That's what Masaaki Yuasa gets you (go check out the Keep Your Hands Off Eizouken OP)

Alright so first off, the opening cut of our characters. I love everything about it. The energy, the perspective, the color design. It's all super great, and the icing on the cake is the punchy animation that accentuates and exaggerates the movements of the characters.

Also, the music really is just a perfect match. I'm not a big Ado fan myself, but this is just an impeccable choice.

Anyways, right away the opening sets the tone for the very unique approach to animation. Quite smooth, but very snappy at times, if I were to explain it. I'm not doing a frame by frame to check or anything, but they're certainly hanging on quite a few sequences before squeezing others in or making large movements between frames. Just look at how each of the characters joins the sequence, there's actually a good deal of movement hidden in the appearance.

Though I think my favorite part from this sequence is the simplicity in wiping the characters when a new one appears. Given the style of movement and the "blink and you'll miss it" speed of it, it brings the addition to the viewer's attention and immediately while adding a good deal of unique feel.

And then there's this follow up piece. There's not much to it in terms of importance or anything but I love it. It's an extension of the dot matrix background and using it to place color on top of a dull background is very fun (also the rainbow at the top).

I think one of the things that felt absent from both prior OPs was a sense of "wow factor" in how they displayed Yor (and Loid). OP2 brings us a Yor assassin cut, but it feels more pretty and fleeting than exciting and energetic, as expected given the tone of it. Anyways, I'm very happy to see them able to explore the energy of each in this opening.

Also, the way that Yor's spike wipes the frame to introduce Loid? I love it. It's such a chaotic opening that you can easily miss simple things like transitions that can get lost in all the information. Another side note, I really like that Loid only appears when he fires his gun. Just a fun little trick that falls into place alongside other examples of wiping the frame in the opening.

Of course, Anya (and bond) gets their own splash cut like this. Really like how it places Anya on her own stage as it steps away from the style used for Loid and Yor and uses "environment" (read: speech bubbles) to convey her ability and its cons. And another very interesting detail (there's no end to them)! The use that dot matrix style to swap Anya and Bond out between each other. Super easy to miss, but it's there as one of those transitions that you can easily miss.

Wiping the frame, I can't think of a better name for it but it's something that's well loved with the direction of this OP. Just following these cuts we get another of our fearless family, but we see a different trick used. Also, really love the idea of it being framed as circus that Anya runs, so accurate to children and especially Anya.

Anyways, the idea is actually a lack of animation. Crazy, but given the style of animation through these cuts with the focus on snappy and exaggerated movements, it fits right in and looks really interesting. Furthermore (yes, there's still more), the use of visual sound effects (which say: 'Kankakeinai', most likely meant to be 'Kankeinai' as that's what's said by Ado at this point in the song.) is a great way to bridge the gap from Anya's previous cut to this one.

Oh, I should have mentioned it, but that same text-usage matching the song appears in the previous Anya and Bond cuts too.

Alright, next cut but also one (a little) further down the line: water animation. Lovely stuff. It's not realistic like what you'd see in the ending for My One-Hit Kill Sister, but has a lot of heart in it nonetheless, aiming to blend with the OP rather than make a statement about its quality.

Man, I almost forgot that there's a sequence in reverse in the OP. It's just that crazy. I've shown enough gifs of stuff so I'll spare the trouble (and save it for later) by just sharing a still. It's well animated, obviously, but aside from it being in reverse, there's just one detail to make note of: the dot matrix. It appears as an airplane for just a split second as a way to begin dissolving it from the frame (though it can be hard to make out because Tumblr compression). A very sneaky and subtle way to continue on with the direction established from the start.

There's lots of tricks in this OP, isn't there? I suppose it's rather similar to the Anya circus one, but slightly different. Keeping in line with the near impossibly hectic style of animation in the opening, we see frame-by-frame cuts alongside some of the best animated sequences. It helps keep that balance, you know? Where we give up on sharpness with some of the faster and more fluid movements, we make up with via these rougher ones.

Also, would it really be Masaaki Yuasa without some freakishly well animated cuts? Animating cars can already be a challenge in the first place, but not only do we see one heavily featured here, we see it spinning around wildly with characters in it. It's a crazy feat that only madmen like Masaaki would attempt.

Anyways, don't you dare underestimate Yuasa's insanity. He made people animate a reflection in a teapot. For like a 3 second cut. No, really, he did. Look at this ridiculously pointless detail.

Okay okay, it's time to wind down a little bit. The wonderfully creative perspective of the OP. It's mostly the cars, but on the more simple sub-to-plane cut it's featured in a more subtle sense just to add something to it, you know? Just to give viewers something a little more interesting to look at.

Alright, last cut I promise. I was very surprised, and equally impressed, to see this skydive sequence as a single cut. I thought for sure it was going to be split, but keeping it in one piece was a great decision.

And that's all I think I will chat about, because if I don't call it quits somewhere I'll never stop. Seriously, that's just how full and dense this opening is. For instance, just look at the bottom left image from the gallery above, Anya's drinking tea all fancy like. Crazy little detail that you wouldn't see unless you paused the opening. And this is full of that kind of stuff alongside the incredible and distinct direction and style of Yuasa. It's a gold mine of creativity and expression that only the man himself would be able to pull off, and I love it. Best Spy x Family opening and another to add to the list of incredible OPs this year.

[rosanna-writer]

Dress

Summary: Sparks are flying between Mor and Emerie. And fortunately for them, the rest of Nesta's bridesmaids love to play matchmaker. Warnings: None Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~2.7k

A fluffy Emorie oneshot for @sjmromanceweek Day 3: Weddings! You can read it below or Here on AO3.

It started with a dress fitting.

Nesta's entire bridal party—Feyre, Elain, Gwyn, Emerie, and Mor—had squeezed themselves into a dressmaker's shop tucked away in a corner of the Palace of Thread and Jewels, ready for one last round of pinning and hemming before her upcoming mating ceremony.

The dresses matched, a nod to human traditions intended to confuse any faeries who might make mischief for the happy couple. Rhys had chosen them—Nesta had requested a soft shade of violet and instructed her brother-in-law to handle selecting a style that suited everyone and accommodated wings. He'd more than delivered.

Emerie emerged from a dressing room, awkwardly reaching under her wings for the buttons on the back of the dress. "Gwyn, can I get a hand with this?"

"Sorry, still changing!" Gwyn called from another dressing room.

"Mor, go help her," Feyre said, an unexpected note of command creeping into her voice, as if this were a matter of life and death. The voice of the High Lady.

That was odd—Mor would have offered anyway. But perhaps Feyre was just concerned with making sure everything went smoothly for her sister's mating ceremony.

Emerie turned, and Mor stepped closer. She was no stranger to Illyrian wings, but there was something different about standing at the center of Emerie's impressive wingspan.

Something that Mor felt right behind her ribs, almost like a tug on a string tied around her heart.

Emerie twisted her head to peer over her shoulder. "Alright back there?"

"The buttons are just harder to find than I'd originally thought," Mor said, and thank the Mother the words came out sounding cheerful and—more importantly—normal.

It wasn't a lie, either; Rhys had chosen gowns with a hidden button placket. Mor gripped the fabric with one hand, her knuckles brushing Emerie's warm skin. The backless design showed off the swirling tattoos that ran up her spine, over her shoulders, and down the tops of her arms, a new addition she'd earned after the Blood Rite.

It would be so easy to trace them, slowly trailing a hand up the center of her back. Mor imagined the way the other female might arch into her touch, the noises she'd make if Mor dared to caress the membrane of her wings….

But she was supposed to be getting Emerie into the dress, not out of it. Mor shook her head as if to clear it, then kept her fingers steady as she made quick work of fastening the buttons.

"All done," Mor said, taking a step back.

"Need me to do you next?"

Mor flushed crimson, as if she were a schoolgirl and not the seasoned five-hundred-year-old warrior she was. There was something in Emerie's smile that was just a bit too knowing.

Just a crush. A crush. Nothing more, and that tug in her chest had been so subtle that she'd probably imagined it.

Mor had already done up her own buttons herself—it was easier without wings in the way. She tamped down the strange sense of disappointment. "No, but thank you. Maybe next time."

Gods, why had she responded to the question as if it had been an invitation?

Something sparked in Emerie's eyes. "I'll keep that in mind."

Perhaps if Mor hadn't been quite so flustered, she would have noticed Gwyn flashing Feyre a grin and an approving thumbs-up.

And what started with a dress fitting, continued with the invitations.

Emerie hadn't understood why Nesta had been so insistent she needed help sealing envelopes. Apparently it wouldn't do to simply magic them closed, even though most of the guests who weren't family were the priestesses who'd trained with them or the few Illyrians who liked Cassian. The invitations weren't going far. But Nesta was happy, so Emerie would limit herself to rolling her eyes only when her friend's back was turned.

The other two Archerons and Mor were already in the sitting room in the House of Wind when Emerie made her way down after training. A pile of cards and envelopes covered the table.

Elain smiled sweetly at her. "I have seeds for your garden," she said, indicating a packet she'd placed at the chair to her right. The chair across from Mor.

Perhaps Emerie should have been suspicious, but Elain's smile was the picture of innocence. And they had struck up a conversation about the upcoming planting season last time Nesta had them all over for dinner at the House of Wind.

Emerie shrugged off the top half of her leathers, revealing the tight undershirt she wore beneath. Mor's throat bobbed. Or perhaps it hadn't and that was just stupid, wishful thinking on Emerie's part.

She sank into the chair and eyed the size of the pile. "I didn't think the guest list was that large?"

"Official mating announcements need to be sent out, too," Elain said, a bit primly.

Gwyn snickered. "In case you forgot, Em, Nesta is technically a princess."

Emerie supposed that was true—Nesta was the High Lady's sister, and if the mating ceremony was small, perhaps the cards were making up for it. She didn't know how the High Fae nobility did things. Maybe this was just tradition.

Maybe she wasn't actually being set up for something.

Or she definitely was because Nesta smirked, looked her in the eye, and said, "The envelopes won't take care of themselves. Get licking."

Emerie spent the next half hour trying to pay attention to the chitchat about Gwyn's research and Nyx's first words—and not the way the tip of Mor's tongue was repeatedly darting out from between her lips. It was nearly impossible not to stare.

Nearly impossible not to think about what it would feel like to have that tongue against her skin or in her mouth.

Emerie really didn't want to ruin any of this; Nesta had asked Mor to be a bridesmaid to extend a tentative olive branch to one of her mate's oldest friends. It felt like a small miracle that everyone was getting along for once. There might have been a spark between them when Mor had buttoned up her dress, but misreading that could be….disastrous.

It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually, there was a neat pile of sealed envelopes. The group began to disperse, making their way down to the library or readying to flown back down to the street by Feyre. Emerie had just stood up when a hand on her arm made her freeze.

"Are you finding that this is durable? Mine always wear out from the way they rub against the leathers," Mor was saying, fingering the fabric of Emerie's shirt.

Emerie relaxed. She owned a clothing store—fabric care was, at least, familiar territory. "You might do better with something with a tighter weave."

"And the extra backstitching?"

That was a small detail, one that Emerie wouldn't have expected someone to notice unless they knew clothing construction. Which Mor apparently did. "Yes. It makes more of a difference than you'd think."

There was admiration in Mor's eyes, and at first Emerie assumed the other female just knew quality tailoring when she saw it. But Mor didn't move her hand—she squeezed lightly, feeling the muscle of Emerie's bicep beneath.

Emerie stretched her wings a bit, preening. She hadn't misread anything at all. Mor smiled. If Emerie hadn't been so struck by the beauty of it, she might have noticed Nesta and Elain silently bumping their fists together.

And what started with a dress fitting and continued with invitations, all came to a head at Nesta and Cassian's mating ceremony.

Feyre was off somewhere wrestling Nyx into a tiny suit jacket, and Rhys had insisted Elain was the only one he trusted to handle a last-minute problem with the florist. Gwyn was sitting with Nesta, which left just…Mor and Emerie.

Mor emerged from behind a dressing screen. "Does your offer to do me next time still stand?"

"And the time after that if you wanted," Emerie said.

Mor laughed, tossing her golden hair over a shoulder to keep it out of the way. She tried not to shiver at the brush of Emerie's knuckles on her lower back.

It was a easier, though, to speak the truth with her back turned. A bit more softly, Mor added, "You look beautiful, by the way."

For a moment, Emerie didn't say anything, just leaned in, her breath warm against Mor's bare shoulder. Something went tight in Mor's chest as she tipped her head to the side, baring the side of her neck.

"I was going to say that dress looks gorgeous on you, but…" Emerie dropped her voice lower, trailing off as she finished the last of the buttons.

Mor turned around, her smile widening into a grin. "But it looks even better on you?"

"Come to the training ring more often, and maybe you'll have something to show off in a sleeveless dress, too," Emerie said.

She turned around, a wordless request for help with the buttons again, and for once, it wasn't the wingspan that made Mor's breath catch. It had been the implication in those words—come to the training ring and see me again after this.

And somehow, it was the easiest thing in the world to slip into easy banter with her, as if they'd always known each other. "I know it's been a while since I've swung a sword, but be careful what you wish for. Unless you're asking to get pummeled into the dirt."

"That's rich coming from a five-hundred-year-old with creaky knees—"

"—who was gracing the battlefield before you were even born."

"Fine. See you in the ring at dawn."

Mor had spent enough time around Illyrians to know that was as good as asking her on a date. And that Emerie was completely serious about the early hour, even if it was the morning after Nesta and Cassian's mating ceremony. She muttered something under her breath that made Emerie snort, then finished buttoning the dress.

The ceremony was perfect, not a dry eye in the temple as the priestess declared Nesta and Cassian officially mated. When it was over, the guests made their way to the River House—Rhys and Feyre had offered to host so that the House of Wind could remain a quiet retreat for the happy couple at the end of the night.

Mor sat next to Emerie at dinner, and there had been more of that comfortable, easy banter. At some point during the meal, her hand came to rest on Emerie's thigh. But it had still been a shock when the rest of the table had gone to dance or get dessert and Emerie leaned in and murmured something about finding a place they could be alone.

"Nesta's only just started talking to me without flinging insults. She'll kill me if we run off now," Mor whispered. There were few enough guests that their absence would be noted, even with the dancing in full swing.

"I'm one of her best friends. She'll be fine with it as long as I finish first," Emerie said. If Mor had still been drinking the glass of wine in front of her, she would have spit it out. Emerie laughed and added, "Besides, if anyone asks, we can always say I was helping you fix a rip in your dress."

It was a fair point. Mor let Emerie tug her out of her chair and into the garden.

There was a bench shaped to accommodate wings, tucked away in a secluded corner of the courtyard. It was covered by a trellis of night-blooming flowers—Elain's doing, no doubt—but Mor still put up a shield around them as Emerie sat down.

"There's room for you too," Emerie said, indicating the space next to her with a jerk of her chin.

And maybe Mor should have sat, leaned in, and kissed her softly, done this right. But at some point the thread that she felt faintly in her chest had wound itself into a knot of need.

On some level, she knew: after five hundred years, waiting was becoming excruciating.

"Can I…touch your wings?" Mor said, fully aware of what she was asking, that Emerie had every right to be outraged she'd even suggest it when they hadn't so much as kissed yet.

Emerie stared at her, her gaze sharp and assessing, the look of a warrior who didn't back down from anything. Mor held it.

"Yes." Permission, and that she'd given it at all was evidence enough that Emerie knew what they were to each other.

Mor stepped around to the back of the bench, where Emerie's wings were hanging over it. She leaned in, kissing a straight line down Emerie's spine as she knelt in the grass with the other female's back at eye level.

"Tell me if it's too much," Mor said, reaching out a tentative hand.

Emerie's wings rustled at the first brush of Mor's fingertips. Mor's touch had been light, just ghosting across the membrane, but that had been enough.

"Too much?" Emerie said, her voice going rough. "It's not enough."

Mor raised both hands this time, pressing a bit harder against the silky membranes. They were soft in the places that weren't covered in jagged, brutal scars, oddly cool to the touch, and stiff—too stiff, another lingering reminder of old injuries that wouldn't fade.

Emerie sighed—an invitation. Mor pressed a kiss to the central tendon of a wing, where the scarring was concentrated. She paused, waiting for a cry of pain or to be told to stop, but Emerie just made a low, contented sound in the back of her throat.

Mor's blood heated in answer. She'd been sitting back on her heels, but she rose up on her knees, running one hand up, up, up Emerie's back, around to her front, dipping it under her gown to palm a breast.

"Is this better?" Mor said, sliding her finger up the rest of the way to circle a peaked nipple. Emerie's back arched.

"Yes. Don't stop."

"I'm not stopping anytime soon, beautiful. Not when I've thought about getting my hands on you since I saw you at Windhaven." Mor hadn't meant for the endearment or the admission to slip out like that, but both were true. And her gift was truth.

Before Emerie could answer, Mor swept a hand along her wing again. Emerie threw her head back, and suddenly there was no possibility of conversation, not when the Illyrian had been reduced to moans and it took all of Mor's concentration to circle a nipple with one hand and caress all the most sensitive places on a wing with the other.

Mor pressed another kiss to Emerie's back, just as Emerie came with a cry. She stood, brushing grass from her gown, and stepped back to the front of the bench, admiring the sight of Emerie flushed and panting.

Mor extended a hand, and Emerie took it, getting up and stepping closer on pleasantly unsteady feet. As Mor snaked an arm around her waist, Emerie stretched her wings, encircling them both. And finally kissed her.

It was soft, almost chaste. The sort of kiss they probably should have started all of this with. When they broke apart, Emerie let her head rest on Mor's shoulder.

"I meant what I said about doing you next," Emerie said, smiling against Mor's collarbone.

Mor brushed a lock of Emerie's hair back into place. "Then come home with me tonight." Or every night. Move into Athelwood.

"I'd love to."

They stood quietly for a long moment, pressed against each other at the center of twin circles of arms and wings. But there was still a party, and they would be missed. Before long, Mor was casting a glamour to cover the scent of arousal, spelling away grass stains, and making sure no one looked disheveled.

Mor and Emerie attempted to slip back into the party without any fanfare. They'd walked back in together, not even holding hands, ready with a story about a torn strap on Mor's dress and Emerie's emergency sewing kit.

But four heads whipped around at the sight of them. Nesta was sitting at the head table with the rest of her bridesmaids, a glass in front of each of them. The bride winked.

And as a team, the Archerons and Gwyn toasted to the sight of Emerie and Mor together and a job well done.

[elliepassmore]

A Natural History of Dragons review

5/5 stars Recommended if you like: dragons, epistolary narrative, light academia

Usually I review books as I read them, but this time I'm reviewing this after I've finished the series (barring the spinoff/companion novel), so I have the benefit of hindsight. This series is great if you like epistolary narration since Isabella/Lady Trent is writing her memoirs and thus takes the narrative style of someone who knows they're telling a story. It's heavy on the academia, so if you like light/dark academia, I definitely recommend it and it does cover some additional topics other than dragons, though obviously they're the bulk of Isabella's interest. This first book does feature dragons and Isabella does get to study them somewhat, but I would say this book is the least draconic of the series. It was a little disappointing for me in that regard, but I went on to read the rest and was not disappointed at all in the dragon content. And to be honest, the fact that she wasn't too involved in studying dragons in this one makes sense.

I have to say, I greatly appreciate Brennan being an anthropologist and think we should have more light/dark academia books written by people with such professions. I can definitely see how studying and working in anthropology have influenced her writing here and enjoyed the little things she was able to naturally incorporate into this book and the rest of the series.

This book covers Isabella's childhood and the way she fell in love with dragons and her various misadventures pursuing them in adolescence. The meat of the story really starts when she meets her husband-to-be and manages to get them both on a dragon studying excursion to Vystrana.

In terms of the world's geography Anthiope = Europe and Scirland = England. Bulskoi, which doesn't really come into play until toward the end of the book, is Russia. Vystrana, the country Isabella and co. spend the most time in, is clearly Eastern European of some kind, though it's harder to pinpoint. Likewise, I'm not entirely certain what country Chiavora is meant to map onto. My theory currently is that Vystrana = Georgia and Chiavora = Turkey. None of this is particularly relevant to enjoying the story, but I find it interesting.

While it is only lightly touched on in this book, I found the way Brennan does religion, culture, and language to be fascinating and I really enjoyed the worldbuilding. While Isabella might not be an anthropologist, she does note a lot of details about the location she is in, including cultural details. Religion also comes up in this book because Scirland is 'Magisterial' and Vystrana worship in the Temple (I assumed that mapped to Christianity and Judaism, later I revised my hypothesis), and along with the main religion, there are also folk beliefs held by the people of Vystrana and Isabella accidentally steps right into them and ends up in a whole mess.

Isabella definitely comes across as young in this first book, which makes sense since it covers her childhood and adolescence, and I believe she's all of 19 when the book closes. That being said, it's easy to forget both her youth and the fact that she isn't the anthropologist when she has clearly educated herself on her topic(s) of interest. She's well-read and stubborn, and she generally has a good grasp on how to steer people toward what she wants them to do.

I did have some moments where I cringed at her behavior and thoughts while in Vystrana though. It becomes very, very clear that she isn't a trained anthropologist nor has she had any kind of cultural relativity training once she's on the expedition. Props to Brennan though for creating a voice who sounds very much what I would imagine a Victorian-era European woman would sound like when studying in the field (for those also cringing and/or uncomfortable by these behaviors/thoughts, Isabella improves with each subsequent book).

The other 'main' characters in this book are Isabella's husband, Jacob; the trip's leader and benefactor, Lord Hilford; and draconologist Tom Wilker. Jacob is open and understanding of Isabella's interests, and by and large has little problem with her pursuing them. They do have some issues at the start, with him not understanding why dragons are so interesting and important to her, but over the course of their trip they grow even closer and develop a stronger bond than before.

Lord Hilford is a wonderful mentor and wholeheartedly supports Isabella's interests. His own niece (grandniece?) has her own 'unfeminine' interests, and so he's even more open-minded than Jacob and provides Isabella opportunities to learn, hypothesize, and grow over the course of the trip. I really liked his character and found him to be an enjoyable part of the story.

Tom Wilker is more unpleasant and he and Isabella settle into a kind of petty rivalry. He clearly looks down on her for being uneducated, and perhaps for being a woman, and she in turn starts (or perhaps already did) looking down on him for being lower class. Their interpersonal relationship is a whole issue, but Wilker definitely knows his stuff about dragons. He has experience studying them and provides valuable insight into their behavior.

Overall I enjoyed this book and found it to be an interesting read. It's definitely academic, and I liked learning different things about the language, culture, and religion of the region, as well as about dragons. This is the 'least draconic' book in the series, but I still found it very interesting.

[handeaux]

Booze, Jazz, Flivvers And Flappers Dominated Cincinnati’s New Year In 1924

One hundred years ago, it was easy, despite three solid years of Prohibition, to get a celebratory drink on New Year’s Eve in Cincinnati. The new year began with multiple fatal accidents, many blamed on liquor. The Enquirer [1 January 1924] wryly observed that venerable customs were honored only when thirst compelled:

“The fashion of making New-Year’s calls has gone out of style EXCEPT in those homes where they still have well-stocked cellars.”

Reporters from Cincinnati’s newspapers rang up the doctors at General Hospital to get a status report on the city’s accommodation to a nominally “dry” existence. Doctor Arthur Charles Bachmeyer, superintendent of the city’s hospital, did not disappoint. According to the Enquirer [1 January 1924]:

“Whisky, good or bad, pre-war or bootleg stuff, did not affect as many persons, visibly, during the year 1923, as were affected by it in 1922, according to records at the General Hospital, which show that there were but 61 cases of acute alcoholism treated there last year, as against 188 in 1922. However, Dr. A.C. Bachmeyer, Superintendent of the hospital, declared it to be his belief that alcohol and its use played a much more important role with regards to automobile accidents in 1923, than in the preceding year, and more persons examined after being injured in accidents, or after having injured others through reckless driving, showed symptoms of being under the influence of alcohol, than in previous years, according to reports made to Dr. Bachmeyer.”

If anything put a damper on New Year’s Eve celebrations a century ago, it wasn’t a dearth of booze. It was the weather. New Year's Eve 1923 was unseasonably frigid, with temperatures coasting around zero degrees.

Cincinnati, along with most of America, was still trying to accept the changes that automobiles were bringing into daily life. With all the complaints about scofflaws guzzling Sweet Lucy and bathtub gin, the Enquirer noted:

“Automobiles killed the most people. Bootleg whisky came next in deadliness. Ordinary diseases ran a poor third.”

The Enquirer noted that, across America in 1923, one million homeowners had taken on a mortgage to finance the purchase of an automobile.

There was a lot of talk in 1924 about “poison rum” and there was a lot of substance to that apparent hyperbole. By 1924, bootleggers had begun smuggling gallons of Jamaican ginger extract into the United States, much of it adulterated with an additive that, while smoothing the taste, acted as a long-term neurotoxin. A generation of men, if they survived, were crippled with a condition known as “Jake Leg.” A number of classic blues tunes have memorialized this awful side-effect of Prohibition.

In reviewing the past year, the Enquirer noted, with derision, the state of music at the dawn of the “Roaring Twenties”:

“There was no improvement in jazz. The craziest song in history made a fortune for its writer. The saxophone continued to grow in unpopularity.”

An article in the Enquirer [30 December 1923] just before the New Year’s revelries, predicted the merciful demise of jazz:

“This season already has witnessed a decided turn to the conservative, with the revival of the tango, which rapidly is displacing the weird jumblings of the one-step, fox-trot, toddle, and what-not, to the wild gyrations of a discordant orchestra.”

Fat chance! This was the heyday of The Flapper. A humorous squib in the Enquirer [30 December 1923] reported the supposed compliant of a mother who thought her daughter needed psychiatric intervention:

“‘Why doctor,’ wept the poor mother, ‘she hasn’t bobbed her hair, refuses to use rouge on her cheeks, never has used a lipstick, wears heavy underwear and high shoes all winter, thinks modern sex novels are unfit for her to read, plays old classical pieces and doesn’t know a note of jazz, prefers going to church to going to bridge parties or the theater and never thinks of calling her father or me down.”

In reviewing the past year, the Enquirer observed that long skirts were never going to return to style, despite the wailing of mothers everywhere. Not a single pair of cotton stockings was sold in the city as silk sheathed the Flapper’s legs. A generation of barbers earned enough to retire after trimming the locks of young ladies who craved the bobbed and marcelled hairstyles.

It has since become de rigueur for newspapers to roust boffins and mavens from their New Year’s Day hangovers to forecast major developments of the ensuing months. Cincinnati reporters had a field day with predictions for 1924 and the following decade because all the greatest minds in America, nearly the entire membership of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, had convened in the Queen City for its annual convention.

Dr. Edward P. Warner addressed the punditry with grave fears about the state of aviation in the United States. Although America excelled on adopting air transport for the delivery of mail, European nations were far exceeding the United States in passenger travel. Dr. Warner attributed this to Europe’s creation of national airlines, while our country allowed private corporations to dither away opportunities in petty squabbles.

Moses B. Cotsworth of the International Fixed Calendar League, told the AAAS that, by 1928, every new year henceforth would begin on a Sunday. Cotsworth’s league proposed a simplified calendar of 13 months, each containing 28 days, each month starting on a Sunday and ending on a Saturday, creating a fixed year of 364 days. The thirteenth month, named Sol, would be placed between June and July. The additional day would be a holiday named “Year Day.” In leap years, the extra day would fall after Saturday, June 28, as an anomalous addition before Sunday, Sol 1.

We are still waiting. Perhaps wiser minds realized that Cotsworth’s calendar would have created a Friday the Thirteenths during every one of those thirteen months.

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Thursday, March 7-Friday, March 8 [Part 2]

Buffy: Oh! Faith: Oh! Uh, Buffy! Are you okay? What are you doing here? Buffy: Uh, bleeding internally, but I'll live.

~~Beauty and the Beasts~~

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[therosefrontier]

No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”

Safety Net | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”

+++

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Word Count: 1445

Characters: Lynette (POV), Lyney

Placement?: Some time ago in backstory, soon after Lynette receives her Vision

+++

“Lynette! Lynette, speak to me! How many fingers am I holding up!?”

Lyney really had no need to be so loud, Lynette thought. Whatever injury she may or may not have had nothing to do with her hearing, really. Still, she found that she was being a little slower to respond than she would like.

She slowly maneuvered herself into a more upright position on the safety net, her head ringing with the motion. “Three,” she answered in response to Lyney’s question. She then took his hand and allowed him to help her off of the net.

“I am fine,” she continued once on solid ground, since she knew that her brother would soon ask again. She looked up at the contraption hanging by ropes high above the stage, the “locked” box that she was to free herself from. It was one iteration of the trick among many, as it was Lyney’s style to never do the same show twice, but it was familiar enough, not too great of a challenge. Or, to be more specific, it wasn’t a challenge to get out of the box. Getting to the ground was slightly different.

“Are you sure?” Lyney asked. He looked frightened and anxious, which was uncharacteristic for him these days, but it was understandable. He just watched her fall from a great height, and she was admittedly still feeling the reverberations from the impact, but it was nothing of note compared to “Father’s” training, so she wouldn’t complain.

“I am,” she assured. “The net caught my fall.” She was stating the obvious, but yes. That was its design.

“Well…alright,” Lyney relented, still seeming tense. “Just give yourself a break to recover, alright? And maybe we should rethink this trick, too. We did something similar from the ground already—I think we can add something fresh while still keeping it there. Putting the box in the air requires a lot of acrobats on your part, and I don’t know…”

“But it was my idea,” Lynette pointed out, cutting him off. “It’s not much of a concern, really. I want to try it this way.”

“What? Oh, y-yeah, sure. Of course!” Lyney dropped his awkwardness quickly in favor of an easy smile. “Wouldn’t expect anything less from my dear sister! I suppose it’s only natural that you would get even more ambitious after—uh, I mean, after everything we’ve done already! There is nowhere to go but up from here, Lynette!”

Lynette silently nodded, observing the rapid changes in Lyney’s expression. “Yes. I will take my break now.”

+++

Seven weeks earlier, Lynette received a Vision. In the time that transpired since that day, she noticed that Lyney had gotten more anxious. It would seem that a big part of it lay in the fact that Lynette no longer went on missions with him. Twice now, the House of the Hearth has sent her out alone, the reason being because she could now do more dangerous activities, since she wielded a Vision. It was something Lynette didn’t think of much before, back when they were children and Lyney would read her the amazing stories he found about people with Visions and all the fantastic exploits they would do. Since that power was so rare, it was also quite lonely. It meant that from here on out, she must do things differently from everyone else, and be put in a separate category. Lynette’s powers were nothing like the stories, though. They were quite modest, really. It would take additional training to hone her abilities further, but also, she had no desire to learn to make dramatic, flashy displays. She would learn what was practical for her line of work, and nothing more. She operated in stealth far more often than she fought armies.

Lynette was not lonely, either. She was fine. She had Lyney, and also, Freminet. She and Lyney had their magic show together. Even if she had to do more dangerous work for the Fatui now, on account of her increased abilities, she still had this. She cared nothing for the crowds or the fame that gratefully overlooked her much of the time, but she was content to go where her family went. She needed nothing more.

Lynette continued to practice her trick. In the theater hall that was to be the site of their next performance, a mere two weeks from now, she made the most of her time. She climbed up into the box, lifted high above the stage, and she discreetly made her escape, climbing onto the structure hidden behind the curtain to get to the stairs that would lead her down. It was rather different, for her. She created the shows alongside Lyney, yes, but he spearheaded most of the ideas. Usually, Lynette’s role in this process was to point out the flaws in Lyney’s bolder schemes and remind him of budget constraints. However, it was Lynette who decided that she wanted to do this trick from the air.

Lyney was the magician. Even when Lynette escaped the box herself by way of the elaborate contraption inside, “he” would be the one who did the miraculous act, as far as the audience was concerned. This deception did not bother Lynette at all. In fact, she preferred it. She didn’t like attention or to be asked questions. Besides, Lyney could just as easily do the trick himself. He had capabilities that went far beyond his silver tongue and knack for redirecting the audiences’ eye. It didn’t matter whether or not he was actual one “doing” anything.

For this reason, however, there seemed little cause for Lynette practicing over and over again, into the depths of the night. She fell to the safety net yet again. It would seem that her feline blood only did so much for her in terms of natural balance and that elusive ability to “always land on your feet.” It might, however, serve as an explanation as to why she felt this sudden desire to be up in high places, although it created more work for herself, which was generally something she preferred to avoid if she could. She rather liked it up here. Perhaps, the desire was a result of the Anemo Vision she now wore at her back. It was an element closely associated with the sky, which supposedly made her “one with the wind.” Some wielders used to “fly,” although that, of course, was more of an illusion created by the power of Anemo lifting or launching oneself up, rather than true, unrestrained flight.

She received the Vision when she jumped off a cliff, so that could have something to do with it. Or maybe, it was sometime afterwards. She didn’t notice when it happened; she was too focused on pulling her unconscious brother out of the water, and of dragging them both to safety through that dark, unfamiliar forest. She sometimes wondered why she got it, as well. She heard that Visions were granted to the ambitious, but she was not ambitious. She had no aspirations at all aside from simply living, so she could not tell what the big deal was for. Still, it was a useful tool. It saved their lives by acting as Lynette’s guide, quite possibly, so she would readily thank whatever deity was responsible for that reason alone. Although, she did suspect sometimes that the mysterious giver of Visions could simply be a machine like the Oratrice. It seemed improbable to her that even the gods could see everyone everywhere all at once, as would arguably be necessary to perform such a feat with constancy.

Lynette continued practicing. She did her brief balancing act in the rafters, keeping a skilled, nimble step in that place where no one could see her. One morning, she received another directive. She needed to investigate an Abyss stronghold, it seemed. And she would do it alone.

Lyney was anxious. Lynette had no faith that any words she could come up with would assuage him, so she said nothing. She just stayed. She stayed by his side, forever his shadow, listening to him talk to many people, listening to him regale to her his plans.

And then Lynette would go on her own to the stage in the empty auditorium, and she would do her practice in simple, methodical manner.

That night, she decided it was time. “You can take the safety nets down,” she told the stage hands, her tone certain. “I won’t be needing them, now. The show is in only a few days, after all.”

She would be fine. Even if she did fall, it really would be nothing of note.

[katy-133]

Demo Feedback - Chronique des Silencieux

Feedback for the demo of the game Chronique des Silencieux.

Archiving from June 23 2023.

Things like general thoughts, reactions, and suggestions for the full game.

Housekeeping/Context: I'm an industry animator who hobbys as a game developer. I have around 9+ years of game dev experience, having made (directed, written, drew, programmed) 10 games (mainly visual novels or other narrative-driven games) and been involved in an additional 17 games (either as a voice actor, additional writer, artist, playtester, or animator). I've also been a narrative/design consultant for additional games during pre-production. Please keep this in mind, as while I have developer experience, it is mainly in a different medium of games.

I've also read that Chronique des Silencieux's demo is a work-in-progress and is subject to change in the full version. I will be keeping this in mind while writing my notes. The game appears to be finishing up production (given the estimated release date), so any changes would need to take that into account (meaning, I will not make structural game mechanic suggestions nor any suggestions that would require a major overhaul).

With all that in mind, these are my notes. First impressions before playing: I love detective games. Any game that looks like it will make me feel like a detective and capture that "Eureka!" feeling I get from Agatha Christie novels instantly get my attention, and Chronique des Silencieux did just that.

The screenshots showing the game's various mechanics (particularly using red string to spot contradictions Papers Please-style) drew me in. I also found the ligne claire art style of the game very appealing (I am a fan of Tintin).

The trailer showing the player opening the drawer and moving the papers within looked like it had a good "game feel" to it. The resistance of the draw opening (requiring a click and drag instead of a simple click) helps to invoke the textile feel of what it may feel like to open the drawer in real life. I love games with good game feel. It's a sign of smart design.

Performance issues: The demo has considerable performance issues. The PC I used was a work and gaming laptop (I can use the heavy 3D animation program Autodesk Maya and 3D FPS/RPG game The Outer Worlds on it just fine), and I could not finish the demo (I reached talking to Solange a second time after first meeting Victor) due to the slowness of the game. From the main menu, the mouse moved with slowed input. Frames lagged so much I thought the player character was moving in slow motion as he walked. GUI like the stamp album book would crawl in instead of slide in through a smooth animation. The keyhole jumpscare I accidentally missed because the music sting played way before Solange's animation of her eye staring back at me could even start displaying through the keyhole.

The beginning conversation at the train tracks I ended up missing half of because the mouse input lagged: I would click once and the game would think I'd click twice, which would skip dialogue prematurely.

These dropped frames are a major performance issue and I would place that as the highest priority out of all my notes here. Players who have less speedy PCs than mine will only have greater difficulty playing it (as the Nancy Drew fandom has showcased, fans of detective games tend to favor laptops and non-gamer setups), and the lag is already leaving the demo in a near-unplayable state at points. Changing the game's Quality to the lowest setting did not lessen the effect.

Fortunately, the solution for this is fairly easy to solve. The game needs to have its optimization changed so that the game is not using so much power (CPU, Memory, GPU) at all times. This can range from where the game is pulling images from and when (example: The game does not need to load all images for the game, it just needs to load what the player sees and will immedietly see), to what the engine is searching for through the game's script (programming) when the game is left idle, to things like archiving files in the playable build (that currently aren't archived but can be). The game uses Unity as the engine, so I suggest using the engine's (as well as the Unity community's) pro-optimisation tools and features.

My PC specs are the following, which I'm providing to help out with recreating the lag issue:

Through Speccy:

After playing the demo, I tried to find out through YouTube videos if other players had similar performance issues. YakWaxLips appears to have had a similar issue with framerate and stopped playing at a similar point in the demo that I did: (x)

Camera behaviour: The camera window in this game often feels too tight and close. Giving the player the ability to zoom in/out would be a way to alter this, or the pull out the camera if you don't wish to give the player that option.

The camera also gives an uncomfortable and claustrophobic effect while exploring, as I can see ahead of the player character less than I would be able to see ahead of myself walking in real life. The camera smoothing's length (of time) is slow enough that it causes the player character to appear to be faster than the camera can keep up with. Meaning, when you walk/run someplace, the faster and further the player travels, the less distance you can see ahead of the player character, giving the feeling that the player is "running blind".

Suggestions to solve this would be to add a Mario-style "speedup-push-zone" (when a character starts walking/running, gradually push the camera to travel ahead of the character to show more of what's ahead of him and less of what's behind him, then centre the camera back on him when he stops). If you'd like to keep the camera close when talking to NPCs (to keep the feeling intimate), you can program a region lock on the camera that activates while talking to characters.

For more information on this, please consult Itay Keren's GDC talk, "How Cameras in Side-Scrollers Work": (x)

While this video seminar is about side-scrollers, game developers of isometric games can also apply these tricks.

Side-note: The issue may also be caused by the frame-skipping (slowing down the camera), so optimising the game may solve both issues at the same time.

Lack of text options: There's a surprisingly minimalist amount of options in the settings menu, and none for text. This is surprising for a narrative-driven game that relies on the player reading. These are some suggestions for text preferences:

Font Choices: The choice for players to switch all text to OpenDyslexic and other reader-friendly fonts.

-Plain text overlay: Some players may have trouble reading cursive fonts in clues/documents. An in-game button to add an overlay of the same text in a simple font would allow better leigibility.

-Text size: Even if you do not plan to port to the Switch (bigger text for smaller screens) or console (bigger text for screens further away), an option to make text bigger helps to make the text easier to read for some players.

-Text to speech toggle: For visually-impaired players. Unity has text-to-speech audio as a built in plugin for devs to add to their games.

-Text speed slider: A slider to speed up the time it takes for text to appear in the text box. Slider at 100% is instant.

-Kerning slider: Slider to change spacing between characters (letters).

-A rollback option: This would be in-game rather than in the settings screen. A hotkey (usually mousewheel) or button to see previous text. This is for the benefit of players with motor disabilities (ie. nerve damage, etc.) and often mis-click and accidentally skip text (so having a history/log screen to show previous text would not be useful in this situation). The drawback is that some players may try to use this to avoid mistakes, but "points of no return" can also be programmed in to block rollback at key moments.

-Language switch hotkey: A hotkey the player can press in-game to instantly switch between French/English. Bilingual players praised Disco Elysium for having this hotkey, voicing that they were surprised more games don't add it, despite the minimal amount of programming required to implement it.

Accessibility is an important role in game development as it allows players from various walks of life to enjoy games.

Animation inconsistencies: This is me nitpicking and is the lowest priority out of my notes. I noticed one continuity error in an animated cutscene. When Blanche comment's on the player character's black eye, the cutscene's various shots switched the black eye to his right eye instead of his left (a think it was two shots with a right-side black eye, the rest left-side). While this isn't plot-important in the demo, later visual continuity errors may become plot-relevant (for example, which side he got the black eye could be a clue to who punched him--a left-handed or a right-handed person). This is just a word of caution to look out for things like this in the full game, as I can only view the demo.

I also want to add that the animation in this game looks attractive. There is a lot of artistry on display here in the demo and trailers alone. The cutscenes being fully animated were a pleasant surprise and the idle animations as the characters talk adds life and personality to them.

Thank you for reading. I look forward to seeing the full release of Chronique des Silencieux.

[allthemusic]

Week ending: 27th November

It's November 1963. JFK's just been shot. Doctor Who's just premiered. Neither of these things are hugely relevant to this week's songs, but I wanted to note it. The 60s are doing their thing! And just in time for... a Doris Day cover?

Secret Love - Kathy Kirby (peaked at Number 4)

This doesn't, at first, seem to fit 1963's general vibe at all. Sure, Kathy looks young and trendy, but come on, just listen to it! We get the big, rolling drums, and a huge, dramatic opening, even more huge and dramatic than Doris' was, if that's possible, complete with trembling strings, booming horns, backing singers. It's big, it's strident, it's exactly what you'd expect from a traditional - albeit kind of unsubtle - cover of the classic. Now I shout it from the highest hills / Even told the golden daffodils...

And then, suddenly, we take a wild swerve off road into much hipper territory, the pace picking up abruptly and the strings and chorus falling away in favour of a wobbly pitch-bent bass, drums, and a version of Doris Day's original that's got a completely new, much groovier stop-start rhythm. It's genuinely quite cool. And when we hit the so I told a friendly star line, arguably one of the more twee lines in the original, Kathy steps it up yet another layer, with the addition of some genuinely quite funky bop-bop-shoo-wah vocals, very R&B. Add some hand claps, some horns, and you've got something that feels like a very deliberate message. Out with the old, in with the new, Kathy seems to suggest. Doris Day and her lot are old, outdated, passé. You want to get with the times? You've got to forget all that old nonsense. Traditional pop is dead; Merseybeat rules supreme.

That would be a really easy narrative to read into it. Except. There's also quite a lot of genuine love for Secret Love, here. Not least the choice to cover it at all - you don't cover stuff you don't on some level like, right? Plus, we also get a fabulous moment when the now I shout it from the highest hill comes back, and Kathy's suddenly singing in the same style as the intro, again, bringing the strings and the brass and the sweeping vocals back alongside the drumming and the hand claps, throwing in a jaunty now-a-now-a-now-a ad lib. All of which creates this sort of fun fusion of the old and the new. 50s show tune standard meets swinging 60s beat groove - all with a singer who's modern, confident, liberated, even.

Because that's Kathy all over. She's a thoroughly modern girl, emancipated and super cool about it. Doris wasn't shy about her love, but she was soft, sweet, gentle. You got the sense of a girl who was giddy with love, who would never normally do this kind of thing, would never normally sing her love from the hilltops. Not so with Kathy, whose strident tones sound entirely unabashed, here - Kathy sees no reason why you should hide your love away (whatever the Beatles are going to come and tell us in a year or two!)

I'll Keep You Satisfied - Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas (4)

I enjoy the opening of this one. It's kind of unusual, four chords played one after the other, and they're a jazzy little progression, not something you'd typically hear in pop music. It sets this melancholy, slightly dark tone, actually. It does then settle into something much more comfortable and normal-feeling, as the lyrics kick in - but the slight unease hangs around throughout the song. I particularly like the little chromatic creep downwards on the repeated you don't need anybody to hold you line, and the slightly discordant suspended chord that comes in, right on the final word.

And that's my music theory-ing done, because most of the rest of what stood out to me here was the lyrics - and not necessarily in a good way. Because much like Don't Talk to Him, last week, this is quite a weird, controlling song. You don't need anybody to hold you, Billy begins, and I think, at first, that it's a song about his love interest's independence, their aloofness, which would have been cool. But no, turns out Billy means they don't need anybody but him to hold them. Yes, this is yet another jealous plea for a love interest not to even look at another guy. You don't need anybody to hold you, Billy reminds them, here I stand with my arms open wide, / Give me love, and remember what I told you, / I'll keep you satisfied. I think it's the bossy little "remember what I told you" line that gets me, here. It's just so overbearing, and I get even more annoyed as the song progresses and if anything, Billy ends up sounding even more needy, pleading with his his love, don't go away, I'm afraid I might miss you, and begging them to believe everything that I told you / And agree that with me by your side / You don't need anybody to hold you / I'll keep you satisfied. All of which really smacks of desperation. Plus, the it's different with a boy like me line is just really obnoxious.

Irritating lyrics aside, I do like the sound of the whole song. There's the chords and harmonies, like I mentioned before. But there's also just a fun, warm, pop rock sound going on here. The guitars are resonant and gentle, the vocals are mellow, the guitar solo, when it comes in, is very listenable. It's all very well done, and feels a little bit Beatles-y. Which is why I'm not hugely surprised to learn that, yes, this is indeed another Lennon-McCartney effort. Which, at least to me, explains both its basic competence and its slightly lame lyrics - Lennon and McCartney are both very capable songwriters and have a way with tunes, but at the same time, if the lyrics were better, you suspect the Beatles would have put a version of this out themselves. There's a reason they gave the song away, you know?

These were two really fun songs! I feel like we've properly reached the cool part of the 60s in Britain, now - things suddenly sound like you expect them to, very hip, very modern, very fresh. There's a coolness and a verve to it all, and an increased sense of young British artists taking risks - including, yes, updating an old Doris Day number.

Favourite song of the bunch: Secret Love

[shazzeaslightnovels]

Make Heroine ga Oosugiru! 1

Author: Takibi Amamori

Illustrator: Imigimuru (Mangaka of Kono Bijutsubu nii wa Mondai ga Aru and Character Designer for Lycoris Recoil)

Label: GAGAGA Bunko

Release Date: 21 July 2021

My Score: 4/5 stars

English Release: Seven Seas is releasing this series in English as Too Many Losing Heroines!.

Genre: High school setting, comedy, drama (potential romance in the future but not in this volume)

Premise: Nukumizu is a high school boy who likes light novels and has no friends. One day, he's at a cafe reading the latest release in a series when he witnesses popular classmate Anna confess her love for her childhood friend as she encourages him to chase after the girl he likes. Nukumizu then witnesses something even worse: Anna drinking from the guys straw after he has run off. Anna notices him and vents to him about the situation as she eats copious amounts of food. Nukumizu ends up paying for her, which starts off their relationship of her having to pay him back. Nukumizu soon meets two other girls who are also "losing heroines".

I rarely read high school light novels but I enjoyed the anime so I picked this up after it ran last year's Konorano. And I'm glad I did because I really enjoyed this. It was easy to read and the characters are really charming. I love that the girls don't immediately fall for Nukumizu after being rejected. This volume instead focuses on the growing friendship between Nukumizu and the girls, and how this changes him. And even if the series does end up becoming a harem and Nukumizu ends up having a romance with one of the girls (probably Anna), that doesn't negate the focus on platonic relationships in this volume. The volume just does such a good job at treating it's heroines as people and I love that.

So yeah, I really enjoyed this volume. I will be reading more.

Adaptation notes:

This volume is covered in episodes 1-4 of the anime.

There's some restructuring of the narrative. The order of some events are changed. For example, in the anime, Anna has her first visit to the literature club at the same time as Lemon. In the LN, Anna was there previously and at the point that Lemon visits with Mitsuki, the club's already announced the weekend club activities and Anna's decided to join to avoid the BBQ.

I also noticed that the anime cut down on a few of the meta jokes in favour of representing them with a visual gag. In the LN, the scene where Nukumizu runs into Komari at a bookstore features a discussion of prominent narou tropes. Nukumizu tells Komari the title of the web novel he's planning to write, which of course describes the premise, only for Komari to point to a book on the shelf that has the exact same title. You also get to read excerpts of the novels that Koto and Komari wrote in the LN which is really fun.

Some more examples of things being streamlined in the anime: in the LN, Anna telling Nuzukumizu about what happened at karaoke has a reference to some kind of famous duet. I didn't get the joke. The anime's image of a dead-eyed Anna shaking maracas is a lot funnier and more accessible. In the LN, after Komari's confession, Nukumizu finds Koto and talks to her before Shintarou does. In the anime we just get Shintarou and Koto's conversation which sprinkles in information from Nukumizu and Koto's. While I liked the scene with Nukumizu and Koto, replacing it made sense and nothing was lost from it.

Nukumizu's monologue about high school romance in the beginning of episode 1 is anime original, as far as I can tell. It's possible it comes from a later volume or there's a blink and miss it part in this volume but it definitely doesn't happen at the start of the volume. I don't like this addition, personally. It gives off the impression that Nukumizu is a Hachiman-style protagonist when he's really not. His narration is full of one-liners and he never monologues.

Otherwise, this is a perfect adaptation. It uses the anime medium to elevate the material while still staying faithful to the original. Everything that's cut is cut for a reason to streamline the story. While there were some gags I was sad to see on the cutting room floor, I understood that they weren't necessary for the story or the characters. My one complaint is that the scene where Nukumizu and Lemon get locked in the sports shed is a lot more uncomfortable to watch than it is to read.

There is also a manga adaptation, which I have not read. I'm not a big fan of the art style used.

[phantomdialogue]

˗ˏˋ. ݁₊ ✶ ˖ 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 - 𝟑/𝟓 ☆ . ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗

premise: when violet gets cheated on by her hockey-captain boyfriend, the captain of their rival team, reed, sees the chance to prove his feelings for her. but she's sworn off hockey players and his only option is to show her that he's not like her ex by agreeing to a fake dating pact that he hopes will prove how much he likes her.

couple: reed and violet

tropes: fake dating, rival teams, YA, sports romance, he falls first

content warnings: none to note (HEA, no cliffhanger)

available on kindle unlimited

review below!

review:

this was a really cute read. i read it for the most part while travelling and in an airport and it's definitely one of those cute perfect reads for that situation. reed darling is a good mmc. he's sweet and kind and it's clear that he's just head over for violet from the beginning. violet does suffer a little bit from the "i'm different from other girls" dilemma that is rampant nowadays but it's not to such a degree that you want to scoop out your insides rather than keep reading. i did find myself enjoying reed's POV a whole lot more though because of it.

there is also a really good collection of ensemble characters to this that i think add a lot to the story. reed's brothers, grayson and parker, stand out the most amongst them to me, and it's clear that they'll be the next in the series to get their books and romances, but even just as side characters in this one, i think they're such a fun addition. grayson kind of has that older brother (even though him and reed are twins) stereotypical role, while parker has the annoying little brother role, and getting to see them interact with violet as well just makes it such a fun read.

the writing is lacking a bit which is why it's rated on the lower end for me. i think that there comes a point when it's not "fluffy" enough, and i wish we had a bit more descriptiveness throughout. also the figure skating thing... i'm ngl it was more of a turn off than i thought it would be. but overall, it's a cute read and it keeps you hooked and having a fun time for sure.

my ratings:

characters - 4 ☆ - likeable, relatable, one dimensional

plot - 3.75 ☆ - cliched, fast-paced

setting - 4 ☆ - fits the story, realistic, rustic

writing style - 2.5 ☆ - easy to read, witty, simplistic, repetitive

favorite quotes (some spoilers here, of course, but minimal):

“So, is there a reason we’re beating up a brand-new 2024 Ford Mustang?” “We?” “I mean, I haven’t done anything yet, but I’ve got a couple of hockey sticks in my truck if you want to do some real damage?”

“I’m exactly where I want to be.” The truth was, right now, I just wanted to be wherever she was.

One moment, all you can think about is his warm brown eyes and soft dark hair. The next, you realize his hair is actually a little greasy, and his eyes are closer to the color of mud than honey. Even his voice, which was once soft and melodic suddenly sounds more like the whining purr of a drone.

With every word, this girl was shattering my heart but making it beat harder at the same time.

“I guess I’d rather be feared than loved.” His eyes were still distant, and I tried to read the emotion flickering in his gaze. “Really? Why?” “It’s easier,” he replied. “No one can screw you over if you don’t give them the chance.”

“You know what they say about guys with big feet…” “They make great clowns,”

“I think I could easily come up with a list of things he saw in you.” “I don’t need a list.” I laughed. “Are you sure? Because I’m more than happy to write one up and pass it on to him.”