Jun 5, 2024
the book of love by the magnetic fields, live at variety playhouse circa june 3rd 2024
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the book of love by the magnetic fields, live at variety playhouse circa june 3rd 2024
michelle.mp3 👀👀👀👀 also lemon boy and/or the golden hour <33
OKAY I'M FINALLY GOING TO ANSWER THIS
This (and the other two I'm answering next) are from the fanfic wip tag game that I posted on... Monday :)
michelle.mp3 my beloved 💓💓💓
This one is basically done? I just need to do the final edits and write the epilogue and I'm dragging my feet about it bc I don't know??? how to survive posting two fics at once???? Like this one is 8 chapters and A Peach Like You has another 9 to post so??? Do I post both on Wednesdays??? Do I wait 9 whole weeks to start posting mmp3??? Do I post on a different day of the week and suck up more of my writing time?????
sigh. idk.
But anyway! mmp3 is a Gwenmj fic from MJ's POV. It's very chill and lowkey with no major external conflicts, only the romance and MJ's struggle to come to terms with her break up with Peter and decide what she wants to do with her life.
It's got humor! It's got angst (spiciness = mild)! It's got life lessons! It's got home renovation! Here's a baby snippet:
“Michelle.” Gwen turns and puts a hand on either of her shoulders as she looks into her eyes. “What do you want?”
“The laminate is—,”
“No, what do you want? I’m offering to get you whatever you want, just take it.”
Michelle stares at her. That’s what this is all about, right? Moving here. Fixing the house. Getting away from… everything. It’s about figuring out what she wants and taking it.
“I want the cherry hardwood.”
Gwen grins, crooked and beautiful. “Good choice.”
LEMON BOY?? WHEN!!!
Lemon boy is--god I've been working on this for so long-- Lemon boy is my parkner magnum opus. Just kidding. Or maybe not. I won't know until it's done 😔 It's got two grief-ridden boys trying to figure out how to structure their lives post-endgame and Tony's death. It's primarily Harley's POV. He's kind of a depressed asshole in this one lol at first anyway. I'm afraid to share more of this fic bc I've shared SO MUCH bc of how long it's been a wip. Fortunately for you, I'm weak for Harley and May's relationship so here is a teensie bit of it.
He grabs one of the receipts and tears the bottom off. “Listen—,” he scribbles his number on it, “—call me if you need anything.” He holds it out to her as she stares. “I’m serious. If you don’t feel safe or you need a ride in the middle of the night, whatever it is, I’ll answer.” He stretches his hand out until finally, she takes it.
May smooths the scrap between her thumbs and says softly, “You’re a good man, Harley Keener.”
He doesn’t know about that. Not yet. “I’m trying to be.”
It's physically hurting me not to share the full scene from this bc it's soooo goooooooood
The Golden Hour
I have done ✨literally nothing✨ with this wip for months. It's parkner (*shocked face*) and revolves around this little gap between Peter's world where he's our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man and Harley's world where he's a witch and an outcast, but still needed by his village as their only apothecary/health care. It's about how they're both burdened by their responsibility to their respective communities but also about how they find purpose in shouldering that burden, even though it means they can only ever have a stolen hour together at the close of each day as the sun slips from the sky
"There are supposed to be generations of healers for a village. Like how my mom had me to take over for her but I... I don't think I can willfully trap a child in this life."
Peter looks up, surprised. "I didn't realize you were so unhappy."
"I'm not. I like my life but there's not a lot of choice in it is there? I can't travel. I'll never see the world or even a city. I can't..." Harley looks at Peter and, for a moment, longing washes over him so hot and sharp he almost says something completely stupid. He shakes his head and tucks it back away then says to his lap "It's a life of service and I don't think I can make that choice for someone else. Certainly not a child."
"With great power comes responsibility," Peter murmurs.
Harley snorts, settling back on his elbows as he follows Peter's line of sight to the clouds shifting from yellow to deep orange streaked with pink. "Well I don't know about great, but yeah. The village is my responsibility. I can't abandon them."
Peter nods. "That's something my uncle said to me," he says without looking away from the sky. His brow is furrowed so low his eyes are nearly black. "Right before he died. Never forgot it."
"And that's why you're the way you are about Spider-Man."
Peter turns haunted eyes on him. "He died because I refused to step up. I can't let that happen again. To anyone. Not as long as I can do the things I do."
Send me a fic from this list and I'll ramble about it
Working on environment concept art for our student project! #mmp3 #conceptart #environment #wip #favelas #artnouveau #nocharacterdesign #game #gameconceptart #artistsoninstagram
x x
no one will ever love you by the magnetic fields, live at variety playhouse circa june 3rd 2024
alternate version of every you every me from placebo’s free concert on the fnac des ternes building in france - march 18th, 2010
🌹(hi sarah <3)
Hey Naomi <3 I saw you need some uplifting so here's a little michelle.mp3 🤗
She kicks the front door shut behind her and dumps the tangle of string lights from the garage atop the table. It’s early to decorate for Christmas but now that Gwen’s place is livable again and she’s taking her meds regularly (which Michelle makes sure of with a reminder phone call every morning, refusing to hang up until she takes them) she needs something to do to keep her mind off of the rapidly approaching holidays. When she told her family she wouldn’t be coming home this winter she didn’t think it would be a big deal. They never do much anyway so she didn’t think anyone would miss her.
In a classic Michelle blunder, she forgot to take her own feelings into account.
She sits to begin the task of untangling the lights and that’s when she sees Gwen reclined on the couch with Michelle’s sketchbook held up to her nose.
She lurches to her feet. “Stop touching my stuff,” she snaps for the hundredth time as she jerks the sketchbook from between Gwen’s fingertips.
“Hey! C’mon, they’re good! Let me look at one more, please?” Gwen rolls onto her stomach looks at her over the armrest with wide eyes and a pouty lip.
Michelle wavers, but then she hears tires on gravel. Gwen perks up and they exchange a confused glance.
“You expecting company?” Michelle jokes half-heartedly.
Gwen’s eyes go wide. “Shit, what day is it? Please don’t say the 19th.”
“The 19th,” Michelle states dryly. “Who is it?”
Gwen groans. “The band. Oh man, I haven’t done any food shopping. I think I have a box of saltines and half a jar of peanut butter.”
“What were you planning to eat for dinner?” Michelle asks, incredulous.
“Whatever you’re making,” Gwen replies with a winning smile.
Michelle smacks her shoulder with the sketchbook. “Go, idiot. They’re going to be wondering where you are.”
Gwen pulls a face. “Come with me?”
“What? Why would I do that?” she balks.
“Because,” Gwen says, unconvincingly. She deflates. “Because I’m nervous. We haven’t hung out since the song launched and I ghosted everyone.”
“They recorded the song with you. It’s not like they could have been surprised.”
“No, it’s not that. They’re cool with me being a lesbian. It’s, umm… Well I kind of haven’t been talking to them. This,” she gestures around at the house, “isn’t normal. Yeah, we do our own thing during writing phases but never this much on our own, you know? I just kind of left.”
“And you want to put me in the middle of that?”
“No!” She winces. “Maybe a little? Don’t you love me?”
Michelle’s heart flutters and she squashes it. “No. Nope. You’re on your own. Git. Go on. Get out.” She shoos Gwen out of her house using her sketchbook to give her a little swat whenever she slows or starts to turn, then shuts the door on her back and turns the deadbolt.
She knows better than to stick her nose in this one.
~*~
She answers the door an hour later. For a moment, she’s confused and thwarted by the locked state of it, but then she turns the deadbolt, swings the door open, and marches back towards the warm spot on the couch without lifting her nose from the spine of her book.
“Uh, Michelle? This is the band.”
She freezes and slowly turns to face the open doorway. An icy breeze wafts in, fluttering the hem of her fuzzy polka dot pajama pants and effortlessly cutting through the knit sweater that’s bunched around her elbows.
In the doorway stands Gwen. She’s different, done up in ways that Michelle forgot she could be. Her hair is clean and straightened and brushing her jaw and the back of her neck. She’s wearing a pair of ripped, black skinny jeans, boots that go mid-way up her shins, and an old beat up black leather jacket. Thick black eye liner, glossy lips, striking purple eyeshadow.
She curls her toes within her ratty carpet slippers and reluctantly lets her gaze move beyond Gwen to the three women standing behind her. Over her shoulder, Betty Brandt waves and Michelle manages a small wave in return. They haven’t spoken in years but she couldn’t help but recognize the name from her decathlon days. Actually, their connection had been one of the bigger “clues” that convinced fans that Michelle is muse for Call Me MJ. Beside Betty, a black woman, Gloria is grinning so hard she must be in pain from trying not to laugh, and behind her…
Brilliant red hair curls around Mary Jane’s shoulder, drawing attention to the sharp plummet of her emerald top between her breasts as she leans back on the new porch railing she and Gwen installed over the summer. Half in shadow, her eyes are fixed on Michelle, calculating, and her lips are pinched, displeased.
Oh hell no.
🌹Michelle.mp3?
michelle.mp3 my beloved <333 thank you!!!
“That’s my specialty. Making people sad.”
Gwen scoffs and shakes her head. “Oh man, we gotta step out of this funk. We need music.” She uses Michelle’s shoulder to lever herself to her feet, then sets the wine bottle on the counter and wobbles towards the bedroom. “Where’s your music?” she calls back.
“Uhm, Spotify.”
“Ugh, disgusting. We’ll listen to mine. D’you have a speaker or anything?”
“Uhh…” She doesn’t. “There’s an old record player in the attic but you probably shouldn’t—,”
“That’s perfect. How do I get in the attic?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and passes through the kitchen heading for the stairs.
“Dammit, Gwen I don’t want to get up!” Michelle hollers after her. She doesn’t get a response. “Dammit, Gwen,” she grumbles and struggles to her feet. Everything spins and she grips the counter in a death lock before the floor finally straightens out and she toddles up the stairs. “If you fall and die I’m leaving you here and stealing your house!”
She’s halfway up the stairs when Gwen reappears with a boxy record player hugged in her arms and a small stack of records balanced on top. “Watch out, out of the way! This is heavy!”
Michelle grits her teeth and goes back the way she came, keeping a firm grip on the banister until her feet hit the old linoleum again. “I hate you,” she tells Gwen.
“You haven’t kicked me out yet,” Gwen points out as she sets the player on the kitchen table with a relieved grunt. “Bill Withers or Aretha?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She carefully lowers herself into a chair a sighs in relief when she manages it without falling on her ass.
“Nice,” Gwen mutters, more to herself than anyone, “DJ’s choice.”
“You’re not a DJ just because you’re working the record player.”
Gwen smirks at her as the first chords of a song begin to play. “You’re right. I’m a drummer.” She holds out her arms like she’s awaiting applause.
Michelle quirks an eyebrow and rests her chin on her fist. “Is that supposed to be impressive? I’ve heard what you call music and I’m not buying it.”
Gwen’s jaw drops but she’s smiling. “Alright wise guy, for that you owe me a dance.”
“A dance?” Michelle echoes, incredulous. “I can hardly walk.”
“I won’t let you fall. I promise. Please?” Gwen pouts, her eyes navy in the dim kitchen. She looks pathetic, and yet…
Later she’ll blame it on the alcohol but deep inside where her truths reside, whether she can admit them or not, she knows she wanted to. She wanted to be close to someone, held by someone, and the fact that it was Gwen—Gwen who laughs when she doesn’t mean to be funny, Gwen who looks at her like she matters, Gwen who, despite it all, she trusts—Well, it doesn’t hurt that it’s Gwen.
They’re too drunk to do more than sway in each other’s arms—Gwen’s around Michelle’s waist while hers twine around Gwen’s neck—but they sway until the record dissolves into static and the only light left is the dingy yellow ball light over the sink. Outside the bugs sing their twilight chorus and the wind creaks through trees, the rustling leaves blending with the spent record.
Send me a 🌹 and I'll share a random snippet of a WIP
