#some of them pop up with such frequency that they become a Thing for present mic fans

[plusultraetc]

Mic sneaking little inside jokes and references into his show that he knows only Aizawa will understand,,,

[kata4a]

a. you can image a subculture of musicians who assign short melodic fragments to each letter of the alphabet, and write music by stringing those fragments together into words and sentences—musical analysis then becomes a process of "decoding" longs pieces into text, and then analyzing them against the frameworks you would typically use for written literature.

I happen to think that a culture of music like this would be pretty aesthetically unrewarding to participate in

b. it seems to me that a lot of people want music theory to be an empirical study of "what effects different musical features have in listeners." I think that taken to its logical conclusion, a music theory with this goal would become obsessed with the straightforward emotivity of pop music and fail to say anything of substance about more avant garde styles (after all, the empirical effect of twelve-tone serialism on most people is "they think it sounds bad")

while I'm certainly as ardent a proponent of the straightforward emotivity of pop music as any, I nonetheless can't find myself fully on board with this approach to music theory either: I do like experimental styles, and I do find it rewarding to engage with music (and art in general) that asks more of me as a listener than to merely passively respond to stimuli

a. there are a number of features of "melodic ciphers," as I'll call this hypothetical genre of music, that I think contribute to its aesthetic paucity:

first and I think most obviously is the unsatisfying arbitrariness of a premise like this. given that this is a community which essentially treats pieces of music as literature, why not simply write pieces of literature? it is reminiscent of the tedium of analyzing a musical composition by annotating a page of sheet music, without ever actually listening to the piece

c. the aesthetic principles underlying classic music (sensu lato 😘) are often presented both very theoretically and very abstractly. the classical theories of western harmony, the linear approaches of schenker and his sympathizers, and the twelve-tone systems of the second viennese school, despite being three dramatically different ways of composing and listening to music, all treat musical fundamentals as essentially theoretical objects. what does it matter to a theorist whether a harmonic progression is played on an organ or a ukulele?

for that matter, what does it matter to a theorist that a piece of music be sound at all? one could "arrange" a piano sonata for a set of colored lights (with hues corresponding to different frequencies of sound), and while I'm sure an astute enough "listener" could learn and even deeply internalize those correspondences, I am skeptical that they would ever find the lightshow as musically satisfying as if they actually got to hear the piece with their ears

b. the late romantics and the impressionists, despite very much working under the theoretical principles of classical harmony, also present the strongest case for how even solo instrumental music can be medium-specific: sound symbolism. here, piano arpeggios evoke the ebb and flow of canal boats, here, a trill suggests birdsong, here, a low bass ostinato sounds like the grumbling of an old man

and of course once you have been presented with the type-case, you can see the same ideas in other pieces, albeit in perhaps much subtler forms. the mood and character of a set of mozart's variations are very much influenced by the kinds of things it sounds like, even if it is not trying to sound like any one specific thing

c. bach's prelude in c major from the well-tempered clavier is I think a particularly good example of the kind of depth that can be opened up by sincere and active engagement with the aesthetic background of a piece

I think this prelude is very easy to listen to as a series of pleasant, unoffensive chords. mostly people, I would imagine, could put in on in the background and do some work relatively undistracted, treating it as a sort of peaceful background melody

I also think that there is a subtle but very present sense of tension and release and climactic buildup and payoff underlying the harmony of the piece, a feature which is much easier to pick up on if you're familiar with the musical conventions bach was working with

a. when I listen to a prelude as a vehicle for classical harmony, I'm not perform an act of "translation"—I do not listen to a chord, think "ah, a seventh chord," and then "that means that this is a point of tension in the piece,"—I simply hear the chord and feel the tension as a direct feature of the chord. even though I may have had to learn that association originally, once I do learn it it becomes an immanent feature of my perception, not a process I need to consciously perform

this immanence, I argue, is the crucial feature that musical ciphers lack. while I can imagine becoming, with practice, extremely good at performing the translation from melody to letter, I am skeptical of the possibility of internalizing that process so thoroughly as to make it a direct feature of my perception; and certainly never more direct than simply hearing or reading the sentences

abc. what I take to be the goal of any music theory—and in fact of any aesthetic framework—is not to teach you a way to analyze or value some medium, but to give you a way to perceiving it; and therefore the criteria by which I judge a music theory is 1. how effectively it can give me a new way to see the world and 2. how I feel about the way that the world looks when I adopt that way of seeing

[thebiggestfuckgiven]

a thought I’ve been having since i started reading and writing DP x DC material:

The concept of “AU Curses”

—

It is known that each genre has a certain set of tropes (some of them clichés from how overused they are). Still, they have something defining of them. Music, scenarios, character archetypes, etc. The same can be said for fanfics. Specifically, for each genere, sub-genre, sub-sub-genre, etc. they have.

AUs have their own tropes because they align more closely to traditional genres. However, it’s when AUs take place in the universe of a different fandom or when crossovers occur that it gets interesting. The tropes/classical formula for each respective universe influences the other, creating something unique that then transforms into its own set of tropes (if created with sufficient frequency across the fandom).

The Danny Phantom x DC crossovers have become their very own sub-fandom, so large that some people might even consider it separate from the original fandom. It does have its own unique set of tropes, heavily influenced by DC’s classical formula, which tends to lean a lot into the darker, grittier aspects of heroic actions, human nature, and the self.

This doesn’t mean that the DP formula has had no say. No, completely on the contrary. DP formula overtakes the story when it comes to the story’s Main Conflict and some of DC’s mysteries (canon or writer-stated). It also takes charge when it comes to a few of the slightly nonsensical (endearing) scenarios the original DP formula is known for.

This all being said, one big trope common in this newly formed DP x DC formula, is that the story (naturally) always begins either with an introduction of a Bat family member into Danny’s life or vice versa. The city of Gotham is often times a catalyst for both of these things.

Across most DP x DC crossover fics, the following outline (the formula) is commonly read. When Danny encounters the first sign of a catalyst (Gotham or the JL or an alien ghost, etc), it is usually at the start of a new period in his life. A fresh start, a rescue, a safe haven, or a new relationship. Each of this immediately lead into being involved (as a civilian or his alias) with a Bat family member (also as a civilian or their alias). More often than not, this then leads to a series of misfortunes in Danny’s life or nosy investigations into his private life, which also causes its own set of issues. Depending on the catalyst, these misfortunes can be downright disastrous or a mere annoyance.

One can interpret this in two ways. It can be an AU Curse specific to the DP x DC crossovers. As soon as that catalyst pops up, Danny becomes automatically destined to meet the Batfam and his life begins to drastically change, for better or worse.

Or it can be considered a DC curse, where the moment a new variable is introduced, more new, crazier things begin to follow it and the situation becomes progressively worse or more convoluted (or both) for all the characters present in the plot. This DC curse would be an aspect of its respective universe that almost completely overtook most plot tropes within the DP x DC fandom, in small or grander ways.

It’s interesting to see how the fandom has developed all of this on a near subconscious level, simply because writers took their favorite and the most liked aspects of either universe, and used it to shape their stories. To begin it, all a writer has to do is introduce the catalyst. Everything else will follow.

Interestingly enough, the AU Curse can also be seen from an outside, reader perspective in the sense that fans of the original source (Not the crossover material/formula itself) will sometimes be subjected to it. This happens when the crossover material begins edging into or gaining popularity over the original source, so its fans begin seeing less of the material they enjoy and more of the crossover one. They see a catalyst (crossover fanart, a fellow fan who starts getting into it, or a writer who starts creating content for it), and suddenly the original source is overtaken by all the newly formed characteristics of the crossover material.

I might be interpreting some things wrong, or not have the full scope of the dubbed “DC Curse” I outlined. So if anyone wants to share their own views or correct anything, you’re more than welcome to!

[moonsdancer]

Only if you want and please don’t feel obligated to answer if it makes you uncomfortable or you just think of it as boring!

MelJay

Pre-relationship 3,4,5?

General 4 & 6?

Love 7

Melco

General 1, 6, 7

Love 10

MelJayVik

Pre-relationship 6

Love 10

Domestic Life 9 & 10

Thanks for your time!

Let's do this! Thank you for the ask!

Warning: I really ramble on too much, I'm so sorry but this was fun, and it was like a writing exercise for me. I did all three, yay.

meljay

PRE-RELATIONSHIP

3.Did any of their friends or family want them to get together?

Elora, if only because it's been endlessly tiresome to watch Mel make calf-eyes at the Talis boy wonder and flirting with him, sighing wistfully at the random advertisements that pop up all over the city with his grinning visage on them, and with increasing frequency and obviousness over the years. But part of her is really concerned about it because it becomes increasingly clear as the years pass that Mel's losing sight of their goal -- doing whatever it takes to gain favour and pardon from the Clan and return to Noxus -- taken as she is by Piltover, the person she's becoming in Piltover, and its other attractions of which Jayce Talis is undoubtedly one.

Viktor, because he can only take so much of Jayce getting distracted in the middle of presentations because he's too busy mooning at Councilor Medarda before it gets annoying as hell. He's also been forced to listen to several drunken rants about how there's "no way a woman like that" would look twice at him. And while Viktor's not an expert on these matters, he's a very good observer. It's fairly obvious the councilor isn't immune to Jayce.

Ximena has met Mel a few times over the years, at the launch of the Hexgates and a few balls and banquets to which Jayce tends to bring his mother as a date. The first time she witnessed her son in Mel's presence, she knew what was up. She doesn't push, after all, who knows how young people do courtship these days, but she hopes that one of them will see the light and get on with it.

Finally, Harold, who started working for Mel's personal office security detail after the events of episode 3. He's seen the young'uns around each other a time or two, and wonders when the Talis lad will put his big boy pants on already.

4.Who felt romantic feelings first?

Well, Jayce has been nursing a crush since the moment outside Heimerdinger's office but he convinced himself over the years that he didn't have much of a chance. Mel admitted to herself that she has romantic (not merely lustful attraction) feelings around year 3 or 4.

5.Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

Yup. Jayce, for aforementioned reasons. Mel because she's constantly aware of their differing social status, even as Jayce starts to ascend into Piltovan high society as the city's golden boy. She doesn't want to feel like she's taking advantage, or like she's doing the sort of thing she was taught to do back in Noxus. Maybe if Jayce wasn't Jayce, she could. But there's something about him that makes her not want to.

GENERAL

4.Were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)?

Nope. Mel's had liaisons over the years with people that run in her circles. Nothing serious or significant but enough to scratch any itches she might have. Before, in Noxus, before she was banished, there had been someone, a girl who was training as a healer for the Medarda armies but she'd been barely more than a child then.

Jayce has had some relationships but he was always so focused on his research and cracking hextech that nothing's ever developed beyond the casual. He has had a number of hook-ups, though. I like @eddawrites angle on this - all those conference are festivals of f*cking, and sometimes he's just got to let off some steam, and the forge doesn't quite do the trick. Also, as he'd gotten more famous, a lot of people threw themselves at him, so he went through a bit of a rake phase but got over it eventually.

6.What’s their relationship with each other’s families? Do they share a friend group?

Well, Jayce is lowkey scared of Elora because he's never quite understood whether she's just Mel's companion, or a secretary, or a bodyguard but either way it's like she can see right through him every time he made excuses to come to Mel's office for some "advice" during the time skip. And well, he's just met Ambessa, but yikes. The more he gets to know Ambessa and see how Mel is around her, how much smaller she sometimes seems, the less he likes her. And he didn't like her much to begin with.

Mel's obviously met Ximena but they don't have a close relationship yet. Mel's charmed by how kind, gentle yet brave Ximena is, right from the day she stepped up to save her son, something her own mother never did for her. She's seen how close Jayce is to her and sometimes she feels twinges of envy. Eventually, they'll be very close, and Mel will get to experience motherly hugs that don't feel like they're serrated.

LOVE

7.What are their favorite things to do together?

Jayce loves watching Mel paint. Sometimes he brings out one of his instruments, and strums gently while she does so. They're both constantly busy so having moments of quiet intimacy is important. Cuddling is key for a somewhat touch-starved Mel. Attending starchy high society functions so they can find a comfy spot to talk shit about everyone in attendance is also a top fave activity (see: ep5) -- if they tend to disappear at some point during these events for some private time, well, hopefully no one marks it.

melco

(I'm using maybe elements of the unfinished AU for this)

GENERAL

1.Who initiated the relationship, and how did it go?

Mel. She can be very pushy. Almost every step of the way it's been her inserting herself into Silco's orbit with the aim of making herself indispensable in some way so they can work together to build an empire and destroy Piltover. Of course, she doesn't initiate it with any romantic delusions, this is about power, and they both understood that. And Silco unexpectedly enjoys the oddity of being both the spider and the fly in this strange dynamic of theirs.

6.What’s their relationship with each other’s families? Do they share a friend group?

Jinx, who has been observing her father's weird relationship with the piltie woman, makes an assassination attempt on Mel. Mel, who's been fending off such things since she was barely out of diapers quickly neutralises the threat and befriends Jinx. She recognises little bits of herself in this little girl, and they form a bond. Mel shows her cool ways to braid her hair and they do a lot of messy painting in Mel's studio.

In this AU, there's no Elora, so Mel is very much alone.

7.Who takes the lead in social situations?

They're both dangerous, brilliant, savvy operators in their own right and both have their distinct domains. Mel leads in Piltover, Silco does the same in Zaun. In spaces where they're both players, e.g. the illicit underground parties that Amara holds, to which both of them are invited, they work as a deadly team.

LOVE

10.Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?

This is interesting because they have a kinship somewhat. While Mel is touch starved but was raised in a martial society where affection was not easily given or received, Silco is somewhat touch-averse and has lived the kind of life where he understands most touch to be accompanied by some form of violence. Of course, when he adopted Jinx, he started to open up more but she's his daughter. With Mel, their physicality is raw, kind of needy when they allow it, with underlying violence that works for both of them.

These two are probably the most talkative characters in this show besides Heimer - as in, they know how to play with words, to threaten, to convince and manipulate, to cajole etc. But while they do engage in wordplay, they rarely show affection with each other verbally. That would be too much. Too vulnerable. They're both too cunning and ruthless for that.

meljayvik

PRE-RELATIONSHIP

6.If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think?

Jayce would be over the moon, and completely unsurprised. These are two people he cares about a great deal so of course they're his soulmates. And he's going to keep them. FOREVER.

Viktor would be lowkey confused and irked. He's committed to science, to building a legacy of his own, to proving everyone who told him he'd not amount to anything wrong. He has survived as long as he has by avoiding messy emotional entanglements and now he has not just one but TWO soulmates?? What on earth is he to do with them? But maybe, maybe, underneath, the lonely kid who had no friends or companions - maybe that kid is thrilled.

Mel would be somewhat alarmed because soulmates are deemed a serious liability in Noxus. To have a person who is your greatest weakness personified means they can easily be a weapon used against you, to compromise you. But there's also a part of her that's relieved. The part of her that's still the girl who wanted to paint the world in gold, the girl who's deeply heartbroken because her own family didn't love her enough to protect her. And that girl dreamed of a soulmate, and now, she might have two.

LOVE

10.Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?

Jayce is so at ease with offering affection, both verbally and physically. It's one of his greatest superpowers. Him being so open and generous in that way creates space for Viktor and Mel to learn. For different reasons, Mel and Viktor are starved for physical affection, although Viktor is much worse at asking for/reaching for it - so it's up to the other two to tug him in close, or rub at his aching shoulders, or rest their heads in his lap.

DOMESTIC LIFE

9.Who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning?

Mel is a cuddler, and she's never really had to keep early hours like academics do, so she's pretty good at convincing both of them to come back to bed and let her be the middle spoon.

10.Who’s the better cook?

Jayce, without a doubt. Ximena made sure her son had two things to carry him through life - excellent hygiene and decent cooking skills. Jayce also likes being quite adventurous with his palette, experimenting with flavour and inventing strange combinations that often work out pretty well. Viktor has some recipes that his parents used to make, and he does a fair job at them but he tends to be very pedantic about following recipes. Because of all the medication he takes, he's not got the best palette either so sometimes his stuff can taste... questionable. Mel cannot cook, she's never had to learn, really. But she's good with a knife (her weapon and painting implement of choice) so if they're cooking together, she gets put on chopping duty.

[the-wardens-torch]

FFXIVwrite2022 Prompt # 10: Channel

((features yet another lover of Fal’s, a physically imposing but kind-hearted lady who left her home country due to its having become a frigid imperialist hellhole.))

“Thanks again for your help, Fal.” Ianthe’s voice flowed cleanly through the link pearl. “Are you… sure you’re okay up there?”

“Oh, no worries up here. Better me than you. Someone sees a well-built white-haired -” Falerin stopped short, realizing that mentioning Ianthe Dus Covetrus’ nationality was like announcing the presence of the proverbial fox in the henhouse, no matter how pure her intentions.

“A well-built white-haired what, Fal?” Ianthe said.  He could practically hear the wink in her voice.

“Uh, someone sees a graceful white-haired swan of a lady on a roof messing with a radio antenna and tongues are gonna wag. Besides, I owe it to you… What with the racism and all.”

“Water under the bridge, Fal. The difference is that you were willing to learn from it.”

A flush of red rose to Fal’s cheeks. It wasn’t easy to make a man like him blush, but the memory of that night always brought back embarrassment and arousal in equal portions. He’d never forget her on top of him, pinning his wrists to her bed with one hand and taking off her circlet with the other… to reveal that third eye… He’d also never forget trying to sneak out of her house some hours later because he‘d convinced himself that her being Garlean meant that she was some sort of black widow assassin spy killer femme fatale death agent who would kill him in his sleep no matter how good the sex was… He’d fallen down a flight of stairs and nearly fractured his thick, idiot skull, and she’d been kind enough to help him recover.

“Well, like that old housewives cliche says… Men are like floor tiles.  Lay ‘em right and you can walk all over them for years.” he said, ironically brought back to the present moment by one of his feet slipping ever-so-slightly on a loose shingle.

Ianthe chuckled.

“Okay… I’m not sure how well this is going to work, but I’m turning it on.“ she said.  A faint crackling buzz filled his ear. “Nothing here… can you try moving the… thing a bit to the northeast?”

“Got it.” Falerin grasped the beak of the apkallu-shaped weathervane that was substituting as a radio antenna.

“You’re wearing those rubber gloves, right? Don’t touch any of those wires with your bare hands, and watch out that none of the rest of your body touches them either.”

“Yeah. Sure thing.”  He began to twist it in the specified direction, provoking a loud pop and a few sparks.  

He had originally resented the loss of manual dexterity from those gloves, but it looked like Ianthe had been right when she told him that the consequences might be worse than a Levinbolt from Rhalgr himself. As the metal moved, the crackles responded in kind.  From there, Ianthe continued instructing him for nearly a bell. Rearrange a wire here, bend a bit of metal there.  Nothing but fuzzy metallic growls and hisses in every direction, as if whatever Ianthe was looking for was a beast that was protesting being found.

“I guess I shouldn’t have expected much from a juryrigged orchestrion connected to a weathervane.” she said. “I don‘t even know if the radio towers in Garlemald are even broadcasting anymore, let alone what the channels or the frequencies are. I guess you can come on down then.“ Fal recognized a hint of melancholy in her voice.

“I just wanted to hear something.  Anything.” the exhausted resignation in her voice was audible.  He could hear that she was on the verge of tears.  

Suddenly, as Fal retracted his hand from the weathervane, there was a snap that left behind it a tiny thread of coherent sound. Fal held back a whoop of triumph as it began to weave itself into music.  But any merriment he was holding back quickly died in his throat as the sound wrapped around his and Ianthe’s ears.

Most music evoked images in his mind. Images that were vivid and alive; sunlight and the tangy smell of sand for the hymns of the N tribe, the elegance of lace and cool alabaster for Ishgardian chamber waltzes, smoke musk and and old leather for the songs he’d learned at the Fox and Shrew. Even the saddest of songs had life and color to them.

But this… It was coming in clear enough for him to recognize in it a competent accordion player, a well-tuned piano, a classically trained vocalist, a composition deftly wrought and a tune well-carried. Yet, this was the most starkly colorless, utterly lifeless music he had ever heard.  It was like looking at faded drawings of people long dead.  Like the icy sludge buried under rotting leaves in the dead of winter.  The voices sounded like living ghosts, and the instruments like wind rattling through a forest of bones and cold steel.

….And beneath it all, the faint sounds of Ianthe quietly weeping.

((Have I ever mentioned how much I love Home Beyond the Horizon?  Also I didn’t use the word “static” because I don’t think Fal knows it.))

[petunia-petals-please]

How to cope with intrusive thoughts

Intrusive thoughts are unwanted and often negative thoughts that can pop into a person's mind at any moment. They can range from mildly uncomfortable to extremely distressing and can interfere with daily activities. People from all walks of life and of all ages can experience intrusive thoughts, and they are a common symptom of several mental health conditions, including anxiety disorders, obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), and depression. There are several reasons why people may experience negative intrusive thoughts. For example, some people may have a tendency to focus on the negative aspects of life, while others may have a genetic predisposition to anxiety or depression. Stressful life events, such as the loss of a loved one or a major change in life circumstances, can also trigger intrusive thoughts. Regardless of the cause, negative intrusive thoughts can be a source of significant distress and anxiety. However, there are several strategies that can help to diminish these thoughts and turn them into something more positive. Here are a few tips that can help: 1. Practice mindfulness: Mindfulness is the act of focusing your attention on the present moment without judgment. This can help you to become more aware of your thoughts and feelings, and to become less caught up in them. You can practice mindfulness through meditation, yoga, or simply by taking a few deep breaths when you start to feel overwhelmed. 2. Challenge negative thoughts: When you have a negative intrusive thought, try to challenge it. Ask yourself if the thought is based in reality, and if it is, look for evidence that contradicts it. For example, if you have a thought that says "I'm not good enough," try to find evidence in your life that contradicts that thought. 3. Reframe your thoughts: Reframing is the act of changing the way you think about a situation or experience. When you have a negative intrusive thought, try to reframe it in a positive light. For example, if you have a thought that says "I'm going to fail," try to reframe it as "I will learn from my mistakes and do better next time." 4. Practice self-care: Taking care of yourself can help to reduce the frequency and intensity of negative intrusive thoughts. This includes things like eating a healthy diet, getting enough sleep, and engaging in physical activity. You should also find ways to manage stress, such as through exercise, therapy, or simply taking some time for yourself each day. In conclusion, negative intrusive thoughts can be distressing and interfere with daily life, but there are strategies that can help to diminish their impact. By practicing mindfulness, challenging negative thoughts, reframing your thoughts, and taking care of yourself, you can learn to manage intrusive thoughts and lead a happier, more fulfilling life. Read the full article

[thursdaygirlgn]

do not leave me in this abyss | 1.4k | ao3

“You said I killed you-haunt me, then! [...] Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”

A couple of weeks after Chuck’s defeat and Dean still hasn’t washed the handprint off the jacket. Instead, he prays.

The ice in Dean’s whiskey glass has long since melted but condensation still drips down, marking a path on the floor as he sets the glass down and picks it up over and over, never drinking but pretending he could.

Twenty days past Chuck’s defeat and Dean has nothing to show but empty spaces. At times it doesn't even feel like he’s free, like he managed to escape, and it's just the AuthorGod of his life knows that what he’s doing is too boring to present to the audience. The man never knew how to write about a lack of action.

Across from Dean’s perch on his bed and draped across a chair is the jacket, the one he’s mysteriously unable to find any time Sam comes in to do the laundry, but resurfaces the moment the door is closed. With nowhere else to go, his eyes drift to it.

The handprint. It stares at him; bright red against the green background and Dean may have never taken an art class but he’d passed through enough towns with Christmas as the main event to know how the colors pop. A faint ache in his left shoulder, the arm he’s been using to hold the glass. If he closes his eyes he could trace the faint white lines of the handprint even now, 12 years after it was burned more than skin-deep.

Once, when helping Sam study for a test, he’d read about a man who’d been in an accident—something happened to his brain—and that man lost the ability to make memories and so had to leave his family to be protected by strangers, scientists. He couldn’t remember anything about his new life, everything he had was from before, but he was able to form muscle memory despite having no knowledge of how.

That’s Dean. He’s stuck here, stuck with no ability to move on and become someone else, rooted in a past he clings on to as the present. Repeating this over and over again, going through the motions until he goes to sleep and hopes that maybe this time, when he wakes up, Cas will be back. That’s how it happened once before, right? Coming back from the dead and Cas’ number on his phone and sheer relief striking through Dean hot and quick that he had managed to survive.

He doesn’t know when it happened, but every move he makes turns to Cas, some habit that had snuck up on him. In the dead of night, he’d wake up, arm numb, and discover that he’d been laying on it in his sleep, right hand clutching the scar.

When that happens he never returns to his dreams, dark as they are, choosing instead to stumble once more to the Bunker library, searching for ways into the Empty. Sam’s found him more than once passed out over a book older than the country. He learned quickly not to wake Dean when he’s like that.

Setting the glass down, Dean closes his eyes, takes the end of the jacket in his hands—avoiding the handprint—and starts his prayer.

“Cas,” he begins, voice already thick. He speaks at no more than a whisper but feels every nerve alight like he’s screaming this to the world.

“It’s been a couple of weeks since you left me, and this world is still turning. Well, turning again, there have been some advancements in the plot since you last saw us. I’ll tell you all about them when I see you again.”

He thinks he may have just quoted something. Cas and his angel-granted pop culture encyclopedia would know, though he wouldn’t be able to use it right. Warmth blooms in Dean and he ducks his head, feeling the smile tugging at his lips. It doesn’t quite make it to launch, but Cas has always been able to bring one out of Dean, even in the darkest times of the darkest times, when the light at the end of the tunnel bled red.

“But we did it Cas, we won, like I’ve told you before. I’d say I couldn’t do it without you but I did because I had to, even though I wish I didn’t.”

No, really , he thinks, remembering what it was like to stand his own against Chuck. He may have fought for free will, for an ability to write his own script, but Dean’s words weren’t his own: they were Cas’, some of his last.

He doesn’t know if thought counts as part of the prayer—never got the courage to ask—but he hopes it does. From what he’s heard of the Empty, he doesn’t want Cas to be alone.

“And I—I know you get scared sometimes when we find something new,” Dean continues. “Believe me, I do too. Chuck may have monologued about how you’re a beacon of Free Will but I know you, and I know you’ve made some choices you regret. But when I get to you, when I manage to break into the Empty and rescue you for once, I need you to let me.”

He breathes hard, his chest burning. One, two. Somewhere in the Bunker Sam drops something, a crash followed by a muffled curse. So many rooms unused when it’s just the two of them; Dean hasn’t touched the Dean Cave in weeks. After a beat, he adds:

“Besides, I’ve made you sit through Star Wars enough times, you’ll know your lines.”

For all that Dean has been unable to think about anything but Cas since the handprint left on his shoulder, none of that thinking has gone into the future. His plan so far is this: research, find something (a spell, a tablet, a god, a witch, anything) that can reach into the Empty, and use it to save Cas. He moves past that point and it’s all static, a radio caught between frequencies.

But he thinks, in the quiet ways, in moments of sharing movies and music and a son and a life, it all proves that what comes next can’t be totally hopeless, that Cas couldn't have been totally hopeless. For twelve long years, Cas knew Dean before Dean knew himself, so why is this different?

Cas said he couldn’t have what he wanted, but Chuck is dead and free will hangs high in the air like laughter. And Dean says so.

“You told me that you couldn’t have what you wanted, the one thing you wanted. Me, right?” The words are hard to choke out, but he forces himself to be brave the way Cas was. “Well, when the world thrives, when the apocalypse is over and we have time to breathe, that’s when you get to move past needs, that’s when you get to have your wants. Do you hear me? I need you to hear me.

“You say I changed you? Prove it then. Come back. Be changed. You’ve saved me from gods and angels and monsters more times than I could count, but you also saved me from myself. I’m returning the favor, but don’t you dare think this is a quid pro quo.”

No response on the one-way street. He keeps his eyes closed, lets the darkness settle over him like a skin. The fabric is rough and sturdy underneath his fingertips and he imagines reaching up towards the shoulder and his hand coming away wet as if Cas only just cashed in on the deal that's left Dean breathless ever since. Dean could just grab his hand, still dripping blood, and bandage it even though angels don’t need it because taking care of Cas like this is the only way he knows how.

But he doesn’t risk it, doesn’t want to contaminate what he has left of Cas.

“I’ve told you before that I need you,” Dean says, rounding out the prayer. He should get up, check on Sam, wash the dishes piling up in his room. A million steps to take before he can truly, deeply sleep. Who knows who will be at his side when that happens. “But I never let you know that I want you. Never let you know a lot of things, I guess. But I do, Cas.

“I really, really do.”

[honestsycrets]

A Distraction I: Poppy Seed | [ Hvitserk x Harem Girl!Reader, Oleg x Reader ]

❛ pairing | hvitserk x harem girl!reader, oleg the prophet x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | oleg wants to keep hvitserk's lips loose and mind distracted. he thinks women, drugs, and alcohol should do the trick.

❛ tags | dub-con because inebriated hvitserk, poppy seed effects aren't exactly realistic in causing premature ejaculation, trickery, nsfw, ivar is an ass in this one. 

❛ sy’s notes | It feels like its been months since I’ve written Hvitserk. Ivar doesn’t like her; not completely sure why. 

The sway of the wooden door woke you. Your heart lurched into your throat as you realized that Oleg the Prophet’s booming steps were headed in your way. The candles flickered in a low burn, rivaling the hearth that warmed your nude body.

“There she is. How are you? Are you sore?” Oleg asked, narrowing his eyes on you rather than the other two women there. The others had been sent away to a party he held for his faithful men last night. He held new things in his arms. A beautiful headdress dripping temple rings, a weighted necklace, and long graceful skirt. It hadn’t escaped you that he had no top in his arms that night. “I was rough with you girls tonight. I will make it up to you. I’ve brought you gifts.” 

You rolled your swollen lips in, before popping them back out. “I’ve become accustomed to the abuse.”

“Good. You are a good girl; never questioning me. That is why I have a task for you. I want you to keep him distracted.” 

“Who?” 

Your question resulted in a small mincing smile. You took the gold from him: whoever he meant to impress must have been important. The headdress was elaborate, dripping down your long hair in the back. It matched a necklace that served as a top and a long flowing silken skirt that was should be nothing but a laugh. 

“You’ll know him when you see him,” Oleg explained, clipping in thin cloth of a veil to mimic chastity. You settled your bracelets and arm rings in their place. He took two steps around you, thumping in his boots to seize your shoulders. “He is… comparatively unimportant. Even so, I need his lips loose and loyalty swayed. Make him feel good. I know you know how to do that.”  

That’s what women are good for, he whispered in your ear, distractions. As if your life on the slave trade had taught you anything but. His hand shifted up from your shoulders to your neck, resting against the mark of a slave. His thumb presses on the mark, while the other hand came hard on your bruised ass. A cry rocked up your throat that you bit back down. 

He smiled deeply, “You can do that for me, can’t you?” 

After four quick racing heartbeats, you nodded. 

“Yes Prince Oleg.”

If it was the cripple, you weren’t sure you wanted to do this work. After all: you had seen her handmaidens shooing Ivar into a certain room with Oleg’s attention squarely on the harem girls. Katya and Ivar had sex in no low frequency. If it was him, you knew that you had nothing to offer Ivar that he did not already have.

Oleg said he was comparatively unimportant. It couldn’t be him. Ivar was important to Prince Igor. He was a witty warrior, a strategist, and a good man. You moistened your lips as you sat with poppy and long hair tumbling down your shoulders in wait. Whoever this man was: he would you hoped he was distractible. “Prince Hvitserk,” Oleg’s chest rattled into laughter. A prince? You shifted your kohl lined eyes toward the man and moistened lips painted a lascivious red. The man in question had hair that shone with blonde sheen and eyes bluer than you’ve seen amongst the harem girls of China, Persia. He’s beautiful. A Viking. You heard of them, seen them, but never this close. “Trade has given us many beautiful things. I would like to share them with you.” 

Oleg’s eyes flicker over toward you. He was right. You knew it was him. 

“Come! This is one of my concubines,” Oleg extended his hand out. You lifted up the end of your dress with smoked poppy in the other hand. You wish that he had chosen someone else: Liahua or Sareej: someone, anyone other than you. Hvitserk shifted his elbows off his thighs, pushing himself upright as you cut between his body and the table. You set the poppy seed down.

“She is pretty,” Hvitserk says curtly. 

“Isn’t she? Feel her breasts. She’ll let you,” you sunk to your knees before him. A jingling alerted you to another woman joining the table. “Go ahead.” 

“No I, I don’t--” Hvitserk stuttered, his head turning one way; then another; and eventually to where you were unlacing his trousers. Hvitserk’s hand froze when your mouth made contact with his semi-hard cock. You’ve seen the Vikings that came into Kiev and wondered how they differed from but never had this opportunity-- belonging to Oleg presented its own complications. “Hngh.” 

Oleg reclined back to watch, catching Hvitserk in his panic. “Don’t tell me a Viking like you doesn’t enjoy women.” 

“That’s not it. You’re--” watching. 

“Relax. What is pleasure among brothers? Smell this.”

Poor Hvitserk, your tiny fist pulled his hardening cock. His hand set upon your head, stroking through your soft veil. He’s soft. “No-don’t--” it’s not you he’s talking to this time. You carry on your work. It’s not your fault he couldn’t say no but against yourself, you know it’s your fault for weakening his resolve. 

“It’s poppy seed.” 

His hand falters upon your head and falls away. Your lips pop off the rim of his dick, Hvitserk’s body swaying with an inarticulate complaint spilling off his lips. Oleg was staring at you with his eyebrows pushed together, a sardonic grin rupturing his features. His black eyes gleamed with excitement as he bore at Hvitserk’s throbbing pink cock. A bead of moisture formed at the head and as you stood tall, Oleg held a hand up to you. 

“I’ve never seen you ride a Viking before.” 

He couldn’t have conformed even if he wanted to. The scent of the drug was strong, causing Hvitserk’s shoulders to slacken hard. Your sister-concubine moved aside as you reached for a pot of warm oil, coating Hvitserk’s shaft with an obscene wet squish. You niggled your way out of the thin skirt and stepped over Hvitserk’s thighs, angling his head with your sodden hole. You sunk onto him, resisting the stretch that filled your body with pleasure that hinged on pain. 

“Look at you,” Oleg prompted your attention. “So full.” 

“Fuck,” Hvitserk made a noise you couldn’t understand, hazy and thick. You like to think it was pleasure as your hands settled over his shoulders for some anchorage. You couldn’t be sure, rolling your hips onto his lap to take him in and out of your body. Hair thwapping your low back, Oleg found himself laughing at the pleasure building in Hvitserk’s features. Hvitserk’s useless hands clawed for control at your hips: despite the fact that they were very, irrevocably out of control. 

“He likes it,” Oleg clapped his hands together. He reclines back onto the bed and calls for another concubine. You want to ignore what is going on, forming a deathgrip on the russet cloth covering his shoulders and doing your work. Your hips fell upon Hvitserk in a constant rhythm, squeezing him for emphasis. Your body jingled with coin, a thin film of sweat coating your skin from your work taking the Viking. Distantly you heard Hvitserk grunt and felt the warmth spilling through your pussy. 

“Did he come already? Inside of you?” Oleg threw his head back, seized in laughter that Hvitserk wasn’t there to hear. He was somewhere else; distracted by smokey haze and wonderful pleasure that at the least caused his hips to push up in pursuit of the last whisps of pleasure. You shrugged the scratchy veil back over your shoulder and stand, leaking his seed down your thighs. Oleg clicks his tongue, “He did! You see that Sareej? He can’t hold his seed.” 

She ruptures into giggles. “I saw!” 

“Take him away!” 

You don’t have appropriate clothing. In Oleg’s words, it didn’t matter. Everyone knew you were a whore. You covered your breasts in a cloth that exposed your midriff and rushed to take Hvitserk to his rooms with the prayer that Ivar the Boneless would be busy with Katya as he so often happened to be. Your mind was alight as you set him in his bed with the blinding certainty that you shouldn’t be here. But if you went back to Oleg, you knew what was waiting for you and that might have been worse. 

He wouldn’t remember, anyway.

He shouldn’t have taken that poppy. 

He woke with memory of what had happened: the warm mouth wrapped around his cock and the light in Prince Oleg’s eyes. The excitement that sat behind his words of pleasure. How did he end up here? Perhaps it had been a guard that brought him back. He closed his eyes and dreamed of a distant home when he turned over and met the sudden reality that he wasn’t along anymore. By contrast, the warmth of your figure in his bed shook him into disquiet. Your eyes bore into him with intense expression. Hvitserk seized the knife under the blankets, drawing it to your neck in one smooth motion. 

“Who are you?” 

“Just a slave,” you spoke smoothly. “I brought you back from Oleg’s harem.” 

“You’re that concubine from before,” Hvitserk retracted his blade and tucked it under his pillow. He smiles at you in a deprecating but knowledgeable smile. You want to speak up; tell him the truth. Except you did not care for the hard truth of telling him what you had really done in his haze. “Of course. I must have fainted. I was in the world of the gods with Idunn.” 

“Idunn?”

“Our goddess of eternal youth. She was so beautiful with blonde hair like the rising sun. We had sex until the very dawn,” he set his hand to his bed sheets and propped himself up to sit on the side of the bed. He angles to look at you, flicking his tongue at his upper lip. “It was a good dream.” 

You couldn’t bring yourself to tell him the truth. A Viking like him? He didn’t need to know the whole truth of what occurred; how Oleg had used him for a show.

 “What are you doing here?” 

“I didn’t want to go back.” you spit out, finding the words dancing on the tip of your tongue. Hvitserk’s room was suddenly tiny and hot as if a great hearth waged within it. You couldn’t breathe, and yet your hands were clammy and wet. “Oleg is insatiable. He’ll want sex. He is… rough and I am sore.” 

An awkward quietness followed. Not the dreamlike vision of Idunn and her apples but the harsh reality of a concubine’s life. Being one of Oleg’s concubines meant that you must do things. Things like what you were attempting right now. There’s a knock at the door before it pops open. You recognized that man who walked in with a stab of a creaking crutch.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed.” Your jewelry jingles as you moved toward the edge of the bed. Hvitserk stops you with a hand to your belly. 

“No, no. Stay. There you must be tired. He is just my brother.” 

Hvitserk turned toward the door, narrowing his eyes at his younger brother that came in. Ivar wrinkled his nose at the sight. It wasn’t often that you felt shame; but something in Ivar’s words settle low in your belly. “I see you’ve had your fun.” 

Hvitserk looks toward you, fixing your veil and minding golden jewelry. “Oleg is treating me well.” 

“I can tell,” Ivar stews on whatever harsh words he came here to spew. “Giving you whores to fuck frustrations into. It’s special treatment, Hvitserk.” 

“Don’t talk about her. She is a slave,” he gestures. “She has no choice.” 

You can’t handle it anymore. Not with the knowledge of what you’d done to Hvitserk under Oleg’s words or the judgement that Ivar carries: despite not knowing you at all. He had always been kind toward you. Never an awry word until today. Ivar holds onto his crutch, turning his sardonic eyes to focus upon you alone. “Then let’s talk about you.” 

“Oleg must be missing me,” you gesture, setting your hand at your bare midriff and smiling at Hvitserk. He sets his fist down on the bed, pushing himself up with a word of complaint brewing on his tongue. “I told you--” 

“I will see you again,” you told him. Despite his hateful words, Ivar bows at his waist in some mockery of respect. “Oleg’s whore.” 

You rush out. Ivar doesn’t like you; you don’t blame him. If he knew what you’d done, you shudder to think of what his knives would have done at your throat. You don’t wait around to find out why. 

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071​ @daughterofthenight117​ @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim​ @msmorganforever​ @destynelseclipsa​ @soleil-dor​ @strangunddurm​ @naaladareia​

[magnoliapip]

The Storm Inside

Title : The Storm Inside

Book : Open Heart series (Choices - Pixelberry)

Description : Casey has been pushing everyone away and spiraling since the attack on the hospital and her loved ones are concerned.

Pairing : none established  / ambiguous

Characters : Open Heart FMC (Casey Valentine), Sienna Trinh, Bryce Lahela, Jackie Varma, Rafael Aviero, Elijah Greene, Aurora Emery, Kyra Santana, Danny (mentioned), Bobby (mentioned)

Warnings : mention of death, mental health

Prompt : “What’s the weather outside your window doing right now?...”

Casey stared vacantly out the floor length windows into the night sky above Boston from her seat against them on the living room floor. The sky was as clear as could be, a rarity for the area, but in a city as populous as Boston seeing the stars was a gift they were never granted. She stretched out her cramping legs to a different position as she leaned her head and left shoulder against the cool glass.

She looked out of windows with alarming frequency now. She had never really done so before, preferring to always be doing other things. She’d always thought of herself as a social person who enjoyed others company, though she could be either out dancing in a packed club or relaxing away a quiet night in with the same level of enjoyment. Friends and loved ones was all she really needed.

The attack on Edenbrook had changed everything, down to her very bones.

Some days her mood was somber but calm, like a cloudy day. Those were her best days and the ones she liked best. The cloudy days could be darker with threat of rain or lighter with the sun just missing the opportunity to come out. It was the closest to her old self she could feel. Unfortunately for her, those days were not only fleeting and the least common, they were becoming a rarity.

More often, her moods were a range of levels of sadness. All the way from a misting drizzle, enough to coat everything in water and make the air humid, to a torrentially pouring rain. Buckets from heavens and flash floods. The only thing those floods never seemed to leave clean was herself.

Other times she was cold. So, so cold. The best of those days were accompanied with a blizzard. Cold, but manageable with a shovel. On the days  where she left her heart covered in an inch thick layer of ice and brandished her words like weaponized icicles, frigid and sharp, the people around her knew to steer clear. She was getting a little too good and stabbing them where it hurt.

Her worst moods felt like she should alert the National Weather Service. Tornado warnings and hurricane evacuations were a courtesy she never felt up to extending, adding to her already astronomical guilt. Like a twister, she could feel so angry and out of control she would tear through everyone in her path with no regard for who or what was in it. She had hurt people, especially the ones she loved, deeply but couldn’t bring herself to stop. It was like watching her body act with someone else at the controls.

It was just one more thing about herself to hate lately, and it had a long line to stand in.

The weather in reality never matched what she felt inside. It fascinated and disgusted her in equal measure. It had been sunny (mostly) since the funeral. It was repulsive.

Bobby was dead. Danny was dead. Raf had almost died and would have god knew how many long term problems ahead because of the illness. She had nearly died. And the world just kept spinning.

Couldn’t they see? Couldn’t any of them see that she was stuck there in that room. That she had never recovered. That she couldn’t recover.

At first, when her friends had noticed her strange new affinity for gazing outside for hours every night, they tried to pull her away. Distract her with things like herbal teas, chocolate ice cream and support. They tried to shower her with her favorite pastimes from before. They tried dancing around the apartment to silly pop songs and playing video games with her. But they didn’t understand. And they didn’t stop.

So she bit them. Hard.

Now they left her alone.

She was an awful person. She shouldn’t have been allowed to live. Someone should have realized it at the hospital and just let her die.

She could feel the tears well up again, stinging her eyes as her inner clouds started to rain again. The night sky outside stayed perfectly cloudy.

It was going to be a long night.

Sienna stood around the corner, watching her best friend shatter silently, as she had done every night for over a month. She whispered to those behind her, “Don’t you all see? Nothing is helping and she’s getting worse. After the last time she panicked when I reached out, I thought I’d give her space. We all did. But it’s not working. Does anyone have any suggestions?”

The gathered assembly of those in the cramped penthouse hallway who loved a young doctor named Casey watched her crumble, weeping without making a sound...and no one said anything. Some of the smartest doctors in the nation, and no one had an answer.

Not Bryce, who stood off to the side watching the pain on the face of the first true friend he’d made while at Edenbrook. Someone who had looked past the brash, self-confidence he used as a shield. The first person he hadn’t been afraid of discovering his past.

Not Rafael, who stood at the back of the crowd, down the hall, not able to stand to look at the person who made him believe he was worth as much to her as these intelligent, talented and more well off friends of hers. Not as she could no longer see how much she was worth.

Not Jackie, who was used to facing her problems by cackling at them until they scurried off with tails between legs or tearing them out with her teeth. But this was a problem that required delicacy, the type she had been shown by the very woman who now needed it.

Not Ethan, who leaned against the wall as he saw his protégé, the first person he’d ever believed in this much, destroy herself. She had forced herself, her goodness, into his life and helped fix his hurt self. Now it was his turn and he, for the first time, found himself at a loss.

Not Aurora, her rival turned friend who showed her at her loneliest that having friend was worth something after all. Not Elijah, a beacon of positivity who felt entirely inadequate with this situation that left her emotionally impaired. Not Kyra, desperate to find some way to give Casey the support she had given. Not Sienna, whose heart broke as she watched her very best friend, her dolphin, her rock in many ways fall further and further into herself.

Each one of them loved her. Each one of them cared for her. Each of them had a purpose and a reason to be at Edenbrook, but Casey was the glue that had held them all together. That glue, their foundation, was compromised. This time, they needed to find a way to save her. This time, she couldn’t waltz her way into a miracle seemingly handed down by the divines themselves to fix the situation.

Giving voice to their silent thoughts, Bryce whispered softer than before, “She needs us. She has to know it. She has to know we’re here somewhere inside, but can’t ask. Won’t ask.”

“We’ve already lost so much because of the attack,” Sienna said quietly. “We can’t lose her now. I can’t.”

“None of us can,” Rafael replied softly.

There was practically a flashing beacon over Casey’s head, screaming help me please. It was long overdue for them to stop ignoring it. For a few pregnant minutes, they all looked around at each other and back to her. This mismatched band of misfits and nerds, bound this night by their affection for one single woman. They stared at each other, desperate for answers…

Until the one who loved her most went rigid. Then stepped toward the rest, speaking slowly.

“I...may have an idea.”

[BREAK]

Notes : I left the ending open for interpretation on purpose. This story is not intended to be expanded on or have a second part. Y’all can decide who the person who loves her most is (and if that person isn’t presently named in my story, you can put them there yourself :D)

Also, I want to extend a heartfelt thank you to the amazing writers I’ve talking to lately. Due to some truly awful comments and the way they were affecting me mentally, I recently purged all of my works but a few from fanfiction.net, AO3, and here on tumblr. Talking to, interacting with, and just seeing you lovelies in action has led me to believe I should start to do this again. 

Huge shout out to @jerzwriter​ and @lovealexhunt​ for being the lovely souls they are. You may have no idea who I am, especially on this blog rather than my main, but I will never stop being grateful for the positivity you put into the world. Thank you.

[nikasholistic]

i've been struggling to find my calling,purpose and what kind of job should i do? i've tried some stuff but nothing seems to get my interest and make me have a burning desire you know.But lately i've just got my spiritual awakening and i'm healing now.

As you advance on your healing and awareness journey, you will naturally feel drawn to certain things. Don’t worry, you’ve got a life purpose, every soul on this planet has its purpose. You just haven’t discovered it yet, and that’s completely all right.

For the next weeks/months, pay close attention to your interests. Maybe some new passions and hobbies will emerge? Maybe you will feel strongly attracted to pursue a certain type of career? Healing cleanses us and allows us to shift into a higher frequency, and when we do this, we naturally find ourselves and our true path.

You can also ask the Universe to reveal your life purpose. When we are open to receiving signs and guidance, we get them.

And you can repeat life purpose affirmations. They will reprogram your subconscious mind, so finding your path will become easier.

If you’re into numerology, check your life path number. It will give you a general outline of your purpose.

Or you can try this exercise: Imagine that you’ve got all the money, houses, material things, etc. you’ve ever wanted. You’re a billionaire, you’ve got everything, so what are you doing now? What is this one thing you would be doing? If nothing pops up in your mind right now, it’s okay. Your journey has just begun so be patient and occupy the present moment to receive your calling. ✨

[immortalonus]

Where You Belong: Chapter One.

So in case you guys were wondering where I vanished off to, the answer is mostly work. This chapter also took way, way more brain power than I really intended, so I didn't really have the energy to post much else.

I could probably edit this more, but I swear if I spend one more hour editing this I will go insane, so here it is, chapter one of my first multi-chapter fic in, *checks calendar,* four years!?

Jeez, time really does fly, doesn't it?

Read on AO3

If I were Where I Would be, Then I Would be Where I Am not. But where I am, There I must be. And where I would be, I cannot.

-American Folk Poem.

________________________________________________________

As soon as Valerie had flown out of sight of Plasmius’ portal, she made a point to dump everything he had given her for the trip.

First, the communication devices. She had no desire to talk to anyone, much less the creepy, lying, traitorous ghost-thing masquerading as Vlad Masters. She gave the DALVco edition headset her best fast ball, taking no small satisfaction in watching it break piece by piece as it clattered against the frames of one floating door after another before finally vanishing into the mists below.

If Plasmius wanted to talk to her, he could crawl out of his portal and find her himself. Which he wasn’t going to do, because he had a cover to maintain. After all, what kind of delicate, elderly gentleman would throw himself into a dimension of rarified death? Not Mister Masters, oh no.

Especially not when he had a willing pawn to do it for him.

The more surreptitious listening devices went next. Fat, disgusting, bloated insects they were, bugs in function as much as form.And they were everywhere.

She found them wedged between her armor joints, the soles of her boots, in the crevices of her guns, and, after putting her systems through an intensive self-diagnostic, her hair.

When had he touched her hair?

She made a point to crush them all. Either plucking off the parasites directly, or, in the case of those lodged beneath her suit, pulling them into her storage unit and spitting them back out again into the open atmosphere where they could be destroyed.

She removed everything else Plasmius had given her immediately after: Several days worth of food, a large pop up tent, a sleeping bag, a map, several spare weapons, a well thumbed biography on Vince Lombardi and more spewed out of her storage units like a sickness, purged in gouts down to the waiting abyss.

Any thing he'd handled, all his supplies, every “present” he'd ever bestowed, she made a point to dump them all.

But God, when had he touched her hair?

Once she was finished, it felt almost like a victory. With no material proof of her obligations, it was easy to imagine she was already free.

She would finish this mission on her own. No outside aid, no puppet-masters, no regrets.

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

/Sorrysorry-soverysorry!/

“Shut up!”Valerie had regrets.

/sorrysorrysorry/

So many regrets.

“I said shut up, you stupid bug!”

She emphasized her point by kicking the target of her ire right in the soft parts of its creepy, eye studded thorax.

This was stupid, she was stupid, but more than anything, she was pissed.

Valerie took a few steps closer to her target, gait slightly uneven for the lack of both her usual boots. While she wasn't going to die anytime soon, as the black leather that fit snug as skin across her body, the true barrier against the toxic atmosphere of the Zone, remained fully intact, it didn't stop her from being mad about it.

The bug, which had finally stopped gibbering in that vile, hissing tongue that had become more and more common the deeper she ventured into the pea-soup hellscape otherwise known as the ghost zone, took the opportunity to cower against the calciferous outgrowth that had halted its pitiful attempt at flight from Valerie's relentless pursuit.

She had hunted ghosts stronger and faster than this every day back in Amity, and could not help the faint sensation of disgust that came over her at the sight of a figure so unexpectedly pathetic. Did she appear so weak that this creature, along with the half a dozen or so of its less successful, but no less kleptomaniacally inclined ilk see fit to prey upon her? Did she seem so low indeed, that even the meanest, most beggarly of the Zone's inhabitants should see her as some object to pilfer and mock?

It was the work of a moment to summon her laser cubes, pulling them from the pocket dimension from which they resided to slide noiselessly over to the insect lying prone before her. With a thought, they flew forward, two each to press down on the thing's chitinous skull, heightening the artificial glow of her suit as she did for that extra sense of intimidation.

It was an ability she'd never had the need for back on earth, only to find herself putting it to use with unhappy frequency not a day after she'd set off on her journey.

Everything in the realm of the dead glowed, and the capacity to put off and manipulate one's own aura was a hallmark of the creatures that 'lived' within it. Those that didn't stood out strangely, casting shadows upon themselves and the world in a way that made them an obvious anomaly in the otherwise antumbral reaches of the Zone.

While Valerie didn't enjoy wasting her resources on glowing like she was her very own spook, she also hated wasting time, which advertising her humanity to every ghost that glanced her way very much did; a lesson that she'd learned after fending off an entire assault squad of ghost police, who had chased her for ages while screaming about her criminal possession of so many 'real world objects' within their territory.

That it also made sure any enemies never anticipated her ability to phase through objects came in handy from time to time as well, such as when a would-be thief, for example, tried to duck into a thicket in an effort to snarl its pursuer.

As expected, the bug shuddered in response to the cold touch of the barrel against its skin, curling into itself as it looked up into the dark panel of her faceplate.

Valerie leaned down, pinning it between herself, her guns, and the stony trunk of what, on this particular island, seemed to serve as some kind of tree.

/Alright, Manbug, one more time./ Her voice crackled and popped through her translators, adding even more intimidation to a tone already modulated down to something lower and crueler than her natural snarl. /Where. Did you. Put. My Stuff. /

The insect whimpered a little harder, oozing something suspiciously close to snot from the hole above its writhing mouthparts. It remained otherwise silent, however, as it shook.

Valerie pulled back her leg and kicked it again.

The imitation flesh buckled beneath her toes, causing the creature to squeal, a nonverbal expression of pain peaking just beyond her range of hearing as it flickered invisible, writhing in a hopeless gambit to escape the weapons still clamped against its head.

Funny how ghosts kept so many features they really shouldn't need anymore. Like joints, for example. Was it a subconscious matter, or some kind of deliberate choice, Just one more means to mock the living, their very forms a cruel parody of everything they once had been?

She silenced the voice which whispered how she should know by now, that it wasn't that easy. There were more important things to focus on.

/P-please./

The bug focused its myriad gaze on the huntress' visor, all six limbs twisted over themselves, wrapped tight over its oozing midsection.

/In error, Milor- Milord. Your place, held, not neutral. Shall honor, please. /

It was leaking from the eyes too, now, viscous fluid pouring from its dozens of eyes, wetting it bodily, puddling down onto the dark purple earth, adding to the halo of scattered goods and tchotchkes that had spilled out from the overstuffed bags that it had clung to for dear life even as they toppled, overbalanced from a too-fast turn, dragging the creature headfirst into ruin.

/Mer- mercy./

This wasn't fair. This miserable thing, begging in the dirt like it hadn't gotten anything more than what it deserved.

Valerie grimaced, rubbing the heel of her palm against her faceplate. Phantom's visage, not long past, looked up to her from the depths of her memory, face just as desperate, just as indisputably, distressingly genuine as when she'd first seen it.

“Valerie, You don't want to do this.”

“Like I have a choice, spook.” She muttered.

She took a deep breath, sucking in the same recycled exhalation she'd been breathing for nearly a week now, and took a moment to actually think her situation through.

She wasn't lost. She had no idea where she was, but she wasn't lost: That would imply a level of helplessness she could not bring herself to admit. What little food and water she had brought with her had been eaten a while back, reducing her to scavenge among the portal droppage scattered through those areas not patrolled by mad policemen, hoping she could find something sufficiently sealed against ectoplasmic encroachment to remain edible.

She reconsidered her captive, still trembling on the ground. A ghost zone native, utterly at her mercy, and, by the looks of things, a serial hoarder of goods.

/You want mercy? Fine. But you do what I say, exactly as I say it, M'kay?/

While the guns pinning its head in place were something of an obstacle, the bug did manage a spasmodic sort of jerking motion, forebody pushed back and forth with desperate, eager haste.

/(Enthusiasm,) (enthusiasm,) assent! Lord, generous, gratitude, respect./

“Good, now-”She held out one hand, palm expectant.

/Give 'em back./

It responded slowly, still slobbering at the maw, all eyes fixed on the huntress as it unwound its uppermost limbs, which reached up towards those tattered bundles still clustered fungiform over its heaving thorax, rifling between twine-like bindings for what seemed an age.

Patience had never been a skill of Valerie's, and she found herself torn between wanting the moment to last forever and wishing go faster instead, tightening her mental grip over her laser cubes, fingering the internal triggers in anticipation of some sudden, traitorous motion on the part of her captive.

Ghosts were deceptive, dangerous creatures, except, of course, when they weren't.

Without any ability to tell the difference, she could do nothing but pace at the bars of her patience, waiting for the moment to act.

Finally, a claw submerged itself into one of the parcels, pulling out one boot, and, just beside it, a single leather fold.

This was it. Valerie snatched the wallet from its pincers. The boot was replaceable, her construct engines could make another now, if she wanted to waste the resources for it, but her wallet-She flipped open the small leather parcel, noted immediately that the contents were not any state remotely akin to how she had left them.

/Milord?/

The bug was still subtly trying to wriggle its way out from under her guns. Her systems noted, then deleted, increased energy expenditure from her laser cubes as they were forced to adjust to its motions.

Useless data. A ghost of so low a caliber could never hope to escape so easily.

Debit card-broken, bent until the plastic whitened from an excess of pressure; Dollar bills balled together and crammed into a single pocket, still damp with a kind of ectoplasm that looked disquietingly similar to the slobber still dripping from the mouthparts of the bug before her; Plastic wrappers, spare coins, a concert flyer for a band she'd always wanted to see.

/Ah, Milord? Pardon, Excuse?/

All of it. This vile, twisted excuse for an insect had messed with all of it. It had played with her most important cards and documents like they were toys, then shoved them back in with utter disregard for any sense of their value once it was done.

/Goods, returned, trust?/

Dread crept into her heart as she reached into the backmost pocket of her billfold, the place where she kept the picture of her.

/more goods? Information? Information on goods? Release, please?/

It was shoved in the very bottom of the wallet, balled into the crease where the two halves of leather were joined into one. She pulled it out, fingers shaking only slightly as they smoothed it back into a more flattened form.

The Red Huntress had no face, and never had Valerie been more grateful for that absence than in that moment, when she beheld the true extent of the damage done to Polaroid before her.

Soft white creases were everywhere, shattering the image into isolated fragments of its former self. It had been torn, too, at the edges, a grip too hard, twisting too far, integrity compromised as a result.

The worst of the damage by far, however, were a series of punctures, scattered at random through the center of the photograph, small to medium perforations forming little absences where there had once been trees and grass, where there had been a woman's face. A hole sat primly above her dark neck, arched back into nothing, a yawning gap where once there had been laughter.

The Huntress turned her blank visage back to her captive, who froze in the act of trying to pry her weapons out of position. Cowardly, but expected. Trusting a ghost was a fools game she had no intent on playing.

/Ah, haha, (nervous) (nervous,) (respect.)/ The target pulled its claws back up against itself, fiddling with the tips as it looked up to her absent regard.

/...Milord?/

The Red Huntress had no face, could betray no emotion, could reveal none of the cold black welter that rushed up through the depths of her breast and pressed against her throat. An impassive machine, possessed of a will stripped free of feeling.

No sliver of her intent showed through, no shudder passed from her shaking fingers to her gauntleted hands, not even the psychic senses of a ghost could hope to detect the lava that boiled up from her guts, pressing against her skin in an sheet of living fire even as the pits of her stomach chilled to ice.

The bug was still looking up at her, eyes all expectant, when she commanded her one of her guns to fire.

A bright streak of energy shot through the top of its head, hard pink flash cutting through a wave of green.

It squealed, jerked all six limbs towards the missing portion of its skull in a hopeless effort to stop the thick chunks of ectoplasm from slopping down the side of its face. Valerie brought her foot down at the same moment, crushing its forelimbs down into the dust. Forelimbs tipped with little claws, just large enough to fit the holes in a certain photograph.

/Why!? Ancients, why, why!?/

Why?

“Why the hell not?” she snarled, “Ain't that how it works here?”

If a different ghost wanted to rob her blind every time she tried to sleep, they could. If Valerie wanted to chase down the one that finally succeeded, she could. There were no laws here, there were no rules, there weren't even morals. There was nothing to stop anyone from doing anything, so why should she be the one to hold herself back?

She lifted her foot off its claws, then swung it once again into its thorax, only just crusted over from where she had kicked it before.

It squealed, just like she imagined another ghost would, red eyes wide and frightened, vampiric teeth shattered against her fist, choking as she wrapped her fingers around his blue, blue, skin.

He deserved this, it deserved this, she was in the right. She had been tricked, mislead, mistaken maybe, but she wasn't wrong, she was in the right.

And if there was some dark curl of satisfaction there, a self righteous flame alighted just where she'd been coldest in that moment of hate, then that was proof, wasn't it? Of just how right she was.

She bent down to her target, which had started drooling all over again, ground speckled green and wet as it heaved against itself. It was disgusting enough that she would have shot it in the mouth instead of the head, but she still needed information, which meant it still needed to talk.

It's upper set of antenna had survived the cranial blast, making for an easy handhold as she yanked its drooping head up to face her once again. At the same time, she sent her guns down to its chest, where its energy levels peaked their highest.

Ghosts, much like the cockroaches they resembled, could survive well enough without a head, but none, not one could ever hope to make it without their precious ghostly core.

“Listen up spook.” She hissed. /Here's how this is gonna work. You lie, I shoot. You run, I shoot. Got it?/Its head twitched up and down, the smallest possible motion of assent.

/Good./

This was what it took, when it came to ghosts. Cooperation proceeded pain, loyalty from the threat of it, and mercy not at all.

/We'll start with the questions./

She allowed her guns to charge power, deadly, scintillating hum filling the air with the sound of her malintent.

/I like what I hear, maybe I let you keep talking./

Author's note: If Sam is more pride than wrath, then Val is more wrath than pride, IMO. I've done my best to write her accordingly

[rosarenn]

All things are ephemeral

I've been thinking a lot about the illusion of certainty and the way it holds us back from achieving great things.

There's this idea that if something is temporary, transient, that it isn't worth putting any effort into. That something is only worth your time if it endures, if it's permanent. That the investment must be followed by a payoff or why bother.

I am very much talking out of my own experience here, as a white settler/colonizer raised in a more or less middle class family. I know my experience is not universal, and I am still going to talk about "we" and "us" because I want to include myself in this group, and I'm noticing a pattern that I want to talk about. If you have never experienced certainty, or are in a stable position for the first time in your life, this is probably not about you, for example. Take what you need and compost the rest.

I'm reading Nine-Tenths of the Law: Property and Resistance in the United States by Hannah Dobbz, which discusses squatting in the US. One of the themes that comes up over an over again is the idea that because a squat is temporary, because the police could kick you out at any moment, because you don't have ownership or equity or any kind of title on your side and you could lose everything in a moment's notice, that it doesn't make any sense to improve the home you're living in. That the work would be wasted, and who wants to work their ass off and not reap the benefits? Why would you bother?

And this, to me, is so incredibly short-sighted, and represents an internalization of the logic of capitalism. Why would you bother? Because you are fucking living there. You're living there, you're passing your limited time on this planet in this space, and why would you live in a dump if you don't have to, if you don't like living in a dump, if you would feel better, be happier, enjoy your time there just a little bit more than if you didn't clean it up. It's the same reason I've painted countless rental apartments - even though I don't know how long I'll be there, while I'm there I eventually get sick at looking at plain white walls. It's why I'm planning to paint a mural in my rental apartment - it will bring me daily joy for as long as I am here. It's why I decorated my office when I still had an office. Because if this is where I am passing my time, I want it to be a little more pleasant.

We've so internalized the logic of the state and the market that we have this illusion that home-owning provides certainty, that it makes sense to invest in a home you own because it can't be taken away at a moment's notice. But it's a lie. The bank could repossess your home. The sewer could back up. A flood or a wildfire could make your home vanish in a moment. With climate change these events are only going to increase in frequency, as will the unrest and failed states and all the other forms of violent dispossession that that entails. The entire stock market could blow itself to pieces tomorrow, the currency we've all agreed to use could become worthless pieces of paper, anything can happen. I could die tomorrow. I could die today. There is no certainty, any where, ever. Anything I work for could be for nothing - nothing except for what I make of it here and now. I want to live before I die.

I think about the way I've been indoctrinated to delay gratification to the extreme. That's what the promise of capitalism to the middle class is, after all. Work tirelessly for all of your productive years, save your coins prudently, invest them in the stock market for the future and never take out your principle because compound interest is magic and you'd be a fool to forego that sweet, sweet "free" interest income. And then, and only then, you can retire for a few years and live a tiny sliver of your life free from the constant grind of daily waged labour. If someone is not able to make ends meet, I was taught, it's because they are too loose with their spending, they aren't able to delay gratification long enough for the real payout, the poor dears. Scrupulously saving, denying ourselves the momentary joys of right now in order to chase a possible future prosperity, is positioned as a moral good.

Of course this is a lie, and a terrible way to live (even as it is incredibly privileged). I lived this way for years and I'm only now beginning to come to terms with it. There's so much grief there. How much did I miss out on? Think of all the joy, vitality, and the things that make life worth living that I denied myself - and for what? To chase certainty in the future, because I couldn't accept the ephemerality of today.

There's a delicate balance needed here, of course. There's an argument to be made that what we need is more delayed gratification, not less. The constant churning consumption, the endless extraction from the earth and our bodies, putting today's profits ahead of tomorrow's, or even above the survival of our own children - these are features of capitalism and they are destroying us.

But they need to sell us this lie, that if we work hard today we can be happy tomorrow, to keep us working. Because if we truly looked at horrors of this reality, if we truly knew in our bones that everything we have today could be gone tomorrow, that everything in life is fleeting - would you still go to work, day after day after day? I know I sure wouldn't. Even though I don't know what I would do to survive instead. Even though stepping into that unknown is terrifying. Even though I have no answers, I would have to take that leap.

I think, too, about the way I sometimes see people talk about revolution - and I include myself in this group. That until we are ready to make a global revolution, until we are all but guaranteed success, until the moment we reach critical mass, all we can do is wait. Maybe we agitate, maybe we form unions and organizations and try to spread the word, but until success is certain we can't act, not truly. I see this more in communist circles than in anarchist ones, and it was especially present in the critiques of the temporary autonomous zones that popped up in the midst of last summer's uprisings - they would never succeed, they would be quickly dismantled, and thus were doomed to failure and shouldn't even be attempted. As if there was no value in the experiences, however fleeting. As if the way we live our lives is irrelevant. As if a thing bringing you joy is not enough justification in itself.

Even though I skew more towards anarchism, I can still feel this attitude infecting my own thinking. I don't want to try to unionize my workplace because it will fail and I'll get fired and it won't matter, really, anyways. I don't want to talk openly about my politics when I know people don't agree with me, because what's the point when I already know I can't change their minds. What's the point of guerrilla gardening when the city can just come by with a weed whacker and destroy our labour. So on and so on ad nauseum, every endeavour doomed to be temporary and thus, automatically, a failure.

I think of my friend who spent the past two summers building up an incredible garden, who now has to move, suddenly, before the end of the growing season. My first reaction was that it was such a waste, that she had put in so much effort and time and money and now wouldn't even be there to collect the final harvest, that it would be better if she hadn't done the planting, somehow. As if she hasn't taken immense pleasure and pride in her garden for the past two years. As if she hasn't harvested throughout the whole summer. As if the harvest she planted suddenly winks out of existence if the benefits go to someone other than her. As if this somehow invalidates everything that came before. But this line of thinking is horseshit. Someone will still eat those vegetables. If nothing else, the birds and the beasties will love eating what she has grown. She learned so much and will be able to carry that knowledge forward with her. On and on, there was great value in this venture even if she will not be there to reap every last piece of the harvest. And if it wasn't a sudden move, it could have been a drought, or a violent storm, or an infestation, or theft. Or or or. The possibilities are endless, results are never guaranteed, and if we are only working to achieve an ends, we might need to take a good long look at what we're up to.

I wonder if the roots of this ideology stretch all the way back to the agricultural revolution. Ephemerality would have been the day to day lived experience of hunter-gatherers. Here today, gone tomorrow, pick the berries now, while they're ripe and before the birds get them. But agriculture? Prepare the field, plant the seeds, water, tend, wait. wait. wait. then finally harvest. Finally finally your labour has paid off and you can eat. Careful though because there won't be another harvest until next year, so be careful, ration, wait. Would you plant the field if you didn't know if you'd be around to harvest it? That's a tough sell, for sure.

I think of flatwormposting, on instagram, who announced suddenly that they would delete their account today. That they felt like they had accomplished what they wanted to accomplish, that they were complete, and ready to move on. The immediate response, of course, was no, don't go, or if you must go, please don't delete the account. Leave it up, to sit in perpetuity, an archive of your work and legacy. Please, you did good work, please let us keep it. As if deleting their account deletes their work. As if they won't carry it forward with them. As if people who interacted with the account while it was up weren't changed in some small way. As if a thing that is temporary - which is all things - is somehow less important than a permanent thing.

And their response was simply, all things are ephemeral. All things are ephemeral, everything could be gone tomorrow. If they didn't delete this account, instagram could. A hacker could take it. Nothing is certain, everything is a constant renegotiation. Given that, what now?

What now? How do we want to live before we die? What choices might we make if nothing was certain? What risks would we take? How would we live our lives if we knew, deeply, truly, in an embodied way, that another world is possible, as the Nap Bishop constantly reminds us? That the continuation of this one as it is, that the status quo is not and has never been certain? That each day we wake up we make this world again, and we could simply chose to make it differently, to paraphrase David Graeber. If we no longer privileged that which is over that which could be. If we no longer held onto the illusion of certainty and control and permanence.

All things are ephemeral. What now?

[amjustagirl]

Chapters:  one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven.

Wordcount: 2.3k

Summary:

Akaashi Keiji catches glimpses of another life in his dream.He dreams of fields of endless gold, of constellation of stars that light up the night sky. He hears echoes of the birdsong in her laugher, the songs to the gods in the wind.

(Loosely inspired by Kimi No Nawa)

Masterlist link here 

AO3 link here

Author’s note: This fic is a little different from my usual work, so I’m a little nervous about publishing it. If you do like it, would love if you leave a comment / reblog / anything!

If you’d like to be included in the taglist, do drop me a msg/ask!

‘It’s for my mother’s birthday’, Akaashi says, and the florist tilts her head in thought, a dimple appearing on her right cheek. 

‘What about pink carnations? They’re pretty and well within your budget’.

‘Good choice – plus it means that I’ll never forget her’ he says, nodding in approval and she bustles around to gather her materials, fingers nimbly twining tissue and ribbons around the blooms. 

‘Oh - ’, he begins to say in surprise when he notices she’s included a bunch of baby’s breath in the little bouquet, because a university student’s budget only stretches that much. 

‘Don’t worry, it’s on the house’, she hastily reassures him, her curly hair bouncing as she shakes her head. ‘I just thought it’s sweet you’re buying flowers for your mother.

‘Thanks.’ He smiles at her. She grins back and promptly trips over her own feet as she hands the bouquet over to him. ‘Watch out’, he calls, reaching over the counter to grab her elbow in an attempt to steady her.

‘Sorry! That’s so clumsy of me. Um – I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time, but would you like to grab coffee with me someday?’ she asks, cheeks flushing as pink as the flowers in his arms. 

‘Oh’, he says, dumbstruck. ‘I – uh’ 

She must read the hesitation in his face because she shakes her head self-deprecatingly, saving him from floundering awkwardly. ‘Sorry! I don’t know what came over me – please forget I ever said that!’ Then she bows and ushers him out of the store, waves away his apologies with a laugh and calls after him to ‘please come again!’ 

His mother fusses over him when he presents his bouquet of carnations to her, bending down to press a kiss to her cheek. ‘Why does it look like university is treating you so badly?

‘I’m fine, mum’, he tries to distract her with a hug, but she’s having none of that. 

‘Are you really, Keiji?’, his mother asks, lips pursed. ‘I know my son well enough to know he’s not sleeping well’. 

‘I try’, he offers, but he knows his excuse falls flat when she sniffs. He’s so irredeemably busy with school work and internship that sleep is practically the last item on his list of priorities and things to do and tasks at hand, but he knows if he breathes a word about the amount of work on his plate, his mother would nag him relentlessly until she’s convinced he’s taking care of himself again

So honed by years of dealing with Bokuto-san, he switches tactics to diversion. ‘So mum, tell me how auntie managed to talk Yuji-kun into going on blind dates?’ His mum brightens and immediately turns her mind to her favourite nephew’s dismal love life. 

But his mother insists on him staying over that night, so he finds himself staring at the ceiling of his old bedroom, in a bed that suddenly feels too small for the worries that adulthood is cramming into his head. He’s patient, counting the spaces between his breaths but sleep eludes him and he sits up, determined to sneak in more work at the very least.  

He tucks a pencil behind his ear, ready to get cracking on his thesis when he tilts his seat too far on the back two legs of his chair and loses his balance, falling onto the floor with a thump. ‘Damnit’, he curses quietly, hoping the noise doesn’t startle his mother awake, but from his vantage point on the floor, he can see the omamori he inexplicably refused to throw away on New Year’s Day hanging on the bars of his windowsill. 

‘What are you doing here’, he mutters, untying the charm and running his thumb along its fraying seams. The charm obviously does not respond - it’s an inanimate object after all, but for some reason, he slips it in his pocket when he returns to the dorm when morning comes. 

The frequency of his dreams starts to increase. 

He’s back in her body, curled up under a pine tree on a cool autumn day. 

‘I can’t believe you convinced me to spend an afternoon running around like a forest nymph when we could be studying to ace your exams’.  There is a tinge of disdain in his words because he  knows  her grades are better than decent, though they’d be better if only she’d spend more time on her books instead of flower fields. 

‘Aww, a nymph? Someone’s feeling extra poetic today’, she teases lightly. 

‘Don’t try distracting me from the fact that you really should be studying’, he insists, displeased. 

‘I do study’  she protests, but he hums disbelievingly, the spectre of Waseda’s devilishly difficult entrance exam looming in his mind. 

‘Not enough to get into a decent university at this rate.’

‘I don’t want to go to university, Keiji, I’ve tried telling you this before’, she sighs. 

‘You don’t?’ 

‘Nope’  she responds, popping the word in her mouth. ‘I just want to sell flowers to people someday, is that so bad? It’s simple - they make people happy, and that makes me happy in turn. If we only have a lifetime to spend on this earth, shouldn’t we pursue what truly brings us joy instead of dreams others impose on us?’

‘ I suppose that makes sense’, he says, sounding vaguely convinced.

‘Course it does’, she responds easily, a smile flickering in her voice. ‘I always make sense. Now. Let’s not squabble, it’s my turn to tell you a story today’. 

So he listens, enthralled despite himself, as she spins tales of the Kodama, tree spirits dwelling in the ancient forest, how her mother taught her to always offer a prayer to the gods before chopping down a tree - and if the tree bleeds, to back away because it means it has a Kodama living, breathing within it. 

‘Are they real?’  he asks her, when she finishes a tale of a  Kodama who assumed human form after falling in love with a maiden blessed with cherry blossoms in her cheeks.

‘Of course they are’  she laughs. ‘If you close your eyes and listen carefully, you can hear them sing. ’

He closes his eyes, but the forest remains eerily still. ‘ I don’t hear anything, ’ he says, disbelief colouring his tone. 

‘Maybe it’s because they know you don’t really believe in them yet.’

He wakes up with the scent of pine in his nose, the lingering touch of grass against the soles of his feet. 

‘Electricity is a fickle beast in this household, so the first thing you need to do when you come home is to light the fire in the irori. Even Toya-chan knows how to do that, and he’s eight!’  

He stares balefully at the sunken hearth lined with stone and filled with ash, situated right in the center of the old house.  ‘This is a fire hazard’, he tells her stubbornly. 

‘Fire is life, you spoilt city boy! It only becomes dangerous if you don’t respect it. Now come on, or you’ll end up freezing to death and I won’t be able to save you. I always keep a lighter in my pocket and in the store room there’s coal and if really necessary, some petrol I flinched from the petrol station – ‘

‘You better make sure the teachers don’t find your lighter and think you’ve been smoking – ‘ he interjects and she continues as if she doesn’t hear him. 

‘So you light the fire and hang the kettle from the iron hook, and voila! You can cook porridge or soup if electricity runs out and you can’t rely on the rice cooker or stove. And when the night is too cold to sleep in your room, you can drag your futon out here for warmth. It’s kinda nice, almost like camping. Now, let’s see you try lighting a fire yourself!’ 

Her fingers are thin and nimble, but they’re unfamiliar implements to him, so he fumbles with arranging the coal and scrap paper around damp wood. He has to resort to using a drip of petrol to coax the damp wood to ignite in flames but he counts it as a triumph anyway as fire dances in the sunken hearth.  

He can hear her cheer – ‘Congrats city boy!’ Ignoring the implied insult in her words, he smiles. 

He’s back in her skin again when her voice echoes in his mind. 

‘Y’know you’re not gonna be able to learn how to put on a bra if you don’t open your eyes when doing it right?’  she says, amusement ripe in her voice. ‘Every girl has tits, Keiji . If it makes you feel better, I’ve seen your dick ’. 

‘What?’ he yelps, eyes still stubbornly closed. 

‘How else was I supposed to use the urinals? Goodness, being a guy is so convenient when it comes to peeing, you just point and shoot - ’

‘Right, that’s too much information, thanks’, he huffs. 

‘Well, you’re gonna make me late for school if you don’t open your eyes’’, she sing songs, and he knows she’s banking on his reverence for punctuality and perfect attendance records to get him to look in the mirror, but he’s not sure it outweighs his mother’s lessons of being a gentleman.  

‘Keiji-kun ’, she says again, amused. ‘I do appreciate that you’re trying to protect my modesty, but those rules don’t really apply when we’re in a situation like this, you know? If it makes you feel better, I give you explicit permission to look at my breasts when strictly necessary.’

‘Can you not say it like that’, he grouses before cracking an eye open, somewhat persuaded, and somehow manages to snap the tiny hooks in place. ‘Bras are like torture devices’. 

‘Don’t I know it’, she chuckles.  ‘Be glad you only have to put up with it every once in a while’. 

He snorts, more comfortable once some semblance of her modesty is secured. ‘I’ll count my blessings then’. Twisting at the waist to zip up her skirt, his breath catches at a glimpse of freckles on her back in the mirror. He forgets he’s still standing in front of the mirror as his fingers idly ghost over the constellation, a spray of stardust on bare skin. 

‘Keiji ?’ she asks, confused. 

‘Sorry!’, he startles. ‘It’s just - I never noticed you had freckles on your back before.’

‘Yes - I’m aware I have them, and?’, she replies archly, and the irony that she’s completely fine with him staring at her breasts but not her back does not elude him, but he holds his tongue. 

‘They’re arranged in my favourite constellation’, he tells her honestly and he’s relived to hear her chuckle again. 

‘I’ll show you the real thing next time’, she promises, before switching seamlessly to berate him -  ‘And you can stop staring at my back now, we’re gonna be late for school! ’

The next day is spent wondering if he’s a creep for dreaming about half naked sixteen year old girls – even if there’s nothing remotely sexual about his dream. 

He sees her run through the woods like a fawn discovering spring for the first time, watches her come to a stop at an open clearing framed by trees. There is a shrine in the center of the clearing, cracked and covered in moss, but she approaches it reverently, dropping to her knees. 

‘There is old magic in this shrine’, she whispers, brushing leaves and branches away before laying her omamori down at the altar. ‘ Do you remember the wish you made? ’ 

‘I wished for more time - I got greedy and asked for yesterday to come again ’, he answers, voice hushed. 

‘And I wished for the exact opposite. I got impatient and asked tomorrow to arrive, as fast as it can ’, she replies, tilting her face up to the sun. 

‘I suppose that’s what happened ’, he says. ‘Our wishes got tangled up, and our bodies and souls got thrown through time and space’. 

‘Hm. Do you think we have souls, Keiji? ’ she asks him.

‘Yes  ’, he says, sounding perplexed. ‘What else would we be swapping?’  

‘What colour d’you think your soul is? ’ It’s a strange question, but he’s used to anticipating the unexpected from her. 

‘Blue. It reminds me of the summer sky ’, he replies.

‘Fitting’, she laughs with a cheeky grin on her face. ‘Since the sky is a star’s domain’. 

‘What about you’, he asks, so accustomed to ignoring her teasing about Bokuto-san. ‘What colour do you think your soul is?’

‘Yellow, I hope ’, she says dreamily. ‘It’s warmth and life - like flames lighting up wintry nights, or daffodils on the first day of spring’ .

He wonders if it’s a coincidence that the strange dreams hit him in full force right after he brings back the omamori. 

But Kenma’s right, he’s become strangely addicted to the narrative his dreams are showing him. It’s like the books he snuck under the covers at night, emerging bleary eyed in the morning because he was intent on seeing the story end. And if he’s being completely honest with himself, it makes him feel like that he - quiet, bookish Akaashi Keiji is the protagonist in the Ghibli movies that Bokuto-san makes him watch, so he doesn’t put up a fight against the dreams that re-invade his sleep.

Taglist: 

@1tooru @kageyamakock @animeflower26 @underrated-fruit-tarts-official @bongofrito

[comic-book-jawns]

A Proper Sleepover

“Hiya!”

Jamie’s head popped up a second later in the middle of the elaborate blanket fort that had taken over their studio apartment since she’d last seen it, heading out the door for her birthday dinner, after which Jamie had asked if she could walk around town for a bit — which hadn’t been asking a lot, considering it was a beautiful May evening in Vermont.

To say that Dani had always wanted to go to a sleepover was, in a sense, misleading. Growing up she’d had sleepovers at Eddie’s once a week if not more. But given the very fact of how often she was there, sleepover wasn’t quite the right word for it.

The O’Mara’s was like her second home — or maybe it was her own home that was the second home, if she were to judge a home by what a home was supposed to be like. Eventually, the O’Mara’s had grown stifling, of course, but it had never been cold.

In any case, it had not been the site of her first real sleepover, her only real sleepover. That had been at Ashley G’s house in seventh grade. Ashley wasn’t her friend. She didn’t have many friends aside from Eddie. But Ashley was rich, so she’d invited all the girls in their grade to sleep over in her gigantic basement.

Dani hadn’t slept at all, though. She’d been so excited to be included for once that it hadn’t occurred to her until she’d arrived that they would all be sleeping in one room, which meant if she had a nightmare, as she often did, everyone would know.

Fortunately, she’d been spared that embarrassment because she’d quickly become far too anxious to even try to sleep. There’d been the teasing about when she and Eddie were going to get married, if he was a good kisser. And, sure, it was uncomfortable, but she’d been expecting it.

What she had not expected was the near paralysis brought on by sitting in a tight circle with her pajama-clad classmates. Every time she would manage to find a perfect, if scoliosis-inducing, position in which to sit — one in which she was not touching anyone. Everyone would move around, and she’d have to start all over again.

At the time, she’d written it off as her not being used to touch. Her mother was many things but a hugger was not one of them. Eddie tried, but it always seemed to make him uncomfortable, especially as they’d gotten older. Eddie’s mom was the only person who’d ever hugged her with any real frequency. But even by then, it had begun to feel a tad smothering, if welcome nonetheless.

So, at the time, that’s what Dani had attributed her discomfort at the sleepover to. And, at the the time, she’d known it was a lie. So, despite the invites that she’d later received from girlfriends of Eddie’s friends when Eddie had suddenly become popular in high school, Dani had never gone to a sleepover again.

But the desire had never gone away. It had always felt like yet another experience she’d missed out on. So, she’d made an off-hand comment to Flora during their “sleepover” at Bly — which, incidentally, had been her and Jamie’s first “sleepover,” technically speaking. Jamie remained unaware of Dani’s early morning “check-in,” but evidently she’d done some recon of her own that night.

“So... do ya... ” Jamie scratched the back of her neck. “Never actually done this before, but - ”

“Jamie, it’s perfect!”

Dani was already struggling to see her through blurry eyes.

“Yeah?”

She could still make out Jamie’s cheeks getting redder, as her smile got more lopsided. Dani closed the door, which she’d only been able to open halfway on account of the outer rim of blankets and dropped the bag she’d been holding, containing a new novel for Jamie she’d just bought from the local bookstore.

Then, she bent double to enter the fort. The blankets gradually ascended as she got closer to the middle, not unlike a circus tent. But Dani stayed bent over like a linebacker and ran straight for Jamie. Wrapping one arm around her lower back and the other around her thighs, Dani lifted her and twirled around, smiling proudly as Jamie immediately giggled.

She managed to make it around about 1.5 times before falling over onto a pile of cushions, at which point she too burst out laughing. As they recovered, Jamie cleared her throat.

“Right, down to it, then.” She sat up and reached over to her left. “Ya need to strip.”

She turned back to find Dani smiling coyly.

“So you can put on these!” She held out her Blondie T-shirt, which she’d first given to Dani to borrow on her birthday, and pajama bottoms. “Honestly, Poppins!”

Dani blushed but grinned shamelessly as she took the clothes.

She’d been treated to breakfast in bed — “I apologize in advance,” Jamie had quipped as she’d handed her the plate. Dani had insisted it was delicious, and Jamie had explained that they had a dinner reservation, after which Dani would get her present, so until then, the day was reserved for whatever Dani wanted to do.

Coincidentally, they had not set foot outside their apartment until well into the afternoon.

*****

“You’re the one the one that I want!”

Dani woke up reclined against the cushions, her view of the TV partially obstructed by Jamie who was leaning forward, hugging Dani’s knees on either side of her. As she watched, Jamie stretched her right arm out to grab a handful of popcorn, threw it her mouth and wrapped her arm around Dani’s knee once more, never taking her eyes off the screen.

Jamie had rented three movies from Blockbuster. They’d started with My Side of the Mountain, a childhood favorite of Dani’s that Jamie had found herself loving as well.

Next was Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, a relatively new movie they’d heard good things about. Jamie had said as the credits rolled that “playin’ truant” was for “tossas” and if Ferris were really cool he would’ve dropped out like she had, and Dani had whacked her with a pillow, instigating a pillow fight that had served as a quality intermission.

Grease, which Jamie claimed she’d picked purely for Dani’s benefit to check romcom off the sleepover bucket list, had been the closer. Dani had nodded off sometime after Danny and Sandy’s reunion at school and smiled now as she watched Jamie watch them celebrate their decision to change everything about themselves in spandex.

She wrapped her arms around Jamie’s stomach and pulled herself up, resting her chin on Jamie’s shoulder.

“Hey, you,” Jamie said softly.

Her eyes remained on the screen as the song wrapped.

“You could’ve turned something else on.”

“Well, I didn’t know when you’d wake up, did I?”

“Mmhmm.”

Dani’s smile was more of a smirk now.

“Tryna say something, Poppins?”

Dani sighed.

“Oh, just that I’m... hopelessly devoted to you.”

Dani giggled as Jamie scoffed.

“Ya better not be.”

“No?”

“Well, not... ” Jamie cleared her throat. “Not hopelessly, anyway.”

Dani smiled and leaned in to kiss Jamie’s reddening cheek.

“Deal.”

Even from this angle, she could see Jamie smile shyly. Dani knew she was almost ready. She’d half-wondered if that would be her present — Jamie saying it. But she wasn’t disappointed in the slightest. All she’d really wanted for her birthday was to be with Jamie. After all, it hadn’t exactly been a sure thing.

She’d secretly been kicking herself since the night of Jamie’s birthday, several months ago at this point, when she’d joked that she was sure Jamie would be able to “think of something” for hers. She hadn’t offended Jamie — Jamie was the one who’d joked about it in the first place — but she had broken her cardinal rule. She’d talked about the future.

Of course, Jamie had already figured out when her birthday was, so there was nothing Dani could’ve done differently, really. But still, she’d been haunted by the thought that that conversation would be all Jamie would have, that it would haunt her too if they never got the chance to celebrate it.

So she’d never brought it up again. But, at last, the day had come, and it had been better than she ever could’ve imagined.

“Oi, what’s this?!” Jamie gestured at the TV. “S’not even real words!”

Dani laughed, facing forward again. “We Go Together” had started up.

“So this is where you draw the line?”

“Well, the other songs - ”

“Yes?”

Dani’s smirk was back. Jamie closed her mouth and cleared her throat, before chuckling.

“We gotta get you to a show.”

“Huh?”

“A musical.”

Jamie laughed again.

“You and I both know that you’ll love it.”

Jamie’s shy smile was back. Dani’s tone had not left room for rebuttal. Jamie finally turned her head to look at her.

“Thank you.”

Dani smiled widely and leaned in for a kiss. She’d broken her rule again. But she supposed she’d just made another one. She wouldn’t give up on hope.

[rinharu-purple]

Mr. Love MC’s Choice: Gavin

We fellow producers all have our favorite LI in the game for whom we save our gems and dates, replay their chapters over and over again, sucking our bank accounts dry during the process. And that’s what makes this game so fun! However in my opinion MC’s personal choice is Gavin. I will try to explain it as thoroughly as possible in this post. Obviously they are only my personal opinions at the end of the day so please don’t freak out if you beg to differ ^_^

There are spoilers ahead and this post is a long one, you were warned!

A big, warm hug and grandious thanks to @smallersocksx​ for proof reading so fast and sharing her ideas! <3  </p>

Up until now, I’ve always analyzed ships in subtopics, so this time won’t be any different so I will just dive right into it:

Body Language

The law of attraction between two people in a romantic way has some thumb rules, one of them is that when you like someone then you try to touch them at every opportunity. From all of our LI’s Gavin is by far the one with the most body contact to the MC (The main story only atm, I will come to his dates in a minute ;)). I think the anime speaks for itself, in every single Gavin episode and some of other LI’s episodes (ahem…ep 10 but also ep 11…ahem) Gavin and MC are always in an embrace or a meaningful “hands-on” moment…In the game MC and Gavin are quite often touchy with each other, MC seems to not holding her hands back every time she feels like Gavin’s hurt and reflexively touches him, she is also highly concerned about his hair since every time his hair get messed up by the wind, rain or hormones (swh ;)), MC doesn’t waste any second before correcting his hair. Every reunion they have results in MC reaching out her hands towards Gavin and surprisingly never other way around. Even in a perillious moment in chapter 22 when Gavin goes completely wild and unleashes his “beast-self” the first thing MC wants to do is embrace him. In chapter 24, at the very end among all routes, MC only tells Gavin that she’s missed him and hugs him. Chapter 27...again MC wants to check Gavins body for injuries and tends to them the second they are alone in a closed room. They both yearn for each other’s touch all the way, no matter in which narrative.

If I were to start counting Gavin’s touchy touchy moments on the other hand, then we have to prepare a 4 volumes encyclopedia because that male individual is all about touching MC. Another hint for their closeness is that MC makes notes on Gavin’s scent quite often, mostly related to his jacket or his embrace and while doing it, she always uses adjectives like “clean”, “distinct” or “unique”. Again in ch. 15 she knows its Gavin standing behind her even without looking, because she senses his scent: “A scent that I’d recognize anywhere”. Surely there are many scenes, where MC holds hands with another LI or makes a remark of their scent, but they are not at the intensity or frequency level that of Gavin’s.

       2. The Setting

All four LI’s are representing a certain archetypes women are usually attracted to:

Kiro is a pop idol (target audience 13-15)

Victor is the young successful businessman with a high dominant demeanour and Mr. Grey-ish attitude (target audience 25 upwards or any 50 shades of Grey reader)

Lucien is a young attractive professor with a mysterious and enigmatic vibe (target audience 20-24)

Gavin is the misunderstood bad boy (high school) and later a righteous police officer (16-19 for the bad boy Gavin and 20 upwards for the righteous police officer, special agent, military commander... a pilot?! anything including a uniform fetish)

So, in the game, Elex could take any of these paths and develop it in a way that the chosen path becomes a true love story. I gotta admit, Victor’s story comes at times very close to being one. However, his never-ending bickering and belittling in his 90% of the time cold demeanour just make him lose major points. Plus, MC mostly goes along with Victor’s tone, even though she is a kind and friendly person, she bickers with Victor not because that’s her personality but because that’s the way she can cope with him. If only he were a little bit less domineering.. Which is why I never feel like MC and Victor would belong together irl. 

Seemingly Elex and Mappa take Gavin’s way imo. Because… 

In the main story MC loves all of the LIs in a different way and also has romantic feelings to each one of them to a certain degree, but when we look at it closely and read in between the lines of MC’s thoughts Gavin is a little bit more romantically portrayed than the other guys. 

           a) First of all Gavin had a crush on MC during high school cannonically: Even though Gavin only says that it was a farewell letter, MC says once that she wishes that she could’ve read that “love letter”.  I will stop here with Gavin’s feelings because this post focuses on MC. 

           b) MC, too, was kinda into Gavin during high school because in Episode 18, when she goes to Loveland Hugh during her farewell tour before going with her ultimate sacrifice , she remembers Gavin in intimate things like “watching his athletic body” or “wearing men’s clothes-meaning his-”. Additionally she remembers taking note of his face shining in the sun in the very back of the line during her recital. Even before it all she was specifically interested in him. Her memories with the other LI s are comprised of rather friendly moments like flying kites together but when it comes to Gavin she once again thinks about more intimate elements. Not to mention that the game gives MC a farewell with Gavin. In her final moments she only thinks that for Gavin her grievance would be the hardest. In the End of the Abyss era (ch. 15-18) MC meets all of the LIs after their changes again and reacts to all of them with joy…surely, but only when she sees Gavin hovering above her in the helicopter it is again…drum roll…drama: “The next second I saw a pair of amber eyes…shining like brilliant skies” this girl is always romanticizing Gavin.

“-Can you hear me?

-Can you see me?

-See my heart pounding again at the sight of you?” (so are you saying that your heart wasn’t pounding before? oh ok ;))

Fast forward to CH34 where MC fights Leto for the final time and remembers our guys and again, while she remembers other LIs for their sacrifices and their protection of her, she remembers Gavin's warm arms...

           c)The game takes his time and turns the half of a whole chapter into a date in chapter15 Ep 1-9. There is no other chapter in the game where MC spends time with any of the other LI’s in which there is only the two of them, whereas nothing relevant to the main story happens and they share solely many sweet, romantic and almost hot (when MC tries to dry Gavin’s face in her flat and realizes that she stands way too close to him, she then prepares herself to say something, but gets interrupted by the alarm) and again, MC is getting close to Gavin, not the other way around like Lucien pushing MC against the blackboard, that little sneaky Lucien (actually I could write a post with a masterlist of Lucien’s advances to MC:D).

           d) MC’s premonitions revolve mostly around Gavin (when they are not about the whole world or the black queen). Her dream about the rooftop rescue, her Room 404 dream, her daydream in the office in 6-13 in which Gavin’s suffering and from which she wakes up crying out his name leading to Willow, Kiki and Anna remark on playfully how unfair it is to dream about Gavin and disregarding the other guys. She also sees his future in episode 15 twice! If I am not mistaken, she only sees Victor’s future once in her dream and a vague vision of him in ch 18 but other than that she has no premonitions about Lucien or Kiro. Besides in the anime MC uses her power unintentionally yet instinctively twice while having Gavin in mind in episodes 5 and 8. The third time, she uses her powers in this way is in episode 11 with Victor but he is not her driving force for this but she is driven by the imminent danger they both are in and she doesn’t particularly think about Victor at this moment. In the game it additionally happens in chapter 22 when Gavin is cornered by the mechanical arms and is in a tight spot, this sight makes MC have a surge of rage and to unleash her powers in a great magnitude. Gavin is Queen’s soft spot i.e. More importantly Gavin is a constant part of MC’s future frame. She has her visions about other LI’s past but when it comes to Gavin it’s only his future. MC doesn’t have visions about Gavin’s past, like, ever. While Kiro, Lucien and Victor are stuck in their pasts with MC, Gavin has made peace with his past, is living in the present and looking forward the future (one of his best qualities imo, not being stuck in the past). Ironically, it’s MC, who’s stuck in the past in Gavin’s case. 

       e) I will intentionally not delve much into S2 stuff, but one thing has to be in this post…We know that in S2 MC goes back in time and relives the last 17 years. During these 17 years she makes sure to spend her high school years close to Gavin. So given the chance to rewrite her past, she would choose to make good for the lost years that she regretted dearly in S1 (she gushes out about her regrets in S2 Late Autumn Date in detail). We are yet to find out more about the nature of their relationship during high school, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a “will they, won’t they” situation. Since the game wouldn’t put any of the guys in an ex-boyfriend role, that would be the most romantic frame possible.

        3.  How other people see Gavin x MC

f) In CH 36, the one before CH 37, where every LI gets the same intimate moment with MC, only Lucien and Gavin are getting close to kissing her to which MC doesn't show any rejection towards... She is the one accidentally kissing Gavin btw and this is the only time before CH37 that MC either accidentally or willingly kiss any LI on his face or near his lips.

g) In S1, MC only posts two pics with the boys in her moments. One of them is a selfie with Lucien and the second one is with Gavin, hugged from behind. No other LIs ever have a moment with MC. Neither on their accounts, nor on MCs.

It is always a good indicator to look at how other characters perceive a particular ship. For Gavin and MC, it is almost obvious that once they are standing side by side, others see them instantly as a couple. Sure, at the orphanage some children ask Lucien if MC is his girlfriend or that one actress threatens MC to stay away from Victor because he’s hers (btw what happened to her?) With Gavin however, it’s practically a running joke. 

As mentioned above, her once daydream in the office with Gavin shoutout in CH 6-13 drew the attention of her co-workers, leading them to mock her for thinking about him too much even though her dream was rather a nightmare. Besides, Gavin is the one showing up the most in MC’s office and he also lift her up to his shoulders once in the Visiting Hours date and Homer took a pic of that hilarious moment. 

Every time MC is at STF HQ, respectively, Gavin’s co-workers or subordinates too take note of her presence and in chapter 12 they are even caught red-handed by one of the agents as MC is busy “correcting” Gavin’s hair (because see point 1). Eli seems to be aware of the intimacy between the two and even probably assumes that they’ve done the deed, because in ch 12 he is surprised to hear that MC hasn’t seen Gavin’s wound yet. He presumes that she already saw him naked…oh Eli! Season 2 has even more eminent scenes, we just have to wait and see.

In chapter 15 when they deliver Perry to the hospital, they are mistaken to be his parents by the hospital personnel not once but twice! Needless to say, they don’t find it necessary to correct the misunderstanding. I mean Perry is, what, 6…MC 22, Gavin 24 but they automatically think that they must be the parents?! Sure thats common sense- wink wink nudge nudge ¬‿¬ -

In chapter 22 Shaw makes a comment on MC willing to go to where Gavin is  with a “Really, all you do is following him, isn’t it?”. He uses MC to trigger Gavin in Airport date as well.

And of course, there is Minor…The ultimate number one wingman and the most original Gavin-stan! Minor uses everything in his power to bring them together both in the main story and in dates. He even calls her Sis-in-Law in public in CH 35 which MC doesn't reject. This doesn’t even need explanation.

Last but not least:

Their couple chemistry went viral lol.

Visually speaking, when they stand side by side, for me Gavin and MC look the most like a couple (Kiro is too childish and fashion icony compared to MC and Victor is too mature and business attire-ish making him look like her uncle rather than boyfriend, Lucien is the only one besides Gavin who actually suits MC visually). I am not saying that looks are the main indicator btw so don’t lynch me please ^_^

Come to think about it, MCs life is intertwined with that of Gavin's the most. Considering how she knows his father, brother and colleagues and spends so much time in "his world" whether it's at STF or NW. In the main story MC and Gavin have their favorite restaurants (ehm it's never souvenir due to obvious reasons 😉), share the same passion for music, have many common memories from high school and most importantly their world views are very similar. Both are prioritizing others safety over themselves and are compassionate for anyone who is in need. They are both ambitious and hardworking but not to the point of being power driven. Both are humble and finding hapinness in the smallest things. Maybe that's why they say the same things simultaneously or say the things the other would say simultaneously. MC and Gavin are highly compatible and have a harmonious, healthy relationship despite the conspiracy around them.

     4. Anime

Okay okay, listen…Yes, the anime wasn’t the best adaptation and many of us were disappointed by the ending (including me), still, the anime makes a part of canon MLQC universe and no Gavin-stan should complain about the anime because the anime put canonically Gavin on a pedestal. In a total of 12 episodes, all guys had 2 episodes each BUT Gavin was actually blessed with 3 episodes and so many romantic moments to count…let’s count them anyways :)

Mappa introduces all guys in episode 1 so MC encounters them all in the first 25 minutes but she first meets Gavin in episode 2 and the two spend almost the entire time of the episode together, not to mention the extremely romantic first-fly scene in the sunset. As I mentioned in point 1, MC and Gavin are always in physical contact in any given episode. Anime made sure to portray every single interaction they have romantically.

They even went so far to mix Gavin scenes in other guys episodes (he offers her a ride to work in ep 3, she has an emotional moment with him after the first shooting misunderstanding while Lucien is standing right next to her in ep 4, Gavin is the one to catch MC mid-air in ep 10, this episode ends with them in their life and death embrace falling down in dawn… and then he falls on her in ep 11).

When it’s a Gavin episode MC has no romantic scenes with any of the other guys, let alone having any scenes at all. Its only about Gavin in Gavin episodes. Also, the storyline is edited in a way that between MC and Gavin a romantic story develops. Their meet cute conspiracy, their misunderstanding with Lucien, followed by the “drop the senpai” offer and finally that 5 seconds long gaze deeply in the eyes in ep 8 while holding hands.

It is really sad that the anime ruined this development in the final episode but taking into consideration that there might be a second season, they probably chose to make the change in Gavin’s character after the NW project remarkable.

Another point in the anime is  that they kinda exaggerate Gavin’s Evol a little bit. During his stand-off with Lucien Gavin’s bullet cuts through Lucien’s shield and all in ep 8,11 and 12 there is a significant emphasis on the intensity and destructive power of Gavin’s Evol. I mean, whose Evol is the most upfront one in episode 12? We see Lucien using his Evol only twice, both very briefly, Kiro/Helios/Key and Victor even have to use guns to protect themselves and/or MC. Gavin’s shown using a pistole once at the beginning, after that it’s all turbines and tornadoes and just Gavin unleashed. 

I think it’s an exaggeration because in my personal opinion, Lucien is actually the one with the strongest Evol, followed by Victor and then comes Gavin. Lucien’s ability to copy an Evol is simply the strongest trait one could have, sure it comes with the downside that he then doesn’t have enough time and focus to excel in any of those Evols, Victor can literally create black holes are you kidding me?! But because his Evol has its limits it puts him in the second place. But in the anime, Gavin’s Evol is extremely powerful and destructive and they also created some really cool scenes in which Gavin uses his Evol in various styles (accelerating his bullets speed, dodging a bullet, lifting MC in any and every situation, flying- obviously- and sometimes just overpowered destruction).

But in the anime in comparison, Lucien looks like a copy-cat of Evols and Victor like someone who travels through time to find out nothing can change the course of events (on a side note I will never understand why did Mappa toned down Victor so heartlessly, he is a  powerful character and has countless sweet, emotional moments with MC).

        5. Dates

I left dates to the end because they are highly subjective and don’t belong to the main story. NEVERTHELESS, Gavin’s dates include here and there some hints which may indicate that MC tends to like Gavin maybe just a little bit more. I will just add it as bullet points here since I’m pretty sure that the list will be enriched over time.

Slightly drunken date: Shouting out loud in public “Gavin! I’m crazy for you!”

When the Galaxy Falls Date: “...and in that moment, I make an eternal vow in my heart. To give all the blazing love and the most endless warmth to the person in front of me. Standing on my tiptoes, I carry a heart which is filled with courage to move forward, receiving Gavin.”

2 become 1 date “No matter whether the wedding is real or fake I only want to be your bride.”  Here comes the Groom event where MC had a prob wedding with each and every LI but she actually only wanted to be Gavin’s bride (obviously Gavin’s heard her loud and clear since he’s bought a gem/ring right after) and that gem is brought up in…

The Returning from Afar Date - Thank you for silently watching over my mood. Thank you for always returning to my side no matter where you go. The white muslin drifts to and fro. My heart stirs, and I gently touch the muslin in front of me. Sunlight streams in. My fingertips brush the soft white muslin, tracing the word “Gavin” on it. I turn my head to the side, blinking at Gavin a little playfully. “This word - apart from it being your name, it also has another meaning. It’s “courage”. MC getting poetic, but who wouldn’t in that date (thank you @smallersocksx for reminding me and without @cheri-translates we poor Eng-server players would be left in the dark so thank you for translating season 2 for us!!!) but than MC verbally and literally makes her feelings clear in…

Late autumn date (2nd season translation by @cheri-translates) “I close my eyes, holding onto his solid arms. I lift my head to welcome his lips, savouring his unique breath. The person in front of me has shed off the roughness of youth, leaving behind only the purity of youth. He often makes me forget that he once used to be unrestrained like the wind. He has a body that is stronger than everyone else’s, a tough soul, a will that is as firm as steel, and a heart full of tenderness – it is soft beyond compare. 

I cling to his waist tightly using my calves, wanting to brand every part of him into my heart. 

“I want to bear his everything.” 

Gavin: “Do you like it?”

“I like it…I like it very much…I like it so much that I don’t know how to prove how much I like it” “The rest of my life is yours, The years that we’ve missed out on are also yours” (whatever I have, I will give it to you. I will give everything to you, leaving nothing behind)

I rest my case

[moonflowerlesbians]

count your blessings instead of sheep

Hello, friends! Back in November, I decided to partake in my first fandom Secret Santa exchange. I’m not much of an artist, so I opted for the holiday-themed fic route, and this one-shot was born. So, @satelitesprite I hope you enjoy, and Merry Christmas! Thank you so much to @damiesecretsanta​ for organizing. 

Read this work on AO3.

Title: count your blessings instead of sheep, Rated T, Word Count: 4763

Summary: In which Dani takes Jamie's White Christmas comment a bit too seriously. (But Jamie's absolutely not complaining.)

~~~

One day at a time, they’d said. Jamie had looked at her so earnestly, spoken with such conviction, as if by sheer force of will she would bend the world, stacked so vehemently against them, to her whims. And, Dani supposes, she may as well have succeeded. They’re still here, after all. Still together. Still alive.

Jamie had said something else, too, that same day. A confession she’d admitted almost shamefully. A film about honoring memories and protecting what matters. A sight she’d like to see.

Dani gets to thinking, planning, scheming, if one could call it that. She makes a silent promise, to Jamie and then herself.

If they make it until December, Vermont is as good a place to spend the holidays as anywhere, she thinks.

Dani can’t seem to stop moving. The cuticle on her thumb is raw and bitten; her legs, one crossed over the other, bounce, bumping the tray table in front of her on occasion and nearly sending her drink toppling into her lap. She all but leaps out of her seat when Jamie places a hand on her knee.

“Easy, there,” Jamie raises an eyebrow. “Tremble any more and you’ll disrupt radio frequencies.”

It’s a weak attempt at humor, but Dani appreciates it nonetheless. The little notebook in her breast pocket burns a hole in her blouse, stuffed full of ideas and anticipatory hope.

“Might be able to help if you told me where we’re headed.”

She’s been trying for weeks to nose her way into Dani’s plans, to glean some inkling of direction since Dani first hinted, one quiet evening in early November, that maybe thinking about Christmas isn’t such a bad idea.

“Yeah?” Jamie had said, soft, not quite believing. The future, their future, had been a taboo topic, danced around like an active bomb.

“Yeah,” Dani confirmed, “trust me?”

“‘Course.”

Then it had been library visits and guidebooks and scribbling telephone numbers on lined pages and Jamie-don’t-you-dare-open-that-box.

Dani rocks with the gentle movement of the train beneath her as it rounds a bend in the tracks.

“Whatever happened to the fun of not knowing?” Dani tries for a tease but falls somewhere just short of playground wedding jitters. A little confused and perhaps regretting her choices. She clears her throat. “I just,” she sighs, “I want you to have a good time.”

Jamie scoffs. “Ah, well, you know how difficult I am to please. Such high standards and all.” She gestures to the tray table between them, littered with snack-sized pretzel packets and a can of seltzer to share.

Dani rolls her eyes. “The picture of refinement.” Jamie pops her shirt collar with a huff and a wry smile that earn her a playful kick to the shin, and she pouts. “Still not telling you.”

Jamie retracts her lower lip, her ploy failed. “Should’ve known I wouldn’t get you to crack on the last day. A steel trap, you are.”

Dani snorts at the obvious exaggeration. They both know just a lingering stare from Jamie has her weak at the knees.

She can’t say she’s complaining.

On the subject of their trip, though, she has managed to keep impressively silent, offering only such vague clues as, “Thoughts on the desert?” and “D’you suppose four thousand is too much if it’s a room with a balcony?” At latter of which, Jamie had gone slightly pale, but she had declared, albeit shakily, something along the lines of, “whatever makes you happy,” as she blanched.

And, oh, how Dani had loved her for it.

As the temperate trees outside their window turn to evergreens and the cold trickles in from the mountains, it becomes abundantly clear that Dani has not brought them to the desert. Just one more stop until theirs, and Dani can’t help the flash of worry that streaks through her like lightning.

She’s a perfectionist by nature. Or, at least, she was. Likes her ducks in a row, likes her trains on time and her schedules stuck to. These past months have been agony, each day a guessing game, no way to be sure what will come next. She understands the necessity, has tried to embrace it, even, but when the opportunity presented itself for her to plan something concrete, she leapt at it.

Jamie had stepped back, understanding how badly Dani needed this. A part of her, she told Dani, late in the night, wrapped in blankets and sweet embraces, was simply glad Dani could bear to think of the future, even short term.

When they left Bly, Dani would not allow herself to entertain the thought of next week, much less next year. But, as time slid past with no sign of her co-inhabitant, she relaxed, millimeter by millimeter, drop by drop, the tension slipped from her body. The paranoia, the jolt of terror upon rounding a corner, looking into a mirror, faded gradually each time she saw only herself, one eye brown, one blue.

Each day with Jamie pervaded her idea of “normal” until that is what their life became. Normal. Waking up together, seeking out breakfast, exchanging quips before setting about their adventure of the day felt...normal. A remarkable concept for the woman whose notion of normal shattered with a pair of glasses.

She sits across from the woman she thinks of as her best friend and marvels at how different her life was, even just a year ago, when the sentiment of a Christmas with someone she loves was unfathomable. She can only hope Jamie doesn’t hate it.

Jamie, who is folding the tray up and sweeping crumbs into her palm to dispose of, only to realize she has nowhere to put them. She looks around for a moment, mumbles a shit to herself, and stands to toss them in the bin in the restroom, while Dani watches affectionately.

“What?” Jamie says, when she returns, gathering her things.

“Didn’t think that one all the way through, did you?” Dani says, a little smug. It’s not really a question.

“You said one more stop, yeah? Thought we should be ready.”

“Eager?”

“You’re having a go at me,” she rags, “Been building this up for a month. Can’t blame a woman for being a wee bit curious.”

A conductor wanders past, loudly announcing the next stop.

“Vermont, eh?” Jamie wraps the strap of her bag around her hand once, twice. She’s nervous, too, Dani realizes. The unpredictability has taken a toll on her, as well. Jamie, who woke up at five-thirty like clockwork, who tended to the same plants on the same grounds with the same tools, who saw the same five people each day. She likes routine, just as Dani does.

Perhaps, should they make it to the new year, it’s time to find a place to plant themselves. A place to call their own, if Jamie will have her. Somewhere to land. The thought sends a thrill through her.

Dani nods. “Trust me?”

Jamie studies her. “Always.”

Dani collects her belongings from the overhead as the train slows to a creaking stop at the platform. They appear to be the only two disembarking. Unsurprising, really. From Dani’s research, the town’s population is in the low thousands. The station, a one-story, low building, is rustic, all exposed wood and lantern lighting fixtures.

“Clayton?” An older man calls as they step off the train. He leans against the hood of a town car emblazoned with the logo of his proprietor.

Holiday Inn, Est. 1942

“That’s me,” Dani chirps, meeting him halfway from the tracks, where he takes the bags from her arms with an amiable nod. Jamie follows him to the trunk -- boot, as she insists it’s called -- and drops her rucksack next to Dani’s, while Dani, herself, opens the door with a grand flourish. “M’lady.”

Jamie sends the driver a sidelong glance, but he slides into the front seat without a word. She accepts Dani’s invitation and turns to her once they settle a respectable distance apart on the back bench. The driver, Wallace, as he introduces himself, turns the key in the ignition.

“So, the Holiday Inn?” Jamie prods. “Wasn’t aware the big hotels did shuttle services now.”

“Not a hotel,” Dani corrects.

“No?”

“An inn.”

“Ah, thanks, love, that clears it right up,” Jamie deadpans, but there’s no bite to her words.

“Hold your horses,” Dani placates, “You’ll see soon enough.”

“Can’t feel my bloody hands, been holding these damn horses so long.”

Dani swats her across the stomach. “Quiet, you.”

“Oi, ‘s no way to start a holiday, is it?”

“So, what brings you across the pond?” Wallace cuts in, the car rounding a bend on its climb up the mountain. “We don’t get many Brits around here.”

Jamie looks to Dani, a smirk curling upon her lips. “Not entirely sure, actually. You want to take this one, Poppins?”

“She hasn’t been stateside since we were kids,” Dani supplies. “I thought it might be a nice change of pace to spend the holidays with my cousin since it’s been so long.” Then, muttering to only Jamie, “She’s more sarcastic than I remember.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. You know, I haven’t been overseas since the war. Can’t bring myself to fly these days.” He continues to regale them with stories of his time in France, and they allow his tales to fill the silence for the duration of the ride, Dani offering polite interjections wherever appropriate. This is, in part, a way to keep Jamie from asking questions and spoiling the surprise mere moments from its fulfillment.

They turn onto a narrow road lined with towering fir trees. Undisturbed snow from a recent bout of winter weather bows the branches. Jamie watches out the window, transfixed by the changing landscape. Dani cannot see her face.

“Here we are,” Wallace says, with a note of pride. “She needs a little work, but she’s home.”

A house comes into sight as the car crests a hill, a three-story colonial with a broad front porch and white trim. Rocking chairs perch near the railings, and pale blue shutters frame tall windows. An old barn stands a little ways down, weather-worn, but charming.

Dani hears a quick inhalation from beside her. Jamie’s gaze is fixed straight ahead. Dani’s stomach flips.

Their car pulls up in front of the lodge, and Wallace grabs their bags from the rear.

“We’ll be just a sec,” Dani says.

Jamie’s back is to her as she turns in a slow circle, absorbing the scenery, until her eyes come to rest on Dani, who fidgets with the nail on her index finger.

“So,” she begins, “I, um, I know we said we’d take it slow. But, you said snow could be nice, and you’ve done so much for me, and I just wanted to give you this one thing, but I get it if it’s too much or too cold. I just thought, you know, it might be nice since you said you saw White Christmas as a kid that one time, and I know it was probably a joke, but--”

“Dani,” Jamie interrupts, with a saccharine laugh and the most gentle smile, “love, not to interrupt what was shaping up to be quite the eloquent speech, but this,” she gestures at the picturesque cabin and the trees and the mountainside, “this, you didn’t have to do all of this.” She looks around hesitantly, then takes one of Dani’s hands in her own. “I almost forgot I mentioned that story, but, apparently, you didn’t.”

Dani grins sheepishly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jamie assures, “this is stunning. Everything I could’ve imagined. But, and I’m sure I’m starting to sound like a broken record, I would be just as happy spending Christmas in a shack under a bridge, so long as I’m sharing that shack with you.”

“I’d like to think this is at least a few steps up from a shack.”

“Oh, it most certainly is. Can’t say I’m mad about it, either. Quite fond of being warm, you know.”

“Speaking of,” Dani segues, “inside?”

“Please.”  

Dani drops her hand and leads Jamie up the porch steps, the old wood groaning underfoot.

“Dani Clayton?” A portly woman steps out from behind a counter.

“Present,” Dani says brightly.

“Anne,” the woman replies merrily, “I believe we spoke on the phone. Welcome, the both of you, to the Holiday Inn. Such a pleasure to host this little family reunion.”

Jamie appears perplexed for only a moment. “Jamie,” she greets, accepting the proffered handshake, “lovely to meet you.”

“Right, well, your room is up the stairs to the right, third door in.” Anne smooths her apron and passes Dani a key. “Wallace, my husband, should’ve dropped off any luggage, and please join us and the other guests for Christmas Eve dinner tonight, won’t you?”

“We’ll be there,” Dani promises.

“So, cousins, then?” Jamie prompts once Dani has inserted the key into their lock.

“I figured it was the easiest way to get around two women sleeping in the same room,” Dani says apologetically. “Family bonding, and all.”

“S’pose sisters wouldn’t have made sense with the accent.”

“We look nothing alike.” Dani shuts the door behind them. “Wouldn’t have been believable.” She flops unceremoniously onto one of the two double beds. The pale pink quilt wrinkles as Jamie sits, leaning back against the oak headboard. The windows are shut, but the off-white, lavender-printed curtains sway in an unfelt breeze, and a small fire crackles in the brick hearth. The sun is just beginning to set over the treetops, casting the room in a golden haze.

“‘S nice here,” Jamie remarks. “Feels familiar.”

“I, um, I may have picked this place because it looks like the one in the movie. Had them fax me images of the rooms to find one--”

“That looks like the one Betty and Judy shared in White Christmas,” Jamie finishes, noting the white doors and gleaming brass knobs.

“And, the inn, too. I tried to find out if we could go to the real one where they filmed, but turns out it was a set on a soundstage in California.”

“You mean to tell me the painted backdrops were just,” she gasps for dramatic effect, causing Dani to laugh, “painted backdrops?”

Dani groans. “In hindsight, it should’ve been more obvious, but at least I tried?”

“And an admirable effort it was,” Jamie chuckles, tugging Dani’s sleeve until she moves up the bed to lay her head on Jamie’s shoulder. “Looks just like the real thing, right down to my very own Judy.” She presses a kiss to the top of Dani’s head.

“Mm, I think you might just have a thing for blondes in turtlenecks.”

“Seven-year-old Jamie might’ve been a wee bit taken with Vera-Ellen,” Jamie shrugs. “Who’s to say?” She continues, “Not a lot of pretty blondes for me to fall for back in those days.”

“Oh, well, as long as she’s pretty,” Dani teases.

“Happen to like my version much better, thank you. Terribly sorry, Vera, may you rest in peace; can’t hold a candle to Dani Clayton.”

“It’s because I made one of your childhood dreams come true, isn’t it.”

“Hm,” Jamie muses, “proud of that one, are you?”

“Just a little.”

“It’s wonderful, love,” Jamie speaks softly, raking easy fingers through Dani’s hair. “Promise.” A pause. Her hand freezes for a moment, then resumes its steady path. “No one…ah, no one’s done anything like this for me before.”

Jamie’s life thus far has been far from perfect, as Dani knows from the pieces Jamie has shared. Bouncing from home to home as a child and landing in with the wrong crowd. A life in which stability and consistency did not exist, in which Jamie came to learn that companionship--love--is conditional and hinges upon her ability to provide. At the first sign that she could not be serviceable, in some way or another, she was cast aside.

She learned to work with her hands. Plants cannot reject you, after all, and there are always cracks to be patched, leaky faucets to be repaired. To some, the work might feel tedious, but to Jamie, the monotony feels safe, providing her a sense of immutability in an otherwise turbulent life.

And, as Jamie tells it, three years into her residence at Bly, a goddamn American started traipsing about the garden, and everything went to shit.

More or less.

Dani thoroughly wraps herself around Jamie’s middle, eliminating any space that existed between them. Words fail her, but she hopes her message resonates all the same.

Things are different, now.

***

When they eventually untangle themselves, it’s in favor of washing away the grime of travel with a hot shower. Dani unpacks as Jamie steps under the spray, rejecting the proposal to join, on account of one of them should make sure they’re on time for dinner.

They’re still almost late, though, neither realizing that the barn they’d seen that afternoon doubled as the formal dining room, and they stumble in just in time to settle at a small table in the back of the packed hall.

“Didn’t realize this was dinner and a show,” Jamie comments, observing the raised platform at the front of the room.

“So, there may have been another reason I picked this place,” Dani explains in a whisper, so as not to irk the other patrons seated nearby. “They have this Christmas Eve tradition I read about in one of the travel books and--”

Music echoes through the space from a small pit orchestra set up to the side, and a spotlight illuminates the stage, where two figures are hidden by pale blue fans.

“They may, or may not,” Dani winces, face screwing up into a weak grimace, “kind of, invite local performance groups to do songs from the movie?” She bites her lip, peering at Jamie through one eye.

Jamie, for her part, appears equal parts enthralled and perturbed. “Gotta hand it to you, Poppins,” she says, mouth slightly agape, “You know how to keep to a theme.”

Dani likes to think she hadn’t been chair of the prom committee in high school for nothing. “I really hope you don’t absolutely hate this movie, or this will be a very awkward dinner.”

“Wasn’t one of my favorites,” Jamie admits, leaning in, “but it certainly is now.” Under the cover of the tablecloth, she grips Dani’s hand and gives a discrete squeeze, Dani relaxing at her touch. “It’s very sweet,” Jamie murmurs, amused. The silver chain resting around her neck reflects the stage light as she turns her head. The number draws to a close, met with enthusiastic whooping from the jovially intoxicated crowd.

A server delivers two plates, starter salads, to their table, jotting down polite requests for main courses and alcoholic beverages.

By the finale number, Dani is warm and a bit wine-drunk. Her chair has migrated, over the course of the evening, to perch mere inches from Jamie’s. The gardener’s fingers move with the melody, eyes closed, an easy smile on her lips. She hums under her breath to match the vocalist crooning into the microphone. Dani commits the sight to memory. Jamie, here, draped in flickering shadows, untroubled by good intentions, chores that ought to be done, single-sided debts to be paid to no one and everyone. She is utterly beautiful. And Dani is utterly smitten.

Perhaps it is the wine. Perhaps it is the security provided conveniently by the position of their tucked-away table. Dani parts the tablecloth and traces down Jamie’s slender wrist, their fingers slotting together like a key in a lock. She presses the briefest of kisses to Jamie’s shoulder. Jamie’s thumb runs over Dani’s knuckle.

The antique oil lamps lining the walls glimmer warmly, and the final verse of the reimagined Irving Berlin classic fades into applause.

It is snowing lightly when they wander back to the main building and into their room, faces flushed from the chill. Dani giggles, squirming away from Jamie pushing a cold nose into her neck. Jamie chases her, pins her to the door with a sound kiss. Dani cups the nape of her neck, holding her close. The flurries melted into her hair are cool against Dani’s palm.

“Good night?” Dani asks, pressing their foreheads together.

“Mm,” Jamie puffs against her lips, nuzzling closer “was perfectly splendid.”

“Was it, now?” Dani ribs coyly.

Jamie pulls back just far enough to meet a pair of heterochromatic eyes. “Dani,” her voice is insistent, sincere, “thank you.”

Dani feels herself blush under the intensity of Jamie’s stare.

“I mean it.” Jamie’s index finger curls pointedly under Dani’s chin, tilting her head up, and something pulls low in Dani’s gut. “Thank you.”

Her lips are soft, pliant beneath Dani’s, speaking volumes in the silence. The snow continues to fall outside, blanketing the earth in mysticism the way only a new snow can. In here, though, the air burns.

They break apart at their lungs’ insistence, chests heaving in unison, but they do not stray far, choosing instead to stay, wrapped up in each other, neither willing to allow the moment to pass. Jamie smells faintly of smoke and the inn’s shampoo. Her sweater stretches slightly in Dani’s insistent hands.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any mince pie and whiskey stashed away?” Jamie nods to the fireplace, lips kiss-swollen and hair mussed.

Dani pauses, a little taken aback, and feeling a bit like someone’s just doused her in icy water. “Do I have...what?”

“Have you got any mince pie and whiskey?”

A flash of panic shoots through her, and she runs through a mental checklist. Is there something she missed? Something Jamie had said?

“Um, should I?”

“What else are you supposed to leave Father Christmas?”

“Milk and cookies?”

“Milk and cookies,” Jamie scoffs in a poor imitation of Dani’s Midwestern accent, “how’s that going to keep a person going all night? Blimey, man’s got to travel ‘round the world, you know.”

“Blimey, must’ve left them in my other suitcase,” Dani laments, outlining the fair curve of Jamie’s collarbone, enjoying the feel of her smooth skin.

“A real shame.” Jamie’s exhale is a note heavier.

Dani hums, “Bet I can make up for it.”

Jamie’s brows rise. “Oh, can you, now?”

“Mhm,” Dani affirms, with a sigh. Before she can go any further, though, her face splits into a yawn, and any semblance of seduction is instantly dashed.

Jamie laughs, stepping away and checking the grandfather clock that stands in the corner of the room. “Half eleven. Ought to get you to bed.” She leans in, with a wink, “Santa won’t come if you’re not asleep.”

“Oh, come on,” Dani says reproachfully, rolling her eyes in a manner not dissimilar to chiding Owen’s god-awful puns. She tugs Jamie toward the wardrobe.

They slip between the sheets a short while later, lying close in the double bed, a perfect mess of legs and arms and contentment.

“‘S after midnight,” Jamie whispers, long after Dani thought her breathing had evened out. “Happy Christmas, love.”

Dani’s heart swells. “Merry Christmas, Jamie.”

***

Pale sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, coating the wallpaper in a serene glow. It’s rather poetic, Dani thinks, the way the light falls across Jamie’s sleeping face, highlighting the graceful tilt of her cheekbones, the button of her nose. Jamie looks ethereal in the morning, something Dani cannot truthfully claim about herself.

She traces the high arch of Jamie’s brow with her thumb, and the woman’s eyes flutter open. She blinks, adjusting to the feeling of being awake, until her gaze settles upon Dani, propped up on her elbow.

“G’morning, sleepyhead,” Dani coos.

“Been up long?” Jamie asks, voice low and sleep-rough.

“Not long,” Dani replies. “Was getting hungry, though. Thought you might like to see what Santa brought you before breakfast.”

Jamie sits up slowly, a cheeky grin turning up the corners of her lips. “As though waking up next to you isn’t enough?”

“Sweet-talker,” Dani says, nudging her, “It’s small, I promise.” She rolls out of bed, grimacing when her bare feet make contact with chilly wood. She rummages through her backpack, the one Jamie knows not to investigate, and emerges with a small, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. A red bow is stuck to the top, a little squished, but thankfully still intact. Dani crosses her legs on the bed.

“Now, hold on.” Jamie reaches for her rucksack, pulling out a newspaper-covered object. She sets it on the bed. If Dani didn’t know any better, she would think Jamie seems, almost, embarrassed. “Not much experience by way of gift-giving, I’m afraid.” She wrings her hands in her lap.

“Hey,” Dani soothes, “like you said. I’m happy just being with you, okay?”

Jamie gives her a small smile. She huffs, “Look at me, being all gloomy on Christmas morning. C’mon then, open it up.”

Dani picks at the newsprint, unfolding each section delicately, deliberately. As she peels away the final layer, in her hands, she holds a small camera and a few rolls of film. She looks to Jamie, who studies her carefully, gauging Dani’s reaction.

“Might be silly, but I thought, you know, all this traveling, might be nice to collect a few momentos. Have something to look back on a few years down the line.”

Years. Years. Years. Dani allows herself to imagine them, together, somewhere, anywhere, on a couch, years from now, turning the pages of a photo album.

Yes, she decides, years.

She must have some kind of expression on her face, because Jamie speaks. “Alright, there?” She says it casually, lightly, but underlying the words is a pool of worry. Worry that Jamie has overstepped, that she’s made a mistake, that Dani will cast her aside.

“Years,” Dani says. “Years,” she repeats, high-pitched and carefree. She captures Jamie’s lips in a kiss, a celebration of time gone by, a promise of time yet to come.

“Take it you like it, then?”

Yes, Dani wants to scream, God, yes. You’ve given me the future and there are not enough words in the world to explain how I feel about you.

She settles, instead, for inserting a roll of film and bringing the viewfinder to eye level, the lens pointed at Jamie, who still wears a small smile. She is illuminated by a halo of sunlight, catching wayward hairs in its rays. The shutter clicks, and it’s loud in the stillness of the morning.

At the confused tilt of Jamie’s head, Dani attempts to clarify. “I wanted,” she explains, sounding only a little strangled, “the first memory to be of you, and me, here. In this moment.” She sighs, “Just us.”

Jamie’s face softens as she understands. Her hand snakes around Dani’s head, and she pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Alright, your turn,” Dani decrees, when they separate, and Jamie accepts the offered gift. “Not as exciting as a camera, but I hope you like it.”

“Poppins,” Jamie breathes, staring at the unwrapped item on the bed as if afraid to touch it, “it’s beautiful.”

Dani had found the journal at a craft fair they visited in Chicago. The man said he’d been working with leather for twenty years. The book is bound in green leather, with shimmering gold trim around its border. On the front cover, a leaf, also covered in thin gold foil, is stamped into the material. Dani had been immediately drawn to it.

“I think we had similar ideas,” Dani jokes. “I thought, since you’re always talking to yourself and coming up with new ideas, you might like a place to put everything in that brilliant brain of yours.”

“Feels like I’m saying this a lot lately,” Jamie chuckles, “but thank you, Dani. I love it.”

As if on cue, Dani’s stomach makes itself known, and she cringes.

“Right, how about breakfast?” Jamie inquires.

“I can wait,” Dani says, “The dining room closes at ten.” She glances at the clock. “We’ve got time.”

“For what?”

Jamie catches the mischievous glint in her eye. “Pretty sure I still have to atone for my grievous crime of depriving Santa of whiskey and mince pie. Unless, that is, you’ve decided to let me off the hook?” She gingerly places Jamie’s journal on the bedside table next to her camera.

“Oh, you, my dear,” Jamie all but purrs, punctuating each word with a kiss, “are still very much on the hook.”

***

Breakfast has all but ended by the time they make it downstairs.

Dani decides that cold pancakes have never tasted so good.