#for context this is the paper I wrote when I was really sick a week and a half ago

[ghostofdiamonds]

I should NOT have gotten the grade I did on that paper holy fuck (/pos)

[dr3amfyr-e]

crybaby - j.v. ( w. 5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. again. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ childhood-friends-to-lovers. someone said idiots in love, and yes! modern au. everyone lives au. liberal usage of the em-dash. foul language. pushing the rhaenicent agenda. an incredible amount of yearning and pining. mention of reader's hair. mentions of anxiety. reader has a breakdown in semi-public. subplot where reader is sick. reader is so down bad its crazy. targ-tower cameo! aemond bitter af and for no reason. wrote a bit of dialogue that is so foul but i only realized it after i typed it and its not being taken out. luke is so little brother coded. i directly quote a serial romance novel thats so cringe. part one here. ⎯ ୧

can be read stand-alone, but theres a lot of context in part one !! thank u all for being patient :3

“It's called Applications of Ancient Politics in Modern Literature.”

Looking up from your twelve-page study guide, you meet Jace’s bright gaze where he sits at the foot of your bed, “That sounds… complicated.”

He shrugs, long fingers brushing up through his thick curls, “I need to take it, it's cross-listed for literature and political science so I’ll get credit for both. I think it’ll be interesting, plus if you take it too…” He leans a little closer, grinning in your face. 

“Send it to me,” You reply, highlighting a section in the packet about climate change and its impact on migratory birds in pretty pink ink.

You promise to look it up, to get back to him later, but it's hollow and you know it. He's already given you that pretty smile, flashed his dimples and stared down at you with his dark eyes — your grave has been dug. You will take  Applications of Ancient Politics in Modern Literature and read pages of boring political theory because Jace asked and Jace has you wrapped around his finger.

He shifts on the mattress, lying down on his front and scooting decidedly closer to you. His laptop is open in front of him, eyes trained on the screen through his glasses, perusing the course catalogue for the spring semester. 

“Isn’t it a bit late to pick classes?” You ask, stretching your legs out in front of you, “It's December, next semester is in, like, four weeks.” 

Jace is a perfectionist, a pre-planning freak who has three calendars: a planner that he carries everywhere, a big desk calendar at his apartment for easy access while studying, and his digital calendar. Its colour coded — he has a browser extension that allows him to make events on his Google Calendar any colour. So, it's very unlike Jace, who does his schoolwork the night it's assigned, to pick classes two months after registration opened. 

“I just like to look,” He replies, “This class is Wednesday and Friday, from ten to eleven o’clock. Does that work for you?” 

You nod, because it will work. You’ll rearrange your schedule if need be. It's pathetic, really, how easily he gets you to do things.

It's quiet for a while, Jace scrolling on his computer while you fill in your study packet. 

“When is your last final?” He asks. 

“Next Friday.”

“So you’re leaving Friday?”

“No, my train ticket is for Saturday.”

“Damn, I’m leaving Tuesday,” A lull, “When do you come back.”

“The Sunday before classes start. You?”

“That Friday.”

The conversation continues like that, mindless and short but so very comfortable. It's often like that anymore, with little eye contact and no real attention paid to each other besides the brief words — and, not in the way that feels awkward or tense, but in the way that old married couples chat over morning coffee and the paper. Maybe it's the lifetime of friendship that does it, or that you spend more nights in his apartment than your dorm.

You see each other twice more before the holiday. 

The Monday that exams start you meet at the coffee shop that became yours in the first two weeks of school. The middle table by the bay window is where you always sit, and the barista has Jace’s order memorised — because he gets the same drink every time you come, a caramel macchiato. 

He groans into his hands, ignoring both his coffee and his half of the cheese danish that you’d split, “I feel like I did poorly.”

He’d suffered through days upon days of studying for the political science exam that had plagued him all semester, to be taken today at noon. It was a three-hour exam, mostly multiple choice with two essay questions. You’d been with him through the worst of the studying: in total, forty-seven pages of research papers and scholarly articles printed at the library, and six books varying from fifty to five-hundred pages. He had filled up a plethora of pages in his notebook, and at least three in a word document. There was no study guide, just a list of broad topics. He was facing the consequences of taking a 300-level class in his first semester. 

“Jace, darling,” You reply, reaching out to press a reassuring hand to his arm, “You studied for that test more than I think anyone in the history of this school has studied for anything ever. If you didn’t do well, that's a reflection of the professor, not you.”

He doesn’t seem to want much to do with that rationale, sliding his hands down to rest his chin in them. He's pouting, glasses sliding down his nose as he looks at you through his lashes, “What if I failed?”

“Then… I don’t know,” You reach up to pull one of his hands down to the table, twining your fingers, “Then you failed, and that sucks. But you’re sporting a solid one-hundred in the class now, you could get a fifty on that exam and still end with…” Quick mental math. If the exam is weighted at twenty percent, then, “- a ninety percent.”

“An A-minus,” He whines. 

“Jace,” You chastise sweetly. 

He huffs, his pouty stare turning into a glare with no heat behind it. He wants to whine and mope about exams. What harm does it truly do?

You push his half of the danish towards him, “It's over now. You studied hard, you did your best. There's nothing you can do right now to change your grade. You can’t control it, so there is no point in trying to.”

Jace likes control, he likes to be in control. A psychological idiosyncrasy plaguing many eldest children and children of divorce. The quintessential therapist's advice about what you can control and what you can’t control had been revolutionary for him during one of his bi-weekly appointments — the whole family had them, Rhaenyra and Alicent were big proponents. 

Regurgitating that to him, no matter how much it makes you feel like you’re giving unsolicited advice, always works wonders to ground him when he's disproportionately anxious over something out of his control.

He deposits you at your dorm with a kiss on the cheek that evening.

On the Friday you leave school, Jace drives you to the train station. He packs your bags into the backseat of his hoity-toity hybrid Porsche Panamera and lets you play with his radio all the way there.

You’re an hour early to the station — Jace is early everywhere. He sets his paper copy of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings on his lap in the little lobby, slipping his finger into the book where it is dogeared. Yet, he makes no effort to read, his attention solely on you. 

“A month is ages to be apart,” He says, voice soft and thoughtful.

You scoot a little closer, elbows knocking, “It won’t be so bad. We can talk.”

His watch glimmers in the overhead light of the train station when one of his hands settles safely on your knee. Small white face, silver hands and framing, thin black band — it's Gucci, something his mother wore in the nineties. His fingers trace the edge of your skirt, and in the silence begin to smooth down your kneecap to your shin. 

“You must be cold,” He murmurs, thumbing the material of your nylons. 

“I’m alright.”

Your train is called before he can shed his coat and drape it over your lap, as he so desperately wishes to do. 

He hugs you, tightly, before you board. He's so warm, his black jumper is soft against your cheek, and you can smell his cologne where your nose lands in the crook of his neck — patchouli and something earthy and fresh, Brutus Oroto Parisi. 

“God, I’ll miss you.”

One morning, a week into the holiday, a letter shows up. It’s written in the black pen he’s so fond of, and you admire his neat penmanship as you read the detailed account of his holiday celebration. You smell the expensive cologne he wears and recognize Helaena’s handmade stationery. He gives you a sheepish smile over a FaceTime call when you bring it up. 

When you see him on campus again in January, not much has changed. You're both in your respective majors, he lives in the nicest building on campus, and he hates your roommate. She’s taken to referring to him as your boyfriend; you correct her the first two times and then give up. 

Classes are harder with the emotional slump attached to winter. You talk to Jace often, but don’t see much of each other outside of class. And then you get sick. 

Banging. Loud banging. It wakes you up from your fever-and-Doxylamine induced sleep. Per college dorms, your first assumption is that it's your loud-ass fucking neighbor! Again! Having bunk-bed-breaking sex like she does every Thursday night with her ugly ass boyfriend who radiates such a strong odor of weed and computer science that you can get a noseful of him a meter down the hall. Doxylamine tends to make people agitated.

Before you can weakly pound on the cinderblock wall, there's a muffled call of your name. It comes from the hallway, and it's followed by another bang — which you begin to realize is knocking. 

Crawling out of bed, you blearily pad to the door. You don’t have to peer through the peephole to see who it is. The voice is soft, low, and endearingly posh. Clearly, it’s- 

“Jace?” You grumble when you open the door, mind foggy from the cold medicine.

It's early January in London, and the beige cashmere jumper he wears isn’t warm enough — it's a woman’s cut, but it fits him like Loro Piana himself measured the fabric to Jace’s body. The cold weather is visible in the flush of his face, the snowflakes that linger in his hair.

“I’ve been calling you for hours, darling,” He speaks gently, voice heavy with concern. 

You blink at him, not responding with anything more than a little, oh.

His hand finds your upper arm, leaning closer to hone your attention, “You look awful,” He guides the both of you back into your dorm room, “Are you unwell?” 

You nod, “My roommate brought it back from holiday break.”

Jace huffs sharply, mumbling something to himself, no doubt about your roommate. He walks you back towards your bed, gently pushing you to sit.

“Have you been to the clinic?” He asks, one hand coming to cup your cheek.

“Twice.”

His hand slides up, finers gracing your temple to push some stray hair behind your ear, and then landing upon your brow bone, “You’re burning up.”

It's quiet for a few moments, hands retracing back down to cradle your face as he inspects you. He's focused, calculating and planning in his head — it's an energy you’ve seen him embody countless times, assessing the scraped knees, bruised foreheads, and aching tummies of his younger siblings. 

“What time is it?” You ask, after watching him bustle about your room for about thirty minutes. He's such a mother hen: making tea, procuring medication you didn’t know you had, wetting flannels, adjusting your blankets.

“Ten,” He replies, settling into your twin-size bed next to you and pressing a mug of piping hot tea into your waiting hands, “It's peppermint. I wish you kept chamomile, or really anything herbal.”

You disregard his latter comment, resting your head on his shoulder. Soft. As an eighteen-hundred pound jumper should be, “You came here in the dead of night? In the snow?”

He slides his legs under the blankets, sinking down into your pile of pillows and stuffed animals and pulling you closer, “I took the bus part of the way. Plus-” His hand drags across your shoulders, “I needed to see you. You missed class today, and I haven’t heard from you since Monday. I had nearly driven myself to the brink of madness with worry.”

You groan, turning your head to bump your forehead into the jut of his shoulder, “I hadn’t thought about class,” Bump, bump, bump goes your head, “Did I miss anything important?”

He hums, looking down at you, “We had to turn in a paragraph detailing our preliminary ideas for that big Arthashastra comparison essay. Doctor Dunlavey loved your connections to the political system in The Silmarillion.”

What? You lift your head to look up at him, “I didn’t do the assignment.” You had been too sick to think about school-work.

“Well,” He shrugs, lightly enough that it doesn’t disturb you, “Who's to say? He doesn’t have your handwriting memorized, he has hundreds of students.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, “Thank you, Jace.”

He sleeps in your bed that night, insisting that you’re sick enough that someone needs to keep an eye on you. Dressed in a loose pair of your pajamas, he curls around you in the tiny bed. His body spills warmth through both of your sleepwear, and maybe it's the fever or the cold cinderblock of your dorm but there is no physical proximity that quantifies as close enough to him. 

He's gone by the time you wake up, late into the morning. Naught of him but a text.

i had to go to class and i didn’t want to wake you up, sorry

be back later x 

And true to his word, he arrives that evening with a travel mug of lavender chamomile tea and the cough medicine he makes Luke take when he’s sick. It’s so bad that you nearly choke at the taste, but he leaves the bottle and you’re better by the end of the week. 

You’re both more diligent in seeing each other going forwards.

Your phone rings one day in mid-February — a silly picture of Jace in a bright red hat, one of Helaena’s, pops up on your screen, followed by the affectionate nickname he’s saved as in your phone. 

You even get a chance to say hello, his voice immediately bursting through the speaker, “Do you have plans for the third weekend of February?” 

You think through your mental calendar, “I don’t believe so, nothing that takes priority over you at least. Why do you ask?”

You can hear him fiddling with something on the other line, the clicking of a pen echoing from his bedroom to your ear. Every year his family hosts a gala, raising an ungodly amount of money for their charitable cause by selling high-priced tickets. And everyone comes, because the Targaryens are the royalty of the one percent. 

“Come?” He asks, “Please, I think you’ll enjoy it. Plus, it’ll be like a little holiday for us.”

And again — you’re wrapped so tightly around Jace’s finger that you don’t even think before saying yes. You don’t think through many things regarding this, which lands you in a guest bedroom in Rhaenyra and Alicent’s massive London estate.

In truth, it's not a guest bedroom, but rather Daeron’s old room. It is decorated with posters of classical musicians and string instrument charts; vinyls line his bookshelf, alphabetized and all orchestral. Daeron stays with Alicent’s brother in Paris during the academic year, attending a private secondary school with a music-based curriculum. He had been practically a prodigy at the violin. 

The room is sandwiched between Luke and Aemond, directly across the hall from Jace. There are a number of guest rooms in the house, but they’re all the next floor up and Jace had insisted that you stay across the hall from him. It does feel a bit odd to change into your pretty black dress while staring down a battalion of Daeron’s music awards and a very large framed photo of Otto Hightower. 

“I don’t mean to be judgemental, but who keeps a photo like this of their grandfather in their bedroom?” You ask, adjusting the straps of the dress, “I would understand if he was dead, but Otto is… not.”

Jace laughs from where he lounges on the bed, scrolling through something on his phone. After nearly two decades of friendship, there's little that hasn’t been seen and very lax boundaries. He had watched you change innumerable times before, but today his eyes are decidedly diverted onto his phone. 

“Good?” You ask, turning from the mirror, and giving him a spin. 

Jace stares, uncharacteristically quiet. His eyes are trained on you, scanning the dress, mouth closed and brows drawn so slightly you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know him so well. He's a bit rigid where he’s propped up on the bed, clearly contemplating. 

After an unnerving amount of time, really only five seconds, he speaks, “You look nice.”

It's… odd. Measured and closed off, a complex thought that you don’t have the context from his internal monologue to understand. Did he not like it? Or was he stunned into silence by your sheer, Goddess-like beauty?

“We match,” You offer meekly, gesturing between your dress and his black suit jacket and slacks. A lame comparison. Nearly everyone at these events wore black.

But he smiles nonetheless, a genuine smile that shows off his pretty dimples, “We do.” 

Jacaerys drives to the event, and you’re squished in the too-small backseat of his car, between Lucerys and Aemond. Aegon is in the passenger seat, talking incessantly, and Jace wishes he would shut up so he can think about the silky material of your dress in peace. 

It's a precarious set-up, truly. Jace drives a four-door, but it isn’t meant for six adolescents in formal attire. Aemond is stiff as a rod next to you, pointedly staring out the window and only interacting to bite back at anything Aegon says. Occasionally his bony elbow will bump your side or his knee will knock into yours, and he’ll pull away as if you’re red hot, shooting you a glanced glare. 

The radio is its own battle. Upon entering the car it had connected automatically to Jace’s phone, playing a few seconds of the theory podcast he had been listening to and earning a collective groan. Luke was quick to sync his phone instead, the Ramones brash drums blaring from the speakers. Aegon changed it to chav rap. It ensued like that for the whole car ride — punk rock to rap, volume up and down and up and down. 

The ballroom is glorious. All high domed ceilings and white crown moulding and gold leaf details. There’s a massive chandelier in the centre of the room that drips with perfect crystals. An astonishing world it was that Jacaerys grew up in. Overwhelming 

“Are you alright?” Jace murmurs, hooking his arm into yours as your shoes click against the marble floor. He can sense your unease, feel it in the way your forearm tenses at any particularly fast movement or loud aristocratic laugh. 

“Fine,” You assure, shooting him a smile.

Of course, Jace doesn’t buy it. Your pretty smile doesn’t reach your eyes, it's tighter than normal. He knows things like that — he’ll never admit it, but every one of your microexpressions are programmed into his brain. 

Arm-in-arm the pair of you reach a semi-circle near the bar. Rhaenyra, Corlys, Luke, and Helaena. The boring financial drivel meets your ears from several paces away, and it's mind-numbing up close. 

‘I don’t think you can quantify the inherent need for biodegradable fuel in those metrics.’ 

‘Well, I would argue that you can. In such a high output industry you have to calculate the necessity for every pence.’ 

You nod along, putting up a convincing facade of business intellect while Jace adds in expertly to the dull conversation. Helaena, to Rhaenyra’s left, is about as interested as you.

It's only when Otto breaks into the group, and the conversation shifts from the most cost effective biofuel to is shipping on a mass scale a pertinent trade in post-Brexit England that you’re pulled away. Though not by Jace, who has become more engrossed in the conversation than he is in you, but by Luke. 

“You seemed to be drowning,” He smiles up at you, offering his arm. 

You take it gladly, “Thank you for saving me.”

“Don’t worry, I was drowning too.”

Activity on the balcony is scant; one lady sits in a metal chair sipping a glass of champagne, an elderly man stands at the far end of the railing peering at the London cityscape down below. Luke leans his elbows against the rail, propping his head up in one hand. 

“How's college?” He asks, looking up at you.

You hum, leaning down to mimic his posture, “Oh, it's fine. It's a lot of work,” There's a lull in the conversation as the two of you bask in the lack of hustle and bustle, “Have you started thinking about college yet?”

He shrugs noncommittal, picking at the nails of his free hand. He's very quiet for a while, and you allow him that because every life decision feels massive and dire at fifteen. When he does speak, his voice is soft, “Grandfather said that he wanted me to inherit his business after my dad, but now mum is talking about me being her successor.”

“You’d be good at it.”

“Jace doesn’t want to inherit.”

“I know.”

“He wants to be a lawyer, like Alicent. And I don’t blame him, but that puts a lot of pressure on me. Because now it's like I have mum and grandpa expecting me to be great, and I stand in their conversations and I don’t understand half of what they’re saying-”

“Luke,” You softly interject in his rushed rant, running a careful hand down his arm, “No one expects you to be perfect. You’re still a child, you’ve not even taken your A-Levels yet.

He nods solemnly.

“I know that it feels like the weight of your family legacy rests on your shoulders, but if you also defer inheritance it will be just fine. You have, what — like, ten siblings?” He gives a little laugh at your reasoning, “Plus, Laena and Baela, and Rhaena who could take over after your father.”

Luke nods, “I suppose you’re right,” He elbows you gently in the ribs, “You’re pretty wise, you know?”

It's your turn to laugh, nudging him back, “So, what do you want to do after school?”

He traces mindless little stars into the railing, “I’d really like to study music. Some of my friends and I have been playing together, and we’re talking about starting a band.”

“That's really cool, Luke!” You beam.

He smiles sheepishly, “I mean, it's nothing grand yet. We haven’t decided a name, and we’re a bit at odds about a genre.”

“Well,” You smile, “When you lot play, let me know. I’ll be in the front row!”

The calm quiet is broken when the door to the balcony opens, “Luke, darling. Mummy needs you.”

You both turn to see Alicent peering out of the doorway, body still inside the ballroom. Her arm slips around your waist in an endearingly maternal way as the three of you make your way back towards Rhaenyra.

“How are you, lovely?” She asks, rubbing between your shoulder blades. Her pear and saffron perfume, Guidance Amouage, floods your olfactory senses.

“Well!” You reply, leaning into her warm touch, “This is all so wonderful. I’m very glad Jace invited me.”

She smiles back, “Me too.”

Being a guest of the host by extension, you’re required to stay for the duration. So, you watch people dissipate as your energy dwindles. By the end of the night, nearly eleven, your upright position relies heavily on the support of Jace’s arm around your waist as he chats with his grandmother, Rhaenys. Politics, environmentalism, blah blah, drivel, drivel. You might do more to participate if the five hours of nonstop interaction and three glasses of champagne weren’t pulling your body towards the ground, but you settle for little engaged nods. 

The car is less crowded on the way back — much to everyone's chagrin, Aegon called an Uber halfway through the gala. You’re allowed the front seat, and spend most of the ride dozing off to the tune of The Velvet Underground & Nico, 1967.

You sleep in Jace’s bed that night, despite your own quarters being directly across the hall.

When Jacaerys realises he’s in love with you, you’re crying in the library stairwell. 

“I’m fucked,” You sob into your hands, shoulders shaking with the force of your misery. 

You had been studying together, preparing for the rest of your midterms when a notification came through your school email with an updated exam grade. 

Sheer terror, cold unyielding panic that starts just below your throat and twists its way down your spine and back into your lower intestine. The grade was a forty-two, which brought your total grade down to a fifty-eight. 

In the least melodramatic way possible you’d shut your laptop and told Jace you were going to the bathroom. But the bathroom was at the back of the room, and you had gone to the hallway — plus, he just knew better.

Gentle footsteps, you see his Sambas first and hear the crack of his knees as he sits next to you on the stair step. 

“You’re not fucked,” He murmurs back, his voice low and soft. One arm comes around your stooped shoulders, the soft fabric of his cardigan brushing the back of your neck, “It's only midterms, angel. This is nothing that you can’t reverse.”

The first thought in your head is easy for perpetual straight-A student Jacaerys to say, the next thought is much more self-pitying. You don't voice either, head falling to your knees.

You aren’t allowed to stay like that for long, firm hands come to your arms and pull you up. From there, they run slowly up and down — from your scapula to your bicep, over and over. And his chest blooms with warmth when you respond well, calming down. He runs his thumb over the soft skin underneath your eyes — first the left eye, and then the right — brushing away tears. 

Jace’s typical form of comfort plays on his lifelong role as eldest sibling; it's usually coddling, while he mothers you and tries to problem solve. This is not that. It's something deeper, more genuinely concerned. He isn’t trying to solve your ailment, he just wants to make you feel better. 

“It's just a grade,” He soothes, “It's just an exam, a midterm. This makes up maybe ten percent of your overall grade, and I know that you do well on everything else,” His head is cocked, looking at you so sweetly, “I bet it only looks this bad because it's mid-semester, your score will go up in a few weeks.”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut as the last stray tears fall. 

“You’re alright,” He whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the apple of your cheek, “Hm?”

Jace is alone that night, Montblanc pen held in perfect writing posture as he journals — an exercise recommended by his mother. The highlights include:

It was gutting. I just wanted to make it better & I didn’t know how. 

Inappropriate time to kiss her face, I couldn’t think of anything else.

I’m usually so good at comfort and reassurance, I don’t know what's wrong with me. 

Fuck, I’m hopeless. 

Things feel different to me now. Not in a particularly bad sense, just different. Maybe it's the transition from childhood friendship to adult friendship. 

I read that god awful serial romance novel last holiday because grandma left it sitting out – A Wallflower Christmas by Lisa Kelypas. And I remember this passage like ‘I want you under me. I know you deserve more respect than that.’

I found it, “I want you under me. On your back. / I’m sorry. You deserve more respect than that. But I can’t stop thinking of it. Your arms and legs around me. Your mouth, open for my kisses. I need too much of you. A lifetime of nights spent between your thighs wouldn't be enough. / I want to talk with you forever. I remember every word you’ve ever said to me. / If only I could visit you as a foreigner goes into a new country, learn the language of you, wander past all borders into every private and secret place. I would stay forever. I would become a citizen of you.”

I’ve been thinking of that passage, like it's playing aloud in my head. What does that mean? 

I don’t particularly feel that for her. 

I get some of it, like ‘I want to talk with you forever, I remember every word you say.’ Anything else though, the romantic bits, I don’t. 

Though, the kissing her face was new. It was compulsive almost, like I had to do it. 

Need to call mum. 

“Is it fair to you?” Rhaenyra asks through the phone. It's late, past the time she puts the little kids to bed, but she's never not answered a phone call from one of her children. 

Jace sighs, worrying one of the buttons on his cardigan, “What if it ruins everything?” He asks, “What if I tell her, and she never speaks to me again and then I lose my best friend?”

“But is that fair, Jace?” She reasons, “To go about a lifetime of friendship keeping this massive secret from her? It won’t go away, my love. It will fester and fester and eat at you for as long as you know her.”

He doesn’t have a good reply to that.

“Jacaerys, I spent twenty years pining after my best friend — so long that I had time to marry, have three children, and divorce. I spent years and years suffocating in regret, because I missed my chance to tell her and build a life. I got another chance, which is very rare, and it was no less scary that time. But, I knew that if I didn’t go for it then I would never have the opportunity to live the life I had spent my entire adolescence dreaming of,” Rhaenyra sighs, “My sweet boy, don’t let this slip away because you’re afraid.” 

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, he thinks. 

When you accompany him home for summer break, hand in hand, it's with a new depth to your relationship. ‘Tis better to have loved.

tags<3 @one-big-fangirl

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[i0-0na]

Entry 10 - Animation Party

Date : 06.05.2024

This week Monday, Dom, Matthijs and I were invited to an animation welcome party. I was pretty tired though, and somewhat anxious to be honest, so I was kind of unsure about going. I couldn’t really explain why, at one point I even felt like I was going to be sick. However, I decided to go anyways because why not~

We put name tags on ourselves (I wrote my name both in Japanese and English, I’m good at hiragana and katakana alphabet but not Kanji ;-;). However, I felt my anxiety rise again as soon as we were put onto random tables, and I wasn’t with my friends. I find it easy to make friends and stuff but honestly the language barrier was what was making worry, but I did my best.

I was so confused I ended up asking one of the professors who understood English, and she was like “Yeah! Are you in a circle?” I just stared blankly back at her. I had no clue what she meant. So, I pointed at the table and I said “I guess we’re in a circle now???” They just laughed and the conversation moved on. Later I told Matthijs about this cryptic message and they told me ‘circle’ was like another term for club or in this context because we’re at university, society. I was like oooohhh, I get it now wow ToT.  When food was brought out people started moving around so I went to Matthijs’ table, I wasn’t hungry, so I barely ate anything. Also, I still kinda felt ill. A bit later on that’s when I started feeling a bit better, as well I felt more comfortable to get out of my shell and began to start talking and making friends with people. Since we’re all animation majors one of the key points of our conversations was anime we liked and I put on my name tag. Even though I put Space Dandy on mine, I honestly dislike the idea of me having to pick my ‘favourite’ because I like so many works its hard to pick unless you give me a really specific category, but to be honest even then depending on the genre I sometimes would give you a top 3 answer instead lol. So yea that basically allowed me to talk more about different shows and video games like Nier:Automata, Persona 5, Attack on Titan and other such.

Then out of nowhere we were made to play a game of Jan Ken Pon (rock paper scissors). There was a whole cafeteria sized table which was just stocked with prizes to be won. On the second round of the game, I actually won lolololol!!! So, I made my way to the table and I decided to take a Denji prize figure, it isn’t like a raffle where you know depending on which tier/rank you get you are limited to the amount of prizes, we could just honestly pick whatever thing we wanted. I debated on getting this cushion with one of the sensei faces on, I think he was like the head of animation at Zokei, but I was like you know what I think someone else should get it probably because it would probably mean more to them in a way idk but it was pretty amusing none the less to see that as a prize. As soon as I got my Denji figure I nearly immediately start to rub it into the face of Dom hahahaha, as a joke of course, but none the less it was a great triumph.

My rock paper scissor skills are elite

I’m glad I ended up going, there’s no reason not to give social events ago. Especially on student exchange, even if I feel nervous, I think people should always try to push themselves a bit out their comfort zones.

(Y)ou (O)nly (L)ive (O)nce

Later that week we talked about Golden Week during our Japanese classes, as well as learning the usual useful language technique/grammar. I’m really sad that these classes will be ending so soon, I genuinely enjoy these classes as well as learning Japanese language ☹. It’s always been a goal of mine to become fluent and to live long term in Japan. It’s so crazy that now I am living in Japan but still I think I want to stay here for an even longer term.

After class we asked our teacher if he wanted to come drinking with us at an izakaya, originally, he was but then when we arrived something came up, so he had to go home. However, Silvia, Matthijs, Dom and I decided to still go. This izakaya is right by the uni/train station. At this place I tried hot sake, it was kind of weird to try “hot” alcohol and I mean it was hot, like a nice cup of tea kinda hot lol.

It was such a nice evening~

I’ve noticed by my window that the plant outside is a rose tree. The pink roses are blossoming, when I saw them, it reminded me of myself. Of how so far, how I’ve grown, and feel more stable living in a foreign country, as well as other aspects of my personal life. I feel at peace.

Other notes:

I’ve found these crisps which are mentioned in this one mobile game I reallyyyyy liked, it called Mystic Messenger. I bought some and tried it, they were awful ☹! Like with sauce or put into a sandwich they are somewhat okay but by themselves?? Sorry 707 I cannot fathom, fictional or not, why they would want to eat that like every day.

On a separate separate note, it seems that its Mother’s Day in Japan (12th). So, I had to wish my mum a second happy Mother’s Day lololol. Before leaving for Japan, I bought her a Collin/Collette the Caterpillar cake (spa day themed) for her and my brothers to share. From the sounds of it they all seemed to like it.

Till next time ✌️😉

Byyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

-Iona

Song Playing: To the end - Blur

[felixtam]

Audiovision Blog Post week 6

1. Research (technical, academic, creative practice)

This week I have started trying to nail down on the pacing and mood for the video. I began my research by looking at effective ways to transition between scenes and moods without breaking engagement.

An article by Vionlabs breaks down certain techniques that can be used to maintain engagement. Sound effects and foreshadowing will be key in shifting the mood. By utilising ambient sound and musical motifs, I can subtly illicit a change in emotion by foreshadowing what is to come without it being directly shown in the visual component. I will also incorporate a wide range of plugins and devices to alter certain sounds within the scenes. As the main character is a sick old person, this allows me to play into the symptoms of sickness through sonic nuances when establishing the character. (e.g. wheezy breathing, white noise ringing to represent neural problem, heart beat sound or groans when character is in pain.) Callback Sounds use sounds that the audience associates with certain emotions to evoke the desired response.

I plan on using a slow build-up of layered sound effects and noise to represent a Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) with the screen going blurry and and sound becoming distant through filters and manipulation. These segments also allow for a shift in tone and emotion within the score.

A paper by Mariana Julieta Lopez and Sandra Pauletto from The University of York discusses sound design for the visually impaired. The various sections breaking down how to use audio spacially to replicate environments helped me create a basis for my own design.

By employing muffling and EQ alterrations to certain audio this can help easily recreate the sound coming from other rooms. I found that by putting an 'Auto Filter' and cutting off the high-end frequencies, then panning this audio I can create a compelling realism to the sound. These layers of distant audio further establish the space, or in this case lack of space in the environment. To counteract this minimal reverb and resonating frequencies within the room help accentuate the claustrophobic nature of the space.

I have also been looking for ways to improve my established musical score as I am not super happy with how it is playing into the narrative. I have been listening to various musical pieces by Japanese composer Michio Mamiya who wrote many of the soundtracks for various Studio Ghibli films. I wanted to get a better understanding for how these melodies were used in conjunction with the animation. The 1988 film ‘ Grave of the fireflies’ main theme is a prime example of how composition can be used successfully to illicit the emotion of despair and sadness.

As the movie takes place during the firebombing of World War II, the haunting melody and somber orchestration evoke feelings of loss, despair, and nostalgia to me. Additionally, the context of the film, which depicts the devastating impact of war and loss on innocent lives, adds depth and emotional weight to the music, intensifying its impact on the listener.

I also noticed heavy usage of melodic motifs that off set what you as a listener are expecting to hear in a classical composition, as these small accents help build character and interest towards the score rather than leave the listener bored with repetition.

In order to successfully implement these techniques I first need to ground my environment and establish a sonic connection between the audience and the characters in the story. Character development and work by the animators will play a major part in this but small nuances of characterisation such as voice, the way the character perceives certain sounds and environment interaction.

2. Reflection

In class, we looked through the various Monsters Inc sound design examples. In regards to learnings and their implementation in my own work, I really liked the example shown within the animation short of Mike showing Sully his new car. The way mood and score were established through the use of grounded diegetic sounds was a cool technique that I wanted to use in my video. I found the use of nonsensical sounds used for comedic effects to be very entertaining, such as the grinding metal when Mike is stuck in the engine.

When analysing the door chase scene, the break down of the various layers shined light on the importance of musical and sonic motifs towards establishing the urgency or matter in the scene. The sound effects play through highlighted the importance of layering minor sound effects to work with the score. An example in this scene was the emphasis on urgency and danger with the sweeping train track screeches, sirens blaring and the impact of the doors clacking together as tools to engage.

Whilst my project does not have any action, I want to employ some of the techniques used within the door chase scene as the characters jump between various environments. The shift of tone and score if executed correctly maintains the speed and pacing of the scene and adds a humorous aspect the manic events. I want to interpolate this idea however instead from a slow depressive state to a more uplifted and enlightened mood then back again.

3. Progress

This week my group partners and I had a meeting to discuss the progression and planning of the project. We primarily went through both our thoughts on how the video should play out as well as going through a couple challenges surrounding their animatic. Since the last time we talked they changed a few major things around in the animatic which led to me removing and recreating certain sections of audio that I have been working on. They are planning on changing a few more things following feedback and discussion with their teacher, so for the moment I want to focus on the score as much as possible.

With the research around creating an effective piece of music that evokes the emotions I want it to I have made some alterations to the melody. My original piece looped and became highly repetitive, as well as not reflecting the scenes mood very well.

The main challenge I face is working around the video as the pacing and flow is not exactly smooth due to the back and forth nature of the narrative. The narrative follows the life of an elderly couple living within the Hong Kong coffin housing however, frequently switches back to flashbacks of their past living in a different house. This forces me to work on creating effective transition sequences and sonic components that not only keep the viewer engaged, but also do not disrupt the flow of the narrative.

I have stripped back alot of the musical elements for the very opening section as I feel having space for breathing room allows for better character development and establishes the environment. my partners are planning on incorporating a lot more subtle visual elements into the animation that will help ground the environment as I continue to add layers.

Bibliography:

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts) 

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

*

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

*

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

*

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

*

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

[emospritelet]

Heatstroke - chapter 17

I tweaked the prompt a little :)

[AO3]

x

Before leaving the city for small-town Maine, Lacey had told herself she wasn’t going to spend every night drinking until the early hours, as she had in New York. Since moving to Storybrooke she had mostly kept that promise to herself. During the week, anyway. Weekends were a different matter. Ruby usually had Friday nights off from the diner, but that inevitably meant that she worked on Saturdays, and while Lacey wasn’t bothered by going to the Rabbit Hole by herself, it was much more fun to have Ruby’s company while she slowly went out of her mind. Saturday evening found her at the bar in Granny’s Diner, drinking her way through a few tall glasses of ice-cold oblivion and telling Ruby about her latest unsuccessful encounter with Gold.

“So he wasn’t even dressed?” Ruby set a vodka and orange in front of her, leaning on the bar and resting her chin on her hands. “At that time in the morning? Not like Gold.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Lacey, stirring her drink with a straw. “It was weird, Rubes. I was all bracing for insults and sarcasm, and it was like he couldn’t even look at me.”

“You can’t tell me you wanted insults and sarcasm.”

“No,” she admitted. “But I think I’d choose that over being ignored.”

“Oh God…” Ruby shook her head. “Would you just ask him out already? Ask him to Zelena’s stupid dance.”

“I told you, he’s not going,” said Lacey impatiently. “And even if he was, it’s obvious he’s not interested. I mean it was obvious before, but now…”

“Maybe you just disturbed him doing something?”

“Like what?” Lacey stirred her drink moodily, and looked up. “Oh God, you don’t think he had someone there, do you?”

“Like a - a woman?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” She took a drink, enjoying the tart taste of the orange juice and the smooth heat of the vodka in her throat. “I bet he did. I bet he had someone stay the night and I woke him up from a round of hot morning sex, good God!”

“Lacey.” Ruby leaned on the bar with a patient expression on her face. “Apart from you, the only person lusting after Gold in this town is Zelena. And he would never.”

“Okay,” Lacey nodded, feeling a little better. “That’s a fair point. But it could have been someone from out of town.”

“Maybe he’s sick,” suggested Ruby. “You could have pulled him out of his death bed.”

“Hey, that’s a point.” She perked up a little. “Yeah, maybe that’s why he was off with me. Great!”

“There you go.”

Lacey groaned, slumping on the bar with her chin pushed into her folded arms.

“God, I shouldn’t wish ill health on the man, should I?” she said dolefully. “What’s wrong with me, Rubes? I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“Yeah, it feels that way to me, too,” remarked Ruby.

“Why am I like this?” demanded Lacey, pushing upright again. “Past Lacey was never like this. Past Lacey would find a hot guy, have a good time, and move the hell on! Past Lacey would have been like ‘pfft, so he’s not interested, his loss’. That’s always how it was before.”

“So maybe it’s something more meaningful this time,” suggested Ruby. “Maybe present Lacey wants an actual relationship, not just hot crazy sex.”

“Oh no, present Lacey totally wants the hot crazy sex,” said Lacey, snickering as she reached for her drink. “I just need him to want me back, that’s all.”

“I told you, the ‘you seeing him naked’ thing put him off,” said Ruby. “Guys like Gold need to feel like they’re in charge.”

“Hmmm.” Lacey grinned widely. “He can do that if he wants.”

Her grin widened at the thought of Gold taking charge in a number of very delicious ways, and Ruby rolled her eyes.

“You got it bad, girl,” she observed.

“I can’t help it!” said Lacey, slapping the bar with her palms. “First time we met I saw his junk, and believe me, it was absolutely no hardship as far as I’m concerned. And since then I’ve been checking him out every chance I get.” She took a slurp of her drink to wet her throat. “I thought he looked pretty good full frontal, but did you see his ass in those pants? Biteable.”

Ruby’s eyes had gone very wide.

“Lacey, shh!” she hissed.

“What? It’s true!” Lacey waved a hand. “I always thought you’d need a big hammer to bang in a nail that size, but nope! Almost as cute and pert as mine.”

“Yeah, that’s a great point you just made about - uh - carpentry,” said Ruby loudly, and Lacey felt her brow crinkle.

“Carpentry? What the hell are you - it was a metaphor, Rubes!” she insisted. “I’m talking about how Gold should man up and nail me!”

“Hey Mr Gold!” said Ruby brightly, a somewhat desperate smile on her face. “What can I get you?”

Lacey felt as though a bucket of iced water had been thrown in her face, the shock of it making her catch her breath with a gasp. A ball of lead the size of a small watermelon appeared to have dropped into her stomach and was trying to drag her down through the floorboards and into the diner cellar. She was tempted to let it. He’s right fucking behind me, isn’t he?

“Miss Lucas,” Gold’s lazy drawl made her close her eyes in horror. “Just the rent, if you please. I leave minor - uh - carpentry jobs to those with more inclination for the task.”

Lacey wanted to die. She slipped from the stool, snatching up her bag and coat. Perhaps if she didn’t open her eyes, he wouldn’t be able to see her.

“Later, Rubes,” she muttered, and almost ran from the diner.

Gold watched her go, slim legs moving remarkably quickly considering the height of her heels. Turning back to the bar, he favoured Miss Lucas with a tiny smile, but she was glaring at him, dark eyes flashing.

“Are you stupid?” she demanded, and he frowned.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, in a freezing voice, and she threw up her hands.

“That poor girl just said out loud how much she wants to bang you, and your response is to be all snide and cutting? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What are you talking about?” he snapped. “I know full well Miss French has no interest in me other than as an object of ridicule!”

Miss Lucas put her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

“Don’t you have eyes?” she demanded. “You telling me you haven’t seen her staring at you?”

“Oh, I vividly remember our first encounter,” he said dryly. “I also remember hearing her discuss it with you afterwards. You’ll forgive me if I’m not turned on by mockery.”

Miss Lucas sniffed.

“Look, if you’re getting your cock out in public you have to expect a little teasing.”

“I did not get my cock out in public!” he snapped. “It was on my own property, and frankly it’s no more your business than it was hers!”

“Yeah, well she wasn’t mocking you, she was just - surprised.”

“Oh please!” he said, in a disparaging tone. “I’ve no interest in whatever game you two are playing.”

“She just said you should man up and nail her! You heard her!”

“Really?” he said dismissively, tugging at cuffs that didn’t need it. “Hilarious, if one understands the context, I’m sure.”

“Oh my God…” She shook her head. “Blind, deaf and stupid. I should have just talked to Neal.”

“What does my son have to do with this?” he demanded, and she shrugged.

“Just saying. Something tells me he’s not as dense as you.”

Gold glared at her.

“Are you gonna give me the rent, or do I have to consider raising it?”

“Fine, resort to empty threats all you like,” she sniffed, turning away.

She unlocked the drawer beneath the counter, taking out the envelope of rent money, and slapping it on the counter. She was still glaring at him, and Gold took the money with an unpleasant smile, opening it up and beginning to count out the notes.

“She likes you,” said Miss Lucas, making him pause. “Lacey likes you. Weird as it seems to me, and as much as I don’t want to hear about her many fantasies involving you, she likes you. She likes you a lot. As in she wants to have sex with you. Also a lot.”

Gold had lost count the moment she mentioned Lacey’s name, but there was no way he was about to admit it. He gathered up the pile of bills, stuffing it back into the envelope and retrieving his notebook from his pocket.

“It’s all there,” he said stiffly, flipping through the pages. 

“Just ask her out,” went on Miss Lucas. “Or go to that dance of Zelena’s if you’re gonna be a wuss about it. Then you don’t even need to ask her out. You could just - you would be there, and she would be there, and the two of you could - you know.”

Gold could barely see what he was writing, but he pretended that he knew what he was doing. He wrote the date out with such a flourish that it tore the paper, and slipped the notebook back into his pocket. The envelope of money followed it, his hands shaking a little.

“Thank you, Miss Lucas,” he said, his tone hollow. “Do give my regards to your grandmother.”

Turning on his heel, he fixed his gaze on the door and limped towards it as though it was the path to his salvation.

“Why are you both such idiots!” called Miss Lucas, and he flinched as he grasped the door handle.

Getting out into the cool summer evening, he let the door close behind him, and exhaled slowly, head rolling back as he let the soft breeze caress his skin. Surely Miss Lucas wasn’t being serious? Admittedly Lacey had said something extremely suggestive about him, but what if it was part of their banter, the joke that never got old. Gold and his naked body, forever an object of ridicule.

What if it wasn’t? A voice in his head whispered to him, a faint spark of hope igniting deep within him. What if she actually likes you? You could go to that tedious charity ball. By the sound of it, she’ll be there, no doubt reporting for the Mirror. You could ask her to dance. That wouldn’t arouse anyone’s suspicions. Maybe not even hers. And if she does like you...

The idea of Lacey actually returning his feelings was too heady to contemplate, and Gold shook his head, striding off down the street. No. He would think about this intriguing possibility when he was in the safety of his own home and with a large glass of something strong. He definitely needed a little Dutch courage to plan his next move.

[oneweekoneband]

meet me behind the mall!!!!!!!!!

I don’t know why Taylor Swift thinks that teenagers drink wine, and I don’t know why she chose to record and release a wistful high-school-other-woman song which left me feeling naked as a frog and therefore furious. Some questions we ask only so as to be soothed by the familiar sound of our own voice, still there after all. The answers are not coming. 

The Taylor Swift Teen Love Triangle Triad of “cardigan”, “august”, and “betty” is the part of folklore that makes me most bullish about where Taylor is going as an artist. A turn away from writing songs which are intentionally meant to appear confessional and toward, instead, songs which reveal the personal as refracted through fictitious circumstances and made-up characters is a better use of her big, weird brain, and allows that brain to be unleashed on a broader plain of experience. It’s incredibly embarrassing to be an adult woman with my own problems to manage and to have living in my head Taylor Swift’s demented YA fiction, but it’s an embarrassment that feels appropriate, like I could never really have escaped this fate. On “betty” she gets to play-act as a contrite teen boy who knows he’s done wrong, and while obviously the most charming thing about the song is Taylor saying “fuck” (and also her giving us a little of the ol’ razzle dazzle by way of some light twang), her experiment with imagining what it’s like to be a skateboarding kid who hates dances, trying on an imagined teen boy interiority as a costume, is effective too. 

“cardigan” is more removed, less plaintive and shouty. This is a song from adult Betty’s perspective looking back on this period in her life and in her relationship with James, who the song seems to imply she is still with now. While—full offense—I believe marrying your high school girlfriend or boyfriend is a disorder which should have its own listing in the DSM, restoring order by putting the original couple back together so as to make the story one of true love triumphing over adversity, rather than a series of sketches of kids doing fuckup kid things just because it is not easy to be alive and to be alive alongside others and with gentleness, least of all when you are very new at it,  is the only conclusion this saga could ever have reached with Ms. Swift at its helm, and I do appreciate the consistent, if baby-brained, internal logic. I’ve never known a teenage girl whose signature garment was a cardigan and, frankly, this Betty sounds like sort of a self-absorbed drip (I do love, love, how Taylor’s own voice comes through so clearly on the lightly threatening, smug lines, “I knew you’d miss me once the thrill expired / And you’d be standing in my front porch light” !!) so I’m not totally surprised she got cheated on, but that’s very uncharitable of me and probably comes from the same meaty polyp in my brain that is responsible for my still loving all the hilariously mean-spirited, woman-hating songs on Speak Now.

“august” is about the other girl. The “her” in James’ rather pathetic defense, “slept next to her, but I dreamt of you all summer long”. “august” tells a story that brings to my mind another story. It is a story I won’t belabor because it is neither exciting nor unique. It will not illuminate an unexplored human experience, as it is, in fact, incredibly boring, regular, an incident which would be at home in any normal Tuesday, ordinary as meeting at the mall. This is a million years ago and there is a boy whose basement I go to sometimes after swim practice. We have matching team sweatpants with our names embroidered above the pocket at the right hip and I like to switch pairs. I’m you and you’re me and when we have pushed and bent the tiredness out of our muscles together, making experimental declarations in hushed voices down there while the furnace groans, well, then I’m you and me and you’re you and me and we are we are we are. 

One February day at twilight I bound out of the school building with wet hair and a fleece jacket, but his car is already gone. No worries. Standing at my locker the next afternoon like in a movie he will say, easy as anything, that he has a girlfriend, a family friend, two towns over, she goes to private school. You’ve probably met her, he says. And right then I remember that I have. Last year I did her zipper in the bathroom at a dance. We were fighting but we never really broke up, he says. For months you’ve been fighting? is all I say back. Fighting since October? As if that matters. Like that’s the point. My voice is pinched and ugly and I know I’ll hear that sound forever. Well, anyway... I feel bad. He doesn’t clarify for whom he feels bad. He’s got one sneaker toe working against the other one atop the tile floor that’s the murky green of sea glass. He looks at my St Brigid’s cross necklace, at the blue Masterlock hanging open like a broken jaw, at someone in a hoodie who punches his shoulder as they walk by. Nothing personal, he says, and there is a tiny smudge of cafeteria pizza at the corner of his mouth that I hadn’t noticed until that second and a day ago would’ve reached up and wiped away with the pad of my thumb, laughing. I get it, right? Oh, sure. 

The worst of it was not skipping pre-calc to cry in the bathroom, since, I mean, I couldn’t actually do pre-calc and would never learn how, but was inspecting my soul in the dark when I couldn’t sleep that night and finding part of me had known this all along, had chosen to pretend, wanted the wanting so badly I’d knocked from my brain the truth of how it was going to end. This would not be the last false love from which I’d find myself unceremoniously discarded, and in time I’d learn to be the liar myself, too. It’s unseemly to pathologize bad decisions, to take on poor impulse control or self-destructive patterns as an identity, but I do think that just as some people are born serial monogamists, part of a twosome forever with very little mess in-between, some of us were built from the very first cell to live like a pool ball struck and banging teeth first into the wrong mouths and hearts. I can examine my romantic history and tap my finger against the obvious errors, the times I chose what I knew would hurt me, when I ascribed hope to situations where it did not belong, when I, like the narrator of “august”, regarded someone as not mine to lose but still put myself in the position to be harmed by the losing, yet I can’t produce alternative choices that feel realistic. If you are in love and it doesn’t work out, there is mourning, there is pain, but there is all the while a record which shows something happened, it was real. “august” stands somewhat apart in the Taylor Swift catalog as a song neither about the glory of true love or the heartbreak when it’s over, but about the small, paper cut heartbreaks that are inescapable during each day of an untrue love. “It was never mine”. When it turns out you were wrong the whole time, fooling yourself, then even remembering that you’d been happy in the lie is like being trapped in a fun house, body bent and broken in the mirror, a thing not built right for this world. 

“august” is about the girl who James was with over the summer, the girl he leaves to return to Betty. Taylor said it’s the first of the three that she wrote, and I fear this has warmed me to her in some new and unsettling way. I fear this means she’s matured as a person and writer, capable now of a more expansive view of situations, to be generous. It’s like how you shouldn’t feed gremlins after midnight; there is no telling what new and more dangerous creature this woman might turn into if she’s suddenly been taught empathy. When Taylor-as-James in “betty” sings, “Would you trust me if I told you it was just a summer thing?” in his effort to woo Betty back I hate him a little, that thoughtless child undeserving of the kind of adoration in lines like, “your back beneath the sun / wishing I could write my name on it.” I try to extend grace to this fictional boy, but I think of the “Do you remember? in “august” and I feel a little sick from being so certain that no... No, he doesn’t. Not really.

“Back when we were still changing for the better / wanting was enough / for me it was enough”. I’d like to think there is no last chance to change for the better. I’d like to think wanting is enough so long as you want the right thing. I’d like to think that God made sure Taylor Swift became a singer instead of a young adult novelist because the absolute last thing this world needed was this freak joining the circus that is YA Twitter. Most of all, I like thinking that Judy Blume knows that her beautiful, searing, devastatingly romantic and also textually gay 1998 novel Summer Sisters is the only important book that has ever been published, and, further, that the world will show me the respect of understanding and accepting that “august”, when removed from the context of the Swiftian child romance trilogy, sounds as if it were specifically written in homage. Taylor, I know I’ve accused you of at least fifty crimes this week alone, but if you want to talk about Summer Sisters, please get in touch.

[addierose444]

Academic Advice for First-Years: Part I

Last week I posted some general college advice for first-years. Here I will delve into my academic advice. This post got really long, so I decided to break it up into two parts. In this part, I will provide some general advice on course selection, note-taking, and homework. Next week, I will be exploring the academic support systems on campus. I will first address a reader question that I received.

What is your favorite computer science course you have taken at Smith College? Thanks :)

That is a great question that I am unfortunately unprepared to answer as I have only taken a semester’s worth of computer science at Smith. The courses I took were How the Internet Works (CSC 102) and How Computers Work (CSC 103). (You can see a full list of my courses here). While I don’t want to perpetuate the notion of “humanities people” and “STEM people”, I do think that these introductory courses are best suited for someone curious about computer science but who is quite intimidated by it. Namely, these courses have a math designation for Latin Honors but are way less “mathy” than say calculus I. With that said, I still think the best place to start is Introduction to Computer Science Through Programming (CSC 111). Why? First of all, because you will learn programming rather than just theory. Secondly, CSC 111 is required for the major and minor whereas CSC 102/103 cannot be applied to a minor and do not serve as prerequisites for any other courses. It is worth noting that despite recommending CSC 111, I myself haven’t taken it because I was able to test out of it. While I’m sure that this wasn’t the answer you were looking for, be sure to keep an eye on the main blog for another Smithie’s response in the near future.

In terms of course registration, here is a post I wrote a few months ago. While that post was quite thorough, circumstances have definitely changed in intervening months. Specifically, you may now elect to take three courses (instead of four) in the fall and an additional full credit course during interterm. This may make sense in that it allows you to spread out your course load and to have something interesting to do during interterm. Really it just comes down to if any of the course offerings pique your interest. It is also worth thinking critically about which classes may be best to take this fall as opposed to in the spring. As building community will be more difficult this year, I more than ever would recommend enrolling in a first-year seminar. First-year seminars are great because of the small class size (caps of 16-20), varied topics, and writing focus. This writing focus is important because all first-year students are required to take a writing-intensive course and because writing is a crucial skill. 

Course selection ties nicely into my most general academic advice which is to build a strong relationship with your advisor and to learn to write effective emails. This relationship is important because it will improve the entire advising experience and efficacy. You can read more about advising at Smith here. In terms of emails, they are a key form of communication between you and your advisor, other professors, and your employer / prospective employer. In addition to proofreading papers that you submit, be sure to take the time to proofread carefully anything you send via email. In terms of the format, it is usually best to start with Dear Professor Last Name. If it’s someone you haven’t communicated with previously, be sure to introduce yourself. I like to include my first and last name, class year, and depending on the context, my majors. From there explain the situation and relevant questions. If there is a deadline or key question, bold text may be useful. Effective use of whitespace (paragraph breaks) and a concise but informative subject line are also important.  

In terms of actual classes, be sure to attend every lecture. College is different in that not all courses take attendance and grade participation. Obviously, if you are sick, definitely don’t attend class in person. If you are more severely ill, it may be necessary to completely miss class. Here is where effective emails and positive relationships with peers come in. This is also part of why attendance matters in the first place. For instance, say you routinely miss class for illegitimate reasons and then actually get sick. If you need some motivation to actually get up and go to class, consider the extremely high cost of tuition and subsequently high monetary value of an hour of class. 

Courses vary in how/if you should be taking notes. Courses that are discussion-based may require written preparation before class, but minimal in-class note-taking. In general, if the professor is lecturing you should be prepared to jot down the main ideas. The trick is to remain present in class. Namely, learn once by actively engaging with the material rather than trying to teach yourself later from verbatim notes. In terms of paper or digital notes, I vastly prefer digital notes. But between typed and handwritten notes, handwriting is better for actually learning and retaining information. This may sound like a contradictory answer, but my solution is writing on an iPad. You can read about the technology I use in college here. I also have a few posts on how I organize in college that can be found here. 

Actively participating in class means contributing to class discussions and asking questions when you are confusing. Seriously, do not be afraid to ask questions. This is key for your own learning and will likely benefit your peers as well. It is only if you wait too long to express your confusion that your question may end up being “stupid.” 

In terms of homework, the good news with college is that it is fairly predictable. First of all, key dates for exams and/or papers are outlined in the syllabus. Furthermore, courses often have a repeating structure for assignments. For instance, for my physics class, we had to read and virtually discuss the textbook by class time on Wednesdays and Fridays, we had a problem set due every Sunday, revisions due the following Wednesday, and a weekly quiz on Thursday. This predictable schedule allows you to better schedule when you will work on different assignments. Task management along with a study schedule help to keep you from getting too overwhelmed with all of your assignments. You can click here to read about a few task management systems I have used. 

[shock777archive]

A little Excerpt from a BBRAE Roleplay between my friend and I:

A little context: It’s two years after the end of season 5. Raven is 18, nearly 19 and Beast boy is 18. Raven has fallen in love with Beast boy after he nearly died protecting her from a cult of Trigon seeking revenge. Literally a week after theyve recovered from their wounds, Raven has been losing control of her powers and has been sinking into depression and even losing control of her demonic powers. Robin told everyone to leave raven alone to collect herself, but beast boy had to talk with her...and so he decided to write her a letter. 

The excerpt is below the cut! :D I just wanted to share this cause it’s super in character and fucking cute ;A; I really wanna draw this and make it a full on fic, as it does fit nicely with my headcanons... Also, forgive us for any spelling errors. this is via the LINE app on cell lmao 

The parts written by me are indicated, and my rp partner is the marvelous @angel-dust-ryuuki

Me: Beast boy stuck his head out of his room...looked to the left, looked to the right. No one in sight. It was nearing bed time and everyone was in their respective rooms. He heard muffled robin and starfire chatting, but could not make out anything they were saying. Raven's room was still cold, and almost gave off an unholy aura. It was dead silent. He wondered if Raven had gone to sleep finally? In any case, Beast boy carried out his little "plan." "If robin wont let me speak to you in person..." He thought to himself, kneeling down to her door. "I'll just have to write instead!" Beast boy slipped underneath raven's door, that single piece of crinkled up paper. Raven noticed it right away. She could always feel when someone was near...And she saw the little paper quietly slip under her door. Beast boy trotted back to his room, took one last look down the hallway at her door, and then closed his door behind him. Plopping back down on his queen sized bed, he began to game some.

Raven didn't know what to expect. But judging from the crinkly-ness of the paper and the horrendous writing, it had to be beast boy. Beast boy...her heart fluttered. Raven opened up the crude letter to look at a small little paragraph or two. She had to squint her eyes to read it.

"Raven- It's me, beast boy. I heard you weren't feeling well with everything that's going on. I just want you to know that it's okay to feel the way you do. Sometimes we have good days and sometimes we have bad days. And I know you're gonna say 'I'm not allowed to have bad days', but...I just want you to know we all hope you feel better soon! I hope I didn't do anything to hurt you or make you upset. Let me know if i did! You can punish me in any way you want! ...well, just don't take away my videogames! (he drew a random smiley face here).

If you're having trouble sleeping, maybe come hang out with me for a little while. I know it's a stretch, but I know robin and starfire do their...Adult things at night and cy usually has to charge his battery by late night...I'm usually up though! You're free to come visit. I won't tell anyone don't worry! The offer's always there and my door is unlocked at night if you need anything. You don't even have to knock! (insert another smiley face here.)

I hope you feel better soon, rae.

-From: (there were a few words here that were scratched out and illegible, followed by a slightly more bold signature: ) Changling. "

Angel: Raven blushed at the letter and held it close. She couldn't help but feel the warmth of his words in this cold room. Deciding to play along.

Beastboy was on his bed when a crow appeared. Dropping a neatly folded and stamped letter on his chest before it disappeared like smoke.

"Dear Changling, Nice name by the way. It's rather fitting. Do you plan to make it your new hero name?I appreciate the concern for what appears to be a more then unwelcome bad day. I know you want to tell me it's okay to feel the way I do. But feelings are not something I can have. You know how unstable my powers are. You didn't hurt me or make me upset. Nothing that has happened is your fault. The fault only lies with me. So please do not blame yourself for any of this. I will take your offer under consideration.-Raven

Me: Beast boy smiled and then looked around his room for more paper. Of course he was cleaner the more mature he had gotten, no longer being able to tolerate the smell. Most of his mess remained inside his closet though. Finally finding another paper he began his response.

A few moments later another paper slipped under her door.

"yeah, changling sounds pretty neat huh? I'll have to admit even I'm surprised I came up with that! (emoji here).  Maybe I can ask robin if my personal file can be updated.

Look, I know you're not too keen on spending an evening late at night with some weird green dude but I SWEAR. I won't make you play video games or even make you talk.  U could just come and read one of Ur books and I can do my own thing... I know how being alone can make u feel depressed."

Raven paused for a moment. She felt a chill go down her spine. Her room was so cold.. No doubt thanks to her powers reflecting her mood a little.

" the offer is always here. Even if I'm asleep or something u can wake me up! I don't care! I just want you to feel better raven."

Raven blushed deeply and sighed continuing to read the last bit.

"I'm glad I didn't mess up anything... I seriously been feeling like u were mad at me about something. But thanks raven. I won't worry anymore."

Angel: "Dear Changling,I'm sure Robin will have no problem with that. I've heard from Starfire he too is planning to soon change his Hero name to Nightwing. "Pausing on how to continue this.  But feeling...lonely? Sighing. "I know your intentions are good. But my powers are unstable right now and I'm not even sure what might happen. I would prefer not to put you in any danger as much as possible."The last part she sighed a bit. "But...I do appreciate the letters. I wasn't even sure you knew how to write.-Raven"Bahaha of course she chide at him a little. XD Well he's never written a letter for her before. Heck he didn't even write one for Terra.

Me: Beast boy scowled at her sarcastic remark. He got out yet another piece of paper -(turns out he found an old empty sketchbook he was gifted but never used).

--- Another letter under her door. Beast boy was getting out of breath at this point XD

"Night wing?!? Okay well at least my name is cooler...."

Raven giggled and then immediately blushed when she realized she was laughing... At one of beast boys jokes?!? Hell had truly frozen over... Raven hadn't noticed it yet, but as she was writing these little letters back and forth, her emotions were stabilized... And her furniture no longer was floating. Hell, even her room began to warm just a tad...

"I think ur just using Ur powers as an excuse not to hang out with me! And yes, I know what happened earlier. Rob-(scratched out) night wing told me earlier. Look, I get that u have to control Ur emotions and stuff. But u were fine before all this trigon stuff happened. Maybe u could use a distraction or two? (winky face smile emoji here)

I do know how to write but I know how to text even better. U can message me via communicator u know.......

U do know how to make a private chat with that thing don't u? "

Raven looked at her communicator which lit up right as she finished reading his message.

In all green text in a private message it read: Sup?

Angel: She texted back then:

I'm aware. Starfire and I private message from time to time. How exactly would you plan on distracting me?

Sending the massage to him then. Putting the ball back in his court. She blushed.

Me: It showed he was typing... Then it showed he wasn't... Then it showed he was. Raven watched in baited breath almost awaiting a response. Why was her heart so giddy all of a sudden? She was technically still a teen at age 18, though the giddiness of young love had not yet crawled its way into her heart.... Til now.Finally his message popped up."okay well I just found out about the private message thing tbh...." he wrote. No wonder he always replied or sent mass texts in group chat...." well I know u like to read. Why not give one of my comic books a try? Or maybe u wanna watch a scary movie?" Raven saw that he was texting her again. Another message popped up."Okay bad idea. Emotions. Bad. Got it."

Angel: She almost rolled her eyes at his text messages. They were kind of amusing. 'You're pretty insistent on me coming into your bedroom " she texted back. Bet he would read that and we'll get embaressed. XD

Me: there was a long pause on her communicator. Then It showed he was typing, followed by a long pause of not typing. Was he embarrassed? Did it go over his head? Raven was tapping her foot nervously on her bed, awaiting a response. Still hadn't noticed the stability in her soul or room...she was that engrossed in this conversation. (Just like any earth teen, amirite?) Finally, then came a response: "I just want you to feel better, Rae." Is all he wrote in that long time. Raven's face instantly turned pink. She had to put her communicator down and cover her eyes for a moment. Meanwhile, Beast boy was in his room worrying sick that she thought he was up to no good. The last thing he wanted to come off as was some kind of creep like that asshole Adonis. But maybe Raven didn't know that about him?! He just wanted her to know he was a gentleman..He was purely doing this to help out a friend and nothing more.

[lani-machinists]

The White of the Eye

  If you are reading this you have to know that I'm not crazy. I know what I saw. None of this makes any sense. Let me give context to what happened. 2 weeks ago on a Saturday, I woke up a usual then went downstairs and brewed a cup of coffee. I spent several hours on eBay seeing if the items I put up were bought. An alarm went off on my phone so I went over to the pantry and pull out some generic dog food. "Tam come get a girl" I said as a little bull terrier strutted towards the bowl and started eating in. I bent down and started petting her admiring her. I got up and went back upstairs to get ready to meet a friend.

  I came back down after getting ready and at the bottom of the stairs Tam was standing there acting weird. She just stared at me with an expression that I didn't think a dog could make. Something else was also a little off. Usually with dogs you can't see the white of their eyes as easy. They would have to look in some direction with their head staying in place for you to see anything. However with Tam I could see the whites of her eyes like she had human eyes. The intensity with which she looked at me gave me a shiver down my spine. "Hey Tam, whatchu need girl". She stands there a bit longer before turning her head and moving out of view. 

   Confused but, too caught up in my own head I ignore it and walk out the door. Once I arrive to the cafe. I met up with Chelsea, "So it's been a while what are you up to now a days" she said sipping lemonade. 

  "It's been kind of the same since the last time we spoke, still between job" I say turning my head looking towards the window. I look out for a moment kind of letting my mind wander. "Hey Kim, you alright"? Chelsea ask waving her hand in front of my face. "Oh nothing just wondering when things will finally workout in my favor". 

"Don't worry everything comes in its own time" Chelsea smiles and it almost made me believe her. "Yeah well now would be as good of a time as ever" I said giving a cynical laugh. 

"Hey Kim why are you scratching yourself so much". Chelsea looks quite concerned. I was unaware but I was scratching my head variously once I noticed it, the feeling hit. The itch was so unbearable. I felt like tearing through my skin. I kept scratching and then I felt something wet. I look at my finger and see drops of red on it.  "Oh my… Kim are alright" Chelsea had a horrified expression. 

"Yeah I just have a real bad itch" I said grabbing my hand with my other one, clinching it tight trying to ignore the urge to continue scratching. For a second we just sat there. "Kim, you're still...bleeding". Chelsea pointed to my face

"Oh well it probably best that I go". I say awkward and exit before Chelsea had time to say anything. I left to my car and drove home. After I look at myself in the mirror, everything seems fine. I treated my wound and decided to rest a bit. I poured myself a drink and sat on the couch watching Netflix. As it got dark I got ready to go to sleep and I saw Tam at the end of the room starving right at me, then turned around and walked away. Too tired to really pay attention I went upstairs and got to sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night coming to answer nature's call. As I drowsily walked to the bathroom I smelled an odor so strong I almost vomited on the spot. I ran into the toilet and released my dinner. Washing my face and still tired I looked at myself in the mirror thinking how this has been the weirdest and worst day I had.  While I looked at the mirror I could see in the reflection Tam is figure at the opening. "Tam what are you doing?" I said with hints of uneasiness in my voice. She scamper away and I followed after wondering if she was okay since she isn't up at this hour. I walk after and notice she moves faster then she usually does. It starts to feel like I'm chasing her and for a second I swore I saw her stand on two legs but not how most dogs do it, her bone structure was off. I rubbed my eyes and she was back on all fours. "Tam" I said still partially asleep and cautious. She still had her back to me. I went to go pick her up and I examine her. Everything looked normal and she licked my face. I put her back down and went back to bed.

 The next morning I woke up feeling terrible I woke up feeling terrible and paranoia. I was focused on last night. I got and went downstairs to see Tam, she was there just sleeping peacefully. Over the next coming days I watched and wrote down everything. However the more I noted the mirror seem like I was the weird one. Outside of that one night and tams occasion sitting stating out of the window she was pretty normal. I started to feel bad thinking there was something going on besides my own neurosis. One of those days as I was getting ready to watch her when I got a notify on my phone about a job interview. I started freaking out, I was so caught up by all this crap that I forgot it was today. I rushed to get ready and heading out the door. I was able to make it in time and calm myself down.

 

 I walk through the door and went into the interview room. "Good morning" and older man said with a strained face and nicely fitted suit. "I'm doing fine today and you" I responded.

 

 "Well enough" he said trying to be personable. He flips through papers, pushing his glasses up. "So looking at your resume it is quite impressive, however there is a gap for about 6 month, can you tell me what happen".

"Well the reason for that…" I stopped and started to rub my eyes for a second. 

"Ms. Kimberly is everything alright"

" Yes sir just had something in my eye". I said even though nothing was, my vision went blurry and when it refocused everything was odd. The normal colors that I could see change. I could only see grays, blues and yellows. I have no history of color blindness in my family and I have never heard of it happening onset. I tried to regain my focus to answer his question. Then before I could form another word a pungent odor hit me like a brick. It was so horrid that a second later I rises up and ran to the nearest toilet and vomited. After losing my lunch for a few seconds and being full of embracement I decide to leave . I got home and still feeling sick, I went to bed crying myself to sleep. 

  I woke up the next morning. My eyes still haven't returned to normal. I got up and went over to my phone and saw an email. It was the interviewer, he felt bad that I got "sick and couldn't finish the interview and to see if I would like to reschedule". I also saw a text from Chelsea asking if I was okay. She sent several messages that I hadn't responded to. I felt bad for not responding but I didn't know how to bring it up with her. I looked at the phone for a bit contemplating what I would say to her. That is when I hear a ring of the doorbell. I went downstairs and saw Chelsea at the window waving. I open the door. "Hey Chelsea what are you doing". 

"I came to check on you". She said embracing me. "I was worried because you hadn't responded to any of my texts". 

"I'm sorry I have been going through a lot, I didn't know how  to tell you" I hugged back tight burying my face in her shoulder fighting back tears. We held each other for a solid minute. She smelled so nice. We both sat at my table and I told her what happened yesterday. "Our you coming down with something".

"Well this is one hell of a flu I have" I say with a sarcastic laugh. "Why don't you go to the doctor and to check out what is going on". 

  "I don't know, I don't feel sick, how do I even explain it"

 "You can't just let it pass, you don't know what else can happen" 

  "I guess you're right"

   "Hey… what going with your face$ she said after a long break in convo. "I don't know what you mean."

  "Hold don't move" she said moving closer to me reaching her hand towards my face. Like an instinct it happened before I even realized I had done it. As her hand reach my face I open my mouth bit down hard. So hard that it drew blood "what the hell" she screamed in pain. Once u came I immediately let go. "Chelsea I'm sor.." Chelsea got up before I was able to finish my apology and ran to the door before she left she turn around to say "you need help" and left.

  I sat there for a while dejected and not moving a muscle, I didn't get up until it got dark. I sighed and got to go out food in Tam's bowl "Tam come get it". However she didn't come "Come on Tam stop playing around" still she didn't come around. I sighed knowing that this wasn't going to end up well for me. I checked the place that see is usually at. After a few minutes if searching and coming up with knowing, I decide to go to a place I recently started to find her at.

  I go to the section of the room where the window allows moonlight. There she was sitting looking out the window. I hesitate feeling an uneasiness in my gut. "T..Tam"?  She turned her head, eyes as piercing and human-like as ever. She wasn't looking through me nor at me. It seemed more like she was contemplating something. "K-Kimberly your time  i-is u-up,". she almost looking like it cause her pain to open her mouth in that way. I stood there frozen in fear, head spinning trying to process what was going on. "Come here" as she said she got up a d contorted body until it stood unnaturally upright. I immediately ran upstairs to my room. Locking the door. I cried on my bed until I pass out. I woke up jolting myself out of bed. My face crusty I come to remembering what happened last night. It was at that moment my doorbell rang and I rushed to out decent clothes on, I looked at the window and I saw Robert my neighbor across the street this perplexed me because rarely talked. I open the door "Hey Robert what do I owe this visit to"

  "Hey neighbor I had been trying to reach you for a few weeks now" Robert said with a smile. I looked at him eyes rolled, remembering the emails I had deleted without even reading. "Well right now isn't a good time.."

"Hold on now I want to say this extremely important to the well being of the neighbor". Robert insisted I reluctantly let him in knowing I probably he wasn't going to take no for an answer. "You want some coffee" I ask going to the pantry. 

"Yes ma'am"

"So Robert what is this about". I say opening the cabinet doors. However there was no response. "Robert"? I turned around and he wasn't there. I heard talking coming from the other room. I walked cautiously towards the room hiding behind the wall to listen closely. " Look here I have a nice place for her, she'll be treated really well". It sound like it was coming from Robert. I suddenly peaked my head around the corner and saw Robert and Tam heads turned looking directly at me. For a moment it was quiet. I made a mad dash for the kitchen. Robert ran after mem I made it to the drawer and pulled out a kitchen knife. I swung it at Robert with all my might . I was taken by surprise at nimble and fast his was. He dodged my attack and knocked the knife out of my hand. I tried to run at that point. I was too slow. He got me and pinned me down. The last thing I remember is his first coming down on my face. 

  Now I'm writing from this cell. However things are a little weird it is incredibly small, barely enough space to move. When I'm feed it on a dish instead of plate. Lastly when I get a water dish and I look into the reflection noticing something odd. I can't see the whites of my eyes.

[ladywinchester1967]

A Wedding for Christmas

All I Want for Christmas is You: Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Josie (OFC)

Warnings: fluff, wedding feels, SMUT, dirty talk, oral (female receiving)

A/N: This is part of my collaboration with @ravenangel33 for our Christmas Fics! For context, read her fic Dean’s Christmas List, then my fic All I Want for Christmas Is You so you’ll be all caught up 😍 hope you guys enjoy!! Beta’d by @ravenangel33 but any mistakes are still mine. All pics are not!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I had everything as far as I was concerned. A year ago, the man I loved, Dean Winchester, asked me to be his wife, what else could a girl want?

But then came the wedding planning, which I’d always heard was the most stressful part of getting married. With help from my Mom, sister, Becca, and Dean’s mom, Mary, wedding planning had been frighteningly easy. We’d found a cute little chapel in Lebanon that looked like something out of a fairy tale. Dean had also reminded me that there was a gorgeous bed and breakfast not far from the chapel that we’d helped get rid of a ghost in. When we contacted them and let them know what we were planning, they were so grateful about us getting rid of the ghost, they offered up the place to hold the reception along with their honeymoon suite as a special thank you to us.

Selecting a dress had by far been the most stressful thing in my mind. I knew what I wanted but was worried if Dean would like it or not. When I told him this, he had laughed.

“Sweetheart, you could wear a potato sack and I’d still think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the room.” Bearing that in mind, I picked a dress I loved, knowing he would love it too.

When the day before our wedding finally came, the chapel and the bed and breakfast took care of the decorations. They had done a beautiful job on their own, but the only thing I really wanted was a candlelight ceremony, which the chapel was more than happy to accommodate. We did the rehearsal, which went off without a hitch. When it came time for us to part for the evening, Dean was reluctant to let me go.

“It’s just a silly tradition,” He insisted “why should I have to spend a night away from you?”

“It’s bad luck to see me right before the wedding,” I told him “we’re gonna need all the good luck we can get.”

It had been harder on Dean than he’d anticipated to leave his old life behind. He was still an indispensable source of information, but for the last year, he had slowly moved away from the field and spent more time in the bunker with me while I planned the wedding and found us a house to live in. He’d ceaselessly worried about Sam, who’d insisted he would be fine without Dean. Thus far, that had proved to be true. We’d slowly moved our things out of the bunker and into the home we would be renting, gradually spending more time at home than in the bunker. Only a week prior had the last of our stuff been packed up and moved in.

He sighed and said “If you insist.”

“I do insist,” I told him “and remember what Bobby told you?”

He nodded with a grin “Happy wife, happy life.”

“See?” I teased “Not so bad.”

He rolled his eyes and kissed me sweetly. When he pulled back, he held my face in his hands.

“The next time I see you, we’re going to be getting married.” He told me, my cheeks flushing.

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?” I asked “I know this is a lot of change for you.”

He nodded and smiled before kissing my forehead.

“Sweetheart, there’s no one I’d rather go through all this change with than you. You’ve been there every step of the way, which I love you for, but it’s time to put my past behind me.”

I smiled at him and then kissed him again.

“See you tomorrow,” I told him “I’ll be the one dressed like Big Bird.”

He laughed

“Now I KNOW you’re fucking with me,” he said “you don’t wear yellow.”

He had tried to guess what my dress looked like and so far, he hadn’t been able to. I’d thrown him way off the trail by telling him it was an obnoxious color or that it had feathers on it.

“Oh, before I forget,” I told him and then reached into my bag and handed him a small, wrapped box “I got this for you.”

“Sweetheart, you didn’t have to get me anything.” He said “You agreed to marry me, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Don’t open it until tomorrow.” I told him “It’s something to calm your nerves for tomorrow.”

“I didn’t know whiskey packed up so nicely.” He joked.

When I woke up the next morning, my Mom, Becca, and Mary were all there to help me get ready. Becca took care of everyone’s hair while her son, Mason, played with my Mom.

“Any last minute advice before I put on the dress?” I asked my Mom and Mary. Mary kindly smiled and said

“Be kind to one another, the world is harsh enough as it is.”

My Mom thought for a minute and then said

“That whole “don’t go to bed angry” thing is bullshit.”

“MOM!” I exclaimed

“What?!” My Mom asked “Sometimes you need to sleep on something and come back to it the next day with a clear head is all I’m saying!”

I shook my head and unzipped the bag where my dress had been. The ladies helped me get into the gown that fit me like a glove. The lace sleeves stopped just at my forearms, lace and sparkly beading splashed across it with a short, pretty train. I looked in the full length mirror and couldn’t believe the girl looking back at me. Becca had done my hair in a simple chignon with a few locks curled and framing my face. Mom helped clip my veil into place as Mary helped me slip on the heels I was going to wear.

“Wow,” I said, looking at everything put together “I just, wow.”

When it was finally time for the ceremony, I tightly clutched the bouquet of amaryllis and white lilies as I waited for my turn to enter the chapel. I closed my eyes and hoped that the gift I’d given Dean would be enough to help him calm down as my memory flashed to when he’d given it to me.

“Okay, I got you something special this year for your birthday.” He said as he handed me a square box. I eagerly tore open the paper and inside the box was a set of keys with a small pendant that had the word “Baby” etched into it.

“You don’t call me baby,” I told him as I looked at the keys “only your car gets called-OH MY GOD.” I realized what they were, my own set of keys to his Impala. I nearly burst into tears as he said

“You have your own set now,” with a smile “you can drive her whenever you want.”

I had no words; that was the most powerful symbol of his feelings for me until he proposed. I looked down at the small heart pendant around my neck, I’d had it cut from the keychain. My mind flashed to when I wrote Dean the note I’d enclosed in the box.

Dean,

I know you’re probably nervous about today, so am I. Enclosed, you’ll find the keychain that you gave me with my set of Baby’s keys. You’ll probably notice there’s a small, heart shaped piece missing. I’ll be wearing it as a pendant for today and always, as a reminder that I’ll always have a little piece of your heart with me and you, too, will always have a little piece of my heart with you.

I hope this sets your mind at ease, at least a little, and I sent Sam with a flask of whiskey in case it didn’t. I love you and I’ll see you VERY soon!

Love,

Your Wife

When the music started, I took a deep breath and waited until the doors swung open to exhale.

The chapel was lit with dozens of candles and Christmas lights that brought out the rich reds and greens in the poinsettias and the garland that decorated the altar and the pews. At the very front, there he was, looking like he strolled right out of a men’s magazine. The crisp, dark suit he wore fit him perfectly and he’d left just a little scruff on his face, just the way I liked. His green eyes sparkled and he looked like he was having a hard time breathing as I got closer. Then, the last person I ever expected to see, Chuck, appeared. I went wide eyed as he smiled at both Dean and I. I handed my flowers to Becca and took both of Dean’s hands in mine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chuck said “thank you all for being here today as we witness the union of Josie Meyers and Dean Winchester. They have both elected to write their own vows, so with that being said, ladies first.”

Becca handed me the paper I’d written my vows on as I smiled up at him.

“Dean, from the moment we met, I knew there was something different about you, what, I couldn’t be sure. All I did know was that I had to get to know you better. Through your simple, caring gestures, kind and affectionate words, even your very presence has put my soul at ease. You are everything I hoped my Prince Charming would be plus many more things. You’re my hero, my rock, my protector and my best friend. I promise that I will always love you, comfort and keep you in sickness and in health until death do us part.”

Dean looked like he was about to cry but held back his tears as he pulled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and began to talk.

“Josie, you showed me a life I never thought I could have.” he started.

Suddenly, he looked like he made a decision, folded up the paper and stuck it back in his pocket.

“You can read those later,” he said, his eyes laser focused on me as he held tightly to my hands “I’ll be anything you need, I promise. I’ll be there to hold you. I’ll remind you how beautiful you are every single day of our lives. I’ll protect you Josie, from anything that would harm you. And you will be happy, whatever I have to do, I will make you happy. You are my love.”

I watched as a single tear slid down his cheek and I gently wiped it away.

“I’ll take away all your tears Dean,” I’ll told him quietly so that only he could hear “I’ll take them all away.”

Becca and Sam then handed mine and Dean’s wedding bands to Chuck, who took them in his hands and closed his eyes. Imperceptible to anyone besides me it seemed, Chuck’s clasped hands seemed to glow as he held our rings, muttering something under his breath.

It suddenly felt like the world went silent. I looked around and saw everyone frozen in place except for Dean, Chuck and I.

“I know I’m kind of a last minute party crasher,” Chuck said “but I wanted to be here for this.”

“No, you’re fine.” Dean insisted and I nodded in agreement “But I have to ask, what was with the light show?”

“You saw that too?” I asked Dean, who nodded.

“I blessed the rings,” Chuck said “they’re protection for the two of you. No monsters will ever bother you or your children.”

We looked at each other and then at him.

“Why now?” Dean asked

Chuck’s eyes went soft and he smiled at both of us.

“Because you have earned it. Beyond earned it, now it’s time for you two to take it easy and live the life you want.” Chuck told us.

Dean and I stared at him and then at each other as a slow smile crossed Dean’s face.

“Okay.” Dean said with a nod “If she’s on board then so am I.”

They both looked at me, the gravity of the situation hitting me. No monsters would ever come after our family. We’d never have to worry about our children finding a ghoul under their bed or being attacked by a werewolf. My eyes pricked with tears and I nodded.

“Yes,” I said “absolutely.”

He then handed my ring to Dean, as time restarted, and said

“Dean, place the ring on Josie’s finger and repeat after me.”

Dean waited and then said

“Josie, take thing ring as a token of my love. I marry you with this ring, all that I am and all that I have.” He pushed the ring all the way down to the base of my finger as tears spilled out of my eyes. I felt a warmth radiate from the ring as I quickly dabbed my tears away and took Dean’s ring from Chuck.

“Dean, take this ring as a token of my love. I marry you with this ring, all that I am and all that I have.”

With our rings exchanged, Chuck smiled at the both of us.

“With the power vested in me,” he said “I bless this marriage and now pronounce that Josie and Dean are husband and wife. Dean, you may kiss your bride.”

Dean pulled me close and kissed me hard as our friends and family clapped and cheered.

We rode in Baby over to the bed and breakfast holding hands. When we stopped at a red light he kissed the back of my hand and said

“You look so beautiful, I’m one lucky, lucky son of a bitch.”

I smiled and said

“Oh, just you wait until I get you alone, then you’ll see how lucky you are.”

His eyes lit up mischievously.

“What do you have under that dress for me?” He purred against my hand.

“You’re gonna have to wait until tonight there handsome.” I told him.

“Come on sweetheart,” he pleaded “just a little peek?”

The light turned green and I nodded to the light.

“Get us to the B&B safely and you’ll get a peek.” I told him.

Once we arrived, true to my word, I pulled my dress up just enough to show him that I was wearing a garter belt.

“Fuck,” he breathed and licked his lip “I don’t know if we’ll make it through the reception now.”

“Oh, we’ll make it,” I told him “I’ll even make it worth your while if we do.”

His eyebrows shot up, looking intrigued.

“Whatever you say.” he said and kissed me. When he pulled back, he smiled and said “Mrs. Winchester.”

“I'm never going to get tired of you saying that.” I told him and went to reach for my door handle.

“Wait,” he said and I turned back to him “I have something to show you.”

He took the keys out of the ignition and held them up. There, in the winter sunlight, I could see the keychain I'd given him. He gently picked up the pendant around my neck and smiled, seeing how well the two fit together.

“This was perfect, by the way.” he said “And it did put my mind at ease.”

“Good,” I told him “I'm glad.” I held his fingertips in my hands and kissed his knuckles. “I carry your heart with me, I carry it in my heart.”

Once we got inside and the owners of the B&B stuffed us and our guests full of Beef Wellington, mashed potatoes, green beans and an assortment of beer and wine, it was time to cut the red velvet cake.

“Be nice.” I warned Dean as we took our places by the cake.

“Or what?” He asked in my ear.

“Or you won’t get the surprise I have planned for you tonight, Mr. Winchester.” I cooed in his ear. I watched his eyes pop with shock and he suddenly nodded.

“Okay,” He said “I’ll be nice if you will.”

I nodded and once the cake was cut, I only smudged a little bit of cream cheese icing on to his nose as he did the same to me.

After the reception was over, the owners escorted us to the honeymoon suite.

“Enjoy your evening Mr and Mrs Winchester.” The husband said and opened the door. I was about to walk in when Dean scooped me up into his arms and I laughed as he carried me over the threshold, kicking the door shut with his foot.

“I can’t believe you just did that!” I exclaimed.

“Hey,” He said as he set me down “you’re the one that made us sleep apart last night for fear of bad luck, and it’s bad luck if you don’t carry the bride over the threshold.”

I looked around the room, it had been decorated with rose petals all over the floor and a fire that was lit in the fireplace. I turned and set my eyes on my new husband who was looking around the room.

“Dean, what’re you doing?” I asked

“Just checking something,” he said “that’s all.”

“We don’t have to check for monsters anymore remember?” I asked him.

He gave me a smile and said

“Not what I was looking for, but thank you for the reminder.” He said as he took his phone out of his pocket and hooked it up to a speaker on the mantel. I heard the notes of a piano start as he strode over to me and took my hand.

“What’re you doing?” I asked as he spun me in a circle.

“Dancing with my wife.” He said, as if we did this all the time.

When the rain is blowing in your face

And the whole world is on your case

I could offer you a warm embrace

To make you feel my love

I smiled up at him as he held me closely, I laid my head against his chest, both of my hands in his as we swayed to the music.

When the evening shadows and the stars appear

And there is no one there to dry your tears

Oh, I hold you for a million years

To make you feel my love

“Dean?” I asked

“Hm?” He answered

“Remember when you asked me what I wanted for Christmas? Right before you proposed?” I asked him.

“I do.” He said and pulled back to look at me “Why?”

“This is all I’ve ever wanted,” I told him “both of us safe, happy and together.”

I know you haven't made your mind up yet

But I will never do you wrong

I've known it from the moment that we met

No doubt in my mind where you belong

His face seemed to glow as he smiled and gently kissed me.

“Me too sweetheart,” he said “me too.”

I'd go hungry; I'd go black and blue

And I'd go crawling down the avenue

No, there's nothing that I wouldn't do

To make you feel my love

I laid my head back on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as he held me again. I closed my eyes, my other ear tuned to the music and the gentle crackling of the fire.

The storms are raging on the rolling sea

And on the highway of regret

The winds of change are blowing wild and free

You ain't seen nothing like me yet

The day I never thought I’d see was finally here. I wanted nothing but him for the rest of my life, everything about today felt like a dream. Some unattainable fantasy that occupied the back corner of my mind, but here it was, right here in front of me. I sighed, content, and finally feeling at peace.

I could make you happy, make your dreams come true

There's nothing that I wouldn't do

Go to the ends of this Earth for you

To make you feel my love, oh yes

To make you feel my love

He ducked his head down and asked

“Was that okay?”

“Better than okay,” I told him and but my lip mischievously “now, I just want you out of this,” I said and tugged on his waistcoat, my mouth close to his, “even though you look drop dead sexy in it.”

“Mh, that right?” He asked and closed the gap between us by kissing me. He quickly shed his jacket and I tugged his tie off, flinging it to the side. His hands were immediately all over my back as he searched for a way to get the dress off of me. I had to admit, the feeling of his hands all over my lace covered back was delicious.

“Small button at the top,” I told him “the rest is a zipper.” With surprising quickness, he quickly undid the button and the zipper, causing the dress to practically fall off of me. He quickly caught it at my chest and peeled the sleeves down and off my arms. Under the dress was a champagne colored lingerie set that made him groan when he saw it.

“Fuck me,” he said lowly as I stepped out of the dress toward him “I AM a lucky son of a bitch.”

“And I’m all yours.” I told him as I stood on my tip toes and wrapped my arms around his neck.

“All mine.” He said, placing his hands on my hips and heatedly kissed me. He held me tightly against him, his hardened length up against my lower belly. He reached down and picked me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carried me over to the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress with me straddling him as our kisses grew more and more impatient. I ran my fingers through his thick hair as he laid a firm smack on my ass.

“AH!” I cried as he started to attack my neck with kisses, his facial hair scratching my upper chest as I started to grind on him. “Dean, Dean!” I begged as his hands roamed up my back and unhooked my bra, damn near throwing it to the ground. He tilted my body back and sucked my left nipple in between his lips as his thumb teased my right nipple, they pebbled and hardened under his touch as I cried out loudly for him. The hand that was teasing my nipple slid around to my back to hold the nape of my neck. He kissed from my left nipple to the right one and sucked on it as well, making another cry rip from my throat.

The hand that was on the back of my neck quickly pulled me up right so that I was looking at him as he quickly undid the chignon my hair was in,

it fell in waves down my back, just the way he liked. He gave me a smile that would melt even the most frozen of hearts.

“There’s my girl.” he purred against my mouth as I quickly unbuttoned his shirt and practically ripped it and his undershirt off to get to his bare skin. His tanned and freckled shoulders and chest never failed to make me weak in the knees as I kissed all over his collarbone and neck. He hummed in delight as I kissed up his neck and to his ear where I gave him a playful bite. His fingers dug into my hips and he flipped me on to my back. I slid up the bed to the pillows as he discarded his socks, shoes and pants while I unbuckled the fasteners that held my stockings in place. He watched as I started to take the stockings off.

“Nuh uh,” he said as he crawled up the bed and up between my legs “let me.”

I nodded as he rolled the material down my leg, leaving kisses where the stockings had once been. I ached for him as he did the same thing to the other leg and my back arched. I unhooked the garter belt and he threw it to the side, both of us were left in nothing but our underwear. He crawled on top of me and kissed me, he pulled back as his lips worked their way down my body, gently kissing and touching every inch he could get to. I whined and writhed under him as he reached the apex of my thighs, the thin cotton material between my legs was now totally ruined thanks to him. He kissed me from clit to hole through the soaking material. It felt forbidden somehow, like we shouldn’t be doing this, but it also felt so, so right.

“Oh fuck, Dean!” I moaned as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of my panties and worked them down and off of me. I watched as he flattened that sinful tongue of his and he licked a broad stripe up my core, making me throw my head back. I grabbed the pillow with one hand and his hair with the other as he sucked my clit between his lips, just like he’d done to my nipples. I twisted below him but his hands, which where now holding both of my breasts, anchored me to the bed. He rolled my nipples in his fingers as he licked through my soaking folds. I tightened my grip on his hair and whined out for him, god and incoherently as I felt the passionate flames he’d awakened in me take over me. I saw spots as his tongue worked its way inside me and my hips moved on their own.

“Fuck, I want you,” I moaned “god I want you so bad!”

He hummed in appreciation as my hips kept rolling, I rode his tongue until I had to snap my own hand over my mouth to keep from screaming down the house. My mind seemingly went blank as I came, my vision whiting out for a second as the high ripped through my body with a force like I’d never felt before. My legs fell open as he kissed back up my body and to my lips where I was laying there, shuttering.

“You enjoy that sweetheart?” He cooed in my ear as he gave it a playful bite. I could barely nod, my body felt boneless as he kissed me, working his way out of his boxers. Once he was freed, he lined himself up with my entrance.

“Gently,” I breathed “nice and slow.”

“I got you sweetheart.” he promised as his fingers slid through mine, pinning them by my head, his arms caging me in as he started to push his way inside me. He took his time and I could feel seemingly everything. Every ridge, every vein, ALL of him that was all for me. I caught his mouth with mine, kissing him as he sheathed himself all the way inside me. I squeezed his fingers in mine as I started to regain my senses. I placed my feet on the bed and moved my hips with his. He moaned in my mouth and kissed me harder.

“I love you,” he moaned between kisses “fuck, I love you.”

“I love you too,” I told him and opened my eyes, our gazes meeting “so, so much.”

His forehead touched mine, our eyes still on each other as he scooped me up and into his lap. I opened my legs wide to accommodate him, my feet still planted on the bed as I put one hand on the nape of his neck and the other on his shoulder. I kissed and sucked on his collar bone, leaving a trail of love bites and hickies in my wake. His blunt nails dug into my back as he cried out loudly.

“Josie,” he moaned in my ear “fuck sweetheart!”

“You getting close for me handsome?” I cooed as I bit his earlobe and he cried out.

“God,” he cried “oh fuck!”

“Come on handsome,” I said as I kissed him “come inside me Dean.”

“That what you want sweetheart?” He asked, breathing hard “you want me deep in you huh?”

“Yes,” I moaned “yes, please!”

He slipped his hand between our bodies and pressed his fingers into my swollen clit.

“Come with me,” he cried “come with me sweetheart.”

I couldn’t hold out, I fell over the edge, screaming into Dean’s chest as I heard him grunt and slam one last time into me as he came. We sat like that for a few seconds before we fell on to the bed together, totally spent.

Without realizing it, I dozed off and felt Dean gently shake me.

“Wake up sweetness,” he said, his bright green eyes looking at me “you gotta get ready for bed.”

I moaned and sat up as he handed me a robe from the bathroom.

“How long was I out?” I asked as I tied the sash around my waist.

“Not long,” He said “I wanted you to rest a little bit, I know today was a lot for both of us.”

I nodded and got up, walking over to where he was standing and hugging him.

“My new husband.” I said with a yawn and kissed his chest.

“My new wife.” He said fondly and kissed the crown of my head.

Once I’d washed my makeup off, brushed my teeth, I dug through my bag and found my honeymoon pajamas. I normally slept in an oversized shirt and panties, but I figured I could swap that for something a little sexier to surprise Dean. The black silk tank top had white lace on the chest and shorts that matched. The fabric felt nice against my skin and I smirked, wondering what Dean would say. When I walked out of the bathroom he was laying in bed with his eyes closed. I took the robe off and placed it over the back of a chair as I climbed into bed. He opened one eye, caught a glimpse of me and then opened both eyes.

“Well, hello there.” He said with a sexy smile.

“Hey.” I said and kissed him as I settled next to him.

“Where’d THIS come from?” He asked as he tugged on the hem of the shorts.

“This old thing?” I asked playfully “What? Don’t you like it?”

“Like is an understatement.”  He said and pulled me close, my head on his chest and one leg over his hips. He kissed my forehead and said “You look gorgeous as always.” I snuggled into his chest as his fingers ran up and down my back. “Dean?” i asked 

 “Yeah sweetheart? What is it?” he asked .

“Can I see the vows you wrote for me?” I asked. 

What was written on the paper occupied my mind more than I really wanted to admit. I look up at him and he looked concerned, biting his bottom lip anxiously. “Are you upset that I didn't say them?” he asked I placed my hand on his cheek and shook my head. 

“No, not at all!” I exclaimed “What you said was perfect, I loved it.” I kissed him slowly and then added “I'm just curious.” 

“Okay,” he said with a smile “stay right here.” he kissed my forehead and got out of bed to find his jacket. He hadn't bothered to put on any clothes and I couldn't believe that this perfect view was all mine to look at. His long, lean body with a perfect ass, toned tummy and thick things could make anyone turn to Jell-O. 

“I'm liking the view Mr. Winchester!” I called to him, grinning mischievously. 

With that dangerous grin I loved so much, he crawled back into bed and kissed me slowly. “Do you?” he asked and I nodded “Good, because you're going to be seeing a lot of it.” His fingers played down the side of my body as I envisioned him, naked for days in bed with me. This idea made me grin even more as he held the paper out to me. 

“Will you read them to me?” I asked quietly, a small smile playing on my mouth. I knew deep down he'd never say no, but I always had to ask. 

“Of course I will.” He said. He unfolded the piece of paper, cleared his throat and began to read. “Josie, you have shown me a life I didn't know I could have. You made me want to be a batter man for you, the kind of man you can be proud of. The kind of man who deserves to have you by his side. I was lost when I met you. There was nothing I wanted for myself or my life, now I do. I want to love you, I'm giving you my heart and my life. Whatever they're worth, it's because of you.” 

My heart wrenched in my chest, I knew he cared about me deeply by I never knew how deep that love ran until now. My eyes filled with tears as he closed the paper and looked at me. “Oh Dean!” I cried as I snuggled into his chest and he held me tighter. 

“I mean it sweetheart,” he said as he kissed the crown on my head “I mean it, everything is because of you. I love you.” I nodded off as he held me tightly and I knew without a shadow of a doubt, that anything this life threw at us, I could always count on him and how much he loved me.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I hope you just enjoyed this collab, I know I had a BLAST working with @ravenangel33, if you guys haven’t checked he out, make sure you do that!!

Kind feedback is always appreciated, make sure you like and share with your subscribers AND Hulk smash that “follow” button if you wanna see more content from me!!!

The Squad:

@waywardbaby @waywardnerd67 @familybusinesswritingbro @ain-t-bovvered @mrswhozeewhatsis @girlborninstorms @dacleverfox @emoryhemsworth @bobasheebaby @deanscarlett @myinconnelly1 @mogaruke @imma-winchester-addict​ @purpleskiesandcherrypies​ @dean-winchesters-bacon​ @animerose96​ @l8nit-l0vr​ @drakelover78​ @curly-haired-disaster​ @roonyxx​ @snffbeebee​ @ezilyamuzed​ @mirandaaustin93​ @srsllydunnodoncare​ @latetothewinchesterparty​ @emilyshurley​ @atc74​ @midnightsilverafterdark​ @adoptdontshoppets​ @biawol​ @supernatural-teamfreewillpage​ @spaceystacey123​ @bella-ca​ @clo-heda​ @closetspngirl​ @thekatherinewinchester​ @maddiepants​

Dean/ Jensen:

@spnbaby-67​ @akshi8278​

[schizophelia]

September 17th, 2018: Psychiatrist and Therapist Appointments

As you can probably tell from the title of this post that I saw both a psychiatrist and therapist today.

Psychiatrist: So I saw the psychiatrist at 9am this morning. When I got to student health services, the secretary gave me two sheets of paper to fill out. One was a GAD (generalized anxiety disorder) screening and the other was a depression screening. Those are both pointless because I don’t have GAD and I haven’t been depressed in months. But that was fine, I did them anyway. After those were filled out, I gave the pen and clipboard back to the secretary and sat back down. Not long after a woman came out and introduced herself to me as Dr. K (not going to specifically use her name). 

She took me to one of the meeting rooms in the back. She asked me basic questions about me (eg. name, age, where I came from, etc). Then she asked me what my reason for seeing her was. I was kind of taken aback. Mostly because I thought she would have known why I was seeing her. She said that Dr. N (the doctor I saw one day at the walk-in clinic), Karen (therapist), and my SAS advisor had made my case a top priority. Dr. K said that I was triaged into seeing a psychiatrist. Triage is basically just a fancy word for sorting patients based on immediate needs and the severity of illness/issues/etc. So yeah, because of the high concern of my case, I was seen quicker than everyone else. We talked about my history starting from the age of 15 (when I was first admitted to a psychiatric unit) beginning at my eating disorder. So we talked about that and the diagnoses and such at that age. 

Then we talked about the bullying and the depression and my history of self-harm and suicide attempts. The topic of self-harm came up because she noticed the scars on my arms. She asked if I was currently self-harming and I said no, Then we started talking about the voices and other stuff. There was a point when I didn’t want to tell her something (it had nothing to do with my safety) and she said something along the lines of, “it’s my job to know so I can help lessen things for you...” something like that. I eventually told her despite not wanting to. She said that my old psychiatrist sent a referral with an overview of what has been happening but she said she wanted all my out-patient and inpatient records. I was thinking “ugh. Fuck.” I don’t want her to have those records. My old psychiatrist was a fucking idiot, I want to leave him behind. She wants me to sign the consent forms so she can get them from the hospital. She said something like, “it doesn’t matter what he wrote because I will form my own opinion.” You know what’s stupid? They all say that, but they really don’t know how to form any independent thought. I guess I have no fucking choice whether to let her see those records or not (fuck the whole idea of consent in this context). 

She asked me how often I heard the voices (almost always), what they say, if they do a running commentary (they do), their nature (temperament), etc. Dr. K asked me if I had any problems doing school work. I said yes; that I couldn’t focus or concentrate or remember things. She asked me if I was using or have used drugs or alcohol. I said I smoked weed a couple times a couple years ago, and the same thing for alcohol. I think she said it was good that I’m no longer using (I don’t remember). One of the questions she asked was whether I had ECT. I said no. And I honestly fucking hope she doesn’t suggest I do it once she gets to know me more. She asked me so many questions that it would be impossible for me to remember them all.  The thing I don’t like about Dr. K is that she’s coming across as a bitch. She asked me questions that I didn’t understand or know the answer to and she would sound irritated when I said “I don’t know,” “I don’t remember,” or “I don’t understand.” Like, be patient for fuck sake’s. I get confused, have trouble remembering, or genuinely don’t know.

Dr. K did not increase my medication today. She said she would like to see me regularly... how often, I don’t know. But she wants to meet with me next Thursday at 3:30pm because she said she still had more questions to ask me. So I have to go back next week. We actually went over our 1 hour appointment today. It was after 10am when I left SHS.

Therapy: Today I met with Karen, my psychotherapist. We talked about my appointment with Dr. K prior. Karen asked me how I was doing in comparison to last week, I don’t remember what I said. But told her I just met with Dr. K. She asked me if Dr. K had increased my medication.I said no, but that she wanted to meet with me next week. Karen said she still thinks I need more medication. She pointed out that I don’t look at her and that my attention is directed around the room whenever I meet with her. She said that was okay, but that she noticed. She brought up the movie “A Beautiful Mind” and said something about that but I don’t exactly remember what she said. I don’t know how this came up, but somehow I started talking about my friend that died by suicide a few months ago. She said it can be hard to lose someone you cared about a lot. We talked about my functioning and such. I admitted, that it took me almost a week to shower and that I wasn’t eating “properly” (which wasn’t due to my eating disorder) because I haven’t been able to manage time and find the motivation or energy to do those things. So my homework for this week is to attempt to shower every other night. I think I can do that. I just hope that the next time I do shower, I don’t throw up (I showered last night and felt dizzy and actually got sick). 

After my appointment with Dr. K, I had to cancel my appointment with Gillian because I had to get my prescription refilled because I was an idiot that waited until the last minute to get it filled (I needed the medication for tonight). The reason why I had to cancel was because after my appointment with Dr. K, I had time before therapy so I went to the UC pharmacy and asked them if they had Seroquel XR. They said they only had the regular release of Seroquel and not the extended release (XR). They said they could order it in, but it wouldn’t be in until tomorrow after 1pm. I said I needed it for tonight and needed the extended release formulation. So, I walked to therapy and after therapy was done, I walked to Walmart because they had a pharmacy there and that was the closest pharmacy to my residence building (besides UC) and I knew where the Walmart building was. I took the prescription there and spoke to one of the pharmacy people. The guy said that they had the generic form of Seroquel XR (that’s what I was on before) so I said that was perfect. I gave him my script and mentioned that it was my first time using this specific Walmart pharmacy. I had to fill out some forms and they took my information. He gave me a beeper thing that indicated when my prescription was ready. I wandered around the store while on the phone with my friend, Jennifer. It took them about 40 minutes or so. I think maybe they had a lot of prescriptions to fill. Anyway, I got my prescription and left the store (most people would have to pay, but because I’m under 25, all my medications are free). 

So I got home from Walmart, and made food. Then I relaxed until class.Went to my Contemporary English class and didn’t learn anything. I also learned that I am so far behind in the book. I didn’t know the pace I was supposed to read so I have to read a lot to catch up. I need structure for reading a book for a classes. Like, what chapters I have to read and by when. But there isn’t a reading schedule online on our online classroom. So yeah. Behind in that. After English I had Foundational Skills in Psychology. We talked about mental health and mental illness. She had us break into groups. We we supposed to come up with the early signs of mental illness. My group was practically useless, I came up with many ideas and one of the guys in my group looks at me and said, “you sure know a lot of examples.” I explained that I’m part of the system. After this class, I had Sociology. Sociology was a lot of information. It was really heavy. And it sounded like there was a whale in the room. I kept hearing whale sounds and it was really annoying. I don’t remember what class this was in, but I saw a government agent in one class, and I saw a seagull flying around in one of my classes too. My Sociology class ended at 9:10pm and I called my friend Jennifer again because I don’t want to walk to my residence late at night without talking to someone. In case something were to go wrong. I saw a bunny but when I got close, it disappeared. So I was confused. But whatever. I made it home and cooked pasta and used some of the alfredo sauce I have. I ate that, and washed my dishes and put them in the dishtray to dry overnight. Then I started writing this post.

I meet with my SAS advisor this Wednesday.

Upcoming Appointments/Meetings:

SAS Advisor Meeting Wednesday, September 19th, 2018 at 10am

Therapy Appointment on Monday, September 24, 2018 at 9:00 am

Gillian on Thursday, September 27th, 2018 at 12pm

Psychiatrist Appointment on Thursday, September 27, 2018 at 3:30pm

Meds:

Fetzima 120mg

Seroquel XR 200mg

[toniwilder]

The Melody of Memory

           They say that our sense of smell is what we link closest to our memory. Who is they? They means a collective whose opinion I need to serve my monologue. Don’t worry, we won’t sit on them long.

           I’d say that’s fair. People enter rooms when the first rainfall of April hits, when the clouds are hanging heavy over the city, and say, “Smells like spring.” They know that because it smells like all of their other springs, I’d assume. I can only assume since I didn’t have a sense of smell growing up.

           I broke my nose as a young girl with a penchant for falling into things. I hadn’t become familiar with the phrase “the squeaky wheel gets the grease” so the broken nose didn’t get fixed. I grew up with a gag of bone spurs forming in my nostrils until my nose went crooked. I entered all my milestones with one sense missing, the one we overlook that we’re supposed to use as the anchor for our memories.

           The wise and convenient They say that your senses compensate for the ones that need a little help. You focus in on the senses you have instead of those you don’t in order to paint a brighter picture; like Van Gogh working with blues and yellows so brilliantly with an obvious distaste for the reds. My brain saw that missing deck of cards and said, “Well, okay, I suppose music will have to do.”

           My dad had a penchant for old country on long road trips—a mixed tape that played the same dozen tunes over and over until my mom and brother were hitting their foreheads against the car window and contemplating jumping off onto the shoulder of the I-75 in search of quiet. The car ride probably smelled like cigarette smoke, but I only remember mono crooning by dead men. If I hear “North to Alaska” the chills picket along my arms until I roll my shoulders back, and it sends me deep into memories like I’m eleven all over again.

           Songs of the summer are different. Which summer? Do we mean the summer where I used little pink cassette tapes to record my favorite Hilary Duff song off the radio and screamed when the DJ talked over the first word nearly every single time? Or do we mean the summer where I decided I never needed to see the sun again, so my mom shoved me outside and locked the door behind me with only my MP3 player and a bottle of water to keep me entertained so I didn’t get sick from a vitamin D deficiency? We probably don’t mean the summer where I decided I was really into poetry and wrote a lot of prose in my Hello Kitty notebook about how nobody understood my angst to the sound of My Chemical Romance in my bright yellow, Pikachu decorated bedroom.

           When I was twelve years old I became obsessed with Antonio Banderas over my school’s Christmas break. It hit me suddenly and without warning, after dad recorded Desperado on the DVR. In the first scene, Antonio appears on screen playing a melancholy guitar while the opening credits roll. He then proceeds to sing—a song I didn’t understand a lick of because it was in Spanish—hit a guy over the head with a guitar, and walk across a bar top. You know, normal stuff.

           As prone as I am to exaggeration, I need to stress how I am not fibbing any numbers when I say I rewatched Desperado over Christmas break at least three times a day. Of those three times, I would rewatch that credits scene five times during each watching.

           If you aren’t a fan of math, and I can’t blame you, I watched the opening credits scene during these rewatches at least fifteen times every day. Remembering that Christmas break is two weeks, approximately fourteen days, and that I watched it for the first time on my second day of break, that means I watched the opening credits scene of Desperado, directed by Robert Rodriguez, Starring Antonio Banderas, Salma Hayek, and Steve Buscemi, directed in 1995, at least one hundred and ninety-five times over that break alone. That’s nearly nine hours of me listening to Cancion del Mariachi. I didn’t have a lot of hobbies.

           Why am I specifying this? I’m specifying this because when I say, “this is the sound of Christmas,” and I take the auxiliary cord away to play a mariachi ballad from a movie released in 1995, that you understand what that means. Christmas doesn’t smell like cold, dry air. Christmas sounds like Antonio Banderas. It also sounds like my parents saying, “I’m going to delete that movie off the DVR if you don’t go out with your friends in the next three days.” They never deleted it. I now own five copies of Desperado in every available format.

           When I turned sixteen, I got a nose job. I look about the same, minus the bump in my profile. I got it because I guess the summation of moments of me telling my parents, “I can’t smell,” had totaled up to a level that warranted a doctor’s visit. The doctor took one look at my nasal passages, said, “oh yeah, this sniffer is broken,” and then there I was: A sixteen-year-old with a nose job. Admittedly, I think he could have done a better job, but I didn’t say anything. I can’t do anything about it now, because his license was revoked after killing a patient in surgery. I also can’t tell you what that memory sounds like, because it’s not a song and it’s just a long list of curse words, but I digress.

           I went to college shortly after. The beginning of college sounds like the fight song, which just thinking about gets it stuck in my head. It sounds like a cacophony of white noise in an auditorium where I’m another face in the crowd. It sounds like my first roommate crying herself to sleep. There was something prophetic in us having the same first name.

           I think the scariest part is when college doesn’t sound like anything anymore. I can tell you what it felt like: it felt like eating five hundred calories a day out of the recommended twelve hundred, going weeks without talking, and watching the same episode of Kitchen Nightmares over and over because my depression was so heavy I couldn’t remember what I’d just watched. It felt like there was some kind of creature in my chest trying to crawl out from my sternum.

           I don’t remember what I listened to towards the end. I just remember feeling alone.

           The kicker is that I have never listened to music more than during my undergraduate experience. I listened to it on every walk to class from my dorm or my apartment. I listened to it when I got home, until I went to bed, and then immediately when I woke up the next morning.

           I remember none of those songs. Not even the ones I listened to when a classmate followed me to the bus every day and waited for me to get on. Not even when he shoved other men aside to sit next to me so he could put his hand on my thigh. I remember blasting my music like a Bose speaker for a theater’s grand auditorium, yes, but nothing sunk in. I was a quicksand of stimulation, where my brain absorbed and disintegrated everything around me until the entire experience became a fog.

            That’s four years of silence in my brain that I can’t account for. It rocks me more than knowing I had sixteen years of no smell. I hadn’t known what wasn’t there before, and retrieving my sense of smell before going to college hadn’t exactly been the best timing. A girl’s dorm isn’t much better than the boys. People need to be chased with Lysol in nearly every context, especially when their parents aren’t there to do it for them.

           I graduated in four years somehow, with a psych degree that hadn’t helped me self-diagnose my own massive depression. I came home with a piece of paper with my name on it, drove with the radio on high while it rained. I remember it rained, I remember thinking it was poetic. I remember the tornado sirens and thinking, “Not yet. Not after I just got done.” I’m motivated solely by spite.

           Coming out of my depression is marked by a lot of songs in minor key sang by guys with surly attitudes. Songs about long ways down and acid rain and being dead inside. The kind of playlist that got my friends asking, “Hey, you okay?”

           I remember them, so I guess I was.

           I used to sing all the time. I went to contests, I tried to start a band. It hadn’t been any good, but I had drive and naivety to back me up. I stopped for a long time during the fog. I hadn’t realized I’d come back up for air until I was in the car on my way to class trying to rap to a Broadway musical about Alexander Hamilton. It sounded like winter again, with me taking long drives to early morning work shifts. I didn’t like my job, but I remember it. I remember listening to classic rock while I did data entry, with Alice Cooper in the background of my keystrokes. I remember the trees were dead outside, my coat was green and littered with dog hair. I remember laughing more. I remember eating again.

           I remember music.

[patriotsnet]

Why Did Republicans Hate Obama So Much

New Post has been published on https://www.patriotsnet.com/why-did-republicans-hate-obama-so-much/

Why Did Republicans Hate Obama So Much

Barack Obama Has Polled As The Worst Us President Ever Even Beating George W Bush Courtesy Fox New

Barack Obama has polled as the worst US President ever, even beating George W. Bush. Courtesy Fox New

US President Barack Obama isn’t rating well with his fellow Americans.

WE LOVE him but it seems his own countrymen can’t stand the sight of him.

Barack Obama, who has 43.9 million Twitter fans, has also landed the title of the most unpopular US President since World War II. This means he even rates lower than his predecessor George W. Bush.

While it’s no secret his popularity has been waning, a new poll has revealed just how disliked he has become since sweeping to power in 2009.

A Quinnipiac University survey has shown that even Republican Party presidential nominee Mitt Romney would have been a better choice for voters.

According to the poll, 45 per cent of people say the country would have been better off if Mr Romney had been elected in 2012, and a staggering 38 per cent see him as a better choice.

Leaders are generally rated lower once in power — take Prime Minister Tony Abbott, for example. His popularity has plummeted to the depths that saw Julia Gillard outed in favour of Kevin Rudd’s return.

But Obama’s popularity would come as a shock to Australians who have mostly regarded the president as being in line with our way of thinking.

And he’s certainly popular on Twitter. In December 2012, President Barack Obama scored the most retweeted tweet of the year with an image of him and first lady Michelle embracing along with the words “four more years”.

Obamacare

Why Do Republicans Want To Repeal Obamacare So Much Because It Would Be A Big Tax Cut For The Rich

There are going to be so many tax cuts for the rich, you’re going to get tired of tax cuts for the rich. You’re going to say, “Mr. President, please don’t cut taxes for the rich so much, this is getting terrible.”

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And it will start when Republicans repeal Obamacare.

This is the Rosetta Stone for understanding why conservatives have acted like subsidized health care was the end of the republic itself. It wasn’t just that it had the word “Obama” in its name, which, in our polarized age, was enough to ensure that 45 percent of the country would despise it. No, it was that Obamacare was one of the biggest redistributive policies of the last 50 years. The Republican Party, after all, exists for what seems like the sole purpose of reversing redistribution.

A quick recap: Obamacare is a kind of three-legged stool. First, it tells insurance companies that they can’t discriminate against sick people anymore; second, it tells people that they have to buy insurance or pay a penalty, so that everyone doesn’t just wait until they’re sick to get covered; and third, it helps people who can’t afford the plans they have to buy be able to. Which is to say that you need to come up with a whole lot of money to make this work — money that Obamacare gets by taxing the rich. Indeed, at its most basic level, it raises taxes on the top 1 percent to pay for health insurance for the bottom 40 percent.

Getting tired of tax cuts for the rich yet?

Theres One Reason Why Republicans Keep Telling Obama To Shut Up Its Exactly What You Think

Republicans have smeared and violated the first black president since he first ran for the office, demanding that he watch his mouth and “show his papers.”

Looking back now, I was likely beginning my journey to leaving the Republican Party on September 9, 2009, when Barack Obama was addressing a Joint Session of Congress and Representative Joe Wilson, Republican of South Carolina, shouted “you lie” in the middle of the president’s address.

The president looked in the direction of the shout, calmly said, “it’s not true” and continued. The House rebuked Wilson a week later, but notably that vote came on party lines, and the tone had been set.

The next year, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell declared that “The single most important thing we want to achieve is for President Obama to be a one-term president.” The year after that, Donald Trump joined the so-called Birthers “just asking” whether the first black president was even really an American at all. 

Republicans have kept attacking Obama ever since, even after he left office—smearing him, violating him, demanding that he “show his papers.”

McConnell, Trump’s lapdog, told Trump’s daughter in law, Lara Trump, that Obama was “a little bit classless,” and instructed him to “keep his mouth shut.” He didn’t say “boy, stay in your place” but he didn’t have to. The people who belong to Trump and McConnell’s Republican Party know damn well what he meant there, and made no real effort to mask.

READ THIS LIST

His Eulogy For John Lewis Was Typically Soaring The Reaction On The Right Was Furious

Last week, a former president gave a speech in which he described the United States as a country dedicated to high ideals and striving to “form a more perfect union,” and he called on Americans to support reforms that would help to ensure more equal representation for all. In response, members of the opposing party said that this former president was promoting “communist terrorist propaganda,” and labeled him “cynical,” “divisive and partisan,” a “national disgrace,” and “one of the sleaziest and most dishonest figures in the history of American politics.”

I’m talking, of course, about Barack Obama’s eulogy for civil rights icon John Lewis — and the unhinged reaction of right-wing journalists and media personalities to it. The context is what made that reaction so astonishing. We’re three-and-a-half years into an administration defined by constantly dividing the country between those who support the current president and everyone else, who are often denigrated as haters and losers and “enemies of the people.” More proximally, last week was one when Donald Trump suggested postponing the 2020 presidential election and promised suburban voters that he would protect them from being “bothered” by poor people moving into their neighborhoods and lowering their property values. That was the context for Republicans taking offense at Obama for daring to suggest that “we can do better.”

We’re Less Far Apart Politically Than We Think Why Can’t We All Get Along

Partisans on both sides of the aisle significantly overestimate the extent of extremism in the opposing party. The more partisan the thinker, the more distorted the other side appears. And when we see the opposition as extremists, we fear them. Our tribal thinking prepares us for battle.

What’s the solution? More information? More political engagement? More education?

Surely more information leads to better judgment. But social scientists at the international initiative More in Common find that having more information from the news media is associated with a less accurate understanding of political opponents. Part of the problem appears to be the political biases of media sources themselves. Of all the various news media examined, only the traditional TV networks, ABC, NBC, and CBS, are associated with a better understanding of political views.

This discrepancy may be a result of the lack of political diversity among professors and administrators on campus. As political scientist Sam Abrams found, the average left to right ratio of professors nationwide is 6 to 1 and the ratio of student-facing administrators is 12 to 1. Democrats who have few or no Republican friends see the other side as more extreme than do those with more politically diverse friends. And the more educated Democrats are, the less likely they are to have friends who don’t share their political beliefs.

So what can you do?

A version of this article appeared on the Newsmax platform.

Obama Is Antithetical To Trump So Long As He Exists Trump Is Threatened

Central to Trump’s presidency is the effort to erase Obama’s legacy—his policies, his social agenda, and, more intriguingly, his very persona. This observation is neither new nor original. After all, Trump’s run on the Republican party began with his advocacy of birtherism, an attempt to quite literally delegitimize Obama. .

Obama has remained top of mind for Trump ever since. The evidence is by now well documented: The flap over inauguration crowd size; the withdrawal from the Iran deal; the rollback of Obama’s environmental policies; the broadband attack on Obama’s environmental regulation and nondiscrimination policies; the ongoing assault on Obamacare; his complaints of “presidential harassment”; his recent disparagement of Obama during the G-7 meeting , and on and on.

Many observers have taken notice. Back in 2017, Charles Blow of The New York Times wrote, “Trump is obsessed with Obama. Obama haunts Trump’s dreams. One of Trump’s primary motivators is the absolute erasure of Obama – were it possible – not only from the political landscape but also from the history books.”

“Two Years Into Trump’s Presidency, Obama Remains a Top Target for Criticism,” Peter Baker and Maggie Haberman have likewise noted recently in the Times “It took all of one minute and nine seconds for President Trump to go after his predecessor on Friday — just one minute and nine seconds to re-engage in a debate that has consumed much of his own time in office over who was the better president.”

Video: Its Impossible To Imagine Trump Without The Force Of Whiteness

Roediger relates the experience, around 1807, of a British investor who made the mistake of asking a white maid in New England whether her “master” was home. The maid admonished the investor, not merely for implying that she had a “master” and thus was a “sarvant” but for his basic ignorance of American hierarchy. “None but negers are sarvants,” the maid is reported to have said. In law and economics and then in custom, a racist distinction not limited to the household emerged between the “help” and the “servants” . The former were virtuous and just, worthy of citizenship, progeny of Jefferson and, later, Jackson. The latter were servile and parasitic, dim-witted and lazy, the children of African savagery. But the dignity accorded to white labor was situational, dependent on the scorn heaped upon black labor—much as the honor accorded a “virtuous lady” was dependent on the derision directed at a “loose woman.” And like chivalrous gentlemen who claim to honor the lady while raping the “whore,” planters and their apologists could claim to honor white labor while driving the enslaved.

This is by design. Speaking in 1848, Senator John C. Calhoun saw slavery as the explicit foundation for a democratic union among whites, working and not:

With us the two great divisions of society are not the rich and poor, but white and black; and all the former, the poor as well as the rich, belong to the upper class, and are respected and treated as equals.

Why Is The Affordable Care Act So Despised By So Many Conservatives

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IT HAS been called “the most dangerous piece of legislation ever passed”, “as destructive to personal and individual liberties as the Fugitive Slave Act” and a killer of women, children and old people. According to Republican lawmakers, the sources of each of these quotes, the Affordable Care Act , or Obamacare, is a terrible thing. Since it was passed by a Democratic Congress in 2009, it has been the bête noire of the Republicans. The party has pushed more than 60 unsuccessful Congressional votes to defeat it, while the Supreme Court has been forced to debate it four times in the act’s short history. Obamacare was also at the heart of the two-week government shutdown in 2013. Why does the ACA attract such opprobrium from the right?

Race Alone Doesn’t Explain Hatred Of Obama But It’s Part Of The Mix

NPR

President Obama speaks at a news briefing in July about the fatal shooting of Trayvon Martin by George Zimmerman. Carolyn Kaster/APhide caption

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President Obama speaks at a news briefing in July about the fatal shooting of Trayvon Martin by George Zimmerman.

It’s a fact of American life that a good share of the electorate is disappointed, disapproving and even disdainful of President Obama. What’s less certain are the reasons why.

For some Democrats, the explanation is simple: race. In recent weeks, West Virginia Sen. Jay Rockefeller, Mississippi Rep. and former Florida Gov. Charlie Crist have all said racism is the driving force behind Republican resistance to the president.

Republicans, unsurprisingly, say their disdain for Obama is based not on the color of his skin, but on the content of his policies.

“If any white Democrat had pushed through a billion-dollar stimulus plan and a takeover of the health care industry, he would have been equally detested by conservatives and Republicans,” says Whit Ayres, a GOP pollster and consultant.

There’s no question we’re living in a time of divisive politics, when roughly half the country is likely to hate the president, no matter whom he or she might be.

But race has been a factor in American politics since the very beginning. It’s certainly part of the mix in terms of responses to Obama.

Race Is Not The Whole Story

But Race Is Definitely A Factor

All That Obama Represents

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Obama Really Did Activate Voters Their Hopes But Also Their Fears

There are reams of evidence supporting this explanation, and I run through much of it in my piece “White Threat in a Browning America.” Obama’s presidency was inextricable from the massive demographic change that made it possible, and that continues to reshape American life and politics. But it wasn’t just demographic change that Obama represented. Obama, though a Christian himself, led an increasingly secular coalition, and was othered as a secret Muslim in the minds of many conservatives. Similarly, perceptions of economic change were filtered through broader views about Obama and the country: the political scientist Michael Tesler found that the most racially resentful Americans were the most economically pessimistic before the 2016 election and the most economically optimistic after it.

Obama, notably, spoke about race less than past presidents. But Obama himself was a symbol of a changing America, of white America’s loss of power, of new groups were gaining power. That perception wasn’t wrong: In his 2012 reelection campaign, Obama won merely 39 percent of the white vote — a smaller share than Michael Dukakis had commanded in 1988. That is to say, a few decades ago, the multiracial Obama coalition couldn’t drive American politics; by 2012, it could.

On its face, this is laughable. But Limbaugh’s audience wasn’t laughing. They were listening.

So yes, all of this led to Trump.

Have Republicans Ever Hated A President More Than Barack Obama

It’s getting harder to deny.

The widespread belief on the right that Barack Obama is a Muslim is one of the stranger features of this period in history. There are some of them who know that Obama says he’s a Christian but are sure that’s all an act designed to fool people, while he secretly prays to Allah. But there are probably a greater number who haven’t given it all that much thought; they just heard somewhere that he’s a Muslim, and it made perfect sense to them-after all, he’s kinda foreign, if you know what I mean. Rather remarkably, that belief has grown over time; as the latest poll from the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life shows, fully 30 percent of Republicans, and 34 percent of conservative Republicans, now believe Obama is Muslim. These numbers are about double what they were four years ago.

You can bet there aren’t too many who think there’s nothing wrong with it if he were. For many of them, it’s just a shorthand for Obama being alien and threatening. So it leads me to ask: Can we say, finally, that no Democratic president has ever been hated by Republicans quite as much as Barack Obama?

This antipathy has multiple sources interacting together, so it’s overly simplistic to say that it’s just because of Obama’s race, or it’s just because of heightened partisanship. But it’s getting harder and harder to claim that there’s ever been a Democrat Republicans hated more.

The Seeds Of Trump’s Victory Were Sown The Moment Obama Won

Nine months into the Donald Trump administration, the United States seems eons removed from the country that just nine years ago elected its first black president.

Yet the racial divide that Trump demonstrated with his narrow Electoral College win was always there.

President Barack Obama read to a certain portion of white America as an unending attack on white Christian identity, centrality and cultural relevance. In their minds, he was seeking to end their right to bear arms and the right of conservatives to speak freely.

For this group of Americans, Trump has been the corrective. As Ta-Nehisi Coates points out in his brilliant Atlantic essay, “The First White President,” for Trump’s supporters, his election was itself the point. Putting a human wrecking ball against political correctness, feminism, multiculturalism and even decency was the ballgame.

Obama’s election masked this fierce racial schism for only a few short months. That ended the moment he declared, in July of his first year in the Oval Office, that a white Cambridge police officer acted “stupidly” for arresting a black college professor — and long-time Obama friend and mentor — outside his own home.

The racial divide that Trump demonstrated with his narrow Electoral College win was always there.

Yet Obama won re-election by a convincing 5 million votes. Even more than in 2008, his victory demonstrated the power of a non-white constituency to do the once-impossible: deliver the White House, twice.

How The Right Wing Convinces Itself That Liberals Are Evil

Since the 1950s, the conservative movement has justified bad behavior—including supporting Donald Trump—by persuading itself that the left is worse.

If you spend any time consuming right-wing media in America, you quickly learn the following: Liberals are responsible for racism, slavery, and the Ku Klux Klan. They admire Mussolini and Hitler, and modern liberalism is little different from fascism or, even worse, communism. The mainstream media and academia cannot be trusted because of the pervasive, totalitarian nature of liberal culture. 

This did not begin with Donald Trump. The modern Republican Party may be particularly apt to push conspiracy theories to rationalize its complicity with a staggeringly corrupt administration, but this is an extension of, not a break from, a much longer history. Since its very beginning, in the 1950s, members of the modern conservative movement have justified bad behavior by convincing themselves that the other side is worse. One of the binding agents holding the conservative coalition together over the course of the past half century has been an opposition to liberalism, socialism, and global communism built on the suspicion, sometimes made explicit, that there’s no real difference among them. 

The title of that LP? Ronald Reagan Speaks Out Against Socialized Medicine. The American left is used to waiting for liberals to finally get ruthless. Through the eyes of the right, they always have been. 

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The Real Reason Trump Is So Dead Set On Crushing Obamacare

Chris Cillizza

Over the past 24 hours, President Donald Trump has taken two actions aimed at mortally wounding the Affordable Care Act.

The first tasks his administration with increasing competition among health care insurers, a move very likely to drive younger people out of the insurance marketplace entirely and driving up costs across the board. The second, announced late Thursday night, .

The key to understanding Trump’s motivations here are entirely contained in the ACA’s shorthand nickname: Obamacare. It’s named after the man – former President Barack Obama – who shepherded it into existence. And that’s exactly why Trump wants to get rid of it.

Trump’s entire political life – dating all the way back to his adoption of birtherism earlier this decade – is positioned against all things Obama. Why? Because for many Trump supporters in this country, Obama – and his beliefs about society and government – were the antithesis of what they believed.

The best way to distinguish yourself in Republican politics during Obama’s time in office was to position yourself against, literally, everything about Obama – up to and including his legitimacy to be president due to fact-free claims about where he was born.

At every rally, every speech and almost every day on Twitter during the 2016 campaign, Trump promised to get rid of Obamacare – and quickly.

How America Changed During Barack Obamas Presidency

Michael Dimock

Barack Obama campaigned for the U.S. presidency on a platform of change. As he prepares to leave office, the country he led for eight years is undeniably different. Profound social, demographic and technological changes have swept across the United States during Obama’s tenure, as have important shifts in government policy and public opinion.

Apple released its first iPhone during Obama’s 2007 campaign, and he announced his vice presidential pick – Joe Biden – on a two-year-old platform called Twitter. Today, use of smartphones and social media has become the norm in U.S. society, not the exception.

The election of the nation’s first black president raised hopes that race relations in the U.S. would improve, especially among black voters. But by 2016, following a spate of high-profile deaths of black Americans during encounters with police and protests by the Black Lives Matter movement and other groups, many Americans – especially blacks – described race relations as generally bad.

Percentage point difference between all adults saying race relations are “generally good” and those saying “generally bad”

Generally good

Obama presidency

  PEW RESEARCH CENTER

But by some measures, the country faces serious economic challenges: A steady hollowing of the middle class, for example, continued during Obama’s presidency, and income inequality reached its highest point since 1928.

Related: How America Changed During Donald Trump’s Presidency

He’s Removed The Veneer That Hid America’s Racism

somehow left behind its racisracist tweets widely criticized

It doesn’t make any difference what color the president is. Malcolm X could have been elected president and racism would have continued just the same.

Kehinde Andrews, historian and author

“the heartbeat of racism” Kehinde AndrewsJoe Scarborough Max Boot.one poll

Racist policies work better when they don’t seem to be racist… once the veneer comes off, a lot of people in the middle will shy away. Trump has taken away the veneer.

Kevin Kruse, historian

it’s just racist.

The Thing Donald Trump Hates Most About Obama

Donald Trump spoke to GQ last month as he sat at his desk in Trump Tower, and many of his characteristically idiosyncratic reflections on the improbable months he has spent as the front-runner for the Republican presidential nomination appeared in the December 2015 issue. But inevitably, a single article cannot possibly convey all that Donald Trump is, and so some segments of the conversation had to remain unheard. Until now.

You said an interesting thing in one of your first interviews, in 1981: “Man is the most vicious of all animals and life is a series of battles ending in victory and defeat.” Is that still what you think?Sure. I mean, the lions hunt for food. Oftentimes humans hunt for sport. It’s much different. But you look at the chain, and you look at what’s going on in the chain, and yeah, mankind is pretty tough.

I can see that. At the same time I don’t know how the electorate’s going to feel: to be characterized as the most vicious of all animals.Oh, I think they’ll be fine with it. I think they know it’s true. What—you want me to take it back? “Oh, I’m sorry I said that…”

And people who think that that’s not true—they’re just fooling themselves?I think people think it is true.

But I guess one way to look at the world is it’s a jungle and a fight for survival, and another way to look at the world is we’re all in it together and we should love each other**.**

An important part of what you’re saying all the time is “I’m smart.” How smart are you?I’m very smart.

Trump Has Banished The Ghost Of Ronald Reagan

for sayingone memorable phrase

We’re now in a time in American history and in world history where we cannot imply afford to be moderate. We can’t afford to just be tinkering around the edges.

Rutger Bregman, historian and author

economic expansion“haunted by the Reagan era.” at times more like a Republicanproposedreducedncluded conservative ideasGippernever cutvowed to raise taxes conservative voters wantedand notunexpected backlashPublic supportan essay “Rooseveltian vision of activist government.

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As someone who was weaned on stories of leftist intellectuals and journalists traipsing off to communist countries to pay obeisance, I can only shake my head as a parade of right-wingers are making their way to Hungary to sing the praises of authoritarian Viktor Orban. Tucker Carlson of Fox News is the highest-profile rightist to make the trek, but the path was already well-trod.

Former National Review editor and Margaret Thatcher speechwriter John O’Sullivan has moved to Budapest to head the Danube Institute, a think tank funded by Orban’s government. He likes his nationalism straight up.

A few years ago, at the National Conservatism conference in Washington, D.C., Orban was an honored guest, which was a bit head-snapping for those inattentive to the drift toward authoritarianism on the right. Speakers at the conference have featured mainstream figures such as John Bolton, Chris DeMuth, Peter Thiel, Oren Cass and Rich Lowry. In addition to Orban, other questionable invitees included Marion Marechal and Steve Bannon pal Matteo Salvini.

Mona Charen is policy editor of The Bulwark and host of the “Beg to Differ” podcast. Her most recent book is Sex Matters: How Modern Feminism Lost Touch with Science, Love, and Common Sense. To read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com.

www.alternet.org

Why Do So Many People Hate Obamacare So Much

Facebook

Julie Rovner

toggle caption

Opposition to Obamacare has been strong from the beginning. Demonstrators made their dissatisfaction clear in front of the Supreme Court in 2015.

The Affordable Care Act, aka Obamacare, has roiled America since the day it was signed into law in 2010. From the start, the public was almost evenly divided between those who supported it and those who opposed it.

They still are. The November monthly tracking poll from the Kaiser Family Foundation found that 50 percent of those polled had a favorable view of the health law, while 46 percent viewed it unfavorably.

Partisan politics drives the split. Eighty percent of Democrats were supportive in November, while 81 percent of Republicans were strongly negative.

That helps explain why Republicans are working to repeal a key element of the health law in the tax bill Congress is negotiating. The requirement that most Americans have health insurance or pay a tax penalty — the so-called individual mandate — is by far the most unpopular provision of the law, particularly among Republicans.

Still, while partisanship is a major reason why some people hate the health law, it’s far from the only one. Here are four more:

Ideology

Adding to that was the unhappiness with the ACA’s individual mandate. Although the idea was originally suggested by Republicans in the late 1980s, the GOP had mostly backed away from it over the years .

Lack of knowledge

Confusing the health law with the rest of the health system

Are Voters Responsible For Their Own Choices

Where Obama and Shapiro differ sharply in their explanation is in the attribution of blame. Obama blames Trump — and others in the Republican Party and conservative media — for demagogically preying on Americans’ fears and anxieties. Shapiro blames Obama for adopting a lecturing tone that alienated a critical mass of Americans.

Some of this strikes me as, well, strange. John McCain just had Obama speak at his funeral. The idea that the 2008 campaign was uniquely scurrilous is provably wrong. The rest of it is the usual Rorschach test of American politics; I think Obama treated issues of identity with unusual care and caution and, particularly early in his presidency, was unusually willing to believe the best of his political opponents, but I doubt I’ll change any minds on that in this column. Indeed, the deep division over how identity politics was wielded in the Obama era, and who was really acting outside the norms of American politics, is exactly what you’d expect if you believe this broader story of demographic, political, and cultural upheaval.

More interesting, I think, is the way both Obama and Shapiro implicitly absolve voters of responsibility for the choices they made. Obama’s basic argument is that too much change, too fast, made right-leaning voters susceptible to a demagogue’s charms; Shapiro’s basic argument is that too much of Obama’s liberal provocations, for too long, made right-leaning voters long for a strongman of their own.

It’s Not Just Deranged It’s Projection

REUTERS/Carlos Barria

There’s no doubt that when historians assess the Obama presidency, they will pay a great deal of attention to the deep political divisions within the country, and how those divisions shaped political events. There are racial divisions, class divisions, and, most of all, political divisions. Within Congress, for instance, the parties have been moving apart for the last 40 years, as fewer and fewer moderates get elected and the median of both parties moves toward the edge. But the reality is that while Democrats have moved left, Republicans have been moving right much more sharply — a fact not only established by political science but evident to anyone remotely familiar with Capitol Hill.

Yet Republicans are sure that the fault for all this — long-term trends and recent developments alike — can be laid at the feet of Barack Obama, who is terribly, appallingly, despicably divisive.

Here’s the truth: You might like Barack Obama or you might not; you might think he has been a good president or a bad one. But the idea that blame for the political divisions we confront lies solely or even primarily at his door is positively deranged.

They followed through on this plan. As Mitch McConnell explained proudly in 2010, “Our top political priority over the next two years should be to deny Barack Obama a second term.”

[carrickbender]

The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated..... that being said, my life has taken a few unexpected turns in the last month or so, and it's been kind of crazy... So let me catch you up, if you will allow me to be so self-indulgent: 1. 2 weeks ago, I started a new job with a company called Cosmo specialty fibers. They produce, from wood chips, the pulp that goes into damn near everything which binds stuff like toothpaste, cigarette filters, photographic paper... You name it...together into the form which we know and use. It would never have been my first choice, but when somebody calls you and asks if you're still interested in a position that pays almost double what you were currently making, you jump at the chance. Now mind you, this is not necessarily as physically easy as my previous job, and wearing steel toe boots and walking on a concrete floor is pretty lame. But, the people I work with are great, the benefits are amazing, and it's going to allow me to make the choice in 6 to 8 months of weather I want to stick around for a little while or go on to do my Merchant Mariners coursework. I'd like to mention that my leaving my old job for that major online retailer whose name rhymes with Country Crock has nothing to do with them. Again, I was working with kind, intelligent, thoughtful People Who provided a very nice place to work. But when someone doubles your paycheck, you listen. Which leads me to... 2. I finally did the adult thing and bought a car. You know, I've owned a Volkswagen Bug before but it was a 1973 Super Beetle. And being that I'm 41, and that I've always purchased vehicles with other people( a newer vehicle, that is, when I was with my ex-wife) this was the first time I bought something that I wanted. Kids, Volkswagen are wonderful automobiles. This is my new rock mobile, the one that is going to plop me all over the Northwest this summer and spring watching and playing shows, and generally making a nuisance of myself. 3. Yes, if you notice something in the one picture of me in the hard hat, I had to shave my beard. This is a gray area with the place of my employment, because we are required to keep personal protective equipment on our person at all time. And I'm not just talking about a hard hat, or safety glasses and earplugs, I'm talking about the fact that I had to be fit tested for an SCBA apparatus and am required to keep an evacuation breather on a belt loop at all times. It gives me 20 minutes or so to get the hell out of dodge and not die in the case of a sulfur dioxide leak. So yeah, I'm adjusting to life without a beard. It is a gray area, and as I have to go in and talk to my supervisor tomorrow, I'm going to ask what the deal is about having a beard. Because honestly, I feel naked without it. And that baby face? I don't think so! How am I ever going to get on with the baby face like that? LOL 4. So I went and saw the Reverend Horton Heat the other night with my lead guitar player. The show is intense, the guitar playing was mystical and bombastic, and I didn't realize it was what I needed when I accepted the offer of going up to the show, but I really did need it. I think every now and then we need to get reinspiring influences, like a dose of something that gives us a shot in the arm. And the thing about it is that I've been writing a lot, and working on music whenever my schedule allows. But I'm in a funk writing wise, and I have no feeling like I have so much to say but I don't know where to start. So all of you amazing writers out there, if anybody has a hint... Please, feel free to help loosen up the Log Jam that is my brain right now. 5. Speaking of log jams breaking up, you ever come to a realization where someone is not telling you something but they're doing things out of character and you just know that they're not telling you something big and important? See, I feel like I've been very blessed by the great beyond in that y'all have let me be privy to your lives and to the things that are going on, especially with losing someone. And in that context, I had a cathartic moment in that I finally piece together some pieces of a puzzle that has been 41 years in the making. Let me explain... As many of you know, my Dad and I didn't start to get to know each other until I was 20 years old. In my parents relationship, there was a lot of drama and turmoil, both of them being teenagers, my grandmother threatening to kill my father if he ever tried to play a role in my life... The list honestly goes on. The bottom line is that I didn't get to know my father until I was an adult, and I think that that probably was the best thing ever. So, like so many of you, my father has a terminal disease and other health issues that are life-threatening as well. And over the last year, maybe even two years, for the first time in our relationship my dad has reached out more than ever. He is tried to be a father figure when I needed advice, he has tried to do things for me financially which he never did, and I see him trying to do things in his life that he said that he's going to do and it made me realize that I need to be more attentive and a better son to my father. Now you can say is much as you want to because my mom never had a dime of financial support from my dad, and there is a case that some people in my life have made for just saying no, and shutting him out. I mean, for so many years I was the one who had to make contact always, I'm the one who had to make the phone call on Christmas Eve to my grandparents trying to find out where he was and initiate contact after 20 years, I'm the one who has had to do all of these things within our relationship, and I had my mom's dad who was an amazing father figure... But with all of that being said, I feel like everything that's going on between the two of us has made me realize that all of our times are short, but his time is even shorter. And as part of that catharsis, it's made me realize that I need to recommit to all the relationships in my life and make sure that the people who value the most to me know how much that I love them. Even those who ducked out of their responsibilities for the first 20 years of my life, I don't care. There's a great verse from the U2 song "Sometimes you can't make it on your own", which Bono wrote for his father... "I know that we don't talk I'm sick of it all Can - you - hear - me - when - I - Sing, you're the reason I sing You're the reason why the opera is in me Where are we now? I've got to let you know A house still doesn't make a homea Don't leave me here alone..." I am that child, pleading with him to stay and this stupid thing called mortality as if I was a murderer asking for another day just to see another sunrise, sparing me from the gallows of my memories. Because there will be a day, sooner than I will know, when I can't ask those questions anymore. We all get there, I know. But I get the feeling that he knows it even more so, and it's time to mend all of the fences and say all of the things before he goes silent. 6. Anyhow, enough of my rambling. The bottom line is that I've missed you guys, and I'm sorry that I have been woefully absent. I was even tagged in stuff and in my jackassery, I didn't respond... That is if you missed me, lol. But I also want each and everyone of you to know that I really do feel blessed that you have shared so many things about yourselves with me that help me get perspective on my own proverbial shit. And I want you to know how much I appreciate you all! Much love from the upper left-hand corner of the big rock, and I promise not to be so much of a stranger.

[breziarchive]

i guess i’ve made the executive decision that i WILL be posting this fic when things are all nice and done but in the meantime, here’s a snippet i wrote on the plane back from the midwest

yasuko and majima brotp >:V (implied saejima/majima, the full chapter/fic is nowhere near completion so the context and stuff will be added to AO3 much later, keep an eye out!) (finished fic will be covering majima and his relationships in the late 80s)

[ko-fi]

~~

The cold railing burned Majima's elbows as he leaned against it, just outside Saejima's apartment. He had only been by to make sure they had enough groceries for the week, and, getting no response from his sworn brother—as it had been for the last month and a half—he left the food just inside their door. He was about to just leave them with some bad joke and a teasing nod at Yasuko, awkward cold silences be damned, but Yasuko caught his attention with a frantic sign to wait up for her. So, there he was in the February chill, smoking a cigarette from a pack he had meant for Saejima, but he took it out of the grocery bag at the last second. He had bought the good stuff, and if Saejima was still gonna cold-shoulder him with barely a glance when he showed up with food, well, then, he could buy his own damn vices.

The door, always sticky in the winter, opened and closed with one of Yasuko's grunts. He looked back over his shoulder as the young teen beamed at him. At least Saejima hadn't forced Yasuko to forsake him too.

“Hey, kid,” the cig in his mouth bounced in his lips and he glanced at her hands, “What the hell's that?”

Yasuko presented the box, too excitable to be formal and precise. It wasn't entirely homemade, but it was carefully decorated. She had spent plenty of time painting hearts and cute faces on the sides. Majima couldn't believe the steady hand she had, even though he knew she had been put up in bed for weeks with nothing to do but paint and draw. Despite the adoration at her effort and the gesture itself he tried to keep his expression stoic. That it wasn't as hard as it should've been thanks to his—her—brother made him feel guilty.

“Happy Valentine's Day!” Yasuko hopped on her feet into a perky bow, but Majima didn't take the box.

“Aw, thanks kid,” he answered flatly, “But I don't accept love letters from fourteen-year-olds,”

Yasuko pouted, “Majimaaa,”

His face split into a grin and he slapped his hand down on her head, ruffling her hair until the static in the air took some strands airborne. Another, more emphatic protest from her and Majima giggled, taking the box.

“What's all this, Yasuko-chan? Ya didn't hafta,”

“Sure I did! You don't work with any women, and you don't have a girlfriend,”

Majima disguised a choke with a puff of smoke.

“And it's kinda sad to not get any chocolate on Valentine's Day!”

“What would you know, pipsqueak,” he retorted, “I could be swimmin' in chocolate at home!”

“But none of them are mine!”

“Awright, awright,” Majima gave in with a comically defeated pout, “Gotta watch yer smart mouth, Yasuko-chan,”

“If you're scared I'm gonna outwit you, I think I already did!” Yasuko put her hands on the railing to push herself up to Majima's height but pulled back, seething at the chill. Majima watched with half-lidded interest, mock scoffing and pushing his thumb under the lip of the box. The day she actually beat him in a battle of wits instead of him intentionally giving way was the day he checked himself into a nursing home.

Store-bought and homemade chocolate treats alike met him as he flipped the lid open. Despite the act he put on he smiled, warmed by her work.

“Taiga already ate all his,” Yasuko complained, “Completely spoiled his dinner! I'm glad you brought more food, you know what he likes,”

“Mmhmm,” Majima soullessly agreed. Cigarette smoke billowed from his nostrils. Making a grunt, he plucked the cig from his mouth and blew the rest of the smoke out. Yasuko watched as he held it between his pointer and middle finger, using the other three to pluck one of the homemade chocolates out from its wax paper.

“I can hold onto that!” she piped up. Majima glanced at her from the side.

“What, the box?”

“No, your cigarette!”

“Uh,” Majima regarded her, “Ya can't outwit me that good, kid,”

Yasuko huffed a sigh, “I knoww, I wasn't trying to,”

Majima sighed himself, then gave in. An annoying perk of her honesty. The thought occurred to him that he was flimsier than tissue paper as he handed it off to her way-too-excited hands. She held it in such away that hallmarked her inexperience. Majima smirked.

“Don't ya dare tell yer brother,”

Yasuko nodded, looking at the cig and not him.

“Ever.”

Still no acknowledgment and Majima turned to face her.

“Yasuko-chan,”

She looked up, beaming and mischievous, “I heard you! I just wanted to see how serious you were!”

Time to look for nursing homes.

Yasuko continued to look at the thing in innocent wonder and a vague sense of fear. Majima almost scoffed at it, since he had pilfered his first cigs at age twelve, but all the same she had been sick and it spoke to Saejima's commitment that she had managed to avoid it until now. Well, this made two for two with Majima's offenses to the Saejima family. Damn. Considering her recent illness, too, he should've been more vigilant about the whole thing.

“One puff,” he ordered retroactively, “That's all you get,”

Yasuko nodded and hesitantly put the cigarette to her lips. He finally popped the chocolate in his mouth and chewed as he watched, now more concerned than interested.

He couldn't say it went any differently than expected. Yasuko started coughing, nearly dropping the cigarette off the ledge. Majima's hand shot forward to save it—that was the good expensive shit, damn it—and in doing so nearly sacrificed the rest of the chocolates as well. Once the cig and box had been saved in a snapshot of time, Majima swallowed and gasped. He bit his lip to hide his smirk so as not to embarrass her, but he wouldn't last long.

“Shit, kid, pull somethin' like that again and I'll be divin' off the ledge to save all my goodies,”

Yasuko continued to cough and he laughed through a sympathetic grimace, “You okay, there?”

She nodded though it seemed to take her a moment to think about it. Majima waited for it to calm down, but it wasn't happening fast enough for him and he started slapping her back and looking around nervously.

“Hey, hey, keep it up and someone'll call the cops on me,” he glanced at the apartment door behind him, “Or worse,”

“That's—,” Yasuko regained her voice, though raspy, “—disgusting!”

“Well, yeah,” Majima answered, glad she was quieting down, “It ain't good fer ya,”

“Then why?”

“'Cause it's good fer me. I mean, it ain't good, but I'm kinda past that,”

“Majima...,” Yasuko pushed the last few hacks out then deflated against the railing, no longer deterred by the coldness.

“Damn, I didn't just cost ya yer new good kidneys, did I?”

Yasuko frowned and chastised weakly, “That's not how kidneys work,”

Majima's eye glinted in humor as he placed the cig back where it belonged and inhaled.

“Majima...,” Yasuko said after a while of him rooting through the chocolates, “You never come over anymore,”

“Sure I do,” he dodged, struggling to unwrap a store-bought one with only one hand, “I drop food off all the time,”

“But you don't stick around,” she pointed out, “Ever since New Year's. If that's your resolution, it's a bad one,”

Majima stared at her. Sighing, he gave up on the chocolates, closed the box, and flicked the butt of the cigarette over the edge. For a moment Yasuko looked scared that he was gonna up and leave, but she relaxed as he readjusted his arms against the railing, dropping the box at his feet so he wouldn't knock it over.

“I guess...,” she said carefully, “It's more like he hasn't invited you,”

Majima sighed, “Yeah...,” he swallowed and dropped his head, “I know.”

“What happened?”

“I guess we had a...,” he paused, trying to find the right word, “Disagreement.”

Yasuko hummed, gaze darting from him to the box, “I miss you, though,”

“Yeah? That's a first,” he joked, but for him it really was a first. The corners of Yasuko's lips twitched, but she looked worried.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

Majima shook his head, “I ain't the one that has problems talking right now. Besides, uh...,”

He shifted, looking up at the clouds and struggling to tell her properly. A puff of a cigarette was one thing, graphic details of New Year's was another. Yasuko clearly hadn't reached her full height yet—she was shooting up like a weed, though, almost as bad as Majima had. Growing faster than her body could keep up with left her without any fat to her cheeks and waist—not that the illness had helped with that. Point being, she wasn't even ready much less well-equipped to solve or even help the problem.

“Dunno if this is somethin' I can explain, much less somethin' you can help with, Yasuko-chan,”

She visibly wilted beside him and he smirked, leaning in, “Hey, not that it ain't appreciated, pipsqueak. Grown-ass crusty adults wouldn't know what to do with this shit,”

At that she smiled, comforted at his acknowledgment. They let each other be quiet for a moment, listening to the city sounds mingling with the exasperated apartment dwellers around them. Yasuko clasped her hands in front of her and drew her feet in. When she spoke her voice was soft, almost mousey.

“I mean...how do you feel about this? Whatever it is that happened?”

Majima looked over at her and she swallowed and clarified, “It might help...Maybe if I told him how you felt?”

He regarded her for a while, then looked away to contemplate. At this point it really didn't matter, did it? Yasuko was patient as he took his time.

“Uh...,” he grunted uneasily, “Um...Ashamed.”

He pretended not to see her brows raise in surprise.

“Ashamed, yeah. Definitely.” he muttered further.

She didn't have a response and her gaze fell to the box at his feet, staying there. Sucking in a breath as Majima hadn't the strength to look at her, she pulled her energy back and nodded brightly.

“Okay. I'll tell him that,”

“The hell you won't,” Majima fought but there was no real threat in his voice. Yasuko had already turned to go back into the apartment. Flashing him a grin, she winked.

“Maybe I'll tell him that you said he was making dinner tonight!”

“Yeah, do that. Wait—,” he caught her with her hand on the door handle, “No, you tell him I told you to make dinner. That'll guarantee that he's cookin' instead.”

Her grin turned mischievous again and she opened the door, sending him off with a loud good-bye that he returned with a lopsided smile. Though he wanted to fish out another cig he picked up the box of chocolates instead, eating them one by one as he wandered the streets back to his apartment. The chocolates were gone by the time he reached his door and he made a note to not tell Yasuko he had also thoroughly spoiled his dinner.