#i'm narrowing it down as much as possible but the whole song fits SO well

[ohmytiredheart]

a soul with no king by aurora is THE king in yellow song of all time

[arteethst]

I. “This Empty Home.” Creepypasta/Slendermansion/Slenderverse fanfic.

Let's get this out of the way with a long author note:

Lord forgive me this is so random but I was thinking about what Tim got up to after/post Marble Hornets. Then that led to how he's in the whole Slendermansion that came to be. I'll try to make this as in character as I can, with my own silly headcanons on the side, so it MIGHT get a little fucked up. I just want to write. There will be other slenderverse and creepypastas in here trust like one whole big connected world except emh? They're still technically in the iterations but I'll make it work fr fr.

I wanna try to focus on different characters with each chapter as an introduction and story on their role in the Slendermansion. That's not all though, we'll also do some lore and plot so do not fret! Anyways, I'm genuinely open to any possible ideas/headcanons to slip on there, maybe even NON-PROSHIP romantic ships, as well as kind criticism for writing! I don't expect this to do good but I just wanted to make that stuff clear and I'm doing this for funsies! :3 Reblogs end up being appreciated and bragged over to my friends.

It was a quick stop at the gas station. Doing the whole routine of pumping and paying his gas, picking out coffee and a burger, and stopping in the bathroom. It didn't have much to offer but this crummy burger would do and at least it would take his mind off of what happened. Everything is fine. Is what he could remind himself when his mind wandered far off the road. He didn't know where he could go. He didn't know if anyone was after him for what happened.

Yes, the paranoia got to him enough to shave off his beard in the dingy lit bathroom. The leftover hair piled in the sink along with the droplets of blood from accidentally cutting himself. He rubbed the stubble and felt the cut was still fresh. The blood. The blood was a reminder. Wiping his tears washed away the blood on his fingertips, it felt like a flip switched in his brain and he left the bathroom to head out to his car.

The drive to New Jersey was long and loathsome torture for Tim with the radio, that had the same songs on repeat, and cigarettes accompanying him. He made it to Pennsylvania the next day and early in the afternoon. He rubbed his eyes as he pulled into the rest area, thank the map for that. He needed a nap cause' the coffee was a waste of money, his narrowed eyes spotted a familiar figure in the tree line. It's long limbs and blank face could haunt anyone. His eyes however were far too heavy to fight.

He snapped awake and a sharp gasp led to a coughing fit. He desperately reached into his coat pocket and struggled to open the bottle. Once he popped it open, he poured the rationed medication into his hand to lift up and swallow dryly. He would have to get more soon which meant going into a pharmacy, doing that would be more dreadful than he could handle right now.

He rested his forehead against the steering wheel, the cold leather cooled his head. He glanced up and there laid that damn mask. It was placed on the hood of his car and he cautiously got out. He looked over his shoulder while he snatched it off the car. There was a dried splatter of blood on it and he did his best to clean it off, it felt taunting. There was a strange pull to the mask and something within him condemned him to hover it closer. “No. No!” He cried out and dropped it on the ground.

He began to desperately stomp on it until it was unrecognizable. His eyes darted back to where he saw it in the tree line, there was nothing. He got back into his car and started the drive through the backroads, since traffic and shitty drivers would get him irritated enough to start chain-smoking. He wanted to save his pack for whatever came up and there was always something.

Something came sooner than expected. He was driving down an isolated road and that's when he noticed he had been driving without gas for who knows how long, his car came to a slow stop, enough to pull over. He pulled out his phone to check if he had service, which there was none, and looked up at the right time to see reflective green eyes shining from the ditch. It revealed itself to be a deer slowly climbing up to inspect the car. For Tim it was peaceful and irritating at the same time. The doe didn't have to worry about where to go next like he did because it ran across the road once he slammed his hand against the horn, “Damnit,” he mumbled to himself. This was not what he needed, let alone in the evening on a never-ending road. More deer followed behind the one that ran, it was almost funny to see how many started to cross the road now.

He sat there and watched the forest animals slowly cross the road, a few stopped to stare at Tim. He didn't like that but he figured they probably didn't like him either. He shook his head and stepped out of the car, to his surprise, the deer didn't run. They watched him retrieve behind his car to pop open the trunk, doe eyes and no eyes were on him. The nostalgic sound of television static hummed in his ears but he knew. Yep, he knew.

He straddled his bag on his back and whipped around. Frantically scanning the dark woods on each side of the road and finally spotted it. In the blink of an eye it was gone and now behind the herd of deer. He glared at it with the static getting louder, taking out his suitcase and a flashlight.

He never broke his stare even as he slammed the trunk shut, that sound scared off the remaining deer on the road. Tim stood in the middle of the road and he stood firm on his ground. His hand slid into his jacket and pulled out a pocket knife. He pointed the blade directly at that cheap suit to serve as a warning and a threat. Until he felt the tickle of an incoming coughing fit but that didn't stop him from what he was about to do. He let out a strangled roar and threw the knife forward with the hope to aim at it. He was just about to fall to his knees when the ground below him changed entirely, the scenery around him changed entirely as he found himself and his luggage in the middle of the woods. The cough still came and he fell forward anyways.

A few more pills were popped and the throbbing headache subsided. He picked up his flashlight and stood up on his own two feet again, the static was gone so that meant it was gone for now. A trail lay ahead of him, now he didn't know where he was and that earned a frustrated scream in itself. He thought it was over. He thought he was going to get better and leave Rosswood to leave all of this behind, and now it seems he would never be free. A dam of thoughts, memories, and worries flooded his head. Unknowingly, Tim had been holding in his breath. This was not the time to breakdown and give up now but that didn't stop the mixture of anger and resentment towards it. He wanted to spite it now if it was even possible to spite it so, he trudged along the trail.

Pages that looked just like the ones Alex used to scribble out were scattered along the trail and he picked up each of them. Aside from Marble Hornets and what happened. Alex was still someone he liked and he was a good guy. These pages were the last thing of him, in total he collected eight of them and shoved all of them into his bag. The path took turns before eventually coming straight and onto a dirt road. “Follow the dirt road," he grumbled. The road led into a driveway with a wide open, almost welcoming, gate. Now, Tim wasn't sure if this was private property or not but the condition of the house was questionable.

It looked run down and abandoned with no sign of life or well, he hoped for no signs of life. He came up to the front porch and checked the nearby windows. He hesitantly knocked with zero response coming after so he could take his chances and fumble with the rusted doorknob. The door actually creaked open and he staggered inside, despite the ugly appearance on the outside it was beautifully decorated and neat. There was also a copious amount of dust and spiders that he killed whenever one crawled too close for comfort. He searched the dark halls with his flashlight and opened countless doors for a self-guide tour of the place.

He found a few empty bedrooms that showed no clear signs of anyone actually living there at all. He picked a room and set his belongings in there right on the bed, another bed was across the room. Each of the rooms had two twin beds on each side as if the rooms were meant to be shared, the house made him think this is what a prison felt like. It was eerie and uncomfortable but it would be fine. He turned on a few of the lights and now he had a mental map of the home's layout. He stumbled upon a few interesting things too, the basement was made into a makeshift medical room with everything you could really need in first aid and medicine.

He made his way back upstairs and found the kitchen with nothing in the fridge and nothing in the cabinets. Tim figured he should check outside later too, maybe this house was on the market. It was a new low to do some squatting, his only justifications were his car breaking down and the creature following him all his life. He was going about back to the room he picked when a static buzzed its way into his head, coming in like a fly to lay maggots in his ear. An odd combination of voices saying different words somehow made a coherent sentence that spoke, “You're in my domain. Welcome home.” The voices came from behind him and at the end of the hall, there it was.

“What?” He spun around and immediately stepped back, “Home? This is what you call home?” and the voice gave a clear response, “Yes.” He genuinely could not believe it, unreal and wrong is what it was to him. “You can talk,” He muttered with this new information processing. “In a sense, yes, this is a translation.” It answered like that was a question.

Tim made the impolite move to run away back to the room and it watched. Back in the room, he swiped his belongings and spoke his thoughts aloud, “Hell no I'm not staying here. This is not a home.” He was just about to throw his suitcase out the window when the door swung open and it appeared in the doorway. “You're not leaving,” the voices raised with each word. “I am!” He argued back and tossed his suitcase out the window, throwing a leg over to make his haste.

A fairly large hand slapped the back of his head and yanked his hair back, its wrist snapped like a branch as it dragged him back. His cries and screams went unheard. It looked down at him and tilted its head, it didn't say anything at all but Tim cursed and pulled away. “Stay or you will die.” It hissed, it was threatening him. Tim stumbled towards the bed and rubbed the back of his head, he flinched away when his suitcase manifested next to him on the bed and the window closed.

The final string of different voices uttered to him, “Welcome home, you work for me tomorrow.”

I HOPE THIS WAS A GOOD START AND GAVE A GOOD FIRST IMPRESSION!! :D THANK YOU FOR READING.

(Word count: Fuck if I know.)

[pcttymcrlecu]

Psssst, it’s me! Your fic exchange writer! I hope you are as excited as I am for your fic! I have a couple quick questions for you so I can get started.

Love the list of players you have! Any chance you could give me a top 3? As a refresher, here is your list of gorgeous men: Andrei Svechnikov, Adrian Kempe, William Nylander, Josh Anderson, Brock Boeser, Pierre-Luc Dubois, Erik Johnson, Anthony Beauvillier, Nico Hischier, Colton Parayko, Mat Barzal, John Marino, Quinn Hughes, Elias Petterson, K'Andre Miller. (Can you see why I need you to narrow it down!? Your taste is excellent.)

Are there any songs or lyrics or quotes you love that you would like to see put into your fic?

If you do Spotify wrapped, what are two songs on there that fit your vibe?

What are the themes that have you kicking your feet? What themes would you be bummed out to receive?

Do you prefer reader-based fics or OC? If so, do you have a name preference?

You will be getting a happy ending! But would you perfect for it to be a full comfort fic, or have some angst to it as well?

hiii!! sorry this is a little late response 🫣 i am super duper excited though!!

I'm going to hide the answers under a read more so as to not bother people!

As a top three, I would probably choose (in no particular order): Andrei Svechnikov (I just adore him more than words can say), I am in my William Nylander era and because John Marino is new to my list this time around, I'll go with him!

Oooh I can definitely offer up some kind of input there but feel free to literally ignore it entirely. I do enjoy the whole vibe of At My Worst by Pink Sweat$ and Kehlani but also love Kodaline's Wherever You Are or these lyrics have recently struck a chord with me recently "I'm not a solider/But I'll fight through our darkest of days/Get on my shoulders/And I'll carry you all of the way" and also "I wanna slow dance in the living room like/We're eighteen at senior prom and grow/Old with someone who makes me feel young"

I don't do Spotify wrapped but I do use apple replay so hopefully that's fine for you as well! For this year: I think my vibe has been either anthemic or angsty so I'll give you one of each ahah - I'm Still Standing by Elton John and Unsteady by X-Ambassadors.

Anything Friends-to-Lovers/Idiots-to-lovers/the whole Requited-Unrequited Love thing gets me giddy all the time. Oh and how could I possibly forget Fake Dating. I'm a true hopeless romantic at heart so honestly if it could fit into the plot of a 90s/early 00s Rom-Com, it'll make my little heart sing. I really dislike miscommunication(in the sense of people not talking to each other - lost in translation/communication is okay). I'm not a big fan of pregancies (I prefer fun aunt/uncle/cousin vibes) but apart from that I'm not going to lie I'm pretty open, so long as it makes sense.

I like both honestly so I'm going to say it's up to you and what you're most comfortable with (I don't want to handcuff you too much) but it you want a firm response just let me know.

If it's 100% a happy ending, I don't mind a little bit of angst thrown in, you know - for character/dynamic development but I also would't be opposed to snuggling up with a cup of cocoa and the most wonderful piece of comfort prose to just destress a little.

I feel like I half answered a lot of your questions but please if anything is unclear and you need more clarification or you just want me to be decisive for once, let me know ☺️

[goatchulu]

jealous! lucifer x gender neutral! reader

Genre: fluff, ig? slight smut in the end.

Fandom: obey me!

Prompt: you find yourself in a fake relationship, and now you're introducing your "boyfriend" to the demom brothers. they don't take it so well, especially lucifer.

Warnings: mentions of drinking, mentions of harassment and stalking, they make out in the end, reader's gender is unmentioned for your imagination (and inclusion).

lucifer takes another swig of his whisky, a slight burning sensation lingering on his throat. no matter the amount of alcohol he consumed that night, he couldn't escape the bitter feeling that was left inside his chest.

the two of you have been hitting it off pretty well for the past few weeks, if he could say so himself. the harmless complimenting and the subtle glancing had turned into ardent flirting and shows of affection overtime. you two were finally going somewhere with your mutual pinning, or so he thought.

lucifer didn't think his small (not so small) crush on you would lead anywhere, really. nor did he think you would reciprocate his infatuation. but with all the friendly interactions you had of late, anyone would assume you two were together in a romantic light.

now look, lucifer prides himself as a person. he was assertive, efficient, productive, level-headed and the voice of reason when stress is most prominent. but as a lover? lucifer wasn't so sure. he assumed you'd like someone more jolly and eccentric like mammon or someone more confident and charismatic like asmodeus. he didn't expect for you to even spare him a second glance when it came to the dating game. lucifer was a busy man after all, and he wasn't the most expressive when it came to emotions; not very ideal for a lover.

but what lucifer also did not expect was for you to bring home a common demon boy and introduce him as your significant other.

let's just say that all the built up tension and courting were all ruined by a single dinner party.

you had gathered all the demon brothers earlier that morning, claiming you had an important announcement to make. you went as far as inviting diavolo and his loyal butler, barbatos, to spend the evening over for dinner. they thanked you for the invitation, but they unfortunately, could not attend because of their hectic schedules.

lucifer, on the other hand, was more than happy to accept your invitation (though he was quick to cover up the smile he held when you came up to him). seeing as he already lives under the same roof as you, anways. his happiness would soon be diminished and grinded into dirty, pathetic, dust, though.

lucifer's eyes narrow as mammon's loud laughter bounces off the walls of the dining room. lucienne, your "boyfriend", had managed to crack the demon up with one of his silly stories about a strange elderly wizard that sold expensive medication made out of fairy wings that turned out to just be bedazzled dragon fly wings. he worked wonders with the avatar of greed, considering the fact that just a moment ago, mammon was cursing in jealousy and resentment as you sat with your newly introduced boyfriend.

luficer would've told mammon to shut up, but he feared saying something far more vulgar out of anger. the previous tension was already eased into a more domesticated athmosphere (credits to lucienne's charm and humor), lucifer didn't want to ruin dinner for his brothers, and especially not for you.

i mean, lucifer felt betrayed, he felt used and-- and played. how could you lead him on like this? but deep inside, he knew there was something else. he felt disappointed, he felt defeated, he felt crushed, he wished he'd done something sooner before this lucienne stole you away from him.

but anyways, back to the dinner party.

"you seem unusually quiet, lucy." asmo teases from across lucifer's seat. the phrase seems to capture everyone's attention, all eyes now on the grimacing and glaring lucifer.

"asmo's right, you haven't uttered a word since lucienne arrived, lucifer. is something wrong?" you chime in, causing lucifer to perk up. the thought of you worrying about his state sent sparks into his heart, but they were quick to disappear when lucienne asks him the same question.

"i'm fine." he replies to your concern, unable to hide the venom that strung on to his words. this only causes asmodeus to snicker, and leviathan to sink deeper into his seat. everyone else watches in concern as lucifer downs another glass of demom whiskey. you're about to ask him again, unsure about his reply, but he stops you before you could even form a word.

"i said i'm fine."

the air is tense, until eventually, mammon gasps out of nowhere. "don't tell me! lucifer is jealous!!~" he repeats in a sing song manner, only irking lucifer even further. no one else speaks up, the whole situation akward enough.

after a while, though, lucienne speaks up. he gestures at mammon, especially. hoping to stop the demon from escalating the situation. "hey mammon, wanna hear about that one time i accidentally professed my love for my eight grade math teacher?" mammon only settles back into his seat, ready for another laughing fit. the avatar of pride snaps at this, slamming his fists down the table before abruptly excusing himself with a "i have something to do."

he spares you one last glance. his heart aching with guilt from the way you had lowered your head in shame. lucifer didn't want to make you feel like he owned you, or that you weren't allowed to be with someone else... he just, he has enough reason to justify his anger right now and he really wants to dwell in it. he turns his head away from you, biting his lip to contain the guilt and pain that was threatening to seep out. he doesn't turn to look back as he walks away from the dining room in long and rushed strides.

lucifer walks down the dark hallways of lamentation, familiar with every nook and cranny the mansion had. he sighs in relief as his palm reaches out for a familiar door. it creaks as lucifer walks into his room, sounding just as glum as lucifer is.

he heads straight to his paperwork, silently hoping that they would provide him some sort of comfort. he tries to focus on anything but the thought of you or your unavailability, his mind barely processing any of the words that were printed out in front of him. he groans, his hands pulling on his jet black hair in frustration.

i mean, he should've expected this. lucienne was everything lucifer thought you would love. funny outgoing, caring, expressive, charismatic, a smooth talker and he looked at you with utmost respect and admiration. i mean, who in their right mind would choose old-schooled lucifer over the flawless lucienne?

you deserve lucienne and although lucifer thinks that no one in the three realms could ever deserve to call you theirs, he still thinks that lucienne is more deserving of you than lucifer could ever be. what were you doing to the poor demon? he was never one to admit defeat like this, and he especially wasn't the type of person that'd lower themself like this.

his rollercoaster of thoughts are interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. his ears already familiar with this particular knocking pattern. he can't help but straighten himself up, suddenly aware of the way his hair is all sprawled out. he slicks it down with saliva, muttering a small "enter" soon after he finshes checking on his appearance.

his mood lightens just a little bit at the sight of your face. as much as lucifer wants to hate you right now, he couldn't possibly feel that way towards you. never, not in a quadrillion light years.

you sit down in front of him, a genuine look of concern on your face. this makes lucifer visibly frown, catching you a bit off guard. "i wanted to talk to you about something, lucifer." his eyes grow curious and a bit hopeful, wishing it were about something that would distract him from the current situation or give him even the tiniest bit of closure.

"it's about lucienne." and once again, you manage to crush all his hope with only a few words. lucifer swears that if he hears that name one more time, he would personally shove your lovely boyfriend down the deepest depths of the underworld.

you watch his brows furrow and his fist tighten on his quill. lucifer looks far from happy to hear you talk about your significant other right now. "look, i know you'd rather not hear about lucienne again, but it's really really important and i want you to just hear me out. just this once, please?"

lucifer couldn't stand the pleading look you were giving him. your puppy eyes were a weapon that you used on him often, and they always managed to work. a tired sigh leaves his lips, if it meant getting it over with then he'd listen. "fine," he snaps, not before rubbing at his temple in obvious distress. he's said fine, but his body language told you otherwise.

"someone's kind of harassing lucienne at the moment. stalking him, giving him unwanted gifts and constantly professing their love for him when he's told them multiple times that it made him uncomfortable. they're an admirer of some sorts. i'm posing as lucienne's lover in hopes that they'd back off for a while, but i wanted to see if you and diavolo could do some actual help. it's worrisome, really. and it's been stressing lucienne out for the past couple of weeks. pretending to be his significant other is the most i can do for him, i hope you understand."

lucifer only freezes in shock, guilt washing over him all so suddenly. you call out for him, effectively snapping him out of his short daze. of course you'd offer to help lucienne out, you've always been a kind person. in lucifer's eyes, atleast. he coughs into his hand, avoiding eye contact with you as he degrades himself for his previous selfishness.

"of course, i'll do my best to make sure this harasser is punished. the school and i will ensure that lucienne won't be seeing this stalker anytime soon. just keep supporting him like this, i suppose. tell him he can sleep here for the night. thank you for informing me about this." you smile at lucifer's response, relief overwhelming your senses. if this meant that lucienne was finally going to be safe and unbothered, you were overjoyed.

you jump at lucifer, thanking him, all the while, squeezing the life out of him. his heart races impossibly fast at the gesture, and you can't help but smirk at the red that tainted his cheeks. "just so you know, i still like you. and only you, lucy."

his breath comes to a halt. he was no longer able to contain the butterflies that crowded his stomach; shock and well, pure bliss apparent on his face. "does this mean i can kiss you?"

"do anything as you please."

lucifer lunges at you. capturing your lips into a hungry and impatient kiss. his hands roam all over your torso, looking for anything he could hold onto. he settles for your waist and you drape your hands over his shoulders. heaven knows how long he's been waiting for this moment.

he manages to stumble through his room, leading you two to his bed. you part as he pushes you down to sit at the end of his king sized bed. he grins at the sight of you, disheveled and thirsty for more. the avatar of pride couldn't help but be excited for the faces you'll make in the unholy endeavors he's planning for you. he'll devour you, tear apart every innocent limb you have in your body. his imagination runs wild as he thinks of the many ways he'd mark you as his, exhibit you to the world and spread you wide open for his contenders to see. for them to know just how pathetic and needy lucifer could make you in an instant.

he bends down to kiss you again, pushing against your tounge with his own. he squeezes your thighs, digging his nails deep into the skin under the cloth still covering you. groans and grunts leave your lips as he countinues to caress your plush thighs.

as you two part, panting, a newfound possessiveness overtakes lucifer's eyes.

"you're mine."

[weirwoodking]

who do you think will be on the throne at the end? is there a chance it will be a woman? do you agree with the theory that bran will be king in the north bc he symbolizes winterfell? idk if i see dany on the throne bc i don't feel like she belongs in westeros, i think she would be better off with a throne on the other side of the narrow sea but i really don't know what i'm saying

It’s very hard to make predictions for ADOS, because we don’t have TWOW yet. So much can change about the story and the characters in one book, thematically and narratively. Think of how much the plot was influenced by just that final Bran chapter in ADWD. 

But, here I go anyway.

My short answer is: no one. (And no, I don’t mean Arya)

Let’s get into it.

Part 1: How the Show Tainted Everyone’s Brains

Obviously, a lot of people care about the Iron Throne plot. Sometimes too much. I do believe that this is mostly because of how much the HBO show changed everything about the story to make the Iron Throne seem like it was more important than anything else. Like promotional posters of all the actors each sitting on the throne, the name of the series itself being changed to “Game of Thrones”, actors getting asked in every interview “who do you think should get the Iron Throne?” as if it’s the last cupcake at a birthday party that everyone’s fighting over, the final episode was titled “The Iron Throne”. The marketing for everything was “it’s the fight for the Throne!” up through the eighth season. It made the object itself become a huge pop culture symbol.

It almost felt like the show was trying to make it seem like the goal of the Night King (a character not in the books) was to sit on the Iron Throne! The show portrayed it as if the Others were just a little distraction that needed to be dealt with so the characters could get back to arguing over the Porcupine Chair. However, in ASOIAF, it’s the exact opposite. The Porcupine Chair is what’s distracting the characters from the real conflict, the Others.

It’s almost comical how that has somewhat transferred over into the fandom, the “game of thrones” is what’s keeping everyone from focusing on what really matters, the “song of ice and fire”.

Part 2: GRRM’s Quote

It wasn't easy for me. I didn't want to give away my books. Every character has a different end. I told them who would be on the Iron Throne, and I told them some big twists like Hodor and "hold the door", and Stannis' decision to burn his daughter. We didn't get to everybody by any means.

-George R.R. Martin

So, he “told them who would be on the Iron Throne”. Something important about this quote is that he doesn’t say who. And, of course, the Iron Throne gets destroyed at the end of the show anyway. Show!Bran doesn’t really “end up on the Iron Throne”. Show!Dany does. George never said that who “ends up” on it in the books is who ends up on it in the show. He’s said that the Shireen thing and the Hodor thing will “happen very differently” in the books anyway. And, of course, another major part of that quote is “every character has a different end”.

I don’t think that who sits the Iron Throne last is necessarily going to be the ruler of Westeros at the end. For example, Cersei (or Aegon) may be the last person to sit the Iron Throne. Or even Euron (however, even though his goal is to rule post-apocalyptic Westeros as a god from the Iron Throne, I don’t think he’ll actually get there). If wildfire is hot enough to melt iron, I could see the throne being destroyed during whatever fiery shenanigans go down with Cersei and JonCon in TWOW. I think it would be fitting for the fight over the throne to end in the next book. ‘Cause the winds of winter are coming, baby, and it’s gonna be time to start dreaming of spring.

Part 3: The Weirwood King

The idea/theory of Bran becoming King has been around for a long time, long before the HBO show even started airing. This is because of the Celtic myth of King Brân the Blessed, whose name means “Blessed Crow” or “Blessed Raven” in Welsh. Other than the obvious connection with the name, Brân the Blessed’s story involves a magic cauldron that can bring the dead back to life. 

In the myth, Brân’s head is cut off and continues talking (think of how Bran’s most powerful aspect is the magical powers of his mind), because in Celtic mythology the head is believed to be where the soul is.

Celts had a reputation as head hunters. According to Paul Jacobsthal, "Amongst the Celts the human head was venerated above all else, since the head was to the Celt the soul, centre of the emotions as well as of life itself, a symbol of divinity and of the powers of the otherworld." (source)

Catch that? “Otherworld”. There is another myth (Irish, specifically) called the Voyage of Bran, in which the title character goes on a quest to the Otherworld. The Otherworld is a supernatural realm in Celtic mythology. It is also where the sidhe (a.k.a. aos sí) live. Remember, the sidhe are what George has said the Others are inspired by. In Irish mythology, the Otherworld is called Tír na nÓg, Mag Mell and Emain Ablach, in Welsh mythology it’s called Annwn, and in Arthurian legend it’s called Avalon. Fun fact, “Avalon” was the title of the novel George was writing when he had suddenly had the idea of a scene in which a young boy and his brothers see a beheading and then find a litter of direwolf pups in the snow. And so ASOIAF happened.

I’ll leave that there, and try not to go down the great big rabbit-hole of Celtic (and other cultures) mythology connections in ASOIAF. The takeaway is: ASOIAF has been influenced by these myths.

I do believe that Bran is going to be King. Not just because of his ties to this mythology, but also because of symbolism in his own story. The most notable one being…

Under the hill, the broken boy sat upon a weirwood throne, listening to whispers in the dark as ravens walked up and down his arms.

[...]

The singers made Bran a throne of his own, like the one Lord Brynden sat, white weirwood flecked with red, dead branches woven through living roots. 

[...]

His father and the black pool and the godswood faded and were gone and he was back in the cavern, the pale thick roots of his weirwood throne cradling his limbs as a mother does a child. 

- Bran III, A Dance with Dragons

Bran is also the only one of the Stark kids who still thinks of himself as royalty:

What was he now? Only Bran the broken boy, Brandon of House Stark, prince of a lost kingdom, lord of a burned castle, heir to ruins.

- Bran III, A Dance with Dragons

Bran is the heir to Winterfell. It doesn’t matter if Robb named Jon his heir in his will, the will was written under the pretense that Bran and Rickon were dead.

However, Bran doesn’t have any connection to the Iron Throne. It’s far more likely that he would sit on a weirwood throne, because of, y’know, everything about his story. So, if Bran was King of the Seven Kingdoms, I don’t think it would be on the Pincushion Stool.

If Bran is king of the realm, I do think there would still be a separate Lord/Lady of Winterfell, but I do think that there’s a possibility of a Pevensie siblings ending, where all the Stark kids would rule together as the Lords and Ladies and Winterfell.

Something that I’ve never really seen talked about regarding the idea of Bran becoming King of the Seven Kingdoms is the religious differences between the North and the southern regions of Westeros. Of course, the show didn’t deal with this at all. For fuck’s sake, they had Cersei blow up the Westerosi verison of the Vatican and face no backlash. It was so laughably absurd how Show!Cersei’s destructive reign was shown to have like… zero impact on the Seven Kingdoms. 

In short, I’m not too sure that the Kingdom who is majority Faith of the Seven worshippers would react too well to a weirwood-tree-Old-Gods-warg-wizard-king. I mean, when Janos Slynt finds out Jon is a warg he calls him a “thing”, a “creature”, and a “beastling that is not fit to live”, and wanted to execute him not just for being a turncloak but for being a warg as well. And Jojen warns Bran of these things, saying that his own folk may want to kill him if they know what he is.

But… all of that anti-magic attitude might not matter after night falls. 

Part 4: Winter is Coming

I believe that the Long Night is going to be very devastating for the Seven Kingdoms.

Martin is a big believer in making things have meaningful, permanent consequences in his stories. I don’t think that an apocalyptic event like the Long Night is something that’s just gonna get dealt with in a quick snap and have no lasting effect.

A lot of people are going to die. I don’t mean main characters, I mean people that would not survive a normal winter and sure as hell won’t be prepared for this one. Westeros’s food stores have been severely depleted by the War of the Five Kings, and we’ve been told multiple times in the text (particularly AFFC and ADWD) that feeding people during this winter is going to be extremely hard.

Besides that… the whole, uh, invasion of the eldritch ice beings thing might have a bit of an impact on the realm. 

I won’t go into depth about how the Seven Kingdoms will be affected by the Long Night, ‘cause we really have no idea. But, however it all goes down, I do think it will have lasting changes for the people of Westeros. The impact that it leaves may make the concept of Bran being a wizard-king more acceptable. “Oh, well we’ve just seen zombies and winter elves, so what’s too surprising about a magical greenseer warg king?” I think that Westerosi culture becoming more aware and accepting of the existence of magic is the only way that Bran could become the king of the whole realm. The Westeros at the end of the series is not going to be the place that it was at the beginning.

Part 5: Dany: A Home, Not a Throne

To sum up my thoughts on our dragon girl, I don’t think Dany will end up on the Spiky Toilet. I don’t want Dany to be on the Spiky Toilet.

Now, my personal speculation (which a lot of people disagree with, which is fine) is that Dany will never see King’s Landing before the Long Night. I personally don’t think that Dany will ever meet Aegon or Cersei. I don’t see there being enough time in the story for that. Yes, GRRM said that there will be a second Dance of the Dragons, but he also said that the second Dance does not have to involve Dany. He may have originally planned for it to be Aegon and Dany, but probably not once the Meereenese Knot happened.

The Meereenese Knot is what Dany’s ADWD plot is referred to as. GRRM did not intend for Dany to stay in Meereen as long as she has, but because of his “gardener” style of writing, that’s where the story led him. GRRM has said that one of the hardest parts of writing the Meereen plotline (which involves Dany, Barristan, Quentyn, Tyrion, and Victarion) is trying to find a way to cut the plot knot he accidentally got himself stuck in. He has said that Tyrion and Dany will meet towards the end of TWOW, which means that Dany will most likely be spending a large portion of her story with the Dothraki. That part is a completely blank page, but I believe that Dany will meet Tyrion possibly ¾ of the way into the book, and sail for Westeros at the end.

I won’t write a full meta about this here (because that’s not what this post is about), but to summarize my prediction: Aegon VS Cersei is going to be the battle in King’s Landing, a battle which will destroy the city. Dany (who has already rejected sailing for the Throne multiple times) will still be stuck in Essos, dealing with everything she’s still got going on, and will sail for Westeros at the end. Not for the Throne, but to go North for the real fight (remember that Marwyn is also on his way to Meereen to tell Dany that they need her).

Because Dany's purpose is not to fight for the Iron Throne, it’s to fight the Others. Dany (fire, light, and life) VS the Others (ice, darkness, and death) is the main thing the title refers to:

“Well of course the two outlying ones, the things that are going on north of the Wall and Daenerys Targaryen on the other continent with her dragons are of course the Ice and Fire of the title, the Song of Ice and Fire.” 

- George R.R. Martin, 2016

One of the most important excerpts that shows us where Dany’s story is headed is this:

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper's rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. The other was a nightmare, and I have only now awakened.

- Daenerys III, A Storm a Swords

Dany has a short prophetic “this is what I was meant to do” dream. Dany could possibly have more dreams about the Others in TWOW, visions that will make what Marwyn has to tell her more believable. It’s not like that dream was the only one Dany has had that alludes to the winter threat, Dany has had visions about this since book one:

The red door was so far ahead of her, and she could feel the icy breath behind, sweeping up on her. If it caught her she would die a death that was more than death, howling forever alone in the darkness. She began to run.

- Dany IX, A Game of Thrones

Anyway, there’s just a lot more foreshadowing in the plot that this is what Dany is meant to do. I think adding in another conflict into her story once she leaves Meereen would make the story feel bloated and would severely fuck up the pacing.

I don’t think Dany will ever see the Iron Throne. The themes of her story have never been about her wanting the Iron Throne for what it is, but for what it represents to her. It represents the possibility of a home and of feeling safe for the first time in her life, what Dany truly wants. I think that it’s absolutely fine if Dany never sees the Throne or sits on it, and that it makes more sense for her narrative arc if she discovers that she can find a home somewhere else, not necessarily where she thought it would be. 

Part 6: Final Thoughts

So, in conclusion, I don’t really give a shit who ends up placing their ass on the Forbidden Laz-E-Boy, I care about the War for the Dawn. I care about seeing the characters I’ve followed for the past five books coming together to fight the real conflict of A Song of Ice and Fire. Also, even if we do get a Scouring of the Shire-type post-climax for ASOIAF, it doesn’t matter. People don’t see the Scouring of the Shire as the climax of Lord of the Rings, they see the climax as Aragorn leading the forces of good against the forces of evil and Frodo and Sam throwing the One Ring into Mount Doom. Whatever ending resolution comes after the climax of ASOIAF, it doesn’t change what the climax is.

"Do you think your brother's war is more important than ours?" the old man barked.

Jon chewed his lip. The raven flapped its wings at him. "War, war, war, war," it sang.

"It's not," Mormont told him. "Gods save us, boy, you're not blind and you're not stupid. When dead men come hunting in the night, do you think it matters who sits the Iron Throne?"

"No." Jon had not thought of it that way.

- Jon IX, A Game of Thrones

TL;DR:

My prediction: Cersei will be the last person to sit the Iron Throne, which will be destroyed in the Wildfire of King’s Landing. After the Long Night devastates the Seven Kingdoms, Bran will become the King of this new Westeros that has been majorly affected by the return of magic. Also, it would be real nice if Dany found her red door.

God I hope my rambling made sense

[rockysavannah]

Videl vs. Pan! A Bored Burp-Off!

Description:

WARNING THIS STORY CONTAINS: Female Burping.

If you’re not into any of the above things, please do not read!

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This could be considered a distant sequel to 'Bulma vs Chi-Chi! A Baby Shower Burping Contest!'.

Pan and Videl are sitting at home one day, bored out of their minds. After a couple of accidental eructations from the pair, they decide to have a burping contest, with a wager set in place to make it more interesting. Will Videl achieve victory, or will her daughter dominate? There’s only one way to find out.

I hope you like it. Any constructive criticism in the comments section is welcome.

============

Originally uploaded back on March 7th, 2017 on Writing.com.

This story was co-written with Jokermask18/JWAPPEL in my interactive.

Since Writing.com basically requires people to need a paid membership in order to do anything on their website, it’s practically impossible for many people to write and read there. Therefore, I’ve decided to post some of the chapters from my interactives onto my other accounts as full-fledged stories so that they can reach a wider audience.

============

The Art of the Thumbnail is a blend of two images. (Since no one had drawn this concept...).

Videl by Seiya-Dbz-Fan.

Pan by Krizart-DA.

Text by me and Jokermask18/JWAPPEL.

============

Son Videl, Son Pan, and Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z, Dragon Ball GT, and Dragon Ball Super © Funimation, Toei Animation, Shueisha and Akira Toriyama

(A/N: This is a collaboration with Jokermask18 A.K.A. JWAPPEL.)

Content Advisory! This story contains:

Female Hyper Belching

Taunting

Series: Dragon Ball

Characters: Son Videl, Son Pan

Synopsis: Videl and Pan try to alleviate their boredom by having some gassy fun.

If you’re not into any of the above things, please do not read!

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It was a quiet Saturday afternoon for the family of Son Gohan. The man of the house was out on business, leaving his wonderful wife and daughter to fend off the onslaught of boredom by themselves. The duo engaged in a multitude of recreational activities—watching television shows and movies, playing video and board games, even training—but nothing could keep their interests for more than a few minutes at best. Both were currently lounging around in the living room, Pan lied half-asleep on the couch and Videl was playing with a paddleball. Videl checked the clock and her eyes widened at the time.

“Oh no, it’s almost dinner time!” she exclaimed, loudly enough to capture the attention of her daughter, “I better get cooking!”

“…Huh?” Pan muttered groggily, until the weight of those words truly hit her, “Wait, dinner?! That sounds great! I’m starving!”

The eleven-year-old girl’s sudden burst of energy got a small chuckle out of her mother, “Well, you’ll have to ‘starve’ for a little longer, because it’ll take awhile to make enough food to satisfy your appetite.”

Pan’s lips curled downward, “Can I at least get a soda to hold me over.”

With an approving nod from her mother, Pan moved faster than a normal human could track, seemingly vanishing into thin air for a split second, before returning to the same spot, only with a root beer in hand. While Videl was getting up from her chair and heading for the kitchen, Pan began chugging the contents of her can. The carbonated beverage cascaded down her esophagus before landing in the pits of her stomach, mixing with the boiling green acids that were already dwelling there, and forming large bubbles of gas from the chemical reaction. Pan put her right hand on her belly when she heard a low rumbling deep inside. She felt pockets of air shift around within her tummy, before some of it was dislodged and evicted up a valve at the top of the stomach. Pan barely had time to register what happened before a juicy belch blasted past her lips, catching her by surprise. Videl stopped in the kitchen and turned to look at her daughter, who just sported a look of content on her face.

“That felt good,” Pan commented with a giggle.

“Pan, you should show better manners than that,” Videl reprimanded with a stereotypical parental finger pointing.

Pan scoffed internally, wishing that her mom would loosen up once in a while, like what her dad said she was like as a teenager. Alas, Videl’s acceptance of her role as a housewife had meant that she sacrificed much of her cooler (in Pan’s opinion), tomboyish personality, so it was unlikely to happen anytime soon.

Videl was about to get the ingredients and kitchen ware needed to make a meal fit for a demi- and quarter-Saiyan, but was stricken with a sudden pang of thirst. Wanting to quickly quench it before getting to work, she fished through the fridge and picked out a can of Jetap, before popping it open and spraying some of the alcoholic liquid on her cheeks. Pan snickered at this, while Videl took a large swig of her drink, draining the can in a matter of seconds. Once the intoxicated fluid splashed into her gut, a similar reaction that happened in Pan’s abdominal area occurred here too. As soon as Videl removed the can from her mouth, a beery burp rippled out of it, having the length, volume, and smell to be comparable to her daughter. When the three-second-long eructation ended, Videl’s cheeks lit up in a scarlet flash.

“Ooohhh my goodness! Excuse me!” she apologized with her left hand clasped over her mouth.

There was a period of silence in the house before the juvenile giggling of the youngest Son member promptly shattered it. “Nice one, Mom! I didn’t think… that you had… it in you!” her compliments were intersped by fits of laughter.

Videl’s level of embarrassment continued to grow, “T-that was just an accident, sweetie. I didn’t mean to.”

Pan rolled her eyes and gave her an unconvinced smirk, “Not buying it, Mom. Dad told me how much of a tomboy you were back in the day and I bet that you miss that time.”

Videl widened her light blue irises, baffled at how her adolescent daughter managed to back her into a corner like this. Then, she started to think about Pan’s words; about how her ‘tough girl’ days were when she was at her coolest. But that was just a persona, right? An act that she didn’t need to keep up when she met her high school sweetheart. Without that, she felt comfortable sporting a more feminine appearance, like her wedding gown when she married Gohan, or the red dress and black leggings when she attended Bulma’s ‘39th’ birthday party. On the other hand, her feistier attitude did earn her some respect from her former classmates at Orange Star High School, and she still found some amusement when she thought back to the times that she beat various members of the student body in burping contests. Perhaps it would not hurt to relive some of that glory one more time.

“Maybe… you have a point,” Videl admitted.

Pan’s grin grew wider, “Great, because I’ve got an idea for curing our boredom: a burping contest!”

If possible, the Son matriarch’s eyes grew wider still, “Really? Well, what are the stakes?”

Pan tapped a finger on her chin in thought, “If I win, you order as much food as I want, when I want, for the next three months; If you win, I’ll do all of yours and dad’s chores on top of my own for the same time.”

Videl pondered Pan’s proposition. The risk was great, but so was the reward. After a few moments, she reached her decision, “Game on, young lady,” Videl answered with a smirk that matched her daughter’s, finally regaining her uncouth appreciation for the immature art of burping.

“Cool!” Pan’s eyes shone in anticipation, thinking that this would make for a gross, but fun, bonding experience.

Videl pulled out at least eight more cans of soda from the fridge and divided them between herself and Pan. After all, one needed the right ammunition for this kind of thing. Pan reached for her first one and chugged the whole thing in less than a minute! With a smirk, she then thumped her chest and let out a nasty sounding burp that sounded like it came from a hardened trucker. Videl was actually a little proud of her for that. That is, until she remembered she was looking at her competitor. The daughter of Mister Satan figured her turn was up and attempted to copy her daughter's opening move. Unfortunately, she ended up choking on most of the soda and launched into a coughing fit.

“You're losing Mommy,” Pan taunted in a sing-song voice before belching again. This one was ever bigger than the last, being five seconds long!

Videl's eyes narrowed as her competitive fire was beginning to reignite, “I'm not finished yet!” She began chugging her second soda, this time nearly matching her daughter's former pace. Pan was on her second soda as well, though sipping it in a leisurely fashion. It was clear she wasn't worried and this made Videl all the more angry.

Thumping her chest, the daughter of Mr. Satan unleashed her first real belch in the contest. It was decent, though only half as big as Pan's first attempt. Videl scowled, knowing she'd once been able to do much better. Pan responded with another huge belch that won her the bout and began opening her third can. Videl did the same and managed to start off with a belch that surpassed her daughter's previous attempt! The good feeling that came with that was quickly destroyed when Pan unleashed a belch that blew her mother's hair back! Once again, the daughter of Mister Satan felt oddly proud even as she began opening her fourth can. This truly was a bonding experience.

The contest continued on in this way. Videl had actually started to regain some of her old skill but it didn't seem to help. Pan dominated each bout and only grew cockier over time. “Get ready to order Mama, cause I am hungry!” The daughter of Mister Satan only scowled more deeply at this taunt. She refused to let her daughter win. It wasn't just about what losing would cost her either. Now, it was about pride.

But honestly, Videl was getting flustered. She had to admit that her kid was good. Scratch that, Pan was very, very good. As they went through what was now the seventh can for both of them, mother and daughter soon realized that it was almost over. There were only two cans left and one of them would belong to the victor. It was clear from her grin that Pan believed she knew which one it would be. “Ready to give up?”

But Videl refused. If there was anything left over from the Videl of old, it was that. She wondered, not for the first time, just what had happened to that girl? The tomboy who had dominated boy and girl alike in belching contests since she was seven! She even remembered winning a few farting contests in her time. Looking at Pan, she realized that she missed those times. She wanted them back. It was time for her to start thinking like the old Videl again, but how?

After the duo each finished their seventh can, Pan effortlessly belted out another first class burp. Though it was comparatively less powerful than her previous ones, it compensated with an odor that made the matriarch of the Son household go green in the gills. While Videl, with watery eyes, was coughing and trying to fan away the foul fumes, Pan was looking bored. Sure, she was certain that she would be able to pig out on as much food as she wanted to when this was over, which definitely appealed to her Saiyan nature, but there was another thing that her alien instincts craved: a good fight. Her father had gone on about how unladylike and badass her mother was as a youth, so Pan expected at least something resembling a challenge, just to make her victory feel more earned.

However, right now Videl was not proving those stories true at all. In fact, her burps were barely able to get much reaction out of Pan aside from condescending amusement. Either the stories were lies or Videl had simply lost her edge. In any case, Pan found it disappointing, not simply because of the aforementioned lack of challenge, but because she had a lot of respect for mommy dearest. All of the tomboyish tales about Videl, not just of how she shattered gender stereotypes by utterly decimating sexist boys in belching contests, but also of her beating up bullies and leaping into danger to stop criminals. It helped influence Pan into shaping her personality to mimic the mother that she idolized, both as a tomboy and as a hero.

Meanwhile, Videl’s mind raced to find a way to gain an edge over her daughter. Maybe she could use the Dragon Balls to wish for her old personality back. No, that would seem like a waste to use something so powerful to win such a juvenile event. Besides, what would Gohan say about it when he returned home? Nevertheless, if she cannot do that, then how will the daughter of Mister Satan triumph over the gaseous greatness of Pan? Suddenly, she thought back to what her husband said when he taught her how to fly all those years ago.

He said that you have to focus your energy from your stomach, she recalled in her head. Then, she also flashed back to when she heard Gohan say that his mentor, Piccolo, could fire ki blasts from his mouth, Wait a minute. That’s it! Videl breathed deeply and concentrated hard, gulping down air to fuel her belch. She soon felt a spark of ki in her belly and smiled, Alright, she thought, silently thanking Gohan and Piccolo for not teaching Pan telepathy, I’m on the right track, but I should try to limit how much ki I use. Otherwise, Pan will know what I’m up to and just copy me, then, I’ll be screwed.

And so, the metaphysical energy continued to manifest in her stomach, acting like fire boiling water to produce steam as it stirred up more gas than any normal human ever could. When she felt enough build up, Videl proudly forced out the gas using her ki creating a shockwave that blew away Pan’s orange bandana. When it finished, Videl sighed in relief and giggled at the befuddled face of her daughter.

“Wh-what was that?!” Pan exclaimed.

“Well, Honey, I guess I was just a little rusty,” Videl replied, lips curled up into a smirk.

Pan narrowed her eyes in suspicion. She may be somewhat naïve, but she was not stupid. The daughter of Son Gohan found it weird that her mom could just pull out a totally awesome eructation at the eleventh hour after a series of mediocre burps. In addition, Pan could have sworn that she felt a minuscule ember of ki coming from her mother, specifically in her tummy.

Maybe… The quasi-Saiyan pondered for a moment, before dismissing the idea entirely, There’s no way. That’s just ridiculous. She probably just got lucky, that’s all.

Putting the notion aside, Pan opted to pop open her eighth can of soda and began chugging it. Videl soon joined her and in a matter of seconds, both had completely drained their aluminum canisters of their sugary liquid contents. Pan patted her packed paunch playfully, feeling it press up against and peek out under her shirt. It was an expected result given that eight cans worth of delicious carbonated goodness filled that gut of hers, not including the can that she had taken a swig of before the contest officially began. Videl rubbed her own bulging belly, starting to wonder how this competition would affect her figure afterward. However, she pushed that thought out for the moment, instead focusing on the here and now.

“Well, do you want to start the final bout, little lady?” Videl inquired with a smirk.

“Sure, but you’ll regret it, trust me,” Pan replied, matching her mom’s smirk.

Pan proceeded to gobble down as much precious oxygen as possible, making her abdominal area inflate even more so. She held her breath, and after a while, she was starting to become blue in the face, which made Videl frown in worry. The mother was about to ask if her daughter was all right when Pan decided to unleash her outright abominable eructation right in her face. It was by far her greatest/grossest one in the whole competition. Pan’s oral expulsion of air lasted an astounding ten seconds, actually shattering some of the windows, which Pan had a feeling would come out of her allowance even if she won. However, the smell was again in a category of its own, as the guttural belch blast carried a sickly green cloud of gas out of Pan’s mouth. Said gas cloud was composed of an amalgamation of every food and drink that the Pan had devoured over the past week, which to a full blooded human would have been a month’s worth of nourishment.

“How was that, Mom?” Pan giggled smugly after finishing.

“Ohhh…” Videl moaned, wholly discombobulated, “That was so nasty! I think that I’m going to hurl!” she slapped both hands over her mouth to keep herself from doing so.

Pan giggled even louder, savoring her mother’s disgusted demeanor. Eventually, Videl regained her bearings and threw a piercing glare at her daughter, at which Pan only snickered, “I take it that you didn’t like my magnum opus.”

That straw broke the camel’s back, Screw it, Videl thought, I don’t know if it’s the lingering nausea or seething anger, but I’m going to put this brat in her place, no matter what! That’ll knock her arrogance ass down a peg.

Then, she got into a battle stance, her legs spreading out two feet apart and bending at a 90° angle, and closed her eyes. The quarter-Sayian cocked her left eyebrow, confused. “Uh, mom, what are you doing?”

However, Videl closed her eyes, tuned her  daughter out, and took deep breaths. Pan frowned at the silence, but widened her eyes as she felt something weird happen in her mother. Once again, the daughter of Mister Satan manifested her ki in her stomach, though now it was much larger, to the point that Pan could clearly sense it.

Huh? Why is there so much ki in her stomach? Unless… Pan thought, until her eyes widened in realization, It’s true! She did do it before and she’s doing it now!

As Pan was trying to process the current situation, Videl pressurized the gas in her stomach by charging up ki in order to increase the power of her burp. Meanwhile, a glow formed in her stomach, the heat of her ki causing her to sweat profusely. After a while, she felt a huge burst of energy finish building up pressure in her belly. This feeling made her smile in anticipation.

“Oh, boy, here it comes,” Videl exclaimed excitedly.

“Here what comes?” her offspring questioned.

Videl ignored Pan and used her energy to channel the gas out of her belly. The glow intensified as it, the ki and the gas traveled up her body before entering her mouth, causing her cheeks to bulge outward and filling Videl’s mouth with a light bright enough to make her puffed out cheeks translucent. Then, she raised her head slightly away from Pan to avoid possibly hurting her and became the first person in history to burp out a blast of energy.

“*buuuUUUrrrrrrRRUUUuuuuuuuUUUCH!*”

Suddenly, her mouth snapped open and she belched out a large yellow ki beam, which rocketed past Videl's lips and barely missed the top of Pan’s head on its trajectory through one of the broken windows. The burp itself echoed throughout the house, shattering the remaining windows, and knocking down several books, expensive plates, and other belongings. The duo looked to see the blast vaporize some nearby trees, both of them gawking at the trail of burnt grass and destroyed foliage.

“Whoa, even I didn't expect that,” Videl admitted with a blush.

Pan turned back to her mom, “That… was… awesome! Let’s keep going! I want to do that too!”

Videl paused for a moment, but then chuckled at the absurdity of the situation, “Ok, but the loser gets punished for six months in lieu of three.”

“Deal!” Pan shouted, her eyes shining with enthusiasm.

Both remembered their unfinished cans of soda and grabbed them for the true final bout. They were going to need it!

Once the beverages had been consumed, the empty aluminum husk that previously held them were discarded and Pan began the final bout by pausing to focus her ki then:

“*BRRRRrrrRRRRRUUUUUuuuuUOOOOOOOoo-oooooOOOOOOOrrrp!!*”

A big energy blast shot from her mouth, twice the width of her mother's effort, though it only did a little more damage to the house by burning a few extra holes in the walls.

Videl applauded politely, then sucked in and: 

“*beeeeeeEEEEEELLLLllllLLRRRRRrrroooOOOOOaaAAAAARRRRrrrrrRRRRP!!!*”

She not only managed to outdo her daughter, but shot out a stream of ki balls from her mouth in rapid succession. Pan was forced to jump on top of her chair in dodge in a rather comedic fashion. Videl laughed out loud at this when she was finished and an evil gleam suddenly entered her eye. Turning her gaze towards the ceiling, she forced out a small burp that resulted in a single ball of ki knocking some debris onto Pan's head, the quarter-Saiyan scowling in response.

“Okay Mama, you've had it!

*BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP AAAAATTTTTTTTAAAAAAAAACCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!*”

Videl's eyes widened as her daughter unleashed a huge belch that contained a variation of one of Vegeta's most powerful moves. It packed enough force to blow her through the wall of her home and leave her smoking on the already slightly scorched lawn. Pan laughed at the sight and began jumping up and down in an absurd little victory dance.

“Yes! I win! HAHAHAHA, I am the best!” This bratty sing-song voice awoke something in Videl and she slowly pulled herself to her feet, her eyes ablaze with fury. Pan watched with a mix of confusion and concern as her mother assumed a basic power-up stance and began speaking in grunts, as though she were on the verge of transforming into some new kind of super form. In fact, it wouldn't have surprised Pan at all if that were the case.

Little did the young girl know that during all this, her mother was reliving her past, watching various images of her rough and tumble self flash and the victories she'd achieved flash before her eyes. Everything from belching contests to looking best in a bikini passed her by. They were soon replaced by new images of Pan besting her younger self in all these same events. Other scenes were also included such as a rice eating contest and a farting contest. Every last one filled the Videl of the present with even more rage.

“No! I… Will… Not… lose… to a… little… girl! Even if she is my own daughter!” Pan watched in amazement as her mother's slightly higher than average power level suddenly skyrocketed, her aura blazing to life around her. Videl then bellowed, “Ka… Me… Ha… Me… 

*HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!!!!!*”

The mightiest belch under the heavens, contained within the signature technique of both the Kame House and the overall Son Family, shot from Videl's mouth. It zeroed in on a horrified Pan and created a great explosion that destroyed the entire house! Pan lay amidst the rubble, somehow only dazed, “You win, Mommy.”

“Oh yeah!” Videl cried out in a rather good impression of her father, “I win! I'm number—oh crap!” The daughter of Mister Satan looked upon what was left of her home and decided to let Pan off the hook: she would need all the help she could get in order to collect the Dragon Balls and restore everything before Gohan got back!

[shi-daisy]

Ghost

Ah, the angsty theme. I'll be honest I've never been fond of sad stories, but I'd be lying if I said Ulquihime dosen't have potential for really tragic stories, be it a one shot or a full length fic. Plus they're the only ship I would ever use this song with. Fits so well with them 😢

Special thanks to @vikowolf for letting me use her gif. Go give this talented bean some love!

I hope you all like!

@ulquihimeweek

Ulquihime Week- Day 4- Haunting/Touch Starved

Ghost

"Are you afraid of me, woman?"

She remembered his voice clearly, along with his empty emerald eyes.

Ulquiorra was turning into ash, but he did not despair, instead he reached out for her.

"No, I'm not afraid. I've never been afraid." Orihime tried to hold his hand but his fingers turned to ash under her touch.

"No! Ulquiorra please don't go! Don't die!"

She wanted to run. To heal him, to keep him from falling apart, but her feet didn't move. All she could do was beg him to stay alive.

The result was the same every night, he'd turn to ashes before her eyes and she would wake up screaming his name.

"Ulquiorra!" she called. There was no response, for her apartment was empty.

'Thats right. I'm home...' she remembered. It was getting harder to tell the difference.

'Goddamn it not again!' Orihime felt a headache coming on. She pushed her covers and walked over to the kitchen.

She had run out of medicine, much to her chagrin. The kit was empty save for a bottle of sleeping pills.

'I forgot to go shopping again.' Ever since she got back home she was forgetting things more often than usual. To her luck, both Rangiku and Toshiro had stocked up the fridge before going back to the Soul Society, so she still had some food. Orihime grabbed a box of doughnuts and scarfed them down on the dinning room table.

She glanced at the clock. It read 1 a.m.

'I have school tomorrow, I can't fall asleep in class again! C'mon Inoue get it together!'

Last week she had fallen asleep during class and had the same dream. Not only had it been embarrassing to scream his name upon waking, but this time she'd been crying when she said it, and all her friends saw it.

They all looked concerned and tried to talk to her about it, yet she didn't want them near at all, especially not Ichigo.

"Staying mad at Kurosaki because of me?"

That voice again. She lifted her gaze and saw Ulquiorra sitting across from her.

"Can't you leave me alone for one night?!" she screamed, throwing a glass at him. The glass shattered after hitting the wall.

"Woman, please don't break the utensils. We both know I'm not really here."

"I wish you were."

"Why? Why do you miss me? I was a monster. I took you away from your friends, I kept you locked up and even killed the man you loved. Yet you miss me. It's not logical."

"I know."

"You'd be better off forgetting me."

"No. I refuse to forget you." Tears began streaming down her cheeks. Orihime gripped the edge of her nightgown trying to keep from sobbing. "I know we were never close, or even friends, but I did care for you.

It wasn't clear to me until you were nearing the end. You told me you were curious about us humans. And then I understood.

You wanted emotions, companionship, understanding, a heart...I was willing to give all of that to you. Had you lived."

Talking felt like having glass shoved down her throat, but she continued.

"Instead of welcoming you into my life as a dear friend all I had left of you was a pile of ash and a torn dress!

I should have tried harder to save you! Aizen said my powers rivaled those of the gods, and I yet when I had the chance to use them I froze like an idiot! I should've put myself between you and Kurosaki! I should've tried to escape on my own and come back for you when the war ended! There were so many ways for me to keep you safe. And I did nothing! I'll never forgive myself for letting you die."

Ulquiorra stood up and walked over to her. Then he hugged her, laying his head on her shoulder.

Orihime knew it wasn't real, but she didn't care. It felt real. His touch was cold yet comforting. She leaned into it.

"I could only hold your hand for a few seconds before it turned to ash, still, I could feel it. It was cold, it was gentle, it was electric...I'd give anything to hold you again, properly this time."

"We both know that's not possible, nor is it ideal.

My demise was no one's fault but my own, woman. I was the one who engaged Kurosaki un battle. Had I surrender you to him I would still be alive."

"No. He had forgiven his enemies before. Enemies that wouldn't have hesitated to cut him down if they could. What made you any different?"

"I do not know. Maybe the fact that I tried to kill him twice, or the fact that I took you away."

She scoffed. "Kurosaki dosen't care that much about me. He went to Hueco Mundo to fight Grimmjow, not for me."

"That's a narrow way to look at it. Kurosaki Does care for you, even if he dosen't show it."

"That's not enough for me. It'll never be enough for me, anymore."

She stood up, feeling slightly cold as Ulquiorra let go of her. The clock read 1:30 a.m

'I'm not going to fall asleep at this rate.'

Opening up the fridge again, taking a bottle from the very back. It has half empty, and the scent from it filled the whole apartment.

'Sora wouldn't be too proud seeing me like this.' she winced. 'Then again, we both inherited things from our parents that we didn't want. I wonder how those two lowlives are doing these days...'

The first glass always burned her throat but by the second the sting subsided and she got used to it.

"So now, you're just going to drink away and ignore me?"

Ulquiorra's voice startled her. "You usually don't stay this long. Even in my dreams you fade away after the first touch."

"My apologies. I cannot change the past."

"I know, you're only in my mind after all."

Again he walked over to where she was, this time she was the one who tried to hold him, but her hands went right through him.

Orihime began to cry again, not caring if she was being too loud. Ulquiorra sat beside her, holding her hand.

"Woman, what did you mean before by 'not enough'?"

"Exactly that. Empty gestures and fake concerns are not enough. They should've never been.'"

"Then what would be enough? What do you want?"

"You." she whispered. "I want you. Not your spirit, not in my dreams or in my mind. I want you here in the flesh. I want to hold you, to truly speak with you. To be with you."

"You shouldn't want that. You should move on. Everything's alright now, you're back home with your friends, this is what you should want."

"Well I don't!" she yelled. "I don't want any of this, if I can't have you by my side! It all feels so..."

"Empty." He finished for her.

"Yes. It's all so very empty."

Ulquiorra stayed silent for a moment, then he looked at her. "If that is your final answer, then I just have one last piece of advice."

"What would that be?"

"Go to sleep."

"I can't. You won't be there when I wake-"

He put a finger over her lips to silence her. "Yes. Yes I will. I'll even lay down with you."

Orihime didn't expect him to inch closer towards her and kiss her. His touch wasn't cold anymore, or maybe she was the one radiating warm. It didn't matter, this was what she'd been wanting for weeks now.

"Now please woman, go to sleep."

Orihime nodded, grabbing a couple sleeping pills from the kit and taking them with what was left of the liquor. The effect was immediate, as drowsiness began to take over.

She walked over to her bed, and settled in. Ulquiorra was lying beside her over the covers.

"I need you to promise me you'll be here when I wake up. I'm getting tired of seeing you disappear."

"I'll be here. I promise."

With that in mind she closed her eyes and let sleep take over. Ulquiorra would be there to greet when she woke up.

If she woke up at all.

[artificialqueens]

Paper Hearts Chapter Four (Branjie) - meggie

A/N: Whew. This one was difficult. That being said, I have so many people to thank for being cheerleaders, hand-holders, and all-around the best group of people I could have asked for to help bring this chapter to life because it. took. a. village. Thank you @theartificialdane who was the first person to read this and tell me it was too dramatic (you were right). Thank you @pink-grapefruit-cafe for dutifully adding that unnecessary ‘h’ to my (correct American) spelling of yogurt and calling me out when my sentences get too long. Thank you @formercongressman for providing the feedback that I needed to tighten and polish and really get the chapter where I wanted it by encouraging me to delve into Brooke’s psyche. And thank you @mia-ugly for giving me a final read through and assuring me that it wasn’t utter garbage and worth actually putting out there.

I’ve added a TW for perfectionism and anxiety because we’re going pretty deep into Brooke’s inner monologue here and I can get in my own head when reading about those things that I struggle with every day. Erring on the side of caution seemed prudent.

Please let me know your thoughts, here or on my personal blog @artificialmeggie. My ask box is always open and I love chatting with you guys!

So here’s chapter four: in which Vanessa calls it like she sees it, Nina gives Brooke some advice, and Brooke learns to relax (a little). I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

Brooke Lynn spends Friday night in and out of fitful sleep, dreams punctuated with hot, heavy kisses that taste like peppermint and broken promises pressed against secluded bathroom doors. It’s the same dream every time—they’re kissing, groping, grasping each other, and then Vanessa pulls away and looks up at her with hurt in her dark eyes, and Brooke wakes, drenched in sweat with a knot of guilt fully formed in her gut.

She rises early on Saturday morning and (after a cigarette on the balcony, alone, again) stumbles into the bathroom to peer at herself in the mirror, ultimately becoming dismayed at the dark circles etched under her eyes. If she cared, she’d smear on some concealer before venturing downstairs for breakfast, but try as she might, she can’t make herself put on makeup on a day when she doesn’t have to be in drag. So she settles for tugging on her favorite white hoodie and grey beanie and heads downstairs just after seven hoping to beat the rest of the girls to an early breakfast.

She gets her wish. She’s first to the conference room and could have her pick of yogurt, fresh fruit, or muffins; but Brooke needs comfort today, after that hollow look in Vanessa’s eyes had haunted her dreams last night and left her gutted. Instead, she waits a few moments until a steaming chafing dish of oatmeal is brought out by a hotel employee. She spoons a good amount into a bowl and dresses it with a scoop of raisins and far more brown sugar than is healthy. It reminds her of being seven years old and sitting at the kitchen table with her mother on a Saturday morning. It’s comfortable.

Brooke watches as the brown sugar melts and then she stirs her breakfast lazily, relaxing into her chair at the table farthest from the lone production assistant in the room. The PA avoids eye contact, and Brooke is glad—she’s more than happy to forego small talk with the poor intern who drew the short straw and was assigned Saturday queen babysitting duty.

And then, just as Brooke’s oatmeal cools to an edible temperature, the conference room door swings open and in walks Vanessa; terry cloth shorts slung low on her hips, Adidas slides scuffing on the carpet, and red zippered jacket undone to her bellybutton exposing that perfectly toned, perfectly tanned chest that’s the exact color of the molten brown sugar in Brooke’s oatmeal.

Brooke wants to run her tongue over the curves and dips and swoops of that chest more than almost anything. She settles for scooping up a bite of oatmeal shot through with a ribbon of brown sugar. She turns the spoon over in her mouth and sucks every molecule of sweetness from it. Absentmindedly, she wonders if Vanjie’s skin tastes as sweet.

Across the empty room, Vanessa’s eyes meet hers, and Brooke finds it difficult to swallow. Then Vanjie sets her jaw and quirks up her nose and maybe (just maybe, or maybe Brooke imagines it) swings her hips a little more than is entirely necessary as she moves to the buffet table to help herself to a bowl of yogurt.

She takes her time scooping in sliced strawberries, whole blueberries, and granola, and it feels like two geological ages of sheer unadulterated torture for Brooke, who watches every motion carefully.

At this point, she’s practically licked her oatmeal bowl clean, imagining the curves of the white porcelain to be the swerves of Vanjie’s smooth back, the spoon to be her own hands, exploring every inch of Vanessa as thoroughly and completely as possible. Like she wants to. Like she longs to.

She’s pretty much ruined any shot she had at that, she supposes.

Then Vanessa sits in the chair directly across from Brooke Lynn and spends another long moment stirring her yogurt together, and Brooke wonders if maybe she still has a chance.

Brooke watches her eat, but neither one of them speaks. She knows they’re both too stubborn for their own damn good.

Finally, Brooke grows too uncomfortable with the silence, so she sets her bowl on the table and clears her throat. “Sleep well?”

Vanessa shrugs. “All right. Coulda been better. I don’t like it when people get pissed off at me for no reason.” And she narrows her eyes pointedly and just stares.

“I’m not… Jesus.” Brooke sighs and squeezes the bridge of her nose. “Fuck, Vanj, I'm not mad at you.”

Vanjie tuts and takes a bite of yogurt. “Care to explain what last night in the van was then? Or do you got a habit of making out with people in bathrooms and then ghosting ‘em?”

“Granted, I did not handle that well,” Brooke says slowly. “I get in my head, okay? I’m… Look, I thought maybe A’keria saw something, and I kind of freaked.”

Vanessa shakes her head. “A’keria didn’t see shit.” Then she reaches across the table and takes Brooke’s hand in her own. “And even if she did, so what? You gotta relax, mami.”

“You don’t care if the girls know that we’re… What are we doing exactly?”

Vanjie shrugs. “We’re… getting to know each other.”

“Getting to know each other…” Brooke repeats it slowly and turns the phrase over in her head because she’s never done this before. She’s had one-night stands and friends-with-benefits, but there’s never been anyone to Get To Know. Never been anyone she’s wanted to get to know quite like she wants to know Vanjie.

It scares her. Not that she’s afraid of feelings, really, but she’s level-headed and goal-oriented and this was definitely not in The Plan when she started auditioning for drag race two years ago. So she’s afraid of feelings in this setting because how is she supposed to concentrate on presenting her perfect Drag Race package when Hurricane Vanessa is swirling around her?

But how do you brace for a category five storm?

“Yeah, okay,” Brooke says slowly. “We’re getting to know each other…”

Vanessa smiles at her. “Maybe we could start with boy names. I’m Jose, by the way.”

“Brock,” Brooke says softly, shaking the hand that Vanjie has offered. It feels different, more intimate now that she’s been formally introduced to the boy behind the drag.

“Brock…” Vanessa repeats quietly, almost testing the name, trying it out to see how it rolls off her tongue. Brooke heaves a sigh of relief when she smiles. “Yeah, it fits.”

And Brooke is blushing, the fire that ignited between them when their lips collided last night is back in full force, burning her from the inside out, so she smiles and ducks her head and hopes she doesn’t look like an idiot. She never wants to look stupid; she’s worked for years to curate this careful image of perfection, but she’s especially concerned with how Vanessa perceives her.

“Well. We have all day off today,” Vanessa says. Having finished her breakfast, she pushes herself up from the table and stretches her arms above her head, exposing another two inches of flat, taut stomach that peeks out over the waistband of her shorts.

Brooke’s mouth practically waters, yearns for that molten brown sugar skin beneath her fingers, lips, tongue.

“If you wanna come get to know me a little better in my room feel free to come by,” Vanjie continues. “But wait ‘til after lunch. I gotta take a nap.”

Brooke laughs. “Didn’t you just wake up?”

“I wanted to talk to you before the rest of the girls came down.”

“How did you know I’d be down here?”

“Our beds share a wall,” she says with a wink. “And you snore like a fucking moose.” Vanessa struts around behind her, wraps her arms around her neck, and presses a kiss into her temple. “See you later, mami.”

*****

Brooke’s working on her third cup of coffee when Nina finally makes it into the conference room for breakfast.

“Good morning!” she sing-songs as she slides into the chair two down from Brooke. “How are you?”

Brooke shrugs a little and flashes a tight-lipped grin before she takes another sip from her mug, but Nina’s eyes narrow.

“You have a secret.”

“What?”

“I know you, Hytes.” Nina reaches for the salt and pepper shaker and generously seasons her scrambled eggs. “I’ve known you for literally your entire drag career and your face right now? It screams ‘I’ve got a secret.’ So what’s the tea?”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Nina,” Brooke asserts, trying her best to keep her wits about her. Nina is awfully convincing when she wants something, and if Brooke is being honest with herself, she values her friend’s opinion.

“Okay. That’s fine.” Nina takes a bite of her eggs and watches Brooke Lynn with an amused expression. “But I’m going to find out. Because I always find out. So you might as well just tell me what it is.”

And Brooke crumbles because Nina is right—she has known her for her entire career and they’re friends. She trusts Nina implicitly and she needs reassurance. So Brooke sucks in a deep breath.

“I think I kind of have a crush on Jose.” She says it quickly because as soon as the words leave her lips, she knows how it sounds: so, so very junior high that she expects Nina to laugh in her face, and really, would she deserve anything less?

“Oh.” It’s almost worse that Nina’s eyes grow wide and her mouth falls open a little, specks of egg on her tongue, and she says, “Who’s Jose?”

And Brooke feels the blood rush even deeper into her cheeks. She must be a dark shade of purple because the room is suddenly extremely hot, boiling almost (why is she drinking hot coffee in June?), and she wants nothing more than for a hole to open right underneath her and swallow her completely. This is junior high school all over again, and she is being teased for being too feminine.

“Vanessa,” she says weakly, then clears her throat. “Vanjie?”

“Oh,” Nina says again. And then, “Ohh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” Nina stabs at her eggs. “Umm. Does Jose feel the same way?”

“I mean…” Brooke shrugs and picks at a spot of superglue still stuck to her thumbnail. “We kissed in the bathroom after the runway last night.”

“So… Yes?” Nina smiles at her, but Brooke shrugs again. “Listen, Brooke, I think if someone’s swapping spit with you, they’re interested.”

“We’re getting to know each other.” When she says it to someone else, the phrase takes on a different feeling. It’s not as tangible or solid. She doesn’t know how to feel about it. Then she remembers Vanjie’s arms around her neck, her lips against her temple, the smell of her cologne that’s always a little too strong… And those are tangible things.

“Oh my god, Drag Race’s first romance,” Nina says, sighing dramatically and placing a hand over her heart. “Please tell me I get to be the flower gay when you guys get married.”

Brooke groans and drains her coffee mug.

*****

It’s a little after two when Vanessa comes looking for Brooke.

Three sharp raps on her door and Brooke answers, expecting Nina or Plastique or even Ra’jah, but instead it’s Vanjie, hip popped to the side, lips quirked up in a smirk.

“I said after lunch, ho.” She pushes past Brooke into the room without being invited in. Not that she needs an invitation. Brooke supposes she always has one.

“Yeah, I lost track of time,” Brooke lies. She hadn’t. She had one hundred percent chickened out of going over to Vanessa’s room because Nina’s comment about them being Drag Race’s first romance had, honestly, pushed her back into her head. Not that it’s difficult to do, but she had been counting on Nina for reassurance. “I was stoning and… You know how into stoning you can get… Time just flies…”

Vanessa grins knowingly, and Brooke knows she’s caught because her room smells nothing like the tell-tale fumes of E6000, and there aren’t any stray rhinestones anywhere. Her room is practically spotless (with the exception of a towel slung across the chair), but Vanjie says nothing about the obvious lie.

“So, I should tell you something…” Vanjie says, clasping her hands together and spinning around to face Brooke. “Promise you won’t get mad.”

Brooke narrows her eyes. “I hesitantly promise I won’t get mad. But I’m Canadian, so it would really be more like kind of annoyed and not so much mad.”

“Well, anyway.” Vanjie bites her lip. “I kind of told Silky that we maybe had a little something going on. Actually what I said was, ‘Brooke Lynn is trade. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating cookies.’ If you know what I’m saying…”

Brooke is so relieved because she knows she should warn Vanjie that Nina is aware of their situation as well, and now she doesn’t have to broach the subject herself. Vanessa has provided her the perfect transition. She’s choosing to ignore the bed comment for now. For her own sanity.

She clears her throat. “That’s funny… Because I told Nina that I had a little bit of a crush on you.”

She might imagine it, but Brooke would swear that Vanjie blushes before she laughs uproariously and says, “A crush? Are you fourteen, Mary?”

Brooke just shrugs. “Look, I don’t know how this whole thing works—”

But suddenly she can’t speak anymore because Vanessa’s lips are on hers and her arms are around Brooke’s neck, and they’re kissing so softly that she forgets what she was even saying because the only thing that matters is the heat and static between them.

And it’s different this time because there’s only them, just her and Vanjie. No cameras, no other queens with prying eyes, no PAs waiting outside the bathroom to escort them back to the Werk Room where they’ll be watched and recorded and lorded over until they’re driven back to the hotel and locked in their rooms. So Brooke breathes and relaxes into Vanessa and the warm pressure of her mouth as it moves rhythmically against hers.

Then Vanessa pulls away and looks up at her with big sparkling eyes, and Brooke knows she’s done for. This isn’t just a junior high school crush. She could develop feelings for Vanessa.

Brooke loves her mom and her siblings and her cats deeply and unabashedly because she knows they’re stuck with her. She has spent years telling herself that she could get by on a life of hookups because feelings are messy and only led to heartbreak and disaster.

She’s always been so focused, there’s just never been time to make a connection.

And here she is, in the middle of the biggest competition of her life, and Vanessa dropped into her lap.

So how do you brace for a category five storm?

You hold on and hope for the best.

“Is this okay?” Vanjie asks her as she blinks rapid-fire. Nervous energy, she drips with it. “That I’m here? That I just really wanted to kiss you again so I did it?”

Hurricane Vanessa makes landfall and wipes out all of Brooke Lynn Hytes’s carefully constructed barriers.

“Okay. Of course it’s okay.” Brooke breathes and anchors her hands on Vanessa’s hips. It’s all they’ve wanted for the few days—no barriers, no restrictions. “I really wanted to kiss you again, too, but I thought maybe after the van last night that it would be weird.”

“You think too much,” Vanessa says softly, pulling gently on the string of Brooke’s hoodie. “You wanna kiss me again? Stop talking and do it. Step up, bitch.”

So Brooke Lynn obliges, and it’s all fire between them as their mouths meld together once again. She still tastes like mint and strawberries and the smallest hint of spice that Brooke was convinced is just Vanjie but now recognizes as brown sugar. She smiles against Vanessa’s mouth.

Brooke can’t stifle the moan when Vanjie rolls her bottom lip between her teeth and tugs gently, so Brooke dives deeper.

She could kiss Vanessa forever, Brooke thinks as they stumble backwards onto the unmade bed, because it feels like the easiest thing in the world.

It feels like breathing.

[coldalbion]

This is a tricky religious question, but I'll try to encapsulate it in an ask. I feel a strong connection to Odin, but I also want to make that spiritual connection more firm in the landscape I /already/ inhabit, if that makes sense? Unfortunately, as a white person in a land that was never my own, I feel it would be disrespectful. My "ancestors" are from across the sea and I cannot claim to know them, either. Whiteness has colonised and homogenized culture. So I'm unsure how to proceed.

Imma be upfront here: What you want and feel doesn’t automatically have primacy when dealing with other beings. We don’t own the land, the land owns us.To think otherwise is a manifestation of that same colonial, homogenising, reflex which has married itself to rapacious capitalism and set about obliterating nuance and intimacy and depth.So, listen, I’m assuming you’re White here, but - Hwaet!: The land has its own needs, its own desires. The beings that populate it have theirs, and you don’t get to decide what’s respectful, and what’s not. To do that, you have to go and find out. You have to put yourself out there and say: “Hello. Here I am. Are you up for maybe building a relationship? A relationship that’s between us, even with all the shit people with my shade of skin have pulled?”They may very well say no. And, in the spirit of being up front? That. May. Be. Easier. If they say no, then you’re done.But if they say yes? That’s when the hard bloody work begins. Because you have to cobble together something from the ground up. And you have to do that, situated within the horror of Whiteness, because Whiteness actually homogenised and destroyed many of the vast number of differing and rich variations that North West Europeans and their descendants had for interacting with the world. It was deliberately constructed by those in power to level internal resistance and then turn that animus on POC and indigenous peoples. It created an ‘US’ to pit against ‘THEM’.As White folks, we and our ancestors have perpetuated, and continue to implicitly take part in a set of systems which have perpetuated atrocities across the planet, and continue to do so.And it is the absolute right of those beings, human and non, to hate us on sight. It hurts, and is upsetting, and if we’re decent people, we want to make it right. But we don’t get to decide how and whether that’s possible.Having said all this - the crimes perpetuated by folks with our shade of skin do not automatically disqualify us from anything - unless we’re told otherwise. But neither do they qualify us in advance.

 This is the lie (some) of our ancestors bought, the one bearing the rubric of Whiteness. Whiteness, the lie goes, is a thing to aspire to - because Whiteness is better, being White makes you better automagically.(And yes, I more-than-half-believe that Whiteness is an imperialist magic spell. Seriously.) Because there was a time when ‘white’ was merely a simple descriptor of skin colour. And then it was made into something else.; I’d equate it with the ancient and very real magic of Roman citizenship, except for the fact that the Roman Empire was, at least at beginning, a polytheist culture.I’ve said above that Whiteness doesn’t automatically disqualify us unless we’re told, but I want to emphasise that ignorance is not an excuse either. Seek out those qualified. Do your research.Whiteness may have once only been a skin descriptor - but now it’s so, so, much more complex. We do not get to complain building healthy and fruitful relationships is hard, that Whiteness makes things difficult, and so we can’t do anything.That’s the lie speaking, trying to persuade us to leave Whiteness-as-is, as a monolith that can never be pulled down and replaced with a memorial to all those whose lives and lands it oppressed - just as say, Germany pulled down the statues of the Reich, and erected holocaust memorials.Germany has not absolved itself - it is flawed, and imperfect as an example. Yet, it has acknowledged what was done and moved forward, but not on.  Those memorials are meant to stand as moral checkpoints. Thing that exist as reminders, as-never-again.Leaving Whiteness-as-monolith is simply ignoring the shadow it casts. Instead, we should blow it up, reconfigure, deconstruct it - whilst at the same time never forgetting where it comes from.Whether we acknowledge them or not, we are our ancestors, emanating their genes, the products of their actions, here and now. Even if we seek to deliberately excise them, that very excision is relation to them. If we cut out a family member due to their behaviour, they influence us in terms of what-not-to-do.Negative space, emptiness, is still a phenomenon, and everything is connected.

So when I say deconstruct, I mean not simply demolish, not simply raze-as-if-it-never-was. I say use it as fuel, transmute it; look for the cracks in its homogeneity - the things buried beneath - the green vitality that survives despite paving, steal and glass. The way birds fly, flock, wheel, and dive - and most importantly the spaces between.Focus - narrow, and so, so deep. Beneath Whiteness, there is Blood - and though these things are so beloved by white supremacist arseholes? Look at Blood Again. Do not see it as one thing, but note how many cells rush by - notice how many substances, hormones, surge through your veins, how very many things it is.Blood is never pure.And beneath that? Glistening, shining Bone - not white at all, shaded and stained ivory, all honeycombed and filled with marrow. Each heartbeat a rhythmic pulse.For your ancestors are Many, and you see them everytime you look in the mirror, Perhaps you have your Father’s mouth, your Mother’s jaw, your Grandfather’s eyes?But where did they get them?You know them, but you don’t know you know them. Known knowns and unknown knowns, known unknowns, and unknown unknowns.The spell of Whiteness says it is homegenous, because it homogenizes. But it’s a lie, and dig underneath it and you will find white-skinned variety - mixedness, shadowed memory - old ways, localised cultus based on village, town, terroir, field and forest. Mixed races and traditions.

Which of these is supreme? None. They are contextual. They are local. The landscape is not levelled, not concretized. Monoculture has its propaganda. Its siren-song that it it is the only option.But: Things are not gone - their roots remain, buried deep, ready to emerge in new forms.The knowledge of them may be held already, kept sacred by indigenous or closed groups, and if so, so be it. Or, it may lie waiting to be discovered again

And these new-old forms can only come forth if we risk ourselves. If we dedicate ourselves to reconnection, to respect and research, to wholeness and to wilfully acknowledging that we Know Nothing.

And the spell, the Imperial magic of Whiteness is failing, but it’s not dead. It’s cunning, shape-shifting into notions of silos and ideological purity. It says you are either Enough, or Not Enough.Enough is better, Enough is pure.And you are not pure, not clean. None of us are. So Whiteness uses that - creates both White guilt and White Pride - enhancing the sense of helplessness, which breeds sorrow and anger, and thus increasing US vs THEM.It creates toxicity which further perpetuates itself - and the individual can do little to change it, and virtually nothing to change the world. reaching towards purity is good, because purity is a beacon, a nice clear reference point by which we can make sense of the world.

And the Old Man is about as ambiguous and impure as they come. He emanates double and triple meaning - poetry as magic, as weapon, as entertainment, as blood and fury and iron. Knowledge as poison, as drug, as psycho-active substance.In some ways, I think he may find it darkly funny the way neo-nazi scumbags constantly use his name to justify purity and fitness. This one-eyed wanderer who self-harmed and submitted himself totally to the Kosmos because he wanted to Know itAnd not on his terms. On Its.He deliberately put aside all methods of control. He neither ate nor drank. He bled for it, probably even died for it. He sacrificed himself to himself because there was nobody else. Only by being completely Himself, in that environment, and letting whatever happened, happen, was he able to go down to the depths and receive and perceive the runes.Be prepared for the necessity of that. Of setting yourself apart, not as pure or better - but different. Empty your cup, as they say in Zen.Understand that he is the strife-bringer and its soother.If you want to find him in the landscape, first you have to meet him, it - on its terms. The lore says he gave humans breath.So breathe. Realise your Whiteness is not something you can help - you cannot stop being White, and you are enmeshed in the monoculture, but that the monoculture is not what it says it is. It is not the Only One.There are many different ways, and as master interpreter - the hermes in the hermeneutics, the Wanderer has travelled most, if not all of them.His answer to the Seeress’ question is YES. Forever and always YES. And knowing more is not just intellectual knowing, but meeting, knowing someone, carrying them, or a place with you.There’s a reason we call the World Tree what we do. It has roots no man knows, And this? This is the Old Man’s Horse - a tree is his method of travel, is the Great Tree which holds all worlds. The ancestral tree, just as humans were made from wood.The runes are risted with red, stained well with the power of blood and breath; the power of a magic alphabet filled with the rhythms  of life and death.The poetry can crack a world. the root can break stone .A return to new-old ways can acknowledge and suborn your Whiteness, forcing it to undergo a detournement which will never grant some distant absolution, but just may allow the usage of that magical spiritual potency of that spell to benefit you, and others.In honouring Odin, you have the appearance of honouring the same god as some neo-Nazi scum. And yet, you are not, because of the relationship which is (may come to be) betwixt you. And it is that which contains life, death, health and wholeness. That is not theirs, but yours.In doing so, in living a connected life you illustrate, you render a way which was hidden, open. A way which may shift and change - for though the Whiteness was laid upon you at birth, its meaning may change in an unexpected way. You become a thing which is different, and Odin will be in your land, just as he came to be in mine.As to how that happens, only you can tell, but for me, it came to pass with a realization that he has always been there. He was just waiting for me to see his shape in the world - a piece of negative space, which once I discovered it, has become a roaring source of gnosis, a quiet whisper that raises the hair on the back of the neck.A thing to be lived with, and died with, and borne and lifted up and cast down.You are an enforced descendant of a vast criminal syndicate which killed millions, destroyed thousands of cultures, infected its own people with a thought-virus to keep them compliant, and keeps insisting it’s the only game in town.Its not. Be open. Live with who you are, as you are.But who you are is not who you have been told.Good luck.

[hotelsweet]

Hey, I had a random idea that could work as a prompt: AU meet-cute (because I'm a sucker for these) - Jake and Amy are seated next to each other on a flight and Amy is super uncomfortable/ close to freaking out (maybe because of her claustrophobia?) and Jake helps her calm down and they spend the rest of the flight talking? I dunno; random idea is random ^^;

I’MHYPERVENTILATIGN This prompt didn’t just… kill me it leapt off my screen andpunched me in the face!! In the best way possible ofcalso I’m lowkey in the mood for thisbc I’m travelling so much over thenext couple weeks!! I loooovvvveeeee it ok I won’t wastetime let’s just jump into it:

 It’s ataround 7:18pm, sat in the airport lounge waiting for her flight, that AmySantiago figures out that she is most likely receiving a death glare from thewoman sat opposite because she hasn’tstopped tapping her fingernails against her passport for the last ten minutes.

As soon as this realisation hits her she snaps out of it,immediately feeling the odd hollowness created by the absence of her nervoustick.

It’s nother fault. Flying is and always has been one of her worst fears- thoughnowadays, she’s mostly been able to subduethe anxiety for the sake of adult life, childhood nightmares of falling fromthe sky long behind her, sometimes it simply gets the better of her.

This, by all accounts, would be one of those times.

Her fingers itch to keep tapping. A light sheen of sweatglistens uncomfortably over her forehead. Her stomach churns, nausea pulsatingunder every centimetre of her skin at the thought what’s essentially a large tin can propelling itself throughthe air until she’s back home in New York.

Focused on the huge plane outside the window, she can’t help the feeling of completehelplessness that fills her.

“Will passengers for the American Airlines flight 481 to JFK pleasebegin boarding…”

A cool, calm female voice echoes through the atrium, andeveryone around Amy begins to move, standing up and organising their thingsbefore rushing over to the gate.

Perhaps she stands up too quickly, but a wave of dizzinessslams into her like she’s beenhit by a car.

Despite the collected, sweet voice that instructs her andeveryone around her, she can’t helpthe bitter irritation that brews within her at the thought of this flight. Whenit’s bad, it’s really bad;claustrophobia, social anxiety, the works. A complete tapestry of anxiety.

With a sigh, she picks up her bag and heads towards theboarding gate, waiting patiently in line with everyone else.

Inwardly, as she pats away the sweat on her forehead, sheprays she’s not sitting next to a totalasshole.

    ***

    As luck would have it, she is, in fact, sat next to a totalasshole.

“Hey, Angie?! Could I get,like, a whole bunch more of these nuts? I’m supersnacky.”

Sat up on his seat like a little kid, the man sat next toher, in the window seat, beams toothily at the flight attendant- who, to Amy’s disgust, giggles softly at him witha nod, before heading towards the back of the cabin. He’s tall, dressed in a leather jacket with a hoodieunderneath- like he can’tdecide whether he wants to be an adult or a teenager, she thinks. Annoyancestirs within her at the entire image of him, and only partially because she hasa select and precise loathing for men who speak to female employees as if they’re friends.

Since he’sarrived, squeezing past her into his seat, he’sfiddled loudly with his little TV screen, chatted to the cabin crew like they’re his college buds, and hummed theentirety of what she’sfairly certain was a Coldplay song. She’s neverseen someone so unapologetically cheerful and friendly.

He must catch the side-eye she’sgiving him, because after he’s sathimself back down, his attention keeps coming back to her, looking at heroddly, a combination of interest and confusion in his expression.

She tries to ignore it, the way he’s unabashedly observing her in public, watching her gothrough each of her electronic devices and turn them off. His gaze burns intoher, completely unashamed, until she actually finds herself becomingfrustrated. He must be used to this, being able to look at and speak to whoeverhe wants- he’s pretty good-looking, andclearly a confident guy. Somehow, this only makes her want to scold him more.

“Can I help you?” She asks him sweetly.

“Y’know, you don’t actually need to do that,” he says matter-of-factly, noddingdown at her lap, in which sits her laptop, her phone, and her iPod, all now shutoff or on airplane mode.

“What? Yes, you do,” she says, “otherwise why would they ask you to?”

“Because it’s not actually dangerous, it justmakes an annoying noise over the radar when they’retrying to fly.”

“Well, then,” she says, smiling coolly, “I guess I just have a shred of commoncourtesy.”

He doesn’t replyto this, instead raising his eyebrows indignantly and sitting back in his seat.She glances over at him, just once, to see if he’sreacted- but all that remains on his face is a slight expression of amusement.It’s just on the brink of irritating, asthough her speaking back to him is funny somehow.

Quietly, she opens her bag in her lap, and begins to dig forher Ambien and a bottle of water. Her fingers find the bottle, pulling it outof the bag- but, to her horror, the pills are nowhere in sight.

“No, c’mon…” shemutters to herself as she begins to dig through her bag more urgently.

Annoyance and another dollop of anxiety smacks her gutharshly as she realises she’s aboutto sit here, for six hours, next to this dude,without anything to calm her down. She could always soothe the nerves with somewine, but right now she’drather do anything than bring that flight attendant back to her.

A soft dingsignifies the seatbelt sign coming on for the first time- Amy’s stomach twinges with nerves, eventhough this fits the order of things, the bustle and hubbub of people settlinginto their seats having died down. The little screen in front of her lights upand begins to play a safety video, and several flight attendants file into theaisles to begin their demonstration.

“I’m Jake,” theman next to her says quietly as she watches the hostess in front of them.

She smiles politely at him then looks back towards thehostess. It’s not that he seems genuinelyawful, or anything- even if he has been mildly irritating in the half an houror so they’ve spent together- but shejust could not be in less of a mindset to make a friend; even chatting feels alittle too much of an effort to push her head into right now. Judging by theway he was talking to that attendant, there’s alsothe chance that he’s about to start flirtingwith her, which she really can’t deal with right now. So, as far asshe’s concerned, the best option issilence.

“Okay, I’m sorry for picking on you when youput all of your electronics into airplane mode. I have a reflex where I can’t help but pick on dorky littlethings like that.”

“Are you sure that was anapology?” She narrows her eyes andturns to him. He looks at her candidly, like he’sgenuinely undecided. It’s atthis exact moment that she realises he’sharmless, going from one goofy expression to the next like a teenager.

“I guess I’m a little out of practice,” he admits, a small chuckle risingfrom his throat.

“Right.”

Though she’slooking forward at the air hostess, she allows herself a small smile now, as itbecomes clearer and clearer that, immature as he could be, his main issue as aperson seems to be being overfriendly.

“I’m Amy,” sheoffers.

“Amy,” he repeats, smiling. “Nice tomeet you.” He offers his hand, whichshe shakes firmly. “Good shake,” he comments.

“I’m well-practiced,” shesays proudly. Momentarily, she spots confusion dart over his face, but sheignores it- she doesn’t owehim the wild stories of her handshake seminars, not yet.

“So what’s bringing you to New York?” He asks quietly, after a moment.

“Sorry, I just-” she cuts in over him awkwardly, “I want to listen to this,” she says, looking between him andthe safety demonstration.

“Right,” he says, and she turns back to watch. Only a couple ofseconds pass before he’stalking again. “I can only assume this isyour first ever flight, because there’sliterally no other reason to be that invested in an airline’s safety guidelines.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” shereplies, “but do you ever stop talking?”

“I guess not,” he says, throwing a peanut in theair and catching it in his mouth. “Nut?”

“I’m good.”

“Your loss.” He throws another in the air.

“Oh! You’re not wearing your seatbelt,” she realises out loud, the concernin her tone immediately making her a little self-conscious.

“Oh, right,” he mutters, clicking it into place. “Forgot.”

Forgot? Shewatches him fiddle with it, then go into his hand luggage, pulling out a bottleof Gatorade, from which he takes a hefty swig. She can’t help but feel a little sick at this- it’s 8:30 in the morning, and thethought of any beverage other than coffee is too much for her.

He’sunlike anyone she’s ever met before- adecent-looking man, likely around her age, with the habits and chatter of afive-year-old.

Distracted by him, she almost jumps when the plane’s engines begin to rumble, graspingfirmly onto the arm rests of her seat as they do.

“Woah,” Jake murmurs, and Amy’s notsure whether it’s a genuine reaction or beingsaid in a bid to reassure her somehow. Either way, she doesn’t care. “Y’okay?”

“Yeah, just took me bysurprise a little,” she admits.

“Sir,” that flight hostess’s voicereturns again, directed towards Jake, “if Icould request that you close your tray table.”

“Sure, smort,” he replies hastily, smiling up ather.

“Smort? Very smooth,” Amyjibes as soon as the hostess is out of earshot. He narrows his eyes. “Y’knowshe’s essentially paid to flirt with you, right?”

“For the record, I find itvery hurtful and presumptuous that you’reassuming I’m trying to flirt with her.”

“Please, it’s all you’ve done since you stepped onto this plane.”

“How d’you know that?”

“I don’t, obviously, I just mean… y’know, you’re-” Shestammers, irritated by the small smile this evokes from him.

The plane jumps as something kickstarts in the engine, and,startled, Amy’s grip on the arm reststightens- she looks out of the window, and notices that they’re at the start of the runway. Atonce, both fear and gratitude seeps into her system- fear, in response to thefact that she’s about to be launched 35,000feet into the air, and gratitude in response to the fact that, by some miracle,Jake has kept her distracted from it all for the last ten minutes or so.

“Cabin crew, please take yourseats for takeoff…” A low voice comes throughthe ceiling, raspy as though playing through a radio. Panic strikes into Amy’s chest.

“Talk to me,” she hears herself saying to Jake,before she’s even thought about it. “Please.”

She’sexpecting a joke, a look of confusion, or at least a smartass reply back- butinstead, his nonchalant expression changes immediately into one of concern.

“Sure, sure,” he starts, “Uh. You never said why you’regoing to New York.”

“I’m going home,” shesays quickly, as the plane starts to move. “I livein Brooklyn.”

“Nice,” he replies, “I livein Williamsburg.”

“Hipster-ville,” she says, without hesitation. To hersurprise, he laughs.

“I was about to argue back,but someone opened a cronut store opposite my apartment the other week.”

“A cronut store? As in, just cronuts?”

“Yeah. They’re not even that great. And I’d know- I once ate nothing but pastryfor three days”

There’s apause, and Amy’s eyes find the window, wherethe plane is now picking up speed along the runway. Jake must notice this too,because he tries to pick up conversation again rather hurriedly-

“Roommates?”

“What?”

“D’you have ‘em?” He smiles, in what must be at leastpartial disbelief, at the sudden, high-paced conversation they’re having.

“Yeah, three!”

“Three?!”

“Yeah,” she laughs nervously, “I’m kind of low on cash. I’m training at the Academy right now-I want to be a cop, so I’mcommuting, and training, and working, and… what?” She stops at the only slightly gorgeous grin he’s giving her right now.

“You’re at the Academy?”

“Yeah,” she says slowly.

“No way. I’m a cop! I finished my training acouple years back.”

“Are you kidding?” She asks seriously, completelyunable to picture this man-child in uniform.

He starts to answer, but the plane leaves the ground, andshe can’t help the small gasp thatescapes her.

“It’s okay, don’tworry.” His voice is calm, natural,quiet- just for her. By some miracle, it works, even if only by a little, herbody settling into an out-of-place calmness. “We’re good.”

“Keep talking,” she pleads, only slightlyembarrassed now by her evident vulnerability with this man, a total stranger. Nevertheless,she smiles over at him, thankful for his reassurance.

“Oh, right- so, yeah, I’m working at the 90.”

“Beat cop?”

“Yeah. Hopefully a detectivein a few years.”

“That’s exciting,” shesays, but she’s got her eyes closed, tryingto quell the dizziness caused by the rapid ascent of the plane. He chucklessoftly- she presumes at her attempt to hold a conversation with her eyesclosed- and though normally she’d feela little put out by this, she can’t helpbut laugh along with him.

Of all the things she thought she’d be doing on her flight, feeling her lungs fill withlaughter as she took off was not on the list.

The plane lifts, and lifts, and lifts- and then it doesn’t, gliding through the cloudsseamlessly.

A small dingalerts her to the seatbelt sign, which has just turned off.

“So, you’re not big on flying, huh.”

The remark comes a little while after they’re in the air. She’s breathing slowly- the conversationwith Jake died down a few minutes ago, after the plane became more stable inthe air.

She glances over at him, feeling sarcasm brim in her throat-but his expression is soft, of genuine concern.

“No,” she half-laughs. “I’m not.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“It’s just so…annoying. I know, logically, that I’m fine,but it just creeps up on me, I guess.”

“It happens. Sometimes youjust need a distraction.”

He looks over at her, smiling.

“Right,” she says, meeting his gaze.

A pause lingers between them for just a moment.

“So,” he begins, eventually, cutting the tension. “How’s theAcademy?”

“Intense,” she offers quickly, “but I like it.”

“Some of those old drillsstill haunt me,” he shudders. She laughs,relaxing a little. “What do you want to do?”

“Ideally? Captain of my ownprecinct.”

“Woah.”

“Yeah,” she replies proudly, smiling lowly.

“For the record, youdefinitely seem like a Captain.”

“Really?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“You’ve known me for like, half an hour.”

He smiles, but just as his lips part and he begins to speak again,the plane jolts harshly, the first knock of turbulence.

Amy’s handsshoot straight back to the armrests on either side of her chair, one firmlygrabbing Jake’s arm. She lets go quickly,looking over at him apologetically. He looks as though he’s about to start talking again,reassure her- but he gives up, and only smiles.

Nerves spill into her system like electricity.

This time, it’s notthe plane.

  ***

   “Such a good movie,” Jake murmurs as Die Hard’scredits begin to roll in front of them.

His voice is almost too close- after a couple hours ofconversation, spanning from everything from her seven brothers to his absentpilot father to the best cop movies of all time, they’d decided to watch DieHard, Jake’s favourite and bid for thenumber one spot. However, this had meant picking whose screen to use. She’d suggested hers for two reasons: sothat she’d not have to lean againsthim, and so that she’d nothave to lean any closer to the window, and risk seeing that stomach-churningheight outside. So now, as he speaks, he’spractically in her ear.

“Are you… crying?”

“No, duh,” he replies, sitting back, buthis voice has cracked slightly, exposing him. She can’t help but chuckle. “It’s a deeply personal film to me.”

“I can see that,” she says, unable to keep her smileoff her face.

“Hey, you don’t get to tease me about gettingemotional.”

“What? Why?”

“Earlier? When I mentioned theorange soda thing? You freaked out.”

“Putting it in your cereal isobjectively disgusting!”

“Oh god, I shouldn’t have brought this up again.”

“You should not be as fit as you are.”

“I’m fit?” Hegrins.

“Not… I didn’t mean…”

“Kidding.”

She nudges his shoulder and sits back in her seat. Heatrises in her cheeks- she can feel him looking at her even though she’s turned away, and suddenly she’s wishing she’d worn literally anymakeup, or perhaps something more form-flattering than a giant sweater and apair of leggings.

“How’re you feeling?” Heasks after a moment.

“Better,” she says slowly, and she means it-she’s tired, certainly, from the stressof the morning, but otherwise, she’sfeeling pretty good. Plus, she’s madea friend. “How long left?”

“Uh…” He flicks on his screen. “Woah.An hour and a half.”

“Seriously?!” She looks over in amazement. “That’sincredible. Thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“For keeping me distracted.”

“Oh, right. Don’t worry about it. For the record, it’s been pretty enjoyable.”

She smiles gently. He’s notbad. Not at all.

“Excuse me,” an older voice comes from the seatin front of them. An elderly woman, easily in her seventies or eighties, hasher head poking through the gap between her seat and the one next to her. “Excuse me.”

“Hi,” Amy says slowly, in some disbelief, sharing a brief lookof confusion with Jake. “Can wehelp?”

“It’s just, I’ve beenlistening to the two of you, for the last couple hours,” she admits easily, prompting another shared look betweenJake and Amy. “And I was wondering if Icould ask you something.”

There’s abrief pause as they wait for her to ask- at which point it becomes clear thatshe’s genuinely asking for permission.

“Go ahead,” Jake says, after a second.

“When in the hell are yougoing to ask her out?”

  ***

  As the plane plummets to the ground, swooping so fast Amy’s ears pop, her hand is claspedfirmly over the warm arm of one Jake Peralta, a man she has known for sixhours.

Her eyes are closed, and every thought in her head centres onthe feeling of where she holds him. For the first time in her life, she’s finding her flight’s landing remarkably tolerable.

Eventually, a bump tells her they’re on the ground- then, gradually, bit by bit, they slowdown.

With a deep breath, she begins to completely calm down,opening her eyes and turning to the kind, friendly, attractive man sat next toher- for a moment, she wonders how, today, she got so lucky.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to New York. The current local time is5:30pm…”

“Okay, so I guess this is it.”

“I guess so,�� she agrees.

They watch each other quietly for a second- then,simultaneously, break out into huge grins, mirroring each other giddily.

“So…”

“See you at eight?”

“Sounds good.”