#in the present time its impossible for me to write short stuff

[mangoisms]

be still, my indelible friend, you are unbreaking ━ miyuki kazuya The unspoken rule, for cases like yours, is to encourage your living partner to move on with the one dream that you’re allowed to appear in. And you did that. You did the teary goodbye that you were so ruthlessly exempt from when you died in that car accident. But what do you do when they actually move on and eventually join the afterlife with their partner? or, with the help of Miyuki Kazuya, you learn that just because you're dead, you're not exempt from moving on and learning to be happy again.

━ completed

━ wc: 8k

━ warnings: mentions of death but it's an afterlife au, so

━ you can also read this on ao3

Find someone else. Isn’t that the punchline?

It’s the same joke (and unofficial rule) you find yourself skulking about in this bar — the same bar you’ve been coming to for the last month and a half. It’s empty, thank god, because it’s the middle of the afternoon and you’re not in the mood for some boring conversation with a stranger about why you look so mopey.

You should be happy that your partner found someone else.

Because, to you, it had been a given.

Of course you didn’t want your partner, still living, barely twenty-six, to live the rest of their life mourning you. You wanted them to find someone else.

It’s the morally correct thing to do and hey, that’s why you were here, right?

A life of morally correct decisions landed you in this pleasant afterlife rather than the not-so-pleasant one.

So, you should be happy that, after about two years in the living world (only two months for you, because time passes differently here), your partner has finally moved on and found someone else.

But what now?

What happens when your ex and their new partner finally pass on here?

What are you supposed to do?

The unspoken rule, for cases like yours, is to encourage your living partner to move on, making use of the one dream of theirs that you’re allowed to appear in. And you did that. You did the teary goodbye that you were so ruthlessly exempt from when you died in that car accident.

But what do you do when they actually move on and eventually join the afterlife with their partner?

Seriously, is there a handbook or manual on this? Can you wikipedia it? What to do when I die and leave my partner behind and they actually move on like I told them to?

You’re obviously not going to get back together. So, where does that leave you?

You rub your forehead.

The bartender wordlessly pours you another glass and you nod your thanks, mechanically taking a sip.

You have to suppress a deep sigh when someone slides into the stool beside yours.

The entire bar is open. You are seated at a lone corner, near the hall to the bathrooms, so honestly, this guy could’ve picked any other seat.

Ugh.

You can feel your mood souring further.

The bartender drifts back to you.

“What can I get you?” He asks the stranger.

The stranger gives his order and you look away from his direction pointedly, watching the condensation sliding down the glass, creating a wet ring on the small napkin underneath it.

You feel strangely uncomfortable.

The message is clear. This guy is interested in you — hello, the rows of available stools on the bar and he sat next to you — but wow, the thought of flirting with someone else makes your skin crawl.

Because to you, it’d only been two months ago that you were alive, living with your partner, savoring the domesticity of your life. And while they may have moved on already because of this plane of dimension’s horrible passage of time, you haven’t.

Not yet.

No use in beating around the bush, you think, sighing and finally lifting your eyes.

“So, I was —”

“Do you mind —“

You both halt. He laughs nervously as red forms on his cheeks.

“Go ahead,” he says.

You smile politely. “Right. No offense, seriously, but do . . . you mind moving somewhere else? I kind of want to be alone right now.”

The guy blanks, obviously not expecting that. “Oh. Um. Uh. S-Sure. Er, could I give you my number —”

You smile stiffly. “I’d rather not, honestly.”

He deflates. “But —”

“Hey.”

The bartender sets down the stranger’s order in front of him, the thump of the glass on the counter strangely loud in this empty bar, even with the low jazz playing overhead.

He’s frowning. “They obviously don’t want to be bothered. Move along. We’re not looking for trouble.”

“Neither am I,” the guy mutters mulishly.

“It seems like you are. They’re visibly uncomfortable, clearly not in the mood to flirt, and they’ve asked you to move and you’re still trying to get their number. Back off, man. Seriously.”

You stare at the bartender. He’s a tall, handsome man with messy brown hair, tawny brown skin, and golden eyes, hidden behind a pair of nondescript black frames.

He’d also been working the bar for the past month and a half, at the times you came by and sulked for a few hours. You didn’t know his name, just that he was, objectively speaking, handsome and rather popular with the patrons for his biting humor and excellent mixing skills.

He had never asked about your name or your problem or anything like that.

But you think, in those times when the bar emptied out except for you two and the bouncers by the entrance, when he’d lean against the counter and crack open a book on baseball strategy, that his silence was more fortitudinous than awkward.

That could always be wishful thinking of your part, though.

And now — now he has no obligation to help you. So, you assume he’s doing this to avoid trouble rather than genuine kindness.

The guy mutters a couple things scornfully under his breath and clambers off the seat, knocking over the glass and throwing down the money before stalking off.

That was kind of dramatic, you think with a grimace, watching as the bartender calmly picks up the money and stows it away in a cash register.

He comes back to the counter and picks up the glass, setting it in a sink, then starts wiping up the mess.

You bite your lip. I have to say something, you think. It’d be rude not to.

“Thanks for that,” you end up saying. It sounds half-hearted but you mean it.

The bartender shrugs. “No problem. Gotta keep this bar drama-free.”

You still feel bad. “I . . . Still. I don’t want to inadvertently be the cause of you losing some customers.”

It’s not like bankruptcy is a thing here. All service workers like the bartender are given extra bonuses for doing their jobs — on top of the monthly checks that each person gets. These institutions don’t belong to one particular person or company. No, they belong to the higher ups, the primordial beings in charge of the afterlife, and they have bigger worries than making money.

He laughs. “This is the only bar in the quad. He’ll be back.”

That’s true, but . . .

“I don’t want to cause you trouble,” you mumble under your breath.

He tosses aside the wet towel and picks up another, drying off the counter before throwing it over his shoulder and grinning at you.

“Relax. It’s fine. Honestly, I didn’t mind. And if he wants to cause trouble with some of his friends later, he can take it up with those guys.” He nods behind you and you look over your shoulder, seeing the two, hulking bouncers stationed by the entrance, talking amongst themselves.

“Besides,” the bartender continues. “It seems like you don’t need a distraction right now.” He takes out another glass and fills it with water. “Wallowing in self-pity usually demands some privacy.”

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “I really appreciate it.”

He winks. “You’re welcome.”

You scoff quietly, pushing away the alcoholic drink in favor of the cool water. Your chest feels warm and fuzzy, only mildly buzzed, but it’ll be a long walk back to your house and you don’t want to be inebriated and vulnerable.

Something like curiosity burrows underneath your skin as you watch the bartender from the corner of your eye. He talks to the other patrons at the bar as he serves them.

You slum it there for another few hours, sobering up, but soon, it starts to get busy and that’s when you take your leave, sliding off the stool and picking up your coat. You pretend not to notice the way the bartender disappears into the back and two women come to replace him.

You step outside. The air is nippy, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

Nighttime has fallen and the sky is starless and dark.

There’s a lot of similarities between here and the living world, but there’s more differences.

Because there are no countries or real affiliations, quads stand as centers of living, dependent on the person. Some quads are like cities, with hundreds of thousands of other people, and even more bars, restaurants, stores, and businesses. Others are like towns, homey and local. This quad is like that.

You like the quiet of it; it’s small enough that you can travel everywhere by foot. It’s also designed so that you never have to leave. No reason to go into other quads.

You can, of course, if you want. There are no rules or restrictions here on what you can and can’t do. The only rule is to be civil and keep peace.

You start your trek to your home — your own slice of heaven, a place that is perfect for you (for some, it’s a ranch, for others, it’s an ultra-modern apartment).

Your eyes stay on the sky more than anything, scanning the empty oblivion.

“You’ll trip if you keep walking like that,” a voice calls from behind you.

You stop and turn. The bartender is a few paces behind you, changed from the formal shoes, slacks, and button-up into a pair of ratty Converse, jeans, a t-shirt, and a light jacket.

It fits him.

You frown. “Are you following me?”

“All the housing for this quad is in this direction,” he says and you flush, because that’s true, you’d forgotten yourself.

“Right, well,” you clear your throat noisily. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Because I’m a good person,” he replies easily, closing the distance and coming to stand beside you. “But seriously, what is it you see that’s so interesting?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, you don’t see it?”

“Like practically everything else here, it’s tailored to you specifically,” he says, lips quirked, and you flush again.

What’s with me today? You think. I’ve been here for two months, I know all this stuff by now.

“Well, what do you see?” You turn the question back on him.

He lifts his eyes to the sky. It’s dark and starless to you but whatever he sees makes his face soften. Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a strange, but familiar, feeling that has guilt immediately curling in your stomach. You try to shut it down.

“I see the Milky Way,” he says. “Millions of stars.”

You wonder what that must be like. “Sounds nice.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well. Never saw it much when I was alive since I lived in a big city. Only saw it once on a trip out to the country.”

“Oh,” you say intelligently.

“And you?” He asks.

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“I see . . . nothing. It’s. . . a starless sky to me.” You lift your eyes again. “It’s not really home . . .” you shrug awkwardly. “I dunno. That’s just what I see.”

“Different for everyone. No harm in that,” he says, strangely wise.

You're blurting out your name before you can think of what you’re doing.

He snickers. “Miyuki.” He gives you an appraising look. “Seems like you’re in a better mood.”

You shrug a shoulder. “I guess. I’m just . . . It’s nothing much.”

“You should talk to someone,” he says and it sounds like he means it.

“What, like you?” You try not to sound so incredulous but he catches it and laughs anyway.

“I can’t promise I’d care, to be honest. But if you’re facing some kind of dilemma that has to do with living loved ones, you’re probably not alone.”

You bite your lip. You’re getting kind of cold now, just standing there in the middle of the street, gentle winds tickling your cheeks.

He’s strangely honest.

Probably too honest than socially acceptable.

His name is Japanese and you’d wager that he’s speaking Japanese, too, but to you, his mouth is shaping the words in your native language and it sounds the same in your ears (another thing about the afterlife; no language barriers).

Doesn’t Japan have really stringent social hierarchies?

But if he’s so honest . . . Could he help?

You just don’t know what to do.

You feel bad that your partner moved on. You shouldn’t.

Right?

“If you keep thinking so hard, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

You focus on Miyuki. “Could I ask you for advice?”

He blinks. “Eh?”

“I know you said you wouldn’t necessarily care,” you sigh, taking a few steps to the side and sitting down on the curb. You stare at the street. The concrete is cool underneath you, seeping through the thin material of your jeans. “But I think you’d be honest. And I need that more than I need comfort.”

“Weren’t you the one also a little bit dubious about that?” He asks, but sits down beside you on the curb anyway.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “And I know we know nothing about each other but maybe that’s for the best.”

“Alright,” he says slowly. “Go ahead, I guess.”

He sounds awkward, suddenly, and you’re a little amused. He can certainly run his mouth but he gets choked up here. Of course.

You tell him, then, about how you did your duty, took the opportunity to visit your partner’s dream and made them promise to find someone else, something that makes them happy, and they finally did that, and you feel — mean and resentful and sad and you know you shouldn’t, you should be happy, because they did what you wanted, hadn’t they?

And maybe, you add to yourself, you shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be enjoying the pleasures of the afterlife, because you’re being selfish and it’s not right. Is it?

You halt in your words and close your eyes, pressing your forehead to your knees.

“I feel like such a bad person for feeling like that,” you whisper. “Is it bad that I secretly wanted for them to just . . . not settle down? So we could be together when they finally died and came here?”

Miyuki remains silent for a couple minutes and you finally turn to look at him.

He’s gazing at the sky, thoughtful. You hold your tongue.

Two women pass you, talking and laughing amongst themselves as they head home for the night.

“That’s the thing they don’t tell you about,” he eventually says quietly and you look at him instinctively. “The ‘right thing’ to do is tell the loved ones you leave behind to move on and find happiness again. Like it’s an obligation for us to be selfless. Maybe it is. My moral compass has never exactly worked well. But they never tell you how to get over them when they do move on.

“Or what to do when your partner finally crosses over and they’re still in love with someone else.” He finally looks at you, solemn. “Just because we’re dead doesn’t mean we don’t feel. We feel what we feel. We’re still human.”

He talks about this like he’s experienced it. You wonder if he has, but you bury that curiosity. There’s no need for it.

You sigh. “Yeah, that’s really poetic and all, but you didn’t exactly answer my question. Am I a bad person for wishing those things?”

He rolls his eyes. “Sheesh. What’s gonna satisfy you? No, you’re not. Shit happens. And like I just said —“he sends you a look and you have to suppress a smile “— we feel what we feel. Nothing wrong with that. My best piece of advice?” He stands and you have to almost crane your neck to look up at him. “Start preparing yourself for the worst possible outcome. They settle down. Get married. And pass into the afterlife still in love with that person, not you.”

It hurts to hear. But a part of you knows he’s right.

You set your chin on your knees and close your eyes, throat feeling thick suddenly.

You’ve had flashes of your partner and their new life in your dreams. They’re happy.

And . . . and you hope it continues.

Your feelings will shrink with time. You know that.

You just have to grin and bear it now.

You hear the shifting of gravel and rocks underfoot and tense as a hand tentatively touches your head. It’s warm and gentle and —

Comforting.

Your heart does a strange jump.

You open your eyes and look up at Miyuki.

“There’s nothing wrong with you moving on, too,” he says quietly and the air in your lungs rattles, squeezing your throat.

He takes his hand away and turns. “See you around.”

You watch him leave.

You stop going to the bar, because you have no business there anymore.

You’re going to learn to live with this fate.

The unfortunate side effect of that, though, is that you no longer see Miyuki.

And strangely enough, you find yourself missing his presence.

You try not to think about it too hard.

Moving on is . . . both hard and easy.

Some days, you think that this will be the day you leap that final hurdle, get over your ex and move on with your life here, but others, you don’t think the effort is worth anything.

It doesn’t help that your dreams are dominated by your ex and their new life.

Some nights, you just stay up and go to your backyard and lay down on the grass, staring up at the empty night sky.

Those times, you seriously consider reincarnation.

Your memories are wiped and you’re sent back to the living world to be reborn as someone else for another try at life.

But it’s a risky gamble, because you could end up at any point in history, as any person.

So, it’s nothing more than wishful thinking.

For now.

You do spend your time at the library in the central square, browsing the massive selection. You try to avoid glancing at the bar a few doors down as you make your walk there.

The library helps take your mind off things. For a little while.

In the living world, there are limitations to knowledge. Things that they don’t know for certain. Here, you’re given the privilege of knowing. You can unlock the secrets of the universe with little difficulty, only a short browse through the nonfiction section on cosmology and astronomy.

You almost feel pity for those in the living world, running around in circles trying to figure out this and that, when the answers to all life’s questions lay in your hands here.

You spend enough time at the library for the librarian to give you a part-time job. It’s hardly arduous. You just put returned books back into their original places.

You’re in the middle of returning some books in the how-to section when you run into Miyuki.

Literally.

He manages to step away before you can ram the cart into his ankles and you grimace.

“Sorry.”

“Wow,” he says. “Our first time seeing each other in almost two weeks and you almost run me over.”

You don’t take the bait, instead latching onto another piece of information he’d, probably, accidentally revealed.

“You’ve been counting?”

He plays dumb. “No. Of course not. What makes you say that?”

You find yourself smiling. “Was there something you were looking for, Miyuki?”

He clears his throat and straightens. “Cookbooks. Trying to spice it up at home. I think I’m using too many brain cells coming up with drinks for the bar.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing.”

But you park the cart to the side and help him out, locating the cookbooks. It’s a wide assortment, different books on different cultures, and he spends an impressive amount of time flipping through them, lips pursed, eyes narrowed as he takes in the information.

You putter around for a minute before going back to the cart, setting your hands on the bar and preparing to push it.

Miyuki quickly and quietly calls out your name.

You turn.

He has a book in his hands and he runs his fingers absently over the front.

You frown. Is he nervous?

“Yeah?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I was wondering . . . I have an extra ticket to a timeshow on the history of the universe this Saturday. My friend was supposed to go with me but he couldn’t go. Had to do something for his husband. Would you, ah, want to go? To the show? It’d just be a waste of money if I didn’t have someone else use it.”

He’s making excuses. Saving face.

But rather than finding it silly and annoying, you’re. . . endeared.

You smile. “Sure. That sounds like fun. What time?”

“Six. We can meet in front of the theater at five-forty-five?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. See you, then.” You flash him one last smile and turn around, pushing the cart to the next section.

Your heart is drumming away in your chest.

You’re. . . excited.

Settling into the afterlife had been hard. Because you’d been ripped away from the only life you’d known in the living world.

You had no one here, your parents still kicking, and there weren’t any grandparents or previously dead relatives waiting for you on the other side.

No, just a courier patiently telling you that you were dead and you were now in the afterlife.

It’s not like making friends is easy, either.

Most people keep to themselves. Routine is comfort here.

So, you tell yourself that the fluttering in your stomach and the rapid pace of your pulse is because, for better or for worse, Miyuki is your friend.

(And you ignore the disappointment that wells up within you at that title.)

The theater functions like it does in the living world, except they also have time shows.

Shows that document the passage of time. Topics vary, from the history of the universe, like the Big Bang and the formation of the Milky Way and the solar system, to life on earth, from prehistoric time, to the present.

Today’s show is the history of the universe, starting, naturally, with the Big Bang.

You’re a little tired, after another sleepless night, but seeing Miyuki standing at the entrance makes your heart race. You push down the feeling.

You and Miyuki take your seats, in the middle of the rows of the theater. It’s not very busy, but there’s still people there. You steal some of the popcorn from the bucket sitting on his lap.

“So, who’s your friend?” You ask, taking a drink of your water bottle.

He raises an eyebrow. “Hallucinating? Not a good look on you.”

You roll your eyes. “I mean the friend who canceled on you last minute. I was under the pretense you didn’t have any friends.”

He snickers. “I’m not a lonely, poor soul like you, you know. Anyway. My friend, Yoichi. We live on the same street.”

“That’s nice,” you say, earnest.

“He’s. . . alright.” Miyuki’s words are halting and jagged and it makes you curious as to why that is.

But the lights are dimming rapidly, signaling the start of the show, and you wipe your fingers on a napkin, turning your attention to the screen. You tense as the theater is plunged into darkness and feel Miyuki shift, settling his arm on the armrest separating your seats.

You have half a mind to elbow him out of your space before there’s a booming explosion, deafening and sudden enough to make you jump. Your fingers clamp onto Miyuki’s wrist instinctively, feeling the soft, warm skin underneath your fingertips.

The screen bursts to life, a brilliant, bright ball of light.

You jump again as rough fingers touch the back of your hand. And you realize you still haven’t let him go.

An apology is already on your lips when he applies a firmer pressure and murmurs, “It’s fine. These guys just like their theatrics.”

You falter, looking at him and seeing the bright colors of the screen reflecting off his glasses, but his eyes are on you, comforting gold.

A peculiar kind of heat spreads underneath the surface of your skin and you nod, embarrassed.

“Sorry.”

He taps a finger on the knuckle of your index finger. “Nothing to apologize for, dummy.”

You suppress the urge to apologize again and reluctantly remove your fingers from his wrist.

You fold your hands in your lap and ignore the way the skin on the back of your skin tingles pleasantly.

He’s right about the show. They do like their theatrics.

It’s all dramatic explosions and flashes of lights, running through the last 14 billion years of the universe’s existence in an easy hour, keeping it interesting enough for those who don’t know a thing about these concepts.

Miyuki passes the bucket of popcorn to you midway through and by the end of the show, your face is hot from the amount of times your hand has brushed his while reaching for popcorn.

It’s a little silly.

You’re not some kind of middle schooler interacting with their crush.

There’s no logical reason to be acting like that.

Yet you find yourself relieved as he tosses the bucket in the trash outside the theater, the air cooler here. You two converse as you leave the theater. Nighttime has settled in once again and the yellow light of the streetlamps illuminate the square.

Before you can get too distracted, Miyuki tugs on your shirt and you glance at him.

He tilts his head to the ice cream parlor next door. “Dessert? You’ll have to pay, though. I think that’s only fair.”

You marvel at his ability to make generous suggestions and still sound remarkably rude. It would irritate you, usually, but he manages to make it just sound like that’s how he is.

No malicious intent. Just a fact of nature.

“Sure,” you agree. “Sounds fine to me.”

The parlor is cold upon entering, a quiet humming in the background, bright lights illuminating the inside. The employee smiles politely.

You peer at the flavors, giving your order to the employee who starts working on it immediately. Miyuki follows suit after you’ve been handed a small cup with the ice cream.

“I almost would’ve thought you don’t like sweet things,” you comment offhandedly as you hand over the proper amount of money to the employee when Miyuki’s also been given his own cup.

“Green tea isn’t that sweet,” he says. “But sweet stuff has grown on me in the past years.”

“Really?” You both step back out of the ice cream parlor and cross the street to the park in the center of the square. He takes a seat on a bench and you sit beside him, careful to leave a reasonable amount of space between you two.

He nods. “Sure. Couldn’t stand it initially but,” he shrugs. “I don’t mind as much now.”

You want to ask for more information — that curiosity that had burrowed its way underneath your skin has spread, tugging at your chest impatiently — but you get the feeling that he’s a private person, so, you keep your mouth shut and eat your ice cream.

“How’s moving on working out for you?” He asks after a couple minutes of comfortable silence.

You remove your eyes from the sky and take the spoon out of your mouth.

You wouldn’t have taken him for a smalltalk kind of person and your intuition tells you that’s not it. It’s hard to get a proper look at him because he’s chosen a shaded area away from the lamps but his head’s tilted and somehow, someway, you can tell that he’s genuinely curious.

You feel pleased with your conclusion.

He’s a hard person to get a read on, almost impossible, really, but he’s either loosening his guard willingly or forgetting himself for the moment.

You get the feeling he’s doing it willfully.

It makes your heart race, for a reason unbeknownst to you.

“It’s a . . . process,” you say quietly. “Some days are easier than others. I think it’s hard, sometimes, because I’m so alone, you know? And the dreams don’t help at all. Some nights, I don’t sleep at all because of it.”

You glumly scoop some ice cream into your mouth. It’s melting from the heat from your palm, condensation forming on the sides of the cup, sliding down onto your hand.

“But it’s fine,” you continue when he remains silent. “I’m getting there. It’s almost been three months. My . . . ex is happy. Knowing that both hurts and helps. Does that make sense?”

He finally nods. “It does.”

You slip into another comfortable silence, finishing off the ice cream. You both toss your cups away then step back onto the street, heading to housing once again.

“This was fun,” you say softly. “Thanks for inviting me, Miyuki.”

He shrugs. “Told you. Would’ve been a waste not to use the other ticket.”

Certainly.

But he didn’t have to suggest ice cream, prolonging your time together.

He didn’t have to do that.

And that, you think, speaks volumes.

You stick your hands in the pockets of your jacket. “I have a question.”

“Alright,” he says, sounding both wary and curious.

“It’s kind of stupid,” you admit.

“I’ll be the judge of that. What is it?”

You bite at the inside of your cheek and move your eyes ahead of you, buildings fading into rolling hills of green. You’ll be entering the housing of this quad soon enough and you almost don’t want to say goodbye.

You’ve missed this. Companionship. Someone to talk to.

But there’s something on your mind, too.

“Why . . . I don’t know. It seems like you could be friends with anyone. And you didn’t have to help me out all those weeks ago, with my problem. So . . . why?”

You stare at the ground, almost afraid of his answer.

He hums quietly, though, and that’s better than a tense silence as he mulls over his answer. He’s not thrown off.

You risk a glance at him and he’s staring at the sky.

And not for the first time, certainly not the last, either, you wish you could see what he sees.

“Well,” he says eventually. “You came in for a solid, what, almost two months? Every other day, in the middle of the afternoon. Which would be incredibly worrying in any other situation, but you only actually ever drank on occasion. When things got bad, I assume —” he sends you a long look there and you look away “— but beside from that, it was a little impossible not to notice. You notice the regulars at the library, right?”

You nod and for some reason, you find his answer a little disappointing.

He shrugs. “See? Impossible to not notice. Honestly, you kind of reminded me of an old person.”

“What?”

He laughs loudly at your affronted tone. “Old people usually come to bars in the middle of the day, don’t they? Because it’s chill. More lowkey. The party scene isn’t their thing. That’s you.” He pokes your cheek and you swat his hand away.

“Stop that. That’s so embarrassing.”

He laughs again. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Old people are sensible, aren’t they? Most of ’em. Don’t get all worked up. I was just giving you my honest answer, anyway.”

You sigh. “Right. But at any point, you never pitied me? That sounds hard to believe.”

He waves you off lazily. “I didn’t care that much.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He grins at you and you feel something warm and fuzzy cocoon behind your breastbone, radiating a familiar heat that has you suppressing a smile of your own, refusing to give him that satisfaction.

“Come on, I kind of care now! That has to be worth something.”

“Kind of,” you repeat dryly.

“You’re a difficult person to please,” he says, sighing melodramatically.

“I don’t want to hear that from you,” you reply, laughing quietly, looking away. You’re well into the housing units now, passing street after street.

“Oh, wait.” You hear the gravel crunch underneath his shoes as he comes to a stop. You look at him and he’s gazing at the street signs with a pensive expression. “Oops. Passed my street.”

Disappointment curls in your stomach but you try to smother it.

“Well, I’ll see you around —”

“I’ll walk you home,” he says and you blink.

“You don’t have to.”

He rolls his eyes. “I know. But we’ve already passed my street. Might as well.”

Again. Excuses.

You smile softly. “I’d appreciate that.”

He looks away. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Come on, let’s go. I’m getting cold.”

He walks you all the way home.

Don’t be a stranger, he tells you when you arrive at your house, and he gives you his number. You try not to act so surprised and he adds, If you’re ever up and you can’t sleep, call me. I’m usually up, too.

And you know it’s not wishful thinking to spot the red on his cheeks.

Time passes. Months melt together until the quad is easing into something like summer, the days warm and mild and the nights cool and temperate.

You do as Miyuki says.

You drop into the bar on occasion and he’ll give you a drink on the house — “Because I’m a nice person” — and he’ll regale you with tales that he gets from his coworkers about the nighttime crowd and the shenanigans they get up to. You tell him about the odd people that come in and out of the library.

He’ll visit the library, too, to return the books he’s checked out. Usually, he’ll hunt you down and demand your help in finding him adequate books on cooking, and baseball strategy.

You find out two things from it.

He likes to cook and he’s incredibly proud of his abilities — it’s not a pompous kind of pride, an over-the-top one that’s usually befitting for him, but a genuine pride, carved into the way he smiles and tells you about how he took charge of the kitchen at only eleven-years-old in the living world and singlehandedly took care of his father with it.

And he was a professional baseball player in the living world, in Japan. You ask him why he never tried to move into a bigger quad and join a baseball team — because they certainly have them.

He simply says he’s run out of energy to play, but he could never tire of the logistics of the game.

On those visits, he’ll shadow you, once he’s found his books, as you put books away, and asks you questions about your old life.

It’s a comforting routine that you two have settled into.

And you think about your ex less and less.

You still see them in your dreams, aging as the years — months, for you — go by. And they get married, they settle down, they find peace.

You think you’re close to doing that, too.

Miyuki calls you one night.

You never ended up taking his offer to call him when you couldn’t sleep, mostly because, with the more time you spent with him, the easier it was to sleep and live with the dreams of your ex and their new life.

That doesn’t mean that he couldn’t use the opportunity with you, though.

You’re up, anyway, your mind not quite ready to go to bed yet, outside in your backyard, gazing at the black sky, listening to the cicadas buzzing in the night.

You answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he says and he sounds unsure. “Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all,” you reply. “What’s up?”

“You know how I gave you that advice a couple months ago? About your ex?”

You sit up and stare at the brown fence that lines the end of your property. “Yeah,” you say, unsure of where he’s going with this.

“Maybe you’d already guessed it but . . . I was in a similar situation. I died in some stupid plane crash and I left him there. His — it’s. . . that Yoichi I was telling you about.”

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Go on.”

“So, I did the thing. You know. Told him to move on and shit. He did, eventually. Found another guy. Someone we used to go to high school with. Sucked, but it was fine. Then,” he sighs. “Then, they died. Stupid bus accident. They were on the same pro team. And they came here.”

Oh, no.

“Miyuki,” you say softly. “How long ago —?”

“I died nine months ago. Took Yoichi two years to move on — but that was only two months here. Then they died a year after that. A month here.”

You draw your knees to your chest, feeling the cool grass underneath your bare feet.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t know why he called you, not really, maybe he had a bad dream, maybe he’s too stuck in his head and he needs to talk, but you do know you feel bad.

Because Miyuki had been in the same situation as you a couple months ago.

But what was worse was that he had to see his ex and their new partner soon.

You — you would hopefully not see your ex and their partner for many years.

But Miyuki . . .

“What are you apologizing for, dummy?” He asks wearily. “Nothing to say sorry for. Not your fault, is it?”

“It . . . just sucks.”

He snorts. “No kidding. Look, that wasn’t. . .” he trails off awkwardly, then clears his throat. “Sorry. Didn’t mean for this to get all heavy and stuff. I’m pretty much over it — over him. He and I are friends or whatever. Anyways. I was just trying to give you some background.”

You’re a little more confused now.

“Alright . . . For what, exactly?”

“My parents — my mom, really — have been hounding me to start seeing other people. And I’m having them over for dinner next week Friday. I’m not — asking you to pretend to be anything. But if they see you — if she sees you, it’ll be enough to get her off my back for a little while. I know it’s a lot but I can make it up to you. Free drinks for life at the bar?”

You wrinkle your nose. “No, thanks. But I’ll help you out. I’m kinda interested to see what your parents will be like, anyway.”

“Why?”

You sprawl over the grass once again, staring up at the sky.

“I dunno. You’re a mysterious guy, Miyuki. Getting a look at your parents might lessen some of that mystery.”

Your mistake, you belatedly realize, is that you’re getting tired now. And by natural consequence, your filter is loose.

It makes you unbearably honest.

Heat rises to your face. He’s quiet for a minute, then he laughs, and it sounds painfully fond.

Those warm undertones make your chest tight.

“Is that so? I don’t mean to be. Not to you, anyhow.”

Not to you, you mouth to yourself.

You think that means something.

But your brain is too tired to decipher its meaning.

You yawn.

“I should let you go. Have you been getting sleep? You know, I told you that you could call me if you’re staying up.”

You push yourself off the ground, patting the grass clippings off your clothes as you amble to the glass doors, stepping into the warmth of your home.

“That wasn’t it. I just wasn’t ready for bed yet,” you tell him as you go to your bedroom, collapsing unceremoniously onto the bed. “What about you?”

He makes a noncommittal noise. “Eh, you know. Just thinking. Anyways. I’ll let you go. Get some rest.”

“Mmm, you, too, Miyuki.”

He doesn’t hang up and a sleepy frown forms on your lips.

“I think . . . if you’ll be coming by on Friday, you’ll have to call me Kazuya.”

Oh.

You’re suddenly awake, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. “Oh. Uh. Are you sure?”

“You know me. Wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t want you to.”

Is this something you’re doing to keep a part or because you want me to? What’s the truth here, Miyuki?

You bite your tongue. “If you’re sure.”

“Say it,” he says in a sing-song voice. Once again taking too much pleasure in throwing your world off its axis.

Conniving jerk, you think, not without affection.

You sigh deeply, face warm. “Goodnight, Kazuya. Get some sleep.”

“You, too,” he responds cheerfully, maybe too loud since it’s three in the morning, and the call ends with a click.

You stare at the ceiling.

He’s so confusing.

You meet Kazuya’s ex the same day you’re supposed to have dinner with his parents.

His ex and another man are standing outside of Kazuya’s house, conversing with him.

You falter on the sidewalk, unsure if you should interrupt them, but his ex spots you and switches the attention to you.

Kazuya waves you over. “Come on. I want you to meet Yoichi and Eijun.”

Looks like he really is over it, you think to yourself, only a little bit envious.

You’re getting there. Really.

That warm, fuzzy feeling that’s been building a nest behind your breastbone has gotten out of hand, seizing your lungs and heart, giving those functions over to Kazuya for him to control.

You don’t know if he feels anything.

You think he does. Maybe. But he’s so difficult to get a read on, despite whatever he likes to say about letting you know what he’s thinking.

Regardless, it’s really not something for you to ruminate on when you’re about to meet his ex and his husband.

You walk up the path to the front door, where they’re all standing, and Kazuya touches your back as he introduces you to the two.

His ex is Kuramochi Yoichi, a scary-looking guy with dark brown hair, tan skin, and brown eyes, and his ex’s husband is Kuramochi Eijun, a friendlier guy with light brown skin, messy black hair, and light brown eyes that almost border on amber.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Eijun beams. “You’ve made Miyuki Kazuya just a little more bearable!”

Yoichi laughs loudly as Kazuya reaches out to cuff the back of his head, making him squawk indignantly.

“What? It’s true!”

“Shut up, dummy. Anyways, we should get inside, so you two can —“he makes a shooing motion and you muffle your laugh.

Yoichi scoffs and punches his shoulder. “Hey, you’re just trying to get out of us embarrassing you, but this won’t be the end of it, you should come over for dinner one of these days. I make a mean steak.”

Kazuya puts his hands on his hips, looking motherly, suddenly, as he squints at Yoichi. “Now, that’s not necessary —“

“I’m sure Miyuki Kazuya embarrasses himself enough on his own!”

“Exactly — wait, no —“

You smile. “Actually, if it’s alright with you —“you look at Kazuya and he falls silent, meeting your eyes “— I think that’d be great.”

“Yeah, fine, alright,” he relents and you know he doesn’t really mind. “Seriously, you two, go, before my parents get here and invite you two over. I only made enough for four people.”

“Excuses!” Eijun blusters but lets Yoichi tug him away, anyway. They bid you goodbye and you watch as they disappear into the house across from Kazuya’s.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” you say, more to yourself than him.

But he scoffs and shakes his head. “Honestly. No idea what I saw in Yoichi, I tell you . . .”

Before you can reply, a car turns down the street, and you know it’s likely his parents because there’s very little people in this quad that own cars. That means they came from another quad, probably one with a city.

The car pulls up to the curb and you hear its engine shut off.

Your heart jumps to your throat and you swallow nervously.

“Ready for this?”

You look at Kazuya, meeting his eyes, gold like the setting sun, and feel his hand slip into yours.

Pretense, you remind yourself, though you dimly recall that he said you wouldn’t have to necessarily put on a show, so he’s taking your hand on his own accord.

You don’t think too hard about it, enjoying the roughness of his calloused palm against yours, and watching as a man and woman step out of the car.

He squeezes your hand questioningly.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Ready.”

By the end of the night, his parents love you.

They’re easy to get along with; his father is quiet, though Kazuya takes after him most in terms of appearance. Still, his quiet, calm temperament goes well with the brighter personality of his mother, who reminds you distinctly of Eijun, except with the ability to control the volume of her voice and carrying a sharper perception that makes you only a little nervous.

You figure that’s where Kazuya gets his from, too.

You learn that his mother had been in the afterlife the longest, passing from cancer when Kazuya was younger, and then his father had passed a couple years before he did.

You think that despite it all, despite Kazuya dying at such a young age and having to handle Yoichi and Eijun again before he got over them, it’s nice that he had his parents for him.

They leave at nine-thirty after helping clean up and you and Kazuya walk them back to their car, where goodbyes are exchanged.

“You better walk them home,” his mother says to Kazuya, giving him a long look.

He holds up his hands in a placating motion. “Of course, of course. I’m a gentleman, Mom. You know that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, sure.” She gives you a warm smile, then. “It was wonderful meeting you. I hope to see you more often.”

“I hope so, too,” you reply and it’s not a lie.

She ducks into the car and you two take a few steps back, watching as the headlights flash on, illuminating the street.

They wave at you before making a u-turn and disappearing around the corner, likely heading to one of the tunnels that leads off to other quads to go back home.

It’s silent for a minute.

“You don’t have to walk me home,” you say.

“I want to,” he replies and that’s the end of it.

He locks the front door and you two set off.

The night is warmer than usual, but that could just be you, the remnants of wine still in your system. The cicadas are buzzing, too, as loud as ever, and with Kazuya next to you, you feel — light. Warm.

You raise your head to the sky, paying more attention to it than where your feet walk.

“I wish I could see it,” you murmur, pace slowing. Kazuya follows you instinctively.

“See what?” He asks, but you think he knows.

You say it anyway. “See what you see. Not this . . . black nothingness. Stars. Light.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, thinking, and you see him hesitantly reach out to you in the corner of your eye.

And you know what he’s going to try to do.

And you wonder what it’ll mean.

Afterlife is something that’s dependent on each person. No world is ever the same for one person.

But there’s certain cases, for those with bonds that go deeper than words can describe — a married couple, twins, best friends — where touch lets you see what they see.

The key is to letting down the mental guard in your mind, pushing away your own perception and giving into theirs.

You look at Kazuya.

Your heart is racing in your chest, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of your neck, though your face feels so warm.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, his hand hovering near yours.

“There’s nothing wrong with you moving on, too.”

It’s okay.

You reach for his hand.

Your white flag is raised. You’ve surrendered.

And the sky bursts into light.

The Milky Way stretches across the sky, bands of light glowing brilliantly in the night, stars twinkling.

Kazuya tugs on your hand and you look at him.

You see the brilliance of billions of stars reflecting in his eyes. His eyes — that are warm gold, full of tenderness and affection and a hundred other unspoken things.

It’s the last thing you see before his lips meet yours.

Five years pass before a courier comes knocking on your door.

You rise from the couch, sharing a confused look with Kazuya, who’s in the kitchen, in the middle of making breakfast.

You open the door, wincing at the bright sunlight that filters in from outside.

It’s a young boy — a courier, clad in the standard white uniform. You don’t let his appearance deceive you, though. Couriers appear at the age that’s most comforting for people — children, epitome of innocence and youth, a universal stage that everyone here has gone through.

He smiles at you, saying your name in a questioning tone.

“That’s me,” you say slowly.

“It looks like your ex-partner has just arrived here,” he tells you and the sound of the knife on the chopping block halts, before you feel Kazuya come stand behind you, slipping an arm around you, comforting, stabilizing.

But the news doesn’t shake you.

Instead, you smile. “How are they?”

“Doing well,” he replies. “Their spouse should be arriving soon, too. Within a couple days, I’d estimate. I’m simply notifying you that they’ll be in the next quad over,” he hands you a card with the information. “Just in case you’d like to visit. Or I can deliver a message for you, if you’d like.”

You don’t think you’ll visit them. It’s been so long, both for you and them, and you figure they have immediate family and friends they’d like to reunite with — those who actually managed to live their lives with them before passing here.

“Tell them I’m here, in this quad, at this home,” you say. “That . . . I’ve settled down. If they’d like to find me, they can. But it’s okay if not. We’ll bump into each other eventually. And I’ll be here for some time. Long enough to get those privileges on the reincarnation list.”

Kazuya squeezes your hip at that.

You’ve been talking about it; you’ve been together for the past five years and there’s more years, you know, left for you both. You haven’t aged, of course, frozen at twenty-five permanently and it’s not like you’ll ever get tired of each other.

No, you could never.

But certain couples who remain together here for a set amount of time become eligible for reincarnating into a world together, destined to find each other.

There are risks, of course.

There is no guarantee that says you’ll meet each other as adults, as teens, or even as kids.

But eternity is a long time.

And you and Kazuya can wait many more years, of course, but should there come a day when you both want a change of pace, a change of scenery, reincarnation — together — is what you’ll do.

The courier tips his hat at you. “Of course. Have a good day.”

“You, too,” you reply and you watch as he turns and, quite literally, disappears.

(Couriers aren’t mortal nor are they human, merely extensions of the higher beings that look over this realm, doing their business for them.)

He kisses your head. “You okay?”

You turn in his arms, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your skin. His arms tighten around your hips, pulling you closer.

His eyes shine like darkened citrine, molten under the beams of light. You can pick out the worry in his brow easily now.

“I’m fine,” you say and he looks a little dubious. “Honestly. It was bound to happen, wasn’t it?”

“Sure,” he agrees warily. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel a little sad.”

You smile. “I’m not sad.”

“You sure? You are here with me. Not like that’s an easy life to live. I understand if you’re getting tired of me,” he says, jokingly, gently pulling you back into the cool shade of your shared home.

He shuts the door and you wind your arms around his neck.

You kiss him. “I could never get tired of you,” you mumble against his mouth.

You feel him smile.

And you know you have found your peace.

It’s this home you share, in the same quad you met all those years ago. It’s the bed you sleep in together, the bathroom you share, the food you make together. It’s the routine, Kazuya working afternoons at the bar, you overseeing the library; having his parents over for dinner every two weeks and going out for breakfast with Yoichi and Eijun on Sundays.

It’s this life you’ve made for yourself here.

It’s him.

[the1975attheirverybest]

Winte(ring)

A/N: for @abiiors 12 days of Christmas prompts. Sorry I’ve abruptly abandoned them. IM SORRY ITS SO SHORT I CANT WRITE FLUFF OKAY.

Inspired by my first winter away from home during the 2014 snowmageddon in Boston. If you know you know. Let me know what you think!!

Prompt: Snowed In

Warnings: nah.

———

“Darling, please! Put that down!” Matty trailed after his girlfriend as she dashed around their rented cabin, gathering her belongings and stuffing them into her suitcase.

“I promised Denise-“

“I promise you that my mum does NOT want you to drive in the middle of a snowstorm just to be there for presents. She’ll understand.” Matty squeezed her shoulder urgently.

“If you wanna stay here all alone, then, suit yourself. But I’m leaving.” With that, she hauled one of the bags over her shoulder, turning doorknob open.

“Are you mad? You think I’m going to let you drive in the middle of-“ Matty stepped outside in his slippers, nearly slipping at the doorstep. “Jesus fuckin Christ!” He gasped when he saw the giant icicle looming down from the dam on the roof, ominously, threatening to break off at any moment and stab them.

“Come with me, then! Get dressed and let’s go before snowfall resumes. It’d be much safer if we could make it back before dark.”

Matty knew that was the logical thing to do, but that wasn’t the plan. THE plan. The one that he’d booked this cabin trip specifically to carry out. “But I’m- I’m sleepy. And- uhhh….ive still got to shower. And I haven’t packed-“

“Instead of standing here arguing with me about it, you could get started with all that!”

She could hear him mutter something under his breath about her being the most stubborn person he’d ever met. Shaking his head, he rushed back inside, his slippers completely drenched, his feet aching.

She shrugged, pressing the button on the car remote and listening to it beep twice. She was in the middle of loading up the car when she heard Matty come back out; with a feeble jacket on, a layer not strong enough to protect his precious body from the elements. He had certain not changed or packed, but at least he had his boots on. She glanced at him quickly before turning back to return to her task. Behind her, Matty was mumbling.

“I knew you were gonna be the death of me the moment that I met you. I just never expected us to die in a snow storm, for fucks sakes.”

Ordinarily, this is what would instigate a fight. He would share his inside thoughts out loud, inevitably saying something to set her off, she’d bite back with something quipping and sarcastic, and they’d kick off their competition for who would have the last word. But, considering that they were in a hurry to get on the road, she let his complaints slide.

“It’s my fault. Should’ve known you’d make this an impossible task. But no, I had to plan this fuckin romantic shitshow.”

Her brows furrowed as she moved their bags around inside the car, trying to fit them together like Tetris pieces. Behind her, she heard Matty zip and unzip his backpack repeatedly. Was he planning on loading up his stuff one individual item at a time?

She pushed the back of the car closed, sighing loudly in an attempt to exhale the annoyance out of her body. But, then, she turned around.

“Oh- my- fuck-“ she was stunned.

Before her eyes, Matty knelt down on one knee. Among a huge bed of rose petals that were presently sinking into the snow, slowly being covered up with white, disappearing. He popped the little box in his hand. A gorgeous diamond ring sparkling from within.

“Will you marry me?” Matty asked as soon as their eyes locked. “My darling—“ he swallowed. His heart beating against his coat. “will you do me the honor of being my wife you stubborn, relentless, ridiculous human being?” Marty was shocked at how nervous he’d felt. Despite the fact that they’d been together forever, talked about spending the rest of their lives as a couple, discussed marriage, starting a family, felt comfortable in their decision that they never wanted to be with anyone else, ever again. Matty still felt vulnerable and scared. To offset the unnerving feeling, he did what he does best: rant. “I had this whole thing planned. It was meant to happen inside! By the fireplace. Tonight. Dinner. Just you and me. There was going to be wine- umm…I can get the wine actually!” He went to stand up “probably shouldn’t get up before you answer. I just….theres nobody else I’d rather be snowed in - or out- with. I suppose you could say- the storm….it’s an awfully clear metaphor for- you know….the unexpected ups and downs of life that come your way in a marriage- or something obvious and dramatic like that….i just mean I love you and only you. I never want to love anyone else for the rest of my days. And I can’t think of a better way to honor that, than, like, marrying you, so I think we should be husband and wife. Forever and-“

She knelt down, kissing him with tears in her eyes. The sudden, added weight, threw him off balance, his knee sinking into the soft snow.

“Yes.” She whispered giggling into his mouth. “Yes I’ll marry you, you pretentious dickhead. Give me the ring…”

[lordfrezon]

Ok let’s do this one

Signalis

Gameplay: 7/10

Story: 10/10

Short review: This is a survival horror game.  I’m not the biggest fan of those.  I got through the gameplay, it’s passable and the puzzles make you feel clever.  If you like survival horror play it, it’s neat.

If you like stories with strong thematic elements, either play this game or watch a playthrough on youtube because it’s incredible.

Longer review:

You ever just see a book or a movie or something and think, “wow that thing has impeccable vibes”?  That’s Signalis for me.

I’ve struggled to write this review like 4 times now and keep running into the primary issue with reviewing this game in that it’s near impossible to get across why its good without you having experienced it.  I’ve put the title drop in a bunch of places already, but I don’t see a better way to get across what I’m trying to say than just showing this 2 minute video.

Right from go, you’ve got The King in Yellow, the three-note oddity, Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude, quotes from Lovecraft’s The Festival, a face being stripped of flesh, black text on red background, just... vibes, man.

But there’s just more, the game starts slow but eventually just throws question after question at you.  What would you be willing to do for someone you loved?  What’s the nature of life?  How do memories from the past affect the present, the future?  How much are you willing to sacrifice?  The game provides some answers but like a lot of great thematic works, there’s so much left to you, the experiencer, to figure out and interpret for yourself. 

Ok, so what do you actually DO in this game?  Signalis is an isometric 3rd person survival horror game.  You’re tasked with progressing deeper and deeper into a mining facility in search of “her”, a woman who haunts your dreams and whom you made some sort of promise to.  In your quest, you much do a bunch of puzzles to unlock doors, turn off security systems, and find keys.  There are two obstacles to this.  The first is the Rule of Six- you can only have six items in your inventory at a time (with the exception of a couple integrated thingies, also this can be made less stringent and even turned off).  The second is the horror part.  The former workers of the mine, androids like yourself, are not doing too great, and will try to murder your ass.  So you have to manage either sneaking around or popping caps in metal ass with limited ammo, then curbstomping them to make them lie still.  This allows you to progress without concern from the enemies, making progression much easi- wait, why is that one standing back up?

This is pretty much it.  The puzzles vary in difficulty from “type in a code into a safe” to “turn on a radio broadcast station and turn on your in-unit radio to open a box with a microphone in it”.  Like I said, the gameplay is fine. 

But what keeps getting me about this game is those thematic questions it asks.  There’s a lot of subtle decisions you can make that influence how the game ends, and unlike a lot of similar games there’s no “good ending”.  There’re just varying degrees of... stuff.  And without delving into spoilers, there’s not much I can say beyond “yeah game is good play it or watch a playthrough”.

And from the point of view of the developers, I don’t think that was unintentional.

[moonless-if]

Hello, I just finished playing the Moonless demo! I have to say, the customization options are amazing — the number of options presented honestly threw me for a loop in the best ways possible. I had a blast designing my MC :D

I'm already so excited for what's coming next!! And... a little apprehensive. The game description says MC is an illune, a moonless guard under the royal family — which the current MC is quite obviously not. And the character description for Rainn flat out tells you that they're a figure from your past, and you'll be "reuniting" with them.

(And, from what I've gathered, the illune doesn't even exist yet.)

All things that don't bode well for the grand heist MC and Rainn will be embarking on. ...Well, that's a bit of an understatement. It's practically a stone cold guarantee that their heist will (one way or another) fail. And that MC and Rainn will somehow be separated, going on to lead very different lives in two very separate worlds.

😌😌😌✊🏽 I can already sense the incoming angst of their reunion. Yes, I'm apprehensive, but also. Angst. 😌✊🏽

I also really appreciate the variety of conversation choices you offer — playing an IF is so much more fun when you're allowed to build your character past the basic shy/bold/sarcastic responses :D

I can't wait to see what comes next! I The world you've built in the prologue alone already feels so full and alive. Getting to see it expand is a journey that I'm very happy to be a part of.

Do take your time, though! I'm well aware that writing and coding so many details and variables must take ages. We'll all gladly be waiting 😊 Good luck, and have a good day!! Ah, and though that was quite a few days ago, I'm glad your dog is okay! My best wishes to the two of you💙💙💙

hi and thank you for the ask! seeing it pop up in my inbox and reading about the dots you've connected really brightened my day! 💖

short answer is you're right about 99% of your theories and that makes me so happy! 😍 because while i do enjoy there being stuff to unravel and figure out, i don't want it to be entirely impossible to do it, so... yeah! mc is not an illune yet and the heist will fail no matter what you do (so don't feel bad about that) and mc and Rainn will go down separate roads until they're reunited again in chapter one (most likely ch1 at least)!

the order of illune does exist in the prologue, but it's in its infancy, so very small and not publicly known (mc and Rainn have no idea it exists for example).

i won't go too much into it since i hope it'll become apparent in the game why the order is unknown in the prologue, but the reason why i decided to make the prologue almost a prequel of sorts was both to establish a relationship with Rainn from the get-go, rather than that only coming up in possibly flashbacks or discussions with them further into the story, as well as establish how mc came to be recruited into the order of illune.

and oh yes, there will be angst between mc and Rainn. how much depends on how you want to play it, but you can't avoid it entirely. another reason why i actually wanted to write the prologue in the way i'm doing it, cause otherwise you'd reunite with Rainn again and i'd have to tell you what happened and make you decide in the moment how you feel about it, rather than building it in the prologue and then letting you stew in it for a bit.

when i first started writing the moonless, the prologue was just going to be a brief maybe like 2-5k words glimpse into all of this, but as i got into writing it the story felt very much like "this is mc and they did this and then this happened" and it just felt very inorganic. i realised that because only mc gets recruited and not mc and Rainn, i really needed to show how that happened (or half the reason at least) and why they fall out of touch and don't reconnect in the years between the prologue and chapter one.

and just like you've deduced, to get to that point, the heist will likely fail. honestly, i probably could've had a version where you succeeded with the heist and the rest still works out the way it should, but i don't wanna 😂 both because of the extra added work it would be and because that's not as interesting to me as making you auto-fail.

that's not to say there won't be some variation to how and more importantly when the heist fails 👀 there'll be lots of tiny variations that's basically just flavour text, but if you make it as far as you possibly can, and with the "correct" stats, there'll be a lil something extra in it for you (the reader) as repayment for you (mc) failing the heist 😎 i will put together a small guide on how to get to the "bonus content" for those who want it, but once i'm actually done writing it.

as far as customisation (both appearance and personality-wise) goes, i'm happy you feel like there are plenty of options! 💖 when i release the rest of the prologue (hopefully at the start of this summer, if i can keep up my schedule!) there will be some re-write of what's already out, but any appearance options that might disappear will come up later (i always planned for there to be a pt2 to character customisation in chapter one, for things that might've changed between the prologue and ch1, so if any options are missing, just know that they'll be added later!)

as far as personality/conversation options, those are being rewritten as well, but really only to add more choices, so hopefully the rewrite will only make it better! 🫣

like i said, i'm hoping to be done with the rest of the prologue by early summer, but i still have a ways to go. to compare, my detailed outline for the prologue is around 17k words, which is about the same length is what's already out of the demo lmao!

again, thank you so much for your kind words! it means a lot that you took the time to write down and send me your thoughts on the story, and it's a real shot of motivation for me to keep writing!

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"The prison must have been quite new at the time. It gleamed and glittered in the sun as we came near. Within, it shimmered with fluorescence and was all tile and glass and painted iron and hollow echoes. Bells rang. It hummed and banged and clanged. Trains could have been moving through it. Words were measured out like coins.

I was stripped, examined for dope, showered; my hair was cut with electric clippers, in seconds.

I was processed.

It was done largely in silence.

Alone in my quarantine cell, I looked in the small dull mirror and saw a skull.

Quarantine, to which all new arrivals were subjected, was a matter of around-the-clock confinement in isolation, an isolation broken only when meal trays were presented or removed, or by the brief glimpse of a guard’s face at the solid cell door window as he passed by during count. At night the isolation of the quarantine cell became complete.

The absence of the sound of the human voice was, to me, its most unnerving aspect. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that in this more or less total isolation during the day, and in this absolutely total isolation at night, my own thoughts, however random or inconsequential, appeared more and more to be as voices heard. And this indeed was unnerving.

In short, the phenomenon that had intermittently troubled me in Rochester, here became constant, a nightly affair, when sleep would not come for me, and when, increasingly, all sorts of inane and unconnected fragments of conversations—conversations long forgot or simply imagined—would come unbidden to my mind and there contend to be heard; snatches of argument, conversational trivia, vague warnings and alarms; none of it making any sense, impossible of being ordered, sorted out, explained; and with no way, least of all, of stopping it.

It was only later that I would sleep—at the end of the absolute silence—in the light of day.

It was the matter of my sleeping through meals which apparently suggested to the officer in charge of the quarantine cell block that perhaps something was flakey here. Some week or ten days after being placed in quarantine, I was taken to his office where he questioned me closely along these lines. He was, I noticed, a nervous sort himself.

I maintained that mentally, all was quite well with me.

Which by this time I knew was not the case. I was no dummy. Nor was I, I believe, a coward; although it might be fair to argue that had I understood less—or perhaps more—of what was going on with me I might have been less afraid. It was, however, my understanding then that what was happening was this: in my sleepless nights I was, however, unwillingly, intruding into that area of the mind where, among other germinal processes, the raw stuff of dreams was being first and roughly fashioned. And it was my further understanding and belief that this was a trespass not to be taken lightly. Just what its significance was, I wasn’t certain, but I was certain it wasn’t good.

It frightened me. Occasionally during the waking hours of the day the skin on my scalp would grow cold and draw tight. What I feared was a progressive deterioration of the boundaries separating my conscious and subconscious thought processes; the development of a kind of wasteland of the mind become permanent and total.

(I had acknowledged to myself from the start that in this area would I most likely prove vulnerable. Anyone who has spent any time attempting seriously to write will understand how I might well have had such an awareness. At least I suspect that most of us who would write are quick to learn that the mind, at times, has altogether a mind of its own, that it will not be bullied or too wildly ordered about; that it has its own sticking and stopping points; that it is not, goddamn it, to be too much messed with; that its toughness, or lack of it, had best not be put to the test. (That it was, in fact, being put to the test was a matter mostly of the times. I was by way of becoming a casualty. As is well enough known, certain soldiers can be destroyed in battle while remaining quite untouched.

Should pacifists, then, have heads of stone?)

Whatever; I took to quoting poetry softly aloud. It helped. It would have helped more, I suppose, if I had known more poetry to quote. I was limited pretty much to Coleridge, Wordsworth, Hopkins, Cummings—a few things by each—and a number of very dirty limericks, most of which I can quote to this day. For a time I hung in there. Awake, in command through the day, I spoke other men’s verses—good or bad didn’t matter—and prevailed. While at night, asleep, but not quite asleep, I heard voices, all of them my own, and endured.

...

When the Viet Nam war came along, I did not advise my son to go to prison. Prisons are hell. I reasoned: let it be as though I had gone altogether crazy in prison and he, my son, had never been born. As well it might have been, and all other memory be damned.

- Donald Wetzel, Pacifist: Or, My War And Louis Lepke. New York: Permanent Press, 1986/2016. p. 70-72.

[hospitalterrorizer]

diary229

5/1-2/2024

wednesday - thursday

going to a thing tomorrow.

4 palestine. we'll see how that goes, i think it is intended to be, and will likely be, rather calm. mostly i would like to learn things. but you know, it could not be that way and, as it seems is common at universities currently (though this is not any kind of explicit protest (which i have misgivings about i suppose but there apparently have been and i feel bad about not even knowing about the ones that were close by)). anyhow, i will talk about that after it. nothing to expect really except what the event is supposed to be, which is poetry and talking to people and mostly listening. i like to listen.

i just watched 2 shorts:

this one first, for the first little bit, it's kind of dull. or rather, i can't tell what it's really doing, a little after that i realized i was beginning to like it, and that it really moved like a dream does, between characters who are vague but distinct in action and activity but lacking in elaboration, or standard elaboration. they elaborate themselves here, in pain. i rather like that, and at the end, when for instance the woman transforms into like, the masked character, it's quite beautiful and the ecstasy present in that, as well as the malady/terror present in the eyepatch character's performance, both are rather exciting, i really love how they move and the sounds present in both those parts. there's this chime sound i also love, and i generally like the way the camera moves. i however really hate the chewing/sucking sounds but whatever, i can deal with that.

i do think it's interesting as a response to something like tetsuo, it's almost like an undoing of what connects that film, instead here it's all harsh surrealism, butoh ecstasy and a kind of radical attack, the point where the man falls and clutches his head, everyone just stares. that is rather interesting and it comes into play w/ another of his films.

i do find it kind of inspiring to see stuff like this, making me think more about buying a shitty camcorder that writes directly to a cd-r and making some nonsense. it'd at least be good for like, random music video stuff maybe. who knows. or something to work with text.

i then watched this:

this one translates to 'vomit terrorist' which is cool, i think. i also love the opening where the fear/ecstasy of movement (there's times, where she is not running from the camera, where she seems to be smiling), is very present. this one is more physical than caterpillar, being entirely about a hurried kind of body, and this woman, and it feels rather important she is a woman, being under all kinds of duress, or trouble. her hair is also rather magnificent.

the start being so much vomiting did start to make me feel ill. it was important that it made me feel like her, it draws you into your stomach, where she is. the movie makes it impossible to locate yourself out of those zones, not that you are identified, you aren't identified at all, especially not into her body, instead it's almost like, i dunno, radio-waves of solidarity, not empathy as such, it is carrying on in similar disrepair, it brings you to that place, we have all been there, the need to cause a scene, shriek in public. i like it... i am bad... but i like it... i want to destroy destroy destroy...

briefly i wonder about any kind of exploitation in something like this, not of the crowd but of its lead actor and i feel as though, to do this so well, she must have been some kind of performer beyond film, maybe performance art or demonstrations in the past. i do like her ability to bring fear to a whole crowd, the way they run away from her as she runs at them, how they laugh not knowing what else to do, the way they try their best to shield themselves from her via whatever kind of 'knowing' superiority they can muster, failing obviously. she pokes a hole in sociality, empties it out. it is a terrorist film, it is beautiful for that. it feels very affecting. i should like to resemble her in some way, she instantiates a way out, express fear outwardly, excitement outwardly, make a scene, do anything.

i feel it in my heart is all i can say!! or it is what i can say as well as anything else. it is meaningful, it does seem to beg that women not be treated as dogs, or it at least shows that some men do understand that, as a man directed the film. it feels rather nice to see, knowing japan is a horrifically sexist country largely. makes me curious about more outwardly feminist work from japan.

i ought to go back to finishing terminal boredom by izumi suzuki.

beyond that, what do i know? mieko kawakami i think, i ought to look into her books other than heaven, which i did/do love.

but watching shorts from japan, i always admonish myself, why japan, it is a place that exerts a rather unpleasant degree of visibility over what people in artsy zones consume. i am no better or different. i was raised around it and know my way around it. but i ought to see about maybe shorts from other parts of asia that work in similar ways, other avant garde efforts in shorts, i really love seeing stuff like that honestly.

here's a couple songs

listening back to the new vocals i did, and i think they are good...whoa. one song i think i need to go in and get something a little better for a tiny part but i might also just want to cut one of the layers at a couple points and see what that does.

i also think the vocals in one need to be mixed down a touch, and in the other, mixed up. how funny... ha ha ha. not laughing actually though but not sad either really. ha ha ah.

one friend is saying they would like to recruit me for backups, maybe, which i would be down for i think. though i am pretty bad singing on things that aren't my own i feel like.

another song i'm listening to, i think this like, chorus-y part needs to have guitars panned harder / wider. i can automate that too, to get it to not be panned when i don't really want that for some parts of the song. dddope i ggguesssss.

one song is seeming to need lower guitars + higher synths.

some tiny tiny issues, stuff that really does seem mostly about level-related mixing and if not stuff that should be simple, but also stuff i should not complicate really.

anyway, i am sleepy now, so i should just sleep now, i took selfies today i will post them tomorrow if i like them looking back at them,

so,

byebye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[yellowsuitcase]

I missed you // Draco Malfoy

A/N: This was an anonymous request I received about 4 days ago. It took me a while to write it because school was A LOT this week and I’ve been so exhausted from trying to keep up with everything. I’ve also started trying to shift so if anyone has any tips on that, please let me know! Otherwise, I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Draco and Y/N have mutually broken up and have started experimenting with other people. But it’s only a matter of time before Draco gets jealous.

Warning(s): Swearing

Word Count: 2.5k 

It was for the best. Wasn’t it? He didn’t love her anymore, and nor did she. That happens sometimes. People just fall out of love. It was mutual; there was no fight, nobody was angry. The relationship had run its course, no feed to fuss about it. Besides, it wouldn’t have made sense for them to remain, boyfriend and girlfriend, when they’d each lost feelings.

If all of that is true...then why does it hurt so much? Y/N wondered as she lay flat on her back, the bedsheets around her in disarray from all her tossing and turning. She knew there was no way she’d find sleep easily tonight, not after the breakup. She felt as if a piece of her had been forcefully ripped from her. But why? She had a hunch for almost an entire month that she’d lost feelings for Draco. Shouldn’t she have been prepared for the end? Alas, Y/N knew that completely preparing oneself for a breakup is an impossible feat. 

These thoughts swirled through her brain as she finally closed her eyes. She clutched the sheets in her palms, trying to ground herself. Her forehead was tense with wrinkles as she was already anticipating the nightmares. But nevertheless, after a few more minutes of restlessness, her body’s need for slumber overtook her.

When she awoke the next morning, she could practically feel the bags sitting under her eyes. She could only guess that her sleep had been plagued with nightmares as she was lucky enough not to have any recollection. Her head pounded as she sat up in her bed. Her roommate gave her a pitiful and knowing look. Y/N took in a deep breath and clambered out of bed.

It didn’t take her very long to get ready since she frankly didn’t care whether or not she looked presentable today. She made sure her teeth were brushed and that her tie was on correctly and walked out of the dorms. Truthfully, she knew she wasn’t very hungry, but people would ask questions if she missed breakfast. While walking to the Great Hall, she was startled by someone jumping right in front of her.

“Good morning!” George Weasley said. “Why the long face?”

Y/N gave him a weak smile and said, “I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”

George looked skeptical but pushed no further. He fell into step beside her.

“Where’s Freddie?” she asked.

“Morning detention with Filch, he slipped a puking pastille into his drink.”

“You had nothing to do with it?” she asked, a doubtful smile on her lips.

George shrugged, smirking as he did so. “I have my ways,” he said while bumping her shoulder slightly. She looked up at him with a fake mean glare as they strode into the Great Hall. Y/N caught sight of Draco immediately. He was where he always sat in the morning. Usually, she would’ve made a beeline for the space next to him. Today, that spot was taken by Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl who had always taken a keen liking to Draco. Y/N stopped in her tracks and stared. Pansy was fawning over him, running her hands up his arms. Y/N felt anger begin to rise in her chest...but then she remembered. 

Shaking her head, she forced her feet to follow George to where he had sat down at the Gryffindor table. He was talking animatedly with his mates and didn’t notice Y/N standing behind him awkwardly while she tried to figure out whether or not she was wanted at the table; she was a Slytherin after all.

George eventually took notice of the presence behind him when his friend nodded his head towards her. “Y/N, did you want to sit? Thought you’d be with Malfoy. Has something happened?”

She sighed as she threw her leg over the bench and sat down. “Yeah, we broke up,” she said softly.

“Broke up? He didn’t do anything, did he?” George asked while turning to look at Draco.

“No, no. It was mutual. He didn’t do anything.”

“Good. Well, cheer up then. You’re a free woman now. The world is yours, right?” 

Y/N smiled at George. “Yeah, you’re right, it is. I don’t know why I’ve been sulking so much. I lost feelings, and so did he. Nothing more to it.”

“Yeah, that’s the spirit! Who needs Malfoy anyway?” George bellowed, successfully making Y/N giggle. She felt her stomach rumble. This surprised her; she didn’t expect to be in a good enough mood to be hungry. But the buttered rolls on the table now looked extremely appetizing.

---------

{A few months later}

Draco paced back and forth in front of the mirror. He was nervous. In nearly twenty minutes, he’d be on his first date since breaking up with Y/N. He couldn’t believe he was really going on a date. With Pansy Parkinson, nonetheless. These past few months, she’d really grown on him. She was from a pureblood family, she was kind to him, and she was rather pretty. Draco knew his parents would love her. He could only hope he could grow to do the same.

He gathered his courage and left the bathroom. They had agreed to meet outside the potions classroom. It was an odd location, but Pansy suggested it, and Draco had no reason to object it. As he walked down the middle of the corridors, his mind began to race. What would she be wearing? Would she like him? Would they become boyfriend and girlfriend after this? Would Y/N find out? What would she think?

Draco’s face grew tense. What a silly thought to have. He wouldn’t actually date Pansy. And as for Y/N, he knew she wouldn’t care. She and George have had a thing for a few weeks now. They were always holding hands or sitting shoulder to shoulder, lovey-dovey stuff like that. He had even given her a kiss on the cheek. The image of it was burned into Draco’s memory.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when he saw Pansy outside the classroom. She had her back leaned against the wall. She donned a dark green dress that reached her mid-thigh. Her hair was wavy and fell over her bare shoulders. Draco exhaled sharply. He felt the anxiety in his stomach but was determined not to show it.

“You clean up nice, Parkinson,” he said cooly and confidently while nodding his chin towards her. 

Pansy rolled her eyes, “Thank you, Malfoy. You look handsome as well,” she said while scanning him up and down, her voice slow and sensual. Draco shifted his feet, feeling uncomfortable. “Shall we?” he asked. Pansy smirked and pushed off the wall and sauntered over to him. She reached for his hand and grasped it tightly in hers. Draco had to fight the internal instinct to wriggle his hand out of hers.

Just as they were about to go, they heard a noise from behind them. They turned around saw none other than Y/N, her arms full of potion ingredients and notebooks. She looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“Stealing potion ingredients, Y/N?” Pansy asked with a knowing smirk on her face.

Y/N’s eyes shifted back and forth between the pair. When her eyes landed on their interlocked fingers, she straightened her spine and frowned. “You know perfectly well that we have a section that’s open to students. And it’s none of your business anyway,” she spat.

But Pansy was unfazed. “Lavender, Flobberworm mucus, and valerian sprigs. What’s wrong, Y/N? Can’t fall asleep? Oh no, don’t tell me you get nightmares,” Pansy taunted, using a voice one might use when speaking to a baby or a dog.

Draco watched as Y/N’s face turned red. He knew she’d always struggled with nightmares and would often have to make herself a sleeping draught potion to be able to get some genuine rest. As he looked at the ingredients in her hands, he noticed she was short on a few of them.

“You don’t have enough,” he said without thinking. Both girls’ eyes turned to him. He ignored Pansy’s and instead focused on Y/N’s.

She waited a few beats before replying, “Snape has stopped refilling the supply. He said I need to stop relying on it so much,” she muttered. Her head had turned away from the couple. Draco’s eyebrows knitted together. When did she become so dependent on those potions? While they were together, she’d only need it maybe once every few weeks.

He didn’t have time to wonder about it any further. Pansy had begun walking and dragged Draco with her. Leaving Y/N alone in the cold dungeons, watching them go.

----------

Draco stared through the leaves of the tree he lied underneath. Classes were over, and he was relaxing before Crabbe and Goyle were bound to come and bother him. The week had dragged on for what seemed like years. Frankly, he was ready to crawl into bed and sleep the next few days away, but he had already made plans for the weekend. 

He allowed his eyes to close, and the stress from the week began to leave his body. But his peacefulness was short-lived. Loud cheers made their way to his ears. He sat up angrily, ready to hex whoever decided to irritate him. However, all that frustration dissipated when he saw what people were cheering for. When he saw it, time seemed to stop.

George was holding Y/N in his arms, she was parallel with the ground, and her lips were pressed against his. He was kissing her passionately while her hands gripped his shirt collar.

Draco felt his heart sink. The only word running through his brain was “no.” No, no, no, no. After he watched the scene in front of him for nearly a minute, he decided he couldn’t stand it any longer. He jumped to his feet and stomped out of the courtyard, passing Pansy as he did so.

“Draco, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” she asked, her face was strewn up in confusion as to why Draco’s shoulders were heaving. 

“Not now, Parkinson,” Draco snapped.

“But Draco—”

“Shut up! Merlin, do you ever shut that trap of yours?” he shouted at her. Her eyes widened in shock, but Draco paid her no mind. He was halfway down the corridor when he thought better of himself and turned around. Rage overtook his body as he stormed back into the open courtyard and headed right for George and Y/N. They noticed him coming towards them and took a few steps back. George took Y/N’s hand and pulled her behind him.

“What d’you want Malfoy?” 

“Move, Weaslebee, I’m not here for you.”

George pursed his lips and withdrew his wand. He was intent on not letting Malfoy come any closer to the girl behind him. “If you’re here for her, you’re not getting her.”

Draco clenched his fists and also withdrew his wand. He aimed it straight at George’s face. “Move,” he demanded.

George widened his stance and raised his wand towards the blonde boy. “No,” he said firmly.

Draco inhaled and opened his mouth, but before he could hex George, a golden light shot towards Draco’s hand, and suddenly his wand was thirty feet across the yard.

Y/N emerged from behind George. Her wand was clutched in her palm. “There’s no need to fight. I can decide whether I want to speak with someone, and I certainly don’t need protection. So if you’ll excuse me, it’s obvious that Draco and I need to have a chat.”

She didn’t waste a moment; she began to make her way towards the exit. Draco quickly came to his senses and went to fetch his wand before hurrying after her.

He followed her through many hallways before she stopped outside the Slytherin dorms. “Salazar,” she muttered. The walls opened up before her, and she and Draco walked down the stairs into the eerie common room.

Y/N took a seat at the couch on the left of the fireplace. It was the couch they’d use to cuddle on after a long day. It felt weird to sit on it now since they both sat on opposite ends.

“Let’s not waste time,” she said, “you’re obviously upset. Care to tell me why?”

Draco scoffed and threw his arm over the back of the leather sofa. “Weasley, huh?”

“Draco, don’t be a git. We’ve been broken up for months. I’m allowed to see other people, aren’t I? I mean, you went on a date with Pansy.”

He shook his head vehemently and shifted in his seat. He couldn’t sit still, he was so angry.

“Speak, Draco. You know we can’t work any of our issues out if you don’t speak,” Y/N reminded him.

He let out an angry sigh and turned to face his ex-girlfriend. He had expected her to look just as mad as him, but instead, her eyes were filled with worry and concern. Her hand was pressed into the couch, and her body was slightly leaning forward. Draco felt the fire within his chest begin to die. He took another breath before talking.

“I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it, Y/N. Seeing you with someone else fucking kills me. It makes me so angry. When he kissed you, I… I forgot how to breathe. It was like a dementor had come and sucked all the happiness from my veins. I was infuriated, not just at him but at myself. How could I let someone else hold you?”

Y/N stared at him with soft, gentle eyes. Slowly, she reached for his rigid fist that was resting on his lap. She took it into her hands and felt the tension leave. She had always had that effect on Draco. Her touch was able to calm his stiffness with ease.

“What am I saying?” Draco wondered out loud as he shamefully wiped a tear from his cheek, “you’re not mine anymore. I know that, and yet…” he trailed off.

“Then make me yours again,” Y/N whispered.

Draco’s head whipped towards her. He saw a look of nervousness on her face. Steadily, he took her head into his hands. He moved his head slightly below hers, forcing her to look into his eyes.

“Do you mean that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Almost as if he was afraid to ask.

Y/N nodded her head, “I do. God, I do. It’s always been you, Draco. I’m so sorry—” She was cut off by Draco pulling her in for a kiss. Y/N felt herself melt into his embrace; she felt at home again. 

He pulled away to catch his breath. “I’m sorry too. I never stopped loving you. I know that now. Please, let me be yours again.” 

Y/N smiled, “I missed you, Malfoy,” she said with a small chuckle. Draco felt a grin spread on his face, and he dove back in for another kiss. 

“I missed you more. Don’t you ever let me walk away from you again, you hear?” Draco asked playfully. Y/N laughed and gave him a quick peck on the nose.

“I solemnly swear,” she said in a fake deep voice while trying not to giggle. Draco rolled his eyes and tackled her onto the couch, causing her to squeal happily. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, vowing to himself to never let go of her again.

[lepusrufus]

To bargain for immortality pt.5

Another few good weeks passed before they heard from their so-called goddess, gone who knows where. Not that anyone would ever question her absences, even the lords knew better than to stick their noses in her business.

When Nicole found herself once again following Emma through blue-lit underground corridors, there was an odd determination in her strides. She wanted to figure out what the hell was going on with her and Miranda, if nothing else, was a scientist who above all loved solving an equation. And what else could her situation be described as if not an intricate equation with a bit fat X as her missing factor.

She was right in thinking that Miranda would find her issue of interest, as when she finally brought it up the woman furrowed her brows and turned to face her, a clipboard grabbed from a nearby table.

“And there was nobody else?”

“No. Just me, Cassandra, the pharmacist and some guy that came for his medicine,” Nicole answered with a barely contained huff.

“What for?” Miranda tapped her pen against the paper in anticipation, a clear sign that she may be onto something and was only putting together some puzzle pieces that nobody but her could see.

Nicole had to dig through her memories for a moment. “An infection. At least that’s what the pharmacist mentioned.”

Miranda hummed and scribbled something else. There was no point in trying to decipher what exactly, the woman had the handwriting of two drunk doctors put together. How very fitting for her.

Without another word, she was on her feet, unbuttoned lab coat flowing after her the same way her black robes did when in goddess mode. “Follow me. I want to test something.”

And what else was she supposed to do really?

Quick steps took them down the hallways, black stone walls surrounding them and taking on an odd shine under the unnatural neon lights above. At least Nicole didn’t have to jog for once, Miranda not being that much taller than her.

The journey was short and they reached their destination quickly, which seemed to be a door not unlike the one belonging to the lab they had just vacated, except this one had the number 24 engraved on a small plaque on it. Miranda pushed it open to reveal a small hospital looking room, four beds divided by grey curtains but only one seemed to be occupied, a sleeping woman hooked to a heart monitor whose rhythmic beeping caused some memories to resurface in Nicole's mind.

Those memories however were quickly pushed down by a sudden burst of nausea at the decaying smell that seemed to forcefully crawl its way down her throat. Nicole all but slapped a hand to her face and turned around in a pathetic attempt to block out the overwhelming sensation. Some blood also started to trickle down her face and past trembling fingers, although thankfully not an ungodly amount like before.

By some mercy of well… herself, Miranda didn't stop her when she decided to do a wobbly turn and hastily exit the room. She followed Nicole out and observed as she slumped against a wall, pulling a tissue from a pocket to wipe at her face.

"What… the fuck," Nicole breathed out.

"Was that the same as before?" Miranda's eyes were full of a weird kind of glee that could only belong to a mad scientist. Not that that would be an inaccurate description for the woman.

Nicole only nodded, trying to get her face on a more presentable level before speaking again. "Is she-..."

Miranda scoffed. "Are you deaf? I can assure you the woman is quite alive," she responded with an eye roll.

The soft beeping monitoring the heartbeat could be heard faintly from behind the closed door, so her words had to hold some truth to them. Though her intentions were still shrouded in mystery.

"Then why the hell does she smell like that?"

"She doesn't," came the nonchalant reply and it had Nicole almost seething.

Is your ego stuffed up your nose, is what she wished she could snap and say, but she knew better.

If Miranda noticed the daggers in her eyes, she paid them no mind. Instead she noted something down on the paper precariously attached to the clipboard she got a hold of before exiting the lab they had been in previously. When she finished, she simply motioned for Nicole to follow and continued further down the hallway, without a second glance.

She only stopped once to exchange a few words with an unfamiliar assistant on the whereabouts of certain patients. Patiens. Why would Miranda keep any sort of patients down there?

Before she had time to dwell on it, Miranda pushed another door open, this time leading to another corridor dimly lit by strategically placed torches. Apparently nobody bothered to get electricity to this particular part of the underground maze of tunnels, the warm light so pleasant on the eyes as opposed to the harsh neons of the previous area. The tunnel was also long, way too long for it to be an often used path, especially given how awfully humid the air was becoming. Nicole tried to take a mental note of where they were heading, squinting her eyes in an effort to imagine what was above them, but with how convoluted the tunnels down there were, it was fruitless.

After maybe fifteen minutes of walking, awkward silence -at least awkward on her part, Miranda didn't seem to care- only broken by the echo of steps and the soft sounds of crackling fire from the torches, the tunnel ended in what looked to be a far too modern stairwell. Nicole had to pause for a second, looking at the unnerving contrast where dark ancient stone gave way suddenly to gray concrete and steel, going up in sharp angles and blocking the view to whatever laid above. The overall architecture did look vaguely familiar though, but Miranda didn't seem to have the patience for sightseeing as she quickly started walking up the stairs.

At the top of the staircase stood a steel door that was quickly unlocked to finally reveal a place that Nicole recognized. She blinked rapidly in surprise, all but freezing in the doorway at the sight of the hospital corridor she had walked down on so many times before, complete with a handful of nurses discussing in a corner. She shook her head and slowly followed the woman, not wanting to remain behind. It didn't take long before they came across the one person Miranda was apparently searching for.

"M- Mother Miranda," Salvatore's voice came in an oddly high pitch, at least for him, when he almost crashed with her in his hurry to get somewhere.

"Moreau," Miranda greeted with a nod and unreadable expression. "I need the documents on each of your patients and where they're staying." Straight to business apparently.

He simply nodded and moved his attention to one of the nurses standing nearby, instructing him to finish whatever task he was supposed to before their arrival. The man moved rigidly, painfully aware of Miranda's presence. Then, Moreau led them to his office, starting to pull out a consistent number of files from a large bookcase.

His office was, unsurprisingly, a mess aside from the one place he held the documents keeping track of all his current patients, complete with a few books and office supplies haphazardly placed on the desk. A few spare white coats were hanging just by the door, together with a long and worn leather jacket that he often times wore when outside the building. A familiar string of bones was also peeking from one of its pockets, nowadays worn as a necklace since, after the effects of his mutation were lessened, he found the crown quite unsightly.

"Are you coming by anytime soon," his voice came from behind, snapping her out of her exploration. "We could use a hand sometimes."

Nicole turned to give him a polite smile. "I may, but I have some things to get out of the way for now."

A glance in Miranda's direction revealed the woman hunched over the documents on the desk, writing down a list with the aid of whatever she was reading. They could do some small talk for the time being.

"How have you been," Nicole asked, turning to him again.

She and Salvatore were on quite friendly terms ever since she started occasionally helping out in the hospital that he was in charge of. Not that they had much time to ever hang out, but the few times they did, it's always been a pleasant interaction among colleagues.

"Some days are better than others," he responded with half a shrug.

Judging by the deep purplish circles under his eyes, today wasn't particularly stellar. He was slightly hunched, whether it was out of habit from a time when sitting straight was quite impossible or from tiredness, she couldn't tell.

"Any news from the castle?" He asked with a chuckle. He was rarely welcomed in Alcina's home so the curiosity wasn't unwarranted.

Nicole shrugged. "Same old same old. Bleeding out prisoners, stopping Daniela from breaking vases and all that boring pseudo nobility stuff."

He let out a quiet laugh. "Nobility? Should I start calling you my lady?"

Nicole snorthed, giving his shoulder a small shove that didn't make him move in the slightest.

Their joking banter was interrupted by Miranda all but shoving her way in between them and out the door, calling for her to follow. With a small wave, Nicole was quickly after her, falling in step just slightly behind the other woman. Though it was a small building after all, so it didn't take long to reach the first door on Miranda's list.

"I want you to tell me exactly what you feel," she flatly told Nicole while pushing the door open.

She frowned, eyes slightly narrowed in confusion and glued to Miranda's back as she stepped inside the small room after the woman.

Any incredulous question died on her tongue when she seemed to be yanked back in time, to the yearly family trips her father insisted they all go on. It was to a relative, or family friend, Nicole couldn't quite recall, who owned an old cabin near a lake. Problem was, the lake was always murky and full of algae, the water gaining an unpleasant scent under the August sun. She and Alex never tried swimming.

"Well?" Mirada raised an eyebrow, impatient.

Nicole scrunched up her nose, both wanting and desperately trying not to take a deeper breath. "Pond water? The kind of water that's stagnant and muddy in summer, full of dead fish and weeds."

She tried not to fidget, her mind running a thousand miles an hour. The so-called goddess seeming completely uninterested in shedding light on what the hell they were doing was not of much help either. A frustrated sigh threatened to escape when another person spoke up.

"Doctor?" A meek voice came from the only bed in the room, from a young woman who seemed asleep when they had walked in. She looked between the two of them confused and with squinted eyes.

Miranda simply raised a hand, not even sparing the girl a glance. "Pay us no mind, we're only here to check on something. We'll be on our way in a moment."

Nicole couldn't help the confused look she threw the girl's way. Was she not recognizing the woman this whole town worshipped? An amused snort almost escaped her but she knew better. Besides, who could really blame her? Mirada was wearing an oversized lab coat, blonde hair held back in a ponytail and there was no trace of the makeup that usually accompanied her ceremonial robes and mask.

Not that Nicole had time to appreciate the odd humanity of Miranda's outfit, as the woman turned on her heels and exited the room as soon as she was done writing. She was starting to grow annoyed with the uncooperative and know-it-all attitude, but decided against voicing any opinions and settled for following along to the next door.

It kept on being a rinse and repeat of the first room, only variables being the patients inside and her answers. Sometimes the change wasn't too obvious, maybe just a more metallic undertone or a new faint smell latching onto her senses, like the sickly sweet aroma of honey. A handful of times though she had to all but slap a hand over her face to not be overwhelmed by the enveloping stench. One room in particular made her almost stumbled backwards and out the door, when a strong metallic smell contrasting the accompanying one of decomposition hit her like a slap in the face. The man inside, who was evidently not doing particularly well, didn't seem appreciative of the apparently crazy woman coming in and rudely interrupting his rest.

Nicole didn't look forward to lingering around by that point, but there was one more room to check.

They pushed open the door, and the familiar stinging scent of decay immediately overtook her senses, seeming to latch on to the very inside of her throat. A small rivulet of blood also started dripping down her face, and Nicole quickly pulled out a paper tissue from her pants pocket to press against her nostrils. It was both to stop the bleeding and to shield her senses from the smell.

Once outside, Nicole was trying to catch her breath while Miranda was simply writing something down. Another set of steps approached them, who turned out to be Moreau coming to check on their findings. Upon being given the clipboard to read -he could actually decipher her chicken scratch, really?- he let out a curious hum.

"I need to go over John Abbott's file and compare them," Miranda started, clicking her pen and putting it back into her pocket. "I'll send an assistant after it later." Then she looked her way and waved a hand dismissively. "You're free to go, I'll send Emma after you when you're needed."

Nicole blinked, dumbfounded, her voice coming out harsher than she probably should've allowed it to be. "That's all? What did you find?"

The exasperated edge in her voice did not go unnoticed nor was it appreciated. Miranda rolled her eyes slightly and gave her an answer. "You can distinguish illnesses by smell. We'll do a more comprehensive test and list, but for now we have enough to say that's how the Mold manifested with you," Miranda explained, half turned away and ready to leave.

And she did turn to leave as soon as she was finished. With a nod towards Salvatore, she made her way back down the hospital corridor and presumably towards the passageway that led back to her lab.

Nicole wasn't particularly keen on going down there again if she could help it, so she instead stuck by Salvatore's side as they walked back to his office.

That day wasn't the first time Nicole had entered that room, so the fact that it also served as some kind of archive did not go past her. The office itself was decently sized, and even had a storage room attached to it with the sole purpose of keeping old files that may be important but Miranda didn't need at hand. Although, in all honesty, Salvatore wasn't particularly skilled in keeping everything organized. That's what my secretary is for, he would say, ignoring the fact that Miranda would gut anyone who touched those documents if they weren't part of the small group of people she deemed worthy. Therefore, the files were a mess, the only saving grace being that he at least had the foresight of organizing them by decade.

With a sigh, he started looking through the binders all but stuffed on one of the many shelves. Nicole sat down at his desk, occupying herself with a crayon that she started twisting around her fingers absent mindedly. There was some semblance of relief in finally figuring out what had so cruelly changed in her body, and what an ironic twist of fate said change was. To have spent years pouring over books learning about the illnesses that now were recognizable by something as simple as an acidic smell of blood. On the other hand though, the knowledge that Miranda had a tendency to find some kind of use for all her experiments left a sensation of dread slowly making its way into the deepest crannies of her chest, where a certain parasite had burrowed and made a nest for itself.

"Mind if I call the castle, I don't really feel like walking all the way back," she asked, eyes settling on the phone pushed to the side by a couple books and scattered pens.

"Sure," he responded without moving from where he was pulling out papers, only to shove them back inside their folders when they weren't the correct ones.

Her hands hovered over the keys for a moment. She wasn't about to call Alcina's personal phone to ask for a ride, heavens no. The phone in Carolina's study, where the Constable would spend her time when not in the stables, would be the best choice if only she could remember the number from memory. Nicole decided that the one in the main hall was the best next thing, where one of the guards at the entrance would probably hear the ringing and answer.

She dialed the number and listened to the typical ringing sound once, twice, until she thought nobody was actually around, but at last, a voice came from the other end.

"Alo?"

Nicole took a moment to recognize the voice as Dalia's, the head chambermaid.

"Hey, it's Nicole," she started toying with the pencil again. "I'm at the hospital, can you send Carolina with a horse to pick me up?" She sensed the slight hesitation on the other woman's side and thought to clarify. "I'm not injured, just with Moreau."

She heard a slight exhale from the other end of the line and had to entertain the thought of whether the woman was relieved due to genuine concern for her wellbeing, or she was well aware of how irritable her wife could be. Her being injured definitely made its way on the list of things that would bring out the anger and cruelty carefully crafted over almost a century.

Before hanging up the phone, she sighed and thought better of her request. "Actually, tell Cassandra to come."

She could almost feel the slight grimace from Dalia at being asked to go talk to the most sadist of the sisters, and with a request no less. Oh well, there's to hoping that Cassandra wouldn't be too peeved at said request coming from her wife.

She hung up after hearing an of course, my lady.

With a way to get back home without having to do the trek on foot assured, she leaned back in the chair, watching Salvatore continue on his search. He was standing with his hands on his hips, eyebrows pulled into a frown that slightly wrinkled the already rough skin of his forehead. He looked almost as if he resorted to glaring at the piles of papers, hoping that enough intimidation would scare the right file into jumping into his hands.

It almost made Nicole snort, were it not for the curiosity that both acted as a distraction and pleaded to get some more answers. "So, who's this… Jack Abbott?"

"John Abbott," he corrected without tearing his eyes from the shelf in front of him. He grimaced then. "He was one of Mother Miranda's earlier experiments, and had a very similar mutation to yours."

At that Nicole's eyebrows shot up past the low line of her fringe, interest successfully piqued. She turned in her seat to fully face him, one arm thrown over the back of the chair. When he didn't continue talking, instead pulling out one of the last binders on the shelf labeled 1930's, she impatiently prodded for more information. "And?"

Moreau pulled a face, probably wondering if he was even supposed to talk about it. It didn't take long for him to let out a defeated sigh, the demand to play dumb were Miranda to ever ask about this going unspoken, but more than understood. "Same thing as you really. He could tell what illness someone had by a specific smell, down to the nasty nose bleeds whenever it got too much," he started, noticing a few drops of blood that had dried on her upper lip.

He turned back to pulling out the very last binder dedicated to that decade and relaxed his posture ever so slightly when he saw JOHN ABBOTT written in big letters and black ink on one file. Another frown tugged his cracked lips downward, the information written in such a clinical way only mudding the memory of the frail man he had briefly met so many decades ago. "His body took well to the Cadou until… well ,until it didn't. I don't know what went wrong, but his body just rejected it at one point and he died being slowly consumed by the infection."

At that Nicole's face fell, dread now overtaking her usual curiosity. He must've noticed, for his next words came the slightest bit rushed and with a strained kind of reassurance that wasn't convincing to either of them.

"It may very well not be connected."

Nicole almost scoffed, not at him but at the situation at hand. The hand holding the pencil was tense and, had she not been as weak as she was, the wood would've probably cracked by then. "Did you know him?"

With a slight shake of his head, he answered, not a negation but more a gesture of pity. "Barely. I was brought here only after he started," he narrowed his eyes at a wall somewhere behind Nicole trying to find the right word. He didn't. "...deteriorating."

That was about as much as her brain wanted to know at the moment, letting a heavy silence fill the space for endlessly too long. She was caught in her own thoughts that started to twist and turn into countless what ifs. Thoughts that crashed to a halt when a nurse knocked on the half open door to announce her presence.

"Lady Cassandra is waiting outside," she told Nicole, expression pulled in a poker face that could only belong to someone who had to deal with her wife and tried to seem unbothered. Tried and failed.

Nicole sprung to her feet, circling the desk and about to make her exit when he called out. "Take care of yourself," Moreau told her, looking up from the papers he was reading.

Her lips turned slightly upwards into a smile. "You too." And then she left, rapid pace taking her through off-white hallways and slight smells that she was now painfully aware of.

Stepping outside was a breath of fresh air in more ways than one, the orange hue of the setting sun welcoming her after the hours passed under the harsh lab lights. How ironic was her hatred for the damned neon lights, when not too long ago she would've gladly spent her life under their bluish glow.

Even better than the warm sun on her skin, was the sight of Cassandra, dressed in her usual riding attire and absent mindedly scratching the furry muzzle of one of the castle's Clydesdale horses. A big beast of a horse, black and white with its feathery legs that, Nicole realized with an eye roll, she wouldn't dream of getting on without help.

Her pace quickened until she found herself embraced by a pair of strong arms, the stable smell mixed with Cassandra's cologne filling her senses with something finally pleasant. She didn't let go until she felt a gentle kiss placed on top of her auburn hair.

"Darling," Cassandra greeted her once she pulled back, gloved hand coming to rest on a pale cheek. "How are you?"

Nicole sighed and pushed into the touch, the kind of tiredness that could only be felt after a day spent bending over backwards to every one of Miranda's whims settling into her bones. "Ready to go back home."

Cassandra simply nodded once and moved her hands on her hips, getting a good enough grip before picking Nicole up to where her foot could reach the stirrup so she could pull herself up. Her wife decided that climbing in the saddle was below her at the moment, choosing instead to turn into a swarm, only to retake her human form a mere second later, on the horse's back, her front comfortably against Nicole's back. With a few taps of her boot against the stirrup still occupied by Nicole's foot in a silent demand to let her guide the horse, she took a hold of the reins and they finally started moving down the stone paved road.

There was no complaint on Nicole's part, taking it as a good opportunity to sit back and enjoy the ride, pressed to her wife's chest.

A few eternally long minutes were spent absentmindedly scratching the horse's muscular neck, where short black fur met the mane held in a beautifully done french braid, that only their Constable could pull so seamlessly. A few long minutes spent mulling over what she had found out, thoughts twisting cruelly with every worst case scenario her mind could conjure. Had she made a mistake? Was the infection a mistake to begin with? How cruel could fate be sometimes. Back in New York she had come to terms with a meaningless life, the only truly important thing she had amounted to at that point being choosing a career path to spite her father. But now, after finding a place to call home where she ached to stay to the point of seeking eternity for it, the very thing that could allow her to remain there forever could also take her life away, miserably so.

"What's wrong?"

Cassandra's voice snapped her back to reality, so much so that she even shook her head a couple times to chase away the lingering thoughts. She gave an inquisitive hum in an attempt to play dumb. The attempt was met with an incredulous eye roll.

"You're quiet," she simply responded.

"I'd think spending decades with Daniela would make you appreciate quiet people," Nicole jokingly threw back.

"Not you," came the reply, one hand leaving the reins and coming to rest on her thigh. "I love hearing you talk, even when you're blabbering about proper medical technique."

At that Nicole let out a light gasp, turning around with mild offence written in her eyes. She couldn't find anything to retaliate with for once, setting instead for giving her wife a slight shove with her elbow, that only elicited a laugh.

She shook her head and let out a sigh. "We did figure out what's with the damned nosebleeds." At a curious hum and Cassandra's chin coming to rest on top of her head, she went on. "Apparently I can distinguish illnesses by smell. Now that would've been useful during med school," she finished with a bitter laugh.

Her wife responded with a snort. "If I were Daniela, I'd say you're joking to hide how you really feel." She shrugged. "However I'm not her, and I'm assuming you'll simply tell me without the need of an impromptu psychoanalysis," she said almost smugly, the hand that was until then lazily placed on her leg finding its place around her waist.

The times when Nicole wished to curse her wife's apparently impeccable observation skills were rare, but this was one such occasion.

She almost let out a groan, pushing further back into Cassandra's form. "There was this other man, John Abbott, with the same mutation. Except his body rejected the Cadou and he died slowly and painfully," she explained, her voice quieting halfway through, but almost flinched when the arm around her went stiff with an almost vice-like grip. The realization of how long Cassandra has really been in the Village for slowly crept its way from Nicole's memory, having been filed away and almost forgotten in a metaphorical drawer of obvious things that however were rarely brought up. "Did you know him-"

"You won't end up like that sorry bastard."

The conviction behind that one simple sentence almost had Nicole letting out another short bitter laugh. Not out of bemusement of course. Irony perhaps, at how determined her wife was to double down on cheating death, not only for herself but her too. Even when death could be brought by the very thing keeping them alive.

"Not much we could do about that," she said in a small voice, one hand toying with the black fabric of Cassandra's sleeve.

"Don't think for one moment that I'm joking," she started, an edge of a warning behind her tone. Her hand came to rest more gently on the bottom of Nicole's sternum, where the skin had healed in a dark scar that seemed to send jagged cracks all the way to her stomach. "I'll pull the wretched little thing out of your chest myself if I have to."

At that Nicole actually let out a laugh. "Way to go with something morbidly romantic."

Cassandra chuckled close to her ear, bending down slightly to leave a peck where her neck and shoulder met. "You're not going to die. I won't allow it."

A silent possessiveness accompanied her words. An implication that she now belonged there, in her arms, and frivolous things such as death had no place to come between them. She should flinch at such implications, were it not for the fact that it was mutual and Cassandra knew better than to recklessly throw herself on death's path, knowing well that soon her wife would follow in her steps.

The soft kiss was returned when Nicole bent back again, until the angle between their bodies allowed for their lips to meet tenderly, in a way that anyone would believe was so utterly uncharacteristic to the both of them, ruthless in their own ways but soft like velvet running on smooth skin with each other.

They rode in comfortable silence up until the gates to the stable, where they dismounted and handed the reins to one of the servants waiting there. The sun had set by then, purple and dark blues reigning the skies as they entered the castle through one of the secondary doors.

She parted ways with her wife, saying that she would soon join the rest of their family as she headed up the stairs. A change of clothes was due. That and a request to their seamstress.

Oh her way back down, she stopped by the open door to the woman’s studio, busy with readjusting some garments for one of the ladies. A curt knock on the wooden frame of the entrance got her attention and had her pulling a face upon realizing that she had probably lost count of whatever she was mentally keeping track of. Nonetheless, she offered a polite smile when greeting Nicole.

“My lady, what can I do for you?”

“I need a facemask,” Nicole started.

The woman’s eyebrows pulled in a confused frown. “I thought a new batch of surgical masks just arrived the other day.”

Nicole raised a hand when she went to check on the shipments list. “I meant something I can wear for longer and outside the lab, surgical masks have a tendency to clash with an elegant gown, you know,” she explained with a chuckle. “Preferably that can filter out any smells?”

“Oh. Of course, I’ll just need to take your measures to make sure it’s fitted for you.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow,” she proposed and, after the seamstress gave her an hour, she continued on her way down the hallway to where the rest of the Dimitrescus were gathered.

Being home brought some peace of mind, thoughts of dying and being forcefully ripped away from her life momentarily placated in favor of enjoying a few hours by the fireplace with her family. Leaning against Cassandra as she draped an arm around her shoulders and listening to Daniela and Bela have a hilariously heated debate over the latest book they've read felt downright blissful in its mundane aspect.

Although no matter what, the little parasite that now called the inside of her chest its home, was quietly gnawing at her worried mind.

[bokunoheroanalysisforthefuture]

Last chapter of this volume! Can’t believe we’re already through four volumes, and we’re not even done with the second full arc yet. I mean, later arcs are gonna be even longer, but like. Yeah.

[No. 35 - Battle On, Challengers!]

We move on to the next match - Kaminari versus Shiozaki! I’m actually kind of marveled that they were able to thaw out that entire glacier in any sort of timely manner. That’s quirks for you!

Present Mic announces Shiozaki as class 1b’s assassin, and also reveals that he apparently either doesn’t know the full quote for ‘every rose has its thorns’ or started to say it, only to realize she didn’t have roses and scrambled to compensate. Kaminari, meanwhile, gets announced as a ‘sparking, killing boy.’ Really kind of morbid on this round, huh?

Shiozaki turns around to object to Present Mic’s descriptor as an ‘assassin’, stating that she’s merely come this far seeking victory. Present Mic apologises, and Kaminari just kind of watches while admiring her. He takes notes of her eyes, and then thinks about how strong she is. He then sort of counters his previous admiration of strength by asking himself if he really has to hit someone so pretty with a full discharge, then concludes his ‘battle plan’ by determining that he’ll ask her out once all this is over.

Present Mic starts the match while Shiozaki is still focused on talking to Mic - which means she’s facing away from Kaminari. Which is kind of a dick move on Mic’s part, but eh, I guess ‘heroes have to be ready for anything,’ yarda yarda etcetera. 

Kaminari asks Shiozaki if she wants to grab something to eat when they’re done there, and that he’s happy to console her if she wants. She turns to stare at him in confusion, just in time to see him charging up his whole body with his quirk. Kaminari makes a quip about this match probably being over in an instant - and then we cut to the immediate aftermath, where Present Mic comments on how it’s already over while Kaminari wheys out in the grasp of Shiozaki’s vines. Shiozaki was both able to create a shield against the electricity and yank Kaminari into the air and away from her, thus causing him to short-circuit.

One on patrol, Mount Lady comments on Shiozaki being a promising one, and another plant user. Kamui Woods amits he wishes he could’ve seen her up close, but that they need to get back to work. 

Back in the stadium, Midnight announces Shiozaki moving on to the second round. Shiozaki is relieved to have no wasted the opportunity bestowed upon her, and the narrative finally gives us an informational blurb on her quirk. 

...A strange ending note there, but sure. Some of the crowd - or possibly Izuku? Since he’s sinking into a muttering fest right after - comments on the ‘match’ and the participants. Shiozaki’s ability to use her quirk is something else, between building walls, binding enemies… Kaminari’s quirk was no use against her. She countered him well. He might’ve had a chance if he could maneuver better, but he panicked and short-circuited after one attack.

Ochako hears muttering besides her and is a bit alarmed, looking over to see Izuku in the middle of an analysis fugue. Izuku mutters about thinking Kaminari’s quirk would be stronger, but Shiozaki got fourth in the entrance exam, and she’s the real deal. The vine moves are similar to Kamui Wood’s binding attacks, and binding types are always strong, to the point where you almost never see someone break out. It’s pretty much impossible to dodge all the vine attacks, so the only counter is to rip them apart with brute strength - ah, but to prevent that, they tend to go for the hands first.

(...and I just NOW realized that this specific commentary about binding-type quirks and the counter being brute strength is literally something that comes into play when Best Jeanist binds Gigantomachia with those steel cables during the Jakku arc. Holy shit, I don’t think Hori intended it, but what a callback. Or it’s just good worldbuilding, which would also be neat!)

Ochako eventually cuts into Izuku’s muttering - startling him in the process - by commenting on how his match just ended, but he’s already thinking ahead strategy-wise. Izuku denies it, saying that it’s just a hobby of his, and that they finally have a chance to see the quirks of people outside their class in action. He then eagerly shows her his open notebook, stating that he has everything she’d need to know about class A in there - even her ‘zero gravity’. 

Me, staring down the people who have the class unaware of the contents of Izuku’s notebooks when writing suspected traitor fics: 

Anyways! Ochako is kind of impressed despite herself, stating that she thought Izuku was amazing from the day they met, but this sports festival has brought him to a whole other level. Izuku is confused by the complement, but there’s no time to ask, since Present Mic is announcing the participants of the next battle: Tenya versus Hatsume.

Some of the students are chattering about how the match is going to go, with one asking what is that - which seems to be referring to the support items Tenya is wearing? Midnight comments on it as well, noting that they’re forbidden for hero course students, and that a special request has to be put in for those things beforehand. Tenya admits he forgot, seeing as Aoyama was wearing that belt of his. Midnight reminds him that Aoyama applied for an exception.

Tenya apologies, stating that he’d been touched by Hatsuma’s sense of sportsmanship. Although she’s a member of the support course, she came to him and said that if they’re to be seen as equals, then they should fight on equal footing. She gave those items to him; her earnest spirit… he could never look down on it. That was his thinking. 

Midnight apparently is now all for this, calling Tenya naive. Mic says that it’s good enough for him, and Aizawa says that if both parties are fine with it, he supposes it can be allowed… right? Izuku, up in the stands, is looking concerned, wondering if Hatsume is really the type to offer that. Hatsume, of course, is chuckling as she flips down a microphone right as the match starts.

Mei immediately starts going into her spiel, commenting on Tenya’s speed - much to the confusion of both Mic and Tenya. She then points out how Tenya’s legs should feel lighter than usual, and that that’s what one can expect with her custom leg parts, which keep up with their user’s speed! However, dodging is no problem for her with her hydraulic attachment bars! Which she deploys just before Tenya reaches her, causing him to trip over one of the bars and flail.

Mei checks for where the support companies were seated, her quirk zeroing in on the faces she’s looking for - which, to her pleasure, are eating her words up.

Tenya catches himself and spins on his heels, wondering what she’s going. Hatsume complements it, noting how her auto-balancer makes those sorts of tight movements possible. Meanwhile, up in the announcement booth, Mic and Aizawa are both so put out, with Aizawa facepalming and calling her a born saleswoman. 

The game of tag, along with a completely play-by-play sales pitch, goes on for another ten minutes. Eventually, however, Hatsume steps over the line, sweating but proud of managing to get through everything she wants to show off. Midnight states that Tenya’s moving on to the second round, while Tenya is just in despair at the deception.

Ah, the face of someone with zero shame. Hatsume gives a completely insincere apology for using Tenya, which Tenya replies to by stating his extreme dislike of her. 

Izuku is also a bit dismayed as he notes that Tenya is just too serious, so it wasn’t hard for her to get him to play her game, and that at least she’s honest about her under-handed methods to get what she wants. Ochako herself is looking a bit down as she gets up, quietly noting to Izuku that she should get to the prep room. Izuku notes that she left her still-full drink behind, glancing back to her in concern as she walks away.

As other matches run in the background, we shift over to prep room two, which Tenya is just entering. Ochako, already waiting in there, tells him good which, which startles him out of his funk as he recognizes her. Of course, the first thing he notes is her furrowed brows, which Ochako admits is probably from her being a bit nervous, and how it’s probably showing on her face. Tenya remembers her match is against Katsuki, and Ochako admits that she’s really scared. But, seeing Tenya out there, she…

Well, before she can finish her thought, Izuku bursts into the room. Ochako is confused, since he should be out there watching the other matches. Tenya to the side asks about the story behind the support girl. Izuku ignores the latter, telling Ochako that another two matches are already over, and now Kirishima and some class 1b guy are duking it out. Mina managed to damage Aoyama’s belt, he panicked, and she knocked him out with an uppercut to the chin. Then Tokoyami won his match in a flash - he didn’t give Momo the time to use the objects she made… he’s one of the strongest guys here in a one-on-one. Ochako realizes this means her match is up soon, her heart pounding in her chest.

Tenya can’t imagine that Katsuki would give it his explosive all against a female opponent, but Izuku cuts in, staring very firmly that Katsuki will. Everyone is competing here with the dream of becoming number one. No one’s holding back - Katsuki least of all. However, Ochako’s already helped Izuku so much, so he thought he might return the favor…

He really just stores his notebooks anywhere he can. What a legend. He offers the notebook, stating that Ochako needs a counter-strategy against Katsuki - one that uses her quirk. He came up with it on the fly, but it might work! Tenya is relief, stating how fortunate Ochako is. Ochako thanks Izuku, but says that it’s okay. Both Izuku and Tenya are startled by the reply. 

Ochako states how amazing Izuku is, and how he does amazing stuff all the time. During the cavalry battle, she thought the easiest strategy woul be to team up with friends. But when she thinks about it, she was just putting her faith in Izuku. That’s why Tenya said ‘I challenge you’ and all that, which left her feeling a little embarrassed about herself. 

She pushes herself to her feet, moving past them to get to her match as she says thanks, but no thanks. Everyone here is fighting for their futures, so doesn’t that make them all rivals? That’s why she’ll see him in the finals!

Ochako, sweetie…

Kirishima and Tetsutetsu knock each other out at the same time. Present Mic comments on the mirror image quirk matchup, and how the winner is… neither! They have a tie, since both are down. Midnight clarifies that in the event of a tie, they’ll determine the winner after the two recover, probably with an arm wrestling match or the like. The crowds comment on how they’re equal in strength, and how that was great though. They kind of hotbloodedness would be a great morale boost, and how they’re desirable as sidekicks. 

Shouto watches on as the final two contestants of the first round enter the arena. Tsuyu states her worries about the match, and Jirou addson how she doesn’t want to watch it. Izuku quietly hopes for Ochako to do her best. 

And so the final match is announced: Ochako versus Katsuki.

And with that, volume four is done! I’ll be getting up the character sheet first, and then digging into the bonus material. Hopefully y’all enjoy!

[itsclydebitches]

None of them liked Ironwoods growingly tyrannical actions, it's the whole reason Ruby lies to him, he looked shady as hell. They are shown very clearly uncomfortable with what he's turned Atlas into in the First episode. It's just that at the end of Volime 7 he crossed the line.

The key words there are “first episode.” I’ve mentioned on other posts that if the plot had simply continued the forward momentum of the group being disgusted with Ironwood’s choices and working against him (hiding out in the city, gathering like-minded allies, etc.) then we would have been golden. Ironwood is Volume 7’s antagonist. There, done. The problem is what starts in the second episode. Our basic events are as follows:

The group (and audience) learn that Ironwood has arguably justified reasons for everything “shady as hell” that he’s done. The embargo? They are at war with Salem and people have been stealing resources since our introductory trailers (Blake). Soldiers in the streets? That first episode showed that grimm are attacking defenseless civilians and, if the soldiers hadn’t been there to fend the grimm off prior to Penny’s arrival, they likely would have died. Taking resources? That’s to re-establish global communications and enact a plan to stop Salem for good, freeing the world from the danger she presents. 

However, they’re still morally gray choices which our group could have opposed… but they didn’t. They join Ironwood as public allies (standing with Clover and Penny against Robyn), as Inner Circle allies (they learn all of Ironwood’s plans—and we learn that he never lied to them), as huntsmen (it’s his power as general that gives them their licenses), and as fellow soldiers (they are indistinguishable from the Ace Ops in the missions they conduct). Now toss in a bunch of other connections like living in his academy, taking his weapon upgrades, and carrying the Relic. They might not like his actions, but they’re certainly doing everything possible to support and reap the benefits of them. 

Ruby does lie to him… which two in the group oppose (however lackluster that was). Yang and Oscar both question the wisdom of doing the very thing they punished Ozpin for. Ren also develops a strong (if quiet) alliance with Ironwood that will carry into Volume 8... until his semblance changed and he forgot about it. 

During all this there are efforts—mostly through Nora—to condemn Ironwood for his choices. How can you continue to hurt the people like this? Same answer as above: because he believes a short-term struggle is worth the long-term victory. Nora doesn’t agree… but Ruby, the leader, does. She pushes Ironwood to finish Amity somehow.

Which is an incredibly strange stance to take considering she knows that amassing a world-wide army will not defeat Salem. If the group wants Ironwood to stop hurting Mantle, all they have to do is tell him that Salem is immortal… but they don’t. They let him continue under this false belief, despite having more information about this war than he does and despite that information being the key to stopping the harm he’s enacting.

The arc of the volume is not the group choosing to trust Ironwood and then realizing he actually isn’t trustworthy, it’s the group (or rather, Ruby) deciding not to trust Ironwood and then realizing he is trustworthy. We get that climactic scene of Ruby and Oscar simultaneously realizing they should tell him about Salem and Oscar apologizing for keeping that secret in the first place. 

 Note that this occurs after they’ve talked him into telling Mantle about her. So not only is the group not made up of mindless subordinates being ordered about by a powerful general—it’s their advice Ironwood listens to—but now they’ve put an entire city in the position they were in during Volume 6. We’re told, via Ozpin’s arc, that telling people about Salem without including the issue of her immortality is a horrific thing to do. Those like Qrow have supposedly “wasted” their lives fighting an impossible war and the fandom has argued strongly that Ozpin has manipulated everyone involved in this fight by not giving them the full picture. Yet now, the group has spent months keeping that information from Ironwood when his questionable choices are based on that ignorance, and they’ve talked him into telling half his population that Salem exists and they should rise up to fight her… but not the pesky detail that she’s immortal. They did to Ironwood and all of Mantle exactly what Ozpin did to them.

Immediately after hearing that they’ve kept this secret from him the entire time they’ve been here (which he takes very well) Ironwood captures one of their main villains, loses his arm in the process, learns that two in the group have outright betrayed him to a political enemy, learns that despite all their best efforts Cinder has just waltzed into his office, learns that Salem herself is on her way and their defenses are already gone, knows that everyone is exhausted from a major battle… so when he decides to take all of Atlas, the majority of Mantle, and the Relics/Maiden they have to try and get out of Salem’s reach… Ruby says no. What’s her plan? She doesn’t have one. You’re just not allowed to leave.

The problem with the writing is it wants us to believe two contradictory things at once. Looking back, Ironwood is meant to be seen as an unambiguously bad guy in Volume 7, which we know because of scenes like Winter’s fight wherein she condemns him for everything he did in Volume 7, not just Volume 8 stuff like threatening to bomb Mantle. Yet at the same time, we’re simultaneously meant to believe that the group is made up of unambiguously good people who function as direct contrasts to Ironwood. Given what we got, these two things cannot coexist! Either Ironwood was a good man who the heroes backed for an entire volume and there’s no acknowledgment of that, or Ironwood was a bad man… who the heroes backed for an entire volume and there’s no acknowledgment of that either. If the group’s defense is, “We knew he was shady as hell. We knew what he was doing was wrong. We knew he was the bad guy here… but we still helped him maintain power, forward his plans, and reap the benefits of the flawed system for months on end”… that’s really bad. “I supported, assisted, and benefited from the guy who was shady as hell, but that’s fine because I felt uncomfortable about it the whole time” is not the hot take the fandom wants it to be. We cannot make these broad, sweeping statements about how the Atlas military—merged with its huntsmen—is an Evil Thing and then show scenes like, say, Jaune using his military grade huntsmen license to convince a bunch of civilians to follow his evacuation plan. The heroes cannot be Good and Pure while supporting the supposed villains and their systems; or, the villains cannot be purely Bad and Evil if they’re supported by the heroes.

The reality is that RWBY is badly written and this sort of simplistic, inconsistent writing doesn’t lend itself to a topic as complex as this one. To be frank, we don’t even know enough to make informed decisions about these actions because the world building is nearly nonexistent. What are these “resources” and how are the resources to patch a hole in the wall the same as the resources used to make Amity Tower into a world-wide communication device? How much power does Ironwood actually have and what other decisions has he made that impact Mantle? We never hear about any policies to explain things like the poor conditions, or the slum areas with the faunus. Why are the civilians so against the soldiers patrolling when we don’t see them abusing the public in any way, but we do see the grimm threatening them on the regular? Why does Ruby want Amity built so badly—willing to hurt Mantle to do it—when she knows a bigger army isn’t the answer/that telling people about Salem has almost always led to panic and betrayal? Is there really any difference between huntsmen and soldiers here? And if the answer is, “Yes. Huntsmen aren’t beholden to any power. That’s a good thing because following orders is Bad. They do what they think is best” than what are we supposed to make of someone like Rhodes who, apparently, did what he thought was best? If he’d been beholden to some superior there might have been a system in place to help Cinder. As it was, he was left to his own devices and a lot of fans are furious with the solution he, as one flawed individual, came up with. We simply don’t have a good picture of this world and when we do, things constantly contradict. It’s good for huntsmen to make their own choices, but only when Ruby does it, not Rhodes. It’s bad for heroes to keep the Salem secret and tell lies to their allies, but only when Ozpin does it, not Ruby. It’s bad for someone to try and save who they’ve got, but only when Ironwood does it, not Ruby, who apparently left Atlas after failing to create portals for her Uncle, Robyn, the Ace Ops, Pietro, Maria, and an entire army.

The way that the fandom gets around these problems—because too few are willing to just acknowledge that they are problems and RWBY is shoddily written—is by simplistically comparing RWBY’s military to a real world one. I cannot tell you how many posts I’ve come across that amount to, “Imagine thinking the teenage girls are the bad guys when a military general is right there, being a military general 😒 ” Those posts imply that fans like me are too stupid (too brainwashed, too close to “bootlickers”) to be critical of the military, but I assure you, that’s as far from true as can be. Those posts are trying to conflate real life politics with a fantasy story whose world looks nothing like our own. The is not a question of being critical of the military, it’s a question of being critical of RWBY as that fictional text… and that fiction never established any of the military problems we deal with in the real world. It might have (very easily), but it didn’t. Is Ironwood leveraging his people to conquer others or go after wealth? No, his world has literal, unambiguously evil monsters to fight. Does he amass power out of a desire to control the people? No, he lays out his exact thoughts on how these measures will help protect against those monsters and a witch. Does the military abandon its soldiers after war, leaving them with few resources and fewer prospects? No, we never see anyone struggling in that manner and one of the most prominent tragedies—Yang losing a limb—is answered by Ironwood personally sending a replacement to her home. Is the military at least built around propaganda, painting civilians an inaccurate picture of Freedom and Glory to convince them to fight? No, we see no propaganda, Ironwood—since Volume 2—has been focused on replacing people with robots and our entire story is built around one child’s desire to fight the exact same battle. Why do you want to be a huntress, Ruby? Because I want to help people! And that goal is never painted as a naïve outlook that Ruby becomes disillusioned with. Posts like the one mentioned above bank 100% on the reader mapping real life military criticism onto RWBY… rather than actually looking at the world RWBY built, what choices the characters make, the amount of information we’re given (little), and whether that in any way reflects our current, political problems. It doesn’t. 

I’m never going to pretend there weren’t problems with Ironwood’s decisions. In fact, I love that this was actually a conflict in Volume 3 that gave both sides a fair shake: is it better to scare people and have an army at the ready to defend them, or is it better to keep them in the dark and potentially be defenseless? Ironwood’s kind heart bumping up against extreme measures is what made him compelling, especially when the story was having him grow in the “right” direction (AKA, listening to Ozpin). His treatment of Penny is another big issue, creating a whole ass person to serve as a military defense tool. That’s horrifying! So he’s absolutely had his problems long before the writing had him turn into a trigger-happy murderer, but part of the issue here is that the writing doesn’t acknowledge those problems in other characters. If Ironwood is “shady as hell” for forwarding a military agenda and using military resources… then so is Ruby, the leader who backed that for months. If Ironwood is “shady as hell” for funding the creation of a person to defend his kingdom… then so is Pietro, the scientist who not only built Penny, but came up with the idea in the first place. He’s not some defenseless victim who was forced by the evil Ironwood to create something morally reprehensible, he suggested it! The same way Winter wasn’t some defenseless victim who was forced by the evil Ironwood to go along with these plans. She supported them, agreed to be his Maiden, and was the first to suggest martial law! Yet Ruby, Pietro, Winter and their like are all presented as unambiguously Good People, whereas Ironwood is presented as the unambiguous Bad Guy—and when a lot of fans went, “But you’re not writing him like a Bad Guy? Especially when we compare him to the heroes?” we got his sudden, OOC murder streak in Volume 8. But it doesn’t work. Either the group is made up of morally gray/bad people because they did the things our antagonist Ironwood did, or Ironwood is not the morally gray/bad person the show insists he is (prior to Volume 8) because he did the same things as our heroes. You cannot give us that plot, those choices, that agency and insist on both at once. This problem has existed ever since we got an entire volume about how simplistically evil Ozpin is for keeping this secret… only for Ruby to immediately turn around and keep it herself, with no acknowledgement that either a) Ozpin wasn’t the bad guy then or b) Ruby is as bad as he is. But the show wants Ruby to be the Good Person in every situation, no matter how much she models her behavior after those she deems her enemies, and Ironwood’s arc only increased that problem tenfold.

[glennmillerorchestra]

☕️ people calling the beatles overrated 👀 (and even specifically paul and songs like hey jude/yesterday/let it be)

okay okay okay. there is much to discuss here and i’m going to try and organize my thoughts without sounding like a beatlemaniac okay!!!!

first off, to call the beatles overrated is really and honestly just wrong. are all of their songs/work the cream of the crop, flawless, etc.? absolutely not, but it’s impossible to deny their influence on pop culture and history at this point; a lot of songs and styles and whatnot wouldn’t exist without the beatles!! which brings me to my point that it’s simply impossible to “overrate” an entity like the beatles that extends its roots so deeply into so many facets of what we consider to be a given in modern life (i made them sound like a creature…) i mean in the end the beatles were just four guys creating a LOT of music at the right time and in the right climate and were talented + good-looking + revolutionary enough to bring about a massive culture reformation in a time that was desperately seeking it! and because of their massive popularity and longevity, it’s become somewhat popular to act like they actually weren’t good at all, which opens up a different discussion on how people don’t like to examine why they find things dated and why they think it makes them interesting to act like such staples of pop culture aren’t staples for good reason! it’s just frustrating because it doesn’t make you a better person for hating something so popular, and it doesn’t give you some moral superiority over people who do listen to them- which is the majority of the world btw. and like i said, they were creating a LOT of music, so if “hey jude” isn’t your cup of tea, i guarantee you’ll be able to find at least one song with a completely different vibe and story to fit your tastes; people just don’t want to take the time to like. open their view a bit? and this is speaking strictly on the terms of listening to beatles music; to cover the actual beatles would be opening one hundred cans of worms at once let’s be real! and again coming back to the hits like you asked- you can’t deny that THE hits are hits for a reason! they are musically good songs with good lyrics and good care put into them, and they just so happened to once again come out during a time of change, hence why “yesterday” is the main reference point for both beatles influence (most covered song of all time?!)

okay now i won’t open up those worm cans but you asked about paul so i will speak on paul(‘s music). i love paul’s solo stuff and i love his beatles contributions- i definitely don’t make that a secret, but as an ex-beatle he definitely got the short end of the stick after the breakup. i think people expected him to be putting out more beatles songs but you can’t put out beatles songs without the beatles so he put out paul songs and the world was too wounded from the loss of this pop culture monster known as the bee-ah-tles to really even care. and critics were really harsh for this reason as well! in the present, a lot of paul’s early solo work is being seen with fresh eyes, but for most of his career in the 70s and 80s he was left trying to outrun his former legacy- while still outputting an insane amount of music, most of it of exactly as high quality as the stuff he put out with the beatles. i really do think that the massive hate he got from the critical world + public, as well as his “overrated” reputation because he could only write “silly love songs” stems from the massive impact of beatlemania and how as a beatle, he took on a part larger than himself, and not entirely human- and man, how could anyone live up to a heartbroken expectation of millions of fans? so that’s my stance on the public reaction to paul’s solo stuff (stream RAM stream wings etc etc)

but overall to wrap up! a lot of the reason why the beatles/paul/the biggest hits are considered overrated are because they’ve been such a constant influential presence in pop culture for so long; people are bound to want to try and find issue with something that has maintained popularity for as long as the beatles have. and the fallout from beatlemania and the fact that the beatles story has largely turned to myth has to do with all of that- a lot of the world is still worshipping these random four guys from liverpool, a lot of people are still heartbroken that their body of work didn’t extend into decades past the 60s, and a lot of people don’t know much beyond that. and i think it’s easier to recognize this than to blatantly criticize on either side, or try to psychoanalyse people because their beliefs don’t line up. like c’mon people! listen to some groovy tunes, have an open mind, and do a little music research :) you may come out of it happier than you were before

[boop-le-snoot]

If life gives you melons...

Ship: Loki x F!alt! reader

Rating: Explicit / word count 5,5k

Summary: You've heard about meet-cute, how about meet-ugly? Reader has tattoos and a tongue split. There's this joke that "bisexual alt girls go looking for a girlfriend and end up with sad, tall and skinny white bois" and boy did that hit home. Inspired by this cringy video of Hiddles [youtube link].

During a panel at a comic con, Loki notices reader and they go on a date, reader gets railed: top!Loki, choking, rough sex, unprotected sex, all the good stuff. Open ending, with a bonus of reader and Loki pranking Clint.

x. I usually fancy they/them pronouns for Loki but seeing as it's a smut-shot, I decided to go along with he/him for the sake of simplicity. Loki's at least 6'4 tall and you can fight me on that. Also, I write like a Tony stan - I feel the need to apologize to Loki stans for that. I love you guys! 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

The long line of people appeared to be neverending. Loki was an enhanced, as the government recently had adopted a politically correct term for Earth's non-human inhabitants, but even his enhanced endurance had begun waning due to sheer amount of people wanting a piece of memorabilia signed by The God of Mischief. Loki had gained a considerable amount of fans after doing his part in killing the mad titan Thanos and by extension, saving the world. It turned out, humankind was a sucker for a good redemption arc.

Loki's hands ached where they wrapped around the pen that he'd been using for nearly 4 hours to neatly place his name, written in neat runescript, on various pieces of merchandise that his fans (and wasn't that a strange thing!) presented to him. He used to think that he would have actually succeeded conquering the earth if he had a grasp on how to use social media and his charm; now, he just wanted the torture to end. An involuntary sigh left his mouth when he saw another print of himself in full battle gear being placed in front of him by a reasonably attractive young woman.

"Um, thank you," She stammered, giggling softly, and Loki spared her a painstaking smile, scribbling his name once again. The woman briefly caught his eyes. "Um, you're the reason- the inspiration for me. I became a stripper."

Loki blanked, feeling his eyes widen and blink on their own accord a few times. He wasn't sure if he heard the woman correctly, as the unusual statement made his brain freeze.

Loud snickering from behind the blushing woman interrupted the system error that he was experiencing in his head. It wasn't often that somebody managed to render him speechless. It looked like whoever was in line behind the stripper woman had taken advantage of that. Loki's eyes snapped to the short-haired person, who looked torn between cringing and breaking into embarrassed laughter.

The stripper left without a word, and as Loki picked up the cursed writing instrument once again, the short-haired person smiled at him kindly. "That was a little weird," They snorted, "And thanks, have a nice day Mr. Loki."

"When life gives you melons, you might be dyslexic," Another woman, that appeared to be the short haired person's friend, deadpanned and gave a cynical side-eye to the departing stripper. Loki heard snickering coming from the short-haired person and quietly joined himself. The woman noticed it, winking at him as she collected the newly signed t-shirt. "Bye," She smiled kindly.

It was a split second decision, really. Something about the cheeky way she addressed the situation sparked Loki's interest. "Wait, you forgot something, darling," His baritone called out to the departing woman. She turned around, confused, and hastily grabbed the standard issue photo that he was holding out to her. With a final grateful nod, she smiled and left.

If Loki's smile had returned for the time being, none of his teammates made any remarks on it. Only his brother, Thor, gave a couple of knowing looks to the Asgardian sorcerer.

The woman in question didn't think twice about the photo that she stashed in her backpack along with the signed t-shirt. The Comic-Con had been full of people and the lines were unfairly long. The sheer exhaustion after attending a 3-day long convention had set in and she was eager to simply come home back to her apartment and crash on the nearest soft flat surface. Upon arrival, she did exactly that, flopping down gracelessly on the couch, her backpack landing next to her with a careless thud.

Unloading her trophies was a short time affair: a single white tee with a dozen signatures on it, written in what she hoped was waterproof Sharpie; one mug, shaped like an Iron Man helmet; one poster, showing Spider-Man on a picturesque NYC horizon and a signed photo of one Loki. Strangely enough, she did not remember requesting it - not that she was complaining. Free merch was free merch.

The front side wasn't signed whatsoever. Overcome by curiousity, she turned it around. A phone number was written on the back of it, the handwriting neat and the letters obviously being inked out by a thinner, more sophisticated pen than the one Loki had used for scribbling on the tee. The woman gaped silently, not believing her eyes. Did Loki himself had given her his phone number?

One margarita and a hefty helping of Chinese takeout later, the numbers persisted staring back at her mutely, the neat cursive being almost mocking in its quiet. The woman's smartphone had found a comfortable place right next to the photo, equally mum regarding the unusual situation.

An additional margarita was needed to gather the courage required to actually type out the number in the receiver box. Fruity alcoholic concoction in one hand and phone clutched in the other, the woman's eyes squeezed shut tightly as soon as the dreaded "Hey, got your number today! :)" read delivered. She'd typed and erased the message several times, groaning in embarrassment. How the hell does one approach an alien god?

"Hello! May I ask your name?" The response came after a brief moment - a moment the woman had suffered through by taking too haste sips of her drink, her common since screaming her to not overdo it and wait at least a full minute before replying. Everything felt awkward and misplaced.

In no time, she was sending the screenshots of the conversation to her girl-advice group chat that consisted of her closest friends. Chatting with Loki turned out to be surprisingly easy and he was great at upholding conversation, something that couldn't be said about all those Tinder matches she had had back in the day.

Even if using proper grammar during a text message conversation was something she had to reacquaint herself with, she was glad he wasn't just another boring, shalllow, condescending-ass white boy. Despite the cultural differences and his lack of knowledge of things like pop culture and music - something he said he was working on since New Asgard became a sovereign state on Earth - they bonded over music and tattoos and generally being rebellious against society's standarts.

The invitation to dinner didn't come as a surprise for the woman. She agreed happily, looking forward to continue their conversation outside of the internet - if Loki's part of the chat was anything to go by, not only was he charming, but also quite intelligent. And easy on the the eyes, too. They had traded selfies at some point and the Asgardian didn't look any worse in a hoodie and sweatpants than he did in his battle leathers. Loki had appeared to truly have had integrated into Earth's society.

The night of the date, the continuous text exchange did very little to calm her nerves. Loki texted as much as an overeager teenage boy: every now and then he would double-text and grossly overreact to her sending a simple meme. In fact, he smugly conveyed the fact he'd single-handedly started a meme war between the Avengers and even Steve was forced to participate; something that was, allegedly, out of character for the blonde man.

She didn't mind. Not like she had many friends to have so much fun with. Even if it took her twice the time to do her favourite eyeliner style, it was worth it. She hoped Loki would appreciate the bold, but classy make-up and the dress and shoes combo that accentuated her assets. Her date expressed curiousity about her tattoos and the difference between her preferred style and the humans he spent most time with. She guessed secret agents were not particularly fond of anything that made them memorable so she held out quite the hope for... Showing off some of her tattoos in a more private setting.

In other, simpler words, the woman came in prepared for both a friendly, leisurely stroll and a quality night. Either way, it would be a time well spent.

Loki's shiny, raven hair was impossible to miss as he towered over the rest of the people waiting by the restaurant's entrance. He wore tailored black trousers and a simple cashmere sweater, perfect for the evening's damp, cool air. Tall and lithe, Loki was mouthwateringly handsome.

"Come here often?" She wormed her way through the crowd, causing the man to smirk down at her. Her cheeks flared from the tiny gesture alone.

"Just waiting for a friend," Loki uttered lowly, extending an arm towards the woman, which she gracefully accepted as they made way towards the entrance. "Reservation for Loki," The Asgardian stated to the hostess, who, after a rapid doube-take, led them to a private, secluded area in the back of the restaurant.

Loki shouldered the slightly awkward interaction with grace, paying no mind to the girl. His focus was solely on his date and he was nothing but gallant as he took the woman's purse and held out the chair for her to comfortably sit down. As a prince, he was taught well, she mused.

"Usually I would ask 'what brings you to our little ball of water and dirt?' but I think we can skip that part," The woman stated with a sheepish grin, idly flicking through the menu and curiously eyeing the items that were unfamiliar. The desire to try something new fought with the possibility of accidentally ordering something too far out - like snails or other things that rich people fancied, for some reason.

Loki's greens briefly appeared over the top of his menu, grateful and sparkling. "I think it's best if we do just that," For a second, he looked away, before returning to the menu. "I can think of better things to discuss. I recall you didn't finish telling me about that college friend of yours, who was an anarchist... I'm dying to know..."

The waiter came and went, barely noticed by the pair, as they both poked at something that sounded the most familiar for both of them. Stoically, Loki admitted that Tony Stark did the booking for him and the woman reluctantly acquitted she wasn't very familiar with upscale establishments, being of middle-class background and working a middle-class job.

Interrupting the story she began telling hours ago, the woman took the time to point out the things she was familiar with on the menu and advised Loki to stay away from - like the aforementioned snails, and other things, slimy and salty things that she considered to be 'disgusting but rich people liked it for some reason'. The conversation slowly progressed into Loki telling her the mischief he got up to at the feasts Odin threw. The Asgardian shared the woman's disregard for influential people doing gross things to show off.

The food was good - it was really hard to miss with a traditional Italian lasagna - and seeing Loki shovel an obscene amount of food was an experience, but she didn't comment on it, tactful enough to consider his alien biology might have different dietary requirements that her human one. It was great, really, that she could order dessert and not feel guilty about it.

The gelato melted in her mouth like sweet ecstasy and she moaned with her next bite, only partly aware of how obscene really was the noise.

Loki's hand stuttered on it's way to his mouth. Wide-eyed, he stared at her lips, at her mouth, where her tongue lapped up the small drops of dessert from the spoon. "Why the split tongue?" The Asgardian finally gathered his wits, having had a good look of what he was sure was a trick of the eye at first.

She grinned, acutely aware of the effect that particular body modification had on men. "I like being different. I embrace the weird." She giggled, not at all ashamed, sticking out her tongue and wiggling both parts of it teasingly.

Loki's Adam's apple bobbed; "Weird?" He raised his eyebrow, fighting to maintain his previous cool composure.

She nodded. "Weird," She retorted coyly. "I usually don't divulge the details at least until the third date. Wouldn't want to scare my potential suitors off," The playful wink was the proverbial cherry on top. He was hooked, his eyes darkened, following the plump arch of her lips as she took another spoonful of the treat and savoured it, closing her eyes for a brief moment.

It was pornographic.

"Obviously, Midgardians don't know what's good for them," Loki scoffed in his usual bored monotone, fully aware of how fitful his attempt to conceal his excitement was. He sounded needy even to his own ears.

"And you do?" She pushed away the empty plate, chastely patting her mouth with a napkin. The raised eyebrow and the little smirk spoke volumes.

The grin he wore was hardly anything but feral; he asked for the waiter's assistance by flicking his wrist in an impatient fashion. Once the bill was paid and the woman's cardigan found its rightful place on her shoulders, Loki once again took hold of her arm, this time holding her smaller body against his larger one, taking care to slow down and keep his strides shorter.

She found the coolness of his presence refreshing in the moist, heavy air of the New York city.

"Where to, milady?" Loki asked her, looking down at the woman fondly.

"My place is a block away. Walk me, good sir?" She gave a delightfully easy smile in return.

He nodded, letting her lead the way, allowing himself to get a little bit lost in their shared presence, a little bubble of them in the middle of a busy city. It was as if someone had quickly turned down the volume of the honking cars and noisy pedestrians around them, leaving the soft breeze and the sun slowly descending below the skyscrapers. It felt far too short, partaking in the comfortable silence together, skin tingling under the thin layers of cloth where they were touching.

The sun was trapped in the strands of her hair as she smiled at him from her doorway, worrying her lip between her teeth. It was a bittersweet moment.

"A kiss good night for the good sir?" She asked hopefully, eyes darting between his face and his mouth.

Loki obliged, resting his palm flat on the door frame, towering over the woman as he gently slotted his thin, cool lips against her warm ones. The woman stood on her tippy toes, eager, placing a hand on his chest. The pair melted into the kiss - it had no business being this mind-blowing, brain-freezing for two people that have not met until that very day. The woman didn't refuse when Loki probed with his tongue, requesting entrance to her mouth; she licked into his own with fervor, fisting her hands in the soft fabric of his sweater.

With the hand that was free, Loki pulled the woman flush with himself, feeling the heat of her start a fire of its own inside of him. Her breathing rapid, the gesture only served to tighten her hold on his sweater, until a soft, barely audible moan slipped into his mouth, causing his brain to quickly reassess the situation.

Regretfully, Loki pulled away, clearing his throat. "Perhaps we should take this elsewhere," He meaningfully looked at the array of doors around them.

"I thought you'd never ask," She retorted with a fond eyeroll, tightening the grip on his sweater once more, to pull him inside her apartment and shut the door behind her. The awkward moments were few and in between; neither knew who reached for the other first, mashing their mouths with less grace than before, clutching at the other's arms and hips with hunger.

This time, Loki didn't hold back his own muted groans of satisfaction, shivering when the woman's hands snuck under his sweater and the simple tank top he wore underneath. Blunt nails scraped along his abs.

Step by step, she pushed him further inside her apartment, determined in her small quick strides. There was no mistake of their destination; no mistake in her desire: she was as hungry and as impatient as him. The crease between his eyebrows deepened, long arms extending to unzip the top of her dress to reveal a simple but tasteful black lacy bra covering her breasts. The woman barely noticed the action, stepping out of her dress as soon as it hit the floor.

He admired her. Inches of soft skin covered by intricate ink, some patterns bizarre and complicated, some beautiful in their simplicity. Loki couldn't wait to find out about the meaning behind every one of them, to trace the lines with his tongue and sink his teeth into the heated flesh.

The hands that were holding onto him for dear life tugged on his sweater and he chose to simply vanish it, too preoccupied with looking at the view in front of him. She gasped and her eyes met his: uncanny, magnetic emeralds shone with magic and power and desire.

"Fuck," She more mouthed than said, walking backwards in a trance until her shins hit the bed.

Loki grinned, advancing on the panting woman with the grace of a predator. "Darling?" His tone was innocent; his expression was anything but. His large hand encompassesed the side of her face, thumb running over her bottom lip in a possessive gesture that had her squirming in her place. He loved the way she just melted into his touch.

Their lips met again, slower this time. The kiss was once again graceful and unrushed, allowing them to explore the softness of each other's skin, mapping the arches and valleys with gentle strokes of their palms. The broad expanse of Loki's back was uneven, riddled with scars and blemishes, and she mapped every single one, blunt nails raking down it as she pressed into him, arching into his hands where he held her.

The soft flesh of her ass, barely covered by a scrap of black lace, was shamelessly grabbed - the woman didn't doubt there would be marks left - letting her feel his arousal pressed against her belly, hard and twitching. She didn't resist her desire to ge handsy and palmed it, taking note of the gasp and the twitch coming from the man occupied with the clasp of her bra. In no time, it flew away, forgotten somwhere the very moment Loki's palms took over her breasts, running a careful thumb over each nipple.

"Fuck," She parroted her previous statement, equally breathy and considerably more aroused.

"That's the plan," Loki's chuckle was hoarse.

She huffed, biting her bottom lip before reaching out to swiftly pop the button of his trousers, smirking at the hiss the friction of her palm produced against his cock. It shouldn't have surprised her that Loki was a commando kind of guy, but still, she gasped, partially from the ministrations of his clever fingers, partially from the mouthwatering sight in front of her. The thick, flushed length made saliva gather in the corners of her mouth.

He must've heard the audible swallow. "Not so haste, darling," He tutted, giving her relaxed body a gentle push, causing her to land on her back, heated skin against the soft duvet of her bed. "Let me taste you," A thud; Loki had dropped to his knees, using his large palms to spread her legs, opening her up to his eyes.

If his previous work hadn't made her so pliant, so aroused, she'd have been rendered speechless; instead, the woman arched her back, presenting herself and the desire that had pooled down below. The Asgardian chuckled, fingertips soft against the scratchy lace.

"Tease," The woman moaned, outstretching her arm to guide him but quite unable to reach him. She had to settle for squirming in her place, receiving a fraction of the desired traction against her swollen lips.

"Am I, love?" Loki asked her sweetly, caving enough to dip a single finger to run along the outside of her slit. It glided easily thanks to all the moisture gathered there, lips parting easily before his touch. The panties were vanished away promptly, another finger joining in immediately to rub slow, precise circles around her clit.

She keened low and long, fisting the fabric in her hand until her knuckles turned white. Loki knew what he was doing. It didn't take him very long to slide his long digits to the welcoming heat of her opening, dipping them inside until she began to make the noises he so craved. His mouth followed after that, long agile tongue drawing senseless shapes on the inside of her labia and dipping deeper, where her clit stood out engorged and slick.

He could smell the bittersweet of her arousal, mouthwatering and hot.

"Loki, fuck," She moaned, only half-coherent and partially aware of her own hips following his every stroke, every flick. He only advanced, hitting that sweet spot inside her with every stroke; the sparks traveling up her spine quickened with each time she changed his name like a prayer. "Loki, Loki, Loki..."

He growled, attaching his mouth firmly to her clit, and she arched for the final time, coming undone, squeezing around his fingers and gushing in his mouth, the obscene sounds covered by her own scream of delight and his impatient growling. The growling that sent shivers of aftershocks throughout her body.

"Darling, you taste so sweet," Loki groaned, still panting.

She took the time to open her eyes: Loki looked comically out of place in her bedroom, he dwarfed her bed and made her feel small, but it didn't matter at all at that very moment. His erection stood out hard and proud; despite the leg-shaking orgasm just moments ago, she wanted more, she wanted to taste him, she wanted to feel him inside-

With unsurprising agility, one swift motion was all it took for her to rest comfortably against the pillows, his throbbing member resting against the juncture of her thigh. She tasted her own release on his lips, however brief, whispering a weak, "Please," aching to feel the emptiness.

"As my lady wishes," Loki's cool breath ghosted over her cheek. She waited with baited breath until the tip of his manhood breached her, exhaling a moan into his neck and immediately wrapping her lips around a patch of skin as he stretched her so sweet.

Loki's arms shook slightly as he waited for her to adjust. He kissed her, soft and sweet; there was something vulnerable in him, something as sweet as the ache he'd taken away. Once he began to move, slow and fluid, all there was left was an all-consuming need to feel. As graceful as dancer and with a deadly precision, Loki pounded gasps, moans and screams out of the woman's slack mouth, kisses turning hungrier and sloppier by the second.

"So sweet," He cooed, relishing in the snug grip of her cunt around him.

She only keened in approval, too far gone and unused to the intensity of the feelings from a man with centuries of practice and the power of a god.

His thrusts slowed gradually until he was rutting into her, grinding his pelvic bone into her clit. The gasps and screams turned into drawn-out, longing moans; her hips followed his, meeting in a slow, sensual motion.

Loki was not a patient man. He withdrew - she gasped in protest - flipping the woman over on her fours with ease, taking but a split second to admire the curve of her body presented on display for him. Just for him.

With that thought burning in his mind, Loki sheathed his cock deeply inside her spasming cunt. It was nearly unbearably stimulating and only his own desire to prolong the bliss held back his own impending orgasm. That, and his own ego; he was naught if not a generous lover.

She slurred something, quiet and incorrigible, fucking back onto his cock as eagerly as he was plunging into her heat. The hand he'd placed on her shoulder promptly wrapped around her throat in hopes of lifting her close enough for him to hear the words but instead, it sent a full-bodied shiver throughout her. Loki grinned, tugging her that much closer.

The arch in her back looked quite uncomfortable yet she didn't mind; it was the exact opposite, in fact, her cunt tightened around him, drenching his shaft down to his balls. Her fingernails dug into the flesh of his thigh, the sting of pain going straight to his cock-

"Loki, I'm gonna, I'm gonna-" She slurred, gasping for air.

He weakened his hold on her throat enough to let her gulp the so-needed oxygen. It was her undoing: was it the rapid pace of oxygenated blood traveling to her brain or was it his cock, mercilessly pounding against her g-spot - she was violently spasming around his cock, much like she did around his fingers not too long ago.

It felt like ages, her crescendo coming in waves with no signs of stopping any time soon. Loki's continuous thrusts, his hips slamming into hers, her skin feeling like molten lava.

"Gonna fill your sweet cunt with my seed," Loki moaned lowly, holding her up by the throat, the other hand leaving fingertip-shaped bruises on the outside of her hips. "Mark you from the inside out," His voice had gone into primal territory, growling filling up the room.

"Please..." The woman rasped, oversensitive.

And he pleased, with a series of sharp thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt in her, the force of his release making her shudder and moan once against, going limp in his arms. Loki kept her in her place until every drop was inside of her cunt. Nothing was sweeter than that.

The Asgardian didn't bother with getting under the covers to hold her, conjuring a soft, comfortable throw in modest green, to cover their nudity. He didn't need the extra warmth but his companion was by far more fragile and sensitive to these things- Loki's fingertips traced the array of bruises he'd left in the wake of their passion, expression surprised as he found the woman smiling.

"Feels nice," She supplied meekly, eyes half-lidded, face trusting and open towards him.

He gave a small grin in return, placing a chaste kiss atop her head. "Yes, it does, darling."

Time after time, she didn't expect much out if their date. The sex was nice, nice enough for both of them to want seconds and thirds after their rushed first time - but it wasn't like she expected him to hand around. It was a pleasant change from the usual mutual ghosting she'd done with her previous partners, but Loki had texted again and they had resumed their conversation via text like nothing had happened.

No, that would be incorrect. Now, she had a wonderful friend who was a great conversationalist and an even better lover. There was no pressure to put a label on their relationship so the woman didn't bother with it; it didn't seem like Loki cared about the label, either, so she left the topic alone and enjoyed things the way they were. It wasn't like she had a line of suitors anyway.

She couldn't help the smile that creeped onto her face when she unlocked her phone and saw a video call request from other than Loki himself. She still had thirty minutes worth of lunch break to waste and this was a wonderful time to chat with a friend.

"Stark, hand it back or I swear to Norns-" Loki's voice sounded agitated and far away, accompanied by sounds of a struggle; the bearded, smug face on the screen was not who she expected at all. Only years of customer service and low bullshit tolerance combined stopped her from freaking out seeing none other than Tony Stark smirking at her from the screen of her phone.

"Yes?" She arched an eyebrow, taking note of the anger of Loki's tone.

"Hi, I don't think I need to introduce myself," Stark babbled, eyeing her - disheveled and with a wall full of sticky notes and miscellaneous items acting as the background to her video. "Reindeer games refused to show you to us so we decided to persuade him," Tony's grin grew wider, muted whispers being rapidly exchanged in the background all the while Loki screeched "BROTHER!" and various expletives at the top of his lungs.

"You could've, I dunno," She paused, unimpressed. "Asked me to dinner, like a normal person. Instead of stealing, you know, like a thief," The eyeroll that she performed had the team worried her eyes would fall out of their sockets.

"I merely borrowed his phone, don't be dramatic," Stark huffed, and for a moment, she could see various other people trying to look at the screen and by extension, at her. "So, what is it that you do? Because Smurf over there wouldn't..."

"Oops, bad signal. Sorry, can't hear you properly," Her side of the call suddenly shook and in a moment, she ended the call, not at all willing to deal with people that lacked boundaries. Sure, it might have been Iron Man, but if he was planning on being a snooping asshole, she wasn't gonna go down with that easily.

Exactly five minutes after she had clocked out, an incoming call from Loki had her equal parts excited and mortified. What if..? But he was apologetic. And very angry, swearing in his native language - something that he'd promised to teach her at some point.

"So, Clint did it?" She sipped her beverage, strolling home with the phone pressed snugly against her ear.

"Most of it was his fault, yes," Loki grouched on the other end of the call.

"I vote we get back at him. Invite me over, if he's so inclined to see me, and watch him get humiliated in front of everybody," It wasn't a secret she had her own mischievous tendencies.

"As much as I appreciate your vigour, darling, I doubt the Widow will appreciate you verbally castrating the Hawk in public," He replied sourly, his voice still betraying the faint notes of interest.

"I have a backup plan!" She stated without a hitch. "He'll embarrass himself and I'll be your alibi."

"I'm listening," Loki perked up immediately.

They decided to not to stall and schedule the 'family dinner', as Thor himself dubbed it, for the next available weekend. Loki had made sure Tony's AI had been made aware the trickster would be gone all day, and it took him very little magic and effort to pop in and out of the tower for the five minutes that were needed to execute their prank.

His friend barely managed to keep the snickering at bay as they ascended the elevator to the common floor where the dinner was being held. Not only that, but the woman spouted an area of dark purple love marks, barely obscured by the low turtleneck of her blouse.

She made her introductions and they made theirs. "This affair could use some background noise," She remarked off-handedly, casting a meaningful glance at the TV.

Tony Stark was known for being a great host so he entertained her wishes, flicking on the huge flat screen with a flick of his wrist.

The team froze.

"I... -" The woman stared at the screen, mouth hanging wide open at the scenes that played out. "... am not going to kinkshame, but please turn it off," She stated in a small voice, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away from the mass of tentacles commencing erotic assault on a woman's body.

Wordlessly, the TV shut down, immersing the room in stunned silence. Loki face-palmed, the slap of his palm against his face echoing in the eerily quiet room.

"Loki!" Captain America, red as a tomato, instantly accused the most obvious person.

Except, he had forgotten one thing. "Loki was with me all day," The woman replied, unkindly. "Do you need more proof?" She tugged on the hem of her turtleneck, exposing an inch of skin marked blue.

The good Captain's face changed the shade once again, venturing very well into beetroot territory. "Who was the last one to use the TV?" Rogers asked, now with a hint of anger, as he stared at a guffawing Bucky.

"I believe it was Mr. Barton," The AI piped up, mechanical voice sounding almost insinuating. Or, perhaps, it just appeared that way.

[custardcrazy]

Newt Scamander x Reader: I’ll Be Seeing You (Part 1)

A/N:  i’ve been working on this lol and writing for newt makes me stupidly happy.. lol 

anyhow, here’s part 1 of this new series about our favorite magizoologist !!  

warnings: angst (next part will have fluff dw), parents fighting, bullying, a tad bit of abuse from the father. do not read this if any of that stuff triggers you.  

part 2

------ 

Poppy 

Since you were a child, you had possessed the ability to connect with plants on a near-spiritual level- and to heal them, as well. Even for a kid born into a magical family (you were a pureblood), this was unusual. 

It was an ability that was pretty much laughed at by anyone you told. 

"That's ridiculous! Stop lying!" said some. "That'll be useless in combat," sneered others. 

Your mother was very kind, but could do little to nothing to stop people from ridiculing the "plant-talking freak". All she really did was provide you with temporary comfort and a sense of safety from the outside world that was less than welcoming. Your father, close-minded as he was, didn't directly yell at you, but you could tell from his expressions that he was disappointed. 

When you were younger, you were very lonely. It was really stupid how people would distance themselves from you, thinking that they'd catch a disease or something if they got too close. And all of this manifested itself into you being maybe a bit too friendly for some people.. because all you wanted was a real friend.    

One warm summer day when you were about seven, you were playing in the local park. Your mother was sitting on a bench nearby, reading a book. Your father was busy at work, as usual.  

With a small sigh, you had gotten up from the patch of flowers you were in, and walked over to an area of trees to look around. 

Whenever there was natural life around you, you had discovered that it was present as a dull hum in your mind and ears. At first it had been annoying, but by now you had grown used to the feeling. Welcomed it, even. 

As you peeked around a tall oak, you caught a glimpse of an unfamiliar kid squatted over the ground. They seemed to be poking at some pink, mushroom-like things. 

You drew a bit closer, trying to get a better look at them. 

But as you took a step forward, you stepped on a stick, and it broke in half, causing the kid to jump and nearly fall over backwards. 

He (now you were sure it was a he) looked at you, with widened eyes. He looked absolutely petrified! 

"Oh- I'm so sorry for scaring you!" you said quickly, holding up your hands.  

"I-I-it's fine," the boy stuttered, turning around to face the mushroom things again with a slightly flushed face.  

You tilted your head to the side slightly. "Are you okay?"  

"Y-yes-" he answered, looking extremely reluctant to continue the conversation. But being the young child you were, you didn't recognize that at all. 

"I'm glad that somebody else my age is in the park!" you interrupted, a smile beginning to form on your face. "What's your name?"  

"Er.. Newton.. but y-you can call me Newt, I guess." Newt gave a short sideways glance to you as you crouched down next to him. 

"Oh, that's a nice name! I'm (Y/N)!" You stuck out a hand for him to shake.  

He merely looked at your hand, then returned his attention back to the pink fungi things. 

"I don't.. do.. handshakes."   

You shrugged, pulling back your hand. "Alright then."  

Pausing, you focused your attention hard on the pink things, wishing to communicate with them. But, strangely enough, you didn't sense anything from them- so even though they did look like plants, they weren't, you concluded. 

"What are those mushrooms called? They're not plants, are they?" you said, now curious to what these beings were. 

Newt looked a mix of surprised and impressed, turning his gaze fully at you. "H-how.. ho-how did you know that? It's nearly im-impossible to tell between-" 

With a slight hesitation, you just grinned. "I know a few things about plants, I suppose." 

-- 

Over the next year or so, you grew closer to your new friend bit by bit. You learned that he was interested in magical creatures. That he was studying the mushroom things- Horklumps, he said they were called- to learn how they worked. Apparently he had some back in his home!  

School did start up again eventually, but that didn't stop you from visiting the park nearly every day, looking forward to the afternoons spent with him playing around in the woods. Newt had become the closest and best friend that you'd ever had. 

You still weren't sure if he'd react kindly if you told him about your freakish powers, though.. and you didn't want to lose him. 

One evening, when you were flipping through one of your favorite books, you heard yelling from downstairs. 

Sneaking over to the stairs, you peeked into the living room, where your mother and father were having a heated argument. They hadn't been getting along well as of late, with your dad growing more and more irritated at work and coming home in a terrible mood all the time, having shouting matches with your increasingly quiet mum over trivial things. (He did most of the shouting.)  

...But it wasn't like they got along very well in the first place, anyway. 

"WELL I DON'T CARE! JUST CLEAN THE DAMN PLATES BY THE TIME THAT IT'S TIME FOR SUPPER!" roared your father, red-faced in his anger. 

Your mother looked like she was on the verge of tears. "Please, just be patient! It'll only take a minute-"   

"A minute!? Woman, GET ON WITH IT!"  

She shushed him. "Please, think of our child, you'll frighten-"    

"Our child? I never asked for that plant-whispering freak!"  

Tears began to blur your vision. 

But just before you ran upstairs, you saw your mom suddenly clench her first, hissing words at your father that you couldn't hear before pulling out her wand. 

Not wanting to watch any longer, you hurried upstairs, running into your room and slamming the door behind you. 

-- 

Turns out your parents split up shortly after that. 

The feeling was numbing, really. You didn't feel sad. You didn't feel angry. You didn't feel happy, either. 

And when you learned that you were going to move to America to live with your mother's sister, you just slowly nodded and packed up your things. 

The day before your departure from your home, you visited the park for possibly the last time. The last time you'd see your dearest and only friend. 

You found Newt easily, and he gave you a crooked grin. "Hello." 

"..Hey," you said, looking and sounding as hollow as you felt. 

He instantly looked concerned. "I-is anything the matter, (Y/N)?" 

"No- well, yes." Sniffling, you nodded. "I'm.. I'm moving. I'm moving, Newt." 

"Wait- moving to wh-where?" Standing up from the ground, Newt walked a bit closer. 

"To.. to.." 

You felt tears threatening to spill over your cheeks, and couldn't find the correct words to tell him that this was maybe the last time you'd see each other. 

"(Y/N), please, ju-just tell me. I-I'm- we're friends, right? You can trust me-"   

"LOOK, I'm moving to America- and I'm pretty sure I'm not coming back!" 

If this was a normal situation, you would've laughed at the expression of pure shock on Newt's face.  

But this time, you just wanted to cry and cry and cry.  

"Th-this.. th-this isn't a joke, r-right..?" His pitiful expression showed that he was wishing for this to not be true. That it was just a nightmare. And partly, it was a nightmare. 

"I-it.. it.. it really.. isn't." You sniffled again, trying and failing to wipe away your tears. "I.. I do-don't want to leave, but t-there's really no other choice..," 

"So.. I'll never see you.. again..?" 

You could tell that he was struggling not to cry. You could see the glimmering in his eyes. 

With a sob, you flung yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him and holding him tight.  

He froze momentarily, but slowly hugged you back, tears slipping down his face. 

"(Y/N)!" 

You heard your mother's call in the distance, pulling back from Newt. 

"(Y/N), we need to get going!"  

"Look, I- I'll miss you," you said hurriedly, letting go of him and turning away. "Goodbye." 

Suddenly, a gentle hand grasped your wrist. 

You looked back, and found something being pressed into your hand. Quickly bringing it up to look at it, you found a smile making its way into your expression. 

It was a bit rough, but nonetheless charming. A little copper moon charm threaded onto a rope bracelet that was a bit big for your wrist. 

"..T-thank you," you said. 

"(Y/N), this is the last time I'm going to yell!"  

Newt smiled back at you. "Be careful. I'll miss you too." 

And you turned around for the last time, running off and not looking back.  

[fictionadventurer]

Fairy Tale Retellings

I know that @magpie-trove has been recommended enough books to fill several years, but since fairy tale retellings are my niche, I’m going to throw some more titles out there. (I’m limiting myself to 1) books/short stories 2) that I enjoyed 3) that I haven’t seen mentioned in connection to the original post. I’m also trying not to branch out into too many tales, so I’m going to be leaving out some slightly more obscure ones).

Before I go into the specifics, I’m just going to say, that if you only read three books out of this list, read Entwined by Heather Dixon (12 Dancing Princesses),  Brine and Bone by Kate Stradling (Little Mermaid) and Valiant by Sarah Macguire. (And if you only read one series, make it Regina Doman’s Fairy Tale Novels.)

Cinderella

Before Midnight by Cameron Dokey: Short, sweet, autumny retelling that I like for the atmosphere and the loving relationship between Cinderella and her stepfamily.

Silver Woven In My Hair by Shirley Rousseau Murphy: Extremely short, traditional retelling, starring a mistreated girl who collects Cinderella stories while being in one of her own. Has a sweet charm to it.

Soot and Slipper by Kate Stradling: A short retelling set in a traditional fairy tale kingdom, but with an excellent plot twist. I like it very much until the ending entangles it in a far-too-complicated magic system.

The Reluctant Godfather by Allison Tebo: A sassy retelling starring a grumpy fairy baker who tries to get out of his godfather duties by getting his two charges to fall in love with each other. Gets points for a unique, almost Wodehousish parody element that is an extreme breath of fresh air in a genre dominated by YA romances.

The Spinner and the Slipper by Camryn Lockhart: Mashes up the story with Rumpelstiltskin. Clearly the work of a very young author, but I’m putting it on here for the fun use of the fairies from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Beauty and the Beast

Unseen Beauty by Amity Thomsen: Traditional fantasy retelling from the POV of one of the invisible servants. Writing that’s a cut above most self-pubbed books, with extra points for featuring a female friendship that’s just as important as the main romance.

Snow White

Fairest Son by H.S.J. Williams: Gender-flipped version involving the fae. Is the only Snow White retelling that had me uncertain for a while of where the plot was going to go.

Sleeping Beauty

A Long, Long Sleep by Anna Sheehan: A sci-fi retelling involving a girl who was regularly kept in stasis for the convenience of her corporate mogul parents, then was left in stasis for more than 70 years while the apocalypse happened. She wakes up to a world that’s recovered to become a very different place and has to deal with the emotional fallout of everything that’s happened to her. And it’s intense. This book has the distinction of being one of only two books with scenes that made me put the book down so I could sob uncontrollably. (The other is Rapunzel Let Down). There’s a little bit of content (a couple of kissing scenes that veer toward steamy, and use of futuristic swear words that have clear connections to modern swear words) but easily skippable.

The Little Mermaid

Brine and Bone by Kate Stradling: On first read, I appreciated it as a faithful-to-Andersen retelling, but found it otherwise forgettable. I reread it earlier this year and cannot understand how I possibly came to that conclusion. This has beautiful character work in a unique world that, I cannot stress this enough, is loyal to the Andersen version while appreciating the true joy of that ending.

Silent Mermaid by Brittany Fichter: First half had some excellent world-building and interesting conflicts that fell apart in a more cliche second half, but I remember it being enjoyable overall.

The Princess and the Pea

The Bruised Princess by A.G. Marshall: Part of her Once Upon a Short Story collection. They’re all decent-to-great, but this one is my favorite, a sweet little romance that makes the story make a surprising amount of sense.

I need to give a shout-out to my favorite retelling of this tale. I can’t remember the title. It was on Fanfiction.net back in the day. (I tried looking it up, but it wasn’t part of the collection I assumed it was in). It was from the POV of the servant who had to stuff all twenty mattresses. She has allergies and is miserable by the time she’s done, and gets her revenge by stuffing the top mattress with gravel.

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

Entwined by Heather Dixon: One of my very top favorite retellings, a creative and whimsical and touching story focusing on the twelve close-knit sisters and their relationship with their buttoned-up father in the aftermath of their mother’s death.

The Brave Little Tailor

Valiant by Sarah McGuire: The only retelling I’ve ever seen of this tale, starring a girl who has to masquerade as a boy to get work as a tailor, and winds up entangled in a kingdom’s battle against giants. The first act is very boring, but it turns into a very well-done retelling with excellent characters and worldbuilding.

Bonus: Series

These are series that retell several fairy tales in the same universe, and I thought it’d be easier to present them all together than separating them out by fairy tale.

The Fairy Tale Novels by Regina Doman: Catholic retellings set in the modern day. They have their weak points, but they’re my gold standard for how to write a modern retelling and how to write a religious romance.

The Shadow of the Bear: Snow White and Rose Red. Fun and adventurous. Gets points for introducing me to Chesterton.

Black as Night: Snow White, focusing on the Snow White character from the first book. Darker and more intense, but with some deep themes.

Waking Rose: Sleeping Beauty, focusing on the Rose Red character’s adventures in college. By far the most popular book in the series, it’s overlong, but extremely good.

The Midnight Dancers: The Twelve Dancing Princesses, focusing on mostly new characters with a side character from Waking Rose in the soldier role. A slighter story with a pricklier main character, but it’s a strong contender for my favorite in the series, exploring the connections between beauty and truth and goodness.

Alex O’Donnell and the 40 Cyberthieves: Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, starring Waking Rose side characters. This is a lighter adventure tale. All the stuff surrounding the hacking subplot is slightly ridiculous, but it’s one of the only YA novels I’ve ever seen that explores the realistic nuances of considering marriage with someone very different from you.

Rapunzel Let Down: Rapunzel. By far the darkest themes (it’s classified as an adult book). All new characters with some cameos. I thought it was decent on first read, but on reread, it blew me away with some of its themes (Except for a very melodramatic fifth act).

The Andari Chronicles by Kenley Davidson: Retellings set in a very mildly magical fantasy world, mostly focused on political intrigue.

Traitor’s Masque: Cinderella. 60% longer than it needs to be because of the extremely wordy writing style, and it makes me tear my hair out every time I try rereading, but the core conflict between the two brothers is compelling.

The Countess and the Frog: The Frog Prince. A short prequel novella focusing on a side character from the first book. I think it’s only available as a freebie on the author’s site but may be one of my favorite romances because the leads are so cute and sensible together.

Goldheart: Rumpelstiltskin. My favorite in the series, focused on a shy painter given an impossible task and the friends who help her get through it. The writing style’s much more concise here.

Pirouette: The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Political-intrigue focused. Also much wordier than it needs to be, though not as much as the first book. Twists the fairy tale in extremely interesting ways and has some great characters. (Prologue and epilogue are some of my favorite bits of writing in the series).

Shadow and Thorn: Beauty and the Beast. The most magical book in the series, and the most confusing because of that. There was one really cool moment with Beauty’s father, but otherwise I didn’t care for it all that much.

Daughter of Lies: Snow White with spies. Short, but fun. Reminds me of a Georgette Heyer farce.

Path of Secrets: Red Riding Hood with spies. I remember nothing about this story, which may tell you all you need to know.

Once: Six Historically Inspired Fairy Tales: What I think of as a kind of spin-off to the Rooglewood collections, this novella collection by six different authors retells six different fairy tales. My favorites are a dark but beautiful “Little Match Girl” retelling set in WWII, a steampunkish Rumpelstiltskin, and With Blossoms Gold, a Rapunzel retelling set in the Renaissance. (The only one I didn’t like at all was the Sleeping Beauty story).

Destined series by Kaylin Lee: Includes retellings of Cinderella, Rapunzel, Beauty and the Beast, Red Riding Hood, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty in one interconnected storyline. I’ve only read the first four; they’re okay-to-decent books whose main strength is the unique world they’re set in (think magical steampunky 1930s, which seems like a work of genius after you’ve been reading through a million retellings set in generically fairy tale kingdoms). My favorite is the fourth, Betrayed, which retells Little Red Riding Hood and mostly stands alone (until the last act veers it into a really complicated overarching plot).

[siarven]

Hello everyone!

I managed to finish the fourth version of my main WIP about a week ago and would love to see what other people think! <3 So below there’s an intro, and a mini excerpt from the start of the story can be found under the cut <3

DREAM’S SHADOW|

Book 1 in a series; Version 4.1

LENGTH | 132,166 words (according to scrivener)

GENRE | dark fantasy set in another world, hopepunk, creepy/horror elements, small scope that will transition into epic fantasy later on in the series

POV | first & third person limited, present tense

THEMES & TROPES | hopepunk, sibling dynamics, dysfunctional family, power of kindness & love, platonic love, queer characters, queer-embracing worldbuilding, mental & physical trauma, light & dark, secrets, tragedy, lies, betrayal, loss of innocence, holding on & letting go, cute creatures, (in)humanity, trees, religion & belief, growing up, monsters, dreams, nightmares.

CONTENT WARNINGS | angst, depression, anxiety, manipulation, terrible self-esteem/no self-worth/self-hatred, suicidal ideation, nyctophobia, panic attacks, nightmares, surreality/unreality, spiralling thoughts, body horror (esp eye related), scopophobia, blood, injury, violence, torture, character death (but it’s not what you think,,,)

SYNOPSIS |

When Ava and her parents arrive at the hospital, they find her older brother Ben in a deeply unnatural coma—and nobody can tell them what happened. Despite the magical abilities of the Asim Healers, there seems to be no way to save him. But then, why do they still keep him alive? As Ava slowly learns the magnitude of how terrible Ben’s situation (and impossible his future) truly are, she finds herself embroiled in a larger conflict, ready to hook its claws into her as well. And the one person she cares about most—who always had her back—is gone. So despite everything, there’s only really one choice. Find out how to save him and try anyways.

CHARACTERS |

AVA, 10. She/her/they/them. The Smol Angery Bean.  Animal (dragon :3) person, doesn’t get along with people most of the time. Basically got raised by Ben and thinks he can do no wrong.

BEN, 18. He/him. The Responsible One. Good in school, takes care of his dysfunctional family, keeps everything from falling apart. Everyone thinks he’s perfect. Is selfless to a fault. It’s a problem. No self-esteem.

ELINOR, 16. She/her. The Wayward Daughter. Got taken by the Asim as a child because of her inherent magic potential.

... and a few side characters <3

SCHEDULE ETC. |

I don’t really have a schedule during which you’d have to read anything because I’m going to be working on other stuff for the next few months (and let’s face it, we’re all busy anyways). My current time frame is “within the next 4 months would be nice” :)

I’d give you the story in ~15k chunks so it’s not all at once, I can see what you think while you’re reading it, and it doesn’t become too much (and ofc you can stop at any time if you don’t end up vibing <3).

I have a list of questions or you can just tell me what you think as you read, I am not at the point of line edits, this is more "does everything make sense” and pacing-related. <3

If you’re interested, please shoot me a message/ an ask/ email me at xsiarven@gmail.com <33

I’ll also love you forever if you reblogged this post so it can reach more people <3

(Taglist & short excerpt below the cut)

EXCERPT |

He knows he is dreaming because he always does—and he can feel that she shouldn’t be part of this dream even before he sees her.

“Who are you?”

She’s sitting cross-legged on the ground, head tilted in a slightly unnerving fashion. A lazy smile lifts the corners of her mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Yes, indeed… a good question. But what you should be asking yourself instead is this: why am I here?” She smiles. Her face is soft and round. Her eyes reflect the sky.

He does not dare look away, even as he swallows. “Then… why are you here?”

“Why, that is a good question!” She laughs. He shivers.

“I am here because it’s beginning, Dreamling. And you are the pivot. The chink.”

His heart-rate picks up at that. Her eyes are sharper now, and there’s something vicious in the way she’s staring at him, in the way her lips curl around that smile.

He turns away and hates himself for it. From the corner of his eye he can see her smile widening. The fear burns like ice in his veins.

It’s getting dark, the sky turning purple and pink and gold even though there’s no sun. A thousand small lights drift sleepily through the air, some close, some further away.

Somehow they make him sad.

“What does that mean?“ he asks, heart in his throat.

She doesn’t reply. Her smile turns cruel.

He shivers.

“Why?” he asks. “I don’t—I don’t...” He trails off when he meets her gaze. Her eyes seem larger than before.

He’s never been looked at like that.

“You don’t get a choice,” she tells him, all traces of playfulness gone from her voice.

“Your kind never does.”

DREAM’S SHADOW TAG LIST | (ask to be added/removed)

@wilde-writing | @thereisnothingwrongwithbeingmad | @authordai | @madmoonink  | @lynnafred | @prismalicht | @sincerestaffect | @romenna | @zekethegm | @hypnocutiegypsy | @random-stuff-thrown-into-a-pot | @els-writes | @randooooooooooom | @asttralhell | @followthatgoose | @kittensartswriting | @purpleshadows1989 | @raiswanson | @ettawritesnstudies | @writingwordsanddrawingpictures | @albatris | @semblanche​

[madd-information]

Have you watched Kati Morton's new video about Maladaptive Daydreaming? What do you think about it?

[intro]

For years, I believed maladaptive daydreaming to be a form of dissociation, but it could also be added to the DSM as its own diagnosis, since it does have its own set of unique symptoms. Either way, at this time maladaptive daydreaming is not listed in the DSM as a diagnosable mental illness.

I was concerned because her last couple videos on the topic were very confusing to watch and seemed to conflate MD with the inner-worlds of DID.  It looks like she has done some more research on it and is going to make a more informed video. This is great and I deeply appreciate that she’s taking the time to do a proper dive into this. 

The closest diagnosis would be DPDR, or depersonalization derealization disorder. And this is the diagnosis given to those of us who struggle with dissociation. [explanation of DPDR]

Gonna need you to source that Katie, I’ve never heard an MD researcher say something like this.  When they talk about MD they call it a behavioral addiction with OCD features which is related to dissociative absorption (different from derealization and depersonalization, these two dissociative experiences are not particularly significant in MD, though they can happen.)

These experiences are extremely common. It's estimated that half of all adults have had at least one episode of DPDR. 50% of people. That is a huge amount of people.

Cool but not sure it’s at all relevant to the video topic. 

Also, it's important to mention that in 2016, four researchers put together the Maladaptive Daydreaming Scale, or MDS. This is a 14-item self-reported scale, meaning that you as the patient answers 14 questions based on your own maladaptive daydreaming experience.

It’s a 16 item scale now, it was changed very early on and has been 16 for years.  This is a very small and forgivable knitpick, just fyi. 

The MDS focuses on the content of our daydreams, how intense the urge to continue daydreaming is, and how much it impairs our ability to function in our lives, and the benefits and costs of our daydreaming. I am not personally familiar with this scale, nor have I used it in my practice, but I've linked the research article in the description if you wanna learn more about it.

A good description, and here’s that link again for anyone who wants to read about the finer details of this scale. 

When it comes to maladaptive daydreaming, it isn't just feeling out of body or environment. We can create very intense and detailed daydreams with plots, characters, and very lifelike issues and storylines. Some people will get the plots for their daydreams from their real lives, while others can create a utopian place unlike their current experience.

Yep, decent overview of content, though content doesn’t matter that much.  Also, use of “we”.  Is Katie Morton an MDer or was this a creative choice?  I don’t know, just a passing thought. 

We can find ourselves staying in these daydreams for various amounts of time. And some of my patients have reported staying in them for hours. And many of you have let me know that you struggle to get out of them at all, spending days in this other life that we've created.

Yep, good overview, but more importantly she’s listening to her patients and the feedback of MDers in her audience.

...there are many causes for this, and the first I wanna address is trauma triggers. If we've experienced a trauma in our life, things that remind us of that time or situation can pull us into a flashback, cause us to dissociate, or in many cases push us into our maladaptive daydreams.

When our brain and the rest of our nervous system feels overwhelmed and unable to deal with what's going on in the moment, it can pull us out of our current situation through dissociation. I always talk about that, like our brain pulling the ripcord. And it can also utilize maladaptive daydreaming. It's a way to cope or get through an overwhelming situation when we don't have other skills to help calm our nervous system down. So we just rely on what we know, and that can be daydreaming or dissociating. It's almost like this coping skill protects us from having to feel traumatized again and so it takes us away, you know, drops us into a much safer and happier place.

Trauma is always talked about first when people do overviews of MD.  She’s not wrong but just to add more information;  about a quarter of MDers report trauma, the other 75(ish)% don’t.  It’s a significant number but trauma is not the only pathway to MD.  Sometimes people walk away from these videos feeling like “well, I don’t have any trauma, maybe I don’t really have MD”.  That’s not a comment on what Katie has presented, she does go into other things below, just adding on.

Another cause or trigger can be high levels of stress or anxiety. We can slowly feel ourselves become more and more overwhelmed until our brain pulls us out of our reality and into a new one, aka our maladaptive daydreams. In short, we can want to stay in these daydreams to feel better and safer, but it can get in the way of us functioning in our life.

Yep

[audience anecdotes]

...Which is why even the term maladaptive daydreaming is used. Maladaptive means it's not providing adequate or appropriate adjustment to the environment or situation. So the daydreaming is only holding off the bad things. It's not actually making anything better or helping us process any of the upset. It's really just a temporary check-out, which can be helpful sometimes, but if it's happening all the time or making it hard for us to focus at work, school, or with our friends and family, we should find other, better ways to cope.

Exactly.

Which moves us into how we can better cope so that we don't get sucked into our daydreams for hours, days, or even weeks. And first up is mindfulness. Now, I know that term is overused now and super annoying but in order for us to know when we even need to use other coping skills, we have to know when the daydreaming urges are happening. So often we aren't aware of what we were feeling or thinking until it's too late and we're already pulled into our daydream. And at that point it's more difficult or even impossible for us to pull ourselves out. Therefore, we have to start being more aware of what we're going through.

[continues explanation]

Perfection.

And so next is figuring out ways to calm our system down. This can take the form of a distraction technique like going for a walk or organizing a part of our home, coloring, watching a show, playing a video game, you name it. These calming things could also be more process-based, things like journaling or talking to your therapist or a friend about it, or even using an impulse log. [Continues with calming things]

Good examples, MD researchers specifically recommend keeping a log.

We're also going to have to find some coping skills that we can use when we're starting to feel overwhelmed and wanting to go back into the daydream. Maybe we hold an ice cube in our hands, clap our hands, count the number of things in the room that are blue, brown, black… whatever works for you, do it.

Good stuff. 

And it's okay for something not to work. We just have to try it to know and then move on to something else.

Important point to make, happy to see this. 

Once we have a few things that work, write them down in your phone or on a post-it note so that you can see it and be reminded when you need it. We will also need to come up with some ways to pull ourselves out of the daydream. And I know this is gonna be harder and we may even wanna call upon helpful and supportive people in our lives to assist us.

Good advise. 

We could, because it's our daydream, right, we could put a big door in our daydream and we can choose to go through it and pull ourselves out, or have people in the daydream that remind us of our real life and tell us to go back.

A good suggestion.  Q, on the Parallel Lives Podcast (I can’t remember which episode off the top of my head), did something like this by turning to his characters and saying “ok, take 5 guys, we’ll pick it up at xtime”, and many people have found that to be a clever and helpful method. 

Now, I know this is really, really hard… which rolls into my final tip, which is to work with a therapist to heal from the trauma or to learn how to better cope with the anxiety or stress we're feeling. Working to heal or process through the reason our maladaptive daydreaming exists in the first place will ensure that we don't need it anymore.

Absolutely seek professional support if you can. 

... if we heal the issue we're struggling to cope with, the urge to use those unhelpful coping skills will go away altogether.

[outro]

I think this last point will frighten a lot of MDers.  It’s probably the brevity of the video that didn’t allow her to really expand on this, and I certainly don’t want to put words into her mouth that she may not have intended.  Don’t be afraid of losing your MD.  “Curing” Maladaptive Daydreaming does not mean “I’ll never see my world again.”  You’ll always have the capacity to daydream like this, you were born this way, but it *doesn’t* have to be maladaptive. Like overeating, you will never not eat, you will fix your relationship with food. 

Good video overall, brief but accurate and includes the standard helpful advise.