#which would mean i would get to be a published academic right before i disappear into teaching forever

[pu-butt]

I just turned in an assignment on a greek funerary inscription in which i refuse to ignore the very slight posibility of a queer solution to a textual problem and i am absolutely Terrified

[violettelueur]

— JUJUTSU KAISEN EPISODE TWO || FOR MYSELF

↳ featuring : itadori yuji + fushiguro megumi + gojo satoru + ryomen sukuna from jujutsu kaisen

↳ warnings : mentions of violence and EXTREME grammar issues

↳ form : story

↳ published : 09 february

↳ pronouns : she/her

↳ word count : 3.0k

↳ synopsis : within the jujutsu world, there were three famous clans to be aware of, the Kamo clan, Zenin clan and the Gojo clan. However, unknown to many sorcerers there was one last family that was known to be apart of the three, only for them to disappear after the golden era leading some to speculate that they had died in battle after the sealing of ryomen sukuna, but....

↳ previous episode : ryomen sukuna

↳ next episode : girl of steel

↳ barista’s notes : since you loved the first one so much, i decided to do episode two for you guys ╲ʕ·ᴥ·　╲ʔ also i am now addicted to genshin impact and right now, i am on adventure rank 19 and already cleared the ‘stormterror lair’ thing ʕ ㅇ ᴥ ㅇʔ i hope you enjoy this cup of classic black coffee (jujutsu kaisen) and come again soon!

BEFORE READING, I NEED YOU TO BE AWARE OF THIS:

1. the whole story belongs to Gege Akutami and the credits go to them and them only

2. the spell curses used belong to Tite Kubo due to them being the ‘Kidos’ being used on the manga and anime ‘Bleach’

3. this whole thing might be confusing and please don’t expect a part three because i will do it when i am ready or feel like i can at the right time ʕ ᵒ ᴥ ᵒʔ

4. i don’t know, if i am going to add this onto my masterlist since this was just for fun to be honest!

“What’s the situation?” 

All of a sudden, a new voice came into the area leading you to turn your head to the side to find a rather tall male standing next to Fushiguro. From a quick glance, you could immediately inform yourself that had spiky white hair with a black blindfold covering his eyes, as he carried a paper bag on his arm while wearing a similar outfit to Fushiguro meaning he was another sorcerer.

“Gojo-sensei?! Why are you here?” Fushiguro asked in surprise, as he turned to look at what you assumed to be his teacher leading to the shadows around him to immediately disappear from sight.

“Gojo…” you muttered under your breath as you looked at the two male sorcerers right in front of you in horror as you came to the realisation of the situation you were facing.

‘Mother…..I’ve been found…..’

                                                   ꕥ

“Hey!’ the teacher cheerfully greeted while waving an arm to his student as a short greeting. “I wasn’t planning on coming, but man, you’re roughed up,” Gojo explained, before leaning forward as if he was taking a closer look at Fushiguro to which then caused lead to his hand to go into his pocket as he proceeded to pull out his mobile phone. “I should show the second years, face this way!” the sorcerer playfully stated as he began to take a multitude of photos of the ‘roughed up’ student, leading to the subject of his images to turn away while covering his face with his arm.

Looking at the scene with anxiety looming above you like a rainy cloud, you swiftly turned your head back to see if you could find a way out without both of them as well as Itadori noticing as they were distracted for the time being.

‘Shit, the only way I can escape is either jumping from this floor or going through the large gap behind me, but that’s gonna make them notice. What am I going to do?!’

“Ah! Miss, I know you are already there, so no need to escape!” Gojo suddenly stated, causing you to quickly turn back with widened eyes - surprised at the fact that he knew what was on your mind - to find the teacher waving at you with the same greeting he gave to Fushiguro as if he had known you for some time, like an old friend one would say.

‘Ah…..what a drag….’ you thought, as you then carefully picked up the katana that had landed in front of you when the curse was exorcised before slowly sliding it back into the casing that was behind your back.

“The higher-ups wouldn’t such up with a special-grade cursed object gone missing, so I stopped by while doing some sightseeing,” Gojo explained while looking down his phone like he was checking something when in your mind, you assumed that he was going through the photos that he took of Fushiguro due to his jolly smile that was displayed on his face.

‘Maybe, if you damn sorcerers got the cursed object sooner before the damn protective seal was ripped off, WE WOULDN’T BE IN THIS SITUATION!’ you argued in your head, as you slowly began to realise the reasonings why your mother never took a liking to the higher-ups, to begin with.

‘Those higher-ups are so useless, all they do is command other sorcerers to do their dirty work while acting if they are superior dear. If I could, I would kill all of them’

“So, did you find it?” the blindfolded teacher asked, as he looked up from his device only for your schoolmate to interrupt the sorcerer’s conversation as he raised up his hand in a guilty manner. “Um...Sorry, but I ate it,” Itadori confessed, as he then pointed to himself to emphasise the statement leading Fushiguro to look down to the floor in what seemed to be in shame while Gojo turned to look at Itadori with a shocked expression.

“For real?” Gojo asked, trying to make sure that it wasn’t some sort of joke.

“For real,” Itadori and Fushiguro answered simultaneously, confirming that it wasn’t a joke at all.

In a complete rage, you slowly made your way towards your schoolmate before grabbing his shoulders with as much might as you could as you then turned him around to face you. 

“I don’t know who broke that damn seal I placed on that stupid little hut, but maybe if you haven’t taken that finger, we wouldn’t be in this situation where these two dumbass sorcerers would be in our lives right now!!” you screamed in frustration leading to the two mentioned sorcerers to look at you with dumbfounded looks painted on their faces while Itadori just peered at you with an extremely surprised expression.

During the school hours, Itadori had seen you a few times around the hallways and in his class when you had to collect something for another teacher. From what he could read off, you were the calm and collective type, someone who was on top of their academics while being able to maintain close relationships with other students between the three-years that Sugisawa Municipal Highschool offered. Even though you came off a bit blunt from time to time when calling something or someone a ‘drag’, the students liked that from you since that meant you were being honest to them as well as to yourself, just like the time when you surprised everyone when you rejected being part of the school’s council's committee much to the President’s begging. 

“But...shouldn’t you like sorcerers since you seem like one?” Itadori questioned with a confused tone, leading you to look at him with a rather both understandable but irritated expression which caused him to be nervous somewhat due to you being out of character.

“Just because I am one, doesn’t mean I like any of them!” you counted back, as you pointed towards the direction of Fushiguro and Gojo before continuing with “it was such a drag when Fushiguro was here this afternoon and it’s more of one now that two of them are here!” as you then let go of his shoulders before turning away to lean against the crooked metal balcony to relax your vocal cords after screaming so much.

Taking the opportunity, Gojo leaned to the side as if he was inspecting Itadori like he was painting before coming closer to the teenage boy with his hand on his chin as if he was thinking what he could do now. “Hehe, damn, it really did combine with you. That’s hilarious,” Gojo amusingly stated, causing you to turn back to look at the scene with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

‘What is hilarious about the situation right now? This isn’t something to find assuming Gojo’

“Anything off with your body?” Gojo questioned, after straightening his back leading itadori to inspect his body for a quick few seconds.

“Not particularly,” Itadori answered.

“Can you swap out with Sukuna?” Gojo then asked, leading you to then fully turn back to look at the special-grade sorcerer with extreme confusion and astonishment as you begin to wonder what hit Gojo’s head before coming here to the school.

“Sukuna?” Itadori confusingly stated as he looked at Gojo with a perplexed expression.

“The curse you stupidly ate,” you quickly answered, as you gave Itadori a serious glance before letting out a sigh of frustration leading Fushguro to quickly tug your arm as you dropped down to his height before you snatched your arm back, worried about what the Zenin relative would do to you.

“Oh…Yeah, I think I can do that,” Itadori clarified, as he placed his hand on his hip before giving a nod to emphasise this statement.

Stepping back, Gojo suddenly began to stretch in a weird position, which suddenly reminded you of a certain baseball player, but you couldn’t recall who before stating with confidence, “then give us ten seconds, once ten seconds are up, come back to us.”

‘Great, I’m going to die young…” you jokingly thought, as you looked to the side with a grim look as if you were staring at the death ripper at this very moment in time.

“But..” Itadori wavered, as he started to be concerned about Gojo's request since he didn’t know what damage Sukuna could do or how the teacher was going to be at the end of it. “Don’t worry, I’m the strongest,” Gojo confidently stated, leading to another grim look to appear on your face, as you were getting annoyed at his constant confidence even though you knew he had the right to be.

“Megumi, hold on to this,” Gojo demanded before throwing the bag towards his student, leading to the catcher to catch it with his hands before looking down on the paper bag with curiosity.

“Megumi?” you quietly questioned as you suddenly discovered that the sorcerer next to you had a feminine name - since it was quite rare to hear a male have a name that was generally used for the female gender. 

“What is this?” Fushiguro asked before his teacher stretched his arms right in front of both of you before answering, “Kikufuku from Kikusuian! It’s Sendai’s speciality, and it’s super good! I recommend the zunda and cream flavour!”

‘So...this man bought mochi when people here were dying, ah...that was dumbass~’

“It’s not a souvenir, I’m going to eat it on the bullet train home,” Gojo stated as if he needed an explanation for his actions. However, what got your full attention was the black markings that were gradually coming onto Itadori’s skin before he suddenly jumped up into the air while Gojo was still explaining his reasoning for this purchase.

“Uh Oh~” you commented, as you stared at the sky with widened eyes before Fushiguro screamed for his teacher’s attention at the curse directing an attack from behind. However, it seemed like his teacher wasn’t fazed on second as he continued explaining the reason why he bought the mochi, “Kikufuku’s not like other souvenirs…”

‘I THOUGHT YOU SAID IT WASN’T A SOUVENIR!’ you screamed in your mind before ducking your head down as Itadori’s body finally crashed back to the ground, trying to make sure that the debris didn’t blind you at all. Quickly looking back up to check what was happening, you suddenly came into eye to eye contact with a bright shade of ruby mixed with a hint of malevolence. You came to the realisation that it was Sukuan who was now in front of you while Gojo was casually sitting on his hack like a horse.

“And the whipped cream inside is simply exquisite..” Gojo continued talking, causing you to give off a confused expression on what really was going on inside the special-grade sorcerer’s mind and what his main priority was right now. Suddenly, Sukuna made a 180 degree turn to aim for another attack, yet the second Gojo clasped his hands together, he once again missed and as well as the other attacks he tried to execute.

Unexpectedly, Gojo appeared behind Sukuna’s back before leaning back to say something within his ear, “my student and a little sorcerer’s watching, so I’m going to show off a little.” Instantaneously, Gojo disappeared once again before grabbing the curse vessel’s arm as he then processed to hit Sukuna’s face with his arm, leading to Itadori’s body to slightly fling itself up in the air.

‘What is he manipulating? Time? No, that’s not it….is it like a vacuum? But that means he would be controlling empty space with no particles…’

Suddenly, you slightly noticed the slight manipulated on the air as Gojo’s arm begins to swing leading you to come to the conclusion that Gojo’s cursed technique might be the control of space at an atomic level, leading to a massive pressure to hit the King of Curses as his body smashed into the only part of metal railing that wasn’t bent.

“For crying out loud, you jujutsu sorcerers are always trouble, no matter what era!” Sukuna declared as he, once again, jumped into the air while somehow carrying massive pieces of the broken wall along with him before slamming down at Gojo’s direction. “Though that doesn’t mean much to me,” Sukuna arrogantly stated, with a smirk on his face as some of the windows processed to smash. 

However, the second the thin debris started to clear up, Sukuna’s expression quickly twisted into shock as a brightly lit barrier enclosed his opponent, yet he wasn’t the one that had a surprised expression on his face. Turning back around, Gojo found you kneeling next to Fushguro with a flat palm on the ground as your curse energy flowed down to the ground as if the box just didn’t just end on the ground that they were standing on right now.

“This is such a drag,” you muttered before standing up straight as you observed the walls making sure that there wasn’t a single crack when the rocks could have hit. “Seven, eight, nine, ten,” you counted and right on time there was a sudden change in curse energy pressure around you leading you to come to the conclusion that Itadori was now switching back, surprising Sukuan once again at the circumstances that he was in.

“Oh, was everything okay?” Itadori innocently asked, one the marking disappearing leading you to undo your curse spell as the walls slowly started to fade away with little blue parts flying away like they were little fireflies. 

“I’m shocked, you really can control it!” Gojo cheered while Fushiguro looked onto the scene with such surprise and confusion on what was happening.

“He’s kind of annoying, though,” Itadori commented as he continuously smacked his head, “I can hear his voice.”

‘And is smacking your head gonna make it better, idiot?’

“It’s a miracle that’s all he’s doing,” Gojo stated, with a smirk on his face as he began to walk towards Itadori before suddenly placing his middle and index finger on the salmon-haired forehead, causing Itadori to freeze for a second before giving in to the suddenly unconscious feeling empowering his body to which lead to his falling within the teacher’s arms.

“What did you do?” Fushiguro asked with slight worry in his tone.

“Knocked him out,” Gojo then answered. “If he isn’t possessed by Sukuna when he wakes up, he might have potential as a vessel,” the white-haired sorcerer explained as he then turned to his student with a question in mind. 

“Now, I have a question for you, what should we do with him and the little miss, who is trying to run away?” 

Confused, Fushiguro turned around, only to find you with your back turned to both of them as your foot halted the second his teacher had mentioned you. Turning back around Fushiguro then looked at his teacher with a serious expression displayed on his face, “even if he is a vessel, jujutsu regulations demand Itadori be executed. However, I don’t want to let him die!”

“Your personal feelings?” Gojo playful asked his student with a smirk on his face before Fushguro quickly answered, “yes, please do something about this.”

“Hehe~ Now it’s a request from a previous student,” Gojo stated, as he proceeded to lift up the unconscious teenager onto this shoulder. “Leave it to me! But also, what do you want to do with Miss runaway?” Gojo commented, once again leading you to halt your movement as you surprisingly made some distance between you and the two sorcerers now staring at your back.

‘Ah…..caught again…..’

Turning around, you looked towards the two sorcerers with a nonchalant expression displayed before giving them the hand gesture of ‘shooing them away. “There’s nothing you got to do with me, take Itadori and make sure to do what you’re planning to do, don’t drag me into your mess,” you commented, as you turned around once again, only to find the infamous sorcerer to be standing right in front of you with a cheeky smile on his face.

“Come on~ Jujtutsu Tech is so much fun, you get to make a few friends and you get to bug Megumi!” Gojo cheerfully tried to persuade you, only for you to scoff in annoyance at this futile attempt to invite you to the school that your mother informed you all about.

“I rather not be near anyone belonging with the three clans,” you irritatedly declared as you placed your hand on your hip trying to keep a distance between you and the teacher. However, this statement of yours caused Gojo and Fushiguro to look at you with surprise painted on their faces. How much did you know about the Jujutsu world? How did you have the acknowledgement of the three great families? Who were you and how much you had the strength to stop Sukuna’s attack within a millisecond?

“L/N!” Fushiguro stated, leading you to turn to him with an angered expression on your face which caused Gojo to peer at you with seriousness clouding his entire body.

“L/N huh?” Gojo curiously questioned, “no wonder your curse technique is familiar to what those old documents have told.”

Taken back to his discovery, you turned back to look at Gojo will a deadpan expression leading him to then carefully suggest, “Since you are part of the lost L/N clan, I won’t tell the higher-ups about your existence but rather have you twist your name slightly when you enrol, how does that sound?”

Glancing at the teacher with suspicion, you tried to hide the gut-wrenching feeling that there was not a possible chance of you now escaping from this. You had been caught and found and there was no way to lie yourself out of this situation you were in, not when Gojo had discovered who you really were while Fushiguro seemed to look clueless on what was going on between his teacher and the female sorcerer in front of him.

Letting out a sigh of frustration once again, you looked up at the sky, letting the same moonlight bathe your face as it did for Sukuna a few minutes ago.

“What a drag”

© violettelueur 2021 : written and published by violettelueur - do not steal or repost

[itsclydebitches]

Here's a quandary I've suddenly found myself in: where do you stand on writers deleting their own works, fanfiction or otherwise? I've had this happen to me on more than one occasion - I go to look for an old favorite and find it's since been deleted from whatever site I read it on.

On the one hand, I'm inclined to think that, "Sure. The author wrote it, it's their call. I don't own the work - I certainly didn't pay for it. It's their decision, even if it's disappointing."

But at the same time I can't help but consider the alternative - if I believe in death of the author (and I do), that an author's work fundamentally isn't solely theirs once it's been published, posted, etc., then it also seems wrong to have a work deleted. Stories aren't the sole property of their creator, after all.

But then I circle back. D'you think there are different obligations between authors and readers and the works being made in fandom space? I know if I had bought a book and the author decided they wanted it back, I would feel pretty comfortable telling them no, given I'd paid for it and whatnot. But that's a different world from fanfic and fandom space generally.

So. You're insightful Clyde, I'm curious as to what you'll have to say here (and to all y'all thinking about it, don't flame me. I haven't decided where I stand here yet - haven't heard a good nail-in-the-coffin argument for or against yet).

Val are you a mind reader now? I’ve been thinking about this exact conundrum the last few days!

(And yeah, as a general disclaimer: no flaming. Not allowed. Any asks of the sort will be deleted on sight and with great satisfaction.)

Honestly, I’m not sure there is a “nail-in-the-coffin argument” for this, just because—as you lay out—there are really good points for keeping works around and really good points for allowing authors to have control over their work, especially when fanworks have no payment/legal obligations attached. In mainstream entertainment, your stories reflect a collaborative effort (publisher, editor, cover artists, etc.) so even if it were possible to delete the physical books out of everyone’s home and library (and we're ignoring the censorship angle for the moment), that’s no longer solely the author’s call, even if they have done the lion’s share of the creative work. Though fanworks can also, obviously, be collaborative, they’re usually not collaborative in the same way (more “This fic idea came about from discord conversations, a couple tumblr posts, and that one headcanon on reddit”) and they certainly don’t have the same monetary, legal, and professional strings attached. I wrote this fic as a hobby in my free time. Don’t I have the right to delete it like I also have the right to tear apart the blankets I knit?

Well yes… but also no? I personally view fanworks as akin to gifts—the academic term for our communities is literally “gift economy”—so if we view it like that, suddenly that discomfort with getting rid of works is more pronounced. If I not only knit a blanket, but then gift it to a friend, it would indeed feel outside of my rights to randomly knock on their door one day and go, “I actually decided I hate that? Please give it back so I can tear it to shreds, thanks :)” That’s so rude! And any real friend would try to talk me out of it, explaining both why they love the blanket and, even if it’s not technically the best in terms of craftsmanship, it holds significant emotional value to them. Save it for that reason alone, at least. Fanworks carry that same meaning—“I don’t care if it’s full of typos, super cliché, and using some outdated, uncomfortable tropes. This story meant so much to me as a teenager and I’ll always love it”—but the difference in medium and relationships means it’s easier to ignore all that. I’m not going up to someone’s house and asking face-to-face to destroy something I gave them (which is awkward as hell. That alone deters us), I’m just pressing a button on my computer. I’m not asking this of a personal friend that is involved in my IRL experiences, I’m (mostly) doing this to online peers I know little, if anything, about. It’s easy to distance ourselves from both the impact of our creative work and the act of getting rid of it while online. On the flip-side though, it’s also easier to demean that work and forget that the author is a real person who put a lot of effort into this creation. If someone didn’t like my knitted blanket I gave them as a gift, they’re unlikely to tell me that. They recognize that it’s impolite and that the act of creating something for them is more important than the construction’s craftsmanship. For fanworks though, with everyone spread around the world and using made up identities, people have fewer filters, happily tearing authors to shreds in the comments, sending anon hate, and the like. The fact that we’re both prefacing this conversation with, “Please don’t flame” emphasizes that. So if I wrote a fic with some iffy tropes, “cringy” dialogue, numerous typos, whatever and enough people decided to drag me for it… I don’t know whether I’d resist the urge to just delete the fic, hopefully ending those interactions. There’s a reason why we’re constantly reminding others to express when they enjoy someone else’s work: the ratio of praise to criticism in fandom (or simply praise to seeming indifference because there was no public reaction at all), is horribly skewed.

So I personally can’t blame anyone for deleting. I’d like to hope that more people realize the importance of keeping fanworks around, that everything you put out there is loved by someone… but I’m well aware that the reality is far more complicated. It’s hard to keep that in mind. It’s hard to keep something around that you personally no longer like. Harder still to keep up a work you might be harassed over, that someone IRL discovered, that you’re disgusted with because you didn’t know better back then… there are lots of reasons why people delete and I ultimately can’t fault them for that. I think the reasons why people delete stem more from problems in fandom culture at large—trolling, legal issues, lack of positive feedback, cancel culture, etc.—than anything the author has or has not personally done, and since such work is meant to be a part of an enjoyable hobby… I can’t rightly tell anyone to shoulder those problems, problems they can’t solve themselves, just for the sake of mine or others’ enjoyment. The reason I’ve been thinking about this lately is because I was discussing Attack on Titan and how much I dislike the source material now, resulting in a very uncomfortable relationship with the fics I wrote a few years back. I’ve personally decided to keep them up and that’s largely because some have received fantastic feedback and I’m aware of how it will hurt those still in the fandom if I take them down. So if a positive experience is the cornerstone of me keeping fics up, I can only assume that negative experiences would likewise been the cornerstone of taking them down. And if getting rid of that fic helps your mental health, or solves a bullying problem, or just makes you happier… that, to me, is always more important than the fic itself.

But, of course, it’s still devastating for everyone who loses the work, which is why my compromise-y answer is to embrace options like AO3’s phenomenal orphaning policy. That’s a fantastic middle ground between saving fanworks and allowing authors to distances themselves from them. I’ve also gotten a lot more proactive about saving the works I want to have around in the future. Regardless of whether we agree with deleting works or not, the reality is we do live in a world where it happens, so best to take action on our own to save what we want to keep around. Though I respect an author’s right to delete, I also respect the reader’s right to maintain access to the work, once published, in whatever way they can. That's probably my real answer here: authors have their rights, but readers have their rights too, so if you decide to publish in the first place, be aware that these rights might, at some point, clash. I download all my favorite fics to Calibre and, when I’m earning more money (lol) I hope to print and bind many for my personal library. I’m also willing to re-share fic if others are looking for them, in order to celebrate the author’s work even if they no longer want anything to do with it. Not fanfiction in this case, but one of my fondest memories was being really into Phantom of the Opera as a kid and wanting, oh so desperately, to read Susan Kay’s Phantom. Problem was, it was out of print at the time, not available at my library, and this was before the age of popping online and finding a used copy. For all intents and purposes, based on my personal situation, this was a case of a book just disappearing from the world. So when an old fandom mom on the message boards I frequented offered to type her copy up chapter by chapter and share it with me, you can only imagine how overjoyed I was. Idk what her own situation was that something like scanning wouldn’t work, but the point is she spent months helping a fandom kid she barely knew simply because a story had resonated with her and she wanted to share it. That shit is powerful!

So if someone wants to delete—if that’s something they need right now—I believe that is, ultimately, their decision… but please try your hardest to remember that the art you put out into the world is having an impact and people will absolutely miss it when it’s gone. Often to the point of doing everything they can to put it back out into the world even if you decide to take it out. Hold onto that feeling. The love you have for your favorite fic, fanart, meta, whatever it is? Someone else has that for your work too. I guarantee it.

So take things down as needed, but for the love of everything keep copies for yourself. You may very well want to give it back to the world someday.

[nad-zeta]

Hello, hello, hello! I loved your head canons about the warlords' ages and I wonder if you can write head canons of the warlords' profession, not in modern AU but the warlords deciding to go to the future with MC and well, the profession they would have!! Thank you so muuuuuuuuuch. 💕

Hi hi, love! 🌻Thank you sooo much for the ask! This is legit my third time writing this up, the first time I did this, I forgot to save the word file, and the second time my laptop crashed right after I finished writing it😭....... But finally, here it is🌻! I’m so happy you liked my HC, I hope you enjoy this one, and I hope you have a good day! ❤🔥

Headcanon: Warlords and their future jobs 

Nobunaga

I think the second Nobunaga arrives in the future he would become a businessman

He would start off small from your apartment, but within the month he will turn into the biggest corporate leader, having thousands of people working under him

He would spend the first few weeks just chilling in the future with you but soon start to get bored

He would also, low key feel like its wrong for you to be supporting both of you

He does some research on stock trading and then starts playing around with your life savings

Good thing for you, Nobunaga is a clever man, and he manages to triple the money in a week by playing around on the stock market

He uses the income made, to start a small business, which soon starts growing at the speed of light

This man will not be able to work for someone so I can definitely see him being the CEO of his own company

He will be the ruler of the corporate world in no time

It’s pretty funny how in the span of a year he has earned the old name he once carried in the past “Devil king.”

Masamune

This is a no brainer

Obviously he will be a chef

I think he would start off small like finding a job at a local café but then soon take the culinary world by storm

It started off when the two of you went to eat at one of your favourite cafes

He enjoyed the food so much, he couldn’t help but pop into the kitchen to thank the chef (◕‿◕✿)

The kitchen was absolute mayhem and the chef had told him that he was very short-staffed

And that is how Masa got his first future job

He worked in the café for a few months picking up experience and learning to use all the futuristic equipment

From there, he bounced around from place to place learning all sorts of cool culinary techniques

I think at the end of the day he will most likely open his own restaurant

One that specializes in authentic Japanese cuisine

Hell I wouldn’t be surprised if he opened a branch of the restaurant in Nobunagas company

Mitsunari

I can see this cutie angel being a teacher or professor

I think he would be a great academic and educator

I can actually, see this boi being a professor teaching all sorts of subjects from statistics to the art of war ヾ(●ε●)ノ

The first few weeks of being in the future with you, he spends in the library absorbing as much knowledge as possible

One day while he is sitting and reading up on every and any subject, he overhears a group of struggling professors at a nearby table

Apparently they had been trying to solve a certain equation for months now but to no luck (ﾉಠдಠ)ﾉ︵┻━┻

Mitsunari walks up to the group and cheerily asks if he can be of some assistance (◕ᴗ◕✿)

Usually the group would just laugh and chase the random stranger away but desperate times…

They hand Mitsunari the equation and this clever boi takes one look at it and starts writing out the answer

The math professors were sister shook… Like he didn’t even freaken, need a calculator (◯Δ◯∥)

They legit offered him a job as a lecturer and he soon becomes the students’ favourite absent minded professor (◕‿◕✿)

I think he will most definitely also publish a few research papers as well and contribute to the body of knowledge in all sorts of subjects

Ieyasu

Also super easy he will either be a vet or a doctor although I am leaning more towards veterinarian cause of his love for animals

He will most likely join Mitsunari in university, cause he is a super-smart porcupine he will become a certified vet in no time

Also spends the first few weeks of being in the future at the library absorbing as much medical knowledge as possible

He gets the idea of becoming a vet after watching a bunch of animal rescue shows on the national geographic channel 

While you are at work he starts volunteering at an animal rescue during the day to pass the time

That is where he met one of the vets that help out at the rescue in their free time, he legit liked Ieyasu so much he took him on as an apprentice, while Ieyasu was busy completing his studies

Later on he will most likely have his own veterinary practise

I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he starts his own animal rescue on the side as well

Within two years the two of you move to live on a big plot with all yours and Ieyasus rescued pets

Hideyoshi

Hideyoshi could go one of two ways hehe 

If Nobunaga comes to the future with yall then you best be sure this boy is ganna help Nobunaga rule the corporate world

Buuuut if it’s just the two of you, I 100% see him becoming a primary school teacher

Like he would just be so good with kids

He is basically trademarked as mama hen anyways, so why not put him in a primary school to teach lil chics

I think he would be such a good teacher, supportive, kind, and patient

He has enough practise lecturing Nobunaga for bad behaviour, so he might as well put that to good use correcting the behaviours of troublesome kids

He gets into teaching when your sister drops her kid off at your apartment to babysit

You had work, so the only one that could care for the child was, the mother hen himself

He sat and taught the little boy how to read and write, this impressed your sister so much that she recommended him for the position of substitute English teacher at her child’s school

At first Hideyoshi worked as a substitute teacher, but soon he became the designated aftercare teacher and within a few months he was teaching his own class

The children absolutely adored him although they would sneak behind the school building to eat candy cause, they didn’t want to get yet another lecture from Yoshi on the negative health consequences of their favourite sugary treats

Mitsuhide

100% detective (¬‿¬)

I mean can you just imagine how sexy he would look in a trenchcoat… like OMW (づ￣ ³￣)づ

The first few weeks of spending time with you in the future you introduce him to CSI and Law and order and he is super fascinated

You are so amazed by the fact that he can figure out who the perp is 5 minutes into the show

The crime in your neighbourhood was pretty bad, but since Mitsuhide’s arrival something crazy happened 

The crime seemed to disappear. 

Like no more robberies, no more drunks walking up and down the street, just peaceful quiet calm neighbourhood 

One day as the two of you were buying snacks for your CSI bingeing session, two armed men came into the convenience store 

You looked over at your lover who seemed completely unphased, like one of the robbers were legit pointing a gun in his face, yet Mitsuhide looked uninterested

Within a blink of an eye, Mitushide managed to disarm the men and tie them up 

The police were hella impressed with the way Mitsuhide handled things 

He helped the police department solve a few petty crimes in your neighbourhood and soon they started calling him up, to help them crack some difficult cases

After a while he becomes the most famous and popular detective in town

The government low key recruits him as an agent to help them

Kenshin

Again I don’t see Kenshin working for anyone

I think the first few weeks the two of you arrive, bunnies start following him around

Looks like the bunny lord is never safe from the love of the cute fluffy creatures 

The two of you will definitely be living on a bunny farm

Kenshin, although he doesn’t admit it, has a soft spot for the cute fluffy creatures 

So the bunny farm is actually more of a bunny rescue although that’s just his part-time job

As he adapts to the future, I can see the farm transforming into being a bunny and sake farm

Lol Kenshin loves Sake so much 

He knows how good sake should taste, so naturally he starts to make his own and sell it

This starts one day when a friend of yours invites the two of you to a sake tasting

The instructor was so impressed with Kenshin’s keen sense of taste that they got to talking and before Kenshin knew it, he had two people willing to sponsor him, to start his own sake brand

Naturally he never backs down from a challenge

He actually goes on to become the largest Sake producer and bunny rescue

Yukimura

I can legit see this boy doing something active like being a firefighter or gym instructor- cause lets be real this boi is ripped

Or actually maybe both

The first few weeks of being in the future he managed to save 2 peoples lives by fearlessly running in a burning building

The firefighters were legit so impressed they decided to take him on as an intern

He got some of the perks, i.e. free gym membership to stay fit

That’s when he started giving out a few pieces of advice to the people around him

“Like seriously dummy, don’t you even know how to do a proper squat, u legit ganna hurt your back if ya keep doing it like that.”

The members of the gym appreciated his advice so much, some of them started paying him to become their instructor, and soon the gym decided to hire him part-time

Now when Yuki isn't running into burning buildings saving people he is training people in the gym 

Best be sure he is gonna drag you to the gym with him

Shingen

Hehe I’ll admit I’m not too sure what this boi would get up to in the future

I think the first few weeks will be spent with you just adapting and getting to know everything

I think he would continue on with his carpentry

He kinda starts to notice your apartment is furnished in super cheap furniture

You tell him you are just a student in this time and don’t really have money to buy anything fancy

He buys a few cheap pieces of wood and starts furnishing your apartment with the most beautifully crafted furniture

Some of your friends visit the two of you and notice the remarkable craftsmanship and start commissioning him to make them some furniture

After a while he becomes the best carpenter in town

Goes on to open up a shop selling the different furniture he makes

I can see him hiring people in need, and that need a fresh start and then teaching them the trade to be able to make something of themselves

I can also see him volunteering at rescues and fostering bear cubs cause he misses his so much

I hope you enjoyed this dear and thanks again for the ask! ❤❤🔥🌻

[waywardfangirl]

Slow

Hi y’all! This is my first (published) fic in this fandom, and I’m so excited to share it with everyone! I wrote this based off of the prompt “slow” from @carryonsparks (which I absolutely love by the way, it’s such a great idea!)

Simon accidentally slows down time when he finds himself feeling overwhelmed before Christmas in eighth year. Luckily, Baz is there to help sort things out.

“I just wanted everything to stop for a second so that I could think.”

Baz huffs a little laugh. “I guess we should all be glad you don’t think more often then, if this is what happens.”

When I don’t respond he drops his teasing tone and tips his head a bit, trying to get me to meet his eyes. “What do you need to think about so badly that time has to stop, Snow?”

(Snowbaz, General Audiences, 3319 Words, No Archive Warnings, un-beta’d)

You can read it on AO3 here, or you can read it below the cut - Enjoy!

Simon

It’s too much. It’s all just too much and I feel like I’m going to boil over if I don’t have a second to figure things out. Ever since I was Visited by Baz’s mum, I’ve felt like I’ve been losing control of things, even more than normal. Like there’s an inside joke that everyone gets except for me, or like how I sometimes feel when I’m trying to grab something in a dream, but I don’t know what it is, and it keeps slipping through my fingers. I feel like I’m missing something and like I’m on the verge of complete panic. I’m nervous and jumpy at the weirdest times, and I feel like I can’t quite catch my breath even when I’m relaxing in my room.

With those feelings smashing around in my chest, it almost feels like some cruel trick when I walk into class after lunch and hear Miss Possibelf announce that we’re going to be working on slowing spells today. I feel like I need time to slow down, or just for time to pause entirely, and yet instead of teaching us how to do that, something that I’m in desperate need of, we’re going to be learning how to slow down things that are flying at us. I mean, I suppose that’s an important enough skill to have, but if something’s flying at me in a fight, I’ll just duck or use my sword. Either way, I really don’t want to slow down the tennis balls that are being lobbed at my head. Even worse, it’s Baz who’s throwing them at me, because Miss Possibelf assigned partners for us today. He’s been a bit nicer since our truce, but I still don’t want him throwing things at my face or watching as I attempt to cast anything.

“If you hit me, that counts as antagonistic behavior.” Baz had promised not to antagonize me, and I really hope that part of our truce holds up today, because I feel like the littlest push could make me crack apart.

He just smirks and raises one of his perfect eyebrows. “I hope your spell work is up to par then.”

I bite down the words trying to rise in my throat – they won’t come out right anyway, they never do around him – and stomp over to grab a tennis ball. I lob it at him as I walk back to his desk, not giving him any warning, but he still casts the spell flawlessly, and snags the ball out of the air from where it’s barely inching along its trajectory.

“I could count that as antagonistic behavior too, you know. Most people don’t throw things at their acquaintances like that.”

For some reason, Baz’s words make the weird feeling in my chest get even worse. He didn’t even sound upset when he said it, it was more like he was joking around with a friend, but he was also quick to point out that we aren’t friends. We’re acquaintances, even if that seems like a really strange word to use when describing the person who you’ve lived with for the past seven and a half years, and the person who you’re supposed to kill someday.

“Are you ready, Snow?” He holds the ball up, and I try to focus on it. Intention counts when casting spells, so I think about how I just want everything to slow down, how I just need a moment where everything stops moving-

And then he throws the tennis ball.

“Slow up!”

I’m so focused on the tennis ball that for a moment I’m ecstatic. It stops in mid-air, and I can’t believe that I got the spell right on my first try! Then, I look around the classroom, and I realize that I really didn’t.

“What did you do, Snow?” Baz is the only other person in the room who doesn’t seem to be frozen. He’s looking around at all of our classmates, frozen in time, and all of the tennis balls hanging in mid-air.

“I didn’t mean to…” I trail off, not knowing what else to say. I don’t know what happened, and I don’t know why Baz seems to be the only one immune to however I mangled the spell. He’s now firing off spells of his own, clearly trying to undo whatever I just did.

“What were you thinking of, when you cast the spell?” He sounds way less angry than I would have expected. “Intention matters, after all.”

“I know, I’m not a first year!” He’s being nice, but I still feel jittery, even more on-edge than I was before mucking up. “I was thinking about how I wanted it to slow down.”

One of his eyebrows is arched again. “How you wanted what to slow down? Just the tennis ball?”

He’s been in classes and shared a room with me for long enough to know how these screwups usually go. He’s also alarmingly perceptive sometimes, and it’s annoying.

“No,” I finally mumble.

“Come on, Snow, use your words. Tell me what you were thinking about, and we’ll see if we can fix this.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

He looks almost shocked for a moment, before his face settles back into his usual bored look.

“We’re on a truce. And I don’t want to be stuck in time or whatever it is that you’ve done forever.”

I duck my head and then scuff my toe on the ground for a few seconds, before saying quietly, “I just wanted everything to stop for a second so that I could think.”

Baz huffs a little laugh. “I guess we should all be glad you don’t think more often then, if this is what happens.” When I don’t respond he drops his teasing tone and tips his head a bit, trying to get me to meet his eyes. “What do you need to think about so badly that time has to stop, Snow?”

He’s being far too nice, almost kind, or friendly, and that just makes everything worse somehow. He’s not supposed to be soft, we’re just supposed to tolerate each other and not actively make any attempts on the other’s life until we figure out who killed his mum. He’s not supposed to make me feel anything other than disgust, or hatred, or anger, or whatever.

I want to ignore him. I don’t want to answer his questions, or open up to him, or let him know anything about what’s happening in my mind. But I also feel like the walls of the room are closing in around me, and he’s the only person who can help, and even though I don’t want him here, I really want him to help me.

“Everything, I guess. It’s just, there’s a lot. And- I don’t know what to do with it? It’s just too much, and I want it to stop happening so fast, or not happening at all, I don’t know, I just- ugh.” I break off on a frustrated sigh, I don’t know to explain the tight feeling in my chest and all the conflicting thoughts in my head.

“Have you tried talking to Bunce about it?” He wrinkles his nose after asking, but when I shake my head no and rake my hands through my curls he still tries again.

“Would it help you to talk about it with me?”

I’ve never heard Baz sound so unsure in his entire life, and my shock at hearing him volunteer to talk about my problems with me is what forces me finally make eye contact, my head whipping up so fast I’m surprised my neck doesn’t crack. My eyes must be as big as saucers.

For his part, Baz also looks sort of out of his element, but he really does seem to be earnest about helping (and maybe like he’d also like to disappear right about now). (I know that’s how I feel.)

“Alright, yeah, I guess we can try that.” I sit down on the ground, because for some reason that feels like the least awkward thing to do, and I rest my elbows on my bent knees. Baz follows suit, although he crosses his legs instead of pulling them into his chest, and then just sits there looking at me, his head slightly tilted to one side as he waits for me to speak.

Merlin, he’s actually giving me a chance to find the right words for once.

I play with the cuff of my jumper as I cast about for something to say, trying to figure out how to even begin explaining everything that feels wrong.

“I’ve been feeling really, I dunno, off? I guess? I feel like I can’t catch on to what’s happening, and when I do nothing feels the way it should.” It’s a rubbish explanation, but Baz still tries his best to understand.

“In classes? With your spell work? Doesn’t Bunce help you study?” I’m grateful that he doesn’t point out that I’ve been at least a little off academically since I arrived at Watford, and not just these past few months.

“No, I mean, not really. Classes still feel the same, and my magic hasn’t really changed I don’t think, it’s just everything else. Everything that’s happening. Or, not happening?” I don’t know why I feel like I’m asking him to clarify things for me, but he keeps trying.

“Do you mean outside of Watford? Are you talking about the war? Or the Humdrum? Or are you just worried about graduating and having to pick out your own clothes afterwards?”

I can tell that Baz is trying to interject a bit of levity by teasing me, but it falls flat. He’s trying to look like he doesn’t care, like he isn’t invested, but he’s holding himself just a little too still for that to be believable. I’ve shared a room with him for seven years, I know his tells.

I start to tug at my shoelace.

“It’s the war, I guess, and maybe the Humdrum too. I just feel like I should be doing something, or something should be happening, and it’s not. The Mage isn’t talking to me, and when he does he won’t give me a straight answer, and I know there’s supposed to be some big epic showdown where we have to fight, but no one’s really told me what to do about that yet, and I feel like we’re running out of time.”

By the time I’m done talking my shoelace is twisted around my index finger and I’m pulling it so hard that my fingernail is going purple. I can feel my magic pushing to the surface, and I take deep breaths, trying to calm down a bit. Baz is just sitting there, still unmoving, staring at me blankly, until he bursts out laughing.

“I’m sorry, are you complaining to me because no one has given you the orders to kill me yet?”

His laughter snaps me out of it. I’m not exactly calm, but I’m surprised enough that I answer honestly.

“I guess, yeah. But I don’t want to, and I know I haven’t really said that, but that’s part of the problem too.”

He raises one eyebrow. “You don’t want to kill me?”

I’ve already told him that I don’t, I can’t really say anything else. “No. I mean, you’re a git, but you don’t hurt people. Well, you hurt me, you attack me all the time, but you don’t hurt anyone else. Do you want to kill me?”

I don’t know why I’m asking, he taunts me weekly with reminders that he’ll be the one to finish me off. But instead of answering, Baz just deflates a little bit. For a moment he looks less like a villain and more like an uncertain boy.

Finally, he says quietly, “No. I don’t want to kill you either.” He seems almost ashamed to be admitting it, but I feel like we’re finally making progress.

“That’s great! Then we won’t! We can just sit out that battle, say ‘no thank you!’, and have one less thing to worry about. We can figure out what happened to your mum, deal with the Humdrum, and then just, retire or something I guess.”

The corner of Baz’s mouth is ticking up a bit, and I can tell that he’s indulging me. “Oh really, Snow? You’re thinking about retirement already? You’re not even in to your second decade on this planet and you’re all ready to become a pensioner; who would have guessed the Chosen One was so short-sighted?”

“We don’t have to properly retire, Baz, but we could take a break from all of the life-or-death stuff. You know, house in the countryside, a garden, a pet, you could drain the blood from the rats that try to invade the henhouse, that sort of thing.”

I expect him to rise to the bait with my vampire comment, but instead it looks like his face is trying to flush.

“Are you suggesting that we retire together?”

Oh.

“Well, no, I just kind of meant we could each have a quiet life, but why not?” He’s getting flustered, and I want to see if it’s possible for his cheeks to actually turn red. “We’ve already agreed that we don’t want to kill each other, and you’re a decent enough roommate when you’re not being a prick. You’d keep the cottage tidy, and you could cook dinner for us.” It’s work not to laugh, but I want to push him just a bit further. “We could get a cat or something, and the two of you could fight over the rats!” I’m about to lose myself to laughter, and Baz is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“You want me to retire to a cottage with you to be a vampiric 1950’s housewife? I think not, Snow. Besides, you’re a slob, I wouldn’t want to clean up after you all day.” He hesitates, then adds, “And I’m not a very good cook.”

I pretend to gasp in shock. “There is something the perfect Basilton Grimm-Pitch doesn’t excel at!” I nudge his knee with my foot.

“Yes, but that’s the only thing, I can assure you,” he sneers, before softening his features again. “Was that it, Snow? You stopped time because you didn’t want to kill me?”

I pause for a moment and take stock. I definitely feel a bit better, but some of the jittery unease is still twisting in my chest. Baz can’t really help with the Mage or the Humdrum right now, but maybe we can sort out one other thing while the world waits for us.

“That’s definitely a big part of it. And it’s good to know that you don’t want to kill me either. But,” I take a breath and decide to just go for it, to blunder on ahead and fix anything I mess up later (it’s always worked for me before), “what are we?”

“Excuse me?” His eyebrow is arched again.

“Earlier you said we were acquaintances, but we’ve lived together for seven years, so shouldn’t we be something more than that?”

I don’t know why my brain is so stuck on that, but right now I feel like this is the only thing I have to sort out, everything else can wait until later.

“What do you want us to be? I don’t think that mortal enemies or nemeses is really appropriate now that we’ve agreed not to slaughter each other.”

He’s being stubborn on purpose now, I can tell. It’s like he’s run out of his daily dose of compassion, and so he’s going to hide the rest of it away under his snark. I push on anyway, trying to get him to be reasonable.

“I dunno, friends? What do most roommates call each other?”

He snorts. “I think it depends who you’re talking about. I highly doubt Bunce would call her pixie roommate a friend, although there are individuals like Dev and Niall who lie on the other end of that spectrum.”

“I’d rather be like Dev and Niall. It’s exhausting not to be friends with someone you see all the time.”

Baz looks again like he would be blushing if he had enough blood for it. “You… you want to be friends?”

“Yeah, why not? We’re already under a truce, how much harder could it be? I’ll try to be quieter in the mornings, you’ll stop insulting me, and it’ll be great.”

“If your friendship means that I’ll get to sleep a few minutes later in the morning, then yes, by all means, let’s be friends, Simon.”

Baz looks a bit dejected, but I’m beaming. I feel like we might be on our way to solving something.

“You called me Simon.”

His eyes widen a bit, but he tries to play it off.

“I most assuredly did not.”

“You did! You called me Simon! You do like me!”

I know I sound like a child, and I’m practically bouncing up and down which doesn’t help either, but Baz has never called me Simon in the entire time we’ve known each other, and the fact that he finally has is making my heart beat faster with excitement because I feel like I’ve finally won, but in such a way that he didn’t have to lose, and even though he’s frozen up again, I finally know what to do to loosen the knot in my chest. I don’t let myself think about it, I just fall forward onto my knees, grab his face in my hands, and press my lips to his.

For a moment, nothing happens. Baz is still frozen, and I start to wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have done this after all. But then, he starts to move. He presses back into me, and it feels like time has stopped for us too.

I’m kissing a boy.

I’m kissing my roommate.

I’m kissing Baz.

After an unknown amount of time he pulls away, but I don’t let him go far. His hands have fallen to my waist, and his grip there is just as firm as my own.

“Simon, what…” His pupils are blown wide, and his eyes keep jumping between my eyes and my mouth.

“You called me Simon again,” I whisper, and pull him back in for another kiss. He goes willingly, but pulls back again far too soon.

“What’s wrong?”

“What are you doing?” I furrow my brows, I thought it was pretty obvious that we were snogging. “This isn’t what typical friends or roommates do, Snow.” His face looks pinched, like he’s trying to guard himself, and I want the wrinkle on his forehead to relax. So, I kiss him one more time, then pull back just enough to remind him that we’ve never been typical roommates, and I see no need to start that now if we can just do this instead. He laughs at that, just a quiet chuckle, and then he finally kisses me.

Eventually, we break apart and just spend a few seconds looking at each other. I’m feeling almost shy, but Baz doesn’t let that last. He stands up, dusting off his trousers, and then offers me a hand. I pull myself up but don’t let go as he says, “Shall we try to fix the mess you’ve made now, Snow?” He squeezes my hand so I know that he doesn’t mean anything unkind by it, and I grab for my wand.

It turns out I’m pretty good at cleaning up messes, once I have a little time to think. The classroom comes back to life as soon as I try casting Hurry up!, and once class is over Baz and I spend the rest of the day cleaning up seven years of messes, hidden away from everyone else in our tower.

[hermannsthumb]

Please write 46. you’re my sibling’s best friend so you’re always invited to our family gatherings and are you flirting with me?

Anonymous said: Maybe...winter prompt 46?

46. you’re my sibling’s best friend so you’re always invited to our family gatherings and are you flirting with me?

from winter writing prompts here

a no kaiju au tragically

————————————

It’s more or less a given at this point that when any decent-sized amount of Gottliebs crowd together under the same roof–be it five for a holiday dinner, or twenty for a family reunion across the globe–Newton Geiszler will be there. Without fail. Hermann has yet to figure out how he manages it. It’s not as if any of them aside from Bastien particularly like Newton, or really can even stand his presence; Newton is as obnoxious, narcissistic, and loud as they come, and he carries an air of strife around with him like a bloody cologne. Hermann’s father fights with him. Hermann’s older siblings fight with him. Hermann’s mother tolerates Newton only to the extent that he is her youngest’s best friend, and she’s quite the master of concealing every emotion. (It’s where Hermann gets it from.)

And Hermann? Hermann fights with Newton, too. He perhaps fights with Newton the most.

It’s as if everything about Newton was specifically designed to get on Hermann’s every last nerve. Not only is he obnoxious, and narcissistic, and loud, but he’s also a damned brilliant scientist (with multiple, for God’s sake, PhDs) wasting his time singing in Bastien’s inane little punk band. Badly, at that. Hermann saw them perform once (once–the key word) and had to duck out early. He dresses in ridiculous, skin-tight jeans. He has ridiculous tattoos. Ridiculous glasses that are always smudged and cracked and falling off his (freckled) face. Soft hair that’s always deliberately untidy. Short–short enough that he’d have to curl up on the tips of those stupid boots if he were to–well.

The point is that the Gottliebs don’t like Newton, and yet Newton insists on imposing himself upon them every chance he gets.

Tonight’s party–which is really just an excuse for Hermann’s father to schmooze with and impress his colleagues–is no exception.

After a night of successfully dodging every attempt Newton made at dragging him into conversation, Hermann is finally accosted by the man at the neat buffet table in a moment of guard-down weakness. He senses Newton before Newton even opens his loud mouth–that aura of strife, as it were. And the smell of his hair gel. (Newton slathers on enough hair gel to keep most drugstores in business singlehandedly.) “Hey, Hermann!”

Hermann grits his teeth and sets down the pasta salad ladle before he does something aggressive and drastic with it. He looks up to see Newton in a flashing, sequined 2020! sweatshirt, glitter in his hair, beer that is almost definitely not Gottlieb-provided in hand. “Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann sniffs. The man loathes to be called anything but Newt, and especially anything as remotely stuffy as his full professional title, which is why Hermann does it. “I wasn’t aware you were invited.”

“Aren’t I always?” Newton grins, which means he wasn’t.

Bastien is Hermann’s junior by hardly a year; Newton lies somewhere between them in age. If he and Hermann had gone to school together, they’d have been in the same grade. Regardless, Hermann has never been able to think of Newton as anything but his kid brother’s immature kid friend, which makes how damned attracted Hermann is to him doubly mortifying. “Yes, well,” Hermann says. He collects his almost-empty plate and taps at Newton’s ankle with his cane. “I must be off.”

“Hang on,” Newton says. Hermann can practically see his point whizzing over his head. “I’ll come with.”

He scoops up a fistful of pretzels, shoves them in his jeans pocket, and scurries after Hermann before Hermann can disappear into the somberly dressed crowd. Though he certainly does try. Hermann is fast, but Newton, evidently, is faster. “Your dad didn’t look too thrilled to see me,” Newton continues. “I’ve never seen someone run out of a room that fast. Impressive.”

“Hm,” Hermann says.

He walks a little faster. So does Newton.

“Have you not found my brother yet, then?” Hermann says, in a way he hopes is pointed.

If Newton picks up on it, he ignores it completely. “Nah, I did,” he says. “I just wanted to hang out with you. I read the article you published last month.”

“Oh,” Hermann says, blinking. Is Newton about to pay him a compliment? They hardly ever discuss academics when they’re thrown together in uncomfortable company, though he’s perused a few of Newton’s publications, and they are quite good. He wouldn’t–well–he wouldn’t be averse to a compliment. “Ah. And?”

Newton shrugs. “It was pretty good. I took the liberty of making corrections for you, so I can send those along whenever you want.”

“Corrections,” Hermann says, heart sinking in his chest. Of course. That makes far more sense.

“Minor errors here and there,” Newton says. “Pretty decent overall, though. Real potential.” He reaches out and takes a mini-quiche from Hermann’s plate. “Can I have this? Thanks.” He stuffs it in his mouth, then says (spewing crumbs), “You look good tonight. Haircut especially. Bastien says you’re not seeing anyone right now?”

Hermann continues to blink at him, suffering from no small amount of topic whiplash. Conversing with Newton is like a race in which Hermann is a lap behind on a track only Newton knows the course of. “It’s ah, new,” he finally says about the haircut, and then about the last, more bewildering question,“Yes, that’s…correct?”

“That’s good,” Newton says. He takes another mini-quiche, then tugs gently at the front of Hermann’s sweater in a way that (if Hermann were the sort to be on the receiving end of such attention) is almost flirty. “No competition. Haha. You wanna make out at midnight?”

Hermann stares at him.

Newton waggles his eyebrows. “Your brother told me you have a thing for me. I’m totally down.”

Hermann’s instinct is to deny it, vehemently, to chew Newton out for even suggesting such a thing, how preposterous, but–if Hermann is being quite honest with himself–he’d never been exactly subtle in his long, long lingering stares at Newton, and it was only a matter of time before someone figured it out. Before Newton figured it out. Besides: Hermann would very much like to snog Newton at midnight. “Fine,” he agrees.

“Cool,” Newton says.

[out-of-context-charlie]

(this is the first fic i have ever published so like it is totally self-indulgent and probably garbage but whatever here we are)

It was a rainy day in Dragon City. 

On the darkened sidewalk, a pair of expensive shoes walked with purpose under a dark blue umbrella. Anybody else stupid enough to be out in the downpour steered clear of the man wearing them, hiding within their overcoats and hats to avoid his piercing glare. Eventually he stopped at a clunky brownstone at the edge of town. He looked up at it and then back down at the scrawl on the piece of paper in his hand to make sure he had the right place.

Zhao Yunlan wished he had not given up smoking. There was a certain beauty to watching smoke rise and curl in the dark gray light that a storm cast into his office. The sucker did not offer the same satisfaction and only added to his boredom. 

He looked absently at his scuffed shoes propped up on the desk, streaking mud over the various “important” documents he was supposed to be going over. Under his heel was yet another letter from his father cursing him out for getting fired from the DCPD, or rather quitting in an extravagant fashion. He caused quite the scandal, the only son of Police Commissioner Zhao blowing the whistle on a cover-up involving a dirty cop.

Now here Zhao Yunlan sat in a converted shoe factory, the chief of his own dysfunctional precinct. Alongside him was a ratty bunch of investigators: one convict, a runaway, a crackpot scientist, and a street urchin who believed he could talk to cats. His secretaries couldn’t even read for shit. Some days he thought the only one qualified to be in this line of work was Old Li, the janitor. Not to mention taking cases for whatever street scum needed a favor that day.

There had been a whole host of characters who’d crawled through his door and if they could pay, he would shine their shoes. Like yesterday, he had finished up a case involving a prize fighter wanting to expose a murderous boss. Then he also had the better clients, like the businessman whose daughter and her fiance went missing. He paid well, even if the culprit mysteriously disappeared.

“Old Zhao!” Da Qing crashed through the door, looking as clueless and alarmed as usual. 

Zhao Yunlan pulled the sucker out of his mouth with a smack and waved it at him. “Speak.”

Da Qing stood up straighter and attempted to smooth down his shirt but only succeeded in getting more dirt on it. He cleared his throat. “Ah, there’s someone here. A very well-dressed someone who says he needs urgent help.” And to add to Zhao Yulan’s headache, he winked.

Zhao Yunlan rolled his eyes. A few years ago, Da Qing began talking in code to make the clients feel more at ease, or to make the department itself look more interesting and mysterious. The only one in said department who humored him was Old Li, but that was just because the old man felt parental toward him. “So somebody very rich is very desperate, got it. Just send him in.”

With a pout, Da Qing retreated through the door and Zhao Yunlan slid his feet off the desk and half-heartedly put the cluttered papers into a stack. Normally he would just leave it since seeing the disorganization put people at ease. But if the client was higher class then it was actually the complete opposite. The more it looked organized and official, the more they felt they were not stooping down to another level. Then again, it was also very fun to watch a man in a suit squirm. 

The door opened again and a man walked through it. This time, Zhao Yunlan was the one squirming. 

Instead of some fat, sweaty businessman, the client standing before him was incredibly handsome. A professionally tailed blue pinstripe clung to a tall frame, accenting the rigid muscles beneath. He wore a matching fedora low on his head and round glasses that glinted in the low light. 

The client moved respectfully to the side, clasping his hands in front of him as Da Qing stumbled in. “Old Zhao, this is Professor Shen Wei. Professor, Detective -- ah, ex-detective -- I, mean.” He paused and collected his bearings. He started again, calmly. “Professor, Zhao Yunlan. He is the leader around here.” 

A professor? That was a new one. Zhao Yunlan popped the sucker back in his mouth and looked at Da Qing. “You can leave now, Fatty. Also, tell Zhu Hong that if I don’t have the files on the Crow murders by two today, I'll break her legs.” Da Qing nodded and backed out quickly. When the door closed, Zhao Yunlan gestured to the seat in front of him. “Professor Shen, please sit down.”

Shen Wei cleared his throat and sat down neatly, placing his hat on the table in front of him. “Is it really appropriate to call your subordinate ‘Fatty?” He asked in a smooth, deep voice that made Zhao Yunlan momentarily forget he was supposed to be a professional PI.

“If you saw how much it costs to feed him, you’d know that ‘Fatty’ is being extremely generous. But we are not here to talk about him..” Said Zhao Yunlan quickly, leaning back in his chair. He schooled his face into the usual business casual (slightly annoyed yet still charismatic) and waved a finger at him. “You have a problem, Professor Shen. Tell me.”

Shen Wei’s lips tightened into what may have been considered an attempt to smile and he folded his hands neatly in his lap. “I heard that you are who to call when you need somebody found.”

Zhao Yunlan grinned. “I have been known to catch a stray or two, yes.”

“Do you know of a girl by the name of Li Qian?”

“Mm. Nineteen year old female found dead at the docks two nights ago.”

“She was one of my brightest students.” The professor's jaw clenched and a shadow passed over his eyes. “She took care of her grandmother, the owner of a store known for priceless antiques. One of which Li Qian wore around her neck everywhere she went. There-”

Zhao Yunlan interrupted him with a large sigh and put his hands behind his head. “Professor Shen, as much as I love listening to you speak, you really came down here to talk to me about a suicide? Or you did. In that case, I’ve solved it!” He suddenly leaned forward and threw his arms out. “Li Qian was the killer.”

The shadow flickered again and Shen Wei looked like he was biting his tongue. “Please do not joke about her death, Detective.” Even though his face remained passive, there was a large amount of venom in his words.

“Ex-detective, actually.” Zhao Yunlan corrected him. “But like I said, those at the scene ruled it a suicide. She drowned.”

“I know that.” Professor Shen pushed up his glasses and shifted slightly. “I talked to the police myself and asked about the circumstances. Those circumstances make me believe they made the wrong call.”

“You think she was murdered?”

Although he had not been at the scene, Zhao Yunlan still had friends in the department who would occasionally let him peek at cases. The girl was found in the harbor with sea water in her lungs. Not a scrap of evidence suggesting otherwise. As far as he could tell, the poor kid flung herself off one of the bridges and ended up there for the fisherman to find. 

“Why?” Zhao Yunlan asked, cocking his head.

Shen Wei pushed up his glasses again. “Her necklace was missing. Zhao Yunlan, this is not an arbitrary fact. Her grandmother is extremely ill and does not have access to proper care, so she does not have much time left. Not once did I see my student without that necklace around her neck. She clung to it like it was a piece of her soul and I’m fairly certain if she did plan on killing herself, she would have had it with her. Also being such a valuable piece, I’m sure if a criminal saw a vulnerable young woman walking down the street in the dead of night, they would also see an opportunity.”

His words made Zhao Yunlan pause. When he still worked at the DCPD, he did plenty of interrogations. Most criminals were so nervous they were practically wetting their pants, but others were as calm as Shen Wei in front of him. He was not accusing the professor of anything yet. However, the darkness hiding behind the man’s dark brown eyes suggested he knew more than he was letting on to. In any case, his detective senses were alive and alert.

“So you are asking me to find the necklace and bring in the people you believe murdered her?” 

Shen Wei shook his head. “I am asking you to assist me in my own investigation.”

Zhao Yunlan sucked in a breath. “Ah, with all due respect, professor. I do not assist. I catch criminals with the assistance of others. Plus, this is really not a job for academics such as yourself. 

The professor eyed him and reached into his suit. Zhao Yunlan’s eyes bugged when a large stack of cash made an appearance. He hastily began counting the bills all while Shen Wei watched him intently. “Is this enough?”

Humming, Zhao Yunlan moved his head from side-to-side. “I might need something else.”

“Name your price.”

Zhao Yunlan grinned. “Smile for me?”

To his pleasure, Shen Wei’s face became a deep shade of red. Zhao Yunlan laughed and waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, I’m kidding! I’ll make you smile on my own eventually.”

Shen Wei’s lips tightened again and he dropped his head. “We shall see.”

Zhao Yunlan’s heart fluttered. “Challenge accepted, my dear professor Shen.” He grabbed his pistol from underneath his desk. He set it on the table next to the cash and smiled widely up at Shen Wei.

“Now, let’s go find that girl’s necklace.”

[scarletraven1001]

Linked

Summary: The whole “Soulmate” thing was a sham, as far as Bulma was concerned. So, when she finds that her own Soulmate Mark had reacted to a handsome jerk that she ran into on the street, she is even more determined to prove that not even the gods can make her fall for someone, unless it was on her terms.

A Vegebul Soulmate Tattoo AU, based on this post.

Also on Ao3.

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Note: I have always loved Soulmate AUs, so I finally decided to try my hand at it! This is my first attempt at a comedic multi-chapter, and it will not be very long; maybe 5 chapters, max.

Also, this chapter is my gift for @supersaiyanerd​! Advanced happy birthday!

I hope you like it! And as always, comments will be highly appreciated!

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Chapter 1: Inked

8-8-8-8-8

The last week of September greeted Bulma with a powerful gust of freezing wind, right to her face.

Her phone – and by extension, her alarm – had died sometime during the night, and so she had woken half an hour later than usual.

She was running late, and with no time to primp, her curly blue hair fluffed annoyingly on her head. She angrily pushed the strands back, barely sparing a glance at the tiny mark that rested on her right inner wrist.

The deceptively nondescript mark, was Bulma’s Soulmate Mark.

It was a straight line that was barely a centimeter long, which was there to lead her to the one person who would make her life complete: her one perfect match, destined to love her for eternity.

Her Soulmate…

Pfft. Yeah, right.

She was thirty years old, and the mark had stayed exactly the same as it had always been, a frustrating red line of ink that clashed wildly with her blue eyes and hair.

There were some successful Soulmates, and one such pair were her own parents, who had truly fallen in love beyond being just predestined mates.

Tragically enough, she knew of quite a few people who had married their Soulmates, and ended up miserable.

The Soulmate Mark was a guide, and often, not a very good one. It was ultimately a problem, since some Soulmates had perfectly compatible souls, but not hearts.

It had also been the thing that prevented her from finding true romance, as the one man she had once loved, Yamcha, had refused to stay with her on account of their marks not responding to each other’s.

The tiny mark was supposed to grow, become more distinct and detailed, once one met their true Soulmate. And though Bulma had repeatedly willed it to grow even by a tiny bit, no amount of kisses from Yamcha had made it budge.

It was due to these distracted thoughts and her haste to get to work on time that Bulma had failed to watch where she was going, and as she walked with her head in the clouds, she managed to somehow walk into the middle of the street, right in the middle of moving traffic.

The loud blare of a car horn woke her from her trance, and she shrieked as she watched the car moving towards her, too close, too fast, for her to move out of the way.

“Eeeeeeeek!” she screamed, hands uselessly shielding her face from watching her certain doom, her heart pounding mercilessly against her ribs while her mind spun through a thousand scenarios of how she had wanted her life to go and how she failed to make it right, all in the space of half a second.

A heavy collision knocked the wind out of her, and she expected her body to fall brokenly against the pavement…

And was inordinately stunned when she found herself jostled, but relatively unscathed, lying on the sidewalk with a thick, solid human body above her own.

“Oh kami,” she whispered in residual fright.

She watched the man groan above her, his shock of dark hair covering his face as he tried to brace himself back up with his thick arms.

He was shaking, clearly affected by the near-miss, and a brilliant smile lifted her lips as she finally realized what had just happened…

This man had pushed her out of the way of the oncoming car. The oncoming car that would have surely killed her…

“You saved me…” she said in wonder, looking dazedly at the thick torso clothed in a light blue button-down shirt. “Oh kami… I’m alive because of you! Thank y-”

“Pay more attention to your surroundings, you idiotic woman!” he barked, cutting her off.

Bulma drew back, offended.

“Well, I’m sorry, mister! Next time, please feel free not to save my life!”

“Indeed I will not,” he hissed, finally lifting his head.

Bulma was stunned into silence by the darkest eyes she had ever seen, on a beautifully masculine face framed by a severe widow’s peak.

She gaped like a fish as he stood, dusting himself off, before he turned to walk away, all without sparing her a second glance.

She too stood, gathering as much of her dignity as she could while the small crowd that had gathered began to disperse.

“You are an asshole, but thanks still! For saving my life!” she yelled at his back, pulling at her rumpled red dress, noting that he did glance infinitesimally at her before he turned the corner to disappear from her sight.

With a sigh, Bulma began walking again, in the opposite direction of her handsome asshole savior. She headed into the small academic publishing house that she worked at, only a block away by then.

She placed her right thumb onto the thumb scan machine to time in, noting the stiffness of her wrist.

“Huh. Must have sprained it when I fell,” she mused as she sat on her desk, shifting her handbag onto her other hand.

She dug around her cabinet for the small tube of liniment that she kept in there for her minor aches – she still refused to think that it was because she was aging – taking a small amount so she can rub it onto her painful arm.

The liniment and her bag fell out of her hands, quickly followed by her jaw, as she stared at her pained wrist.

For on it, her tiny red Soulmate Mark had somehow grown twice as long.

8-8-8-8-8

“Now Bulma… I understand that almost getting hit by a car is quite traumatic, but shrieking like a banshee in the middle of the office is not very professional.”

Bulma sighed as she sat in the office of her Manager, Mr. Piccolo.

“I’m really sorry-”

“I expect no more extreme behavior from you today, do I make myself clear?” he asked, brows furrowed, lips pursed in frustration.

She sighed again, just a tiny bit louder. “Yes, sir.”

“Alright. Go back to your desk and finalize the senior high Physics journal,” he instructed.

Bulma got up, walking forlornly to her desk, glancing at poor old Uranai, who had nearly had a heart attack when she let out her earlier, spirit-piercing scream.

Well, who wouldn’t scream, upon discovering that their Soulmate Mark had evolved?

She sighed, yet again, as she sat down, meeting the inquisitive eyes of her office bestie, Chichi.

The dark-haired woman raised a brow, before she leaned over towards Bulma.

“Bulma-chan,” she began, “What the hell actually happened earlier?”

Bulma groaned.

She was, frankly, devastated that her mark had changed. She didn’t really want a Soulmate, but apparently, she had one.

And seeing as Bulma had only had one interaction with a new person that day, she knew exactly who the gods – who were probably giggling, beside themselves with glee at their brilliance, those bastards – had decided was her Soulmate.

Chichi, on the other hand, would likely be delighted by the news, because she was one of the few people Bulma knew who was deliriously happy with their destined mate.

Chichi had met her mate through Bulma, as she had been fated for Bulma’s lifelong friend, Goku.

“Chichi, it’s nothing-” she began.

“Don’t you it’s nothing me, Bulma Briefs,” Chichi, the Biology writer, scolded. “What on earth happened to you this morning?”

With perhaps her hundredth sigh of the day, Bulma raised her arm, showing Chichi her wrist.

Chichi’s eyes bugged out, before she began sputtering happily, wringing her hands in delight.

“Bulma! You found your Soulmate?!” she whisper-yelled.

“I guess…”

“Oh kami, how wonderful!” Chichi gushed. “Who is he? What’s his name? Is he hot?”

“Some guy I ran into, I don’t know, and…” she paused, considering, “yes, he is actually hot, for a jerk.”

Chichi rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me that ya actually got into a fight with him already?”

“He started it!”

“Bulma…”

“He saved me from a car that was about to hit me, then called me an idiotic woman, ok?”

“Back. The heck. Up,” Chichi said raising a hand, pointing at Bulma. “You mean to tell me that your Soulmate saved your life, and you had the nerve to get angry?”

“See Chichi, when you say it that way, it sounds way worse than it actually is…”

“Bulma,” Chichi shook her head. “This is ridiculous. Aren’t you even curious about the man whom the gods had destined for you?”

Bulma scoffed. “No, I’m not, and I refuse to just up and get with this guy just because I’m supposed to or-”

“Or just because he’s not Yamcha?”

Bulma’s lips snapped shut.

It was Chichi’s turn to sigh. “Bulma-chan… it didn’t work out with Yamcha, not because he isn’t your Soulmate. It really wasn’t working out.”

Bulma breathed in. “Yeah… I know. It’s just… what if it’s the same with my Soulmate? What if I’m the problem? I mean, if even my Soulmate couldn’t stand me, then who else possibly could?”

“Well, I tolerate you just fine.”

“Yeah, but you’re a masochist, Chi. You’d have to be, to put up with Goku.”

Chichi threw an eraser at her in response.

“Bulma, just try, alright? Just see if it works out. How hard can it be?”

Bulma sighed, yet again. “Well, firstly… I have no idea who the hell he is, or where to find him. So… there’s that.”

8-8-8-8-8

The small commotion in the Head Editor’s office caught Bulma’s attention, sometime after her lunch.

The HE, Kaio, with his round stomach heaving in excitement, sat with Piccolo, who also looked strangely happy.

Bulma watched as Piccolo turned to go out the door, and his small green eyes scanned the crowd until they fell on Bulma.

“Bulma, a minute?” he called.

She was curious, so she gladly hopped up, walking into the office with a smile.

“You needed me?” she asked, taking a seat before the boss.

“Bulma,” Kaio said. “Remember how we promised to help you find a consultant for that one journal on astrophysics?”

She nodded.

“Well, I am glad to let you know that we had somehow convinced one of the lead researchers of EASA to come and help us for the next week,” he announced loudly, chest puffing up with pride.

She gaped. “Seriously? Someone from the Earth Aeronautics and Space Agency is coming here?”

“He’s already here,” Piccolo said, “and on his way to us right now.”

“Actually,” Kaio said as he glanced up, just as the door opened behind Bulma. “Here he is! Welcome!”

A strange hiccup, from somewhere deep in the center of her chest, made Bulma’s breath catch in her throat, but she shrugged it off as she turned to look at the newcomer.

When her eyes met his equally-shocked gaze, she choked.

Those dark eyes were entirely too familiar, as she had just been staring into them that morning.

“Bulma,” Kaio said, “I would like you to meet Mr. Vegeta Ouji of EASA. Mr. Ouji, Bulma is the physicist whom you will be working with this week.”

Bulma watched as he glanced at his left inner wrist, partially hidden by his long-sleeves, and she too looked down, only to see the inch-long mark in the exact same shade as her hair.

He then glanced at her wrist, and his eyes narrowed as he spied her own bright red mark.

“Well,” her Soulmate, now known as Vegeta Ouji, remarked, looking up at Kaio, Piccolo, then back at her. “This should be rather interesting.”

Oh, good. At least, they already agreed on one thing.

8-8-8-8-8

To be continued…

Read Next

[leonawriter]

To Change A Sombre Morrow - [part 18]

Read it on AO3 - Tumblr masterpost

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Characters: Genesis, Angeal, Zack, others.

Summary: In which Genesis suffers from a migraine, and continues to be an unreliable narrator.

...

"If you could only change one thing with all this... would you still do it?"

Genesis looks away from the cityscape tinted with green, a slight smile on his face as he remembers a similar conversation with someone else, some time ago. Everything seems to be the past coming back to haunt him, circling back in on itself recently, though. So this makes as much sense as anything.

For a moment he can hear half-familiar voices passing by underneath the roof they were sat on, a familiar place to Genesis' eyes not too far from Seventh Heaven. If he wanted to, he could turn his head this way or that, and pick out where his apartment was, the place Cloud had started to rent... and if he looked far enough in that direction there, he could see Midgar. 

"Only one thing?" He turns toward Zack, and for a moment he sees a young man with bangs that fall in front of his eyes, and a custom Second's uniform that marked him out as answering directly to one of the Firsts. He blinks, and-

-now, the Zack sat next to him is older, most of his hair out of his face save for a few errant strands, a scar on his cheek, and First's blacks. Zack doesn't look at him, but that's fine, Genesis thinks, he prefers it this way. "I'd never be done with just one thing," he says, well aware of the irony. 

But, it's true. He has too many regrets to ever stop, and the opportunity was right there, in front of his eyes.

He had wrongs that needed righting. Mistakes that needed fixing. Far too many of them were more than a simple work in progress.

"So that's how you see things, huh," Zack says.

It takes all of Genesis' willpower not to visibly wince at the dismissive tone of voice, from the one he'd inconvenienced so much, put so much pressure on, and who carried Angeal's legacy.

"And you? It's only fair, after all."

"Huh? Oh - you mean, if I was the one who went back?" Zack laughed. "I guess... I have ideas, but it's... what's that word you used a lot?"

Genesis quirked an eyebrow, not sure what Zack was talking about, not even sure how this Zack would have heard him talk enough outside of their far from friendly encounters, to know anything outside of LOVELESS.

"Did I ever say? I tried to read that play, you know. To get inside your head. Why you were doing all that. It... didn't work much." A pause. "Did you know, one of those fan clubs of yours put together this book, made out of everything you'd put together about that missing act? They even published it." 

Genesis shook his head, more out of amusement at the idea, than any sort of disbelief. He'd never paid that much attention to those women back then, especially after he had split with Shinra. They'd had an idealised version of him in their heads, one that had never faded, if a few reactions from middle-aged women in Edge and Kalm were any indications. 

The reality was much harsher, and likely didn't measure up to the Genesis that they'd followed so religiously.

"I never got through much of either of them," Zack continued. "Too much going on, you know? Couldn't... focus." And then- "That's it - academic! I mean, after all... I'm not like you, am I? You're more of a special case."

They sit there in silence, for a while. 

Genesis watches the pale green swirls of mako-smoke drift between the buildings and gather around Midgar, before heading out into the wastes, again. It's almost hypnotising, strangely familiar, although watching for too long causes an ache to form behind his eyes.

The wind ruffled his hair, and it was tempting to lean into it, let his wing spread out and let the wind carry him wherever it wanted, as free as he'd ever been.

He's jolted out of such thoughts when he feels Zack get up to stand, feet touching the thin air at the edge of the roof, and he watches as Zack brings Angeal's Buster sword from off his back with one hand, drawing it up in front of his face just like Angeal used to.

Did. 

Again.

"You're playing a dangerous game, you know," Zack says, and Genesis' mouth dries out. He'd heard that tone of voice before, when Zack had steeled himself for a fight he hadn't wanted to be a part of. "I beat you before," he continued, almost as if reading Genesis' mind, "and I'll do it again, if I have to."

Of course, he thinks to himself. Of course.

And yet, he cannot help but almost hear the words-

Even if the morrow is barren of promises, nothing shall forestall my return.

It was his sacrifice to make, after all. At least this time it would be made for the right reasons. Or so he hopes.

The wind rises, ruffling both hair and feathers. The pressure builds, and he raises a hand to the bridge of his nose, to the spot between his eyes.

"You know what's coming next, don't you," Zack says, swinging the heavy sword back into place.

He screws his eyes shut from the pain now, the heel of his hand pressed against his eyelids, creating golden spots and fireworks in the darkness. A whistling, high-pitched noise in his ear that he wished would stop, pulling him off balance and dragging him into disorientation. 

He'd felt like this before - not even just once - if this was...

Goddess, no.

A prayer. Even just one thing, and it would be this. 

"Genesis?" He almost didn't hear the voice. "Stay with me. You can do this, okay? You've just got to-"

To-?

To what-?

"Genesis?"

Someone is holding him down, and for a good vicious moment all that matters is getting free of them, intent be damned, because he might feel like death has chewed him up and spat him out again not for the first or even second time in his life, but he won't be restrained like that, never again, ever-

"Get ahold of yourself - before you've got the entire camp coming down on us!"

His feet are swept out from underneath him in a familiar move that he should have been able to evade and counter, but his legs instead gave way underneath him, landing him hard on his backside with a wince, and the sure knowledge that he was going to have bruises, even if just for the next few hours or so, even with his ability to heal now returned far more back to its normal - or rather, what his normal should have been - than even at his return to Midgar after his trip to Nibelheim.

He doesn't look up. He barely has the wherewithal to realise that his wing had somehow come out while he'd been thrashing around or asleep, and the extra appendage disappears, even though he misses the comfort and security of being able to curl it around him, let it hide at least part of him from view.

Angeal. Angeal was the one who'd woken him up.

There'd been a nightmare - some details sticking out in harsh relief against the fuzzed out parts that no longer made any sense. What he did remember, was enough to make his muscles start to shake again, his stomach twist, his heart burn. 

"You're playing a dangerous game, you know," he recalled, the older voice still clear in his mind.

The tent door was pushed aside just as Angeal started to move closer. He tensed, and by the sound of things, so did Angeal.

"Er... what even happened here?" Zack's tired voice sounded loud in his ears. "There's..." A yawn escaped the younger SOLDIER. Genesis didn't think that Zack had ever been relaxed enough to do such a thing, before. It should have felt encouraging. Instead, he merely felt that he was taking advantage of some nebulous idea of innocence he had no right to interfere with. "Feathers?"

Panic at the realisation that his wing had shed took over, forcing his eyes open to look around. Feathers were, indeed, strewn all over the place. There would be questions-

"If anyone asks, tell them there was an accident with a mis-packed experimental chocobo summon."

In the time it took for him to turn around in disbelief, Zack had disappeared again.

"Do you have any idea how mortifying that is? Me, Angeal. You're letting him tell everyone that I of all people-"

"Would you really prefer to explain to everyone that no, they're not some black chocobo you accidentally summoned that we had to hold down-" and there his body went, tensing again for no reason, "-but yours. They might not think it's the full story, but given the truth, they'll prefer something like this." Angeal took a few paces in the other direction again, and then sat on the floor, his back against the simple pallet bed that'd been put up in Genesis' tent. He laughed, a vaguely hollow sound. "Remind me never to try that again, by the way. Or get on your bad side."

Genesis looked away, in an attempt to mask another flinch at the reminder. Put that way, perhaps a chance of humiliation was preferable.

Silence hung awkwardly and heavily between them, uninterrupted by the noises from outside, save for one or two oddities.

"I... don't react well to being restrained," he admitted in what he hoped was an off-handed way. 

As if things such as this happened all the time.

"I'll bear that in mind."

Angeal's tone was even and non-judgemental, even with the obvious curiosity.

"And I'll have you know, I would never force you to stay or leave against your wishes, old friend."

He never had. He had accepted, and respected, and eventually agreed to disagree to the point of understanding that since neither of them would budge an inch, then words would no longer be adequate at times. Their swords had clashed instead, then.

Which won't happen this time, he promised himself. 

"...That still doesn't explain why I came in here in the first place because I'd heard you screaming."

He didn't answer. Mostly because he was only now aware of that himself; it certainly explained why his throat felt so raw, at least.

The rest of it was that he had his suspicions, and the last thing he wanted was to have to admit that no matter his intentions, no matter how he had ended up in the past in the first place... there was every possibility that he was just as much the dangerous monster that he had once been somewhere around five years ago.

A little longer, that was all he asked. Just a little longer. 

...

Morning unfortunately dragged itself into existence slowly, and painfully. Genesis' body still had a bad habit of shaking feverishly at the least useful times, which given that they had so little time at all was of course all the damn time, and often accompanied by a splitting headache that simply wouldn't leave him in peace, making the daily rounds of having to deal with rowdy SOLDIERs and army troopers grate on his nerves more than usual.

Perhaps there was a certain sense of irony in that his one solace also happened to be the one thing he had least been looking forward to; the meeting and planning tent, which had been the scene of Zack being let in on the least believable part of his story just the previous night, would be in the middle of camp, yes, but it would also be devoid of anyone other than himself, Angeal, and Zack. Unless they specifically requested otherwise.

His PHS buzzed in his pocket, and given it was only a mail, he was sorely tempted to ignore it, just to put off having to deal with yet another problem, another person wanting to pick his brain for something, another deadline-

"You know what's coming next, don't you."

He stumbled, his balance shaken for a moment, vision swimming as spots danced in his eyes at the reminder of what had started this entire headache of a morning off in the first place.

"Sir?" He looked up, and into a SOLDIER's helmeted face. Somehow, he'd wound up leaning on something just to stay upright. "With all due respect, sir, you look like hell."

Breathe. Do not snap and send a fireball aimed at the idiot's face. 

Although perhaps a brave idiot, for saying it to his face, rather than behind his back, he had to admit.

"I'm well aware of that fact," Genesis said through gritted teeth, holding back both the headache and the cutting remarks, "SOLDIER...?"

Something about the voice seemed familiar-

"SOLDIER Second Class, Brele, Sir," came the awaited name and rank. "Brele Raphen, really, though I dunno if you'd remember a couple of barrel makers and their kid."

Genesis blinked, disoriented, the logic of knowing that in theory the people of Banora had to still be around in this time, warring with the fact that he simply hadn't thought about it, hadn't interacted with anyone other than Angeal, who'd survived long after the town had been destroyed.

Casting his mind back, he thought that perhaps he could remember a couple of older folk who'd made barrels, that they'd had a son somewhat younger than he had been; and yet that was twenty years ago, give or take. The memories were faded. Both with time and the need to forget.

Though, even that paled in comparison to the one singular fact that was staring him, quite literally, in the face - that SOLDIER Brele was here. Now.

That he would have... 

"I mean it though, sir. If something's wrong and you need to go back, that's what SOLDIERs Hewley and Fair are here for."

It wasn't as though the idea wasn't tempting, now that it was out in the open; as he'd said, he knew full well that he likely looked like death warmed up - the irony of it not escaping him entirely, given that the last time he'd seen these men as themselves, he had been a man marked by death.

He could. He could leave it to them. Perhaps have it appear that his departure from the situation was entirely out of his control, which would free him up to focus on something else.

But by doing that, by essentially walking away-

"Running away, are you?"

-he would merely be left with the exact same problem that he'd had in his original timeline, Yuffie's face coming all too easily to mind.

Set of problems, to be more accurate, he thought to himself, holding back a grimace while remembering the many numerous times that he'd encountered Zack when Sephiroth was supposed to have been there... when he himself had used Zack to his own ends.

"I came here prepared to fulfil my mission, SOLDIER Brele," he said through gritted teeth, "and I do not intend to leave until I have completed it."

The SOLDIER - someone he had shared his hometown with, no matter his feelings on the place - hesitated, and then nodded.

Genesis turned toward the main meeting tent, where Angeal and Zack should be. He barely made three strides before he heard the SOLDIER's voice again.

"You should write home sometime," Brele said, the Banoran accent that Genesis had worked so hard to cover up, and that Angeal had lost more than kept, showing through a little stronger. The reminder that Banora was still standing was hard enough. He didn't need- "My ma said in her last letter she thought your folks were starting to worry, though she didn't know why. Maybe when we're all back in Midgar-"

He didn't listen to anything else he had to say.

Regardless of how his body felt, he pushed himself the rest of the way toward the meeting tent, all the way to one of the simple foldable chairs that were out and ready for him, and collapsed into it.

"Genesis? What the... Angeal? A little help here!"

Heavy footsteps, but Genesis' eyes were sore, spots dancing in his vision.

"If you say you're fine," he heard Angeal's voice say, "then I'm calling bullshit."

Genesis snorted, which was evidently the wrong thing, because-

(His mind throwing up images of the village, of home, of the trees, of the graves-

-of the bodies, and his sword-

-dripping red.)

-bile rose up, the intensity of the memories and what and who he'd been mixing with the pressure in and against his mind that had been causing him so much pain, and he only just made it off the chair, a vague sensation of a familiar hand on his arm, unsure if he should be relieved that he was only capable of dry retching due to not having eaten, rather than the far messier alternative.

"Genesis...?" His vision cleared slowly, but even as it did, he could make out the concern in Angeal's face. "Please, tell me, if that was..." He spoke quietly, eyes darting toward Zack for a second, "what you mentioned, before. If that's..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back the anxiety that came with the mere suggestion of what he thought Angeal was getting at.

He wasn't degrading again - he couldn't be. He was almost certain, now. Besides, he knew what had caused this, every last thing.

Shook his head, just slightly. Slow movements. Thankful for once that despite not having thought of cutting his hair since arriving in his past, it wasn't long enough that he might need it held back at times like these.

"No," he said, voice hoarse. "I was..." he winced. There was no good way to put it. "No hero. Before." Looked away, before he could see Angeal realise what this could possibly mean, for him to say such a thing. 

There was no answer, for the longest time. But despite the abiding fear that Angeal would, no matter what he might have said before, turn away from him, all Genesis could do was to use the time to get his breathing back under control, and to attempt to stop at least some of the yet worsened shaking in his muscles.

"Then..." He's startled by the fact that it isn't Angeal who speaks, but Zack. "That's what you're here for now, isn't it? If you did things wrong last time, you've just got to get back up and try again, no matter how many times it takes. That's what I think, anyway."

In case you hadn't noticed, I think he's started to believe in you as well, now. So don't let him down. Angeal's words to him, mixed with his own.

Well, that didn't take long, he wanted to say, but in a way that wasn't true, because no matter if it made sense or not, Zack... didn't appear to be judging him.

Zack had saved him once, after all. Even after everything he'd done. After everything.

I beat you before, and if I have to do it again, I will, he remembered from the dream, and if anything, the words gave him some small solace, that no matter even if things went entirely wrong, he could rely on that much, at least.

"I need to get out of here," he said eventually. Not simply out of the tent, or gone a while - out of Wutai entirely. The mission needed to end.

"That's what we're here for, then," Angeal said, a hand coming into Genesis' field of vision to help him up, bringing attention to the fact that he'd fallen onto his knees. "Because it seems like nothing good comes from you being left to your own devices."

He winced again at the pointed jab, but reached for Angeal's hand, and let himself be pulled back up again.

...

He could still remember the way they'd all been sitting around at the bar when the subject had been brought up.

One minute they're talking about Corel wine, the next they're mentioning something about the Corel reactor, and it was hardly as though this had been the first time he had connected the location with Marlene's father, or the knowledge that the reactor blowing had been the cause for the loss of Barret's arm.

It had, however, been the first time he'd heard that everyone believed that Shinra was to blame, and he hadn't been able to completely hold back a laugh, just at the sheer irony.

He'd been used to the cold looks and glares aimed in his direction, by then, enough that they hadn't phased him. It had been early enough on that after realising who he was and what he'd done and enabled, not many of them would give him much warmer than 'faint suspicion' even at the best of times.

"The hell you laughing at now?"

He could see Barret's eyes being drawn to his old SOLDIER uniform, and especially the old logo on his belt. A smile touched his mouth, unable to help just a little of the old hubris touching his pride.

"You don't know the irony?" Of course they didn't. They were all looking at him like angry beached fish. "I wasn't there, in case you had it in mind that I had anything to do with it, by the way." He'd been getting weaker and weaker by the year, and sometimes, it had felt, by the month. If he'd been involved, he'd have been exhausted for days afterward. Not that they needed to know that. "I knew the people who were, however. Just enough to get the gist of things, at least," he added lightly, before raising his glass to his mouth again.

"So now you're saying you knew-"

"Barret, wait - Genesis, what do you mean by "irony"? Or... "enough to get the gist of things?"

Cloud hadn't been happy either. Later, he would realise that it would have stung, the idea that someone that he had brought into the group could have bene withholding information, especially when he'd still been a potential threat, living among them on trust.

But at the time, he'd just let his smile grow a little wider, as long as he had even something as small as this over them.

"We only met twice," he said, drawing the words out. "Once not long after news of my desertion had spread, and once not long after the incident at Corel itself." He brought the glass up to his lips once more, wetting his throat, and allowing himself to remember. "Do you have any idea how many anti-Shinra factions there were? Not many. It was a dangerous way to exist, so of course a little networking was to be expected. Hollander was far more interested in the offers that man gave, of course," he said, distaste and bitterness flavouring the words, "but I restrained him. Hardly out of pure intentions. More to the point, Fuhito was asking for Hollander's help as a scientist, and I could hardly have him distracted when the entire reason I had deserted in the first place was so that he could find a cure so that I would stop dying."

He paused to finish his drink, against the flash of anger at remembering how Hollander had never, not once, had the impression in his mind that the degradation could be cured. 

"And? What's any of this got to do with what happened to Corel?"

"Because," said a drawling voice that even after all this time was plenty recognisable enough, "Fuhito was the old head of the first AVALANCHE. Isn't that what you were aiming at?"

Genesis' eyes had narrowed, a decision made in a matter of moments while the others were asking just how long Reno of the Turks had been listening in on the conversation.

"Quite," he'd said, maintaining a genial air. "And the girl you were looking for? Elfé, was it? How did that work out for you? The last time I saw her, she still had that summons materia somehow infused into her arm."

"You know, I've got no idea what you're talking about, on that one."

"Infinite in mystery is the gift of the Goddess... far less so your attempts to lie about something I'm clearly already well aware of. She was with him both times, after all, and I know a summons materia when I see one. Given what I was able to realise from just two meetings, the most likely outcome is that she died. One way or another."

The atmosphere went from tense to frigid, with Reno's grip tightening on the rod he carried with him everywhere.

"She ain't dead, yo."

"Oh," Genesis said, not finding the Turk's anger nearly as worrying as the others did. He'd killed Turks far more willing to fight, Turks far more desperate, than this one. "It seems you do remember." 

Cloud's hand on his arm stops him from saying anything else. Perhaps in Cloud's mind, as much to protect Genesis and the bar as anything or anyone else.

"Who's Elfé, Reno?"

Cloud's eyes darted over to Barret for a moment of some unspoken thought. Barret huffed, but backed down - likely from asking again what any of this had to do with Corel, no doubt. 

He'd hardly been wrong, earlier - there was by far too much irony in the entire situation, and just how little the subject matter didn't have to do with Corel.

"Elfé was pretty much the old boss of AVALANCHE before everything went to shit, both for them and for us. Also? What he said. Turned out she had a real powerful WEAPONS-grade summons stuck in her arm, three guesses who put that in there, first two don't count." Genesis felt Cloud tense for a moment beside him, and given the disjointed memories that had leaked through to give him his own further experiences, he could hardly say he blamed him. "Of course, once we found that out, it was our job to make sure that thing didn't end up getting summoned, you hear me? Thing that big could've wiped out most of Midgar, same as the ones everyone had to face a few months later."

Genesis rolled his eyes.

"And how did that go for you? I did suggest when we first met that perhaps the safest option would be to simply take the arm off. A summons like what I felt, and she's lucky to be alive, let alone more than that."

Reno had grimaced, scratching the back of his neck for a moment underneath that rat's tail of hair he wore.

"Fuhito was the one who wanted to actually summon it, yo. That bit wasn't on us. Thing needed-"

"Support materia - in order to stabilise it. Correct? It's hardly basic knowledge but it's hardly forgotten lore," he finished, dismissively. "Let me guess, one of said support materia... was in Corel."

Silence stretched in Seventh Heaven as Cloud, Tifa, and Barret slowly pieced together a series of events, and Reno watched them do so, and Genesis found himself satisfied that he finally had some context for certain things that he had known of, and always wondered about.

"What can I say," Reno said at last. "Shit went down. That's all there is to it. And all you need to know."

"And the summons?"

Reno snorted. 

"What, you miss the whole light show or something?"

"...let's assume 'or something'."

After all, if he didn't remember, then it was likely something that took place after... then. After the caves. After he was taken.

"Yeah? Let's just say the Turks took care of it, and that's that, alright?"

"That implies there was something for the Turks to take care of though... doesn't it?"

A moment later, Tifa nods, answering Cloud's not quite rhetoric question.

"I think I remember something like that - not long before I found you, Cloud."

"Then Fuhito succeeded," Genesis had found himself saying. Based on fragmented, vague memories of half-forgotten conversations, and what Reno himself had said just mere moments ago. Fuhito was the one who had wanted to summon it.

"Fuhito went and got himself spliced up with that materia he got his hands on, is what. And we-"

"What did you just say?"

"What, you suddenly got hearing loss or something? All I'm saying is, the guy'd been going on for years about how he wanted to 'cleanse the Planet' by 'ridding it of humans' or some bullshit like that, so I guess becoming some weird monster with scythes for arms wasn't out of the question, yo. You want details, though, you got the wrong guy."

"You... make it seem as though he kept his senses about him. After becoming this... monster."

"Huh? I told you, wrong guy for details. Sound about right though, given what I heard and all. Right up to when we got 'im good, at least. That good enough for you?"

Genesis could remember leaving. He could remember not talking for some time, and not taking any notice of where he was going, either, only the sensation of the wind between feathers, although the memory of actually leaving the ground was absent.

Fuhito, a man that Genesis had not trusted even on their first meeting, had kept his mind intact upon gaining power directly from a materia summons as powerful as the one he had felt in Elfé. 

He, meanwhile...

Pride is lost, wings stripped away, the end is nigh... that, is the fate of a monster, he recalled himself having said once. 

Perhaps events such as those merely showed one's true nature to the world, he wondered, and if so, then what did that say about him, no matter how much he had been making attempts to regain the pride that he had lost?

...

"This... plan of yours," Godo said slowly, as if tasting the words for their how bitter they were before letting them touch the air, "is reckless, and requires trust between us the likes of which I am not certain that you have earned, Genesis of SOLDIER. And more importantly, these are the actions of those who accept defeat, and we of Wutai are anything but."

It was two mere days later, and although there had been no further dreams of the same sort, the effects of that headache, the pressure that it had brought with it, had yet to fade completely, creating odd moments when his vision would blur or create sunspots without warning.

In some cases, the only way to move forward past the discomfort had been to push ahead in spite of it, but then - he had more than enough experience with that, no matter that he had desired to never need to again.

"Perhaps so," he admitted, "and yet, should we go through with this, one would not be the only one to have power over the other - after all, the need for such a plan rests squarely upon the fact that in order for my involvement to not be suspected, I need to return to Shinra. In which case, you would be able to ruin me just as absolutely as I could, you." More so, Genesis thought darkly, given that Lord Godo merely has Wutai to ensure the safety of, and I... should I lose Sephiroth's trust, the Planet itself is in danger. "Perhaps one might see such actions as cowardly, or dishonourable... but on the contrary, I cannot."

Godo drew himself up, and Genesis noted a slight narrowing of the Wutaian noble's eyes.

"So you say, and so you have said. And yet, are those not the words of those who would feel connection with the spirits of foxes, with weasels and snakes? We are not such, we who answer to Leviathan alone."

Genesis waited until silence had once more blanketed the room, until all eyes were upon him for his response.

"Someone told me very recently," he said, reflecting back to looking at his phone's screen as the text came, "that one cannot change anything if they are dead. I see Wutai and her people, and I see people who could rebuild, who could bring Wutai back to life. But there is more than just one type of death, Lord Godo." Betrayal upon betrayal... I lost myself in an abyss of my own making. Perhaps, the Goddess resurrected me in more than one sense, at that time. "This, is not death. It is courage, to pretend that your are something that you are not, to walk a path that you know you cannot survive walking indefinitely... in order to know that there will be a future for others."

"And if I should trust you and your allies, and even should no betrayals occur... if I should fall before my people are truly free?"

"Then," Genesis said firmly, meeting the other man's eyes, with his own glowing blue with determination, "we become the sacrifices in order for others to be able to fight for the Planet in our stead." If everything is not enough... I do at least know that I can trust them, to finish what I could not. "But we likewise cannot believe in such an outcome. We cannot afford to believe in failure."

Failure for Godo would mean the loss of his people, and their honour. Failure for me... would mean that I would have lost everything a second time over. 

Just because I know that the world could survive, doesn't mean I'm going to let that happen.

Lord Godo of Wutai inclined his head.

Genesis could not help his mouth twitching, not merely at the taste of victory in the air, but at feeling one small step closer to, no matter his words, not feeling as though disaster of some sort in this place lay just around the corner.

[notesofarichlycolorednight]

Get to Know the Writer Tag Thing

idk if that’s the actual name lol, i just copied and pasted the questions and came up with my own title ^_^;

was tagged by @queen-of-ice101, thanks babe. these are always fun to do

1. Pen or Pencil

i don’t think i’ve written fanfic on paper in forever wow, but when i did (or occasionally will do), i always used pen. i hate making mistakes and having to clumsily cross it out, but pens are smoother and don’t make noise. honestly writing with a good pen on a thick pad of paper is a stim for me

2. Have you ever drawn your OC’s?

twice. and of only one of my ocs. both for inktober 2018. other than that, not really. i’d like to get into drawing more, but i’m just really more of a writer at this point in my life. also drawing ppl??? is so hard???

3. Does your writing ever make you cry?

not that i can remember. chapter 49 in i need another story almost made me cry, but mostly when i’m thinking abt painful scenes, my heart aches. even then, once i’ve envisioned it a lot, the ache eventually disappears. unless i forget abt it, then come back to it, or if it’s just a really painful scene, then the ache never really goes away when i’m thinking abt the scene

but no, bc i guess they’re my ideas. i’m expecting them, i’m writing them, and eventually become desensitized to them

4: If your Muse was a person, what would they look like?

okay so i’m confused by the wording of the question. bc at first i thought muses could be anything. then it occurred to me that they might only be ppl??? or at least take human-like shape bc they’re, i’m assuming, based on the nine muses of greek mythology, who take human shape/form.

maybe i’m reading too much into the question. anyway, my muse has never been a person/taken human shape if i’m honest. it’s been more of an amorphous blob that i haven’t really felt the need to give shape/form to. so to tell you what it would look like as a person...don’t know if i can do that lol

my muse is way more abstract, and i’ve never felt the need to make it concrete in any way

5: Which of your pieces would you choose to be remembered for?

like most writers, i’d like to be remembered for a published book of my own work. read riordan gave me an idea to base a book around chinese mythology, and which takes place in china. who knows, i may even write it in chinese first bc i’d like to become that fluent. the trick to this answer is that right now, this idea is also just an amorphous blob rn lol. i don’t have the time to do the research or flesh out the plot/characters (i don’t even really have those two things lmao). much too busy for that i’m afraid ;_; there is a one-act play i wrote for my creative writing class i’m particularly proud of currently

if i were to pick my fanfic i’d prob have to say itps--the oc pjo story. but only bc i’ve worked so long and so hard on it, and on my oc. if you asked me again in five years, i’d probably tell you smth different.

and i mean that’s the thing to this question. i’m still super young, and i have so much time to write more and continue to grow as a writer, so to choose smth to be remembered for so young almost seems unfair, tbh

6: How much have you written or worked on your WIP so far today?

LMAO ZIP, ZLICH, ZERO

my amorphous muse has gone dormant. i wouldn’t say fled if only bc i think i’ve unconsciously made it dormant so i can focus on finishing my master’s thesis

like would i love to write??? YES OF COURSE, I WOULD BE DOWN TO WRITE ANYTHING AT THIS POINT

but when i go to write, i find i physically cannot (bc smth psychologically is going on up there; could be stress, could be writer’s block, it’s probably those two and a multitude of other things). bc part of me knows that i can’t involve myself in such a big project (even small one-shots) bc i need to be completely focused on my thesis. the other part of me feels unable to control this ability to start writing. which is the worst part

schrödinger’s amorphous muse: when will my muse return from war? my muse has already returned from war.

woe is me

7: Have you ever based a piece (or a portion of a piece) on a dream?

don’t think i have. my dreams tend to be too weird to base a piece or portion of a piece on. if i was writing a fantasy story, it may fit in better. but currently, i write stuff that is based in more realistic-fiction worlds so

like i have very weird dreams. also many of them are stress dreams related to bathrooms (ugh) and school (ugh x2). as if i want to base smth that brings me joy on smth that stresses me out

8: Do you prefer silence, a little noise (music, ambient noise, fan etc) or a lot of noise when you’re writing?

it really depends on the mood i’m in

sometimes i’ll want to listen to talking, but it has to be smth i’ve watched a million times or don’t care abt at all if i am to concentrate on writing. they could be tv shows or video essays, etc. but that’s mostly if i’m not writing like fun/fictional stuff with plot and storyline, bc the talking then just interrupts my train of thought. unless i’ve seriously watched it so much/couldn’t care less abt what i’ve put on

mostly i’ll listen to music. i don’t have playlists, as much as i wish i did. my music library just isn’t that big. i’m such a picky person when it comes to music. and also i have so many other things i want to do than make playlists honestly. like i’m envious of ppl who make playlists, and i’m not saying that those who do make playlists have nothing else to do like at all. not my intention at all. however, at the same time, making them isn’t one of my top priorities

anyway, depending on my mood i’ll listen to the same song(s) on repeat again while i write. sometimes the song matches the mood of the scene i write, but it doesn’t always have to

sometimes i’ll start a song but get so into the scene that when the song ends, i don’t turn it back on anymore bc i don’t need it. sometimes some scenes require a lot of concentration that i can’t listen to anything. i actually need/prefer silence

i’ll only listen to ambient noise if i’m trying to drown out other noises, and only when i’m writing academic papers lol

9: Do you have any routines before you sit down to write?

nope lol. some scenes i’ll imagine for weeks before sitting down to write them bc thinking abt how the scene will play out helps me fall asleep, but also helps me figure out exactly how the scene will play out so when i do sit down to write, it flows so easily onto the page

unfortunately this doesn’t happen with everything i write--only the big, emotional scenes. and even then, i imagine these scenes as movies scenes, so when i go to write, there’s a lot more detail i have to think abt and add in ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

other than that, i don’t really have any routines i absolutely need to do before i sit down to write...i mean does opening all the folders i need, including the folders on my flashdrive so i can easily save and then transfer the saved document to my flashdrive count?

10: Have you ever participated in NaNoWrimo or a Camp?

i wish! but no. never had the time. like WHY NOVEMBER DO YOU KNOW HOW BUSY STUDENTS GET DURING NOVEMBER THAT’S LIKE THE ABSOLUTE WORST TIME TO HOLD IT FOR WRITERS WHO ARE STUDENTS

and like i get that the whole point of it is to get ppl who say things like “never had the time” to write. but that’s the thing, it’s not like inktober, where it encourages a very armature artist (i.e., me) to draw at least one thing everyday. i already love to write and i already write when i can if i don’t have writer’s block and my amorphous muse wants to cooperate

so when i say “i don’t have time” it’s bc it’s in the middle of the fucking semester and i’m swamped with midterms and papers and my ga-ship which requires me to help everyone else who are also scrambling on midterm papers like jeezums i’m not bitter or anything

i know that camp tho has other sessions that aren’t in novemeber, so we’ll see if i decide to participate in those. i can really only focus on one story at a time, esp if it’s a big story i’m really invested in. so participating while i’m researching and writing fanfic would be difficult for me. also the pressure to do the research i want to do in such a short amt of time would probably not be conducive for me, just personally. esp on top of another story where i’m researching and writing (even if i do put it aside to focus on camp) but since i’ve never participated, i wouldn’t know if any of that is necessarily true

thanks again for tagging me! i’ll tag two ppl i know who are writers lol; and as always with these things, feel free to fill this out or not: @talking0fmichelangel0 @lucifers-favorite-child

if you follow me or we’re mutuals and i have failed to realize you’re a writer, feel free to fill these out but tag me so i can read your answers

[backroombuzz]

100 Failed Climate Change Predictions Made In The Past 150 Years

Climate Change activists and politicians who cry 'Believe Us Because We're Smart and You're Not' have been declaring that the sky is falling for over 150 years.

Which Climate Change politician said "Planet Earth is sending out distress signals. They carry ominous messages. They tell us that the world is about to grow warmer, warmer than at any time in recorded history and that the warmth will bring catastrophe." Al Gore? Barack Obama? Some moronic UN Official? The Answer is George J. Mitchell. Many will ask "Who in the hell is George Mitchell? Mitchell was the former Democrat Senator from Main who served 15 years in the U.S. Senate, between 1980 and 1995.  The quote above is from his 1991 book, World on Fire: Saving an Endangered Earth. It just goes to show you that we aren't the first generation to be lectured about how we don't care about saving the planet. And we certainly won't be the first, nor the last to hear "If we don't act now, it'll be too late." (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); 100 Failed Climate Change Predictions 1865 -  Stanley Jevons (one of the most recognized 19th century economists) predicted that England would run out of coal by 1900, and that England’s factories would grind to a standstill. 1885 - the US Geological Survey announced that there was “little or no chance” of oil being discovered in California. 1890 - Is our climate changing? The succession of temperate summers and open winters through several years, culminating last winter in the almost total failure of the ice crop throughout the valley of the Hudson, makes the question pertinent. The older inhabitants tell us that the Winters are not as cold now as when they were young, and we have all observed a marked diminution of the average cold even in this last decade. - New York Times June 23, 1890 1891 - it said the same thing about Kansas and Texas. (See Osterfeld, David. Prosperity Versus Planning : How Government Stifles Economic Growth. New York : Oxford University Press, 1992.) 1895 - The question is again being discussed whether recent and long-continued observations do not point to the advent of a second glacial period, when the countries now basking in the fostering warmth of a tropical sun will ultimately give way to the perennial frost and snow of the polar regions - New York Times - February 24, 1895 1912 - “Fifth ice age is on the way…..Human race will have to fight for its existence against cold.” – Los Angles Times October 23, 1912 1922 - The Arctic ocean is warming up, icebergs are growing scarcer and in some places the seals are finding the water too hot. Very few seals and no white fish are found in the eastern Arctic, while vast shoals of herring and smelts, which have never before ventured so far north, are being encountered in the old seal fishing grounds. - Washington Post 11/2/1922 1922 - The Associated Press reported that coastal cities would be uninhabitable in a few years due to “a radical change in climate conditions” 1923 - Scientist says Arctic ice will wipe out Canada, Professor Gregory of Yale University stated that “another world ice-epoch is due.” He warned that North America would disappear as far south as the Great Lakes, and huge parts of Asia and Europe would be “wiped out.” – Chicago Tribune August 9, 1923 1933 - America in longest warm spell since 1776; temperature line records a 25 year rise - New York Times 3/27/1933 1939 - The US Department of the Interior said that American oil supplies would last only another 13 years. 1939 - More than eighteen years of observing the fluctuations of Arctic weather conditions in the fifty-eight Soviet scientific stations in the Far North....lead Russian meteorologists to a forecast of warmer winters and hotter summers for the North and South Poles. They believe that the earth is entering a new cycle of warmer weather. 1944 -  Federal government review predicted that by now the US would have exhausted its reserves of 21 of 41 commodities it examined. Among them were tin, nickel, zinc, lead and manganese. 1947 - A mysterious warming of the climate is slowly manifesting itself in the Arctic, engendering a "serious international problem," - New York Times - May 30, 1947 1949 - The Secretary of the Interior announced that the end of US oil was in sight. 1954 - Greenland's polar climate has moderated so consistently that communities of hunters have evolved into fishing villages. Sea mammals, vanishing from the west coast, have been replaced by codfish and other fish species in the area's southern waters. - New York Times August 29, 1954 1961- After a week of discussions on the causes of climate change, an assembly of specialists from several continents seems to have reached unanimous agreement on only one point: it is getting colder. - New York Times - January 30, 1961 1962 - Like an outrigger canoe riding before a huge comber, the earth with its inhabitants is caught on the downslope of an immense climatic wave that is plunging us toward another Ice Age. - Los Angeles Times December 23, 1962 1968 - A comparison of climatic data for the eastern United States from the 1830's and 1840's with the currently valid climatic normals indicates a distinctly cooler and, in some areas, wetter climate in the first half of the last century. The recently appearing trend to cooler conditions noticed here and elsewhere could be indicative of a return to the climatic character of those earlier years. - Monthly Weather review Feb. 1968 1969 - Col. Bernt Balchen, polar explorer and flier, is circulating a paper among polar specialists proposing that the Arctic pack ice is thinning and that the ocean at the North Pole may become an open sea within a decade or two. – New York Times - February 20, 1969 1970 - Get a good grip on your long johns, cold weather haters--the worst may be yet to come. That's the long-long-range weather forecast being given out by "climatologists." the people who study very long-term world weather trends…. Washington Post January 11, 1970 1970 - Harvard biologist George Wald estimated that “civilization will end within 15 or 30 years (1985 - 2000) unless immediate action is taken against problems facing mankind.” 1970 - The day after the first Earth Day, the New York Times editorial page warned, “Man must stop pollution and conserve his resources, not merely to enhance existence but to save the race from intolerable deterioration and possible extinction.” 1970 - It is already too late to avoid mass starvation,” declared Denis Hayes, the chief organizer for Earth Day, in the Spring 1970 issue of The Living Wilderness. 1970 - Peter Gunter, a North Texas State University professor, wrote “Demographers agree almost unanimously on the following grim timetable: by 1975 widespread famines will begin in India; these will spread by 1990 to include all of India, Pakistan, China and the Near East, Africa. By the year 2000, or conceivably sooner, South and Central America will exist under famine conditions….By the year 2000, thirty years from now, the entire world, with the exception of Western Europe, North America, and Australia, will be in famine.” 1970 -  Life reported, “Scientists have solid experimental and theoretical evidence to support…the following predictions: In a decade, urban dwellers will have to wear gas masks to survive air pollution…by 1985 air pollution will have reduced the amount of sunlight reaching earth by one half….” 1970 - Ecologist Kenneth Watt told Time that, “At the present rate of nitrogen buildup, it’s only a matter of time before light will be filtered out of the atmosphere and none of our land will be usable.” 1970 - Barry Commoner predicted that decaying organic pollutants would use up all of the oxygen in America’s rivers, causing freshwater fish to suffocate. 1970 - Ecologist Kenneth Watt declared, “By the year 2000, if present trends continue, we will be using up crude oil at such a rate…that there won’t be any more crude oil. You’ll drive up to the pump and say, `Fill ‘er up, buddy,’ and he’ll say, `I am very sorry, there isn't any.'” 1970 - Harrison Brown, a scientist at the National Academy of Sciences, published a chart in Scientific American that looked at metal reserves and estimated the humanity would totally run out of copper shortly after 2000. Lead, zinc, tin, gold, and silver would be gone before 1990. 1970 - Sen. Gaylord Nelson wrote in Look that, “Dr. S. Dillon Ripley, secretary of the Smithsonian Institute, believes that in 25 years (1995), somewhere between 75 and 80 percent of all the species of living animals will be extinct.” 1970 - Kenneth Watt warned about a pending Ice Age in a speech. “The world has been chilling sharply for about twenty years,” he claimed. “If present trends continue, the world will be about four degrees colder for the global mean temperature in 1990, but eleven degrees colder in the year 2000. This is about twice what it would take to put us into an ice age.” 1971 - “In the next 50 years fine dust that humans discharge into the atmosphere by burning fossil fuel will screen out so much of the sun's rays that the Earth's average temperature could fall by six degrees. Sustained emissions over five to 10 years, could be sufficient to trigger an ice age." – Washington Post - July 9, 1971 1971 - New Ice Age Coming---It's Already Getting Colder. Some midsummer day, perhaps not too far in the future, a hard, killing frost will sweep down on the wheat fields of Saskatchewan, the Dakotas and the Russian steppes…..Los Angles Times Oct 24, 1971 1972 - "Arctic specialist Bernt Balchen says a general warming trend over the North Pole is melting the polar ice cap and may produce an ice-free Arctic Ocean by the year 2000." Christian Science Monitor 1974 - "There is very important climatic change (Global Cooling) going on right now, and it’s not merely something of academic interest. It is something that, if it continues, will affect the whole human occupation of the earth – like a billion people starving. The effects are already showing up in a rather drastic way.” – Fortune Magazine February 1974 1974 - A number of climatologists, whose job it is to keep an eye on long-term weather changes, have lately been predicting “the facts of the present climate change are such that the most optimistic experts would assign near certainty to major crop failure in a decade,” If policy makers do not account for this oncoming doom, “mass deaths by starvation and probably in anarchy and violence” will result. New York Times - December 29, 1974 1975 - A RECENT flurry of papers has provided further evidence for the belief that the Earth is cooling. There now seems little doubt that changes over the past few years are more than a minor statistical fluctuation – Nature - March 6, 1975 1975- Meteorologists disagree about the cause and extent of the cooling trend. But they are almost unanimous in the view that the trend will reduce agricultural productivity for the rest of the century. – The Cooling World Newsweek, April 28, 1975 1976: The late Stephen Schneider who went on to become one of the world’s leading Global Warming alarmists claimed A cooling trend has set in – perhaps one akin to the Little Ice Age. 1976- This cooling has already killed hundreds of thousands of people. If it continues and no strong action is taken, it will cause world famine, world chaos and world war, and this could all come about before the year 2000. -- Lowell Ponte "The Cooling", 1976 1978 - An international team of specialists has concluded from eight indexes of climate that there is no end in sight to the cooling trend of the last 30 years, at least in the Northern Hemisphere. - New York Times - January 5, 1978 1978 - The Brutal Buffalo (NY) winter might be common all over the United States. Climate experts believe the next Ice Age is on its way. According to recent evidence, it could come sooner than anyone expected. - In Search of - "The Coming Ice Age" 1978 1980 - Evidence has been presented and discussed to show a cooling trend over the Northern Hemisphere since around 1940, amounting to over 0.5°C - Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society - November 1980 1986 - A global warming trend could bring heat waves, dust-dry farmland and disease, the experts said... Under this scenario, the resort town of Ocean City, Md., will lose 39 feet of shoreline by 2000 and a total of 85 feet within the next 25 years - San Jose Mercury News - June 11, 1986 1988 -  Philip Shabecoff, “Global Warming Has Begun.” “If the current pace of the buildup of these gases continues, the effect is likely to be a warming of 3 to 9 degrees Fahrenheit the year 2025 to 2050…. The rise in global temperature is predicted to … caus sea levels to rise by one to four feet by the middle of the next century.” 1988 - Greenhouse Effect Culprit May Be Family Car; New Ice Age by 1995? We may be less than seven years away, and our climate may continue to deteriorate rapidly until life on earth becomes all but unsupportable.... New York Times - Larry Ephron , Director of the Institute for a Future - July 15, 1988 1988 -  The West Side Highway will be under water. And there will be tape across the windows across the street because of high winds. And the same birds won’t be there. The trees in the median strip will change. There will be more police cars. Why? Well, you know what happens to crime when the heat goes up... James Hansen testimony before Congress in June 1988 1989 - “Using computer models, researchers concluded that global warming would raise average annual temperatures nationwide two degrees by 2010.” Associated Press, May 15, 1989. 1989 - Associated Press: “UN Official Predicts Disaster, Says Greenhouse Effect Could Wipe Some Nations Off Map.” The director of the UN Environment Program (UNEP) claimed “entire nations could be wiped off the face of the earth by rising sea levels if global warming is not reversed by the year 2000.” 1989 - "Using computer models, researchers concluded that global warming would raise average annual temperatures nationwide two degrees by 2010." Associated Press 1989 - 'New York will probably be like Florida 15 years from now,' - St. Louis Post-Dispatch Sept. 17, 1989 1989- Some predictions for the next decade (1990's) are not difficult to make... Americans may see the '80s migration to the Sun Belt reverse as a global warming trend rekindles interest in cooler climates. - Dallas Morning News December 5th 1989 1990 " 1995, the greenhouse effect would be desolating the heartlands of North America and Eurasia with horrific drought, causing crop failures and food riots. Michael Oppenheimer,  "Dead Heat," St. Martin's Press, 1990. 1990 The Platte River of Nebraska would be dry, while a continent-wide black blizzard of prairie topsoil will stop traffic on interstates, strip paint from houses and shut down computers." Michael Oppenheimer,  "Dead Heat," St. Martin's Press, 1990. 1990 - Giant sand dunes may turn Plains to desert - The giant sand dunes discovered in NASA satellite photos are expected to re- emerge over the next 20 to 50 years, depending on how fast average temperatures rise from the suspected "greenhouse effect," scientists believe. -Denver Post April 18, 1990 1990 - ''I think we're in trouble. When you realize how little time we have left - we are now given not 10 years to save the rainforests, but in many cases five years. Madagascar will largely be gone in five years unless something happens. And nothing is happening.'' - ABC - The Miracle Planet April 22, 1990 1990 - The planet could face an "ecological and agricultural catastrophe" by the next decade if global warming trends continue - Carl Sagan - Buffalo News Oct. 15, 1990 1993 - Most of the great environmental struggles will be either won or lost in the 1990s and by the next century it will be too late. -- Thomas E. Lovejoy, Smithsonian Institution “Real Goods Alternative Energy Sourcebook,” Seventh Edition: February 1993 1995 - the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) - Based on the findings of three working groups, the IPCC says that the earth’s temperature could rise by between 33 and 38 F by the year 2010 1996 - Today (in 1996) 25 million environmental refugees roam the globe, more than those pushed out for political, economic, or religious reasons. By 2010, this number will grow tenfold to 200 million. - The Heat is On -The High Stakes Battle Over Earth’s Threatened Climate - Ross Gelbspan - 1996 1997 - It appears that El Ninos are going to become more frequent, and they're going to become more intense and in a few years, or a decade or so, we'll go into a permanent El Nino. You'll have an El Nino, that instead of lasting 18 months, lasts 18 years," he said. - BBC November 7, 1997 1997 - One of the world's leading climate experts warned of an underestimated threat posed by the buildup of greenhouse gases ' an abrupt collapse of the ocean's prevailing circulation system that could send temperatures across Europe plummeting in a span of 10 years. If that system shut down today, winter temperatures in the North Atlantic region would fall by 20 or more degrees Fahrenheit within 10 years said Wallace S. Broecker, Newberry Professor of Earth and Environmental Sciences at Columbia University's - Science Magazine Dec 1, 1997 1999 - Scientists are warning that some of the Himalayan glaciers could vanish within ten years because of global warming. - The Birmingham Post (England) July 26, 1999 1999 - A report last week claimed that within a decade, the disease (Malaria) will be common again on the Spanish coast. - The Guardian September 11, 1999 2000- the Independent March 20th, 2000. According to Dr David Viner, a senior research scientist at the climatic research unit (CRU) of the University of East Anglia,within a few years winter snowfall will become “a very rare and exciting event”.Britain Snowfalls are now just a thing of the past “Children just aren't going to know what snow is” 2001 - A 2001 report by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change predicted that “(m)ilder winter temperatures will decrease heavy snowstorms” but increase the number of ice storms. 2001 - THE Arctic ice cap is melting at a rate that could allow routine commercial shipping through the far north in a decade and open up new fisheries...But in 10 years' time, the North-West Passage could be open to ordinary shipping for a month each summer. Peter Wadhams of the Scott Polar Research Institute in Cambridge said "Within a decade we can expect regular summer trade there," he predicts. New Scientist Feb. 27, 2001 . 2001 - In ten years time, most of the low-lying atolls surrounding Tuvalu's nine islands in the South Pacific Ocean will be submerged under water as global warming rises sea levels, CNN Mar 29, 2001. 2001 - (1) global warming will cause milder winters and (2) global warming will cause a decline in heavy snowstorm events. IPCC 2001 Third Assessment Report. 2002 - In the North Atlantic, an increasing amount of fresh water, perhaps coming from melting ice in the Arctic, has been accumulating and lowering the salinity of the ocean for the past 30 years...that would cause an abrupt drop in average winter temperatures of about 5 degrees Fahrenheit over much of the United States and 10 degrees in the Northeast. This change could happen within a decade and persist for hundreds of years. - Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute Sep 6, 2002. 2004 - Without urgent measures to rapidly reduce our greenhouse gas emissions, the possibility of limiting the temperature rise below a dangerous level will have disappeared within a decade. Report commissioned by Greenpeace and written by Jean-Pascal van Ypersele and Philippe Marbaix, Université catholique de Louvain, Belgium. July 2004. 2005 - The UN Environment Program (UNEP) warned that imminent sea-level rises, increased hurricanes, and desertification caused by Global Warming would lead to massive population disruptions. Especially at risk were regions such as the Caribbean and low-lying Pacific islands, along with coastal areas. The 2005 UNEP predictions claimed that, by 2010, some 50 million “climate refugees” would be fleeing those areas. 2005 - A task force of senior politicians, business leaders and academics from around the world claimed In as little as 10 years, or even less, their report indicates, the point of no return with global warming may have been reached. - Michael McCarthy - Environment Editor UK Independent - 1/24/05 2005 - Environmental refugees to top 50 million in 5 years --and may grow exponentially as the world experiences the effects of climate change and other phenomena," says UNU-EHS Director Janos Bogardi. - United Nations University news release - October 11, 2005 2006- NASA scientist James Hansen claimed the world has a 10-year window of opportunity to take decisive action on global warming and avert catastrophe. NBC news . 2006 -  A few more decades of ungoverned fossil-fuel use and we burn up, to put it bluntly - "The End of Nature" Bill McKibben 2006 - Al Gore claims Mount Kilimanjaro Africa’s tallest peak will be snow-free ‘within the decade. 2006 - Summer sea ice will decline as CO2 rises; 2007 marked the beginning of a ‘death spiral’ for Polar bears as CO2 levels rise. 1995 Polar bear population was around 25,000 instead of a "death spiral" their population was estimated to be about 31,000 in 2015 2006 - NOAA announced its predictions for the 2006 hurricane season, saying it expects an "above normal" year with 13-16 named storms. Of these storms, the agency says it expects four to be hurricanes of category 3 or above, double the yearly average of prior seasons in recorded history. The 2006 Atlantic hurricane season was the least active since 1997 as well as the first season since 2001 in which no hurricanes made landfall in the United States 2007- Professor Wieslaw Maslowski  “Our projection of 2013 for the removal of Arctic ice in summer is not accounting for the last two minima, in 2005 and 2007, So given that fact, you can argue that may be our projection of 2013 is already too conservative.” 2007 - IPCC AR4 predicts that by 2020, between 75 and 250 million of people are projected to be exposed to increased water stress due to climate change. In some countries, yields from rain-fed agriculture could be reduced by up to 50%. 2007 - Rajendra Pachauri, the former head of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change said in 2007 that if “there’s no action before 2012, that’s too late.” 2007 -NASA climate scientist Jay Zwally - Climate models show the Arctic Ocean could be nearly ice-free at the end of summer by 2012, much faster than previous predictions. - National Geographic  Dec. 12, 2007 2007 - "The mid-winter temperatures are now around 10.8 degrees Fahrenheit higher than they were 50 years ago." If the trend continues, Bill Fraser, an ecologist with the Polar Oceans Research Group in Sheridan, Montana. predicts that Adélie penguins will be extinct within five to ten years. National Geographic Dec. 28, 2007 2007 - Dr. Felix Landerer of the Max Planck Institute for Meteorology in Hamburg, Germany, published a study predicting that Global warming will make Earth spin faster. 2008 - THE vast Arctic sea ice that spreads across the North Pole could disappear during the summer within five years (2012-13), leading ice and snow scientists are warning. 2008 -Arctic warming has become so dramatic that the North Pole may melt this summer (2008), David Barber, of the University of Manitoba, told National Geographic News aboard the C.C.G.S. Amundsen, a Canadian research icebreaker. - National Geographic News June 20, 2008 2008 Al Gore on 13 December 2008: “The entire north polar ice cap will be gone in 5 years” 2008 - ABC News predicted that NYC would be under water by June 2015. 2008 - The Telegraph, Climate change will force refugees to move to Antarctica by 2030, researchers have predicted. 2009 - The former U.K. Prime Minister Gordon Brown predicted that if they didn’t solve the climate change “impasse” they found themselves in within 50 days, the world was pretty much doomed. 2009 - Prince Charles said, without revealing how he had “calculated” climate change threatens to engulf us all, ”we only have 96 months left to save the world. 2009- A Pennsylvania state government “Student and Teacher Guide” reads: “Some estimates of the oil reserves suggest that by the year 2015 we will have used all of our accessible oil supply.” 2009 - The world has less than five years to get carbon emissions under control or runaway climate change will become inevitable, the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) has warned.  - Oct 19, 2009 2010 - Dr. Morris Bender, from NOAA, and coauthors predict that “the U.S. Southeast and the Bahamas will be pounded by more very intense hurricanes in the coming decades due to global warming.” After 40 years of so-called global warming no increase in hurricanes has been detected, in fact, a very unusual 11-year drought in strong hurricane US landfalls took place from 2005-2016. 2012 - “It could even be this year or next year but not later than 2015 there won’t be any ice in the Arctic in the summer, which he calls “the Arctic death spiral”. - David Vaughan Glaciologist & IPCC scientist - Financial Times Magazine Aug 8, 2012 2013 - For the record—I do not think that any sea ice will survive this summer. An event unprecedented in human history is today, this very moment, transpiring in the Arctic Ocean….” - Paul Beckwith Sierra Club – March 23, 2013 2014 - France’s foreign minister said that we only have 500 days to stop “climate chaos.” This ABC 2007 video showing what it will look like in 2015... Jackasses! (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || ).push({}); None of the 100 failed predictions above are from the king of Bullshit predictions, Paul R. Ehrlich, because he would have taken up half the list by himself Ehrlich became the poster child for the loony toon climate activist when he published his book The Population Bomb, written with his wife Anne Ehrlich in 1968. Here are some of Paul R. Ehrlich's more notable failed climate change predictions he made in his book as well as other publications. In a 1969 essay titled “Eco-Catastrophe! "Most of the people who are going to die in the greatest cataclysm in the history of man have already been born,” “Air pollution…is certainly going to take hundreds of thousands of lives in the next few years alone.” Ehrlich sketched a scenario in which 200,000 Americans would die in 1973 during “smog disasters” in New York and Los Angeles. Warned in the May 1970 issue of Audubon that DDT and other chlorinated hydrocarbons “may have substantially reduced the life expectancy of people born since 1945.” Ehrlich warned that Americans born since 1946…would have a life expectancy of only 49 years, and he predicted that if current patterns continued this expectancy would reach 42 years by 1980, when it might level out. (Note: According to the most recent CDC report, life expectancy in the US is 78.8 years). Confidently declared in the April 1970 issue of Mademoiselle. “The death rate will increase until at least 100-200 million people per year will be starving to death during the next ten years.” 1970 Earth Day issue of The Progressive, assuring readers that between 1980 and 1989, some 4 billion people, including 65 million Americans, would perish in the “Great Die-Off.” In 1975, predicted that “since more than nine-tenths of the original tropical rainforests will be removed in most areas within the next 30 years or so, it is expected that half of the organisms in these areas will vanish with it.” “By the year 2000 the United Kingdom will be simply a small group of impoverished islands, inhabited by some 70 million hungry people … If I were a gambler, I would take even money that England will not exist in the year 2000.” Paul Ehrlich, Speech at British Institute For Biology, September 1971. “By… some experts feel that food shortages will have escalated the present level of world hunger and starvation into famines of unbelievable proportions. Other experts, more optimistic, think the ultimate food-population collision will not occur until the decade of the 1980s.” 1970 - The First Earth Day “In ten years (1980) all important animal life in the sea will be extinct. Large areas of coastline will have to be evacuated because of the stench of dead fish.”  Ehrlich admitted that while most of his predictions never came true he added 'they will eventually, just give it some time'... Wait, What? Ehrlich also tried to say while he was wrong, he was also right because '600 million people were very hungry'. Seriously, he actually said this in his defense. Click Here To See What Would The Earth Would Look Like If All The Ice On The Planet Actually Did Melt? Read the full article

[sinrau]

Many American public-health specialists are at risk of burning out as the coronavirus surges back.

Ed Yong July 7, 2020

Shutterstock / Arsh Raziuddin / The Atlantic

Saskia Popescu’s phone buzzes throughout the night, waking her up. It had already buzzed 99 times before I interviewed her at 9:15 a.m. ET last Monday. It buzzed three times during the first 15 minutes of our call. Whenever a COVID-19 case is confirmed at her hospital system, Popescu gets an email, and her phone buzzes. She cannot silence it. An epidemiologist at the University of Arizona, Popescu works to prepare hospitals for outbreaks of emerging diseases. Her phone is now a miserable metronome, ticking out the rhythm of the pandemic ever more rapidly as Arizona’s cases climb. “It has almost become white noise,” she told me.

For many Americans, the coronavirus pandemic has become white noise—old news that has faded into the background of their lives. But the crisis is far from over. Arizona is one of the pandemic’s new hot spots, with 24,000 confirmed cases over the past week and rising hospitalizations and deaths. Popescu saw the surge coming, “but to actually see it play out is heartbreaking,” she said. “It didn’t have to be this way.”

Popescu is one of many public-health experts who have been preparing for and battling the pandemic since the start of the year. They’re not treating sick people, as doctors or nurses might be, but are instead advising policy makers, monitoring the pandemic’s movements, modeling its likely trajectory, and ensuring that hospitals are ready.

By now they are used to sharing their knowledge with journalists, but they’re less accustomed to talking about themselves. Many of them told me that they feel duty-bound and grateful to be helping their country at a time when so many others are ill or unemployed. But they’re also very tired, and dispirited by America’s continued inability to control a virus that many other nations have brought to heel. As the pandemic once again intensifies, so too does their frustration and fatigue.

America isn’t just facing a shortfall of testing kits, masks, or health-care workers. It is also looking at a drought of expertise, as the very people whose skills are sorely needed to handle the pandemic are on the verge of burning out.

To work in preparedness, Nicolette Louissaint told me, is to constantly stare at society’s vulnerabilities and imagine the worst possible future. The nonprofit she runs, Healthcare Ready, works to steel communities for outbreaks and disasters by ensuring that they have access to medical supplies. She started revving up her operations in January. By March, when businesses and schools started closing and governors began issuing stay-at-home orders, “we were already running on fumes,” she said. Throughout March and April, she got two hours of sleep a night. Now she’s getting four. And yet “I always feel like I’m never doing enough,” she said. “Like one of my colleagues said, I could sleep for two weeks and still feel this tired. It’s embedded in us at this point.”

But the physical exhaustion is dwarfed by the emotional toll of seeing the imagined worst-case scenarios become reality. “One of the big misconceptions is that we enjoy being right,” Louissaint said. “We’d be very happy to be wrong, because it would mean lives are being saved.”

The field of public health demands a particular way of thinking. Unlike medicine, which is about saving individual patients, public health is about protecting the well-being of entire communities. Its problems, from malnutrition to addiction to epidemics, are broader in scope. Its successes come incrementally, slowly, and through the sustained efforts of large groups of people. As Natalie Dean, a biostatistician at the University of Florida, told me, “The pandemic is a huge problem, but I’m not afraid of huge problems.”

The more successful public health is, however, the more people take it for granted. Funding has dwindled since the 2008 recession. Many jobs have disappeared. Now that the entire country needs public-health advice, there aren’t enough people qualified to offer it. The number of epidemiologists who specialize in pandemic-level infectious threats is small enough that “I think I know them all,” says Caitlin Rivers, who studies outbreaks at the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security.

The people doing this work have had to recalibrate their lives. From March to May, Colin Carlson, a research professor at Georgetown University who specializes in infectious diseases, spent most of his time traversing the short gap between his bed and his desk. He worked relentlessly and knocked back coffee, even though it exacerbates his severe anxiety: The cost was worth it, he felt, when the United States still seemed to have a chance of controlling COVID-19.

The U.S. frittered away that chance. Through social distancing, the American public bought the country valuable time at substantial personal cost. The Trump administration should have used that time to roll out a coordinated plan to ramp up America’s ability to test and trace infected people. It didn’t. Instead, to the immense frustration of public-health advisers, leaders rushed to reopen while most states were still woefully unprepared.

When Arizona Governor Doug Ducey began reviving businesses in early May, the intensive-care unit of Popescu’s hospital was still full of COVID-19 patients. “Within our public-health bubble, we were getting nervous, but then you walked outside and it was like Pleasantville,” she said. “People thought we had conquered it, and now it feels like we’re drowning.”

The COVID-19 unit has had to expand across an entire hospital wing and onto another floor. Beds have filled with younger patients. Long lines are snaking around the urgent-care building, and people are passing out in the 110-degree heat. At some hospitals, labs are so inundated that it takes several days to get test results back. “We thought we could have scaled down instead of scaling up,” Popescu said. “But because of poor political decisions that every public-health person I know disagreed with, everything that could go wrong did go wrong.”

“I feel like I’ve been making the same recommendations since January,” says Krutika Kuppalli, an infectious-disease physician who works in public health. The last time she felt this tired was in 2014, after spending three months in West Africa helping with the region’s historic Ebola outbreak. Everyone who experienced that crisis, she told me, was deeply shaken; she herself suffered from post-traumatic stress upon returning home.

The same experts who warned of the coronavirus’s resurgence are now staring, with the same prophetic worry, at a health-care system that is straining just as hurricane season begins. And they’re demoralized about repeatedly shouting evidence-based advice into a political void. “It feels like writing ‘Bad things are about to happen’ on a napkin and then setting the napkin on fire,” Carlson says.

A pandemic would have always been a draining ordeal. But it is especially so because the U.S., instead of mounting a unified front, is disjointed, cavalier, and fatalistic. Every week brings fresh farce, from Donald Trump suggesting that the country should do less testing to massive indoor gatherings of unmasked people.

“One by one, people are seeing something so absurd that it takes them out of commission,” Carlson says.

Public health is not a calling for people who crave the limelight, and researchers like Rivers, the Johns Hopkins professor, have found their sudden prominence jarring. Almost all of the 2,000 Twitter followers she had in January were other scientists. Most of the 130,000 followers she now has are not. The slow, verbose world of academic communication has given way to the blistering, constrained world of tweets and news segments.

The pandemic is also bringing out academia’s darker sides—competition, hostility, sexism, and a lust for renown. Armchair experts from unrelated fields have successfully positioned themselves as trusted sources. Male scientists are publishing more than their female colleagues, who are disproportionately shouldering the burden of child care during lockdowns. Many researchers have suddenly pivoted to COVID-19, producing sloppy work with harmful results. That further dispirits more cautious researchers, who, on top of dealing with the virus and reticent politicians, are also forced to confront their own colleagues. “If I cannot reasonably convince people I’ve been friends with for years that their work is causing tangible harm, what possible future do I see on this career path?” Carlson asks.

Other scientists and health officials are facing the wrath of a nation on edge. Unsettled by months of stay-at-home orders, confused by rampant misinformation, distraught over the country’s blunders, and embroiled in yet more culture wars over masks and lockdowns, Americans are lashing out. Public-health experts—and women in particular—have become targets. Several have resigned because of threats and harassment. Others face streams of invective in their inboxes and on their Twitter feeds. “I can say something and get horrendously attacked, but a man who doesn’t even work in this field can go on national TV and be revered for saying the exact same thing,” Popescu said.

Some critics have caricatured public-health experts as finger-wagging alarmists ensconced in an ivory tower, far away from the everyday people who are suffering the restrictive consequences of their advice. But this dichotomy is false. The experts I spoke with are also scared. They’re also feeling trapped at home. They also miss their loved ones. Louissaint, who lives in Baltimore, hasn’t seen her New York–based parents this year.

“I feel like I’m living in at least three realities at the same time,” Louissaint told me. She’s responding directly to the pandemic, trying to ensure that patients and hospitals get the supplies they need. She’s running an organization, trying to make sure that her employees keep their jobs. She’s a Black woman, living through a pandemic that has disproportionately killed Black people and the historic protests that have followed the killings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery. During the ensuing reckonings about race, “I’ve been pulled into so many conversations about equity that people weren’t having months ago,” Louissant said.

“Someone said to me, ‘I hope you’re getting tons of support,’” she added. “But there’s no feasible thing that anyone could do to make this better, no matter how much they love you. The mental toll isn’t something you can easily share.”

These laments feel familiar to people who lived through the AIDS crisis in the ’80s, says Gregg Gonsalves, a Yale epidemiologist who has been working on HIV for 30 years and who has the virus himself. “I have friends who survived the virus but didn’t survive the toll it took on their lives,” Gonsalves told me. “I’m incredulous that I’m seeing this twice in my lifetime. The idea that I’m going to have to fend off another virus … like, really, can I have just one?”

But Gonsalves added that HIV veterans have a deep well of emotional reserves to draw from, and a sense of shared purpose to mobilize. His advice to the younger generation is twofold. First, don’t ignore your feelings: “Your anxiety, fear, and anger are all real,” he said. Then, find your people. “They may not be your colleagues,” he said, and they might not be scientists. But they’ll share the same values, and be united in recognizing that “public health is not a career, but a mission and a calling.”

Despite the toll of the work and the pressure from all sides, the public-health experts I talked with are determined to continue. “I’m glad I have a way in which I can be useful,” Rivers said. “I feel like it’s my duty to do what I can.”

The Pandemic Experts Are Not Okay

[wreckthelist]

at first sight: meeting Rach @ Harold Pinter stage-door

Ask me if I believe in fate, for all I’ve railed against its faults and failings, and I’ll still say yes.

I was browsing tumblr (I’ve been on here far too long, but it’s an asymmetrical symbiotic relationship, if you’ll pardon the expression.)—and came across a post on the ongoing run of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf at the Harold Pinter. It’s here, I thought. Just right here. And Luke Treadaway too at that. For how long I’ve loved his twin, Harry, I’ve been meaning to watch him live in action. Not to mention Edward Albee and I go way, way back. Oh sir, way back.

This is only one of the three sources I used comprehensively (or, more accurately, obsessively) for my IB English Higher Level Paper 1. The running themes of fiction vs. reality, illusions vs. real life, which unite Albee’s celebrated work, Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, and Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman—those I can (sprinkling present tense for extra emphasis and dramatic effect, no less) never get enough of and those which has stayed with me through these formative years, seeping themselves into my thoughts, my fiction framing, and the way I approach stories and character-writing. They’re my forefathers, those that came before, those that have stayed, and those that would always be with me.

Open up Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf and you’ll hear me go on long monologues back to those days when I drudged through daily timed (Ready. Get set. Go! And you thought English’s a breeze. It isn’t.) open-ended essay questions in class, scouring my brain for text extracts, juicy quotes, and relevant themes—all the more better if present in the three texts. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf was, and still is, my cup of tea. The dysfunctional relationships—the Dean’s daughter and the wimpy History university professor; the pretend gentleman of a Math (sorry, Nick—Biology!) university professor and his blond mousy wife—juxtaposed against each other, the young and the old, made fascinating, animated, and alive, when seen actually acted out in engrossing and hypnotic fashion by Imelda, Conleth, Luke, and Imogen. It’s alcohol numbing senses and humans playing psychological mind games and stimulating the worst in each other. It’s wordplay and emotional manipulation of the cruelest kinds and secrets spilled without second thoughts for consequences. It’s blood and gore and scars without physical, bodily harms and long, twisted monologues on the eternal battle between the young and the old, and history and science. It’s debates and confessions and lies on love and what it means to be by each other’s side as husband and wife in a relationship. It’s self-aware illusions masqueraded as truths, story-telling to its most sordid effects, reality warped as fantasies and words told and retold so often they became real. It’s manifestations of two joined minds of history that never did exist and a person, a glue to the relationship, that they wished (fervently) would exist.

“Martha: Truth or illusion, George; you don't know the difference.

George: No, but we must carry on as though we did.”

Martha: ’tis the refuge we take when the unreality of the world weighs too heavy on our tiny heads.

God, I loved it. I still do. I swallowed all that up. Mix it in with a hint of time in Willy’s fantasy escapades and we’ve got my favourite (and signature) approach to writing—in episodes and through a nonlinear timeline.

What’s true. What’s not. Why must we continually fool ourselves, despite knowing so, to go on living? What’s escapism and believing, investing so heavily in a fantasy?

Then there’s the talk of academics. University professors. Drinking. Oh, god. I know. I know. It’s all in there. It’s all in there.

I’d never been to (or in) Harold Pinter before that Monday, when I got that fateful email about [REDACTED] which, looking back, would be one of the great regrets of my life—but how could I? When you had to choose between flying home and [REDACTED]—out of my homesick heart, what would you have done???? 

To this day, I still feel like I turned down [REDACTED].

But whatever. This is not about [REDACTED] [REDACTED].

This is about the play, about the actors, about that fateful stagedoor, about the conversations that ensued afterwards, and about one particular UCL girl.

The production design was impressive—that compressed, tight-knit set (which Rach’s already described as inducing that very innate claustrophobic sense the play was supposed to instill in its audience. Oh yea, you’re not there for comfort. No. These aren’t your friendly neighborhood parlor games.) of George and Martha’s house. From the door (I still remember the details. That, or because I snuck in a last-minute photo before I left, out of sheer awe that I finally got a chance to watch that play that became my life—overstatement? Hyperbole? I think not.—live and brilliantly acted.) to the books adorning the walls-as-shelves on the left and right of the stage, the couch in the middle of the way between the door and the rug , the art pieces, the rug (later Nick’s and Martha’s sensual dancefloor, to George’s numbed dismay and Honey’s dizzy drunk mind). There’s even a fireplace, stage left. And a workdesk, stage right.

Lamps worked, as actors turned them on and off throughout. Music flew in and scenes happened before you, with no escapes of the yard outside or the bar as offered by the film (We did watch the film in English class. Bless. I do realise I have to thank Mrs. McCarthy for changing my life.)

After the play, came the stagedoor. My first ever (imagine that. In March. How far I’ve come.) I wasn’t sure. But it was Luke Treadaway, and I had to.

There’s a few (too few) of us crowded around that stagedoor, shivering in the cold. Rachel was the one Asian, another familiar face I saw. Luke came out, beanie and checkerboard/lumberjack jacket, passable as an ordinary Brit wandering the streets. No one would’ve spotted him. He said ‘yes,’ to requests, and tried signing again when my pen didn’t work the first time (I didn’t even bring my Sharpie—what an amateur. And I had them—him and the others—sign the programme. I should’ve asked for the ticket, keeping in mind how much I travel. Then again, amateur hour. A mistake not to be made twice.) I asked for a selfie, and the picture turned out damn adorable (because he was pointing at me and smiling, and I treasure it to this day). Rach asked for a selfie. Afterwards he lingered around and asked, “Anybody else?” We all said, “No,” and “Thank you,” and he left, another figure rounding the street corner.

It’s those little things an actor does that stays with you. Luke is incredibly sweet for having done that, just as Jack O’Connell was for turning my ticket the right side up before signing (ugh. You have to love him.) and taking the time to ask me, “You mind if I use your pen for a bit?” and returning me the pen.

Later Imelda came out, signing everything with a flourish and voicing (loudly) her refusal to understand social media hype.

“Why’d you do this play?” some girl asked her, and, one’d have to give her credit for that frankness (we’re not going for interview quality answers here), because she answered simply, “Someone asked me to,” before disappearing into her car and into the night.

Conlenth came and signed and went. There was nothing much there, except us telling him how great he was.

Imogen was one of the major reasons I came, aside from the play itself. My alternate tag for her is ‘sunshine,’ because her smile to me is exactly that, so you could imagine my disappointed surprise when she did not show.

Rach and I gushed about Luke, about his sweetness. We talked and talked. I’ve no idea—it has indeed been awhile—how I got the conversation started. But I did remember talking first. Maybe it was about asking her if she’d read the play before. If you’d read her side of this story, I too am not one to start conversations, but that moment just felt right.

(Like when I caught eyes with the Korean girl at the Sons gig.)

It’s hard to explain. It’s serendipity. It’s fate. It’s just something that happens. Something that just is. Something that you just know.

And with her, my hunch turned out to be for good.

We exchanged Facebook, I think—or was it Instagram too, on our walk back to the horses at the Haymarket streetlights (oh, how I’ll miss it. Good ol’ Londontown. I’m further away from you every second now.) And somehow I found her on Instagram.

And we hit it off, we did.

We made plans. Got to her place and binged on Sainsbury’s discounted Ben & Jerry’s (was it Phish Food?) and chocolate lava cake (good times.) and watched Branaugh (that 1993 version) and a bit of the Joss Whedon one (me having too many pieces of Rach’s delicious fudge in the process—mhm.)

Chatted about my romantic misfortunes (I give up. It wasn’t even romance.), obsessions, and life. She’s the most receptive, reassuring listener and I turned into my extroverted, fast-talking self so quickly around her. It’s like we’ve known each other longer than we did.

Now we’re in touch via Facebook, and Tumblr. And I can say, with guarantee, that while long-distance relationships may not work, long-distance friendships can last. I’ve carried on the same lines with my other Malaysian friend for 4 years (and met up with her twice in the UK), and this one with Rach, I truly believe and hope it could and would last.

Because we get each other. Because she understands. She’s there for me, and I promise with all my heart I would always be there for her.

And if it’s any proof of fate, I’ve been writing and am publishing this a day after Luke Treadaway’s birthday.

[impracticaldemon]

Dangerously Predictable

Fanfiction ~ Fairy Tail ~ Graylu Request ~ AU ~ Affinity for Astrology? Words: ~2900

A fanwork exchange with @miss-zei  💕

Gray pushed back his chair and stretched, enjoying the pull on muscles that had been held too tight for too long.  He scrubbed briefly at his eyes and then glanced back at the computer screen and the satisfying notation marking the end of a new chapter.  As usual, he was torn between letting Lucy read it immediately and proofreading first.

“Not much chance she’s up now anyway,” he muttered to himself, squinting down at the time showing at the lower right of his screen.  But she might be.

Lucy Heartfilia, best-selling author and sometime astrologer, kept strange hours.  Gray had first gotten to know her years ago, in high school. Back then she had been the golden girl:  blond, lovely both in face and spirit, a top student.  On top of everything else, her family had money.  Half the school had been in love with her and the other half had been bitterly jealous of her.  Gray had been surprisingly oblivious to her at the time.  A nerd through and through, the only thing he’d really cared about was keeping his grades high enough to get a scholarship to the university that housed the New Energy research laboratory.

They had met in the time-honoured way of protagonists in a teen-high-school-romance movie.  Lucy had been sitting on the floor at the back of the school’s dusty and little-used library, crying.  Gray had gone looking for an obscure reference book that happened to be in the very corner of the library in which she sat.  He still winced when he remembered his first words to her:

“Excuse me, but you’re right in front of the section I need—could you move please?”

Instead of being annoyed by his insensitivity, Lucy had just nodded and slid to one side, drawing her knees up more tightly to her chest so as to be in the way as little as possible. Gray still wasn’t sure what had gotten through to him—he thought it might have been the way that she had simply done as he asked, without protest or fuss.  He remembered getting the book he’d come for and then hesitating, as it dawned on him to wonder why the school’s most (and least) popular girl was sitting in the library in tears.  Instead of leaving, he’d asked a second question:

“What’s wrong?  I’m Gray, by the way—Gray Fullbuster.”

“Um, yeah, I know who you are,” Lucy had replied, eying him cautiously.  “We have at least two classes together. Besides, you’re the one who’s interested in cold fusion.”

Gray had been a little surprised, to put it mildly.  How had she known his guilty secret?  Cold fusion had still been considered a crackpot idea by most physicists at that point.

He’d sat down with her, and they’d talked, and he’d learned that she’d lost her mother a few years earlier and that her dad now wanted her to give up her dream of writing in order to join the family business—with an option to take some kind of business degree concurrently or down the road.  More accurately, he’d learned that she wanted to write—he hadn’t known before, of course, since things like that had never impinged on him before then.  Either way, they’d become friends.  

He’d eventually found out that she’d known about the cold fusion thing because she was writing a novel that touched on the idea and she liked to research thoroughly. Mind you, the impressive thing had been that she’d figured out that “icemakewizard” from the cold fusion forums and chatrooms was him.  It was a dumb, childish name, but he’d had it for so long even back in grade twelve that he’d been reluctant to give it up.

They’d been close friends throughout the rest of grade twelve, ignoring the teasing, taunting and outright confusion of their classmates.  When Lucy was out on a date, it was Gray who had known where she was and with whom, and the one time that Lucy had gotten really uncomfortable it had been Gray who had borrowed his dad’s car to come pick her up.  Gray didn’t go on dates, and it was a tribute to Lucy’s willingness to let Gray be himself that after a couple of gentle nudges she’d stopped pushing.

Throughout that year, and the summer afterward, Gray had learned how to write (in Lucy’s words). It had started when Lucy had ripped apart a major scholarship application he’d spent hours working on. It could have resulted in their first real fight; instead, Gray had sat at his computer studying Lucy’s proposed changes and Lucy had lain on his neatly-made bed behind him explaining each one of them in turn until Gray was satisfied and Lucy had fallen asleep. He’d contemplated leaving her there and just crashing in the basement, but he’d known her dad would give her serious grief and she’d be embarrassed, so he’d swallowed his pride and asked his own dad what to do.  

Silver hadn’t been in Gray’s life for very long at that point, and they’d still been sorting out what they thought of each other.  However, it was Silver who’d gotten him to call one of Lucy’s girlfriends so that when Gray drove her home at two in the morning, Levy could tell Lucy’s dad that they’d all been out together and lost track of the time.  Well, they had been out together—it was a longish drive from Gray’s lower-income neighbourhood to Lucy’s mansion on the outskirts of town. Levy, a petite firecracker with bookish tendencies and blue hair, had been surprisingly understanding about it all. They hadn’t spoken much, since Levy had sat in the back with Lucy.

After that summer, the shit had hit the proverbial fan.  Lucy had run away from home and her dad had blamed Gray.  Gray had just tuned him out.  Gray had known where Lucy was, and although he’d worried about her, he’d done his best to check in with her often.  He wanted to keep her safe.  It had become a lot more difficult to do once he’d started his degree in earnest, especially since he was in a different city.  Unfortunately, Lucy’s dad had a lot of pull and a lot of money; for a few years, he’d made things hard on everyone.  Gray’s grades and academic probity had been challenged at one point, and even Silver had faced strange “issues” at work.  Eventually, Jude Heartfilia’s tactics had gone from dirty to straight out violent.

Ultimately, Lucy had disappeared, and even Gray hadn’t known where she’d gone.  That had been a low point in his life.  Sure, he’d eventually been able to stop watching out for hired thugs—he’d become pretty fit and competent at self-defence over the years—but that hadn’t made up for the sudden absence of sunlight in his life.  Or starlight, rather—Lucy had always loved the stars.  Gray had loved Lucy, but he’d never spoken of it and neither had she.  She’d always seemed destined for somebody with the kind of bright warmth that Gray lacked and Lucy herself had in abundance.  He had been there to learn with and to rely on; if there was an intangible “something else” missing from the equation, such was life. But her absence hurt.  The only thing that helped was when he wrote—then he felt closer to her again, somehow.

He’d found her again when she’d published her first best seller.  She was living in a different part of the country and publishing under a different name, but he’d known it was her book the moment he’d scanned the first page.  Sooner, really.  After she’d disappeared, he’d taken to keeping an eye on the bestseller lists and hoping.  She’d called the book “The Icemakers”, and it had dealt in withering irony with the way that “rainmakers”—those indispensable individuals who brought in a business’ richest clients and fattest contracts—would stop at nothing to make a deal. The “rain” might nurture the business, but it did nothing for human relationships.  Gray had winced when he’d seen the title and read the description, but the dedication had made his heart leap with a sudden, not-quite-forgotten hope: “Icemaker, I miss you.”  

Shortly after that, Gray’s first collection of short stories had been e-published—he’d worked night and day to move up the publication date.  “Absolute Zero is Just Another Number” had been surprisingly popular, in a limited way. Nobody had understood the inscription: “The stars are cold without you.”

Two days later he’d gotten an email that read:  “You still aren’t very good at poetry, ice wizard.  I mean, what does that mean, anyway?  Congratulations on the book.”  He’d stared at it for hours trying to decide what to do.

Eventually, he written back: “You always told me to be less terse. I miss you too.  Congratulations on the best-seller.  Not surprised.”

He’d flown halfway across the country just to see her again.  It had been a shock for both of them, really.  Gray had filled out, and several years of periodically dodging Jude Heartfilia’s thugs had gotten him into the habit of keeping extremely fit. Silver had approved of the change and helped him train.  That had been… interesting.  Lucy had only seen him in his late teens and very early twenties—she was gone by the time he really hit his stride and became “the hottest guy to have ice in his veins”, as one eloquent admirer had eventually commented in despair.

Lucy, for her part, was even more beautiful than Gray remembered—and he’d tried to prepare himself—but what had caught him off-guard had been the strain on her face and the sadness in her eyes.  She was still unmistakeably Lucy, but diminished somehow. Quieter, more tired, less bright. She should have been glowing with the success of her book.

Their meeting had been awkward.  Lucy had obviously expected recriminations for her disappearance, but Gray had understood and forgiven her long since—almost from the beginning.  Gray had seen Lucy’s eyes widen when she’d seen him and they’d both realized that what she’d really wanted was his grade twelve self—unassuming and undemanding and far less threatening.  They were both adults now, with far more experience of the world.

Once they’d both adjusted a little, Gray had learned about all the challenges that Lucy had faced over the five years since she’d disappeared.  What had surprised him most was that Lucy’s father had died recently, and Lucy deeply regretted not having had the chance to speak with him before the end.  Bit by bit, over the course of their first reunion, Lucy had seemed to brighten, and by the time she had seen Gray off at the airport the next day she had looked so much like her former self that Gray had been reluctant to leave.

It had been the same the next two times they’d met:  Lucy would look stressed when Gray arrived and be starting to relax by the time he left.  Halfway through his fourth visit, Gray had told Lucy that he hadn’t bought a return ticket.  She’d looked at him for a long time and then commented that she’d already stocked up the fridge to feed two people and made up the guest room.  It had a small attached bathroom with a shower.  The perks of writing a best-seller, she’d said.

“There’s no point in you paying for a hotel, or a separate apartment” she’d added, looking down. “And… thanks.”

“What am I missing?” he’d asked, studying her closely.  “I mean, it sounds like there’ve been ups and downs, but you seem—well, scared.”

She’d put him off, and he’d given in easily and turned his mind to reorganizing his life.  It wasn’t until he’d been there over a month that she’d suddenly broached the subject.

They’d been sitting in his room.  Or rather, Gray had been at his desk, typing on his laptop and Lucy had been stretched out on her back on his bed behind him.  She seemed to love seeing him write—he supposed it was the feeling of having been the person who’d gotten him started.  He’d been frowning at the screen, trying to pretend that he didn’t know why he couldn’t concentrate.

“They’re always right. That’s the problem.”

Gray had given up on his writing immediately and gone to sit on the floor by the bed.  After a moment’s hesitation, he’d taken Lucy‘s hand, something that he’d done in the past when she’d been especially upset.

“What are always right?”

“My predictions—my fortune telling.  Astrology just… works for me, whatever medium I use.  Not that I see ghosts or anything… um.  I can predict things about people and for some reason, they always come true. I hate it.  It started happening when I first decided to do the fortune-telling as a part-time job to raise money—you know?”

He knew; she’d mentioned it briefly earlier.  Lucy continued.

“I finally had to start giving vaguer answers.  I wanted to be an author, not a full time astrologist!  But even working in a third-rate tea-shop word about my predictions started to get around.  I made good money at first, but then… then people started coming with terrible stories, tragic situations, and they all wanted to know “would it be okay?” and “how can avoid this terrible fate?”  It was awful. Many of them couldn’t pay but I felt like I needed to do the reading as some kind of public service…”

“Lucy…”

Her hand had clenched under his and he’d made a point of straightening it out again, finger by finger.

“That’s why I moved away from the first city.  It was a wrench—I’d chosen it specially to be a refuge, a place where I could write.” Lucy’s voice trembled slightly, even though she was by no means an easily frightened person.  “And… that’s it.”

“Is it?”

There had been a long, long pause.  Reluctantly, eyes fixed on Gray’s face, Lucy had replied:  “Not quite. I did a reading for you.  I… missed you.”

“And?”  Gray had kept his voice deliberately detached, but his hand was wrapped firmly around Lucy’s.

“It was very confusing. Your life would be in danger if we met each other again.  But it would also be in danger if we didn’t.”

Gray had let out a long breath.

“Lucy, everyone’s life is in danger every moment of every day.  That’s how it is.  Life is dangerous. But it’s worse if you make yourself too afraid to live at all, right? You told me that once.  You always took the weirdest risks—“

“They weren’t weird!”

“They weren’t statistically probable—“

“You and your statistics!”

“You and your belief in luck!”

“And?”  Lucy had turned to lie on her side so that it was easier to keep her eyes on Gray’s.

“And you’ve usually been very lucky.  Even when your life has gone to pieces—I mean, we actually survived quite a lot, when you put it all together.  But I’ll tell you what I think, if you’ll hear me out.”

Gray had wrapped his arms around Lucy, so that she was partially cradled against his chest.  She had looked surprised, and then almost relieved. He’d waited to feel her nod before he’d gone on.

“I think it’s time to give the astrology—the cards and all the rest of it—a miss.  You’ve gotten pretty messed up since you left, Luce. See, I know you pretty well.  My guess is that you left in the first place because you did a reading and it said I’d be in danger if we stayed together. But you panicked and didn’t check the other half—not until much later.  Am I right?”

There had been another nod against his chest and a mutter that had sounded suspiciously like a slightly teary “stupid intellectual show-off”.  With more courage than he’d known he had, Gray had bent down and kissed Lucy’s hair.

“Well, this stupid, intellectual show-off—which doesn’t make much sense, you know?—thinks we should go home. Together.  Like, really together.  There are people who’d love to see you.  And, um”—deep breath—“I love you.”  When Lucy didn’t move, but seemed to relax, Gray had continued doggedly. “So no more predictions, right or wrong. Let’s be completely free to screw things up on our own—or not.”

Lucy had struggled to sit upright and leaned her forehead against Gray’s.

“So it’s going to be you after all, huh?  I kept thinking how being my friend had messed up your life.”

“Stupid intellectual best-selling author.”

“That… really didn’t make any sense as an insult.  Or just, at all.”

Gray had ignored the comment.  He’d traced his hands—very strong hands, Lucy realized—around Lucy’s face and then down along her neck.  They’d both shivered slightly, although Gray’s hands were cool, not cold.  When his lips had touched hers, Lucy had found herself leaning into the kiss.  It had gone on for some time.

Nah, she’s probably awake.  Gray walked quietly into the apartment’s spacious master bedroom. Lucy was lying in bed staring drowsily up at the ceiling.  As soon as Gray walked in, she sat up, face brightening.

“New chapter right?  I had a feeling your writing would go well this evening!”

Gray eyed her suspiciously. “A feeling?”

Lucy stuck out her tongue at him.  “The Lady Heartfilia spoke with those who have passed,” she said in sepulchral tones. “And they told her that the little plot difficulty with the Spatter-Latter Array would all work out…”

“The Matter—Anti-Matter Array, Luce.  As if you didn’t know.”

“Oh, it was probably the spirits.  They’re not very interested in these things.”

Gray studied Lucy, admiring the golden hair curling over one shoulder.  He decided that he wasn’t very interested either, right at the moment. The new chapter could wait. Probably better to read it over first anyway…

END

Tag team:

@shell-senji @fury-ous @queen-mizera @kazama-hime @hakusaitosan @tealdeertamer @very-x-vice @sabinasanfanfic @walk-tall-my-fr1ends @hakuokifirst @annahakuouki @eliz1369 @canadiangaap @vav-airis @moon-faced-pear-shaped @lady-yomi @thesweateristoobig @nalufever @sanguine-fairy

[bloodinhershoesrpg]

Congratulations Tabby, you have been accepted for the role of Daphne Visvardi with a faceclaim change to Merve Boluğur! Your application was an enchanting read from start to finish, with both the stream of consciousness (which I — along with your connection of choice — adore, in all honesty) and the bullet points section offering so many insights in Daphne’s upbringing and inner workings I deem perfectly fitting for her that I am beyond excited to see how you will portray her in action! Please send in your account with 24 hours and have a look at the checklist before you do!

REGARDING YOURSELF

Name / Age / Pronouns: Tabby / 18+ / She. Activity: Very variable, frankly, because I work weird hours and am in a long distance relationship so whenever my gf visits I tend to disappear for days on end. However, I am always lurking from my Kindle so I am always watching benevolently over the group.

REGARDING THE STAR OF YOUR SHOW

Character name and faceclaim: Daphne Visvardi, Merve Boluğur

CHARACTER DISSECTION

#1 - stream of consciousness/para

Daphne’s numbness is blithe, her lips meeting as silk around the ice cold glass of vodka. She is tremulous without it. Yet elsewhere, amidst a cloud of soulless uncertainty, wintry swans cast snow from fledgling feathers upon a stage that was hers by right. Adeline guided Lindsey with hands fluttering with inspiration, pushing her to leap just a little higher, and the sight settled as heavy, sodden dust in Daphne’s heart. Princess Aurora had been stolen from her twice now, first by her own protege, and now by some dark little nobody.

At least when Katerina had taken the part, Daphne could comfort herself that, perhaps, she had only possessed those skills because of Daphne’s own tutelage.

It was a part that had always eluded her, Aurora. She had danced a gossamer Swan Princess, brought life to Giselle’s soft limbs, she had lived and died as Juliet. Downtrodden in a hushed and sussurrous haze, she scowled once more at the stage. In days gone by, she had been everything. The heralding stars were a map of her movements, and each symphony cupped her sculpted body as though it had been written for her. It was how the world was meant to be.

She had always supposed it came of being a twin. Lucille, just a few minutes older than Daphne, had always been in competition. Always pushed themselves to beat their mirror image. It could have torn them apart, had they not competed at such different things; Daphne was the prettiest, she was the best dancer, she was the most famous. But Lucille was the most studious, the most clever, she was lauded by some as a genius in her field of physics. It was how their mother had liked it, pushing each girl to her limits.

Daphne hadn’t told her mother yet, that she was to be Carabosse. She was already dizzied by her premonition, of that disapproving sniff. “Well,” she would say, eyes lingering on Daphne’s calves as though they might be the culprits of her failure, “At least it’s a named part. Oh, darling, did you hear, Lucille had her study on the movement of space-time published by the AAAS?”

She’d told Lucille, anyway, and had received warm indulgences and sympathy. They were so different, and it allowed them to be best friends. Lucille was her only friend, really. She’d thought, once, that Katerina had been a good friend, but she had usurped her, and friends didn’t do that. Katerina had been just like the rest of them, pretty and young and ready to submit her skin to their punishing art form. Daphne had hated the smugness she felt when, at rehearsals, Katerina had once in a while stumbled. Not least of all because whenever anyone else required assistance, it diverted the attention away from Daphne’s desultory grace.

So preoccupied was she with thoughts of harpy-mothers and dead proteges, she quite missed the first attempt on her attention. Adeline was attempting to summon her for a little one-on-one session, and Daphne rose with all the regality she could muster. Walking forth in somber echo, she fancied she felt the sympathetic eyes of the young dancers around her, and it made her seethe. To them, she had once been a perfect cadence. Now, too many of them pitied her. Opalescent light means little without a prism with which to prehend, and in their pitying gaze she withered. Did they know about the drinking? Did everyone? Or did they only see the breath of a crow’s foot blossoming beside her eyes, a grim memento mori that no quantity of expensive lotions could erase?

Ascending to the stage, she brushed past Lindsey. She wasn’t sure if Lindsey even noticed, really, but Daphne was electrically aware of the youthful plumpness of her skin, glowing pink with exertion. Lindsey was insulting in her youth, insolent in her grace. Only years of practiced malice kept Daphne’s expression smooth and expectant, and the spotlights onstage were a salve. There was very little that couldn’t be fixed with a little attention.

“Well,” she trilled with a voice that was both melodic and yet utterly lacking in heart, “Let’s not stand around waiting for the grass to grow!”

#2 - a life in bullet points

Daphne and her twin were both enrolled in pre-ballet classes by their mother, who insisted they try their hand at everything in order to find their strengths. Lucille hated it, but Daphne had a natural talent and soon became absorbed in the world of ballet. She attended a ballet academy from the age of 11; she’d wanted to train in Russia but it was financially impossible, so she went to London instead.

She became the best not through natural talent, but through grueling work. Her academic work suffered because of it, but she danced tirelessly and strove always towards perfection.

For most of her life, Daphne has considered herself to be perfectly in control. She never succumbed to an eating disorder, as so many ballerinas did, because she knew how many calories she burned through dance and ate enough to maintain a slim, muscular physique without suffering. She considers herself to be in control of her drinking, too, because she thinks that she could stop, if she wanted to– - it’s just that she doesn’t care to.

Having been such a workhorse her whole life, Daphne never made many friends. At first it was a matter of having no time to socialise, and then her peers began to notice that when she was present, there was a certain insincerity about her that tended to rub them up the wrong way. Her smile was wide enough, but her words were hollow. People, to her, were either talented, and therefore a threat, or untalented, and therefore not worth wasting her breath on.

Being relegated to playing Carabosse was, naturally, a blow to her. Daphne has made it her life’s mission to become a ballerina, and she worked damn hard for it, and now at only 33 she’s being passed over for younger dancers. She’s always been a jealous person, but this blow is pushing her right to the edge.

CONNECTING THE DOTS

KATERINA SANTOS was the first person in a long time that Daphne would call a friend. At first their relationship was purely professional: Katerina valued the lessons that Daphne could give, and Daphne enjoyed the powerful feeling of respect. At home, she was always the little sister– - needy and attention seeking, it was up to Lucille to watch over her. With Katerina, Daphne took on that role herself and found that it suited her. If she was less proud, she might even consider teaching once her ballerina days are over. Over time the bond between the two women grew, and they shared a great deal. Daphne really thought she did love Katerina, until the cast list was released and Katerina had what was rightfully hers. Betrayed and usurped by someone that was supposed to care for her, any friendship she felt towards Katerina withered immediately.

DORIAN ARMSTRONG is not someone that Daphne ever wanted to like. Most of her drinking is done at home, but she’s aware that the first sign of alcoholism is drinking alone. To that end, she often drops in at McMahon’s after rehearsals for a few drinks, and so she often sees Dorian. Though convinced he judges her for her habits, she remains cordial on the outside as she couldn’t bear the humiliation of being barred from the pub. It only occurred to her after many weeks of drinking there that he’s also a delivery man, often bringing special costume pieces and props in during the day. He always seems to be there on the periphery, and his constancy is something that Daphne appreciates. Perhaps it’s because any time spent with him tends to be spent under the influence, she finds that she can relax a little around him.

REGARDING YOUR INSPIRATION

I have sadly not had enough time to post on the mockblog I made! I had great plans, but the last few days have been hectic and I wanted to get in before acceptances. I do have my inspo tag on my blog, but for now that’s all I’ve got to offer!

[2centsofsilver]

2am (Evening of 1/18)

Open Letter to My Parents (in the works of my head) Dear Mom and Dad, I don’t know why this is happening to us. I’m sorry that I have a mental disorder. Honestly with you, those features - the really bad ones - the ones where those misdiagnoses happened - the outliers that don’t appear among relationships with me and everyone else - come through in our relations: Screaming episodes any time we’re together, verbal expression of extreme opposition, cutting insults (the kind one could never forgive another for), severe anger issues and the type of disorientation one with BPD exhibits (expressions of not being rooted in reality, not hearing the other person, deliberately re-directing conversations, but coming off as stupid/blind/naive), the whole “I love you/I hate you” feature, threats from you that you’ll disown me as your daughter, threats from me that I’ll abandon you as my family, sibling sidings, threats to kill myself, blaming you for wanting to kill myself, the list goes on. Honestly, I feel things are at their absolute worst- the worst they’ve EVER been. I no longer cry or am emotionally affected/saddened by our exchanges. I no longer have that “fear of abandonment” feature (but I have it with my friends). I know my friends are there for me and that is where my support system lies. I love you very very much, but your love is conditional. If you know how much heart your daughter has, like if you knew her, you (maybe) would like her? Like if you changed though too. Because right now your love is conditional: You love me if I am ___ or do ____ or stop doing ____. I believe that any issues in a relationship are ALWAYS two way streets. So I’m willing to take 50% of the blame. But because I’m your daughter, there’s a level system there, so I feel more comfortable taking 40%. Maybe you feel the same way, with your level system on the other side, and you’re comfortable taking 40%. I know it’s less though. You do not see relationships as two way streets. You do not own up to all the ways in which you’ve hurt me. You DISCOUNT every single thing you’ve ever done that has remotely negatively influenced me. You also just flat out don’t believe you ever have. And instead, I’m the bad one, I’m a shitty daughter, there’s something wrong with ME for thinking that, for seeing it that way, for trying to see it *fairly*. If anything you blame yourselves for the countless ways in which you’ve “failed” as parents, raising such a “despicable” daughter.  You never failed, but I’m not despicable. If you felt my heart, if you were inside me, if you felt the pain I feel on a daily basis constantly being abandoned by friends who I thought cared about me, constantly having anxiety over day-to-day situations, constantly feeling inadequate, not good enough, and constantly needing validation from others. If you knew what it was like for 1 person to struggle with any form of mental illness, physical illness, handicap, what have you. Or if you had any appreciation for or AWARENESS of or acceptance of marginalization. If you could own up to the ways in which you fall into the trap of stigamatization. I honestly don’t know who you’d be. Would you even be my parents anymore? I often see on social media - Facebook - parents commenting on their children’s posts, publicly saying how “proud they are” of their sons or daughters. Or directly, publicly, telling their children those same words. Or just liking their posts and sharing their posts and being fun and funky and silly and sweet. There comes a time in life as people grow up and older that that level system from “dominance/authority” to “equality/admiration” shifts drastically. There comes a time, I’ve noticed, when parents become their children’s friends and their children openly love and accept that and are no longer self-conscious of it in front of others. There comes this time that never happened for us and I’m really worried it never will happen for us, when you’re supposed to start hopping around and telling people you know, when they ask how Katie’s doing, all the great things she’s doing in life and where she’s headed. You’re supposed to get excited like I am. There comes a time when you’re supposed to come over to my house and say, “How have you been? We’ve missed you.” Or “How’s your application process coming along? We’re happy for you.” There are these beautiful shooting stars that go off in the midnight sky when moms want to “get to know” their daughters. That level system changes, it equals out, it becomes more human-to-human. I don’t know what to do, but I feel sick about it day to day. Things have drastically gotten worse in the last few years, but they’ve always been bad. You don’t believe me? You’re in denial. They’ve been bad since I entered high school. You still treat me like you did 12 years ago. And you’re going to do it to my brother too, that’s why he wants to run away, travel north, all the way up there, to get away from you and live independently. He wants his own space, his own time, his life back. It’s why I don’t visit home much anymore, why I don’t call you for weeks on end, why I don’t want to talk to you about things. I don’t know how that comes off regarding my personality -- I mean, you must know that I’m not the same way with my friends, co-workers, bosses, teachers, right? I know you think I repeatedly go into therapy complaining and bitching about my “horrible parents,” the ones who “don’t love me,” or “did this and that.” But that’s not true. I rarely talk about you because I can’t or when I do, it’s “I don’t know what to do. I’m a bad daughter. I want our relationship to be better.” Let’s date back to middle school or high school from the academic perspective. Parent teacher conferences, or whatever. All the ways in which my teachers raved about me, my artwork in the hallway, all those things that marveled and dazzled you as parents. That’s still me. Sometimes, I worry I’ve lost myself too, like in for instance, the case of me no longer pursuing English teaching or writing. But I’ve found other interests. YOU instilled that in me growing up, by exposing me to hundreds of thousands of activities and experiences. You’re the ones who taught me to love more than one thing, to constantly explore, learn, and grow. You’re the one who taught me how to be myself, how to find my identity, but you never taught me much about how to influence others, that came through my exposures to good experiences and the good heart I was born with, maybe my love for nature and art, our love when I was a young child, and definitely my loving grandparents. So I used to be this like, “perfect” student or whatever. Did that disappear when I didn’t go to Hope College? I got straight A’s in community college instead. I’m getting off track here -- let’s date back to that academic perspective from when I was younger. That’s still me. Like she exists inside me. I still love music, writing, art, nature, going to Glen Arbor, being with my family, school, funny jokes. I’m sorry that I gave up clarinet and piano and didn’t pursue journalism after managing the high school publications. I’m sorry that I no longer *talk about?* writing -- but I still do it. I try to write every day. And I’m still going to be a published author one day, even if you disagree with my content.  I have always cared about other people more than I care about myself. I have always been social, a people person, even though I was shy. I always had a lot of friends until the antisemitism arose in high school. You hated me for that. Is that when it started? You hated me for “choosing those friends” who would ultimately do that to me and to our family. But I was happy before it happened, dad. I was a thriving teenager who had the best summer of her life before that. She was living her dream, everything she ever wanted to be. She didn’t know it was going to happen. She didn’t “choose” antisemitic friends who she knew would bully her and trespass our lawn and drive me off the road and stalk our house at night. She didn’t know. Do you blame them or do you blame me? I wanted to go to therapy in the 9th grade because I had really bad social anxiety disorder. I couldn’t look at any one in the hallways, couldn’t answer questions in class, couldn’t give presentations, and I think I missed over 50 days of school that year because I could not face the inside of that high school. I wanted to go to therapy to get help and be happy again. My god, FOR YEARS, the THEME of my therapy sessions among ALL my therapists has been “Confidence and Happiness.” I want to be “Happy and Confident” (Depression and Anxiety's opposites). YOU’RE THE ONE who went out of your way to find me a therapist you knew through someone else. I loved that therapist. I ended up seeing her for 7 years and she changed my life. I’m guessing it bothered you that you had a young daughter who was struggling. And I know you were happy to hear that I loved my therapist and that our sessions were working. I remember distinctly telling mom about the “Anxiety Toolkit” stuff. I remember she used to ask me, and I would tell her, and I was excited about my progress and applying the strategies we came up with during my day-to-day attempts to get through high school. I don’t know at what point you stopped being affected by my hardships. I’m not by any means saying they should “still break your heart,” I’m saying I don’t know at what point you developed this idea that, “Therapy fixes people. Why isn’t she fixed yet?” Every single truth for me in my life is countered by responses that I cannot even begin to fathom comprehension for. Like I try very hard to understand where you’re getting this information from or why you might feel the way you do. I’m very conscientious in my efforts to see things from your angles and understand why you might be feeling the way you do. But like, my depression has gotten drastically worse (or more developed?) over the course of the last 10 or so years. It has depleted me, exhausted me, and defeated me. I honestly feel physically weakened anytime I even try to think these things through anymore. Like my shoulders drop and I just don’t have it in me anymore. I have become hardened to all pain, a concrete wall (I used to say this when I was 14), and incredibly resilient beyond my years. I have been through so much turmoil inside me that I had to grow up far sooner than a lot of people my own age. I am grateful for that, for I cannot imagine being so god damn behind in life, but it also has hardened me, made me stoic, it’s the reason I don’t have much positivity or enthusiasm in life, like there really isn’t a point and it’s a state impossible for me to feel. I try, don’t get me wrong, I really do try. Every day I try to make it a good day. But I am tired, do you understand? My mind, body, and soul are tired.  “That’s because you need to lose weight.” You might say. I guess I could use that topic as a phenomenol example of how exhausting it is to get through any half a minute of conversation with you. Like if we’re at the table and I’m trying to talk to you about something important and I mention I’m tired, you’d probably respond with that. And you’d divert the conversation almost immediately to the point where there’s no way I could ever get out of that new topic. Immediately, I’m forced to defend myself: “I AM losing weight. I just joined a new gym, I’m on the 21 day fix. I go to the gym every day, for a whole year now! A YEAR.” “Well clearly it’s not working,” you’d chuckle. “If you’d just start eating right, if you’d just start exercising...” It’s a great example because it demonstrates your disoriented view of how change is immediate or black and white. You’ve never believed me or believed in the concept of change happening gradually, over time. I know your deadlines are “asap,” but you have to accept that it’s probably going to take the course of the rest of my life for me to be happy, try to be happy, find happiness. Things will always be hard for me because I’ve seen too much, experienced too much. Even when I do finally reach happiness one day or whatever, things will still suck. Because the whole world affects me differently than other people. Everything is interconnected. I am vastly influenced by every person I’ve ever met. And when I grieve, I grieve those people for years. I have to give myself permission to grieve too, even when I feel I’ve surpassed my deadlines. Extended my deadlines, surpassed them again. It takes a long time for pain to fade, I might never get through to the people who have hurt me, but time eventually will make those memories fuzzy. In time, maybe I’ll only think about them once a week, or once a month. For now though, I grieve. There is so much going on inside me that you could never possibly understand because you don’t believe in mental illness. You also don’t believe in mental health practitioners. You hate who I am and how I am and resent me for all my therapy and how hard I try every day. You want me to be different and I am working on myself all the time, and I need assistance to function. I’m sorry. I also need assistance because I need support because I can’t get through life without people who are there for me. If you had any idea how fucking alone I am, even surrounded by so much support lately, I’m pretty sure it would kill you. Or any breathing person who’s not you. Like I honestly have no idea what it would be like for you to experience me because you have zero empathy when it comes to other people’s personal problems. You’re like a fucking Behavior Analyst. You’re everything wrong with the field. You judge only based off what you can see. You come over to my apartment, you see the way I live, you think it’s as easy as just changing my environment, as easy as just “stopping.” You don’t believe in thoughts, feelings, or emotions. You make fun of people with developmental disabilities or physical disabilities. You don’t believe in depression. Like how can you not believe in the one driving force that makes me who I am, that makes life SO fucking hard for me, that interferes with every aspect of my life, YOU SEE the effects. It’s mind-boggling. You don’t believe int he source, you think it’s ME. The other fucking night we were out to dinner in Kzoo, and we were fighting in public which is our new trend, and dad, you literally told me that the mental health field is a wasted field, helping people is all a wasted effort, that mental illness doesn't exist, and that I am literally wasting my future and the rest of my life by committing myself to helping others get better and make the most out of life. Saying that, you aren’t just referencing third person ideas and concepts. You are directly cutting me in so many capacities: You are discounting my personal journey, my efforts, my day-to-day battles, my long-term goals, my progress, my pain, and my commitment to helping others live a happy life. I don’t know how that isn’t something to be proud of. How do you not believe in being selfless? Mom’s a teacher! I used to really really want you to be proud of me. I’ve now found that it’s not possible, so I can only be proud of myself. I know that I have a lot of people in my life who are proud of me and excited for me and all that I’m going for in my life. But I’m concerned. My 25 year old adult self who has felt 57 since age 14 is concerned.  I am about to go off to grad school because I feel now is the time. I am also ready for adventure because while yes, I still struggle with depression, I feel I’m better now than I ever have been and I’m ready and feel capable, with the promise of resources wherever I go, that I’ll be ok. That I can do this.  What I do know is that oftentimes, children and parents stop getting along and no longer continue to try. Somehow, they just stop loving each other. I’m not willing to let that happen to us, even if it already has on your end. I still love you, I will always love you, no matter what. And I am not willing to travel across the country with our problems they way they are. You’re not willing to change, to even accept that there are any issues in our family. You don’t believe in therapy so you’d never consider family therapy. And you say I’m one of those fake professionals who wants to “bring people closer” and “families together” when it’s not possible. You say you’re too old to mend things with me, dad. What does that mean? Do you know since I was really little, my biggest fear in the entire world has been my parents dying? I DON’T WANT YOU to get old or sick and not fucking know how much I always loved you. How sorry I am. And how badly I wish I could be everything you wanted me to always be. But I just can’t travel thousands upon thousands of miles away with our issues where they stand. I will not be ok where I end up, but I’ll be better, knowing I have a supportive family and that we’re “good.” We don’t have to be perfect, but even if we’re just “good.” I have mental illnesses, mom and dad. Like whether you believe that’s possible or not, but I do. I call them that because with names, they’re treatable, and I can get help and support from others who have been there or are trained to help me. I have been diagnosed by doctors who know what they’re doing (you’re all science), and I’m on medication that has been carefully chosen by the best psychiatrist in southwest Michigan, and it works. Without it, I would have killed myself in 2011. I am ready to travel to the other side of the country now, to live my life and feel adventure while I still can. I want to fall in love, get married, have children, start a career, and be successful. I want to travel and explore the world and become the even better me that you always dreamed I’d be, but for myself and the others in my life or career that I’ll be helping. Like anyone else, I’m allowed to experience experiences. I’m ready. And whether or not you can be happy for me, we need to be good, because without support from the root source of where I derived, without support from the direct source of where I’m from, who I am, where I’ve come from, and who I can always turn back to if things were to ever go wrong for me on the other side of the country, my emergency contacts; or the people who I love very much, who I care for very much, who I will be taking care of when you’re not your finest, when you grow older and need my help, I will be there. So without us being good, I cannot go off and see the world. I will be in pain for life without us being good. I know you hurt too, so why can’t we work on us. Why can’t we just figure out a way to do this.  3:35am, Interview at 10:30. Goodnight.