#I did not imagine they were talking about fiscal responsibility
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the best part of being an adult with a car and money is you can go to a grocery store and buy yourself some nice cheese and strawberries and no one will stop you. the worst part is you have to pay for it yourself.
#when people said to little zaki things like “being an adult is hard enjoy being a kid etc”#I did not imagine they were talking about fiscal responsibility
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I never on my life got this nervous with a post before. This is me advocating for a group I'm not a part of and I tried to do my research the best I could. So let's go.
THE YANOMAMI HUMANITARIAN CRISIS (AND GENOCIDE)
When the pandemic hited Brazil and it was revealed that former president and Trump personal dick sucker Jair Messias Bolsonaro refused the vacine numerous times and ignored Pfizer tentatives of contact, not only that but he spred dangerous misinformation about the virus. Because of his lack of responsability during the covid-19 crisis brazilian left wing started calling him a genocide. But we had no idea how right we were.
Bolsonaro was always a huge supported of mineration. He even tried to legalize it on indegenous people - an effort he didn't suceed. One of brazilian biggest gold reserves is in protective areas more specifically in the divise between Brazil and Venezuela were the yanomami indigenous tribe lives. Well you can imagine where the story goes.
Bolsonaro defunded organs that protected native people and put on comand of the yanomami areas high ranking militar people who had no experience, instruction or prepare whatsoever for it. They made a concil to discuss the righs of land and protection of the Amazon rainflorest and none of the members where native people. They autorized the miners to act close to the area.
Not only that but they refused to send help, closed health centers and ignored letters from people working for FUNAI (the organization that protects and acts on indegenous land) about extreme violence from the miners and corruption inside the institucion (for instance their helicenter for specialized helicopters was being used by the miners who bought the people fiscalizing the landings). 30% of the medicine sent to the tribe never got to them.
With the miners destroying the land they depended to leave, bringing deceases and cominting acts of violence soon famine came to the tribes and the miners started to trade food for either gold or more frequently sexual favors mostly from minors. Some that couldn't sexually assault them by despair did it by force and a 12 year old girl was abused and killed, her body throwed in the river, the authorities took a long time to hear the natives denounces and try at least rescue the body. They also used food as payment to work either on their farms or by doing the mining. Besides that they would trade alcohool and drugs to the natives to turn them addicted and dependent on them.
Bolsonaro and some of his personal are being investigated for purposifully causing this tragedy as means to facilitate mining wich constitutes in proper ethinical genocide. It's only an investigation but if nothing more his inaction and omission already constitutes a human rights violation. I don't know if anyone will actually respond for it. I hope they do but I don't trust this capitalistic society to do anything against powerfull people no matter what they do.
Now I did lie in the begining of this post. I'm sorry. I said we had no idea about it and that's a lie. Me and other white people had the priviledge of not knowing or caring enough. Indigenous activists have been talking about it the whole time. In november when doing a presentation about how psychology could help in the fight for land reform and indegenous spaces my research took me to an interview with an indigenous leader where he said that Bolsonaro's discourse by itself made so the miners and landowners relatated to agriculture would invade protected areas and beat or even kill the natives who oppose and when they talked about their rights they would say "not for long" or "it doesn't matter president Bolsonaro is on our side". That was just based on his racist rethoric against native people. His actions were even more talked about. This was an evitable tragedy and we have to keep it in mind so we can always listen and look for the signs of prejudice and violence to at least try to end them before it's too late.
I'm doing this post not for a lession on white inaction but mostly because there isn't much I can do to help as a broke college student. So I'm trying to maybe hype some donations from you guys.
Here is the link from an organization who is helping to buy food and medicine and help the humanitarian crisis. I did some background checks and also this one actually accepts money in different currencies. So yay. Please, please IF YOU CAN DONATE.
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Politics
You often allude or imply that you've been an Anarchist for a long time. Decades even. Well, this is simply not true.
In 2010, you were a Libertarian. Libertarians are not leftists, but rather "fiscally conservative, socially liberal," devil's advocate right wingers.
"Libertarian, conservative-leaning Christian" in 2011. That's more to the right.
In 2016, you were back to being a Libertarian with the typical EndTheFed and taxationistheft hashtags. Pay close attention to this as it will come up again.
The same year, you call yourself an "AnCap." So, you found out that you could attach a leftist school of though to a right wing ideology. Anarchy-Capitalism. Libertarian. Same difference, just one sounds cooler. This way, you could call yourself an Anarchist without technically lying.
In 2018, you called yourself a "radical leftist," which you have never, ever been. However, we suspect that you found out how big on mutual aid leftists are and decided to exploit the kindness of leftists and beg for money.
In 2019, you called yourself an "anarcho commie bitch."
In 2021, you were a "rabid leftist."
In 2022, you were an "Anarchist" again, which of course, you talked about, rarely, but never actually extolled any Anarchist ideals. Surface-level shit.
Around this same time, you started telling people about your Telegram channel and how they should reach out to you on it. Previously, you had older information on it, but this is relevant. You called yourself a "misanthropic nihilist." This is the first time nihilism ever came up and the only time it's ever been part of any of your self-descriptors.
On Facebook though, however, you called yourself an "Anarchist Communist" during this same time. Puzzling. You've never talked about any aspect of communism (in the anarchist sense) or collectivism.
Around this time, you nuked your Twitter account and made a new one. You also updated your Telegram bio.
What? Is that...are you endorsing Kanye West for president in 2024? Noted anti-semite and toxic person? Well, that's not very leftist of you, is it?
And one of your first tweets on this account is agreeing with Kanye, just a day or so after he was on Joe Rogan being really disgusting. Bizarre. Well, let's see what else your new Twitter account says about your politics. Let's start with who you're following on there:
Not a leftist in the bunch. In fact, it's all Christian, right-wing accounts and even a police account. Lots of leftists follow police accounts, but given the context and the other accounts/content we have seen from you, it's not likely for monitoring reasons. NARC.
After you got locked out of that account, you started another one; the one that has all the anti-semitism in it.
Imagine the lunacy of calling Jordan B Peterson a communist, and telling him that he needs therapy because he sounds like one? That's not very leftist either.
You also talked to your "boyfriend" about communists in a displeased way.
Reacting this way, without any criticism of communism from a leftist perspective just stinks of reactionary right-wing response. Try harder.
So, you then got locked out of this account and started your most recent known one. From the beginning, you were shilling for Russia, which is a weird thing to do if you're actually leftist.
Oh! We are back to calling ourselves an Anarchist:
An "anarchist" who follows pro-russia accounts? If anything, an anarchist would stand with the Ukrainians fighting an invasion on their own soil, right? Or better yet, an anarchist wouldn't take sides.
Once you gained some followers though, you dropped all political identifiers from your Twitter bio. I wonder why you'd do that.
Then, you deleted this account due to "stalking," but you updated your Telegram bio again.
What? "End the Fed?" Again? So we are back to an AnCap/Libertarian vibe? Or, did that never go away? You've been right-leaning this whole time. You are a faker and not even a decent one. I'm sure the kind leftists who helped you out when you begged for money would be thrilled to know this. Deceitful.
#2010#2011#2016#2019#2022#2023#Twitter#Telegram#Facebook#heidilore#heidilore76#annoyedwoman89#geekyphoto76#Heidi_seidr#heidiforliberty#heidilore2#sp00kyheidi1#anarchism#libertarian#conservative#2021#HLFromHell
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Season Two Episode Four
A 1918 timestamp ushers us into one of Downton’s more slow moving episodes where three parts painful banality has been mixed with one part life-or-death peril.
Providing more interesting political and cultural conflict than WW1 (at least at Downton) is Isobel’s ongoing grating at Cora’s very soul. Cora has had the temerity to ensure that the staff don’t collapse on their feet and has done something with the linen that I can’t quite fathom which, of course, Isobel takes as a slight upon her medical knowledge. Isobel makes the fatal error of calling Cora’s bluff threatening to ‘seek some other place’ if she is not appreciated at Downton. Major Clarkson also takes sides with Cora and Isobel now has no choice but to throw herself and her messiah complex upon the Red Cross in Northern France. I am sure they will be thrilled.
With Isobel’s departure, Moseley and Mrs Bird find themselves at a loss having deep cleaned the house and moaned about their employer’s eating habits. Turns out that one thing they forgot to do was deploy any semblance of a security system as a random man with a drama school limp wanders into the house looking for food. In a manner that would make the current Conservative front bench recoil with horror, Mrs Bird starts up a soup kitchen out of her own (presumably rather small) pocket. In her latest attempt to not do her job, Mrs Patmore drags Daisy out for some fresh air and in the process uncovers this particular bit of well meaning but financially unsustainable charity. Mrs Patmore scales up the operation, creating a “special storage area” to squirrel away surplus from the army’s stock, which O’Brien conveniently overhears (but to be honest, it’s not that much of a coincidence. I imagine most of the kitchen heard it considering that Mrs Patmore practically yelled it). In an effort to try and inject a bit of actual drama into this episode, O’Brien reports this to Mrs Hughes but (un)fortunately, Mrs Hughes could not care less. But after watching the world’s most appalling secret handover of goods in the village, O’Brien rallies and this time is successful in bringing Cora to the nefariously compassionate Bird-Patmore coalition. To absolutely everyone’s surprise (viewers included) Cora orders food to be taken from the house stock rather than army and with all the over-confidence of a consultant sets about re-arranging tables and streamlining the workflow.
Feeling much less charitable than Mrs Bird, Moseley heads to the Abbey and attempts to make himself indispensable and reach the dizzying heights of ‘Valet to the Earl of Grantham’. But not long after the peels of laughter that such a notion invites have died down, Bates returns and takes Mr Molesley’s shoehorn which one can’t help but think is emblematic of something. The return of Mr Bates is, naturally, a painfully protracted process that involves key protagonists not talking to each other, Thomas smoking on a wall, and the obligatory invocation of Kamal Pamuk. Robert invites Bates back to help him through the ‘veil of shadow’ and as such I was intrigued to learn that he is a World of Warcraft devotee. Bates reappearance downstairs also allows for the return of two other key Downton Abbey tropes: Anna and (John)Bates having a heart to heart under the cover of darkness, and Thomas and O’Brien’s irrational loathing/scapegoating of Britain’s most infuriatingly lovelorn character (outside of Thomas Thorne) to resume with aplomb.
Less happy to be within the confines of the Abbey is Edith who continues to signal that all of this is really a bit beneath her (certain elements quite literally). Ever the teacher’s pet, Mr Molesley reports the sighting of an Officer by the maid’s staircase to Mrs Hughes who hears that there have been lots of rumours on the timeline tonight and comes out to say that she does not live in a sack. Unfortunately, Major Bryant does not live in one but definitely frequents one and, as such, it is of course Ethel is dismissed. As she rapidly packs all her belongings, Anna pleas to Mrs Hughes on her behalf confirming that she is indeed the friend we all want but probably don’t deserve. But Mrs Hughes can’t get rid of her that easily as Edith (and passenger) skulk back to liven up the end of the episode with news of an oncoming baby *Eastenders drums intensify*.
Talking of undeserving relationships, Sybil and Branson receive more air-time than usual, providing the latter the opportunity to demonstrate that at times he really can be a muppet. And a slightly malevolent one at that. Sybil is firmly under the cosh this week with Violet making thinly veiled references to inappropriate alliances and Mary asking probing questions whilst she tries to get on with her job. Mary thinks that she has spotted her sister and Branson having some kind of romantic exchange but in reality, all that she has seen from afar is Branson telling Sybil that she is in love with him which when you think about it, is all kinds of awful and hardly the basis for a healthy relationship. After a long walk through the grounds where I am half expecting Branson to appear on a horse Willoughby-style, Sybil eventually caves and confesses to Mary that she doesn’t know if she likes Branson despite his eminently creepy voice over. Sybil then relays her sororal confidence and rather than taking this as an opportunity to ingratiate himself, Branson for whatever reason attempts to coerce Sybil into a relationship but not before he belittles her job. Sybil looks rightfully outraged as some equally emotionally manipulative strings wail in the background in an attempt to try and make us think that anything that has just happened was evenly slightly dreamy.
Threaded through this glacially paced episode has been the looming threat of a both a concert and the death of Matthew and (to a much lesser extent because that is how class works) William. In an effort to break the monotony of walking around the exact same bit of French trench (see previous re-caps for further details), William and Matthew take to wandering across some largely unadulterated land and into the path of some nonchalant Germans. Daisy’s lack of (presumably fawning) letters from William starts off a chain of enquiry which confirms that the War Office has declared Matthew and William missing enabling Mary to once again deploy her signature move: weeping into her gloves. But only one hand this time because she needs to keep a bit of composure for the show must go on! Apparently. Following some abysmal piano playing (I grew up in an appallingly musical household and we all had to endure the torture of other people at the early stages of learning an instrument. It was of course blissful when we got good but, heck, I was thrown straight back to the horror of it all with that ‘accompaniment’ and had an odd sort of stress response which I won’t describe here), Mary and Edith do a rendition of If You Were the Only Girl (In the World) as everyone looks on stony-faced before participating in the millenia’s most morose sing-a-long. With a very good sense of drama, Matthew and (to a much lesser extent) William make their return. Matthew takes his place at Mary’s side and joins in the signing to what is now presumably quite a bewildered audience. Ah, Downton.
Romantic declaration of the moment
Violet raises reasonable concerns about Richard Carlisle but Mary is more interested in expanding her real estate portfolio and agrees to throw her lot in with a fiscal agreement disguised as a marriage. Upon his ‘miraculous’ return, Matthew gives the union his blessing on the condition that Richard remains deserving. Not that he ever really was. But the sentiment is what matters here and what is more loving* than putting another’s presumed happiness before your own.
*there are actually a lot of other more loving things but in the interest of formatting, we’re going to sweep those under a very large rug for now.
Expressive eyebrow of the week
Rather than training as a nurse or being actually pretty useful in a convalescent home, Mary’s contribution to the war effort is being amicable with Edith. Violet declares that she has now “seen everything” as the spirit of Mrs Adelman moves on.
Wait, what?
“I wish we had a man” Presented without comment
“If I am not appreciated here, I will seek some other place” Yes. PLEASE.
“What must he do to persuade you he is in love with Lavinia? Open his chest and carve her name on his heart” No, Mary. Matthew merely needs to carve her name with a compass on his forehead to prove that…
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“I hate the word ‘missing’. It leaves so much room for optimism.” Robert is a bit emotionally weird isn’t he?
“We haven't kissed or anything. I don't think we've shaken hands. I'm not even sure if I like him like that. He says I do, but I'm still not sure.” And lo, another red flag is raised. But because Branson is Downton’s version of a Bolshevik, both Mary and Sybil view this not as a warning about the boy’s behaviour but rather a symbol of his political leanings and such signals are duly ignored.
“He always seems a romantic figure to me” Daisy Robinson writes fanfic. Pass it on.
“Sometimes in war, one can make friendships that aren't quite…appropriate. And can be awkward, you know, later on. I mean, we've all done it.” Once again, Violet, tell us more!
Bates says that he has returned to “Downton at war” which sounds like a lucrative exhibition name if I ever did hear one.
Despite Mary’s most valiant efforts, no musical performance had ever gone out to such an impassive audience until Rosalind came along
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Matthew of course is used to a much better quality sing-, sorry, song-a-long
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#Downton#downton abbey#downton rewatch#Mary Crawley#Matthew Crawley#thomas barrow#thomas branson#mrs o'brien#Mrs Patmore#daisy mason#william mason#Cora Crawley#Lady Grantham#lord grantham#john bates#Joseph Molseley#anna bates#Youtube
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Eda becomes some kind of flying taxi service
Amity: So I told Malphas he needed to have a talk with Gary about our coffee break space.
Emira: Mhmm.
Amity: I mean, for one, Gary never cleans after himself. Like, I once saw him leaving his mug dirty for over a week. A WEEK. It was disgusting. It was just sitting dare on the table for days. I didn’t want to clean it, I’m not a doormate. But it was dire and I had no choice. And don’t get me started on the fridge situation. My lunch has been getting smaller by the day and I can’t seem to figure out the culprit.
Emira: That’s nice, Mittens. Isn’t it nice, Edric?
Edric: What?
Amity: Will you guys pay attention? I need some advice on...
*Windows cracking”
Edric: What the...
Hooty: AMITY FELICITY BLIGHT! IT IS I, HOOTCIFER, HARBINGER OF THY DESTINY. COME WITH ME AND I SHALL REVEAL WHAT JOYS THE FUTURE HOLDS FOR THEE.
Amity: I... What?
Hooty: DOTH THOU DARE DEFY FATE? *Swallows Amity*
Emira: ... What just happened? Wasn’t that Eda’s house demon? You know, the one we met before Grom?
Edric: I think it was. I’m not sure though, he sounded more... ominous...
SEVERAL EMOTIONAL MOMENTS LATER
Luz: It’s early... Do you really have to go already?
Amity: Yeah... I still have to finish homework, and I have work tomorrow. But I’ll come back here tomorrow... If you’re okay with it, that is...
Luz: YES! I mean... yeah, I’d love that...
Amity: Anyway... I guess I should get going, we’re not exactly neighbors after all. See you tomorrow then.
Luz: Wait, I have an idea. *Turns around* EDA!
Eda: *Not stopping her flight practice* What?
Luz: Do you think you could give Amity a lift back to her place?
Eda: Oh? Not walking your girlfriend home? Thought you’d be more chivalrous.
Luz: *Showing that Amity’s tomato like properties are infectious* EDAAA!
Eda: Sorry, sorry. But yeah, sure. *Picks up Amity and flies away at neckbreaking speeds. She soon slows down to a more reasonable pace* So... Amity, before I give you that whole “What are your intentions?” scare there’s something I’ve been itching to ask you. What made you chose to dye your hair of all colors, and how did Odd-alia react?
Amity: Luz... Me... Girlfriend...
Eda: Ugh... Don’t make me regret making harmless fun of young love, kiddo.
ONE AWKWARD TAXI EDA FLYING SESSION LATER.
Eda: *Placing Amity on the Blight Manor’s front porch and looking at the two bewildered faces watching her* Sup. *Turns to fly away* Oh right, I guess purple here is in not in the mental state to give any explanations.
Amity: Small ceremony... Human realm... Only friends and family... Boscha is not invited...
Emira: Are you... Edalyn Clawthorne?
Eda: Last I checked I was.
Emira: You look different.
Eda: Oh right... Look, it was a very eventful night so let me start with the simpler one. King, you remember him, right? Tiny, angry, looks like a cat, was the MC at the last Grom along with Goops.
Emira and Edirc: Yeah...?
Eda: He’s harnessing all the powers of yelling. I guess all children his age kinda do that but he went above and beyond and actually learned how to make things go boom with his voice alone, and that’s why both Luz and your sister are still alive. And now I’m realizing I should probably go hide all those Death Metal records I got in human realm. Can’t risk turning my son into a weapon of mass destruction. Not yet.
Edric: That’s... nice... I guess?
Emira: How about Mittens?
Eda: Right. She and Luz are an item now. It was adorable, I called her Luz’s girlfriend then I think it finally really hit her and that made her go all catatonic on me. Sorry about that.
Edric: WHAT?
Emira: Okay, okay... So came out with it? Ed and I have some scores to settle.
Eda: I... Both, I guess? I don’t know, it was sort of at the same time. But I don’t want to spoil it for when she recovers. So I guess us three are kinda family now, huh? Tangentially at least, like you’re my nephew and niece-in-law or something like that, I don’t know.
Eda: The important thing is: there’s a huge waterway under my house and I think it is actually part of my property. Now I need to figure out a way to find out how big that place actually is without letting town hall know so my taxes won’t go up. Can’t push my tax evasion skills. I mean, can you imagine it? The Owl Lady, the most successful outlaw in Boiling Isles history: arrested for fiscal crimes.
Emira: Okay... That’s... cool.
Edric: Yeah... Not to pry though, but what happened to you?
Eda: Oh... Me? I got very high. Not on purpose. Then I became a Harpy. Also not on purpose.
Emira: ... I’m sorry but I’m not following the cause and effect relation between those thing.
Eda: Neither am I. All I remember is: Hooty spiked some cookies; I revisited that time I gauged out my dad’s eye, also not on purpose; then when I push my ex away (You know, Raine Whispers, current head of the Bard Coven, lead a small revolutionary guerrilla, now under mind control. Oh, yeah, guess they’d make to sure to keep it under wraps, anyway...)
Eda: Then it got pretty weird. I got trapped by this tall hooded sun and moon figure and I’m not sure whether that was an actual memory (I did get arrested a few time after all) or if it was just a hallucinogenics induced manifestation of the subconscious trauma of being persecuted for years by the state. Anyone’s guess to which was it.
Eda: And then I became Icarus, fell into the sea, and became a piece of paper. Then I was at the beach, the piece of paper was also there, but that’s not important... I hope... Anyway, so, my curse was there too an for a moment there I thought we were gonna play some chess, but nah.
Eda: I did have an epiphany though. The sky changed colors and now I’m a Harpy. Gotta a lot of stuff to process right.
Edric: *Wide eyed and mouth agape* Mother of Titan...
Emira: *Same as her brother* Do you... need a hug or something?
Eda: Ehh... Don’t worry, I’ll get through. I mean, I’m a badass Harpy woman now, what else could I want? I appreciate the thought though. Anyway, I’ll get going, Luz has probably been stuck in the same place ever since I left. Was nice seeing you guys. *Turns around*
Edric: WAIT, EDA.
Eda: Yeah? What is it?
Edric: Can you take me flying a little bit like you did Mittens? Pretty please?
Emira: *Elbowing her brother* EDRIC!
Edric: What? There’s a tall and friendly winged lady standing in our front porch and calling us family...
Eda: Kinda family.
Edric: Kinda family. And we only went flying, on dad’s staff mind you, like twice. And I mean, look at her. That’s clearly a person with next to no regard for speed limits or any form of flying safety. *Turns to Eda* I mean that as the highest of compliments, by the way.
Eda: *Nodding and smiling* Well, I’m not one to brag... But you’re on point there.
Edric: *Turning back to Emira* See? It will be fun. *Turns back to Eda while making puppy eyes* So, pretty pretty please?
Eda: Eh... What the heck, why not? I do need to get a better hold of this flying thing after all. Fair warning though, I only had these for about an hour, I’m not taking responsibility for any loss of limb or life. *Picks Edric up and place him on one of her shoulders and turns to Emira.* You sure you don’t wanna come with? There’s plenty of room.
Emira: ... I never said I didn’t want to...
Eda: *Placing Emira on her other shoulder* Alritty then, make sure to hold on tight to my hair, just don’t fall into it. Can’t promise I’ll find you if you do. And up we go. *Takes off at neckbreaking speed*
Eda: So... I tried that to Mittens herself, but she was too lost in elation to form coherent sentences. What’s the deal with her hair color change? Why did she pick that specific shade of... pink? Lavender? Purple? Whatever, I was a tad curious about that choice coming from one of Odd-alia’s offspring. So either of you can shed some light on it for me?
Emira: Eh, what can I say? Our little Mittens is growing up, coming out of her shell. I mean, if you told me a month that she’d have a girlfriend by now I’d call it bullshit. Though I would have guessed Luz as being the most likely candidate. In any case, I’m pretty proud of the steps our baby sister is taking, not gonna lie.
Edric: Yeah... Same. But I can’t shake the feeling that it is at least in part an act of rebellion against mom. She did always have that weird fixation with Amity’s hair after all...
Eda: Hum, I see. This actually takes me to my follow up question. How did your mom react when she saw it?
Edric: *chuckling* Oh, I thought she’d have a stroke right then and there.
Emira: Yup. Never saw mom that mad. You’d think the two of us would be the ones to cause it but nope, Mittens beat us to it. Again, I’m a proud big sister.
Eda: Hehehe Sounds about right. You two are the troublemaking type then huh?
Edric: That’s a way of putting.
Emira: We like thinking of ourselves as practical entertainers however. We are in the Illusions track so it comes with the territory. Buuut...
Edric: We indulge in some prankery every now and then, and there’s no one better at it than us.
Eda: Is that so? Ever get in trouble for it?
Edric: Sometimes... When we (kind of accidentally) cause more property damage than intended because SOMEONE botched their end of the spell and caused Bump’s office to almost go up in flames.
Emira: Awww. Ed, I told you already. Don’t beat yourself over it. Accidents happen. You’ll do better next time.
Edric: HEY!
Emira: Anyway, Eda. Why were you asking about Mittens’ hair?
Eda: Oh... You guys are going to love this. I think. Anyway, did you know that me and your parents attended Hexside at the same time?
Edric: Yeah, I remember mom seeing one of your wanted posters a while back and calling you “Ewdalyn Clownthorne” or something like that.
Eda: Ah, haven’t heard that in a minute, Titan those were the day. Anyway, as you might have guessed by now me and your mother we... had a bit of a rivalry. Unfortunately, I couldn’t top the nickname she gave me, best I could do was Odd-alia. No offense, but Blight doesn’t give much to work with in terms of puns, can’t get funnier than that. Especially when thrown at her.
Emira: None taken. And yeah. I mean, it is fun when people call us stuff like “The Blights of Hexside”. But it is kinda sad to know we’ll never get a nickname as cool as Owl Lady or Lord Calamity.
Eda: Oh, my fame still precedes me huh? You know, I think the three of us will get along just fine.
Edric and Emira: Yup, we sure will.
Eda: Anyway, flattery aside... Part of the reason why I love poking your mom with a short stick was, other than how aggravated she’d get and how surprisingly good at paying in kind she was, the fact that she was in the Oracle track. You see, that made her a challenge. And given how she would actually prank me back (successfully, mind you, I have no shame in admitting that) I feel like like we actually a weird sort of friends, or at least we reached some kind of agreement that we were fair game for each other. And trust me, she was ruthless, and very good at escalating things.
Emira: Wow...
Edric: That sounds nothing like the mom we know. Other than the ruthless or the escalation part, that is still true.
Eda: Yeah, anyway. Part of our little game was keeping it hidden. Neither your dad or my sister actually ever realized what was going on until... well, I’ll get to that.
Eda: Anyway, so some lovely day I notice how weirdly obsessed with her hair Odd-alia was. This gives me some ideas, but I know I have make this the mother of pranks, so I decided to just keep a watch, to figure out what the best way to go about it would be. And I was also making those smaller pranks, something to throw her Oracle powers off-balance, you know?
Eda: Well... Back in the day your mother wasn’t monochromatic as she is nowadays. She’d circle through all colors you can think off on her accessories (which she used an ungodly amount, and no judgement it just never seems physically possible). But I noticed that there was one very specific color that she never got anywhere near her.
Edric and Emira: No way...
Eda: And as I said, she was weirdly obsessed with her hair... And as top student of the Potions track making hair dye was child’s play for me... So... do the math... And guess what very specific color was? I may be bad at color names, but I won’t ever, EVER, forget that particular shade.
Edric and Emira: No... freaking... way...
Eda: Yes... freaking... way... I mean, seriously, the first time I saw Amity’s new hair I had to do a double take. The resemblance was just too uncanny.
Emira: And what did she do?
Eda: Well... For a couple weeks there I thought I’d have to place a restriction order on her or something like that. Ultimately the two of us, along with Lilith and Alador (they were our attorneys, no they were not qualified for the role.) sitting across from each other in a very formal looking table, signing a contract. An actual freaking contract setting clear limits to our mutual pranks, like what was off limits like her hair or my then partner, how long was the maximum period a prank could last, so on. Surprisingly enough that was Al’s idea.
Eda: And let me tell you, that was probably the toughest negotiation I ever been a part of. Shame it was not long before I dropped out so never could really put it to use. You know, sometime I think this actually made Odd-alia realize she wanted to be a business woman. I mean, before that she’d go off about how she’d join the Emperor’s Coven all the damn time.
Edric: Wow...
Emira: I second that. Really, wish I had brought something I could take notes on. You completely blown anything we ever did out of the water.
Edric: No wonder she never told us that. You know what? I think I’m dying my hair that color first thing tomorrow.
Emira: Can we tell Amity this story?
Eda: Are you two actually thinking of antagonizing her? Are you crazy? First off, she’s your mother, she holds power over you. All you’d accomplish is getting grounded. Not to mention that she has decades of experience on you, even if she wasn’t your mom, she’d demolish the two of you. No offense, you’re still young, naive, you lack guidance in the ways of the pranksters.
Edric and Emira: *Dejectedly* Ohh... You’re right...
Eda: Hey... Don’t look so gloomy. I see a lot of potential in you, in both of you. *Sighs* I can’t believe I’m gonna take more kids under my wing... But.... Have you guys ever heard of the Bad Girl Coven Initiative? We annoy our foes into submission.
Edric and Emira: WE’RE LISTENING.
Eda: Heh... We’ll get along just fine indeed.
#THE OWL HOUSE#the owl house hooty#Edric Blight#Emira Blight#amity blight#luz noceda#king clawthorne#the owl house boscha#raine whispers#I lost track of what was trying to accomplish halfway though writing this. read at your own discretion.
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Old Hollywood AU- The Lucky One
Here is the first chapter/one shot of this AU that is a collab and crossover that @tolstoyamericanrevolution and I have been working on it since November! Please keep an open mind to character interpretation because this is AU territory and a lot of a character who isn't necessarily the focus of the AU can be warped for plot and time accuracy purposes over character accuracy! So let's get to it and happy last day of TURN WEEK 2021!!!!
Global media was in a buzz, Today was the Hollywood equivalent of a royal wedding. With all the bells and whistles belonging to the West Coast set. New & old money all united around the superficialities of silver screens and unions and dubious desert deals. All neatly swallowed down with a glass of wedding champagne- the same brand as Buckingham palace yet here it looked slightly gaudy, American.
The media was here to adore, this was a decade before your Grace Kelly’s and other exports could wear centuries-old crowns.
Here it was harsh, fiscal, temporary, silver over platinum yet it was royal, majestic, lovely- every bit worth the soundbite.
This was the American monarchy, all a blend of the finest breeds and worst mongrels.
Dressed up in such a lovely, splendid crowd that Philadelphia, New York, Houston, Los Angeles & Chicago would all be running titles.
“Adoring Crowds rewarded at last! The Marriage of America’s Sweetheart”
“Hollywood Royalty! Adrienne Fairfax & John Laurens tie the Knot”
“ Media Heiress & Tobacco Heir; Los Angeles’s Marriage of The Decade”
Those picking up the papers would all sigh the same thing; how lovely.
The crowd was lovely.
At least, she was sure it was. Adrienne Fairfax had not yet been seen by a single member of the crowd, anxiously sitting before a vanity in a wedding gown three times her size, wringing satin gloved hands until the gloves began to crease. Her hands shook with the same fear that was responsible for the turning of her stomach as she removed them.
Today was her wedding day and it was exactly as she had always dreamed. Every detail was perfect and precisely to her liking.
Every detail was impressive.
Every detail would impress them.
The crowd was lovely.
The crowd had cheered for her, applauding her on the engagement just as they did when she was on the movie screen. Adrienne had been just as shocked as them to hear of her engagement. She would certainly remember being proposed to at the ripe age of seventeen. She certainly would have remembered if the man who did so was twenty-three years old, making him five years her senior.
The crowd had buzzed with conversation, just as they did now, outside of the open windows that were meant to cool her down. The cool breeze in the mountains this time of year should have corrected the heat filling her face and chest as it billowed through the open windows of the room, carrying the sounds of society in with it.
Her wedding was exactly as she had always dreamed.
It was in the mountains, away from the pollution of the billboard lights and American mile cars. She could see the stars from here, the real ones, in the sky. Not the ones in the velvet curtains in the ballroom, or the ones on the tule that coated the tablecloth in the grand dining room of the house she had barely spent a night in since she was a very young girl. Not the ones taking their seats in a church to watch Adrienne make the most irreversibly horrible decision of her life.
The crowd was lovely.
She was sure it was, and she was grateful for them. Their own chatter drowned out the echoes of old ghosts that still haunted this house’s halls. Adrienne’s eyes fluttered down to the picture frame propped up on the vanity in her childhood bedroom. She had been watching it like the smiling couple in the photo would decide to leave their seats on the terrace and walk away.
It was impressive.
The woman had light-colored hair, and the man’s was some odd form of grey in the yellowing black and white photo. She wore the most beautiful gown of pearly ivory layers and lace, the very same gloves Adrienne had just pulled from her own clammy hands graced the woman’s hands, the tiara atop her head in the photo matching the one atop the pile of blonde curls that she had just arranged in the vanity mirror.
It was just as she had imagined it.
Adrienne had found her mother’s wedding planning book years ago, and she fell in love with it the moment she first laid her eyes upon the beautiful fair-haired woman, leaning happily into the man in a finely tailored tuxedo and a wide smile in his eyes with an odd grey color to his hair.
Adrienne had not stepped foot over the threshold of this impressive Georgian English Manor style house since the last time she was dressed head to toe in black.
Adrienne had not crossed the threshold since the day of their funeral when she crossed from the foyer to the stairs down the drive with her belongings in tow.
She had gone home with a family friend that her parents had entrusted with her care and upbringing. The Washingtons were more superficial people than her parents had been. Not to say that they consumed more, that much was about the same. Rather, they were more concerned about success than they ever were with her. Growing up with the Washingtons, Adrienne had so many nannies, nurses, and governesses she often forgot their names. Not that it was important really, none of them integrated with her more than they absolutely had to.
Martha Washington had been insistent that she was to be the only maternal figure to the young heiress. Which would have been perfectly alright if she did not despise Adrienne’s own mother so deeply, making her maternal affection very few and far between.
Today is her wedding day.
It was Martha that had opened the door without a word, simply raising her brow, impatient with the blonde girl before the vanity. Adrienne managed one last look in the mirror before rising from the small chair she had sat on, donning her gloves over the clamminess of her sweaty hands, and breathed.
She breathed carefully as Martha pulled the veil to cover her face.
In and out.
In and out and suddenly she could pretend she was not being made to act as a witness as George signed over all she was to gain upon her 18th birthday to a man named John Laurens. He had shown up to sign the papers himself, a courtesy to George, she was sure. He was to be her husband, or so she had been told.
He had not even looked at her.
He did not greet her when he came through the door, only George. He did not converse with her, only George. She could have gotten up, smacked him, and walked out of the room and he would still not have noticed her.
He was to be her husband and she had not met him but once before. She knew who he was, vaguely. He worked at the studio as an actor. He was the son of an influential South Carolina politician who had a family fortune in the tobacco trade. But she had only met John Laurens once before her wedding day was set for the day of her 18th birthday and not a single day later. A week after watching her life be signed away into his hands he had paid her a visit.
Another courtesy to George, she was sure.
He had arrived with no specific plan, and walked through the gardens with her, talking now to her for almost an hour straight. She had even tried placing both tea and whiskey before him to shut his ramblings, both attempts failing miserably as he continued on about himself. He visited for almost two hours and had not asked her a single thing about herself.
He was to be her husband and he did not know a thing about her.
They met four other times during the short engagement, most of which were public niceties, another courtesy to George. There was not a single newspaper, magazine, or television hour that did not wish to have some kind of word with her on the topic of her wedding. None of them dared to advise her, she had been out planning the very best in the country since her earliest teenage years. A popular anecdote she had heard more in the past few months than she had anything else in the rest of her life went as following:
The Pope had come to visit the re-elected Franklin Delano Roosevelt in the White House but found the most pleasant time in the company of the most eligible girl in America, all the way on the West Coast.
The crowd was lovely.
That is what George had told her with a peck of a kiss to her cheek before he took his seat. She would walk herself down the aisle.
The harp and violins played as the grand doors to the ballroom opened on her, exposing her to the crowd and their whispers. The ceremony looked stunning. It was just as she had imagined it when she was little.
She only now began to wish that she had imagined the man at the end of the aisle so that there might be at least something she could find fault with.
There were familiar faces among the crowd that she passed on her long and slow walk to the man at the other end of the grand room. The clicking echo of her heels on the floor being the only thing keeping her trembling legs on course, but even worse was searching as discreetly as possible for those familiar faces. Anything to not have to face the harsh reality of who— no, of what— waited for her at the end of the crowd.
Among the crowd, her eyes locked with another blonde-haired man and she begged herself not to look desperate. He saw her looking too, but he managed far more composure than Adrienne did. Of course he did.
He must be thrilled.
Adrienne had the thought before she could stop herself. John Andre was another executive at the studio alongside George. Before her engagement, there had been pressures from all around for the two of them to marry. It would be a fitting trade, they justified, the daughter of an executive to the wife of an executive. It was a natural transition.
Perhaps that is why he had not spoken out about her engagement and marriage being written into her contract. He stood there, pretending he was not looking at her in his black tailored tuxedo, hair done in the most fashionable way with a small wave curl to it. He pretended that she was not on a death march.
He pretended far better than her.
He had his vices, that much she knew, but he was respectful. He spoke with her, not just to her. She knew him. She knew him and even though she had never found him more than physically attractive she found herself wishing it was him at the end of the aisle, and not for the first time since her engagement.
Today was her wedding day.
In a few minutes, she won’t be engaged anymore.
In a few minutes, she would be married.
In a few minutes, she would be married to a man that did not know a single thing about her.
She would be married to a man in less than a few minutes, and suddenly Adrienne understood all those runaway brides, leaving their fiance’s at the altar. Her heart pounded, hammering in her chest as she composed herself with a warm indifference. She had been doing so well. Then she saw him.
John Andre was an executive at the studio with George. There was pressure from all around for them to get married.
It was a fair trade.
He remained silent for his own sake. One cannot be forced to marry a woman who already belongs to a husband of her own.
She would be married and he would remain a bachelor till the end of his days, just as he wanted, receiving pity for her engagement everywhere he looked, exempting him from the very idea of marriage. Exempting him from being held accountable for his vices.
He must be thrilled, signing her life away to a man who doesn’t know a single thing about her for his own peace of mind.
It was a fair trade.
He had played the game and played it well.
He had won. And it was fair.
This will all be over soon, and she could find solstice in the stars over the sleepy Manor estate, talking to a ghost from the lawn as if he never left her. He had never left her, calling her to look up and scour the sky for stars whenever she felt lonely.
He had called her “my star.”
She was his star, and soon it would all be over. She could disappear into the night and be with the stars, chatting with ghosts from a happier past.
It will all be over soon.
She was looking through the crowd for familiar faces.
She was doing so well. And then she saw him, in the doorway she had just come from, a man in a finely tailored tuxedo and a wide smile in his eyes with an odd grey color to his hair. “It will all be over soon.”
And she heard him from the other end of the aisle, loud and clear, as if he were right beside her, as he should be.
Executive’s daughter married,
Media magnet meets Southern industry
John Andre: Hollywood’s Most Wanted Bachelor Remains Unwed
It was easy to feel remorseful, heroically guilty when you had nothing at stake.
No real risk to gamble.
It was the prisoner that escaped the hanging and looked sympathetically to the damned, fingers crossed behind their back. That was John Andre on this fine nuptial day.
If it had been him standing at the end of the aisle, where another John stood, he would be less prone to sympathy and instead resentment. Resentment of having his wings clipped and arranged around him, in exchange for a slip of a girl whom he felt no connection with.
By no connection, he meant romantic or intimate or lustful- none of the trilogy of connections worth considering matrimony.
Instead, he felt an observer's connection, a connection of pity, of sympathy- lightly powdered amusement and a genuine kindness that came from recognizing another piece on the chessboard of the older generation.
You could have as much power or success as you wanted in this city, as an executive you would assume John had made it to the top, and yet you would always be a puppet on someone else’s string.
Ask any man and it would be a woman, a mafia deal, a boss, an older competitor, or simply the moths that floated around the sparkles of fame ready to consume you if you stepped out of line.
#lbl#luck be a lady#turn amc#turn: washington's spies#adrienne fairfax#john laurens#old Hollywood au#an American dream#turn week 2021#turn week#amrev#american revolution#turn fanfic
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𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥.
genre: romance, fantasy, erotica
au: fallen angel, reincarnation
pairing: jung jaehyun x female reader
note: This is a work of fiction. The portrayal of the celebrities included in this story does not reflect their true nature in real life. I am just using them as a way to bring life into the story and to give entertainment to readers. Concerning the plot which is about Lucifer, I do not— in any means— sympathize with the devil and I do not intend to offend any religion. Furthermore, I discourage you to continue reading if you feel uncomfortable with this type of stories. I’d appreciate it if you'll leave some feedbacks! Thank you so much!
“he was the worse of his kind—
dared the Almighty with
pride in his mind.
banished from heaven,
the infamous fallen.
the one you cannot tame;
lucifer, that is his name.”
Unable to process the words printed out in the sheet of paper that was in your hands, you stare dat your termination contract with dread slowly creeping up into your face. Maybe you want to scream or to cry– heck, you have no idea what to feel as yet another hindrance towards a stable life lay heavy in your palms. An exhausted exhale of breath escaped your lips as the realization hit you– you were indeed terminated by the management of the fast-food chain you were working on for the reason that they could not meet their quota anymore and they had to terminate some employees. Unfortunately, you are one of those workers.
You have witnessed as the same dread fell upon your co-workers while they skimmed the paper in their hands. The fast-food chain stood as your only means to support yourself and your sister, so you never once took it for granted and did your work diligently despite the low wages and the awful workplace it had offered. Now, you have to find another job or else you will surely die of hunger.
You do have a talent in arts, and you graduated with a fine arts degree. But life after college was beyond what you had expected when you were still studying. You had anticipated to have a stable job suited for your skills, but life did not go as you planned. Your mother fell sick and died a year after you graduated, leaving you and your sister all alone. From that day onwards, you became the modern Atlas who carried the world in your shoulders. Yet you couldn’t complain. And despite all of the hardships, you only felt the need to take care of your little sister even more.
You continued walking the side streets like a ragged doll being pulled sluggishly by whatever force there was, thinking of other ways to get by tomorrow. Being jobless wouldn’t be so hard if you didn’t have another mouth to feed. Your sister will be a freshman in college next year, and that’s the sole reason why you needed to work your butt off harder than before. And life isn’t really helping right now. So you grabbed your phone and rang your best friend’s number. She picked up after fifteen seconds.
“Hey, gorge—”
“I am jobless,” you greeted Soojin. There was a surprised ‘oh’ in the other line and you could imagine your best friend looking at you pitifully. It made you bite your lower lip to fight the urge to cry in front of the judging eyes of the city.
“Tell me, is there something I can do to help?”
“I don’t know what to do anymore. I am deep in fucking debt and Yuqi’s going to college soon. I couldn’t possibly pay for our rent with my current situation— oh. I am a mess!” You heaved a deep sigh, your chest constricting from all the emotions you were keeping locked up inside you. Different set of eyes were on you as you tried not to crumple in the side streets. There were adults giving you sympathetic looks and children almost laughing at you.
“Hey! Hey, Y/N! Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale!” You did as you were told. Gulping a large amount of air, you didn’t even bother how polluted it was now that you were in the heart of the town. You have to get a new job before you lose your mind.
“Okay, is everything calmer now?” Soojin asked.
“Yes. Yes,” you replied, still taking deep breaths.
“I could recommend a job, Y/N.”
Your ears perked up. “I’m listening.”
“But it wouldn’t be an easy one,” she sighed on the other line before continuing, “The job is right here in Jung’s Fiscals. Luckily for you, the former secretary of Mr. Jung decided to resign today; rumor has it that it’s because of the cold and ruthless demeanor of our CEO. I know you’re fit for the job because you’re one hell of a hard working bitch. However, I want you to give it a thought. Mr. Jung is not someone to mess with. Heck, he does not even—”
You replied before she even had the chance to finish her sentence, “I’ll take it. I’m really not in the position to say no to a job right now, am I? I badly need one so whatever the character of this Mr. Jung, I’d cooperate with him.”
You heard your best friend sigh in defeat. She knows you too well to try to stop you. So she simply directed you to prepare your resumé and other documents for the interview tomorrow.
“God! Thank you!” You kissed the mic of your phone as thanks to your best friend-slash-life savior.
You were too desperate to even think about her advice and the possibility of the CEO mistreating you. As long as there is money in your card to support your sister and food on your table, you are always ready to serve anyone— even if that person was forged straight from the womb of the devil.
All energetic and ready to take the challenge of the world again, you blew your friend one last kiss before ending the call and trudging towards the bus stop.
It was a night of simple ready-to-eat-ramen pack. Your sister had already known about your termination and currently feels bad that there is nothing she could do to help.
“It’s okay. Worry about school and nothing else, Yuqi,” you told her. The younger girl pouted her lips, reluctance clear on her face. “And I could not possibly let you work. We know enough not to overwork you.”
She has a weak stamina. Asthmatic since she was a kid, you never allowed her to do any part-time jobs for the fear that it would take a toll on her health. You couldn’t afford to lose the only relative you have, so every attempt of hers to help you boils down to nothing.
“I mean, who am I in this household? I don’t want to be a leech, sucking all your money and energy like that.” She scrunched up her nose.
“Yuqi, it’s my responsibility to take care of you. This is nothing, really.”
Even though you had almost lost your mind earlier thinking about the fact that you were indeed jobless, you tried to show your strong façade and smiled encouragingly to your sister. The least that you want right now is to worry her.
“Not to mention that you have to work in that wretched company– where the CEO is Jung Jaehyun. I’ve heard a lot of rumors about him, you know. They say he fucks—”
“Language, please,” you warned with a glare.
Yuqi rolled her eyes before continuing, “They say, he brings famous models into his penthouse every single night. And some say he does it even in his own office.” She talked while pointing her chopstick at you, munching her food deliciously like it was the best ramen she has ever tasted.
“Well, let’s be glad I am not a model then.” You shrugged. The both of you laughed.
She rambled about Jung Jaehyun the whole dinner with you, half-listening to her. Yuqi almost sounded like she was a fan and you seriously couldn’t grasp the need to be cautious towards Jung Jaehyun. You were hell-bent to impress him tomorrow that you refused to indulge yourself around the bad rumors circulating his name and well-being. All that matters to you is you are going to get that job, and you will do your best to stay in that office long enough to support your sister’s education.
This is the day where your fate is divided into two. You have a chance to make everything better for you and your sister, or you can prove that your life has been cursed and there is no more hope to rescue it from the depths of poverty.
The fate is in your hands and right now, your palms are sweating and your hands are trembling. Shaking your head and clearing your mind— with a determined heart— you trudge inside the thirty-story building of Jung’s Fiscals.
You were greeted by your best friend, Soojin. She was wearing a slightly loose pencil skirt paired with simple white polo sleeves. Her hair was styled into a neat bun, just like any other girl at the front desk. You have presumed that that would also be your hairstyle once you got the job.
“You got this,” Soojin mumbled as she led you towards the elevator. Unfortunately for you, she couldn’t accompany you all the way to Mr. Jung’s office for the reason that the building is buzzing with work and she couldn’t leave her position at the front desk for too long. You wave her a nervous goodbye before pushing the button on to the 28th floor.
There was really something about CEOs preferring to locate their offices on the top floor of their building. It was not like you mind, but you truly couldn’t believe that it really happens in real life. You once thought that they only appear in televisions.
Surrounded by the shiny metal covers of the elevator’s interior, you decided to check on your clothes and overall appearance. You have picked your best set of formal clothes for this day because you obviously wanted to impress the CEO and look presentable on your possible first day of work.
After a few minutes of standing alone inside the shiny elevator, it finally dinged and opened. You step outside, eyes roaming around the surroundings before taking a step forward. A nice and wide room greeted you as you walked through. The secretary’s table was made of polished wood, with the company’s logo engraved in gold. There were sets of black marble columns at the back and two comfortable armchairs in front of the secretary’s table to serve as a waiting area.
A woman, with the same bun as Soojin, stood up from her seat to greet you. Unlike your best friend, she was wearing a brown blazer that slightly hugged her waist and a fitted black dress underneath it. In your own opinion, she was too young to resign in this prestigious company. Which made your mind fall back into thinking that maybe the rumors were true– that the CEO, indeed, mistreats his employees.
“Good morning, Miss. Mr. Jung is ready to meet you.” She greeted with a slight bow. Her whole aura screamed professionalism. Something that you were not acquainted with— being a former waitress at a fast-food chain. All you had to do was take orders and smile and obey inquiries but you had never, ever, worked in a place where those aforementioned skills were almost nothing compared to the huge building that you were— hopefully— going to work in. Although, you suppose you have a bit of advantage when it comes to noting something and smiling. The only difference is that, rather than French fries and diet coke, you would have to take notes about meetings and business trips.
You breathed slowly, calming your nerves. The woman must have heard your heart thumping against your chest since she hesitated to open the door.
“Just be yourself, Miss. Do not worry too much. You’ll get through this.” She offered you a kind smile. You couldn’t help but think that she was accompanying you towards your own doom. You returned the smile even as you felt your lips wobble. A few inhales and exhales later, you told her you were ready. She slowly opened the door to Mr. Jung’s office and Jesus Christ— you thought you would collapse by the expansive space that greeted you in.
Typical CEO, he was obviously sitting on his swivel chair, the back of it facing you and the secretary. You have guessed he was looking at the spectacular view outside. The interior of his office wasn’t quite different from the secretary’s. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked the skyscrapers and buzzing life outside. Light brown wood with grey walls surrounded you, partnered with black leather furniture. Hints of gold in the CEO’s table were also visible and there were minimalistic abstract paintings with the same hue as everything in the room.
Jung Jaehyun. CEO. — was printed on the glass plaque on top of his table.
“Leave us.” He said without turning his chair. The voice was deep and raspy— clean and masculine— the kind of voice from someone who knows he was in authority and that he owns the whole place.
Shivering, you almost begged the woman not to leave you with the predator sitting not two meters away from you. The secretary gave you an encouraging nod before turning on her heels and walking away. At the sound of the door clicking close, the swivel chair whirled.
You expected to see a grey-haired, middle-aged man to greet you. As a large company like this one, the CEO wouldn’t be as young as the man in front of you now. You tried to focus your breathing because fuck— the man is beyond gorgeous. It has been a while since you had encountered a creature as beautiful as him.
Hair, raven black against the white swivel chair that stood out in the whole room like a throne only for his to take, his lips were too red as a freshly plucked cherry against his pale skin— so white you could almost see the blues and the violets of his veins. And those eyes— the perfect dark brown; screams calmness after the storm and the rage of the hurricane fused together.
“Are you quite done staring?”
His voice shot you back to reality. You prayed to the saints that you hadn’t been drooling as you took in his whole features. If that was the case?You were absolutely doomed. Your chances of ever being hired beginning to thin.
“I… my apologies, Sir.” You bowed your head, suddenly confused as to why your body reacted that way. This is not a medieval fantasy where you were inclined to bow before the king, but the man in front of you exudes the energy of the likeliness of a monarch and it felt right to bow in front of him.
He didn’t answer. You could only assume that he was looking through your documents by the sound of the papers shuffling.
“Fine arts degree? To a waitress?” His words ended with a ‘hm?’. He almost sounded disgusted by your resume. It made the veins on your temple ticked but you really couldn’t blame him. The job that you landed on after graduating wasn’t really what you expected after those too many sleepless nights struggling to finish all your plates.
“And with this basic resume…” Your head automatically recovered from the bow and your eyes stared at him. He didn’t call your resume basic, right? But he did. It was crystal clear in your ears, ringing in your mind. And all your hopes of getting the job were gone in an instant. “… why should I hire you?” he finished.
His eyes were emotionless but his voice was taunting. Despite the insult of calling your resume basic, you smiled at him. It was your time to prove yourself and there was no stopping you now.
You cleared your throat, “Because I am a hard-working woman ready to give you her utmost effort—”
“You’re hired.” He simply declared with a wave of his hand.
You blinked, doubtful of the words that you have heard. “Sir?”
“You’re hired. Go and talk to Maggie about everything that you need to know,” he coldly stated, not looking at you but into his computer.
You could really jump from happiness, right in front of him. And you didn’t even care that he interrupted the speech which you practiced all night with the hopes to impress him. What truly matters is you got a new job not twenty-four-hours after you were terminated from that wretched fast-food chain. However, you wouldn’t provoke him to fire you on your first day so you remained calm.
“Thank you, Sir!”
Clasping your hands together was the only vessel you have to let go of a fraction of the happiness that you have felt. You turned on your heels with a smile that could reach your ears. But before you could open the door, he spoke again.
“Try harder when it comes to your clothes, next time. They don’t match mine.”
It was the best pair of formal clothes in your wardrobe. You inhaled sharply and faced him with the same smile, already not so fond of your newly-acclaimed boss.
“Alright, Sir. I understand.”
Then you dashed outside, instantly regretting being his secretary even before your job to serve him had begun.
The secretary, Maggie, introduced you your new workplace. She must’ve seen how happy you were when you departed Mr. Jung’s office that she automatically guided you towards the secretary’s table with a smile.
Her corner was neat, the folders clearly stacked on one end and notebooks at the side. The computer was placed on the right corner alongside the telephone. It was easy to move around since everything is in its place.
Then she guided you towards the pantry. It was decorated with the same brown, grey, black hues with a hint of gold accents. Adjacent to it is the meeting area, composed of the same black leather furniture and a glass table partnered with a minimalistic chandelier. Everything around you looks so expensive that you felt out of place all of a sudden.
“Mr. Jung wants his coffee a little bit warm in the morning. There’s a coffee maker ready, you just have to watch a few coffee making videos and you’re gonna be alright.” You shared a chuckle. It would seem as if Jung Jaehyun is meticulous when it comes to his coffee. So you mentally reminded yourself to watch some coffee making videos tonight.
“Sometimes he likes it cold. Plus, he usually drinks iced-americano. Easy to make,” she said with a wink.
Is working for Jung Jaehyun also requires you to be a barista? Cool.
“For his breakfast, you have to ask him every morning if he’d like to eat. More of the times he does not. And I think one of his personal pet peeves is when someone wastes food. So be careful about that.”
You listed everything she has told you, emphasizing the words ‘ask him’ to remind yourself not to impulsively make him food for there was no guarantee that he was going to eat.
“On the days that he wants to have breakfast, he usually likes to eat scrambled eggs with slices of bacon and don’t forget about the apples. He loves apples,” she exaggerated, “You just have to cut them in equal pieces or else he won’t eat them.”
Bringing a ruler with you won’t do any harm, right? So you listed it together with the reminders that Maggie informed you of. She continued walking you through the works that she does: from the emails that you need to go through to make sure no insignificant message would irate Mr. Jung, to her techniques in taking notes and arranging schedules for the boss.
“And there’s a proper uniform made for you,” she said while eyeing you from head to toe. But not in an insulting manner like what Jung Jaehyun did. Her scrutinizing was more on the calculating side. It would appear as though she was mentally analyzing your body size.
“On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays– you will have to wear this same outfit as I am wearing.” By that, she means the dress and the brown blazer.
“Tuesdays, and Thursdays, you have to wear slacks the same color as this blazer. It’s paired with white silky polo sleeves. Nothing uncomfortable, don’t worry,” she chuckles. But your tongue wanted to ask whether you were going to buy your own set of clothes. The uniform looked so neat and expensive that by the lookds of it, surely you do not have the luxury to buy one. As if reading through your knitted brows, Maggie told you that all uniforms are provided by the company. Thank God.
“On Saturdays, you can wear anything you like. Just be mindful of it. Mr. Jung does not like it when his secretary—”
“Wears cheap clothing? And does not match with his?” You finished the sentence for her. It was the sentiment of the CEO before you exited his office.
Maggie’s lips was formed in a thin line, telling you to go along with it. “It’s not exactly like that. But you have to at least try to catch up to his fashion sense.”
Well— Jesus Christ— the man exhales the air of Balmain and Versace and you do not have the richest to afford a Chanel outfit to pair with him even if you sell your soul to the devil.
“Is that… really necessary?” You asked her, clearly agitated. If that was what the CEO wants, you would gladly go back and work in that cursed fast-food chain and wear the same uniform six days a week than thinking about robbing a famous clothing brands’ store every fucking day to match his highness’ clothes.
“Yes. But don’t worry. The clothes I wear every Saturdays were all thrifted. You just have to really dig every clothes to find a decent one.” She winked at you. You smiled at her nervously. You wouldn’t trust yourself thrifting clothes, simply because you do not have the patience for it. But your little sister, Yuqi, does. So you would have to trust her taste and maybe she wouldn’t feel so helpless anymore once you give her the task.
“That’s pretty much all you have to know,” Maggie declares while clasping her hands together. You suddenly felt the need to ask her the reason why she was resigning. But it seemed too personal to inquire. You shrugged and let the question die in your mind.
“How long have you been working here?” You asked instead. She smiled at you, looking around the place like she was reliving some kind of memories.
“I interned in this place when I was still in college. Mr. Jung applauded my performance so I decided to work here when I graduated. It’s been three years, to be exact.”
Jung Jaehyun must’ve been owning this empire at such a young age, based on Maggie’s story. He was the CEO when she was still in college until now. You wonder how old he was when he took this company.
“Mr. Jung’s must’ve been really young when he took over this company,” you voiced. Maggie nodded and told you she was impressed by how young yet clever Jung Jaehyun is to be managing a top company such as Jung’s Fiscals.
After a few minutes of small talk and reminders, Maggie bid you goodbye. Her things were all gathered and she was ready to go even before she walked you through the rules and reminders of the company. However, before she left, you asked the one question that you have been itching to know the answer to the very moment you walked out of Mr. Jung’s office.
“Is he… is he really terrible? Like in the rumors?” You know it was not pleasant to ask such things regarding your boss. But you need at least some warnings before you dive in headfirst to the trouble.
Maggie chuckled and you didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. “He doesn’t mistreat his employees. It’s more like, he doesn’t really care enough. I don’t know. He’s excellent in his field but he’s aloof towards everyone. Never really socializing and talking outside of business.” Maggie smiled and you hate to be the one to noticed it, but it seems like she adores Mr. Jung. With the possibility of romantic feelings bubbling beneath her weak facade.
Before you knew it, your tongue is rolling and asking the question you whispered only to yourself. “Do you like him?”
At your question, all the professionalism deteriorated from Maggie’s presence. She looked like a giddy thirteen-year-old lovesick teenager when she answered, “Who wouldn’t like him? The man is like, rich-rich. And that aura? That body? I’d let him spit on me.”
You were slightly disgusted by the latter but you were not going to argue that Jung Jaehyun is indeed the kind of man who could easily wreck you. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. He has that power in him and you know it the second you laid your eyes on that beautifully cruel face. Those eyes— oh boy— eyes that could make you feel alive but drown and capture you within the depths of them— yet his looks; looks that could almost kill. Men like him know their place, and that is above everyone else— including you.
Your first week went smoothly. There were new emails sent to Jung Jaehyun’s inbox that you need to check. There was also a telephone call, once, from a girl named Chaelin who wishes to visit Jaehyun once his schedule wasn’t too jampacked to bother. You silently asked your boss whether he would allow it, checking his schedules first before asking. He told you to insert Chaelin’s visit on one of his them. That made you wonder if she was one of those rumored models caught leaving Jaehyun’s penthouse and office. But you shook your mind off the thought. Clearly, you have no business wondering about those kinds of things. He is your boss and you are his secretary. You would never meddle in his personal life.
Maggie was right, Jung Jaehyun was indeed aloof. He eats alone and employees never really stay in his office longer than ten minutes. Maximum. And they would always come out with their hand on their chest, heaving a deep sigh. He didn’t welcome small talk and he was all about business. Slowly, you have grounded and reminded yourself exactly where your place was inside the office; and that is inside his territory, but out of his life.
It was easy to master the perfect taste of his coffee. And yes, you would admit, you almost collapsed on your knees when he first tasted your office-made americano. You even stayed for two minutes after he took a sip, hoping for some good comments but he just raised a brow at you. That was your cue to exit. Just like what Maggie reminded you, Jung Jaehyun does not eat breakfast often as a normal person would. But today, he finally ordered one.
Chaelin, who called you, finally arrived fifteen-minutes ago. If Jaehyun looked like a king, Chaelin was his queen — or so you assume. She carried the dominant female aura in her; ash grey hair, red lips, and red bottoms, with a 90’s silk dress hugging her body paired with a Chanel purse. Everything about her screams perfection. You were glad that she smiled softly towards you after you guided her towards Mr. Jung’s office; making you more comfortable in her presence instantly. Maybe that was why you were preparing breakfast for the duo.
The whole office is lonesome. The surrounding eerily silent with literally only the three of you on the whole floor. All you could hear was the crisp sound of the slices of bacon as you fry them, and the thud of the knife against the chopping board as you prepare his apples— fresh and pristine on the plate.
Everything was ready in twenty-five minutes. You placed the food on a clean tray before walking towards Mr. Jung’s office. Balancing all of it with your hip, you pushed the door slightly. The main office stood empty before you, but you heard their murmurs silently echoing from the meeting area that was adjacent to Mr. Jung’s office.
Reluctant to barge in without asking for their permission, your steps slowed. But Mr. Jung ordered for a breakfast today, he must have been hungry. You did not want to make him wait, or his visitor— so you inhaled and exhaled, continuing your walk towards the meeting area.
“So basically, this visit is to tell me to clean up your own mess?”
You heard Mr. Jung asked, contempt clear in his voice. It definitely felt like the conversation is not for anyone to hear. You hesitated in your position.
“This is not my mess. It’s theirs. How many times—” Chaelin was obviously frustrated by the tone of her voice. You heard a playful chuckle from your boss, interrupting the lady’s discourse.
“And how many times do I have to tell you that I. Do. Not. Give. A. Flying. Fuck.”
“Come on! You’re the only creature here on Earth who could do what needs to be done.” Chaelin sounded tired, worn out from the male’s large ego.
You were about to turn on your heel and walk away, the conversation clearly was between both of them alone, and you didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You were just torn between serving their food or walking away. You started doing the latter until Mr. Jung’s voice boomed in the whole office that you literally felt the plates in the tray shook.
“Who’s there?!”
You froze on your spot— and your breathing too. It wasn’t just a question. It was a scream of command to reveal yourself. You didn’t even know how he had known someone staying outside the meeting area. Before you could run away from the scene, you heard footsteps coming your way. You turned around to face your boss, you regretted doing so. He was looking at you with his emotionless eyes. And you felt a trickle ran down your spine as he continued walking towards you— grabbing your arms like he wanted to crush your bones. You were too shocked to even feel the pain but it was there, slowly slicing through your skin, certain it was going to leave a bruise.
“What did you hear?” He asked, rage evident in his voice. Chaelin was looking at the both of you, not enjoying the scene but also anticipating for your answer.
You squeezed your eyes shut because you couldn’t stand looking at his eyes as they seemed to burn you to ashes. “N-nothing, Sir.” You trembled.
He pinned you down with that same, deadly stare. His body only a tray away from yours, you could smell his spicy perfume mixing with the smell of portions of bacon and eggs. And his face, too close, so close he almost seemed familiar. He stared at you, not saying anything with his mouth but shooting you death threats with his eyes. You couldn’t stand it. Your knees began to wobble but before you could lose your balance, Chaelin decided to intrude.
“Jaehyun, let go of the girl. She’s telling the truth.”
His hand automatically slid away from your arms. He drew a frustrated sigh, running his hand through his raven-black hair. You let out a sigh of relief. But it was short-lived as he spoke with his toneless voice again.
“Get the fuck out of this room. Now.” His back facing you while he gripped the edge of the table.
You gathered all your strength, placing the tray on the small table two steps away from you. You were dumbfounded and beyond scared, you didn’t even bother to arrange their plates, you dashed towards the door like a contender in a marathon.
The moment the oak door closed behind you only did you allow yourself to breathe. It came out shaky. But surprisingly, there were no tears rolling down your cheeks. You simply clutched your chest; the pain in your arm numb because of your fear.
It was only your first week. Yet all you wanted to do was resign and get the hell out of the building.
With a glass of liquor in one hand, Jaehyun stared at the vast expanse of the city lights below from his penthouse; thinking that every twinkling light is his to conquer. He was always been fond of high grounds; it reminded him of his place before he was cast out of heaven and became the most infamous fallen in the history of mankind.
The fall. History had withered and repeated itself for millions of years. Yet he still could not forget how it felt like to fall into nothingness, with the gates of heaven closing in before his very eyes.
Did it hurt? The poets tried to ask the unknown; they bled ink trying to fathom the feelings of Lucifer when the Almighty and every angel declared him a traitor. Yet no poem had the exact metaphors to decipher his doom.
Did it hurt? Jaehyun sometimes asks himself the same question. Did it hurt when his wings started to smolder with fire as he plunged into the abyss of nothingness and into the Earth? Did it hurt when every bone in his body twisted and shattered as he landed into hard ground of a place too grave to be called heaven? Did it hurt when he was all bruises and blood and ill-fated to burn into the pits of hell? Just like the poets, Jaehyun has not found the metaphor to describe the feeling; but unlike them, he knew too well how it felt like.
He had lost count of the millennia that had past. He had lost count of his own age if he ever had one. The world made its inevitable change. And it continues to change, leaving him behind. Because he was still him; all wings and sins. Forever damned, forever unforgiven.
He was there when religion had been born, and he watched as the pious made different names to describe him; Prince of hell, the devil, Satan, the Fallen Angel. He watched them cursed him and condemned those who believed in him. And back then he realized that people were quick to describe and hate something they do not understand.
Kings and queens died. Kingdoms rose and fell, and he watched them all with obloquy in his face. Because he couldn’t believe that despite the spitefulness of humans against each other, the Almighty still loved them above all else.
They say he was destined to burn in hell, but his true punishment lay more grievous than being scorched alive. He pulled a locket out of his pocket with his too pale hands. Opening the little old golden thing, it didn’t fail to make his breath run wild every time he looked at the picture inside. The girl is smiling, the one thing she does not practice usually.
How many years has it been? He forgot the faces of his friends and of his enemies. Yet the one thing he could not forget is her ocean eyes and how her lips tasted salvation in his.
One hundred years, my love, he whispered.
One hundred years of her gone, and one hundred years of him keeping her closest to his aching heart despite the death that separates them both. And he would do everything to live; to keep her as his secret, to keep her alive in him.
That was when his thoughts weaved its way to you. A girl who has the ability to ruin everything he holds dear in his damned eternity. You might’ve heard things earlier; he wasn’t sure. The way your eyes looked at him frantically and how your body almost convulsed in his touch, he couldn’t explain why but he never wants to see that same reaction painted on your face again.
Drinking the last contents of his glass and with a touch of warning in his voice, he whispered your name against the miles that are separating you both. With the hopes that it would caress and remind you of the storm coming.
A mere mortal like you is nothing compared to his ancient greatness. Yet the thought of a human knowing his secret nagged in his system even if he didn’t want to. He couldn’t let you out his sight. Not tomorrow, not ever.
masterlist.
#jung jaehyun au#nct au#nct 127 au#nct smut#jung yuno imagines#nct scenarios#jaehyun nct au#jaehyun au#nct imagines
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Storge (Familial Love)Pt.2- EraserMic x Student!Reader
This post includes: Mentions of loss of family, cursing, mentions of fiscal problems, mild violence and injury, a prominent homosexual relationship, and mentions and depictions of anxiety.
Original Request: “Imagine living all by yourself. You’re a teenager that lost their parents years ago and refused to become a part of the foster system. So now you work and take care of your own apartment all while going to school at U.A. It was starting to take a real toll on you when Mr. Aizawa and Mr. Yamada approached you, like concerned parents. It could be written as platonic or romantic. (Not with the reader, I'm talking about Mic and Eraser)”
Authors Note:
As per usual I over wrote! This will be divided into two chapters. I went off on a bit of a tangent with this one but to be fair i wrote the first half over two months ago and the second half this week.
Word Count: 5.6k
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Chapter 2
That day you walked home in your new coat; the wind’s bitter teeth unable to gnaw at your bones like it used to. When you reached your front door, you didn’t want to shrug it off and toss it into the pile of sweaters and hoodies you kept near the door for cold days. You wanted to keep it on even if that meant, for the first times since the weather had changed, you’d be sweating through your clothes. It was new, you like new. It was a gift; you’d forgotten how much you like gifts. You cooked in the coat, did your homework in your coat and eventual fell asleep on your couch swaddled in the warm fur hood.
When the sun broke through your blinds the next morning you uncurled yourself, reluctantly peeling off the coat in favor of getting some fresh air on your sweaty skin. You checked the time on your phone, 5:32 AM. It was still early and you wagered you could sneak in a couple more hours of sleep before you had the be in class, but you overflowing kitchen garbage can caught your eye and you decided you’d rather use this time to maybe take care of somethings you’d let slide. First order of business was to clean your dishes, the counters, and gather all the miscellaneous trash scattered around your apartment. The second was to take said trash to the complex’s communal waste bin across the parking lot. Your apartment was starting to look like a functioning home again, the next thing to go was the pile of warm layer next to the door, you wouldn’t be needing those anymore.
The snow crunched under your feet, more had fallen throughout the night and it hadn’t yet been disturbed by the day’s traffic. The sky was pink and the rooftops white, and in the early morning silence your neighborhood didn’t look half bad. You lifted the heavy metal lid to the trash bin, tossing your over-stuffed bag before the seams could give way. With a clang you dropped the lid, the sound resonating through the streets. A dog barked in response and the world returned to silence.
You took a deep breath of crisp clean air and for a moment everything faded, only the blazing sky and your swirling breath mattered. Then the snow behind you started to crunch, footsteps moving closer. You turned around, suspicious of anyone else up and about this early in the morning. You were met with two familiar sleepy eyes peeking out from behind a thick grey scarf.
“Mr. Aizawa, G-good morning?” you greeted awkwardly.
“Uh, yeah. Good morning.” He said back, his hands shoved in his pockets. “I’m- just heading back from a night patrol. Sorry if I startled you.”
“I didn’t know you patrolled around here.” You’d never seen him before, which you guessed was technically the point.
“I-” he paused. “Just expanded my patrol range recently.”
“Oh, good to know.” You smiled at him; you rarely saw heroes here. If you did it wasn’t for long.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you in class.” He started to turn away.
“Hey, Mr. Aizawa?” An idea suddenly popping into your head. He paused and looked back at you. “I- since I have my provisional licence I’m allowed to patrol with a licensed hero and if you’re in the area on my night off-”
“No.” He said, turning back away. “You’re too loud. I’m sure Mr. Yamada would be willing to take you on patrol, if you ask nice enough. He can’t stealth to save his life.”
“I am not!” you huffed. “I can stealth if I want to!”
Still turned away from you chuckled. “Prove it in class today, then maybe.”
He started away again and in mere second scaled your building and leap across the roof out of view. You made you way back to your apartment, taking care to step slowly and as carefully as the snow would allow it. You’d show him stealth!
Mr. Aizawa wasn’t kidding about class. The whole obstacle course was built around stealth, evade capture for thirty minutes with no use of force and pass. It was in teams, you failed, your team also failed. You, as you were fully aware were, the least subtle out of your teammates. He had grouped you together on purpose, you knew it. You had to think logically, you had to plan to move around as little as possible. You ended up pulling a cluster of debris around you and your team in the middle of what looked like a junk yard, using your power to keep them in place as All Might thundered around looking for you.
While it definitely was suspicious that this pile of debris wasn’t moving while the world’s strongest hero was lunging around, shaking buildings with each impact Mr. Aizawa passed your team. You were dismissed early for lunch with your team, beaming as you left the training grounds. You’d passed, proved you were stealthy.
After you had wrapped up your lunch you decided to head back to your home room early, you were tutoring a first year in history and needed to take time to refresh your memory. Why not in an empty classroom?
You knocked on the door tentatively, hoping Mr. Yamada had taken his lunch outside of his room. That, however, wasn’t the case. “Hello?”
You slid the door open a fraction. Mr. Yamada and Mr. Aizawa sitting across from each other on two student desks, a convenience store bought bento open between the two of them. “Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt I was looking for a quiet place to study.”
“Your always welcomed in your homeroom! Come in, we’ll keep the talking to a minimum.” Mr. Yamada waved you inside as he hopped off his desk to grab a white steaming cup from the edge of his desk. “What are you studying?”
“First year history.” You held up your worn out textbook. “I tutor some of the underclassmen.”
“Any from my class?” Aizawa asked.
“E-Eijiro Kirishima.” You were pretty sure he was in Mr. Aizawa’s class, the kid sure complained about him enough anyways.
“Hm.” He shrugged to himself. “I wondered how he suddenly started passing most of his tests.”
“Speaking of passing…” you trailed off looking at Mr. Aizawa expectantly.
“Yes, you did.” He sighed into his coffee.
“See, I can be stealthy!” you exclaimed, clutching your book to your chest.
“No, you can hide. You tripped over your own feet leaving for lunch.” Mr. Aizawa grumbled.
“But you passed me!” You chirped. “You said that if I passed you’d take me on a patrol!”
“I said maybe I’d consider it” he corrected you.
“Sho.” Mr. Yamada chided him, eyes peering over his orange glasses.
“I-” Mr. Aizawa looked at his partner, then over to you. You gave him the sweetest smile you could muster, Mr. Yamada doing the same. “When’s you’re next night off?”
“Thursday.” Your smiled grew genuine.
“I’ll be in your neighborhood around 8, take a nap after school and don’t be late the next day.” He instructed, eyeing Mr. Yamada frustratedly.
“Yes, sir!” you bowed. You began backing out of the room.
“Aren’t you going to study?” Mr. Yamada called as to were just about to breach the doorway.
“Right! Yes, thank-you!” You scurried forward, taking your usual desk and opening the textbook.
The next few days passed, work claiming your evening, classes taking up your days until you found yourself lacing up your boots at your front door waiting for 8 o’clock on Thursday evening. You’d seen Mr. Aizawa once in your neighborhood since Tuesday morning, and he was sporting a bruise that seemed to disappear by the beginning of class that very same day. You supposed he had access to Recovery Girl’s powers in the morning before the building filled up with students.
You leaned against your window frame, staring out into the parking lot waiting for the familiar darkly dressed silhouette to appear against the snow. When he finally leaped down from your roof you raced out the door to meet him. you slide to a stop in the slippery snow, spattering his legs with wet slush.
“Subtle.” To your surprise an entertained grin tugged at his lips. “I have a specific surveillance target tonight. I want you to get your patrol experience but if I tell you to turn tail or stay back you do as I say, got it?”
You nodded. “Who is it?”
He stared walking; his footsteps impossibly silent in the dense snow. You now realize, if had wanted to hide his presence the other morning, he could have. You tried to mimic his soft steps, but your pace suffered and you found yourself trailing behind him.
“His alias is Earth Breaker, he’s an elemental type villain. He can control earth at his will, that means projectiles of stone and a solid defense.” Mr. Aizawa briefed you.
“Any we’re surveying him because?”
“Remember that apartment complex that went down last month about six block from here?”
“That was him?”
“Yeah. He killed lots of people in that building.” Mr. Aizawa paused and looked at you. “I’ll tell you when we need to stealth you can just walk normally for now.”
You straightened up and jogged to catch up to him matching his strides until he began to slow about six blocks later. He held up a hand and turned to you. “Stay fifteen feet back, don’t lose me.”
You nodded and strayed off to the side of the sidewalk where a hedge of wild bushed would give you quick cover if you needed it and began to follow Mr. Aizawa from a distance. He ducked into an open gate, melting into the darkening yard, you hugged the fence and peered into the dark until you caught a glimpse of him moving again. He darted across the yard and you ducked into the gate just in time to see him jump the farthest fence. You dashed to the fence, careful to slow down so you didn’t make a loud impact against it. On the other side Mr. Aizawa’s rough voice whispered through the gaps in the wood. “The house across the street to the east, you see it?”
You looked to the east along the fence, you were in a perfect position to keep an eye on the top floor of windows. “Yeah.”
“Keep an eye on the top windows, I’m moving in. Text Mr. Yamada- Hizashi- the street name and district if things go awry. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Understood?” this a quiet thud a phone landed at your feet, a text chain with Hizashi already on the screen.
“Roger.” You nodded, grabbing the phone from the ground. You heard him leave but not where he went, and for several long minutes you waited in silence. Nothing in the windows stirred save the lights going on in a room, then going out again. You pre-typed the text to Mr. Yamada in case you had to send it quick and waited. You kept waiting. The street was so silent that you felt as though outside of yourself time had stopped.
You sat in limbo until suddenly the ground beneath you began to tremble. Waves of tremors rolled past you, flowerpots clattered on their saucers and fences began to sway. You stood up and dashed toward the gate, fighting against the tremors to stay on your feet. A loud bang rang out through the streets, echoing from the house across the street. You latched onto the top of the gate and peered over it just in time to see a cloud of dust washing towards you. You ducked until the worst of it washed passed you, by this time lights all around the neighborhood had begun to turn on a civilian peaked out of windows and doors.
You held your breath and hauled yourself over the fence, landing in a bed of flowers, you felt a tinge of guilt about crushing. Through the settling dust you could see the front of the house you’d been watching; it was covered in dust and the front door was hanging on by a single hinge. In the doorway a hulking man stood, his arms braced against the door frame which had fishers running through it that bled into the walls. His eyes were a light with an animalistic rage, the type of rage only a mad man could carry inside.
As the dust continued to roll back you could see more of the street, rocks and dirt scattered everywhere. Shingles and chunks of siding rained down from the house and bounced off the street. Mr. Aizawa crouched in the street, dust rolling off of him as he shielded the bottom half of his goggled face. You looked at the phone in your hand then back at him, he still seemed so calm. You left the message unsent.
“A SPY?!” The man in the doorway roared. He brought one of his great fists down onto the stone walkway at the front of the house and a fissure formed, snaking across the ground towards Mr. Aizawa. “THEY SENT ANOTHER SPY?!”
Mr. Aizawa launched himself backwards, barely escaping the crumbling ground beneath him. He should have been faster; you could have gotten away quicker than that. You watched as he landed, quickly shifting his weight to his left foot immediately after hitting the ground. He’s hurt.
You hit send. Better safe than sorry.
Earth Break fired off two quick fire blasts, Mr. Aizawa easily skirting one but heading straight into the middle of another. You shot out your hand and thought about pulling him towards you out of the way. He grunted as he was jerked backwards, landing and sliding into the grass. He side glanced at you, keeping his head turned towards the enemy. His hand hung at his side flinched, his fingers motioning for you to back up. You did as you were told, scrambling sideways into some bushes that lined the yard you were in. He stood and took off, even on his injured leg he managed to fade away into the night.
Behind you a low creak altered you to someone peeking out of the front door. You turned around and saw a man wrapped in his house coat staring wordlessly at the behemoth across the street currently smashing apart the driveway. You whistled quietly at him, his eyes darting to you. He stopped himself from shouting in surprise with a hand over his mouth and a calming breath. You crawled closer to him with a finger help to you lips.
“Get back inside, to the rear of the house!” you whispered.
He looked back across the street and his eye swelled with fear as he took a step back inside the house, this time a yell escaping him. You spun around to see a chunk of the road hurdling towards the house. Thinking quickly, you darted towards it and just as it passed over head pulled it towards you with your quirk. You rolled to the side narrowly escaping being totally crushed, instead getting away with a nasty gash in your arm from a stray piece of rebar. You jumped to your feet and looked back at the house, the owner was a few feet inside frozen with fear.
“Run!” you shouted at him. With a tremendous grunt behind you another chucked of road was launched towards you.
“ANOTHER ONE!” he roared.
You darted in the only direction you could at the moment, the house. You rushed in through the door, and pushed the man inside along as you did. You breached the kitchen just as the boulder crashed through the doorway, tearing into the walls as it did. Debris flew everywhere, pieces of wood and insulation filling the air. You pulled the man through his house until you both burst through into the backyard.
“Keep going!” you huffed as you spun around and darted back through the house.
You breached the crater where the front door had once been, the shadow of a massive dust storm beginning to swallow the top of the house. Rocks and dirt and chunks of boulders began whipping around, leaving the house was next to impossible unless you wanted to be bludgeoned with debris. Windows shattered, the ground shook and the foundation began to crumble beneath you. The cement base tore through the carpeted floors in spears, you had to jump left and right narrowly avoiding serious injury until you made it to the stairs where the spears were having a harder time getting at you.
Then everything stopped, the spears crumbled into sand and the ground stilled. The house moaning as it settled back into its uneven foundation. The street quieted, almost back to the timeless silence before the chaos had begun. A single roar of anger pierced the air, cut short with a grunt. You steadied yourself on the stair railing and made your way on uneasy legs to the front yard. Mr. Aizawa stood, covered in dust and debris, with a single boot pressed into Earth Break’s chest. His hands pulled tightly on his capture weapon, restraining the boulder of a man below him.
The street began to fill with lights and sirens, the cool blue darkness of the night flooded with red and white. Police piled out of their cars and vans to load the villain into an armoured truck for transport. You plopped down onto the front steps, brushing aside an uprooted plant. You sat and watched the arrest, watched how many officers it took to contain just one man. He was the definition of raw power, one stray kick tearing off a police car door.
Once he disappeared into the truck you leaned back onto your arms, you were beat. You were sore and exhausted, but you were also in a strange perverse sense happy. Perhaps it was the adrenalin of what you’d just gone through still coursing through your system or the afterglow of a technically successful patrol, but you felt like this was what you were meant to be doing. This hero thing, this was for you.
When a pair of ambulances arrived, you watched as the paramedics jumped into action. One of them offering medical treatment to Mr. Aizawa who, you had only just noticed, was making a b-line towards you. He waved off the paramedic, limping towards you on his injured leg.
“Are you alright?” He grunted, lowering himself onto the step next to you.
You looked over yourself, your sleeve was torn, and arm was scratched up from the rebar in the boulder but you would live. It immediately started to thrum with pain when you looked at it, the blissful ignorance of adrenaline wearing off as soon as you actually took stock of the injury. You were covered in dirt and dust, but you still felt good, despite your injuries.
“Yeah. Just a scratch.” You shrugged. “How’s your leg?”
“I’ll live.” He grumbled looking down at his torn pant leg. “Thanks for that by the way, the save earlier. Even if you did put yourself directly into harm’s way, like an idiot.”
You chuckled to yourself. There was always a learning opportunity with him.
“No problem?”
You both sat in silence for a moment, watching some of the police cars start to leave. It was him who spoke next. “So, where’s my phone?”
“Oh,” you looked over your shoulder at where you had dropped it, a large boulder sitting in the wake of a deep groove in the lawn. “it’s-”
“Under that boulder?” he sighed.
You nodded solemnly; you couldn’t afford to replace that phone.
“Well, at least it’s not you under the boulder.” He turned back to face the street.
Was that… a glimmer of fondness? You smiled to yourself, a familiar warmth blooming in your chest. You still missed that, people being glad to have you around. You didn’t really spend enough time around people to feel that anymore.
“Okay,” Mr. Aizawa pushed himself to his feet. “let’s get that armed checked out.”
“It’s a scratch, I’m fine.”
“It’s flesh eating bacteria waiting you kill you.” He said, pulling you up with surprising strength for a guy with a bum leg. It wasn’t quite the same as Mr. Yamada’s unbridled kindness, but you got the feeling this was Mr. Aizawa’s version of fussing over you.
***
“Hey.” There was a quiet knock at the door of your room. You looked away from the fuzzy TV screen to find Mr. Yamada leaning up against the door frame, a disappointing looking cup of coffee in his hand.
“Hi. What’s are you doing here?”
“Sho- Mr. Aizawa had to get an x-ray for his ankle so I thought I’d stop by and keep him company while he waited.” Mr. Yamada looked over his shoulder, sighed, shook his head and turned back to you. “It would seem he needed so such company though.”
“What do you mean?” You gestured at the chair in the corner of the examination room for him to sit.
“Well,” he gladly took the seat, propping his boot clad feet up on a basket of magazines. “he’s been on the phone passing around the emergency room, probably hurting himself even more. He’s giving the station an ear full right now, he’s not very happy with them.”
“Why? They came pretty quick.” You picked at the paper rolled out across the bed.
“You.” Mr. Yamada placed the cup in his hands on the ground and looked up at you. “He only let you patrol with him because the report he was given on Earth Breaker misclassified him in threat level.”
He leaned back into the chair, sinking down like a bored teenager trying to slip away. “I’ve never heard him chew someone out for so long.” Mr. Yamada grumbled.
“Really?” You didn’t really know what to say, partially because you couldn’t picture Mr. Aizawa being upset and the other part because you were trying not to fall asleep. The adrenaline had worn off about half an hour ago and the pain meds the nurses gave you were strating to lull you to sleep.
“Yeah.” Mr. Yamada pushed himself back into a proper sitting position, tucking one leg under himself. He was obviously uncomfortable in the wooden waiting chair. “I was surprised when the nurse said you were still here, I thought you’d have gotten stitched up and went home.”
You blinked a few times, begging your eyes to stop drooping.
“I have to wait for my case worker to come get me, since I’m a minor leaving the hospital after treatment is kind of tricky. I can’t check myself out.” You shrugged.
Mr. Yamada sighed, not particularly happy with his new position but seemingly not bothered enough to fix it either. “How long have you been waiting?”
“I called and left a message like, an hour and a half ago.” You looked down at your phone, there was a new crack in the screen. No New Messages.
“And?” Mr. Yamada asked.
“Well, it’s currently 2:30 in the morning,” you breathed, “so I assume she’s asleep. If I don’t hear form her in another 30 minutes the hospital will call child services and they’ll send an overnight clerk to get me.”
“Shit.” He mumbled. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah. Mr. Yamada?”
“Mm?” he looked at you, his body sliding down in the chair.
“Don’t expect me to make to class on time tomorrow okay?” you grinned. You were tired and it was the best approximation of a joke you could make.
“I’d be upset if you even showed up.” He huffed, pushing himself up.
You both sat in silence for a few minutes, the distant gruff voice of Mr. Aizawa lecturing someone filling quiet. You looked at the TV for a bit, our eyes burning with exhaustion. You tried to read the medical posters, but the reading made it hard for you not to nod off. Eventually, after a particularly long blink Mr. Yamada spoke up.
“Lie down, go to sleep. I can wake you up when someone comes to get you.” You were about to protest when he reached up a turned off the lights. The open door still letting in the cool light from the hallway. “Shhhhhhhh.”
You could have sworn you’d seen his silhouette sink down in the chair as his shush came to an end. While you hated the idea of sleeping around other people you couldn’t fight the urge to close our eyes and fine rest.
***
“Should we wake her?”
“We have to, she has to sign a form before she can leave, Zashi.”
“Shit, right!.....Hey Sho?”
“Mmmm?”
“Thank-you.”
A hand gently shook your leg, waking you from your shallow sleep. You blinked into the dark room, a figure leaning in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall lights. At the end of the paper topped bed was Mr. Yamada, or rather his very recognizable silhouette. Still dazed with sleep you rubbed your eyes and started to pull yourself up, the paper crinkling and tearing under you.
“Hey, kiddo.” He greeted softly.
“They here?” you mumbled, stifling a yawn.
“No, no, no.” he seemed somewhat nervous, glancing behind him at the figure in the doorway. “Mr. Aizawa called in a favor with someone at Child Services, he got permission to check you out. We’ll give you a lift home.”
You blinked. You weren’t entirely sure if you understood what was happening, you were too tired to really care. Home sounded good and he said you could go home. You nodded anyways and slid off the table, Mr. Yamada putting a pre-emptive supportive arm around you. You were on auto piolet, the pain meds and sleepy daze that hung over your head making it impossible for you to fully wake up. You signed some paper, a nurse said something nice. Mr. Aizawa looked…soft. No, nice…nicer than usual.
Then you were in the back seat of Mr. Yamada’s car, drifting off against the car door and dim streetlights passed you by.
***
You woke up to the sun piercing through your blinds, hot rays of light warming your chilled skin. Your room, perusal was chilly, though you were curled up under several blankets. You stretched and groaned, the that fog that hung over. You last night lifting. Lifting. Lifting. Lifted. Panic. You shot straight up, your aching muscles expressing their displeasure at the sudden movement. You looked around for your phone, it was usually under your pillow but then again you didn’t even remember getting into bed.
You didn’t really remember getting home or leaving the hospital. You ran your hands up and down the bed until your phone caught your eye as it rested atop to dresser across the room. You crawled across the bed, stumbling to your feet and looked at the time. 12:14 pm. You’re heart sank. It was Friday and you were late, again. Then your eyes caught sight of a folded piece of paper, a hastily written note on the back of your grocery receipt.
‘Don’t you dare come to class today. Here’s my number, send me message when you wake up. Let me know you’re not dead. -Mr. Yamada.’
You looked down at yourself as the panic subsided. You were in the most basic configuration of your hero costume, the jacket, gloves boots and utility items were folded up next your phone. All that remained what your pants and undershirt, both in need of some patch work and cleaning. You dethatched all of the pieces that couldn’t be washed and gathered up those that could and threw them in the communal washing machine on the floor below. When you reached your apartment again all you wanted was to eat and shower, but you typed out a brief, to the point text and sent it.
‘Not Dead. – Y/n.”
A hot shower warmed you right up. You got a better look at the bruising on your arm and knees, noting too serious nor life threatening. In fact, you’d think you’d probably gotten worse during training. When you got back to your phone you quickly found out Mr. Yamada was an emoji texter. You could only imagine how he and Mr. Aizawa’s message exchanged must look now.
Glad the hear it! Got something I wanna talk to you about when you have time!’
‘IT’S NOT BAD! I promise!’
‘Is there a time I could stop by this weekend?’
‘Mr. Aizawa would be there too or course! Not like a one on one thing, that would be weird.’
You could see his energy channeling into texting anxiety. You checked your work schedule, you had day shifts this weekend so any night would work. You responded as such, suddenly realizing you had invited them over to your dumpy apartment. You could kick yourself. You looked around; this place was so rundown that it needed to exorcized of its dust. You flopped back onto the bed, dreading all the cleaning you had ahead of you. To top it off you had a night shift to get ready for.
***
Saturday. Within the next day you had gone to work twice and between shifts thrown out everything that wasn’t wearable, washable or too offensive to be allowed continued existence. By the time you were moderately happy with your place it looked like a college dorm pre-move in. It’s not that your place had much personality to begin with, but over the last few months the mess had become your only sense of self here. Between your busy schedule and lack of motivation to do anything outside of work and school, you had gotten comfortable living in the product of that life. Despite the stress of having guests over to a home you were ashamed of, the cleanliness was…nice. You could get used to this.
You were almost able to enjoy the new environment when a knock sounded at your door and your gut squeezed in on itself. You tried to relax, telling yourself that they weren’t going to judge you. They fought villains for a living, you were not their idea of a bad person. A bad apartment doesn’t make you a bad person. You still felt shitty, though.
You opened the door. The two of them stood in the hall, shoulder to shoulder, in casual clothes. Mr. Aizawa looking tired, but not as frustrated as he seemed to be when lurking in the halls at U.A. Mr. Yamada was bright and smiling, without the cockatiel hair he seemed less larger than life, more puppy-esque.
“H-hi!” He greeted.
“Hey.” You smiled back politely. Okay, now let them in. “C-come on in.”
It took you a second to open the door wider and step aside, hopefully they didn’t notice. Who were you kidding, Mr. Aizawa definitely noticed, hopefully Mr. Yamada was still unaware of your currently mortified state. You turned around; they were taking in your space. You followed their eyes. Your walls were too bare, your couch sagged awkwardly in the middle, you didn’t even have a kitchen table.
“This is nicer than your place when you first moved out.” Mr. Aizawa mumbled under his breath, ginning as he elbowed Mr. Yamada.
“I mean,” Mr. Yamada blushed. “there’s a reason that building doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Did you guys want to sit? I have… water?” Yes, those were things you said when you had guests.
“No, thanks.” Mr. Aizawa said, nudging Mr. Yamada towards the couch.
“O-okay.” You rubbed your arm awkwardly.
The three of you went towards the couch, the couple sat on the couch and you leaned against you leaned against the T.V. unit. Silence hung in the air; it was a dense silence filled with unspoken words. You were nervous, it felt like you were doing your own parent-teacher interview. Mr. Aizawa remained ever calm, he looked almost serene compared to, not only how you felt but also, to how Mr. Yamada’s vibrating leg betrayed him to be feeling.
“So,” Mr. Aizawa started.
“So,” Mr. Yamada trailed behind. With a stern look from his partner he continued. “I know, when you lost your parents you didn’t want to be mix matched with other families.”
A strange feeling began rising from your stomach, it was somewhere between anxiety and comfort. It made no sense, but you pushed it down and let him continue.
“And since you’ve been on your own you’ve done really good for yourself.” He fiddled with a loose thread on a tear in his jeans. “But there are some drawbacks, like last night with the whole hospital thing, right?”
You nodded. Wanting desperately not to jump to the conclusion you felt tickling the back of your mind.
“I, uh, I was… Well, we were-” Mr. Yamada swallowed hard.
“We were wondering if, just until you turn 18, you would consider letting us foster you.” Mr. Aizawa has said it but all you could see, and feel was the sheer panic and surprise of Mr. Yamada’s face.
“Y-you want…to-” you breathed. That warm feeling refused to be repressed any longer and spray forth, a bright shiny joy engulfing you. You had thought you didn’t want this, that you were better off just waiting out your years as a minor. You hadn’t thought about how much you missed family in a long time, how much you missed having people fuss over you and worry about you and even make assholes of themselves for you.
“It’ll also be easier if you go on school trips or want to apply for a licensing exam, we can even help out with, like, normal everyday life stuff maybe.” Mr. Yamada threw in.
You grinned to yourself. You had five months left to be a kid.
Read Chapter 1 of Storge here!
#mha#mha x reader#mha x y/n#bnha#my hero x reader#myhero#myheroacademia#myheroacademiaxreader#myheroacademiafanfiction#bnhafanfic#mhafanfic#reader insert#readerinsertbnha#aizawaxreaderxhizashi#readerxerasermic#reader x aizawa#readerxpresentmic
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The NYT article on DJT long known money woes in NYC and how they were successfully hidden from the rest of the country and the world thanks to a reality tv show that showcased him as successful business mogul at a time when he was totally broke and had just filed for bankruptcy. Millions of Americans bought into this epic fake image of the Apprentice. I remember watching that show and thinking wow, this is real, Trump and his kids are genuises. The fact that he was only making 400k each episode should have been enough evidence of his real status but alas, nobody cared for those details. Talk about the power of reality tv. Because of the show, Trump in fact began getting speaking gigs for thousands of dollars per head where people came from all over to hear a con of business ‘genius’ share his magic. *Insert HM speaking gigs here* Hehehe. Imagine that. Over a decade later that very fake image would convince 60 million Americans to vote for this supppsed billionaire who fucking pays 750 dollars in taxes (750 DOLLARS) only 2 y of his Presidency. And please spare us the “he donates his salary” playbook because that’s clearly just another con. A donation of 400k dollars a year DOES NOT relieve any taxpayer in America of their fiscal responsibilities. Period. Fucking try it at home and the IRS will be knocking your door down. And yet the con just continues. It is MIND BOGGLING. I cannot believe I voted for this man in 2016. I know there are many Trump supporters against Meghan Markel on tumblr. Y’all have your reasons but the fact is like her, Trump is a CON ARTIST. Which well meaning person sues through our court system right to the Supreme Court and does everything in their power to hide tax returns?! Which honest person wouldn’t proceed to provide just one paper of their tax returns with a signature to clear his name of 750 dollar embarrassment? 750 dollars, people!!!! 750. A shameless person, that’s who. They’ll just double down and play victim of media bias blame others, throw insults, before beating their chests minutes later claiming to be all strong and powerful. Recognize the same play with our least favorite royal couple? I’m not trying to rile anyone up but would like remind everyone that if you’re paying any attention, Meghan Markel is playing by the very same “art of the deal” rules. She clearly learnt from the best.
Thanks anon. I did not vote for Trump in the last election. I see the parallels very clearly.
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I CANNOT believe I’m late for this but uhm!!! When they were training in the Southern Isles, I’m curious about what Elsa’s reaction was to Anna calling her “Elska” 😔😔
Hey Anon! I really needed a writing prompt break, and so I’m gonna do you one better than just answering this question.
I’ve written a 1,600 word BONUS FEATURE:
Elsa’s POV Chap. 20, final scene reaction. :)
Elsa Winters had always been a woman who put her all into everything she did, always given that additional responsibility with a pre-determined future’s demand hanging overhead. And her extra effort had to be there, with the looming role she was destined to one day inherit. It was ever present. Forever present, actually, if she even tried to recall to her earliest memories.
Her parents had pressed her studies, from as far back as she could remember. Academics first; completely limited in her extra circular activities all through her formative years. Homework, tutors, studying. Had she been of the age before discovering crew, she sometimes wondered if her parents would have put her through the traditional training to become a Debutante (but thank goodness that never happened). Instead, home life trained her in manners, poise, and professional behavior; preparedness that would one day propel her forward into the world with so much greatness and respect.
Despite all of that, there had been one thing, one little joy she had found and held close to heart in those young years; way before crew was destined to find its own home in her heart.
Her language studies.
She had already loved reading, losing herself in the many stories she could come across, but to explore meaning in foreign tongue was an adventure all on her own. Of course English had been the initial language to learn, taking priority in her elementary school scholastics. She enjoyed it and, with a natural born intelligence, easily excelled at every corner from the moment she memorized the alphabet.
But what may have been most amazing was that it was not just an activity that she herself loved, but a skillset that her parents actually commended. With how she picked up her second language so early on was the very first time she could ever recall feeling that semblance of pride coming from them.
Being able to converse with foreign clients with elegance in her prose and something close to native fluency would elevate her appearance by speech alone. The comprehension of detailed linguistic patterns, semantics, intonation, would also be an equal asset to dissuade any underhanded manipulation of a company trying to skirt past the reliance of an interpreter. And so, outside of school’s required language modes, she was asked to learn their neighboring country’s native tongues: some basics in Finnish for a non-Germanic input, as well as Danish and Swedish to expand on her own Nordic based language knowledge.
It was easy. Enough of the words in Danish were the same, even if pronunciation varied, while Swedish sounded so similar, but new word selection was more demanding; Finnish, she barely got a chance to begin, but internally (and never admittedly so) she was thankful that she could at least recall the bare minimum word for ‘summer’ over a decade later.
But it was just as she passed the precipice entering her teenage years that she recalled a wave of tension befalling the Winters household; her father’s ever astute, ever composed, attitude shifting greatly. The surrounding air feeling frigid for days, perhaps weeks, only heated by loud outbursts coming from her family’s study, painfully warming her ears if she opened her door a mere crack.
One day, her mother had finally enlightened her about a fallout deal that had occurred, causing a massive blow to company funds. Just as Elsa had been warned all of these years, a slip of interpretation between two national languages, Nordic to Slavic, had been a hit to her father; both fiscally, and in pride. It was that same evening that her mother told her that she would turn her studies away from the delicate intonation shifts of Finnish speech and onto the heavier, precision based consonant production of the language having felled her father’s plans.
Polish, it was. It was trickier, dependence on a new alphabet development, those dastardly consonants, a trial all its own. However, it was here, in the challenge, which Elsa began to see variants in terms. So many more words, varying descriptions of her thoughts being colored by arbitrary linguistic creations she’d never even considered, imagined. Not just one adjective, but four! It was a spark that she had found, realization hitting her like a ray of light, opening her eyes to something even more magical.
Emotions weren’t a thing she was allowed to express. A lady was polite and demur, but a business woman was stoic and firm. It was well ingrained, both in her mind and automatic mannerisms, that she was responsible to be both.
Yet having these many languages at her hand, on the tip of her tongue, categorized in her brain, associations were built, reaching to each and every aspect of her life.. including the untouched, unexplored confines of her emotions.
Of what her emotions were, or rather, could be.
In the privacy of her room, she would talk out loud, speaking to her few stuffed animals, listening to her echoes bouncing from the tall wallpapered walls, responding to her linguistic tapes in a one sided conversation flow. But it was an outlet. She could be as energetic, upset, angry, and colorfully descriptive as she wanted without concern for retaliation. She could describe her emotions, give them meaning through multiple words, infinite sound concoctions, and finally allow herself to learn what these unfamiliar feelings were, all thanks to the connection of something as unthought-of about as everyday language.
Polish stuck to her in particular. Maybe it was because of the extra effort she had to put in to learning it, or maybe it was the sense of responsibility to avenge her family’s name from a financial embarrassment.
Or maybe it was because, of all the languages she had been told to learn, Polish was the only one that her parents did not speak. Something she could call her own. Something she was free to use around the house, to express each and every thought she felt without fear for being told to stop; to actually be encouraged to say her mind all under the guise of ‘practice’.
It was during this period that she came to try out familial names, allowing herself the little pleasure to actually address her parents by terms of endearment that had been bred out of her vocabulary before she could remember; mamusia and tatuś. Stark contrasts from the formal ‘mother’ and ‘sir’ she was required to use at any other time in daily discussions. And without any close friends to practice on, she found a longing for use of such endearing names, but when put into real life social situations, joining crew and meeting Flynn, her sharing of these private language abilities was already farther away from socially acceptable than her own social ineptitude.
A longing to express closeness, forever tucked into the depths of her heart, stored within a language she held for family pride and family love; never expecting to find someone who both was allowed a chance into her heart while simultaneously drawing her mind to even think in the second language.
And yet, then she came to know the graceful grace of summer; Anna Grace Suvi.
It was a moment, so organic, filled with ease and contentedness, with friendly familiarity, and enjoying a favored topic, the most random language; a moment that she never foresaw an opportunity to share with anyone in her life. And it just.. happened. For the first time, not spoken to an audio tape conversation partner, not given to her favorite childhood toy, but given to an actual person. An actual friend. A friend she’d let deeper into this hidden part of her heart’s emotions than she realized.
“Anka.”
The embarrassment had been hot and flustering, at least after she recognized the error. More embarrassing was that she would never have even realized her slip had Anna not called her on it. Oh how natural had she felt around this girl.. but for how long?
Elsa had been quick to catch herself, spinning a tale, administering tricks that she was trained for, using supporting facts to hide misleading information in a genius guise. When Anna moved on, she silently vowed to never let that verbal slip up happen again, and she prayed that Anna would forget the entire incident by the time they reached that class lessen. A new semester should definitely put enough distance to erase such a stupid memory.
After consciously and successfully pushing that event aside, so many new worries now taxing her mind’s reserves, the brilliant blonde had certainly not expected to be wrong.
Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be the case.
Standing beneath the searing hot sun of the Southern Isles, sunblock painted cheeks red and burning from a reason farthest from sunburn, Elsa was left in an absolute stupor. Blue eyes watched the body of her Freshman Double’s partner running away with a merry pep in her step, but all the older girl could do was attempt to process the repeating term bouncing around in her skull.
“Elska.”
The knowledge that Anna had not just remembered the silly slip of tongue (and also had managed to piece the meaning together despite likely sleeping through most of her studies) should have been enough reason for why the Senior turned away, bracing herself against the hull of the prepared Double; tightly gripped fingers trembling along the carbon fiber, navy orbs wide eyed and blinking rapidly, each breath exhaled with a shudder. And she wished, really really wished, to the highest heavens, that that information was reason enough.
But as her heart pounded, she couldn’t mistake the initial trip; the flutter of delighted surprise, a zing shooting through her chest, and the wave of momentary elation. Finally, not just having discovered a person to express her yearning unspoken feelings of closeness to, but a person, for the first time in ever, to actually return the very same sentiment in a personally cherished language she shared with no one outside the privacy of her heart.
#elsanna#elsanna fanfiction#backwards elsanna#BONUS FEATURE#ask#Nothing is a spoiler#everything is either already known or wasn't a major thing to be addressed in the main plot anyway so enjoy! 😁
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You know, I am still not tired of all the winning. Imagine having a Republican president conserva-woke enough to issue an executive order banning the poisonous lies of critical race theory from being inflicted upon our federal workforce. Well, we do have a president fearless enough to fight back, boldly and publicly, against the noxious propaganda of the academic left we taxpayers have been shelling out millions to pay commie consultants for. And he did it in the face of the utterly predictable narrative that “Trump is racist for prohibiting indoctrinating government employees with the idea that people are good or bad based on their race!”
Do you think a Jeb!, or a Mitt! or even a Nikki! would dare stand up to that kind of heat? No, they’d be kneeling, begging for absolution from the NYT and WaPo for the sins of the GOP base not wanting to pay moral and/or financial reparations for slaves they never owned to people who were never owned.
…
The culture war is that thing the “fiscally conservative, socially liberal” smart set of spineless Fredocons, who are all in on the “socially liberal” part but never get around to the “fiscally conservative” part, have told us for decades is a sure loser. Now, normally one should defer to the Fredocons on losing since they are the indisputable experts, but the fact that for decades the GOP establishment refused to fight about things that our base was concerned with led to a society where people tell you their pronouns and insist dudes can get preggers. Fiscal and foreign policy stuff is important, but when some dude dangles his doings in your daughter’s locker room because now he insists that he is no longer Charlie but is, instead, Charlotte, that’s a problem. And the geniuses kept telling us “Hush, knuckledraggers, we’re too busy trying to ship your job to China because Milton Freidman told us to and we don’t have time to icky fights over the things you care about that might get us called hayseeds at the next Georgetown mixer.”
All this garbage the left has pushed on us – from racial self-loathing to gender idiocy to killing babies – has catastrophic real-world consequences on real people and the people who presumed to lead us didn’t want to risk the kool kidz of kultur wagging their collective fingers at them. Trump not only cares but counterattacks.
That’s why the executive order getting the government out of the racial grievance business is so important. Finally, we are able to exercise our brand of power – political power, since we control the executive branch – to push back against the unaccountable and totally left cultural power of the establishment. And it’s not only the president.
We’re all supposed to applaud the kneeling zillionaires of the NFL – the most spoiled bunch of jerks on planet earth – and yet when they came out and tried to rub their cultural power in our faces, when they tried to make us just sit there and silently be insulted presented by the felons, losers, and accused sex offenders whose names were emblazoned on their helmets, tons of us refused to tune in and those who showed up live booed these pretentious twits. How dare those peasants refuse to submit to the cultural commandments of their betters!
And then there was the reaction to the despicable Netflix Cuties film, a child molester’s fantasia that disgusted the nation. Look, far be it from me to stop the blue bubble-dwelling cultural elite from selecting “You dumb Jesus people don’t appreciate why pedophilia is no big deal” as their hill to die on. As long as they die on some hill I’m not too picky about which one, but if they want to choose the one that’s even going to creep out a lot of the Democrat Party’s voters, go for it.
…
But we’re now fighting back. People are furious with Netflix, and it seems as if the Obama-affiliated VOD service was actually stunned that people objected. After all, cultural decency rarely penetrates into the deep blue bubble, and the idea that telling someone “Hey, your perversion is not okay” is totally alien to their caste. The cultural critics adored Cuties and were scandalized that anyone might be offended by the horrific sexualization of pre-teen girls. Alyssa Rosenberg of the WaPo fumed: “If conservatives, who have jumped on the debate over #Cuties, want to be taken seriously as cultural arbiters, they have to be able to talk about the *text* of a movie like this in an honest, responsible way.” Well, if the price of the total rejection of pedo exploitation of kids is having people in blue metro enclaves not take us seriously, we’re ready to pay it.
…
The culture war is not some niche distraction for Bible thumpers and repressed weirdos channeling Chris Cooper in American Beauty. It is not an inconvenience to our GOP establishment and a frivolous distraction from the serious business of managing America’s decline to keep it at a slightly slower rate than under the Democrats. It is the battle over the things that we normal Americans live with every day. The nature of our country and society is vitally important, and we demand a say in it.
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Handicapping the 2020 Dem primary
Tier Four
The Tom Vilsack Memorial “No Chance in Hell” Tier
These are the candidates whose family members won’t even vote for them. They will drop out either before or immediately after Iowa. Some of them will be working specifically to plant the seeds of a 2024 run, while others are auditioning for an MSNBC gig.
Joe Kennedy
Any person who is simultaneously old enough and illiterate enough to have any fondness for the Kennedys is 100% in the Trump camp. Joe has zero appeal outside of this voting bloc, which literally does not exist. He won’t even win Massachusetts--won’t even be in the top five in Massachusetts.
Michael Avenatti
My man ain’t even announced his run and he’s already facing domestic assault charges. A potential Avenatti run had a mystical WWF vibe to it. I will admit, I was excited, the same as I’d be excited to finally pull alongside the accident that caused the pile up. No one has any idea what his policies are, because neither does he. He might honestly beat Trump in the general, as he is far and away the most likely candidate to physically assault Trump if the two ever share a stage (any Dem who punches Trump will be automatically 100% guaranteed to win the election). But he probably won’t even run.
Mitch Landrieu
Mitch will appeal to that small demographic of erstwhile independent voters who were drawn to Trump solely because he is an openly corrupt grifter. By May he will be a panel participant on a new MSNBC show that’s like Shark Tank but but all the contestants are trying to get the panel to fund their medical gofundme’s.
Eric Holder
Like every other member of the Obama administration, his faults are glaring and the relatively good stuff he did takes way too much context for most voters to understand. Under his leadership, the DoJ began began to litigate hate crimes, which had been almost completely neglected under Bush. That’s good. Also, under his leadership, the DoJ stalwartly refused to prosecute the war criminals who lied us into Iraq or the bankers who tanked the world economy. That’s bad. Politically, he has the platform of a Republican circa 1992. Personally, he has the charisma of a very dry snail.
Steve Bullock
He looks and sounds like the dumb guy sidekick of an old cartoon villain. He is therefore the Bebop/Rocksteady of the field. His policies are indistinguishable from any other civil moderate/fiscal conservative candidate, and his moistness will drive away both donors and media . (NOTE: With Bullock, the Avenatti Rule applies: if he threatens to physically assault Trump or any member of Trump’s family--especially including Baron--he will rocket to the top of the pack. If he actually assaults them, he will win the general election and usher in a glorious Centrist Utopia)
Kristen Gillibrand
She was once considered a front-runner for the same reason Corey Booker kinda sorta still is a frontrunner--because she looks similar to a previous Dem nominee, and many liberal strategists and commentators cannot conceive of a politics beyond identity markers. Trouble is, unlike Booker, Gillibrand pissed off her donor base by leading the the charge against Al Franken. I don’t for a second think that Gillibrand’s efforts had anything to do with principles. She just leaned into the wrong direction of the skid of cynicism: if there’s one thing Democrat donors hate, it’s a candidate who appears to adhere to any kind of moral framework. And Gillibrand is not the sort of candidate who stands a chance without full institutional support.
Tier Three
The “Gormless Dweebs” Tier
These people might stick around until late in the game for the same reason they’d stay at a house party until well after they were no longer welcome. Each also possesses a very particular strain of weirdness that might resonate with voters in New Hampshire enough that they’d finish in the top 3, but none has a realistic chance to live past Super Tuesday.
Martin O’Malley
O’Malley is the Democrat John Kasich. He’s mostly running because he wants to have people to talk to. Several New Hampshire people will nod at him and that will be it.
Terry McAuliffe
Imagine if Joe Lieberman were a governor and slightly less physically repulsive. He is still a very moist man, and his only moments of attention will come when he criticizes one of the more left-leaning candidates after they point out that the Iraq war didn’t go so good. (Let me ask Senator Sanders a question. We he says that global warming is the biggest threat we face... has he ever heard of ISLAM?” *Tufts University crowd goes wild*) Terry might come in top 3 in Virginia, and he also might stick around if a frontrunner is facing some kind of big scandal. But his main effect on this debate will be that of a zebra mussel on the side of a leaky rowboat, hoping it fills with just enough water that he’ll be able to slither aboard for the last few minutes before it sinks.
Elizabeth Warren
Warren is one of small handful of Dem candidates whose economic politics fall to the left of Margaret Thatcher. That doesn’t really work for her, though, because it’s hard for a quiet dweeb to project any sense of populism. She’d be a significantly less horrible president than most on this list, probably. But there’s no way she would beat Trump head to head. He can bait her with literally any claim and her response will always be “golly gee I will refute this man with logic and evidence and then those who repeated his taunts will surely see the error of their ways.” By August, it would get to the point where she’d be sending out topless pics to prove she really doesn’t have several teats and therefore is not a pregnant dog, as Trump suggested. But thankfully she will have flamed out long before that.
Tier 2
The “Viable Candidates Who Are Gonna Get Rat Fucked Really Hard” Tier
Sherrod Brown
Same general platform as Bernie, only without the voting record, name recognition, or widespread appeal. We are also living in an age where crudity is now taken for a sign of sincerity, and while he does kinda give off a “disheveled history teacher” vibe, that’s not enough to really combat Trump. Trump can only really be beaten by a platform, not a personality, so Brown might have a chance. But he’ll also almost certainly bow out before Super Tuesday. My guess he won’t be able to take the heat nearly as well as Bernie and he’s gone before Iowa.
Bernie
Bernie will win New Hampshire. He will win for the same reason he won it in 2016: he’s well-known there, he will be the only believable candidate running on a civil libertarian platform. He will win it by a bigger margin, because the Establishment field will be more split. He will win Iowa for the same reasons: much more name recognition now. Pledged delegates-wise, he will be far and away the frontrunner after the first two contests, although on-screen graphics will continue to present him as a longshot, due to superdelegates. He will then square off in a contest between 1-2 of the following candidates, whom the establishment will rally behind. He could win the nomination, but you and I literally cannot imagine the absurdity of the smears he will face. If he wins the nomination he wins the general Reagan vs. Mondale-style, and we might narrowly avoid civilization collapse. There’s only about a 25% of that happening, though.
Tier 1
The “If the Establishment Unites Behind Any One of These People They Will Beat Bernie for the Nom Then Get Stomped by Trump” Tier
None of these candidates would have a realistic chance against Trump, but each of them is well positioned to take advantage of the unique corruption of the Democratic Party. Our only real hope--as a society and a species--is that they manage to split the vote between themselves.
Kamela Harris
Did you watch HBO’s The Jinx? It’s about a weird, repulsive millionaire serial killer who keeps evading justice. She was the prosecutor who tried to convict him. To stress: she could not convict Robert Derst. She’s running in the right direction, though, (disingenuously) espousing some populist positions while hoovering up donor cash. She could very well wait this thing out and then see the donors line up behind her enough so that he "victory” is called by the AP right before the California primary.
Beto
Centrism couldn’t win in Texas, even with a candidate who was immensely more appealing than his opponent. That’s exactly what Centrism is designed to do, and it didn’t do it. It failed. It will always fail. Still, Beto is very handsome and very shameless and not Republican-level evil, which means he will make some money and also sway some idiots. But he’s not nearly connected enough, yet, to win the nom. He will come close however, and bow out at the right time so as to not burn any bridges. Beto will be the nominee in 2024, when he will narrowly win the popular vote but lose the electoral college to Immortum Joe.
Corey Booker
Laugh if you must, but Booker appeals strongly to the exact strain of idiocy that controls the strategy within the Democratic Party: He is a black male... like Obama! That means he will win, since Obama did. Yes, anyone who spends a few minutes studying Booker will realize he lacks Obama’s intelligence, wit, and oratorical ability. But that’s not how the Democratic establishment understands politics: they believe, genuinely, that the way to win is to raise the most money while being in possession of the correct identity markers. Should a candidate do this and lose, as Hillary did, it was the inevitable result of machinations outside of their control. Ergo, we must appoint the anointed one and see if he pleases the gods. Plus, if you mute the TV and squint, Booker totally looks like Obama!
Hillary
The main benefits of wokeness--why it has so many adherents, so far as I can tell--is that it allows certain people to skirt all responsibility for everything they say and do, even as it forces others to attempt to adhere to literally impossible programmatics of speech and comportment. And so Hillary’s recent nativist turn will be forgiven (it will most likely go unmentioned), while Bernie’s wardrobe and posture will be used as evidence of his sexism. She can continue making jokes about Colored People Time, while any of her competitors will be crucified for not using the exact right terms in describing whatever happen to be the Woke Cause of the Day. This insulation from criticism is Hillary’s biggest strength with the Democrat electorate, while her fiscal conservatism will continue to help her with donors. She will get beaten horribly in the general, but still stands a strong chance in the primary.
Joe Biden
I have no idea how this man is leading in some polls other than name recognition. Which--don’t get me wrong, name recognition is huge, especially in early goings within a crowded primary field. But what does Biden bring to the table, policy-wise or personality-wise? I realize the people who bleat about how they don’t want any more OLD. WHITE. MALES. running for president are just trying to make their cruel centrist politics appear radical--but could they be shameless enough to actually throw their support to Biden? Biden, the dude who most certainly would have been MeToo’d were he still in a position of power? Biden, the pro-war economic conservative who repeatedly says that young people just need to stop whining? That’s the guy you’re gonna run against Trump? Probably. I would take a 50/50 bet on him winning the nomination.
Final odds:
Biden: 1:1
Hillary 1.5:1
Bernie 4:1
Booker 8:1
Beto 10:1
Harris 12:1
Field (including only aforementioned candidates): 30:1
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Think As an Investor
We were thrilled to hear the experts/pundits speak on Friday as well as Barron’s most recent roundtable of 10 experts write on Saturday about how cautious/pessimistic they are about the prospects for the financial markets in 2020. There clearly is no over exuberance or froth in the marketplace yet. Just the start of a rotation back into equities, which have been liquidated over the last few years, such that its allocation is well below their historical norm, while reducing bonds and cash positions, which have been the preferred asset classes, and are now over-weighted well above their historic norms in most portfolios.
While we acknowledge that there could be a correction in the marketplace any time, we see substantial gains for investors over the next year and possibly longer especially if you are correctly positioned. Think as an investor rather than as a trader. Think like Buffett whose record for successful investing longer term is unparalleled. How many rich traders do you know? Does it make sense to sell positions that you like longer term if you are only looking for a small correction short term? Hell no!
It was very important that tensions between the United States and Iran subsided somewhat last week. We were surprised and pleased that Iranian officials reached out to Iraq and American counterparts warning them of their missile strikes in Iraq beforehand such that no one would be killed. Since no American was killed in the attack, which is Trump’s red line, he did not retaliate. Rather he spoke in a somewhat conciliatory manner about both sides lowering tensions in the region. Trump also asked our NATO partners to work with us against terrorism which is something that we mentioned last week. NATO’s Secretary General Stoltenberg responded favorably and said that he was pleased with the formation of such an alliance. It did not hurt Trump’s position against Iran/terrorism when Iran took full responsibility yesterday for bringing down a Ukrainian airplane killing 176 innocent people including many Canadians.
Let’s go back and look, once again, at the key variables impacting stock prices today
Monetary policy: It is crystal clear that virtually all of the major monetary bodies—BOJ, Bank of China, ECB and our Fed—have overly accommodative policies that will not reverse anytime soon and that means at least for 2020. Again, if more money is being created than needed by the real economy, the excess funds finds its way into financial/risk assets including stocks, bonds and commodities. Basically, it is risk on! Remember that our stock market multiple is priced off of bond yields, normally 10-year treasuries, plus some risk premium. Bond yields are incredibly low as there is no inflation and risk premiums are down as there is so much excess liquidity/capital in the system as evidenced by low bond yield spreads. We continue to be surprised that all the experts think that the market is fully valued at 18-19 times earnings which was the high end of the historic range when interest rates were at least 300-500 basis points higher than now. Beside keeping all short-term interest rates down, most monetary bodies, including our Fed, are increasing their balance sheets, too, which keeps downward pressure on longer term rates. We see no reason that our stock market multiple cannot reach 20 times earnings even if the 10-year treasury yields increase to 2.5% from slightly under 2% today.
Trade: It is hard to believe that Phase 1 of a trade deal between the U.S and China will finally be signed this week in D.C. with the Chinese delegation led by Vice Premier Liu. We continue to be surprised by the positive rhetoric out of Beijing and DC about Phase 2 of a trade deal which talks will commence shortly; China state media touts the trade deal as a sign of coexistence; and the U.S and China agreed yesterday to hold semi-annual talks on reforms. Maybe it is true that China would rather negotiate trade deals with Trump than running the risk of dealing with a Democrat President who would take a much harder line, especially on pollution. Finally, the Senate Finance Committee voted 25 to 3 to back the U.S.-Mexico-Canada trade agreement. We fully expect global trade to improve as we move through 2020 into 2021 boosting global growth.
Brexit: We remain confident that U.K Prime Minister Boris Johnson and the EU will finally reach a deal on Brexit this year. The cost of not reaching is deal is so punitive to both sides such that we expect cooler heads to prevail and a deal to be finalized. IF the economic cost of Brexit has already hit Britain by $170 billion and counting, we could only imagine the penalty borne by the EU so far, too.
Trump: Since strength in the U.S economy and stock market appear to be the key factors boosting Trump’s chances for re-election, we are confident that he will do all in his power as incumbent President to increase his odds for victory. That will include introducing new tax legislation to lower taxes on the middle to lower classes while penalizing the wealthy; new healthcare legislation to reduce costs, especially for medicine; an infrastructure bill and further reducing regulations/red tape holding back our economy. Protecting our country and trade policy will remain at the forefront of his legislative agenda, too.
The bottom line is that we remain confident/optimistic that the global economy will do better in 2020/2021 than 2019. We were amused that the World Bank trimmed its global growth forecast last week for 2019 and 2020 basically looking in the rearview mirror rather than through the windshield. They had no idea that Phase I of a trade deal between the U.S and China would finally be signed, nor the completion of the USMCA, as well as Johnson winning his election in Britain. We expect global growth to build sequentially as we move through 2020. We do not expect a growth spurt at the beginning of the year. After all, trade deals are just being finalized; fiscal stimulus is just beginning to be implemented in many nations; and finally, it takes at least 6 to 8 months for monetary ease to kick in. Also, it will take time for business/consumer confidence to build until reality/certainty sets in that all of this is for real. But it will as the year progresses.
Here are some brief comments on the most recent data points by country:
United States: We fully expect fourth quarter real GNP to exceed 2% and growth in 2020 to build sequentially bolstered by continued strength in strong consumer spending and a slow but steady improvement in manufacturing/capital spending as the year progresses as global trade improves. The employment data reported Friday was just fine as 145,000 new jobs were created while hourly earnings slowed to a 2.9% year over year gain which still exceeds the inflation rate by a wide margin. Our economy created over 2.11 million new jobs in 2019 which is nothing to sneeze in spite of slowing global growth. We were pleased that Trump reversed his position and now supports the U.S. Export-Import Bank which is helpful to U.S manufacturers.
China: Fourth quarter GNP was apparently stronger than anticipated such that economic growth for 2019 will fall well within the government target of 6-6.5% growth. We now believe that China may even exceed 6% growth in 2020 as it benefits from the U.S trade deal, fiscal stimulus and aggressive monetary ease. China will easily be the fastest growing major industrialized country in 2020. And inflation will moderate as U.S exports of ag products finally begin arriving in size.
Europe/Britain: There is nothing reported that looks good economically in Europe/Britain. One can only hope that global trade will improve as 2020 progresses which will benefit Europe and that Brexit is reached reducing corporate/consumer uncertainty. Europe is clearly the problem child region of the world.
Japan: We expect the Japanese economy to pick up sequentially through 2020 too, as global trade improves and fiscal stimulus kicks in supported by continued monetary ease.
Investment Conclusions
We expect global growth to pick up sequentially as we move through 2020 benefitting from increased trade, fiscal stimulus and continued monetary ease. The U.S will certainly benefit disproportionately as we institute Phase 1 of a trade deal with China boosting our exports big time over the next few years; the USMCA is finally passed supporting trade growth between our neighbors; additional fiscal stimulus kicks in federally as well as locally; monetary policy remains very easy (let it rip!) including the Fed injecting billions into the financial system; regulatory relief; and Trump doing whatever else he can do to boost the economy and our stock market.
While we have already discussed why a 20-market multiple is supported even if 10-year treasuries rise in yield. We have not discussed our forecast for S & P earnings which we still estimate at $170 per share for 2020, vs. an estimated $163/share in 2019, but with a run rate closer to $180 p/s by the end of the year. Don’t forget that the huge equity shrink continues at amazingly high levels that boosts reported eps. Just ask Apple owners what it has meant to them!
The bottom line is that our market could easily exceed 3400 this year with the potential of hitting 3600 which is not our forecast at this time. The key to outperformance will be stock selection. While technology, especially semis, has remained the largest portion of our portfolios, we have reduced the more defensive sectors adding to the more economically sensitive sectors such as financials, expecting the yield curve to steepen and loan growth to accelerate; global industrial, capital goods and machinery companies which will benefit from accelerating global growth and increased capital spending; low cost, free cash generating industrial commodity companies as expect both volume and pricing to improve; defense companies for obvious reasons; some retailers who have adapted to a changing marketplace and are gaining market share; agricultural companies who will benefit from recent trade deals; and many special situations selling well beneath intrinsic value. We own no bonds and expect the dollar to weaken over time.
Unfortunately, we are unable to hold our weekly investment webinar this week due to a prior commitment but feel free to email us questions which we will respond to as promptly as possible.
Remember to review all the facts; pause, reflect and consider mindset shifts; be open to shift your asset mix with risk controls as necessitated by the environment; listen to the upcoming earnings calls focusing on the future rather than the past; do independent research and …
Invest Accordingly!
Bill Ehrman
Paix et Prospérité LLC
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veep rewatch - 2.06
Season Two, Episode Six - Andrew
aka - The One Where Amy Dates a Quaker
All right, let’s just get this out in the open: DAN BASICALLY ASKS AMY OUT IN THIS EPISODE.
I go back and forth on whether or not this is a new thing he’s asking her to do. It’s reasonable to assume they’ve gotten “strategy drinks” before and Amy doesn’t act like the idea is a new one, but at the same time...this doesn’t seem like just a drink after work to blow off steam and talk about the future. Dan is asking her to do something alone after a formal evening event with alcohol that will presumably go late into the night. Hello. I don’t care if he doesn’t think of it as a date. It is fundamentally a date, the Dan-and-Amy version of a date, and the fact that he doesn’t call it a date only reinforces the fact that it means something. And then he acts like a complete dickhead the rest of the episode because she’s picked another man’s company over his. I don’t make the rules. It was a date.
And the mysterious line: “You swore you were only going to date outside DC!” When would Amy have told him this?! Either we’re supposed to assume Amy’s opening up to Dan off-screen about her personal life (…no), or Dan’s throwing this little factoid at her from their pre-dating days, or…something else. A lot of fanfiction from when this season aired features the two of them hooking up off-screen, and while that’s a debatable interpretation of the canon, it would at least explain this weird interlude about Amy’s dating rules. Dan doesn’t even believe she has a date in the first place, and if they were having lots of cathartic after-work hate-sex, that might explain why. It also wouldn’t be hard to imagine Amy saying the thing about only dating outside DC if they were seeing each other more off-screen. Plus, Dan seems more okay with Amy dating someone else who is not DC related, and therefore not a threat to his monopolizing her time.
Then again…it could just be Dan being such a dick that he doesn’t believe anyone else wants Amy, even as he’s publicly asking her out in front of the entire office.
Sue and Gary’s reactions to Dan and Amy in this scene basically confirm that everyone else on Selina’s team is fully aware of what’s going on between them.
Awww, and Amy is so smug at Dan’s obvious displeasure. She knows he’s jealous and she loves it. It’s so satisfying to see these two interact with each other on an even playing-field, not one tilted enormously and unrealistically in Dan’s favor. Also, Amy’s in a very plain black top and grey skirt—in stylistic terms, as pure a feminine mirror to Dan’s simple dark grey suit as it’s possible to be.
“Gary, deflower the room!”
Gary dragging Jonah out of Selina’s office doorway. “Okay, that’s actually a fire hazard.”
Selina: He took me to Cap d’Antibes for the night…
Gary: Yeah…they had crazy intercourse!
JLD’s split-second delayed physical reaction to this line is perfect.
Selina: Gary…you know my red thing?
Gary: Yeah
Selina: Do you think that it shows enough skin?
Gary:…Yeah.
Selina: Okay, I’m going to be the sexiest woman to ever exude fiscal prudence.
Dan’s jealous face! Also, he’s jealous of Ed, who is singularly unimpressive.
Amy’s obviously not very *suave* around men she’s romantically interested in, for a variety of reasons, but I think her nervousness here is heightened by the fact that Ed is a NotDan! romantic option, considering how much time they’ve spent together this season.
Love that little moment of Tony Hale, Reid Scott, and Matt Walsh all reacting to Amy’s “Andrew” laugh. Dan is normally so disdainful toward them both, it’s fun to see all three of them united in a moment of “traditional male confusion” at women.
I think this is the first indication that Selina is taking anti-depressants.
Selina to Catherine, trying to sound hip: Don’t you think all your friends would call this an “epic succeed”?
David Pasquesi is so great in this role.
Selina: Just give me five minutes, I just need to go talk to Andrew.
Mary King: The ex? Three minutes.
I like how Mary King and Selina’s dialogue implies a kind of begrudging mutual understanding and respect. They don’t like each other, but they know what the other person has sacrificed to get there.
Amy’s choice of dress is interesting…it’s not particularly attention-getting, even with the slight shimmer over the material. The neckline and the sleeves are still very professional.
And Ed actually goes in for a kiss! And Amy seems not thrown off by it! Maybe they’ve gone out before now because I can’t imagine Ed thinking this party is a good place to try and kiss Amy for the first time. The fact that they’ve kissed before must explain why Amy is so nervous earlier. Also, this is very quick work on Amy’s part. This episode can’t have happened more than a week after Helsinki, considering Dan mentions it early in the episode, and Ed’s already a presence. Obviously they knew each other already, but still.
Whatever Jonah means by the line “Does this mean you’re back on the market?”, it totally reinforces the idea that whenever Dan and Amy are in each other’s company, absolutely no one thinks she’s single.
“Monsters. It’s like first Princess Diana, now this.” Gary’s response to one negative press article about Selina.
Amy’s red shirt is definitely eye-catching, but other than the color it does nothing for her in a traditionally feminine sense. The cut and style is almost masculine, especially around the collar and sleeves, and it’s so loose…not my favorite look on her.
“Deal, boom. Party, boom. You are the boom-boom Veep.”
Let’s all take a moment to appreciate the hilarity that Selina turns into such an unstable basket-case around Andrew that her entire staff has to accompany her to a private family dinner.
If every dinner Catherine has shared with Selina and Andrew since their divorce (and probably before) has been as twisted as this one, no wonder Catherine is the way she is. It is truly demented.
Do we ever find out how recent their divorce is? We know they were divorced during her campaign, so they’ve been divorced at least since…2010? But I’m sure it’s earlier than that. I’ve always thought it was an interesting choice to make Selina a divorced woman, although I agree with it completely…Veep just wouldn’t work with a “Second Gentleman” hanging around. I feel like it’s a choice only a British showrunner would have been bold enough to make, though. Americans are generally far more puritanical about the personal lives of politicians than Europeans and an American showrunner might not have felt that it was “realistic” enough that a politician of Selina’s older generation could have made it as far as she did with a divorce hanging over her head. (Before anyone flames me: I have not researched the marital status of all the women serving as US Senators. It’s entirely possibly I am over-estimating how few divorces there are. But no woman who’s ever conducted a serious campaign for President has been divorced, that is for certain, and we know Selina was a serious primary contender.)
“So, Ed…Eddie. Who do you know? Do you know Ray McCaskill?” Dan’s version of dick-measuring.
“Well guess what, I work hard and I play hard, bitch, that’s my credo. I got that shit tattooed on my dick with room to spare.”
The reveal that Mike’s been trapped in the car with Andrew, Selina, and Catherine is too funny. “Hey, Catherine…pretty nice cake you’ve got there.” Dead.
#veep#veep rewatch#2.06#Andrew#the boom boom veep#selina meyer#dan egan#amy brookheimer#gary walsh#mike mclintock#sue wilson#does this mean you're back on the market#an epic succeed
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Okay so here’s the meet-cute (or more accurately meet-aggravating-then-cute) between Pete and Tori from this thing that I’m apparently writing on Monday nights now.
Under a jump, because it’s long and I’m not an animal who will shit up your dash unnecessarily.
Tori was dozing in her seat as the last stragglers boarded the plane. It was unusually empty for a flight to London, but then again, 3am on a Tuesday in November was probably the least pleasant time for anyone to travel willingly.
Cheap though.
Not that that mattered much, but still, fiscal responsibility and all that jazz.
She shifted, turning her face to the aisle and stretching her legs under the seat in front of her. Everything was going perfectly - she had an aisle seat, with no-one beside, behind, or in front of her, no babies within five metres of her, and at least six hours where she could actually sleep without worrying about anyone trying to kill her - when he showed up.
Maybe six feet, if he was standing at attention, the palest white boy she'd ever seen, mousy brown hair, nervous as all hell, and fidgeting with a pair of black glasses. And headed straight for her.
She closed her eyes and shifted in her seat and raised her knees, blocking his path to 32A. Or 32B. Whichever. She wanted the row to herself. She wanted to stretch out. It would be nice.
He stood at the seat and looked down at her. She shifted again, still pretending to be asleep.
"Excuse me?" His voice was surprisingly deep for such a scrawny boy. Had she not been committed to pretending to be asleep, she'd have given him another glance.
Too bad for them both that she was.
He cleared his throat and touched her shoulder gingerly, almost like he was afraid of her.
Good.
Or possibly sweet.
Probably better if he was afraid.
"Hello?"
She muttered something and turned to face the aisle again.
Someone else was there. The flight attendant, she assumed.
"I'm sorry," the boy said, "But can I change my seat? I don't want to-"
"I'm sorry, sir," the attendant said in that formal, polite, and entirely too brusque way they got on these red-eyes. "Not until after take-off, I'm afraid."
"Really?"
Tori had to struggle to suppress a smile at the disbelief in his voice.
"Yes," The flight attendant wasn't having any of this. She probably wanted his scrawny ass in the seat worse than he wanted to not sit beside her. "Security and safety rules, you understand."
"I don't, really," he began.
Tori shifted again, stretching her legs out under the seat in front of her again and giving the kid a chance to climb over her.
He took it. Clumsily.
Clumsily enough to drag his heavy woollen coat over top of her, and without paying enough attention to his satchel. Whatever he had in there was solid enough that she wouldn't have to pretend at being asleep any more.
"What the hell," she slurred as she opened her eyes. "Watch what you're doing, jackass."
He looked at her, alarmed, as he dropped into the window seat. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"Watch what you were doing," Tori said, using her best 'I can and will kill you' voice. The one she saved for special occasions.
"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I didn't realise that I...are you okay?"
She didn't respond, just flipped him off and rolled to face the aisle again.
"Great," he muttered, probably figuring she’d gone back to sleep.
Stupid.
"What?" Tori said, sitting up and fixing him with her best 'boy you just fucked up' stare. "Do you have a problem with me?"
"No, I just-"
He was dead in the water and they both knew it.
"Don't want to sit beside a beautiful woman, is that it?" Her eyes narrowed and she fixed him with a hard stare.
His eyes widened with fear. "What? No!" He shook his head and raised his hands "I wouldn't-"
She opened her mouth in feigned shock. She was enjoying this. "So you don't think I'm beautiful?" She managed to sound hurt, offended, and like she was enjoying herself all at once.
It was a gift.
The boy squirmed. He blushed. It was glorious "No, I-"
"So you do think I’m beautiful!" She raised her arms in victory. Yes. Victory. Mostly. She grinned as his blush deepend. "You leacherous-"
"No, that's-!" He shook his head and raised his hands in surrender. "Look, can we just forget this? I'm not the best flier, and I would rather not have a fight with my seatmate on top of the whole anxiety about being in some sort of unavoidable disaster."
Tori cursed silently. He definitely had the look of someone nervous about something other than her about him. The last thing she wanted was to deal with someone having a panic attack while she tried to sleep.
And the plane was starting to move.
Shit. Time to distract him.
He was looking out the window, his hands gripping the arm-rests so tightly she could see the veins standing out. Tori ripped the corner from an Inflight magazine and flicked it at him.
It landed squarely at the end of his jawbone.
His hand shot up to his neck. "What the hell-"
"Shut up," She said with a shake of her head. "I have an important question for you."
He blinked. "What?"
Tori rolled her eyes. "A question. You know, a sentence worded to get information from someone? That was an example."
He narrowed his eyes, like he didn't quite believe what she was saying. "Yes, I know what a question is. What do you want to know?"
Tori smiled disarmingly, or at least she hoped she did. "You're human, right?"
The boy recoiled, taken aback by the question. "What?"
She sighed heavily, as if a particularly stupid person had just asked a particularly stupid question. "Human," she said slowly. "A Son of the Earth. Qua pulvis es et, in pulverum revertis."
He blinked. "Well...yes. Aren't you?"
"Of course I am," she managed to not sound too offended. She hoped. "But that's not the point."
"What is the point?" He was beginning to get exasperated. Good.
Time to blind him with her brilliance. Or baffle him with her bullshit. Either way.
"The point is that you shouldn't be a good flier. Humans aren't meant to fly, but we do anyway. We made giant metal tubes that hurtle us through the sky at the speed of sound just so we can crap somewhere new. Unorthodox display of hubris, but hey, if that's not the history of the species, right?"
He stared at her in silence. Like he was suddenly appraising her anew.
The plane was lifting off, and he didn't even notice.
She shifted uncomfortably. "What?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. You're...nothing. I-"
"I'm most certainly something! I'm someone, even!" She said with mock indignation.
He shook his head, "That's not what I meant! I-"
"It's what you said, Peter Price. Do you often not mean what you say?"
He narrowed his eyes and leaned toward her. "How - how did you know my-"
Tori grinned and produced a slim blue booklet. "Your passport...fell out of your pocket while you were climbing over me."
Peter reached for it, and she shook it mockingly as he strained against his belt. After a few seconds of watching him struggle to reach it, she tipped it into his hand.
"Here," she said with a grin, "I don't need it anymore. You don't look 32, by the way."
He snatched the passport back and shoved it into a trouser pocket. "Why would you steal my-"
"Shush now," Tori said as she turned to face the aisle, "We're airborne and it's time for my beauty sleep."
She grinned as she imagined his face when he asked "What?"
***
Tori awoke with a start. She could feel the airframe beginning to buck as the plane passed by a storm below. She looked around, and saw Peter staring out the window, white-knuckling the armrests again.
She sighed.
"Hey, Pete," she said as she leaned over and punched his shoulder lightly.
He nearly jumped out of his seat before turning to stare at her. "What the hell was that for?"
"Oh be quiet," she said with a dismissive wave. "It didn't hurt."
"Sure," he said, rubbing his shoulder. "Of course it didn't."
"Didn't hurt me, at least," she said with a shrug. "Anyway, Peter Price, why don't you tell me how you got saddled with such an awful name?"
"What's wrong with my name?" He was indignant. Good. It'd distract him.
Tori looked at him like he had just asked the most obvious question in the world. "Peter Price?" she said disbelievingly. "With a name like that, you might as well be a Stan Lee character. Maybe some kind of lame alternate universe Spider-Man. Discount Spider-Man. Spider-Guy. Cockroach-Man."
"It's a family name," he bristled. "The firstborn in each generation is named Peter."
"Even girls?" She managed to make it
"What?" He didn't look like he noticed the plane shuddering. That was good.
"You know," she mimed a set of curves and then gestured to herself. “Girls.”
"Yes, I know girls."
Sure you do.
"So, you got girl cousins named Peter?" she asked. "Maybe an aunt Pete-unia?"
"Petra, actually," he said with an attempt at sounding dignified.
"Well," she said with a grin, "At least someone in your family knows Latin."
"I know-" he began, as the plane dropped suddenly. He paled and began sweating almost immediately.
"Hey!" she tapped his elbow gently. "Pete, I'm talking to you!"
He jumped again. Looked at her like a trapped animal. He managed to rasp out a strangled "What?"
"Dixi," she began, slowly. "'Tu Latinam non intellego.'"
The plane shuddered again.
Maybe the storm wasn't quite as far below them as she'd guessed.
"Hey, Pete," she said reaching out to him.
He locked eyes with her. She recognized that look. Panic.
"Here," she said gently. "Take my hand."
He looked at it and then back to Tori.
"Take it, dummy," she said with a soft smile.
He took her hand in his. She did her best to not grimace at the sweat.
"Victoria," she said. "Cushing. Tori to my friends."
Peter nodded blankly. "Nice to...nice to meet you, Victoria."
The plane shuddered again, and he squeezed her hand surprisingly tight. Almost painfully so.
She squeezed back, softly.
"Hey," she said in a gentle voice. "It's okay, Pete. Just a bit of turbulence. We'll be okay."
He looked at her disbelievingly and she gave him a lopsided grin and what she hoped was a confident yet mischievous wink. "Don't worry. I'm not going to die in a plane crash. It's going to be in a warehouse somewhere."
He started to say something when another wave of turbulence hit. A strangled yelp came out instead.
"It's okay," she said, "just pay attention to my voice. We're gonna be just fine."
Forty minutes later, they had passed the worst of it. Peter was leaning against the window, his eyes closed, and Tori was on her third glass of ice water. She hadn't talked that much in a long while.
She looked over at him and smiled. He wasn't bad, as far as people who kept her from stretching out during a flight went.
"Have a good nap, Pete," she said quietly as she turned in her seat.
"You too, Victoria," he murmured back.
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Platitudes and Attitudes
The news of Kate Spade dying by suicide and the news of Anthony Bourdain suffering the same fate only a couple of days later was saddening.
My response to the news was not unlike that of a lot of other people, or so my social media feeds suggest. There were a litany of posts from tons of people: some shared their own struggles with depression and suicidal ideation, some encouraged others to check on their friends, others reminded us that we don’t always know what people are going through, and even others provided links and phone numbers to help those who may be in need but not know how to access it.
I joined the fray by encouraging people who may not see themselves as suffering from depression to still seek the professional help of a therapist. I firmly believe that if more of us who are fiscally able to and also do not suffer from major depression, suicidal ideation or other serious mental disorders would get in therapy we would see positive changes in our lives and in the perception of mental health.
But even with all of these encouraging posts, there was something that bothered me.
This “check on your friends” thing.
What does that mean? Send them a text and ask them if they’re ok? Then what? What if they say no? Then what do you do? What’s the plan?
I hate blaming social media for things. Social media is only what social media can be based on how we use it and allow it to use us. But one thing too many of us allow is the use of social media to share platitudes and attitudes that are superficial. They are the placebos of the internet. They sound and look good but don’t actually do anything. I think we all mean well when we say “check on your friends” but I think we also don’t give any real thought to why we say it or what our purpose is.
I want to encourage us to be better than that, especially when we’re discussing the mental well being of our friends. I want us to care that our intent and our actions align. I want us to quit saying things that are catchy and seem timely; I want us to start DOING things that support the people we care about in real tangible ways.
First, let’s be clear about a few things:
Your “strong” friend probably won’t tell you they’re struggling, EVEN IF YOU ASK. Your “strong” friend is the “strong” friend for a reason. Because they never admit when they are struggling.
Even if your friends admit to you that they don’t feel ok, that they are feeling hopeless, that they do contemplate suicide, unless you are a trained professional, odds are great that you don’t actually know what to do if someone lays that on you. If a person is at the point where they are actively considering suicide, telling you their problems isn’t going to fix it. They need the help of a mental health professional and the best thing you can do is help them figure out how to access that help and perhaps even make sure they follow through (e.g. go to the appointment, make the phone call, etc…)
The truth of the matter is that studies show us that people who have firmly decided to die by suicide will seem happy. Maybe even happier than they have in a very long while. This is because they know it will all be over soon. Kate Spade’s husband said, “we were in touch with her the night before and she sounded happy. There was no indication and no warning that she would do this. It was a complete shock.” I say this to emphasize that our role in these situations is not to fix it. It is to have a plan. It is to be a support. It is to be aware.
When we say check on our friends, I want us to understand how important that statement is and that checking on your friends isn’t something you do for a few days via a quick text only after two celebrities die by suicide. Checking on your friends is multi-faceted and it sometimes means being uncomfortable, it means taking risks, it means being honest with yourself about your own issues, it means being real, it means caring, it’s inconvenient sometimes, it’s frustrating other times, it’s… hard.
When I was a senior in high school, a friend died by suicide. It came as a shock to all of us. Most of us knew he struggled with depression but we thought it was under control. 14 years later, I still vividly remember talking to him just the day before and how happy he seemed. Hearing that he had then hung himself in a closet was cognitive dissonance that I couldn’t begin to get on top of. For years after, I would wonder if there was anything I could’ve done. I beat myself up for a long time for not making it a point to talk to him that day even though he had been on my mind because I could tell something was different. It wasn’t big, it wasn’t obvious, but I noticed it and I didn’t do anything.
Was I responsible for his death? No. Definitely not. But trust me when I say that as much as I know that to be true, that doesn’t change the guilt that I still occasionally feel. We cannot operate from a place of guilt; neither guilt we already feel or guilt we anticipate. Check on your friends because you want to have a relationship with them where they trust you. Check on your friends because you want them to check on you. Check on your friends to be a friend - not to mitigate guilt. The real bottom line is that sometimes, even in the best case scenarios, people who are dealing with their own demons, make their own choices even when they are surrounded by love. That’s why you can’t check on a friend because you think you might prevent their suicide. If you do, that’s a cherry. The sundae, however, is the relationship. It’s the effort. And when your actions and your intentions truly align, you will find a lot more peace in whatever outcome there is.
I have never suffered from suicidal ideation, but I have suffered from depression and anxiety that people around me read as “anger” or “disinterest” or “disengagement”. This emotional expression has scared people - not because it is explosive or dangerous, but because it is quiet and hard to read. And in being hard to read, I get read as the “strong” friend. Whatever the hell that means. If I’m really honest right here, I revel in that identity because it makes it easier to hide from well-meaning inquiries that I don’t trust are rooted in intentionality. Does that mean my friends aren’t being honest when they ask me how I feel? No. It doesn’t. But if you know that your “strong” friend doesn’t believe that you really want to know how they feel, how does that change the way you approach them?
It’s not easy to check on me, because I will say what I think needs to be said so that a person will stop worrying about me. Thinking that someone is worrying about me increases my anxiety. I hide my issues very well. I know how to disappear when I know my aesthetic will not be pleasing to others. I know how to hide when I don’t feel “ok”. I know how to do all of these things and I do not suffer from suicidal ideation or major depression. Imagine someone who does suffer from these things. What is asking them if they’re “ok” whenever social media reminds you to, going to do?
There are things you can do, though:
Be a constant. Show up for them. It’s a lot easier to ask someone for help that you talk to regularly because you don’t have to start all over with explaining everything that happened. Check yourself, too. The last time you had an extended conversation with them, what was the topic? Was any significant amount of time spent on their life? If not, trust me when I tell you, they’re not going to open up to you. Why would they?
Be understanding. Be patient. Realize that asking for help with something that is as intangible as mental health is almost impossible for most people. If I break my leg, someone can see that I need help. If my mind breaks, that can’t be seen by most and I probably cannot describe it well. Be willing to be with someone (whether that’s in person, digitally, over the phone or otherwise) even if neither of you understands what’s going on. Just commit to being someone that they can be vulnerable with. Understand that if someone is struggling, usually they don’t need advice or to be told “everything will be ok” they want someone to truly listen and then echo what they probably already feel: “this really sucks.”
Be knowledgeable. Do you suspect your friend has suffered from issues of depression or anxiety before? What did it look like and so what might it look like in the future? Could you be of assistance without them asking? I read a twitter thread recently where a user described how her friends rallied around her to help her unpack her apartment after her father died and she was severely depressed. Her friend did ask if she was ok and she said that she was. He knew she wasn’t, he figured out what could be done to help and he took a risk and tried it. As she points out, it could’ve backfired, but the point is that he tried and often that’s all we can do.
Ultimately, be realistic. You’re not the mental health professional in this relationship - and that’s even if you are an actual mental health professional. And that’s ok! Be a friend. That’s all you have to be, no matter what happens. I tell my friends, all the time (though many don’t like to hear it) that I’m their friend, not their therapist. I may listen well, and I may seem to know the right things to say but at the end of the day I am not objective. A true therapist is objective and that’s what provides true personal growth. A true friend, however, is on your side and all about you. That’s what provides growth in a friendship.
We’re all out here trying to do this life thing the best way we know how. I get that. Doing life is harder for some of us than others, which is ok. Being a real friend isn’t easy, especially to someone who suffers from mental health issues. It just isn’t. But if you’re going to commit to doing it and doing it well, it’s going to take some intentionality. Check on your friends. Your strong friends, your struggling friends, your happy friends. Do it regularly. Keep up with what’s happening in their world. Expect your friends to do the same for you. Share the load. If you suspect a friend is having a hard time, loop in another trusted friend. Make a plan. Execute it. We get through this life with a little help from our friends. That’s from a song, so it’s true. Friendship is a thing you do from love, not to be a hero.
RESOURCES
Get Immediate Help
If you are in crisis, and need immediate support or intervention, call, or go the website of the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255). Trained crisis workers are available to talk 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Your confidential and toll-free call goes to the nearest crisis center in the Lifeline national network. These centers provide crisis counseling and mental health referrals. If the situation is potentially life-threatening, call 911 or go to a hospital emergency room.
Find a Health Care Provider or Treatment
For general information on mental health and to locate treatment services in your area, call the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) Treatment Referral Helpline at 1-800-662-HELP (4357). SAMHSA also has a Behavioral Health Treatment Locator on its website that can be searched by location.
National agencies and advocacy and professional organizations have information on finding a mental health professional and sometimes practitioner locators on their websites. Examples include but are not limited to:
Anxiety and Depression Association of America
Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance
Mental Health America
National Alliance on Mental Illness
University or medical school-affiliated programs may offer treatment options. Search on the website of local university health centers for their psychiatry or psychology departments.
You can also go to the website of your state or county government and search for the health services department.
Some federal agencies offer resources for identifying practitioners and assistance in finding low cost health services. These include:
Health Resources and Services Administration (HRSA): HRSA works to improve access to health care. The website has information on finding affordable healthcare, including health centers that offer care on a sliding fee scale.
Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services (CMS): CMS has information on the website about benefits and eligibility for these programs and how to enroll.
The National Library of Medicine’s MedlinePlus website also has lists of directories and organizations that can help in identifying a health practitioner.
Practitioner lists in health care plans can provide mental health professionals that participate with your plan.
Mental Health and Addiction Insurance Help: This website from the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services offers resources to help answer questions about insurance coverage for mental health care.
Participate in a Clinical Trial
Clinical trials are part of clinical research and at the heart of all medical advances.. People volunteer to participate in carefully conducted investigations that ultimately uncover better ways to treat, prevent, diagnose, and understand human disease. Clinical trials can also look at other aspects of care, such as improving the quality of life for people with chronic illnesses. Learn more about clinical trials on the Clinical Trials — Participants page.
**
Find a Clinical Trial at NIMH. Doctors at the NIMH in Bethesda, Maryland are trying to learn more about the causes of, treatments for, and genetic factors in mental disorders. To learn more, visit the NIMH Join a Study page.
Find a Clinical Trial Near You. For information on clinical studies across the country, visit www.clinicaltrials.gov. You can search by topic and location.
Help for Service Members and Their Families
Current and former service members may face different mental health issues than the general public. For resources for both service members and veterans, please visit http://www.mentalhealth.gov/get-help/veterans/index.html.
Learn More about Mental Disorders
NIMH offers health information and free easy-to-read publications on various mental disorders on its website in the Health & Education section. The website is mobile and print-friendly. Printed publications can be ordered for free and free eBooks are available for select publications. Many publications are also available in Spanish. To order free publications, order online (haga su pedido por el Internet en español) or call 1-866-615-6464 (TTY: 1-866-415-8051).
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