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containatrocity · 1 year

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Punchdrunk

A collection of testimonies, from the people who loved him best.

On the back of a school paper, with drawings of dragons and knights locked in fierce battle on the front, 'Ducky R., 7 years old' in scrawled handwriting on its front.

"Mallard seems to be easily distracted in class, but shows an incredible aptitude with music and art. Despite the fact he's loud and requires correction from time to time, he is endlessly helpful, and a pleasure to have as a student."

Another notice comes from a piece of paper from another class, the same dragons and creatures fighting around math tables, these ones adorned with stickers, and crayon.

"Mallard has been improving with his focus in class, but please try to encourage him to focus on work at school, it's difficult to keep him on task, and his eagerness to discuss fantasy cartoons (Dungeon and Dragons, He-Man, and the carebears films, specifically) has derailed him and his classmates numerous times. He is a very bright boy, please ensure he doesn't have his copies of Redwall, Goosebumps, or similar when he comes to school, he has a tendency to focus on them without attention to class at all."

He always got his class work done. He never quite understood why it was a bad thing, he wanted to draw pictures or read. He doesn't do much reading, as he gets older.

On the insert of a cassette tape still lingering in the glovebox of a long-abandoned car in the garage of the Romero house, it's been trapped in there since a fender bender including the boys crunched the front end enough that it damaged the locking mechanism. It's all 90s grunge and classic rock, recorded off the radio in the floor of Duck's bedroom by a fifteen year old boy missing one of his frontmost teeth, after an 'incident' with an office chair and a brother only a year older.

"DUCK AND HIS BROTHERS' SICK ASS ROAD TRIP TUNES FOR WHEN THEY LEAVE THIS SHITHOLE TOWN '97, NOT FOR MOM OR BEAU TO LISTEN TO, YOU GUYS DON'T COUNT!"

They never took that road trip- it cost most of the family's funds to replace Duck's missing tooth, and 'leaving this town in the rearview' became a pipe dream- locked away like a mixtape in the glovebox of a crumpled 1990 Ford.

On the margins of an old character sheet for a tabletop game, scrawled in by a kid of a similar mind and love of the world of fantasy.

"Thanks for inviting me to play with you, Cybil, I'll miss all the adventures, and when the time comes to pay visits back home from college, we'll have to put another table together. P.S. I hope someday, the world's nicer to boys like us, with their heads in the clouds and a taste for the fantastic than it is now. I'm sorry I embarrassed you at lunch. I hope when your senior prom rolls around, you don't have to go stag to make other people happy."

there's yellowing stains of coffee and neon-orange from chip-dirtied fingers on the worn paper, 'MR & JT' written once but erased in the corners. It's an Oath of Love Paladin who survived years at a table. Joey Tompkins never comes home to visit from college, and Duck Romero attends his junior and senior proms with Geanie Sanderson.

It's a letter hidden in a patch in a leather jacket, sewn with thread by drunk teenagers at a concert they snuck out to attend, a letter penned for A 17 year old boy who will be retrieved by his brother once he finds him missing with a new ring of gold in his nose, pupils blown on the thrill of sneaking out, and some drug he'd taken off the tongue of the pretty bisexual girl he'd met at the roller rink a couple towns over while flopped out on some bean-bag chair between her and her girlfriend. He's at home here, with the artists and the queers and the freaks.

"To boys with toilet-teeth and broken elbows who won't let me sign their cast with a heart but will take a pill off my lips. To boys who kiss boys and girls and everyone between and neither- to the fearless waterfowl who's run afoul of any and every authority figure who ever thought to tell him what to do. To the freak who's nose I pierced in a dirty basement and all he did was laugh at the pain and do another shot of whiskey- don't let the world burn you out- you can do that all by yourself."

He's not worn the jacket for years, too broad in the chest and shoulders, now. But it sits in his closet, written on in spraypaint and studded by hand, with the names of friends who he never saw again. The taste of freedom lingers on the back of his tongue now, somewhat bitter. He pierces his own daughter's nose with a sewing needle and an old earring for her birthday because she asks. They dull the pain with a shot of whiskey kept back from before all of this and he remembers a room full of maybe the only people who knew him properly.

It's a few words from a friend in a wedding card. It's bitter, maybe, and it's the last thing he'd get before leaving for the military.

"I miss the you you used to be. I hope you know what you're doing. I'm sorry nobody saved you when it mattered the most."

He hid it from his wife, and when the time came that they fell apart, he'd burn every last bit of their ceremony in a grand bonfire over a drink and a burger with his brothers. Except the card. With a raised white cake and 'congrats on your marriage' on the front. It sits in a shoebox in a closet now, alongside hundreds of baby photos of Wren taken on polaroids.

It's written on the back of a picture of Duck and his little brothers, a toddler in a carrier strapped to his chest and a camouflage jacket too big for one of them on one of the younger kids. Duck's smile is megawatt, and his hair and beard have grown back some from the short and tight he wears so regularly, Gladiola's arm slung around his shoulders and her hair tied up in braids. It's the most Romero siblings in a photo taken in years.

"Duck, Gee, Phoenix, Talon, Cassius, Robbie and little Wren, Zoo Trip 2006, AKA Duck and the Ducklings."

there's a zoo brochure kept alongside it, with Duck's careful handwriting marking out the animals his siblings want to see the most, and ones they're notedly afraid of, so he can plan a path through the zoo most satisfactory to the younger siblings. Other photos of him on that day appear perhaps haunted- hollow behind green eyes, a man far too young who's seen hell too many times. War built the man who came home from Iraq, it never quite let go.

It's a school project for a 6 year old girl. It's written in messy handwriting, but it's a letter for her daddy. She'll write hundreds, over the next several years, but this one, he's able to come home and receive, deploying mere months later for the last time- she won't see her father again until she's 9. She'll never let up on hope.

"My daddy's a brave knight, and sometimes that means he's not home. Mommy Phelia says he's a soldier but in all my bedtime stories the people who go away to fight bad guys are knights so that's what my daddy is. I miss him a bunch, sometimes we get to have calls on these weird phones, and me and mommy Phelia have special cards that let us go see him sometimes, those are my favorite days. Last time daddy came home he brought me all kinds of presents. I like when daddy's hair grows back and he has a beard, because that means he's not going to leave again for a long time. I don't like getting haircuts because that means he's gonna be gone again and I really want to finish our stories. Only daddy tells the good stories too, grandma and my uncles don't do the voices right, and they always have to use the books."

To this day, Wren Romero wears her hair long- and always trims her dad's hair just slightly too long to be military issue. Duck hates the paradox, for all it's taken from everyone in town. He's grateful, maybe- that he's gotten to watch his kids grow up.

It's in the personal journal of a former combat medic. One his husband still hasn't found the heart to open, the words of a dead man kept pointedly until he became to weak to write. It's codenames, One that a fleeting knowledge of horror would help people parse out.

"Zombie introduced me to the new recruits today, he's calling the youngest 'Ghostface.' There's not a lot to him, but apparently his aptitude for sniping is unmatched, Kid's barely a hundred twenty soaking wet. Told me when we deployed out this time that he's serious about that girl back home- I'm not exactly bothered, I'm used to it- but it's a little bit of a mixed set of messages when that snake tattoo of his is colored now and it's as loud and proud queer as I think you can get without getting kicked out of the corps. He's still a hard ass, of course, but I guess this means he's gonna be less of a physical pain in mine in the barracks. The kid's apparently from his hometown- Zombie's reputation precedes him there- Can't imagine a time he wasn't some cocksure general running a ship so tight you could make a diamond if you shoved coal up his ass, I wonder which version of him I'd like better."

The author of the journal lies dead in Huntsville cemetery 'beloved husband and uncle' on the stone below his name. A carved blue jay sits in the flowers placed there by his husband and niece, a carefully made bird with wings spread- one glued back on. Some of his sweaters live on in Duck's closet. Duck sometimes wonders if he made the right call, all those years ago. But regret isn't a warm sweater- it's the report of a sniper rifle and a 'got your six!' barked over comms- it's a life debt owed to little more than a kid- a kid that took a lover and then begged him on hands and knees for a release from service for both of them- to care for the last bit of family he had left.

Regret is best left in the sands, shifting and hungry. not here. Still he finds time to wonder.

It's a thousand sticky notes in the Northern ranger station, despite him telling the staff they're running out. It's even more stuck to his desk, drawings of him making a sour face, notices from his deputy, the head ranger, and his assistant. It's reminders of things he needs to get done, and 'happy birthday, boss!' with shitty little cakes drawn under them. It is love in words and pictographs and he pretends to hate it, because they're wasting paper. Sometimes he pulls Hobbes and Clara in a little bit tighter when he greets them after rough shifts. He does it more now, after the hoedown.

"HI MR. DUCK. :)" "hey, Zom, saved you some coffee and a slice of cake. oo rah." "Boss there's a raccoon in the walls at the diner again, I told them you'd take care of it." "Mr. duck look I can draw you." "Hey do you think if somebody came into town with a fucked up right leg you guys could trade? It could be a lady. you'd have nice gams Warden D."

He can't bring himself to throw them away anymore. Well aware that a handful of them are already the last remnants of a young man who doesn't get to do something so simple as 'waste office supplies" anymore. They're still stuck to his computer- he's running out of screen space.

#d.musings #d.headcanons #this is not event related but I am insane so it's being posted now anyway

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anthonysstupiddailyblog · 2 months

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Anthony's Stupid Daily Blog (711): Mon 26th Feb 2024

As stated in an earlier blog I intend to enter a sitcom script into this year's Sitcommission put on by the British Comedy Guide. I've entered this competition before, once was fourteen years ago with a script that was abysmal and then in 2014 with an entry that was marginally better but had no plot. I spent most of the script describing the funny hats that my characters were wearing and although the hats I was imagining would have been HILARIOUS I've since learned that in a sitcom you can't just have characters who look funny they have to actually say and do funny things too. I went over my blog from last year to look for stuff that I could use in the script I'm going to enter for this years Sitcommission. I'll be honest a lot of the funniest stuff included in my blog from last year was just me writing about funny stuff Luna has said or done so I can't really use any of that because that would mean Luna had essentially written my sitcom. I did eventually jot down quite a few good ideas and transferred them onto little cards. Graham Linehan says that when he starts off writing a sitcom script he has about 70 ideas on cards but his sitcom scripts are always half hours whereas the script I need to write only needs to be fifteen minutes so I should only need about 35 cards. On the subject of the time limit, giving entrants only fifteen minutes is fucking stupid. Expecting you to be able to establish character and story and also pack the thing with jokes while sticking to a fifteen minute deadline is impossible. Bizarrely they justify this time limit by saying "Well most sitcoms in America don't go longer than 22 minutes"…so why is your limit fifteen minutes then? That's like offering someone a bunch of bananas and telling them "It's important to get you five a day". They also say not to make the setting too imaginative because the scripts that make it to the final are going to be acted out on a stage so it has to have a minamalist setting. Have they not heard of fucking pretending? When they watch Whose Line Is It Anyway? are they unable to laugh at the jokes because they can't get over the fact that the improvisers aren't actually weilding Lightsabers while riding on the heads of giraffes they're just pretending to? So yeah the rules are more stupid So yeah I hope the person(s) who came up with the rules to this competition gets into a car crash and the driver of the other car is thehe person(s) who changed NBA rules so the number eight to number ten teams have to play an extra game to decide who makes it to the playoffs! Legendary Simpsons writer John Swartzwelder says that the way he writes scripts is to finish the first draft in a single day so that the next day, even though the script is shit, he has something to improve on so once I finish this Edgar Award challenge I’m going to try to get the first draft of a script written in a single day and then between now and the deadline for the competition I'll do multiple rewrites and with each one Ill make the hats my characters are wearing funnier and funnier each time then I'm bound to win the competition.

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“In theory, Victorians concerned with troublesome issues on the margins of respectable fiction for girls could deal with them within the family reading circle. Reading aloud was perhaps the most common domestic entertainment within the Victorian family, used as reward, improvement, or therapy for life’s challenges. The sisters taking turns reading to accompany their needlework, the matron at the sickbed, the daughter reading to her father at the end of a business day—there were myriad arenas in which families used reading to ease, amuse, and instruct.

At its most basic, reading aloud enabled the sharing of resources (a book, or a fresh installment of a periodical) among many. But beyond that, it was a profoundly social way of responding to the lessons of history, current fiction, or poetry. The critic Andrew Blake suggests that the novel, in particular, was ‘‘a most important point of contact between the public and the private’’ because ‘‘it gave people a chance to discuss domestic ideology in public without touching on domestic secrets.’’ The semipublic sphere that was the family circle provided an important venue for the discussion of reading. Within this context, instruction in morality could be accomplished informally, gently, impersonally, with reference to fictional characters rather than through direct criticism and rebuttal.

The convention of the family reading circle generally restricted polite novels from treating illicit sexuality or immoral characters, but if any lapses occurred, the family circle could deal with them most effectively. Thus Elizabeth Gaskell said of her own novel Ruth, which features an orphan who has been seduced by an aristocrat: ‘‘Of course it is a prohibited book in this, as in many other households.’’ The one circumstance that would change its unsuitability for young people, she opined, was if it was ‘‘read with someone older,’’ perhaps with an older female relative within a family reading group.

The kind of family conversation which could improve all who participated was explained by Sarah Browne in a private diary in 1859. ‘‘Albert brings [Harriet Beecher Stowe’s] the Minister’s Wooing. We sit quietly and hear how James is brought back to the living, we calmly rejoice with Mary, plan and maneuver with Miss Pressy, call Parson Hopkins in very truth a Christian and wind up the evening by wishing to see Mrs. Stowe, knowing how she would seem and if she would talk at all, like other women.’’

Albert Browne Sr. was generally the reader in the Browne family, sometimes of ‘‘superior articles in the Atlantic Monthly.’’ In these moments of quiet, Sarah Browne most idealized her shared family life, ‘‘sitting as we do in our little western chamber, Father, Alice and I storing in the rich thoughts of others as a life element of our own.’’Reading aloud enabled a submersion of family tensions in a focus outward on the problems of others.

The idealization of the shared reading experience suggested stylized familial communion to daughters as well as parents. During the final days of the Civil War, as she anticipated her own marriage, Helen Hart thought to memorialize the evenings reading aloud together. ‘‘I think I never enjoyed evenings more in my life. First Bertie reads, then Hady, and then Mother and I; from History, Shakespeare, the Atlantic, and other miscellany. Such peaceful, happy winter evenings at home! Something for us to look back upon in after years when we are scattered. I have treasured up each one as it passed, as a sweet and sacred memory.’’ The pleasure came from the contrast between ‘‘our quiet harbor’’ and ‘‘the world with its commotions, its struggles.’’

Never did home seem so secure and safe as when implicitly contrasted with the adventures and misfortunes of fictional characters, warring nations, or past princes. Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s biographer noted that Charlotte and her destitute and emotionally distant mother were at their best when reading aloud to each other, their fraught intimacy dissolved in their shared focus on the lives and feelings of others. Those moments of community might even be resurrected by rereading books so experienced. (‘‘It seems as if we were gathered around the nursery fire again. I can almost hear Aunt Mary’s voice.’’) The pleasures of reading aloud were those of reading mediated—reading mediated by the fiction of shared purpose.

Reading aloud did not have a single simple meaning, however, nor did it model only one kind of power relationship. The Browne family’s shared reading was patriarchal, with father reading and other family members (according to the hardly impartial mother) celebrating familial harmony. Alice Stone Blackwell, in her irreverent and spritely diary, offered another example of paternal reading aloud, lightly satirizing her father, the noted reformer and women’s rights advocate Henry Blackwell:

‘‘Papa sat with his feet on the top of the stove, saturated with laziness, and rated me for enjoying stories [fiction], and formed plans to give me a taste for instructive literature, and ended by making me bring Plutarch’s Lives, and beginning to read them aloud.’’ This depiction of a well-respected father indulging in playful tyranny of his only child suggests a quite different emotional shading—if a similar actual structure—to the idealized portraits of patriarchal reading circles.

Daughters also read on their own, though, and given the risks of immoral reading and the gains from uplifting reading, good parents attempted to mon- itor what they read. The goal in choosing reading, as in all the lessons of character, was to instruct gently and surely so as to encourage daughters to make familial lessons their own. Advice to parents ranged from the relatively cut and dried—‘‘Parents should choose the books that their children read until the age of 15’’—to the more subtle: ‘‘Wise parents put so many good books in the way of their children that the taste for them is formed unconsciously, and there is never any feeling of restraint.’’ (The latter piece of advice, made in 1901, was clearly advice for the book-wealthy.)

Ellen Emerson’s correspondence with her mother while away at boarding school suggested the appropriate supervisory relationship of parents over girls’ reading. Explaining that she was reading Elizabeth Gaskell’s Cranford, which she found ‘‘a very funny book,’’ she went on, ‘‘I never read any that I am not sure you would be willing to have me,’’ and recorded her assumption that Scott, Gaskell, and several others were ‘‘not forbidden.’’ She went on to query, ‘‘May I read [Margaret Oliphant’s] ‘Head of the Family’?’’ Middle-class or elite parents who participated in genteel Victorian culture assumed an important role in controlling the reading of their daughters—its quantity, its contents, and its circumstances.

In the elite midwestern Hamilton family, a family with a strong and eclectic reading tradition, novels were doled out prudently like candies during vacations from school, so as not to interfere with schoolwork. When her daughter was fifteen, Phoebe Hamilton gave her ‘‘Ivanhoe for my holiday reading, she always gives me one of Scott every vacation.’’ The next year her mother was more liberal, providing Scott’s Quentin Durward for a Christmas book and giving permission for the reading of Dickens’s Little Dorrit and Jemima Tautphoeus’s The Initials. As January arrived, Agnes lamented, ‘‘I have finished the latter but I am afraid as I go back to school next Monday I shall have to let Little Dorrit wait till summer.’’

There was a hierarchy within Hamilton family reading, and despite her voraciousness, Agnes felt that her tastes fell short of her family’s preferences. ‘‘Oh! why haven’t I the love of learning of the family?’’ She indicated what was expected in her next breath: ‘‘Knight’s England vol. III has been read all but two chapters since last fall and during two months I have read but four books of the Odyssey.’’ She forced herself to be realistic. ‘‘During this next week [probably a school vacation] I want [to] finish half a dozen or more books which I have begun but I dare say the novels are the only ones that will be looked much in.’’

Like the Hamilton reading regimen, other family routines, too, involved matters of both quality and quantity. There were appropriate ages for the reading of different books. At fifteen, Margaret Tileston wanted to read George Macdonald’s Alec Forbes of Howglen, an homage to the dignity of Scots country life. The author was certainly approved, but Margaret’s mother didn’t want her to read the book ‘‘yet.’’

At eighteen, Margaret was still reading under adult scrutiny. Sick at home she was ‘‘allowed’’ to read Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, considered excessively charged for young girls, and polished off 340 pages on the first day. Reading was one way of being inducted into family ideology; when Margaret reread Pilgrim’s Progress in 1883, she was conscious that she was reading a book that had been important to her mother when she was young.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Reading and the Development of Taste.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#victorian #history #american #how young ladies became girls #jane h. hunter

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drxwsyni · 4 years

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Tell Me What You’re Thinking (pt.1/2)

Yandere merman!Shinsou Hitoshi x gn!Reader

Summary: Studying abroad on a remote tropical island, a life threatening event prompts a certain merman to come to your rescue. Coincidence or not, the meeting results in his intentions being set in stone.

All characters are aged up (18+).

Warnings for this part: drowning, injury, swearing, suggestions of poor parenting

Words: 6.8k+

a/n: This fic is my entry for @bnhabookclub‘s Mermay event! It’s not my usual style but I tried my best―definitely need to practice different au’s. For context Shinsou can still use his quirk, he’s just also a merman at the same time. That and he’s a soft yandere for the most part. Hope you enjoy!

Prompts: 13. “It’s all right. Come here.” 7. “It’s really not that complicated (used in the second part).”

_____

The path of least resistance proved to be quite useful in the recent years.

It wouldn’t be your first option under ideal circumstances, but such a thing wasn’t currently present in your life anyways. Occasionally it would grace your day to day living, but for the most part passing occurrences tended to be on the less enjoyable side.

Whether you should be grateful or not was beyond you, but in this unchanging routine you managed to grow accustomed to things. It lead you into a complacency of sorts―not preferring it in any manner, but still having the understanding that sometimes it was easier to let the world dictate your actions for you.

And right now, this complacency had earned you the opportunity for travel.

Specifically, an offer to study abroad to work on a take home final for your university class. Four weeks on a remote tropical island with your fellow students and accompanying professors. Done with intentions to gather otherwise unobtainable first-hand experience and, more importantly, data that would significantly improve your final grade―only if you managed your time wisely.

The opportunity was impossible to pass up.

You weren’t the biggest fan of flying, or boating―really anything that had you leaving the comfort of land. But as usual these bothers weren’t considered when you were being so heavily advised to pack your things and take advantage of the ‘once in a lifetime opportunity.’

Sometimes you tried making an attempt to discern what warranted such treatment being placed upon you. Not once could you seem to recall any one event that may have ended with the conclusion that it was acceptable for you to be handled in such a manner. To have your limits disregarded so thoughtlessly.

Maybe it was because the limits in question were more so mental in nature. They weren’t outwardly observable, and so it made it acceptable.

Of course, you knew that wasn’t the truth.

But with this perhaps you could catch a break from the pressures of your loved ones. If you did well enough in your studies, they might just tone down their expectations enough to give you the room to decide something for yourself.

It was settled―you would once again take the plunge into semi-uncertainty. Mostly for the sake of others, and only marginally to satiate your need for freedom.

You’d been on the island for a little over a week, and in that time you’d managed to scope out the perfect spot for collecting the samples you needed for your paper.

It was secluded―a rocky area that was just slightly raised from the sea level that was home to multiple small ocean pools. They were filled with very particular types of marine life. Ones that you had chosen to focus on after hearing just where you’d be travelling to. In the ecosystem you found yourself in the possibilities for research were quite extensive. There may have been less taxing options, ones that didn’t lead you to the ends of the island all by yourself. But those wouldn’t earn you the validation you desired.

So instead you came to terms with your situation as usual and gathered up your equipment for the journey. Almost every day just an hour after dinner you would head to the rocky expanse of the seemingly endless beach. The weather was comfortable, a light breeze to stave off the heat with the sun not close enough to the horizon for it to be getting too dark, but low enough to begin emitting the intricate display of warm coloured clouds drifting slowly above.

In the moments where you simply sat and took in your surroundings, the thought came to mind that perhaps you would be able to focus on something that wasn’t directly related to the pressure you were under to succeed. If these were the conditions, the clarity that came along with relaxation might be possible.

For now however, you needed to be focused on what you truly came here for.

It was roughly quarter after six in the evening. You had set your backpack down on a rock that was raised above the pools of water and used the rest of the free surface as a makeshift table. On it you placed a clean sample jar with the lid popped off in wait for the contents that you were currently fishing around for.

If there was one thing being pressured into studying was good for, it was having the image of what you were looking for committed to memory.

It was nothing special, just a remnant of the marine life that took up residence in the little pools you were currently crouched in front of. You carefully extracted the sample out of the water, placing it in the little container.

Part of you should be proud of what you were doing. University classes weren’t always the easiest. Your course was just as difficult as any other―disregarding the fact that you probably wouldn’t have gone into it if it weren’t for the ‘advice’ of your family. The research you were currently conducting was more than satisfactory.

Yet, as you looked at the now filled sample container, part of you couldn’t help but want to accomplish more. You didn’t need to―your pace so far was good for what you were trying to get done in the time you were given on the island. But it was second nature to want to perform above satisfactory expectations.

You knew that the area you were in was home to a certain species of coral that would greatly improve the chances of you earning a better GPA. Based on where you were, it would take a small swim just off the shoreline to reach its natural habitat.

Doing a cost-benefit analysis, you decided that it was worth the brief struggle. It was likely that the coral wouldn’t be too far underwater, meaning you wouldn’t require any special diving equipment. You were already wearing a bathing suit, and before leaving had packed a belt bag that could be worn underwater should you need to bring any sample collection gear with you while swimming.

Technically, you should be asking for help when it came to something like this. There was a certain danger to it―being in the ocean by yourself. If you knew any better then maybe you would’ve asked for assistance. However, it simply wasn’t in your nature to do so.

There was always a resistance in your mind when you wanted to work with others. An anxiety of sorts. Time and time again had you tried to overcome it, and each instance had you failing. Now was no different.

Your bag was strapped securely to your body, pulled tight so it didn’t shift around too much in the water. Without the ability to force yourself to go back to the cabins and request a second set of hands, there was quite literally nothing holding you back.

The ocean water was startlingly icy as you let it submerge your lower limbs. The feeling wasn’t pleasant, but it was temporary. You’d be quick―collect the sample and then gratefully retreat to the warmth of dry clothes and eventually the soft bed in your assigned room back inland.

Gradually, the frigid liquid crept up your body as you waded forward. Shivering slightly at the sensation, you willed your mind to ignore the uncomfortableness. And thankfully enough, after spending a few minutes with the water at neck-level, you became more accustomed to the sensation.

The easy part was over.

Pushing off from the sandy ocean floor underneath, you swam away from the coast. It was only roughly ten or fifteen feet away, but already you were having problems seeing the earth below. The sight was unsettling, to say the least.

What it did mean however was that you should be in the perfect spot where the coral you were hunting for could be found. It wasn’t rare or anything―you should be able to see it no problem. But you had to go underwater first before that was possible.

For a moment you hesitated. You weren’t exactly afraid of the ocean, but the concept of such a vast unexplored space wasn’t exactly comforting. Sure, you weren’t in any sort of area that was frighteningly undiscovered, but the thought that such a thing did exist didn’t help in calming your nerves.

But you digress―the take home final was more important than any passing worries over your predicament.

The feeling of being so completely engulfed in the water sent a shock through your system. So much so that you had to resurface for a few seconds to get your bearings. Once you’d settled down once again, you plunged yourself underneath the water. Only after a second or two of swimming further below the surface and you had come face to face with your target. You went back up for a breath and to extract a sample bottle from your bag.

It was then you took notice of the particularly strong winds that had picked up since you entered the ocean.

They wouldn’t have been a problem if it weren’t for the waves it was forming under its influence. Small at first, but in the distance you could see them forming as well. Meaning that by the time they reached your position they would be bigger―much bigger.

But they were still far away. You had time.

With a little more haste you maneuvered yourself under the water until you were able to grasp the cluster of raised rock littered with marine plant life to steady yourself. Holding your breath, you tried working the coral off its hinges with a gloved hand.

It would seem coral was much stronger than you once thought.

The sturdy and jagged material was proving difficult to remove from the rocks it stuck to, and you were running out of air. The concept of having to make more than one trip under the surface wasn’t ideal, but your lung capacity wouldn’t support otherwise.

With rushed movements you emerged from the water, sucking in deep breaths of relieving oxygen.

But that was short lived.

It would seem the waves were moving faster than initially perceived. Now they were forceful enough that one sent you plummeting back under the salt water.

You couldn’t make heads or tails of which direction you were facing. The current of the waves was jostling your body in every way imaginable. Limbs flailing, you tried desperately to steady yourself. Yet you were no match for the strength of the ocean, and there was nothing in reach to hold on to.

For a moment of brief reprieve you were pulled back above the violent waves. Lungs already slightly filled with water, you sputtered into a coughing fit. Your eyes were frantic as they searched the shoreline, but there was nobody to help you.

If only you weren’t cowardly enough to have gone back and requested assistance in your now failed expedition.

Another wave collided harshly against your body, this time with much more power. It caught you off guard and in the middle of gasping for air. The final half of your breath was cut short, oxygen replaced with the frigid ocean water.

It burned. Your lungs couldn’t handle the intrusion, reflexively demanding another response of inhalation. If it weren’t for the already present liquid, tears would’ve been seen running heavily down your cheeks.

You couldn’t breath.

The current made you sway violently, pushing you deeper into the depths. Finally you collided with something, but the relief was short lived.

Sure, you were able to steady yourself, but now there was a more pressing issue.

A loose strap that was meant to tighten your belt bag had been caught on the jagged edges of the rock. Somehow tangled or wedged between the surface―it held you down under the crashing waves above.

The effects of the storm was causing your limbs to scrape painfully against the rock and coral with each sway of the current. Your lungs were filled, heart pounding against your ribcage.

Was this how you died?

Your mind was racing with a slew of thoughts all pertaining to potential escape plans.

But there were none. You couldn’t free yourself, and even if you did the storm would only pull you back under.

You choked aggressively on the water, body unnaturally convulsing. Black spots were forming in your vision as you registered that there was nothing stopping you from losing consciousness.

In a last ditch effort you tried pulling at the buckle that was holding the bag to your chest. Your luck only got worse―it was somehow stuck and would not unlatch.

Your last moments of struggling were futile. No matter what you did, or how hard you fought, you were going to drown.

As your mind slowly drifted into unconsciousness, your eyes just barely registered the thrashing waters around you. And yet, just before you succumbed to the darkness, you could’ve sworn something in the water caught the light, almost reflecting it. Whatever it was, it seemed to be quite large.

But that’s all you could comprehend―body going limp, along with your ability to stay awake any longer.

_____

The feeling of a hard surface underneath you was the first thing your brain identified. After your eyes opened, it was the sensation of some form of fleece blanketing your body.

You could still smell the ocean―hear it too. A sharp pain shot through your neck and spine as you forced yourself into a sitting position.

A cave.

There were no exits, at least not ones you could get to on foot. But you could swim.

To your right was a pool of water, and just vaguely you could see light shining through an underwater tunnel. Even then it was just barely there, meaning it had been quite some time since you blacked out, the sun likely setting for the night.

Oh right...you drowned.

The memories came flooding back. You ripped off the blanket, revealing an almost even more shocking sight. Your limbs, mainly your legs and a few patches on your arms, had been wrapped and padded with...seaweed?

That was most definitely not on your body before. Arriving fully to attention, a wave of panic came over you.

How did you get here? Why was there seaweed coating parts of your body? And most importantly―how on earth were you not dead?

Experimentally, you reached for a piece of plant life that was stuck to your skin. It was clear someone placed it there, and likely placed you in the cave, but who?

Peeling off the slimy layer revealed some equally alarming information. It wasn’t obvious when it was hidden, but now you could see the rough scrapes and cuts that littered your legs. The wounds didn’t hurt, but they didn’t feel comfortable either. There was some form of slimy substance coating it, which thoroughly grossed you out. In fact, the whole thing grossed you out.

Your body practically acted on its own, fueled by the feeling of disgust and unsettling anxiety. One after the other you ripped the seaweed from your limbs, exposing more gashes and marred flesh under each application.

You had no clue how you ended up in the cave, and if that wasn’t enough to disturb you, someone had put their hands all over your body to encase you in the questionable greenery while you were out.

One thing was for sure―you needed to get the fuck out of here.

Looking around, you figured it was worth giving the cave a once over in case there were any escapes that didn’t involve you blindly swimming through an airless underwater tunnel. And as you scanned the room you found there were still no alternatives. What you did pick up on though was the almost lived in aspect of the cave.

Somehow the stone walls were receded in parts above the water. They were like makeshift shelves, and in the crevices held an array of miscellaneous items. One spot seemed to be designated for various jars and tubs. Some were filled with unrecognizable substances, while others had equally foreign objects floating in semi clear liquid.

Eyes shifting to another display, you landed on a collection of trinkets. Mostly in the form of jewelry―a few rings, necklaces, even what looked to be a fairly expensive watch.

Someone was living here. It was good news. It meant that you should be able to swim out to safety in one breath.

You’d spent enough time taking in your surroundings. It was time to leave and hopefully never have to experience something like this again.

Yet, as you tried standing up, the pain of your injuries seem to catch up with you. To be fair you weren’t expecting it, so you didn’t feel entirely ashamed for falling right back onto the cold and slightly sandy rock. It was almost laughable―how you were foolish enough to land yourself in this predicament.

And in that distracted mindspace you managed to calm your nerves slightly, but it also drew your attention away from the pool of water that you should be plunging into for escape. You didn’t want to wait to find out who brought you here, but it was too late for that now.

Just as you mustered up the strength to pull yourself to the water’s edge, your eyes landed on something moving beneath the rippling surface. Something big.

And it was getting closer.

Frantically, you scrambled back a few feet from whatever was in the body of ocean water. Not a moment later and the thing had made its way to the surface.

It emerged―a man.

No.

There was a tail.

There was...a tail?

“Are you alright?”

And the creature spoke.

Peculiar was an understatement. The top half―its human half―looked normal. The man had deep indigo coloured hair, face sporting some impressive eye-bags. His voice sounded human enough―on the lower side but nonetheless indisputably ordinary.

However from what you could see from your position, the lower part of his body was entirely inhuman. Straight out of a mythology book―he had a long, scaly looking fish tail that was coloured the same as his hair―except it was shimmery, maybe even iridescent.

What on earth were you supposed to say in a situation like this?

He must’ve caught on to your speechlessness, judging the unmoving expression of shock on your face. “I found you trapped underneath the current. Your bag was tangled in some coral so I had to cut you out of it.”

Looking down, you saw that he was correct―your belt bag was missing.

Apparently he wasn’t done with his speech, “I brought you back here to take care of your injuries but―why did you remove the bandages?” You watched as his confused eyes scanned your form, taking in the exposed cuts and bruises that painted your delicate skin.

You said the first thing that came to mind. “Where am I?”

Without missing a beat, he responded. “My home. Why did you remove the bandages?”

...Is that really what he’s worried about right now?

Forming words proved to be a difficult task when you were suffering from a shock to your once perceived reality. Surely you were dreaming. There was no way a fish...man, was talking to you right now. Right?

“I just―I didn’t know what it was. So I...took it off?” You were hoping that you’d wake up any moment now. But as time drew on that wish seemed to grow less likely to come true.

Reality didn’t matter―you needed to know. “Are you like a...mermaid, or something?”

Eyebrows slightly furrowed in what looked to be annoyance, the man responded. “Merman, actually.”

It was like this was just another regular occurrence for the merman. He acted completely unfazed by you discovering his existence, whether he felt different about it mentally or not.

“Okay, so why didn’t you just bring me back to the shore?” You prided yourself in not stuttering over your words despite your brain doing mental gymnastics trying to comprehend the situation.

He shifted in the water a bit, resting his hands on the stone where the water and dry earth met. “You were bleeding too much. If I brought you back to the beach you may have died from it. And even if you didn’t the storm was too rough―you would’ve been swept back out into the ocean.”

The events were discussed so matter-of-factly that it disregarded just how much danger you were in. It baffled you how he managed to stop the bleeding. Actually, you weren’t even sure where the bleeding would’ve been coming from. Looking over your wounds, none of them seemed to go deep enough to require such attention. If anything, they looked quite healthy―healed even.

Now that you didn’t need to be so wrapped up in the concern over your physical state, the gravity of the situation came falling down upon you. This complete stranger of a creature had dragged you to who knows where, and as far as you could tell getting out might just be impossible.

The colour effectively drained from your face.

It just so happened that the merman would continue to be perceptive to your reactions. “I was just waiting for you to wake up so I could bring you back. You’re safe here, I promise.”

His words brought untold relief to your anxieties, yet you still needed a little more reassurance. “That’s good. So you’re not gonna, like―”

“What, eat you?” He gave a half-hearted chuckle at the thought, “I’m not a monster. And even if I did want to don’t you think I would've done it already?”

It wasn’t what you were going to ask, but realistically your intentions on the subject didn’t matter all that much in the moment.

The indigo haired man sighed, likely expecting a response. “Look, I just wanted to help you. That’s it.”

Help you. That wasn’t something you were normally accustomed to.

You had problems asking for assistance on your own, and even if you wanted to there was never really many who would be willing to indulge you.

The sentiment he offered was nice. Even nicer was that it wasn’t just an offer―he already had helped you. He’d saved your life. It was more than anyone else had done for you throughout your many years of living.

It was nice, to say the least.

But you still needed to get back to the beach. “So, are you gonna help me get out of here now? Cause I don’t exactly know where that exit leads to…”

He smiled slightly, the most positive emotion you’d seen him express since emerging from the depths. “Of course, I did say I would after all.”

Your eyes followed his hand as it outstretched towards you. The first reaction you had was to automatically take it, but you stopped halfway through the motion when you registered his physique.

He had claws.

They weren’t long, but they were for sure sharp looking. You hesitated in your advance.

“It’s all right. Come here.” He gestured to you to approach, but still you wavered. “I won’t hurt you, little human.”

Not that you weren’t still wary of the dangerous looking appendages, but you didn’t exactly have a choice. He was your ticket out of the cave after all.

Without a word you took his hand. He gently guided you to the edge of the water, supporting your weight as you clambered into the ocean pool.

There were still small waves entering from the mouth of the cave, a weak current lightly hitting your body. It was enough to wash away whatever substance the merman had applied to your injuries. Now that they were clean, you could see just how much they’d healed in the short amount of time.

You could think about how that was even possible when you were back on land.

When the man spoke again it startled you slightly, him being so close. “The tunnel is long. I’m afraid that even if I swim fast you’ll still run out of air before we break the surface.”

The statement made you panic a little, eyes going wide.

He continued before you could give your take. “I’ll have to give you some air halfway through, just let me know when you need a breath and everything should be okay.” The merman pulled you into his chest as he spoke, one arm wrapped around your waist while the other gripped your upper arm.

“Wait―how are you even gonna do that?” As far as you could tell he wasn’t carrying an oxygen tank or anything of the sort.

Looking down at you with a slight smirk on his face, he responded. “You trust me, right? I’m not going to let you drown, don’t worry.”

That didn’t really answer your question, but he wasn’t done. “And I’m your only way out of here so does it really matter? That is unless you want to stay here with me forever.”

Frankly, you had no clue what he meant by ‘giving you air,’ but he was right―how he kept you alive wasn’t all that important in the grand scheme of things. Before you could make a point to push your concerns he pulled the two of you underwater. You thanked the heavens you were able to fill your lungs with air the second before you were submerged, inwardly cursing the man for not giving you a heads up.

Your body was flushed to his, and as he swam you could appreciate the robustness of his frame. It was impressive, and if it weren’t for the stress of the situation you may have liked to take more time to admire it.

It was hard to keep your eyes open as the water rushed past you. That was indication enough of just how fast you were going, and you realized just how screwed you would’ve been if you had tried to make your way out of the cave by yourself. If you didn’t drown before, making that attempt would surely do the trick.

The two of you were roughly twenty seconds into the swim when you felt the burning in your lungs start to become unbearable. Without knowing what his methods of relief were, you held out as long as possible without asking for help. Yet it was only a few more seconds and your body was practically screaming at you to breath.

He didn’t tell you how to get his attention, so you opted to rapping on his chest with one hand. Thankfully, he stopped his journey towards the exit immediately after you began thrashing in his arms. Still slightly drifting forward in the water as a result of his momentum, he brought your body to be eye level with his. Not a moment too soon and he was pressing his lips firmly against yours, hands gripping the sides of your face to still you. And then you realized―this was how he was going to supply you oxygen.

Your lips parted and a relieving wave of air was forced into your lungs. He pulled away a moment later and you pursed your lips once again to contain the air. You hoped he didn’t see the faint blush on your cheeks as he pulled you back into his chest and continued swimming.

Another twenty seconds and you felt him angle upwards, and much to your relief you felt the water break around you.

Sound finally returned to your ears, having been previously replaced with the muffledness of rushing water. You blinked a few times to clear your eyes, readjusting to your surroundings. The sun was setting now, having lowered much closer to the horizon and casting a whole new set of colours upon the clouds.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” His teasing attitude wasn’t entirely appreciated, but it did help to alleviate the stress of the situation somewhat.

“I guess, not...thanks.” You gave him a small smile to show that you were grateful, given that your own tone was still a little shaky from the strange events that were taking place.

The merman allowed you some space now that he didn’t have to drag your body through the water alongside his. “The beach isn’t too far from here.”

From where you treaded you could see the shore clearly in the distance. You followed him as he began heading in that direction, presumably going at a slower pace seeing as you didn’t exactly have the same swimming capabilities as he did.

While staying above the waterline, the man continued the conversation. “So, I believe that it wouldn’t be too much to ask you to keep quiet about my existence. Not that anyone would believe you anyways, but still―in exchange for saving your life I think it's fair.”

Somehow it took him saying it to remember that you’d forgot to thank him for doing so. Sure, you thanked him for bringing you out of the cave, but that was a requirement if he wanted to free up his home once again. It was a little embarrassing, but you gave yourself some slack as nothing right now was anywhere near a sense of normalcy. “Ah―yeah, I think I can do that.”

He smiled at your sheepish reply, giving you the idea that he picked up on your abashed emotions.

The rest of the journey to the shore was done in silence. He would never go too far ahead of you, and for a moment you wondered why he didn’t just pull you the rest of the way there as well. It would’ve saved more time, but you weren’t exactly in the position to be judging him on his actions given all he’d done for you.

Eventually you reached the mainland, much to your gratification. He helped you up onto the rocks that were jutting out of the waterline―the area that kept the ocean pools you were studying. In fact, he had brought you right up to where your bag was still laid.

Still feeling a little ashamed for how much of a burden you’d been, you gave him one last condolence. “Thanks again. I don’t know how you found me but I’m glad you did. The last thing my parents need is to hear their daughter drowned trying to work on her final.” Awkwardly, you rubbed the back of your neck. It felt like you were oversharing, and at this point you should probably just shut up and head back to the cabins. Yet strangely enough the phenomenon of your realization that such a creature did exist was still very much enticing. You didn’t want to stop talking to him.

He stayed at the edge of the rocks, “It’s no problem. You should go back to wherever you’re staying on the island to rest. It’s getting late anyways.”

His concern was appreciated, but still―a small part of you was sad you would have to part ways with this otherworldly being.

“Ah―right. Um, I was just―”

“I’m Hitoshi, by the way. I’ll be here if you ever need me. Take care, (y/n).”

With that he was pushing off the rocks, and before you could get another word out―if that was even possible―he was already underwater. You saw as the slowly dimming sunlight reflected off his indigo tail, and in a matter of seconds he was so far submerged that his body entirely disappeared.

Well, that wasn’t how you expected your afternoon to go.

You had to take a few minutes to collect your thoughts, mostly consisting of you questioning everything you thought you once knew.

Briefly, you wondered just what people would say if you told them what happened to you. That you got stuck on coral, drowned, and then were rescued by a merman.

They wouldn’t believe you.

Maybe the drowning part, but the rest...not so much.

But even if they did believe you, there was no way you would break your promise to the man. He helped you―saved you. Nobody had ever shown you so much kindness, and it wouldn’t be right to just disregard that for the sake of attention.

Having had your full on adventures for the night, you quickly gathered your previously abandoned belongings. With a bag once again stuffed full of research equipment, you made your way back to the cabins.

And naturally, no matter how much you tried that night, sleep was immensely difficult to achieve. How could it not be―there was now a plethora of things to think about and you couldn’t tell a single soul. Frustrating was an understatement, but it was also kind of nice. The act of compassion the merman―no―Hitoshi, gave you was causing a certain feeling of warmth. It felt comforting.

You recalled his last words, saying he’d be there for you if you needed it. It was likely just a quick send off so he could get out of your way and return home. Yet the sentiment was still appreciated.

Eventually you managed to fall asleep, this time not doing so under the influence of painfully salty ocean water.

_____

Waking up wasn’t the most pleasant―there was a hoarse burning sensation in your lungs. Not that it wasn’t present the day before, but now it would seem that the effects of them being filled with a liquid that they should most definitely not be filled with was taking a toll. Whether it was swelling or simply the after affects of salt remaining in them didn’t really matter.

You popped some pain reliever into your mouth, wincing at the feeling as it slid down your throat.

Regardless of yesterday’s events you still had a schedule to follow. However doing so proved to be a challenge. At each task you were met with you found your thoughts drifting back to the strange encounter. At breakfast, sitting down at a worktable, lunch, editing a portion of your report―everything had you returning to contemplation over Hitoshi at least once.

It was safe to say that you didn’t get as much work done as normal.

The anticipation for the end of the day was unbearable. You had to return to the ocean pools to collect samples you weren’t able to gather yesterday.

Mostly, you had now developed a slight fear of the ocean. How the waves turned so violent while you were swimming was beyond you, but it only proved how unpredictable nature could be.

And you still wanted that piece of coral.

Your sense of self-preservation wasn’t the best. It had never been, really. After time and time again of putting your own needs second it was only natural at this point. Maybe not today, but you were going to try and return to the ocean no matter how much the prospect intimidated you.

Like you’d done for the past week, you assembled the necessary gear for your work and stepped out into the heat. To get to the area you simply had to walk along the beach. It was probably the best part of your day―with nothing to do while you walked you needed only to think.

And right now you were thinking about Hitoshi.

He was handsome―no denying that. Clearly he had a good heart, why else would he save your life after you’d so foolishly gone and put yourself in a situation that could’ve been easily avoided. He wasn’t the most expressive, but you could still tell that he meant well.

Or at least you hoped.

Either way you wouldn’t be forgetting about him anytime soon.

Finally you had arrived at the ocean pools, thankful to be able to rest your feet after the long walk. Looking out onto the ocean caused an involuntary shiver. The weather was warm, but the water that once threatened to kill you wasn’t.

There was no time to stew on harmful thoughts though―you were behind schedule. Disregarding the lingering worry that had settled into your heart, you pulled the bag off your shoulders and began removing its contents.

Almost methodically, you laid out your equipment on the flat expanse of the dry rock. It was important to be neat in your area of study, now being no exception. You were distracted with the meticulous arrangement of research gear, eyes and mind trained on setting it up to perfection.

“How’s the work coming?”

You nearly jumped two feet into the air.

In fact, you knocked over a petri dish as your body jolted from sudden noise behind you, it sounding off with a light splash as it landed in a nearby pool. Your head whipped around in the direction of the voice.

If your mind didn’t register the owner of it by sound, it would visually.

And there Hitoshi was, in his still unbelievable merman glory. He was propped up on his elbows, casually resting against the rock.

You breathed a sigh of relief, having come down from a brief adrenaline induced high. “Jesus―you can’t just sneak up on people like that. And it's going fine, I guess.” You bent over to pick up the piece of equipment, now having to disinfect it for later use. His sudden presence still had you a bit tense, and you warily eyed his form.

“Are you afraid of me?”

The question caught you off guard―clearly you looked a lot more nervous than you thought.

Of course you weren’t afraid of him. Maybe you felt a little awkward, given the vast difference between you two, but certainly not afraid.

“No, you just startled me a little. And the ocean’s still got me kinda freaked out, so…” You waved lazily with one hand in the general direction of the body of water as you spoke, returning to the task at hand.

You heard the water around him splash slightly, “Well, you can relax. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Actually…” Looking in his direction, you saw him reach below the surface of the water. “...I’ve got something for you. Here.”

In his right hand Hitoshi produced one of your plastic sample bottles. Inside of it was the frustrating piece of coral you were trying to pry off the rock before meeting your demise yesterday.

Your eyes blew wide at the sight―of course he could’ve gotten it so easily. He’s a goddamn fish after all. But there was one thing that didn’t quite add up in your head. “How did you know that’s what I was looking for?”

He looked at the jar before returning his unperturbed gaze back to you. “I, uh…” Just barely, you could pick up on an almost abashed look across his face. “I was sort of...watching you. That sounds creepy, I know. It was when you went in the water―not a lot of people come to this part of the island so I wasn’t exactly expecting visitors.”

Now it made sense. “Oh, well if that’s the case then I guess I was lucky. You might not have found me if I got stuck on the more populated area of the beach.” It was practically a blessing that you came across the area―you might have been dead if not.

Standing up from your position, you walked over to the break in rock and ocean where the merman was stationed. You sat down next to him, “Thanks for this, Hitoshi.” You took the bottle from his extended hand. “I really need it if I want to do good on my final. And I probably would’ve tried going back out there sooner or later for it.” You laughed a bit at your own statement, knowing how bad of an idea it was, but still finding the humour in your lack of survival instinct.

He didn’t seem as amused, “You’re telling me you would’ve risked your life just for a piece of coral?”

At that you smiled, “It’s not just a piece of coral. I mean―it’s not rare or anything, but it’s relevant to what I’m studying. So yes, chances are I would’ve.”

Hitoshi shook his head, lips slightly upturned at your behaviour now as well. “It’s a good thing I’m here then. Can’t say I’d be so inclined to let you out of my home if I found you half-dead again. For your own sake, of course.”

You rolled your eyes. But really, you were grateful for him. “Seriously, this means a lot.” Forming your next words was difficult, given that you didn’t want to sound too much like a loser, but they needed to be genuine. “I don’t get a lot of help when it comes to stuff like this. I’m not the best at asking for it either. It’s just―you’ve done so much for me...I don’t even know where to begin when it comes to repaying you.”

There was a moment of silence, and your heart sunk a little thinking that you’d said too much.

“Why don’t you start with telling me about yourself.”

That only confused you more.

“You want to know more about me?”

The toothy grin he gave as he laughed a bit at your response wasn’t expected, but it did help ease the tensions. “Yes, little human. I don’t get to talk to many of my own kind, let alone yours. And as you said, you need to repay me so technically you don’t have a choice.”

His condescending pet name didn’t go unnoticed, but you’d let it slide―he had done more than enough to earn the right to a little teasing.

You have a half-hearted shrug. “Okay then, what is it you want to know fish boy?”

Now things could finally start getting interesting.

#bnhabookclub #yandere bnha #yandere shinsou hitoshi #yandere shinsou #yandere mha #yandere my hero academia #yandere #mermay #yandere x you

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roartosoar · 3 years

Text

How I Started Writing to Prisoners

It’s been a year since uncertainty became the new normal, where human connection is maintained through zoom meetings, facetime and social distancing. If you’re lucky, you had loved ones living in your home to provide touch, talk and play. What about the humans on the inside of institutions? How is their connection maintained? They do not have facetime, they barely have anything. In fact, during the pandemic all programs, visiting hours and external contact was cut off from incarcerated individuals. This doesn’t include the lifers who haven’t seen someone from the outside in over a decade, or the ones who have simply given up hope. If you thought being stuck at home with your kids was bad, imagine not seeing them for fifteen years, isolated in a cell, staring at cold concrete. Imagine not seeing or talking to anyone.

If you are anything like me:

·You do not like to feel helpless

·You can relate to feeling unheard, lonely or isolated

·The mistreatment of marginalized and vulnerable communities upsets you

So what do you do? Something! Anything to give hope and build endurance to keep going. In my case, I chose to write handwritten letters to incarcerated individuals, mainly those serving a life sentence. Now, I didn’t wake up one morning telling myself, “I’m going to write to prisoners!”. It was a slow, uncomfortable process, it still is.

How it started

It began by sending love notes to friends and family I missed. Shortly, it evolved to include communities I was actively involved in like The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP) and survivors of domestic violence and human trafficking. Knowing my work with AFSP, my friend asked me to write to his foster daughters. Due to unforeseen circumstances, him and his wife were no longer able to house the girls. This inspired me to post on Reddit:

“If you feel unheard, lonely or isolated and would find joy in a letter of hope, DM your address to me”. FinchWitch

The Responses were overwhelming. Many of us were hurting but not everyone was asking for help. Myself included. I discovered writing thoughtful, tangible letters not only helped others, it helped myself.

Challenge Accepted

What do you do when you feel good about acts of kindness? You share with a friend. Which is exactly what I did when I felt I was onto something. Feeling unheard or lonely is diverse in that it's situational but it also unifies us as humans because we’ve all felt that way at one point in our lives. Telling my writing journey to my friend Jon, he quickly replied in a daring tone, “Oh you want to write to lonely people?”. He proceeded to talk to me (something he rarely does) about his experience in prison and returning to society after. A time period of approximately twenty years. He mentioned his battle with mental health, missing the growth of this son and forgetting what a hug felt like. A letter from the outside would have given him persistence to go on. He ended his talk by challenging me to write to incarcerated individuals. While I immediately accepted the challenge, the task proved to provide some obstacles.

Do you know how to write to someone on the inside? I didn’t either. Once I found out about websites online, I was still hesitant to put pen to paper. The websites had so many rules. Identify your intentions, whether you are willing to be a prayer partner, provide financial means or legal assistance. There was no filter for “provide hope”. Once my boundaries were established, I had to go through profiles and select someone. What was I looking for? Who was I looking for? I thought about what Jon said, so I filtered people serving a life sentence, who were not currently receiving mail and were far away from me. I also purchased a P.O. Box for additional safety. The next step was to start writing! What would you write to an incarcerated person for the first time? I chose to write about myself, tell them this story and how my friend inspired me to write to them. I made my boundaries very clear, I offer friendship and an ear with an open heart. A few letters have been returned as some institutions spam all mail from strangers, but most get a response and I have friends on the inside I write to regularly. Both of us look forward to each other's letters and have found comfort in being heard.

I know what you’re thinking or have thought about, they did this to themselves. It’s their fault they are in there. You’re not wrong, many incarcerated individuals will tell you they are not a bad person, they made a terrible mistake. Can you honestly say you’ve never made a terrible mistake? We all make mistakes, these humans are serving the harshest consequence for theirs. Does this mean they deserve to serve their crime locked alone in a cell with no connection to the outside world? Personally, this is a harsh truth I no longer want to ignore.

How can you help?

Donate for supplies: It costs about $2 per letter. https://gofund.me/4848f232

Become a penpal: email request to [email protected] Requires minimum of 3 month commitment and notification of last letter. No one likes to be ghosted.

I’m hoping by sharing my story with you I have given you something to think about that you probably haven’t before. I know I didn’t. Bonus if you choose to take action, may it be my suggestions above or your own. All that matters is your intention. I intend to speak for the unheard with a smile on my face and love in my heart.

Love & Light,

xxxBeckz

Research to inspire helping

Spending money on others improves your quality of life. https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/18356530/

Studies show people who engage in charity organizations have higher levels of life satisfaction, physical health and self-esteem. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1693420/

Criminal justice Facts

https://www.sentencingproject.org/criminal-justice-facts/

There are 2.2 million people in the nation’s prisons and jails.

Changes in law and policy, not changes in crime rates, explain most of the 500% increase over the last 40 years.

One in nine people in prison is now serving a life sentence, nearly a third of whom are sentenced to life without parole.

If you currently feel unheard and would like to receive some hope to keep going please mail request to:

Rebecca Soriano

P.O. Box 14481

Long Beach, CA 90853

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jullienfm · 4 years

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jacob elordi. cis male. he/him. ／ jc "jules" jullien just pulled up blasting ain't it fun by paramore — that song is so them ! you know, for a twenty - two year old nhl player, i’ve heard they’re really naive, but that they make up for it by being so magnanimous. if i had to choose three things to describe them, i’d probably say well - worn skates sporting freshly sharpened blades, drops of blood collecting in a white porcelain sink, and small town roots kept intact against all odds. here’s to hoping they don’t cause too much trouble ! ( sam, 23, est, she/her )

it is i, sam, and i also write jack ( @devinfm ) buuuut here’s another character that’s almost exactly the same as the last one but with one or two small changes. feel free to message me if you’d like to plot!

i. stats

𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚: jean-claude valère jullien

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨: jc, jules

𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙣: dawson city, yt

𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙗𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙝: january 1st, 1998

𝙯𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙘: capricorn

𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: idk heterosexual for now

𝙥𝙤𝙨. 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙨: magnanimous, solicitous, responsible.

𝙣𝙚𝙜. 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙨: naive, jittery, gauche.

ii. history

jean-claude valère "jules" jullien was born and raised in dawson city, a town in the yukon. his father is a miner while his mother stayed home with their eleven children. yes, you read that correctly, eleven kids, all boys. their ages range from the eldest being in his late thirties to jules, who is the youngest by a margin of about twelve years.

he was a high - risk pregnancy. his mother was in her forties and thought she was through with having children, so when he was born a bit small and premature but otherwise perfectly healthy, jules was immediately considered a miracle child and doted on accordingly.

he was sheltered from the start, homeschooled by his mother ( while his brothers attended the local public school ) and given a band aid and a kiss for every little bump and bruise. the fact that none of his brothers grew to resent him is a whole other miracle in itself, but to be honest most of them took after their parents and participated in coddling him, and those who didn't were at least old enough to not care that much.

jules learned how to skate before he even learned how to walk, and he's been playing hockey for just as long. he started out on the frozen lake in the backyard of his childhood home with a few of his brothers, and it quickly became apparent that he not only possessed a natural talent for the sport, but that he also genuinely loves it.

he was so good at hockey that he was allowed to play at the junior level in canada a year early ( he was the third player to ever be granted the privilege ) and from then on it became his entire life. at just fifteen years old he was breaking records, collecting awards, and garnering attention from nhl scouts in his first season alone. from then on, the improvement and accolades just kept coming.

he played his first international tournament in sochi with the canadian under - 18 team when he was 16, leading the tournament in goals and points and helping to win gold for team canada. he was awarded the chl's player of the year award following his final season playing junior hockey and is one of the most decorated players in the league's history.

jules was the first round, first overall draft pick by the los angeles kings when he entered the nhl. at the start of his second year, he was named captain of the team, making him the youngest captain in nhl history at 19 years and 254 days old. he's a three - time world championship gold medalist, a four - time nhl all star and last year, he signed an eight year / 12.5 mil per year contract with the kings, which is one of the highest in the nhl. he gets picked on for his age, and there are people who think he's overrated, but the fact of the matter is : he brings results.

iii. extras

it's jc or jules. no one ever calls him jean-claude because it’s just too much of a mouthful for no good reason.

jules is the team captain and plays center for the la kings hockey team, #98 as a nod to his birth year. he's a four time all star, well known for his speed, and a fun fact is that he's ambidexterous so he can shoot with both hands.

six foot five, 190 lbs...so, kinda lanky.

his mom is from quebec so he's semi - fluent in french and kiiiinda has a little accent.

he's nice. so nice, that he's actually nice to a fault. a downside to his sheltered upbringing is that he's very naive, so he's an easy target for people especially pretty girls to use for clout and free stuff, then drop once he's served his purpose. it's happened many times and jules is none the wiser. he just thinks he has really bad luck.

he can be quite anxious. he’s had a lot of pressure on him for a while now and hockey is obviously something that he takes very seriously, so he’s kinda...tense. he can also be a little nervous in social situations and tbh he literally doesn’t know how to talk about anything except for hockey and taking pictures.

he's gotten into basketball since he moved to los angeles, so he's a HUUUUGE lakers fan. catch him courtside at every single game he can make it to.

he’s also gotten into music! he really likes bands like blink and all time low and probably wants to learn how to play an instrument like the drums so potential wc

he's always had an interest in photography he got a camera from his parents as a teenager and it’s become a beloved hobby of his. it's nothing that he would ever consider pursuing seriously, but he's often seen with his camera and likes to take pictures of his friends, architecture, basketball games, concerts, or anything else he finds interesting.

might occasionally be seen with a book instead of his camera.

don't ask to take a picture of him, though — he hates being on the other side of the lens.

he's quiet and modest, but every once in a while he likes to flex a liiiittle bit.

iv. wanted connections

Dudebro™ best friend

non - Dudebro™ best friend

friends ( close friends, friends, friendly acquaintances )

someone he’s protective over

cousins ( most likely from canada or the midwest, but otherwise anything goes for this. )

fwb and one night stands

his celebrity crush / someone who’s crushing on him

exes ( some who have used him for clout / free stuff, some who didn’t, some who did and then regretted it, all of the above! )

( these are just ideas and i’m trash at coming up with stuff, so please don’t feel limited by what’s listed here. )

#excess:intro #anxiety tw #pls ignore the state of his blog I'LL FIX IT LATER SDFSDF

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tanadrin · 5 years

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under a cut because long, disorganized, self-indulgent

ok so the Lende Empire isn’t really feudal; I despise feudal stasis in fantasy, like even the shortest timeline puts the Andal invasion at more than 2,000 ybp in Game of Thrones, you really think in all that time everybody on the continent is dumb enough to not invent a better plough? or glass just good enough to grind lenses? or make small improvements in windmill design? and all that shit adds up and BAM before you know it, you've got metallurgy good enough to make a steam engine with, so no matter what BS magical physics you come up with, if things work at the human scale even remotely like they do in our world, your age of knights and castles and dragons not having to contend with antiaircraft guns has a limited shelf-life.

(and that's interesting! And more people--by which i mean people besides Terry Pratchett, who did this wonderfully--should write about high fantasy worlds before they reached Medieval Stasis Mode, and after they left it! I would fukkin kill to read a good high fantasy book that also had, like spaceships in it. Insofar as genre conventions have evolved not according to the internal logic of the worlds they depict but according to how and for what reason they serve as commentaries on specific aspects of our own world and its history, and are aimed at evoking certain emotions, it's understandable why such generic mishsmashes are relatively uncommon. But people also definitely read speculative fiction because they like internally cohesive worlds very different from our own, so it is my fondest hope that this sort of thing becomes more popular going forward)

(you can of course also have fantasy worlds which are *not* very much like our own world at human scale. Greg Egan actually does this in a science fiction mode, but as long as you're positing a world where dimensions of space are hyperbolic like time or where humans change sex every time they have sex because trading a detachable symbiotic penis is part of having an orgasm, whether you call this stuff "different science" or "magic" is really beside the point. I have an idea I've been batting around for a while about a world divided, like Evan Dahm's Overside, or the two parallel worlds in Fringe, except part of the division is not just physical, but metaphysical. Morality itself in each subworld is defective, because each subworld got a different part of a morally and metaphysically unified whole: thus, for reasons nobody can understand, almost every ethical system derived by people resident in only one subworld is deeply defective, and would be horrifying to us--as though, perhaps, our own complex and nuanced moral landscape that we wrestle with was a kind of grand unified theory whose symmetry had been broken, and which was only understood piecemeal, as totally separate concepts. And of course, if you live in one subworld everyone from the other subworld is a horrifying monster whose morality is totally incomprehensible to you, so you reflexively treat them as an enemy.)

History isn't just one thing after another. I mean, okay, it is, but it's *also* the aftereffects of those things, the things that stick around forever and can't be gotten away from. And just like how if you want to understand our own world you need to look at what it was like five years ago, and to understand what it was like five years ago you need to look at what it was like ten years ago, and fifteen, ad nauseam, until you're suddenly back at World War II, or the Holy Roman Empire, or Sumer, or struggling through the ever-increasing fog of a steadily more ambiguous archeological record, well, this is as true for politics and language as it is the material aspects of society. In the same way maps feel insufficient when the artist doesn't think about what's beyond the edge of the page (not to knock on GRRM too much, but if you put all the continents and seas in his world on the same map, you notice they're all really... rectangular. Like he drew them to fit individual pieces of paper. Rivers and island arcs get compressed when they near a margin. Seas are just voids. Nothing ever has to be moved to a little box in a corner to fit. there's no attempt at verisimilitude), I think invented worlds feel insufficient when the writer asks you to take them seriously as a reflection of our own, or an aspect of our own, but neglects to at least suggest their place in a larger whole.

I wanted with the Lende Empire to have something that still let me have a lot of early centuries of sword-and-horse style adventures (because i started writing about Lende when I was thirteen and had just finished the Silmarillion for the second time), and I wanted when writing its history to still be able to take big chunks of story I stole from Norse legends and medieval poetry and dump them almost whole into the setting, but I also wanted the history not to read like a fantasy history--or not just a fantasy history. What I mean is, when you read something like the Silmarillion, or when a character in a fantasy world relates some legend to you, even if it's referred to as an old and ambiguous tale, you still often feel like that's really what happened. Like, for me, one of the chief emotional attractions to something like the tales of the wars of the Goths and Huns, or Beowulf's description of Migration Age Denmark filtered through Anglo-Saxon poetic tropes, or the Icelandic family sagas, is that we really have a hard time knowing how much of it is true, how much of its is plausible embellishment, and how much of it is anachronistic nonsense or pure bullshit. Is the Njala based on a faithfully recounted tradition passed down orally for a few hundred years? Who knows! Not us. We know a guy named Njal got burned in his house around 1000 AD, but much of the mystery and the poignancy of stories like that for me lies in the difficulty of ascertaining their relationship to the truth.

What I want(ed) was something that when you read it made you think "ok, obviously the narrator is trying their best, but even they don't know exactly what the fuck happened; this is probably one third ambiguous tradition, one third solid, one third bullshit." So the Chronicle of Lende has some stuff in it that's intentionally difficult to reconcile. It has weird tonal shifts. The first third owes a lot to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and the sagas and the Hildebrantslied; the middle is closer to the Silmarillion, or the history of Rome when told more from the Great Man perspective than the Impersonal Forces one, and the last third starts out that way but goes some weird places and veers off at the end to what is obviously a symbolic and highly abstracted mode of narration which, in relating the destruction of the Empire imitates the way in which its beginning is related (for in-universe Thematic Reasons), *but* while all this is going on, the hope is that the reader is *also* able to glimpse through these ambiguities and stylistic quirks, and incompatibilities, and weird digressions involving talking animals or the spirit world, a society that's undergoing familiar demographic and social and technological transitions: moving from oral culture agrarianism to the beginnings of a real urban civilization, with a centralized state and the written word, and like Western Europe having to figure out a social structure in the absence of any good nearby imperial models (they end up with something more like fraternal warrior societies being deputized to control land rather than feudal lords, but the essential logic is the same); but then moving to a real model of administrative statehood, as infrastructure and technology improve, before industrialization kicks off, the population explodes, social tensions inherent in that begin tearing at the seams of society, and the horrors of industrialized warfare are unleashed.

There are meant to be striking differences, too, of course. Lende history is only about a thousand Earth years long, and it's confined mostly to the western side of a continent split by a huge, Himalayan-like mountain range. Its rapid rise and increase in technological sophistication are due to exogenous factors (genuine divine intervention in some cases), and equally even the True Secret History of the empire's destruction has no real-world parallels, at least not since the Channeled Scablands formed 14,000 years ago. It's also teeeechnically science fiction and not fantasy, though that distinction really rests on tone and not on setting IMO. But I don't think it's possible to tell what feels like a real history of a world without sometimes radically changing genres: our own history goes from dry science (geology, paleontology, archeology) to legend and myth and scripture, to dusty old classical history and books penned by ancients who sometimes have startlingly different notions about what merits mention in a story and how to tell one, to tales of kings and queens and conquerors, before emerging blinking in the sunlight of dry matter of fact narration again. I have always believed conventions, including those of genre and style, should be tools and not straightjackets. The best worldbuilding literature I have read steals from a huge variety of sources (and Pratchett deserves a mention here again, alongside Susanna Clarke, and Ada Palmer, and the people who wrote the Elder Scrolls backstory, and Sofia Samatar, and Angelica Gorodischer).

#have you read a stranger in olondria?#go read a stranger in olondria #now #fucking do it #it's so good #'a book' says Vandos of Ur-Amakir 'is a fortress; a place of weeping; the key to a desert; a river that has no bridge; a garden of spears.'

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loquaciousquark · 6 years

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19th Cloudreach. Merrill called the clouds “grey and scuddy” today and she wasn’t wrong

Got a letter from Hubert today that the Bone Pit’s up unusually high for the quarterly profit report. Took the letter immediately to Varric, since I could hardly understand a word, but apparently they found a vein of silverite so large they had to hire a dozen extra miners to work it properly. Realized I hadn’t been out in ages, so V & Fenris & Merrill and I all trekked out to the wilderness.

Varric gets along so much better with Hubert than I do. I mean, he understands topics like quarterly profit margin reports, so I suppose it’s a business thing, but Hubert kept asking what I thought about overhead expense accrual and per diem provisions for the hired workers and it was all I could do to nod and make “hm” noises at appropriate intervals. Thank goodness Varric is kind enough to manage all this, because otherwise I’d have squandered it just as quickly as Gamlen did. Probably a little less whoring. Too bad he hadn’t a Varric all those years ago.

(Reminder: ask Varric what his percentage is. Whatever he’s taking, it should probably be higher.)

Something funny happened near the end of the visit, though. I commented that there didn’t seem to be any signs of nesting spiders or anything--they do love the deep crevices of the Pit--and Fenris said “thank goodness” in a way that made me think he was genuinely glad not to fight today. He said he was all right, but I saw him rolling his shoulders more than once on the way out, like there was an ache between them he couldn’t shake.

He said he was all right. Hm.

12th Bloomingtide. It’s been raining for days and there’s a puddle two inches deep in front of my house. Toby thinks it’s brilliant and hasn’t been clean since

He lost his grip on his sword today and almost got himself skewered by a woman with a pair of daggers. Got the assassin, thank goodness, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes after.

I think the markings are bothering him, but who in flames do I ask?

30th Bloomingtide, either very late or stupidly early; all I know is it’s dark and I can’t sleep

I’ve been thinking about Bethany all night. She would be--let me think. Twenty-three this year? Twenty-four. How old is Carver? Twenty-four.

Twenty-too-damn-young, anyway.

I wonder if Carver got my last package. It has ginger crisps in it that Orana made especially for him, though I did the icing. For as shabby as I am at that sort of thing, I thought they turned out well.

8th Justinian. Beautiful day today, sunny and breezy and full of chipper birds that have decided to roost directly outside my window at 5th damned bell

Fenris came by today, and I haven’t the faintest idea why. He asked how much I knew of magical healing, which is a foolish question considering how many years I’ve spent now healing him, and then he started a sentence four times, gave up, and left in a huff.

Sandal said “trapped,” after he left. Don’t I know it, friend.

In other news, that little bracelet I found a few months ago belongs to a very nice shopkeeper in Lowtown. She’d had it stolen by a gang of thieves one night and hadn’t ever thought to see it again. I’m just glad she happened to mention it as I was buying cedar oil, or it’d have lived in the bottom of my lost & found hoard forever.

22th Justinian. Hot, still sunny. Saw a ship with white sails and blue trim in the docks today and almost managed not to feel sad

Something’s definitely off with Fenris’s tattoos. We were clearing out a group of rogue Coterie just outside Anders’s clinic, and when Fenris went to reach into a man’s chest, he-- I don’t know how to explain it. It was as if he went too far. His whole body went clear as glass and he passed right through the man like a ghost. Took far too long to come back after, too, and when he finally did his hands were shaking so badly he ripped the lung and heart together. It was a bad death, and Fenris could hardly stand for it.

I went to see him a few hours after, and he was still in his bloody armor & wouldn’t let me in. He said this has happened before, that it passes soon enough and I shouldn’t worry. He said it’s like a strained muscle that must be given time to recover.

Of course, he was glowing while he said it, so it might not be the most accurate analogy I’ve ever heard.

24th Justinian

He was trying to ask me to help with his markings. I’m such an idiot.

29th Justinian. Hot, a bit muggy today with salt winds carrying in off the coast, but not as bad as last year

Took me another day to build up the courage to ask, but Fenris (finally!) has admitted his lyrium is bothering him. Also took half a bottle of wine and a great deal of coaxing but He says it’s happened before, that they suddenly start itching and aching and become terribly tender, that even his clothes are almost too much to deal with if they chafe. (It turns out that’s why he wears things cut so tight. All this time and I always thought he just had an aesthetic appreciation for chiseled thighs.) He says it often happens after a large magical battle, but not always.

He let me look at his arm, just to see. The skin is irritated all along the edges of the tattoos--I could help with that at least, a little--and I could tell there was something--something off, I suppose, about the lyrium itself, but I haven’t worked enough with it raw to know what exactly needs fixing. All my potion is made with refined lyrium that’s already been treated and processed for safe handling, and Fenris looked just disappointed enough when I told him so that it lit a fire under my motivation.

I’m still not sure where to look. Neither Anders nor Merrill know much about either the lyrium’s wrongness or the blood magic that bound it. Not that I really expected Fenris to allow them to prod, even if they did. He keeps insisting it always gets better and says it’s already a little improved from last week.

Then again, I watched him sit unnaturally still for almost fifteen minutes in the most awkward position just to keep the lyrium from creasing around his knees, so I remain unconvinced.

2nd August. Steamy hot--I swear I lost three pounds just walking down the stairs from Hightown

I’m either brilliant or insane. Or both, depending on Varric’s mood. I went to the Black Emporium today on a blind hunch, and when I told Xenon what I needed he gave a half-dozen thoughtful groans and sighs and then told his urchin to go fetch some book from the back stores.

It was written in a mixture of Tevene and the trade tongue (thank Andraste) but from what I could tell, it was an old manual on the process of refining lyrium, how to prepare it to hold magic. Then Xenon got very stern and told me he was a tradesman, not a library, and if I intended to continue propping up the wall while I finished reading an unpaid-for book he could think of much more permanent ways to make that happen.

He only charged me a handful of silver, though. Every time I think he’s giving me a good deal, I leave with a terrible sense of uneasiness. Still, I’m certain this is the key to whatever’s wrong with Fenris’s lyrium.

I did trim my hair a bit in that mirror while I was waiting. It was getting a bit unruly.

7th August. Rainshowers all day. Air’s so thick it’s like breathing bricks

Sandal said “trapped.” I need to start listening to him more. No wonder the healing didn’t help.

It makes sense they’d get more agitated after a magical fight, too, if they’re absorbing as much residual energy as this book implies. I wonder if a templar’s Silence would have the same effect on the tattoos as it does on me. Not that I have many friendly templars to ask. Cullen would probably do it, but I don’t want Meredith knowing anything more about Fenris than she does already.

I bet this will work. I’m almost sure of it. And if it doesn’t, no harm done--he’ll just still exist in an unending pain, that’s all. I’ve already sent a runner with a message for him to come over this evening, and Orana’s bringing up an old set of Carver’s sleeping clothes that are loose enough for what I need. Poor Fenris. Not bad enough he’s hurting already, now I’m putting him in pants four sizes too large and telling him to stay put while I feel him up, down, and sideways.

Ah, I hear him downstairs. Andraste, give me strength and patience and actually, composure now that I think about it

Later, almost midnight

It worked. It worked! I’ve snuck away and am writing this by the barest wisp of magelight because I’ve got to note it all down now, while it’s fresh, but Maker’s blood and bone it worked.

It’s not healing, it’s a cleanse. Almost--almost a dispelling, really. It has to be general, not specific--Kirkwall’s got so much sundry magic just floating around everywhere that to try to clean it out piece by piece and spell by spell would take a thousand years, which means my father’s interminable lessons on magical foundations have at last proved themselves useful.

We started at his hands. I’ve never seen anything like it. I had my eyes closed to begin with, since I didn’t know quite what I was looking for, but once I found the lyrium’s...heart? is that the right word? I could feel the crusty--scales, almost, layered over it. Any healer can do it, I think, if you’ve got enough sense to know what’s healthy and what’s sick. It’s a similar principle to mending bruises. Just go in from the healthy side, the deep place beneath where it’s hurt, and slide a little knife’s edge of magic between that and the scale over it, and just--just peel it off. Like a scab, but made of light.

I could see the glowing through my closed eyes. I opened them in time to see a faint...oh, I can’t find the words tonight. Almost like a skeleton of blue-edged white light hovering an inch or two above his actual lyrium tattoos, in the same shape as his fingers and the backs of his hands. And then I let it all go because I was startled, and the skeleton--shattered, like two fistfuls of silver glitter.

I will say Fenris looked ready to jump right out the window (you’d think he’d know by now everything I touch becomes unnecessarily dramatic), until he clenched his hands reflexively and noticed they didn’t hurt. Well. “Hardly at all,” is what he said, but knowing him that could mean anything from a splinter to being run through with a tree trunk.

So we kept going. We did both his hands and then went all the way up his right arm to his shoulder and halfway up his left before he had to take a break. He said it didn’t hurt, the process, but it was uncomfortable and made his skin buzz.

We broke for dinner, then, and I noticed he kept looking at his hands as we ate. (He said later it was because it didn’t hurt to hold the fork. He said he couldn’t remember the last time he ate without even a twinge, and I had to blink very hard at my potatoes to keep from welling over. Thank the Maker’s grace for lumpy tubers.)

It’s not a quick process. It took over an hour all told to cleanse his arms, and another hour for his back and chest each. I will say he handled my pawing at his bare skin extremely well and didn’t even blink when I told him he had to take off his shirt. I will say I did not and my throat is still flushed because at the core of me is a little girl who refuses to grow up, even when I desperately wish she would.

There was something beautiful in it, though, seeing each little curve and dot lifting out of his skin like that into the air, shining there for a moment in the dark, and then...scattering into nothing. Lovely and achingly sad.

He stopped me once we were done with his chest. It looked like he wanted to say something, but he also looked terribly exhausted and he said the buzzing was getting to him (I paraphrase), so when I suggested he stay and sleep here, he only nodded and curled down right into my pillow instead of going downstairs like I’d thought. The only reason I’ve got as much written down as I have is that he’s sleeping like the dead and I have to keep checking that he’s still breathing.

I would very much like to comment on how nice it is to be sleeping next to him tonight, but that seems only to invite heartsickness right in with open arms. I will say, instead, that his hands smell like cheap soap, and when he is very tired he snores.

8th August. Still muggy, though not raining nearly as much as yesterday

He wanted to tell me that Danarius had been thorough when he designed the tattoos, in case I hadn’t remembered. I wasn’t a fool this time.

I wasn’t a child, either. I should so very much like to tear out that beast’s heart, only Fenris has first rights.

We got down to both his knees before lunch. I should like to imagine his pain shattering away along with the scales, but I’m not so naive to think it’s all quite so easy to reach.

How much must it have cost Fenris to let me this far behind his guard?

Late evening. I've cracked a window; breeze is moist but cool

Oddly enough, his feet have been the most intimate part of this whole affair. There was a moment this afternoon... he was sitting on the side of the bed, and I was cross-legged on the ground with his foot in my lap, and I happened to glance up, and there was a single moment...

I can’t describe his face properly. Gentle in a way I’ve never seen from him. A good sort of tired longing. And bitter, and so angry, but an old anger that’s burned away all the heat and just sits iron-cold in the pit of your stomach. All of that in one fleeting instant, and then he folded it away layer by layer like someone putting bedlinens back on a shelf. He smiled at me after as if to chase away the image, but it wasn’t a fraction as real.

Anyway, his feet have calluses a quarter-inch thick on the heel, and he made the most peculiar sounds when I was working on the markings alongside them. He said the buzzing--well, he didn’t say tickled, but he surely flinched like it. Should I ever find myself in a position to mercilessly abuse this information, I plan to do so to the fullest extent. Isabela would be proud.

He stood up when I was finished with his feet and nearly knocked me over. He didn’t mean to, he just--walked around my room, slow and then fast and then slow again, and picked things up and put them down, and rolled his shoulders back and forth and bent down and touched his toes. It was all easy, effortless, not a hitch in a single motion.

He said nothing hurt. He said it was one of the best night’s sleeps he’d had in years, and that was even before I’d done the rest of the tattoos. He couldn’t remember the last time he could sit down or cross his arms without needing to brace himself first.

He was so eager to simply move. He didn’t notice, thank goodness, but I had to wipe my eye a bit from all the inconvenient emotions.

I made him sit again for the last part, which was his throat and the lines up over his chin. I’m much better at this now--next time it’ll take half as long--and in the afternoon sun we could hardly see the little ghost-lights until they disappeared in their starbursts at the end.

this is so

He kissed me when we were through. I was bent very close and my hands were on his face, and then the last of the light vanished and he reached up and held my chin with his thumb, right where his own markings would be, and then he leaned forward and kissed me.

It wasn’t an accident, and I didn’t pull back until he did. He apologized for his impulsiveness and I waved it off, but I know... I’m certain he meant it, even after.

He looked me right in my eyes when he thanked me. There was no bitterness in his face then, only gladness and a frank relief, and when he left his steps were lighter than I’ve seen them in ages. He carried the sword like it weighed nothing at all. I hadn’t realized how stiffly he’s been moving these last few months.

I told him to let me know the instant the lyrium started hurting again and he said he would. Shit. Was I worried about inviting in heartsickness earlier? At this point it’s a better bedfellow than Toby. I ought to have recognized it sooner.

And yet...he left happy. Not hurting, for the first time in a very long time.

I’d give a year of my life if it meant he could feel this way for the rest of his.

16th August. Fair, sunny

He left me a gift. It was by my plate when I came down for breakfast: a neat little penknife in black oak and brass, and he’d tied a pair of feathers to the ring. Hawk feathers, both of them a deep red.

He left a note as well. “In gratitude, Fenris.” He wrote it himself.

For someone who repeatedly professes no knowledge of the softer things in life, this man is extraordinarily proficient at stamping my heart into little pieces. I draw comfort only from the blatantly unfair judgement of his terrible penmanship.

Damn him! Next time I’m telling him if he puts more than an ounce of thought into a thank-you gift I’m chucking him headfirst into the Waking Sea.

#fenris #hawke #fenris/hawke #dragon age #quark writes #hawke's journal tag #heck of a lot of fancy headcanons in here #feel free to ignore any and all to your preference #also #as someone with friends and family members who live in constant pain #forgive the self-indulgent wish-fulfillment fantasy #we will return to regularly scheduled hijinks next entry

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“This brings us to the most fundamental fact of rural life in the pre-modern world: the grain is harvested once a year, but the family eats every day. Of course that means the grain must be stored and only slowly consumed over the entire year (with some left over to be used as seed-grain in the following planting). That creates the first cycle in agricultural life: after the harvest, food is generally plentiful and prices for it are low (we’ll deal with the impact this has on trade and markets a little later). As the year goes on, food becomes scarcer and the prices for it rise as each family ‘eats down’ their stockpile.

That has more than just economic impacts because the family unit becomes more vulnerable as that food stockpile dwindles. Malnutrition brings on a host of other threats: elevated risk of death from injury or disease most notably. Repeated malnutrition also has devastating long-term effects on young children (a point we’ll come back to). Consequently, we see seasonal mortality patterns in agricultural communities which tend to follow harvest cycles; when the harvest is poor, the family starts to run low on food before the next harvest, which leads to rationing the remaining food, which leads to malnutrition. That malnutrition is not evenly distributed though: the working age adults need to be strong enough to bring in the next harvest when it comes (or to be doing additional non-farming labor to supplement the family), so the short rations are going to go to the children and the elderly.

Which in turn means that ‘lean’ years are marked by increased mortality especially among the children and the elderly, the former of which is how the rural population ‘regulates’ to its food production in the absence of modern birth control (but, as an aside: this doesn’t lead to pure Malthusian dynamics – a lot more influences the food production ceiling than just available land. You can have low-equilibrium or high-equilibrium systems, especially when looking at the availability of certain sorts of farming capital or access to trade at distance. I cannot stress this enough: Malthus was wrong; yes, interestingly, usefully wrong – but still wrong. The big plagues sometimes pointed to as evidence of Malthusian crises have as much if not more to do with rising trade interconnectedness than declining nutritional standards). This creates yearly cycles of plenty and vulnerability; we’ll talk about the strategies these fellows employ to avoid that problem in just a moment.

Next to that little cycle, we also have a ‘big’ cycle of generations. The ratio of labor-to-food-requirements varies as generations are born, age and die; it isn’t constant. The family is at its peak labor effectiveness at the point when the youngest generation is physically mature but hasn’t yet begun having children (the exact age-range there is going to vary by nuptial patterns, see below) and at its most vulnerable when the youngest generation is immature. By way of example, let’s imagine a family (I’m going to use Roman names because they make gender very clear, but this is a completely made-up family): we have Gaius (M, 45), his wife, Cornelia (39, F), his mother Tullia (64, F) and their children Gaius (21, M), Secundus (19, M), Julia1 (16, F) and Julia2 (14, F). That family has three male laborers, three female laborers (Tullia being in her twilight years, we don’t count), all effectively adults in that sense, against 7 mouths to feed.

But let’s fast-forward fifteen years. Gaius is now 60 and slowing down, Cornelia is 54; Tullia, we may assume has passed. But Gaius now 36 is married to Clodia (20, F; welcome to Roman marriage patterns), with two children Gaius (3, M) and Julia3 (1, F); Julia1 and Julia2 are married and now in different households and Secundus, recognizing that the family’s financial situation is never going to allow him to marry and set up a household has left for the Big City. So we now have the labor of two women and a man-and-a-half (since Gaius the Elder is quite old) against six mouths and the situation is likely to get worse in the following years as Gaius-the-Younger and Clodia have more children and Gaius-the-Elder gets older. The point of all of this is to note that just as risk and vulnerability peak and subside on a yearly basis in cycles, they also do this on a generational basis in cycles.

...Most modern folks think in terms of profit maximization; we take for granted that we will still be alive tomorrow and instead ask how we can maximize how much money we have then (this is, admittedly, a lot less true for the least fortunate among us). We thus tend to favor efficient systems, even if they are vulnerable. From this perspective, ancient farmers – as we’ll see – look very silly, but this is a trap, albeit one that even some very august ancient scholars have fallen into. These are not irrational, unthinking people; they are poor, not stupid – those are not the same things.

But because these households wobble on the edge of disaster continually, that changes the calculus. These small subsistence farmers generally seek to minimize risk, rather than maximize profits. After all, improving yields by 5% doesn’t mean much if everyone starves to death in the third year because of a tail-risk that wasn’t mitigated. Moreover, for most of these farmers, working harder and farming more generally doesn’t offer a route out of the small farming class – these societies typically lack that kind of mobility (and also generally lack the massive wealth-creation potential of industrial power which powers that kind of mobility). Consequently, there is little gain to taking risks and much to lose. So as we’ll see, these farmers generally sacrifice efficiency for greater margins of safety, every time.

Modern farms are built for efficiency – they typically focus on a single major crop (whatever brings the best returns for the land and market situation) because focusing on a single crop lets you maximize the value of equipment and minimize other costs. They rely on other businesses to provide everything else. Such farms tend to be geographically concentrated – all the fields together – to minimize transit time.

Subsistence farmers generally do not do this. Remember, the goal is not to maximize profit, but to avoid family destruction through starvation. If you only farm one crop (the ‘best’ one) and you get too little rain or too much, or the temperature is wrong – that crop fails and the family starves. But if you farm several different crops, that mitigates the risk of any particular crop failing due to climate conditions, or blight (for the Romans, the standard combination seems to have been a mix of wheat, barley and beans, often with grapes or olives besides; there might also be a small garden space. Orchards might double as grazing-space for a small herd of animals, like pigs). By switching up crops like this and farming a bit of everything, the family is less profitable (and less engaged with markets, more on that in a bit), but much safer because the climate conditions that cause one crop to fail may not impact the others.

...Likewise – as that example implies – our small farmers want to spread out their plots. And indeed, when you look at land-use maps of villages of subsistence farmers, what you often find is that each household farms many small plots which are geographically distributed (this is somewhat less true of the Romans, by the by). Farming, especially in the Mediterranean (but more generally as well) is very much a matter of micro-climates, especially when it comes to rainfall and moisture conditions (something that is less true on the vast flat of the American Great Plains, by the by). It is frequently the case that this side of the hill is dry while that side of the hill gets plenty of rain in a year and so on. Consequently, spreading plots out so that each family has say, a little bit of the valley, a little bit of the flat ground, a little bit of the hilly area, and so on shields each family from catastrophe is one of those micro-climates should completely fail (say, the valley floods, or the rain doesn’t fall and the hills are too dry for anything to grow).

...While some high-risk disasters are likely to strike an entire village at once (like a large raid or a general drought), most of the disasters that might befall one farming family (an essential worker being conscripted, harvest failure, robbery and so on) would just strike that one household. So farmers tended to build these reciprocal relationships with each other: I help you when things are bad for you, so you help me when things are bad for me. But those relationships don’t stop merely when there is a disaster, because – for the relationship to work – both parties need to spend the good times signalling their commitment to the relationship, so that they can trust that the social safety net will be there when they need it.

So what do our farmers do during a good harvest to prepare for a bad one? They banquet their neighbors, contribute to village festivals, marry off their sons and daughters with the best dowry they can manage, and try to pay back any favors they called in from friends recently. I stress these not merely because they are survival strategies (though they are) but because these sorts of activities end up (along with market days and the seasonal cycles) defining a great deal of life in these villages. But these events also built that social capital which can be ‘cashed out’ in an emergency. And they are a good survival strategy. Grain rots and money can be stolen, but your neighbor is far likelier to still be your neighbor in a year, especially because these relationships are (if maintained) almost always heritable and apply to entire households rather than individuals, making them able to endure deaths and the cycles of generations.”

- Bret Devereaux, “Bread, How Did They Make It? Part I: Farmers!”

#farming #history #bret devereaux #writing #ancient #medieval

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jinlian · 6 years

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i’ve always sorta wondered, but what did sayokubo hope to achieve with yurio’s narrative arc? like, i wanna believe that they were going somewhere with it but ran out of time but at the same time im just sorta?? i want to like all the characters in yoi but like idk the storytelling and characterization just fell flat.

this is a question i can’t really answer, though i’m inclined to agree with you that they had an idea, just totally missed on the follow-through due to time constraints or some other reason. i’ll give them the benefit of a doubt, because the storytelling — up until the last two episodes, and even pieces within those episodes — is otherwise quite solid. but they definitely dropped the ball on this one.

the problem, in my opinion, is that they got too stuck on the story they had decided to tell rather than the one they were telling. they have said that they planned to have yuuri come in second from the start, and i believe that, because it genuinely is the only thing that makes sense to me when the rest of the narrative develops to point to a very different outcome. the romance was unplanned and developed during the production process, so i have no trouble seeing how the story could have evolved along the way in a way that didn’t quite match up with their initial plans.

the results of the grand prix final did no one any favors, yurio absolutely included, and it left me, as a viewer, extremely unsatisfied with the storytelling. sayokubo said they thought yuuri winning would be too predictable so they decided from the beginning to have him place second, but there are a few problems with the way they executed this

first of all, they’re actually pretty incorrect when they say sports anime protags just win predictably all the time. i’d say the opposite: more often than not i’d definitely say i’ve seen the protagonist lose at the big final game for a ~character development~ moment. this is fine when that’s what the story needs, but that isn’t want yuuri’s story needed even if it were not a common, predictable outcome.

here’s the thing: predictable writing is not necessarily bad writing. in fact, sometimes it’s extremely good writing when it’s “predictable” because the narrative threads have pointed in a certain direction. and it’s very satisfying as a viewer to see when a very relatable gay mentally ill protagonist overcomes his own self doubts and fears and recognizes his own capabilities and finally, finally achieves the dream he’s always had through being supported and encouraged in a mutually beneficial relationship.

it’s really, really important to note that “learning that people will love him if he wins or loses” is absolutely not a lesson that yuuri needed to learn. in fact, yuuri makes that clear as early as episode four, when he explicitly says on the beach that his friends and family have always supported him no matter what. that’s not the point, that isn’t what he needed. yuuri needed someone to push him, to give him something other than lukewarm “we’ll love you no matter what” sentiments that he already knows are true, and victor gives that. it then takes yuuri nine episodes to say aloud that he has always competed with the thought that he wants and plans to win. nine episodes. nine episodes. nine episodes while he’s in the middle of competing through an anxiety attack and pushing himself to do exactly what he needs to do to qualify for the grand prix final.

yuuri never needed to learn how to lose. he’s spent his entire senior career on the international circuit learning how to lose. yuuri needed to learn how to win.

people have this idea that if yuuri had won, he would have retired. that’s of course what yuuri was saying he was going to do, but that’s definitely not what the narrative was telling us. yuuri is talking throughout the entire season about how much he loves skating, how he wants to compete at victor’s side, you have junior skaters telling yuuri how much they look forward to competing against him on the senior circuit, and yuuri decides to keep competing while he’s watching yurio, before they know the results of the competition. the whole point is supposed to be about yuuri’s love for skating, how much yuuri has left to give to the sport, and it would have been ridiculously easy to have him win and go wow, i’ve only just started achieving my full potential, i love skating and i want to keep going especially if victor is coming back. this just kinda makes it look even more like yuuri only wants to keep skating to get a win and then he can quit. it isn’t satisfying. at all.

the problem is partly that yuuri’s unreliable narration led a lot of people to believe that he just isn’t a very talented skater, which is so far from the truth and completely ridiculous given the very obvious canon evidence, but somehow despite breaking a world record people still believe this because he placed second at the grand prix final. that’s definitely on the audience, but it’s also on the writing.

victor wasn’t the prize. he was never meant to be, the story was always supposed to be about yuuri.

and before another anon tries to get smarmy with me, i’ve been aware since the final episode that the results of the gpf are arguably a fix-it fic for tatsuki machida, who came in second at worlds by the slimmest of margins to relative newcomer yuzuru hanyu, bombed his grand prix final the following season, and announced his shocking and unexpected retirement at japanese nationals where he came fourth. it gave me some comfort for a little while, but after thinking more and more about it, i just kind of don’t care. an homage to tatsuki, as appreciated as it is, doesn’t override the unsatisfying narrative conclusion in the fictional story told in yuri on ice.

AND NOW ACTUALLY ONTO YOUR POINT ABOUT YURIO –

if anyone needed to “learn how to lose” it was yurio, and he absolutely did not experience that storyline in his grand prix losses to jj. he sort of starts it when he loses onsen on ice, and there’s a glimmer of development in episode 9, but it’s all just tossed out the window.

yurio starts off the season saying things like “i won, so what does it matter?” when victor tries to give him advice to improve. he’s willing to practice harder in the interest of winning, which is cool (but it’s not like any other skater in the show isn’t practicing hard??? yuuri literally goes to practice to work off his own anxiety, he practices so much), but instead of like actively acknowledging that other people are good skaters who maybe deserve to win, too, he just keeps... focusing on himself. he calls yuuri a farm animal to his fiancé’s face, says he’s good for nothing, shoves his feet in the face of a fellow athlete who’s clearly just had an anxiety attack in public, mocks another one who’s also just had a public breakdown, and the whole thing with his hidden admiration for yuuri doesn’t even work when you consider that he doesn’t want yuuri to keep competing for yuuri’s sake — he wants it so that he can beat yuuri.

???

yurio’s agape arc just doesn’t work, either, he skates like maybe once thinking “oh people are nice to me” but he doesn’t reciprocate that off the ice. it doesn’t work. it’s unconvincing. the story also drops the narrative threads of yuuri’s stamina vs. yurio’s, where they keep talking about how yurio doesn’t have as much stamina etc etc and yurio already pushes himself to his breaking point in ep9 — imo it would have been way more interesting to examine yurio trying to push himself even further and having to learn his limits and learn he still has a long way to grow. there’s no indication that he has learned any of this. he just gets justified for his shitty behavior and his “winning is everything” attitude and it’s. obnoxious. we don’t see any development of the agape storyline off the ice, and i’m fairly unconvinced we saw it on the ice too, but that’s a different story.

this is then only solidified in the welcome to the madness manga where yurio cannot handle victor and yuuri having attention for literally five minutes, even though yurio has just won the grand prix final, and pulls “no i have to surprise the audience more”

so like, i get that he’s fifteen and fifteen year olds can be shitty but he’s also a fictional character and from a storytelling perspective there’s just nothing satisfying about this and nothing that in any way actually lends itself to yurio’s growth. they threw in otabek to get yurio to cheer for another skater, but yurio still beats otabek and is still shitty towards yuuri. a really interesting way to get yurio to confront his agape and get some actual growth would be to have otabek beat him, and i hope we see that in upcoming content.

i think it was supposed to be something about yurio seeing that other people are good, too, but it’s not done well. it focuses too much on yuuri with not enough respect given to either character and doesn’t develop yurio’s attitude wrt skating or other skaters in general, which he needed. again, i don’t believe that otabek counts here. “oh good, another score higher than the pig’s.” it also arguably had to do with yurio seeing he has room to grow; again, in my opinion, not done well. yurio needed something more than just being annoyed that he didn’t win by enough.

like the narrative arc literally accomplishes nothing. he finishes the series just as stuck on “winning is everything” as he was when he started. there’s no understanding of why yurio even enjoys skating beyond that he’s good at it and wins a lot. i’m not invested.

anyway VERY LONG STORY SHORT i totally agree that it just didn’t work and did no one any favors. yurio got justified for his shitty attitude with “as long as i win it’s fine and also i just want to beat everyone else so people know how great i am” (like i truly don’t care if yurio is just mad that he lost the free skate so he feels “unsatisfied” with winning at the gpf, i truly don’t) and yuuri got screwed over in the narrative process for a lesson he never needed to learn in the first place so that sayokubo could avoid “predictable” writing. they’re better writers than this. it’s disappointing.

all of this is without the bullshit scoring at the grand prix final but kdhjfgsdj it’s fine IT’S FINE. as long as the movie and/or possible season 2 is done well, i’ll get over it.

#im yuriophobic #annanons #anna gets asks

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architectnews · 3 years

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RIBA News & Events 2021, London

RIBA Events 2021, Architecture Gallery London, UK Buildings, British Architects News

RIBA News & Events 2021

Royal Institute of British Architects Exhibition + Talks + Events in London, England, UK

1 April 2021

RIBA UK News

RIBA responds to Commission on Race and Ethnic Disparities report

Thursday 1 April 2021 – The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) has today responded to the Commission on Race and Ethnic Disparities report.

RIBA Chief Executive, Alan Vallance said:

“Systemic racism and discrimination clearly exist in the UK. We must fully acknowledge and understand this, so we can tear down the barriers and drive out injustice.

Some of the biggest built environment challenges of our times – from the climate emergency to substandard housing and fire safety – particularly impact underrepresented racialised groups and these are very high on the agenda for the RIBA and our members.

The RIBA does not absolve itself of responsibility in tackling racism and in recognising our own history. We know that people who face racism are less likely to progress in our industry, and we are working to ensure that architecture is open to all, regardless of background or circumstances. We will continue to listen to underrepresented racialised groups and work to address their concerns within our organisation and sector.

We acknowledge the Commission on Race and Ethnic Disparities report which includes some insights, for example around the term BAME and unconscious bias training. We are already taking steps to tackle these, amongst other measures.

We will take time to review the report in depth, and continue to use our influence, networks and platforms, as we work towards a better, more inclusive, built environment.”

22 Mar 2021

RIBA endorses House of Commons report on energy efficiency of existing homes

Monday 22 March 2021 – The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) has responded to the House of Commons Environmental Audit Committee’s (EAC) report, ‘Energy Efficiency of Existing Homes’.

RIBA President, Alan Jones, said:

“This is a timely and well-reasoned report that outlines clear measures to make our homes more energy efficient.

I particularly endorse recommendations to implement a national retrofit strategy and pilot stamp duty rebates for homeowners that improve the efficiency of their homes within the first year – measures we’ve been calling for through our Greener Homes campaign.

Proposals to reform EPC methodology to focus on the actual performance of buildings are also encouraging, and critical to reaching the Government’s net zero target.

We need urgent action to address our shamefully inefficient housing stock – and this report shows how that can be achieved.”

11 March 2021

RIBA Future Trends in February

Thursday 11 March 2021 – Residential sector propels architects’ confidence – RIBA Future Trends February 2021

In February 2021 the RIBA Future Trends Workload Index increased by 14 points to +17, a level of confidence not seen from architects since early 2020.

Nearly a third (32%) of practices expect workloads to grow in the next three months, up from 28% (in January), whilst just over half (52%) expect them to remain the same. The number of practices expecting workloads to decrease has also fallen from 25% to 16%.

Optimism has been driven by the housing sector, which surged by 20 points this month to a balance figure of +29. Whilst it remains the only sector in positive territory, all other sectors saw a rise. The commercial sector saw the highest, up 16 points to a balance figure of -2; the public sector rose 2 points to -1; and even though the community sector posted the lowest at -6, this marks an improvement on the previous month’s figure of -15.

In February, the outlook of small practices (1 – 10 staff) rose significantly, posting a balance figure of +13, up fifteen points from January’s figure of -2. Confidence among large and medium sized practices (11 – 50 and 51+ staff) also remains strong, with an overall balance score of +29. Among these groups, 35% expect workloads to increase, and just 6% foresee a decrease.

All regions, except London, expect an increase in workloads in the near-term. Having briefly entered positive territory the previous month, London posted a negative figure of -3.

This month’s survey also asked respondents how they felt about the future of the workplace. Overall, results indicate that once a return to the office is possible, there is currently no appetite to resume pre-pandemic work patterns. Only 13% of practices expect to recall everyone to the office; almost a quarter (26%) see the future being a blend of office and home-based work; 20% look to leave the decision to staff; and 41% said they will continue to work as they are now (though how people work now is varied, with some practices already including an element of office-based working, when government restrictions allow, whilst others are fully remote).

In terms of staffing:

The RIBA Future Trends Staffing Index remained at +4 this month. It has been consistently, though only slightly, positive since October.

6% of practices expect to employ fewer permanent staff in the coming three months, while 11% expect to employ more. A clear majority (83%) of practices expect staffing levels to be constant over the coming three months.

Medium and large-sized practices (11+ staff) continue to be most likely to recruit permanent staff in the coming three months, with both groups posting strongly positive figures.

On balance, small practices (1 – 10 staff) expect staffing levels to be steady, with a balance figure of +1.

The Temporary Staffing Index returned a balance figure of +1, suggesting the market for temporary staff is positive, but only by a small margin.

London remains most likely to anticipate decreased numbers of permanent staff in the next three months, with a staffing balance figure of -8; down four points on last month. The South of England also remains cautious about upcoming recruitment, with a balance figure of zero.

Future recruitment is more likely outside of London and the South: the Midlands & East Anglia returned a figure of +6, the North of England +10, and Wales & The West at +21.

Personal underemployment fell slightly at 20%, down from 22% in January.

Staffing levels remain at 96% of what they were twelve months ago. Overall, redundancies stand at 3% of staff; 7% remain on furlough and 16% are working fewer hours.

RIBA Head of Economic Research and Analysis, Adrian Malleson, said:

“As the route out of the pandemic becomes clearer, not least due to the roll-out of the vaccination programme, February’s figures demonstrate a turning point – practices are starting to feel more optimistic about the future.

It’s clear however, that this increased confidence is partly dependent on the residential sector, fuelled by homeowners relocating or adjusting their homes to accommodate remote working, and question marks remain over the sustainability of this trend. Furthermore, practices who are reliant on work outside of this sector are yet to see their workloads increase.

Whilst the data suggests there is not currently a significant appetite to return to pre-pandemic work patterns, we also know that homeworking continues to create productivity challenges, not least because childcare and home-schooling have been impacting the working day. Commentary received from our respondents indicates that this is disproportionately impacting women.

We continue to be on hand, providing support and resources to our members as they navigate these challenging times.”

5 + 3 March 2021 RIBA reacts to 2021 Budget

The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) has published an initial response to the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s 2021 Budget. RIBA President, Alan Jones, said:

“Whilst the Chancellor’s focus is understandably on mitigating the impact of the pandemic, the measures announced today do little to reassure me of the Government’s commitment to reach net zero or drive a green economic recovery.

Some of today’s announcements – such as the UK Infrastructure Bank and green gilts – could help our economy grow back more sustainably, but that depends entirely on future investment decisions. The money pledged must be used to create green jobs and fund energy efficiency programmes such as a National Retrofit Strategy.

Taken alongside the personal allowance freeze, the corporation tax rise will have a significant impact on RIBA members and hints at wider tax changes to come. It’s therefore vital that the Government looks at how the tax system could also help tackle the climate emergency. By reviewing reforming mechanisms to incentivise sustainability the Government could successfully drive the green economic recovery that is desperately needed.”

12 Feb 2021 Architects’ confidence remains fragile – RIBA Future Trends January 2021

In January 2021 the RIBA Future Trends Workload Indexremained positive (at +3) despite the turbulence of Brexit and a third national lockdown. Whilst 25% of practices expected workloads to decrease in the coming three months, 28% forecasted an increase. Just over half (51%) expected workloads to hold steady.

The South of England was the only region to post a negative workload balance figure this month, a fall of 10 points (to -2), although optimism also decreased sharply in the North of England (falling from +29 in December to 0). London posted a positive workload balance (+1) for the first time since February 2020. Other regions – the Midlands, East Anglia, Wales and the West remain in positive territory.

Among the four work sectors, the private housing sector was the only one to remain positive, at + 9. Having posted positive figures in December, the public and commercial sectors fell back to negative territory in January, posting -4 and -18 respectively, suggesting an expectation of falling workloads. The community sector continues to stall, falling to a balance figure of -15 in January, down from -8 in December.

Large and medium sized practices (11 – 50 and 51+ staff) remain confident; 53% expect workloads to increase, and 13% foresee a decrease (overall balance score of +39). Small practices (1 – 10 staff) however fell back into negative territory in January, posting a workload balance figure of -2, down from +4 in December.

With the UK and EU’s new trading agreement in place, the survey for the first time monitored the impact of Brexit on the attitudes of architects. Overall, the new agreement is perceived to have a negative impact on the profession; 15% more architects expect it to lead to a decrease in workload than an increase. Architects indicated they expect key areas to be detrimentally affected by the new agreement: 41% stated this to be the case regarding availability of skilled on-site staff, 54% regarding recruiting/retaining architects from outside the UK and 63% regarding the availability of building materials.

In terms of staffing: • The RIBA Future Trends Staffing Index rose again in January (+4, from +2 in December). • In the next three months 83% of practices expect staffing levels to remain the same, 7% expected to employ fewer permanent staff, and 10% expect to employ more. • Medium and large-sized practices (11+ staff) continue to be those most likely to recruit permanent staff in the coming three months, with both posting strongly positive index figures. Smaller practices are more likely to expect staffing levels to hold steady, having posted a January Staffing Index figure of zero. • The Temporary Staffing Index returned a balance figure of zero in January, suggesting the market for temporary staff will remain as is. • London remains the region least likely to anticipate increased staffing levels in the next three months – returning a negative balance figure of –4. The South of England is also cautious – returning a balance figure of -6. Recruitment is more likely in the North of England (+14) and the Midlands & East Anglia (+8). • Personal underemployment stands at 22%, a slight increase on last month’s figure, but within historical norms, and significantly below the high of 42% in the first lock-down. • Staffing levels are 96% of a year ago. Overall, redundancies stand at 3% of staff. Seven per cent of staff remain on furlough.

RIBA Head of Economic Research and Analysis, Adrian Malleson, said:

“It’s promising that the profession has overall maintained a positive outlook. However, with a decrease from +10 in December to +3 in January, it’s clear that the ongoing uncertainties presented by both Brexit and the third national lockdown are having an impact on confidence.

Disparities persist across regions, practice sizes and notably sectors. That only the housing sector returned positive figures, clearly indicates the limited commitment of resources to construction, from both businesses and government.

Whilst there are some promising signs, for example London reporting its first positive workload balance for 10 months, this increase is marginal (+1), and must be tempered by the fact that the commercial sector, so important to the profession in this region, remains fragile.

Sustained growth of the profession, particularly in the centres of large cities, will rely on a broad-based recovery that encompasses not only the housing sector, but also the public, commercial and community sectors. This recovery is unlikely to happen whilst we remain in lock-down but can be spurred and accelerated by timely government stimulus and investment.

6 Feb 2021 RIBA responds to launch of Government’s school rebuilding programme

5th of February 2021 – The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) has today (5 February) responded to the Government’s launch of the first phase of the School Rebuilding Programme.

RIBA President Alan Jones said:

“Well-designed schools have the power to shape society – improving the attainment, behaviour, health and wellbeing of every child.

As the government’s ten-year rebuilding programme gets underway, it is crucial to focus on the delivery of good quality design, sustainability and safety. To ensure the best outcomes for students, teachers and the taxpayer, the government must commit to monitoring the performance of the new buildings once they are in use through Post Occupancy Evaluation – and use these findings to ensure each project is better than the last.

Furthermore, vital safety measures including the installation of sprinklers must also be prioritised in the design of new and maintenance of existing school buildings. Alongside the CIOB, RICS and NFCC, the RIBA is continuing to call for this to be mandated.

This is a critical opportunity to have a transformative impact on the lives of future generations – the government must get it right.”

Background:

In May 2016 the RIBA published the Better Spaces for Learning report – outlining how good design can help ensure that capital funding for schools stretches as far as possible, and supports good outcomes for both teachers and pupils.

In May 2019, the RIBA responded to the Department for Education’s review of Building Bulletin 100 – design for fire safety in schools. The Department for Education asked experts to help review the Building Bulletin 100, which is a design guide for fire safety in schools. Our response highlighted the importance of the inclusion of prescriptive baseline requirements on life safety measures, for example, maximum travel distances, ventilation, protected lobbies and refuges. Read all RIBA responses to government consultations on fire safety.

In October 2020, the RIBA issued a joint statement with CIOB, NFCC and RICS, calling on the government to require the installation of sprinklers in schools, including the retrofitting of sprinklers in existing school buildings when relevant refurbishment takes place.

19 Jan 2021 RIBA publishes findings of Architects Act amendments survey

Monday 25 January 2021 – 8 out of 10 think mandatory competence requirements are important – RIBA publishes findings of Architects Act amendments survey.

The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) has today (Monday 25 January) published the findings of its survey of the architects’ profession on proposed changes to the Architects Act.

The 502 responses have informed the RIBA’s official submission to the Ministry of Housing, Communities & Local Government (MHCLG) consultation on proposed changes to the Architects Act, which has also been published today.

From ensuring building safety to tackling the climate emergency, the areas prioritised by respondents reflect the challenges facing our industry and society, and the role architects must have in addressing them.

Findings of the RIBA survey reveal:

85% of respondents acknowledge the importance of mandatory competence requirements in promoting standards and confidence within the profession;

75% believe that an architect’s competency should be monitored at regular intervals throughout their career;

70% think fire safety is the most important mandatory competence topic;

68% want to prioritise health, safety and wellbeing; 67% legal, regulatory and statutory compliance; and 50% sustainable architecture as mandatory competence topics;

More than half of respondents (59%) want either planning or building control or both to be regulated functions.

In response to the survey findings, RIBA President, Alan Jones, said:

“This consultation is a defining moment – a real opportunity to ensure all current and future architects in the UK have the education, knowledge, skills and behaviours to make a positive impact on the built environment.

The fact that the majority of the profession wish to retain the regulation of title and expand into regulation of function, demonstrates the vital and holistic role that architects know they must have to effectively deliver their expertise.

We will soon be launching our mandatory Health and Life Safety requirements for RIBA members and will work with the MHCLG and ARB to coordinate practical competency measures for the whole profession to adopt.

We also continue to call for urgent reforms of building safety regulations and procurement systems, and for an appropriately funded education system for future architects. These will help to ensure that the profession can deliver buildings that meet the quality, safety, and sustainability expectations of society.

In light of post-Brexit agreements on professional qualifications, we will support the allocation of new ARB powers to negotiate international agreements that will assist UK architects in designing, delivering, and globally upholding the highest professional standards.”

Read the executive summary of the survey findings

Read the RIBA’s response to the consultation on proposed amendments to the Architects Act

19 Jan 2021 Winners of 2020 RIBA President’s Medal for Research and Research Awards

The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) has announced the recipient of the RIBA President’s Medal for Research and the winners of the President’s Awards for Research, which celebrate the best research in the fields of architecture and the built environment.

The winner of the 2020 RIBA President’s Medal for Research is Richard Beckett from the Bartlett School of Architecture, University College London, for ‘Probiotic Design.’ Through exploring the integral role of bacteria in human health, Richard proposes a design approach that reintroduces beneficial bacteria to create healthy buildings.

2020 RIBA President’s Awards for Research

18 Jan 2021 RIBA comments on proposed ‘Right to Regenerate’ policy

Monday 18th January 2020 – The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) has commented on government’s proposed ‘Right to Regenerate’ policy, announced today.

RIBA President, Alan Jones, said: “While giving a ‘new lease of life’ to unloved buildings might seem like an easy win that could speed up the development of new housing or community spaces, the process of procuring these empty properties – and criteria for acquiring – must be carefully considered. This policy has the potential to help regenerate local areas, but this must be done with the highest regard to quality, safety and sustainability – it’s essential the government moves forward in the right way.”

14 Jan 2021 RIBA Future Trends – 2020 ended with fragile growth in confidence

Thursday 14th January 2021 – In the latest set of results (December 2020), the RIBA Future Workload Index returned the highest balance score (+10) since the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic. Whilst 20% of practices expected a decreasing workload in the coming three months, 29% expected workloads to increase. Just over half expected workloads to hold steady.

Confidence was beginning to return beyond the Private Housing Sector (+14, up two points from November). Both the Commercial and Public Sectors returned to positive territory for the first time since February 2020 – the Commercial Sector at +1, up from -19 in November and the Public Sector at +2, up from -7. The Community Sector recorded an improvement although remained negative, returning a balance figure of -8 this month, up from -13 in November.

Confidence among large and medium and sized practices also continues to strengthen. Smaller practices have returned to positive territory after a dip in November.

Reports of personal underemployment are lower than they were a year ago. Workloads are reported to have rallied too; during the first lockdown they stood at 67% compared to twelve months ago; December results (taken prior to the third lockdown) were 95%.

London based practices remain negative about future workload with a -6 balance score in December, up slightly from -7 last month.

All other regions are positive about future workload: the Midlands & East Anglia returned to positive territory with +7 in December; the South of England at +8; Wales & the West at +22, up from +15 in November and the North of England was the most positive in December at +29 – the most positive outlook for the region since 2019.

Concerns about future practice viability remain, though have lessened. Overall, 3% of practice expect falling profits to threaten practice viability. 46% expect profits to fall over the next twelve months, 34% expect profits to stay the same, and 9% expect them to grow (8% don’t know).

In terms of staffing:

• With a slight increase on the previous month, the RIBA Future Trends Staffing Index returned a figure of +2 in December. • 84% of practices overall expect permanent staffing levels to remain consistent (up from 81% in November). • 7% expect to see a decrease in the number of permanent staff over the next three months (the same figure as November). • 9% expect permanent staffing levels to increase (up from 8% in November) • The anticipated demand for temporary staff has stayed the same as in November, with the Temporary Staffing Index falling at -1 in November • London is the only region to return a negative permanent staffing index figure (-9) – down from -7 in November • In London, the balance figure for permanent staff is -7 (up from -8 in October) • The Midlands & East Anglia are anticipating a falling number of permanent staff. In contrast, other regions are positive, notably Wales & the West (+9) and the North of England (+8). • Personal underemployment is back down to 20%. That’s lower than both last month’s figure and that of December 2019. At both times the figure was then 22%. • Staffing levels are currently 96% of their level a year ago. Overall, redundancies stand at 2% of staff. 6% of staff now remain on furlough.

RIBA Head of Economic Research and Analysis, Adrian Malleson, said:

“The growing optimism seen in our December results is heartening, with workloads being just 4% lower than they were a year ago and an increase in confidence in the commercial and public sector areas. However, additional commentary stresses the twin uncertainties of Brexit and the Covid-19 pandemic. Understandably, these make 2021 a highly uncertain year and the construction market may get worse before it gets better

The disparity in confidence between regions continues. In December London results continued to highlight a concerning set of indices: future work predictions, future staffing levels, assessment of future practice viability and personal underemployment, which are all lower than elsewhere.

Some practices report projects being held up by delays in the processing of planning applications but there are also reports of Public Sector workload beginning to increase.

It is a mixed and changing picture but with an overall growth in confidence. Whilst this confidence is likely to falter in the current lockdown, there is hope that it will return, once restrictions are eased.

RIBA comments on new UK-EU relationship

Monday 4th of January 2021 – The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) has today commented on the new relationship between the UK and EU.

RIBA CEO, Alan Vallance, said:

“Since our initial response to the post-Brexit trade deal struck on 24 December, the RIBA has taken time to consider the terms negotiated and the implications for our profession.

Since the referendum, the RIBA has strongly called for the mutual recognition of professional qualifications, and it’s therefore disappointing to see this has not been agreed. Going forward, the ARB has an opportunity to negotiate a new recognition route with the EU, and we will be working closely with ARB colleagues and members to help shape such an agreement.

In terms of trading goods, while tariff-free importing and exporting should benefit UK construction long-term, we know that certain processes including the certification and declaration of products have – or will very soon – change, and all businesses will need to adjust to new measures.

As we all familiarise ourselves with this new UK-EU relationship, the RIBA is on hand to support members and practices adapt accordingly.”

Visit www.architecture.com/Brexit.

RIBA News 2020

RIBA News & Events 2020 – recent updates below:

24 Dec 2020

RIBA reacts to news of post-Brexit trade deal

Thursday 24 December 2020 – The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) has today responded to the post-Brexit trade deal struck between the UK Government and EU Commission. RIBA CEO, Alan Vallance, said:

“Today’s news of a post-Brexit trade deal is no doubt a relief for many. But while this deal provides us with some certainty around the future relationship between the UK and EU, hesitation and vagueness around trade in services remains a serious concern for our profession. Architects in both the UK and EU were clear about the need for a continued agreement on recognition of professional qualifications, and it is deeply worrying that this does not seem to be part of the deal as it stands.

It’s also disappointing to see that UK students are no longer eligible for the Erasmus scheme, given the clear benefits for young people. We therefore look forward to understanding more about the new Turing scheme referenced by the Prime Minister.

It’s our hope however that this deal will keep the costs of importing construction materials down and – current border issues aside – at least provide some confidence over trading in goods.

As ever, we will continue to support our members with guidance and lobby the government to invest in the skills and talent that fuels the success of UK architecture worldwide.” Visit https://ift.tt/38d1nWz.

17 Dec 2020

RIBA Future Trends – COVID-19 restrictions impact practice confidence and workload

Thursday 17 December 2020 – In November 2020, the RIBA Future Workload Index returned a balance figure of 0, meaning as many practices expect workload to increase as those who expect it to decrease. It’s the lowest figure since June and a fall from last months’ +9.

Confidence about future work strengthened among large and medium-sized practices (to +25), whilst smaller practices have returned negative predictions for the first time since June at -5.

2 Dec 2020

RIBA announces winners of 2020 President’s Medals

RIBA President’s Medals Student Awards 2020

RIBA News 2019

RIBA News & Events 2019

RIBA Summer Installation 2019

RIBA London Events information from RIBA

Location: 66 Portland Place, London, UK

RIBA Events Archive

RIBA Events, Awards & News Archive Links

RIBA Annie Spink Award 2020

RIBA News in London

RIBA London Events – Archive

RIBA HQ at 66 Portland Place

RIBA Gold Medal for Architecture

Chartered Institute of Building

RIBA Awards

RIBA Stirling Prize

RIBA Honorary Fellowships

London Architecture Events

AA School Events

Bartlett School of Architecture Event

Comments / photos for the RIBA News & Events for 2021 page welcome

Website: London

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raendown · 6 years

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@evergreen-dryad won second place for my 800 Followers Giveaway and here we have the story that they chose for me to write!

Pairing: None Word count: 4549 Song used: Dirty Work - Austin Mahone Summary: Midnight shifts at the mission desk can get a little boring sometimes. To keep themselves entertained Iruka, Izumo, and Kotetsu turn on the radio and sing along. None of them expected to be caught dancing on top of the desks while they were busting out their dirtiest moves, though.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

Dirty Work

A dry throat was the only thing Iruka got for heaving such a large sigh, eyes half lidded and ponytail drooping out of sheer boredom. He could understand why at least one person should be manning the mission desk at all hours, even the middle of the night, just in case a returning shinobi carried important information or required medical attention. What he didn’t understand was why three of them had to endure this torture together. Surely only one of them was needed and the other two could have been sleeping soundly in their beds? Iruka was shameless enough to admit he would fight both of his friends for the privilege of being one of the two who got to go home right now.

Three in the morning was quite possibly the deadest hour he could think of, caught somewhere in that ephemeral gray zone between late and early. Outside the windows the world was black like ink and as quiet as a graveyard. Inside the mission room was brighter but not much more exciting.

Kotetsu and Iruka sat back to back, using each other to stay upright as they fought the boredom of having nothing to do. All the paperwork they’d thought would keep them busy had been finished by just after midnight, leaving them all sitting there twiddling their thumbs, praying for a miracle. Izumo had disappeared about fifteen minutes ago but neither of them had any energy to go see whether or not he had lied about needing to use the restroom.

“Hey,” Kotetsu murmured. “Are you dead back there?”

“I think so,” Iruka groaned, slumping a little farther back. Kotetsu made a half-hearted noise of protest.

“Don’t knock me out of my chair; I’ll never make it back up off the floor.”

Snorting a little in a brief flash of amusement, Iruka made an attempt to sit up again. It didn’t really work all that well but the effort was there and he figured that was what mattered. Honestly, he thought, if Kotetsu fell over on the floor at least he would find some entertainment in watching his friend flop around for a bit.

Just before he started to seriously consider doing it on purpose the door swung open and Izumo strolled back in to the room with a confident swagger. On his face he wore a look of triumph and over one shoulder he carried what looked like an old style boom box.

“You may now worship the ground I walk on!” he declared, setting his prize down on one of the tables in the far corner. Kotetsu snorted.

“We’ve talked about this, Zoomer. Doesn’t matter what you think, you are not god’s gift to humankind.”

“Fine then. You don’t get to come to my sick dance party!”

Sticking his nose in the air dramatically, Izumo waited until both of them had turned around in their seats to look at him before making an unnecessarily ostentatious presentation of the boom box. When he plugged it in and fiddled with the dials he had to cycle through quite a lot of static before it managed to pick up a local radio station.

“I found this in the storeroom downstairs just collecting dust,” he told them. “And I thought it would be a perfect cure for this unending boredom!”

“You know, you might actually have done something right for a change,” Kotetsu teased his friend.

Iruka covered his laugh with one hand when Izumo squawked indignantly, yelling about ungrateful friends and how no one ever appreciated the efforts he made. While the two of them bickered Iruka heaved himself up to amble across the room and turn up the volume. The crooning strains of a recently released love song filled the air, making him groan. Such an overplayed song.

He refrained from complaining too much, though, even in his head. Any excuse to break up the monotony of this never-ending shift was more than okay in his books. Instead, he sang along under his breath and hopped up to park his butt on the top of the table next to the radio so he could watch Kotetsu poke Izumo in the forehead and grumble something about idiots who couldn’t take a joke with grace. Since their bickering was a more than common sight for anyone who knew them even slightly well, Iruka wasn’t too worried about having to possibly break them up.

As he suspected, they were laughing together again within five minutes. Giving his best friend a playful shove, Izumo turned back to fiddle with the radio some more. Iruka slapped his hand away.

“Hey!” Izumo protested. “I’m the one who found it!”

“And now I’ve commandeered it. Just call me Captain of the Boom Box.”

“Captain Boom Box!” Kotetsu laughed so hard that he tripped over his own feet. “That makes you sound like a really terrible comic book hero whose superpower is just having such a fantastic ass that it distracts all your enemies.”

“That is obviously not how I meant it!” Iruka shouted at him.

Neither of them listened to him. They were too busy howling with laughter and making crude grabbing motions with their hands. He rolled his eyes and turned up the volume again to drown them both out, continuing to turn the knob until the speakers shook the table upon which he was sitting. After the sappy love song finally came to an end the DJ put on something with a more upbeat rhythm and faster lyrics and, as he had hoped it would, the distraction was enough to get his friends’ attention and start them tapping their toes.

“See?” Izumo called above the music. “Sick dance party!”

Without a single care for how ridiculous he looked, the brunet stuck out his butt and wiggled it around, bopping it to the beat and tracing random shapes through the air. Not to be outdone, Kotetsu set his feet apart, put one hand on his hip, and began to point the index fingers of his other hand in random directions as though that even counted as a dance move. Iruka watched the both of them with a shaking head. Sometimes he mourned the day he’d made friends with these idiots.

He had to admit though, the beat was sort of catchy. Usually quite a busy guy, he didn’t often have time to just sit down and listen to music. Most of his work required a bit of quiet so that he could concentrate. When he wasn’t doing that he was stuck in a classroom full of screaming children and adding another layer of noise was the absolute last thing he would want to do. Iruka loved his kids, of course he did, but any teacher in the world would sympathize that they were the source of nearly every headache he’d ever had.

Deciding to stay out of the madness his two friends were starting up, Iruka simply wriggled in to a more comfortable position and mentally judged the terribleness of their moves against that one time last year they had all gotten really drunk and crashed Anko’s house for similar shenanigans. Their coordination was only marginally better and he took some imaginary points off for having less alcohol in their system and still only managing a slight improvement.

It only took until the end of one more song before his plan to stay out of things was foiled. Somewhere between dangerously flailing his arms and tossing his head around like he was having a seizure, Kotetsu finally took notice that one of them hadn’t joined in.

“Uh oh! Party pooper spotted!” He was only just audible over the radio but his grin said enough all on its own. “Looks like someone is being booooooriiiiiiiing!”

“I’m not boring, I’m sensible,” Iruka protested. When the two of them began to stalk towards him with evil expressions he shuffled backwards, crawling farther up on to the table.

“You think you can get away from us so easily?” Izumo cackled.

With a quick lunge he made a grab for Iruka’s feet, just barely missing as the other man pulled them up out of reach and tried to crawl away down the length of the table. Kotetsu dodged around to head him off so Iruka scrambled to stand up and jump over their grasping hands. All three of them were laughing as he ran light-footed down the table and leaped over to another one to continue his escape.

At the end of that table he was brought up short when Izumo used a replacement jutsu to switch himself out with a conveniently placed stapler and caught him by both arms. They wrestled playfully, each trying to knock the other sideways.

“Try and escape from dancing with us, will you! I’ll show you! What kind of friend won’t even make a fool of himself with the rest of us?” Iruka was laughing too hard to fight back properly or even answer. He barely noticed when Kotetsu clambered up with them.

“Oh man, he’s got the right idea though! Table dancing!”

Scrunching his face in to what may have been intended as a ‘rock star face’, Kotetsu tilted himself backwards as he busted out his best air guitar, trying hard to match the song. Unfortunately he had no idea how to actually play guitar so it mostly came out as weird twitchy hands movements. Lucky for him they at least knew what he was trying to do.

Still with Iruka in his grip, Izumo started to swing their bodies from side to side wildly in a bastardized waltz of some sort. He even hummed along with the radio just loud enough for his friend to hear, making Iruka laugh and give up at last.

“Fine!” he cried. “Fine, I’ll dance! But if anyone’s eyes start bleeding, I take no responsibility.”

“You’re not that bad, ‘Ru,” Izumo tried to tell him. Kotetsu snorted and paused his guitar playing.

“Remember that one year on Genma’s birthday–”

“No! No one remembers that! Shut up!” Iruka was already red in the face by the time he cut the other off, reaching past Izumo’s shoulder to try and clap a hand over his mouth. Kotetsu only snickered and skipped out of reach.

“I’ll stay shut up as long as you’re dancing!” he crowed, now transitioning in to beating on a set of air drums.

This time it was Iruka who grabbed Izumo’s hands, pulling him back in for more terrible waltzing to the amusement of both the others. Whether they were laughing at the memory of Genma’s birthday or at the look of frantic desperation on his face wasn’t clear. His dance partner was certainly chuckling quite loud but went along with it easily, spinning them down the length of the table and falling in to a dip which Iruka had to hurry to catch him for.

After a few minutes of feeling terribly awkward, Iruka finally started to actually enjoy himself as all mentions of any previous embarrassments were forgotten about. He managed to extract himself from Izumo’s hold and dance on his own for a bit, swaying on the spot and swinging his hips from side to side. Now having hopped over on to another table to have more room for himself, Izumo was trying out some rather fancy footwork. Kotetsu appeared to have moved on to what looked like an air saxophone solo.

The next time the song changed Iruka nearly jumped in fright as the other two whooped with excitement. He watched curiously as Izumo hurried along the tabletops to go turn the music up just that little bit more.

“This is, like, our theme song!” he exclaimed.

Having heard the song a few times before, Iruka had to admit that some of the lyrics were fairly apropos for the midnight shifts in the mission room that the three of them seemed to constantly be getting stuck with. Kotetsu left off with whatever instrument he was pretending to play now and began to actually try to dance. Before he could second guess his choice, Iruka found himself joining in.

When the singer picked up the first few lines, all three of them immediately pitched in, singing as terribly all they possibly could and dramatically rolling up their sleeves as the lyrics told them to.

Rolling my sleeves up to here To make you smile ear to ear Girl I've been hitting that, hitting that graveyard shift You won't find another one built for this Dirty work, ooh Dirty work

Izumo waggled his eyebrows at the other two suggestively and rolled his hips in a circle. Since they were likely the only people in the village awake other than the gate guards, there was no one here to watch him make a fool of himself. And make a fool of himself he did, getting way too in to the motions and trying to use his arms to frame his body sensually.

On his own table, Kotetsu was only barely doing any better. Iruka would have thought they were both nuts if he wasn’t so busy trying not to lose his balance gyrating.

Baby I don't need no help I'd do it all by myself Girl I've been putting in, putting in over time You ain't gotta tell me what's on your mind Dirty work, ooh Dirty work

Any hope of being graceful was thrown out the window as all three of them continued to belt out the lyrics, attempting the use their bodies to pantomime when they could. Where their attempts at sensuality largely failed they made up for it with eager enthusiasm. At least none of them could say they were bored anymore.

Izumo had actually thrown one leg over so that he stood with his feet on either side of the boom box, bow-legged and still trying to grind with an invisible dance partner. Truthfully he looked a little stupid but neither of the other two had any room to say so considering their own moves, so they all simply kept dancing through the bridge of the song.

'Cause when you do what you love You're gonna love what you do You know I'd do it with love Each night I'd do it for you

This was the part of the song that Iruka loved the most, the part he actually identified with. As much as he might gripe and complain when he pulled the crappy shifts, he really did love his job just as much as any loyal shinobi should. He loved working with the children that he taught no matter how many headaches they gave him; he loved greeting weary travelers home no matter how many bad reports they handed in; he loved protecting his village no matter how many scars it left him with.

Filled with a joyous kind of pride, he found himself dancing with just a little more enthusiasm. His arms lifted to make wild shapes in the air around him, stroking down his sides and framing his hips, and when he heard one of the others catcalling him all he did was grin freely.

It's the dirty work Somebody's gotta do it Dirty work So we're getting into it Dirty work Go and get your body moving You know it ain't no nine to five We're going sundown to sunrise Dirty work Dirty work

Spinning himself in a surprisingly well executed circle, Kotetsu tossed his head back and closed his eyes. No doubt all aspects of their jobs could be considered dirty. From blood and dirt to finger paint to honeypot missions, there was no aspect of a shinobi’s life that was guaranteed to stay clean and pure. But there were also very few shinobi who had willingly chosen this lifestyle that would actually complain about it. Well, they might complain actually. They just wouldn’t mean it very much.

In fact, he thought with a smirk, depending on what kind of dirty they were getting down to, they might just like it.

I'm filthy down to the core Leave all your stress at the door You know you need to stop scrubbing with Mr. Clean Bring it right here, come next to me Dirty work, ooh Dirty work

Feeling emboldened in a way that was most unusual for him, Iruka crooked a finger across the room at his friend. It took a few moments for Kotetsu to open his eyes again and see that he was being beckoned but when he did he responded with a salacious look that made them both cover a snicker. He did hop back across to the other man’s table, though, and they both made a point of pretending to try and seduce each other with their moves. Izumo wolf whistled at them from over in the corner and it only encouraged them.

When they finally met in the middle Kotetsu dropped down in to a squat to pretend he was worshipping his friend from his knees. Iruka fanned his face with one hand, pretending to be impressed and overwhelmed, nearly ruining the effect with a snort of laughter.

As the bridge began again Kotetsu put his hand on either side of Iruka’s legs and slid them up while he slowly stood, mouthing the lyrics as he inched upwards.

'Cause when you do what you love You're gonna love what you do You know I'd do it with love Each night I'd do it for you

Now with both of them standing Kotetsu wrapped his arms around Iruka almost the same way their other friend had earlier. Only this time instead of trying to waltz he swung their hips back and forth, stepping in to the other man’s personal space like they were dirty dancing in a club. Iruka tried hard to keep his face straight while he attempted to follow along with the movements. He wasn’t generally a nightclub kind of person so he didn’t have a lot of experience with this kind of dancing and it showed a little.

He was far from letting that stop him at this point, however. After letting himself relax enough to get in to it he was having much more fun than he would have thought. That made it easier for him to get closer to Kotetsu, pretending he was some faceless attractive woman, and let his body undulate like he’d seen Anko do a few times.

Watching them from his spot by the radio, Izumo was filled near to bursting with smugness. All signs of boredom were long gone as the three of them partied it up just like he’d been thinking of since the moment he uncovered his treasure in the storeroom. This was quite possibly the best accidental discovery he’d ever made – and that was saying a lot for someone who enjoyed snooping through his friend’s homes as much as he did.

In an effort not to let his friends outdo him, Izumo brought his leg back from where it was still straddled over the boom box and turned around. Bending his knees and dropping his torso forward, he gave his best shot at twerking. He could tell Kotetsu had spotted him when he heard a loud snort of laughter. Just for that he tried a little harder, jiggling his bottom to the beat of the nearly wordless refrain as the song approached its end.

Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na Dirty work Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na Dirty work Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na

Since apparently twerking was a lot harder than he thought, Izumo straightened up and returned to simply dancing as dirty as he could. The next time he went out for a few drinks he made a mental note to tell his female friends how impressed he was that they could do this kind of thing and manage to make it look sexy, not at all awkward. Although, for never having done this before he didn’t think he was doing all that badly.

Kotetsu and Iruka weren’t nearly as terrible as they could have been either. In fact, they actually did look kind of sexy as they moved their hips together and trailed their hands down each other’s arms. If only either one of them was gay he would have made a big deal about how good they looked together.

'Cause when you do what you love You're gonna love what you do You know I'll do it with love Every time I'm with you

As the song passed the bridge and went in to its final chorus, Kotetsu and Iruka separated at last, both of them putting just a little more energy in to their ‘performance’. Standing side by side, they watched each other from the corner of their eyes and tried to move together. When one swayed so did the other, and when one dropped down low the other followed. The compatibility that allowed the three of them to work so well as a cohesive unit in battle came in handy now for dancing as actually they managed to stay reasonably in sync.

Even though he was a bit far away to really make it a group finale, Izumo joined in from the corner anyway and all three of them raised their hands in to the air as they belted out the final lyrics and ground their hips in exaggerated circles.

It's the dirty work Somebody's gotta do it Dirty work So we're getting into it Dirty work Go and get your body moving You know it ain't no nine to five We're going sundown to sunrise Dirty work

Together as one all three of them struck as pose on the final note, Iruka with his hands on his hips, Izumo bent forward with his hands on his knees and his ass stuck out, and Kotetsu with one leg raised and his head thrown back. They were going for pinup poses, although how well they managed was anyone’s guess without someone else there to judge them.

The last notes of the song faded seamlessly into the next, some random overplayed boppy tune, and the change broke them all from their moment. Iruka laughed and shoved Kotetsu to knock him over while Izumo moved on to his usual set of dance moves, no longer trying to be sexy but just sticking with what he knew: being dorky. As Kotetsu struggled to resume his balance and retaliate, Izumo twirled in a whimsical little circle.

And that was when he spotted the figure in the doorway, setting off a short rapid-fire chain of events.

When Izumo shrieked, Iruka looked up and saw the figure by the door as well. Without even seeming to think about it he reached in to his pocket and pulled out a pen, firing it at the radio with all the accuracy of a well-trained chūnin. It struck the power switch direct center, turning it off and plunging the room in to dead silence, then ricocheted in to Izumo’s ankle. As soon as his ankle was struck the man howled and – forgetting he was standing on top of a table – began to hop about in pain. Predictably, this brought him too close to the edge and sent him crashing down to the floor where he lay in an undignified heap.

Frozen in the doorway, Tsunade slowly tilted her head to one side and crossed her arms. Both of her eyebrows were so her on her forehead they were nearly indistinguishable from her hairline. The rest of her face was downright flabbergasted by the sight in front of her.

With sharp cries of shock and embarrassment, both of the remaining two men leaped down from the table, Kotetsu hurrying over to help his friend stand while Iruka tried very hard to convince the ground to open up and swallow him whole. His face was redder than a tomato and neither of the other two were faring much better. Tsunade watched them all scramble around without saying anything at first, obviously searching for words and coming up blank. It took nearly five minutes of cringe-inducing silence before she drew in a breath, paused to shake her head again, and finally spoke.

“I’m not even going to ask,” she muttered.

“There isn’t really a good explanation anyway,” Izumo said to his toes. Kotetsu glared down at the top of his head with a clear direction of blame. Tsunade drummed the fingers of one hand on her opposite arm.

“Am I really paying the three of you to do this in the middle of the night?” All three of them tried to answer at once and she waved a hand, cutting them all off. “No, I don’t want to hear it. Since it doesn’t look like there’s much for you three to be doing, two of you may go home now. Only one of you will need to stay behind for the morning shift to take over. Get a little rest and…perhaps think about using your work spaces more appropriately from now on.”

Hanging their heads with shame, the three men nodded in frantic agreement. No matter how boring any future shifts might be, they wouldn’t be trying anything like this again any time soon. Eyeing them suspiciously, Tsunade turned away and left the room. She saw no need to tell them she’d fallen asleep on her desk after too many glasses of sake, only woken up by the sound of their music reaching her ears several floors above.

As soon as she was gone from the room the trio of chūnin looked at each other, relieved grins forming on all of their faces. Avoiding Tsunade’s infamous temper was sort of akin to staring death in the face and walking away scot-free. Their budding giggles were cut off before it could really start, however, when their Hokage popped her head back in to the room for a moment wearing a grin of her own.

“Oh, and boys? Thanks for the show.”

She gave them a wink and then she was gone again, leaving them all stunned.

Iruka was the first to recover. Without waiting for the matter to be discussed he took off for the exit, very much intending to be one of the two who got to go home early. He could hear his bed calling to him all the way from here, although the sound of it was somewhat drowned out by the fight that instantly broke out behind him when the same thought finally occurred to both Kotetsu and Izumo at the same time. Iruka kept going and didn��t look back.

Someone had to do the dirty work but tonight it would not be him.

#rae writes #iruka #izumo #kotetsu #songfic #fanfiction #naruto shippuden

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