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ivystjamess · 4 years

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WHEN IT CAME TO THE PERFORMING ARTS, ivy st.james wasn’t one to play around. most of her childhood was shrouded in a whirlwind of vocal lessons, acting lessons, dance class, gymnastics, and theatre camps. ivy was a talent who snagged solos and leads left and right because she worked hard. and because her parents raised her to work hard. the effort wasn’t for nothing though, genderblind casting or not, she knew this rigorous training was going to pay off when she got cast as sandy dumbrowski.

as far as ivy was concerned, every person in the world knew something about grease. it paved the way for movie musicals and despite it’s questionable message it was a classic in every sense of the word. without question, grease always has and probably always would sit at the top of ivy’s favorite movie and musical list. it was only natural she want to play sandy so bad. every serious thespian had dream roles and on ivy’s list, just above sophie sheridan and hope harcourt sat sandy dumbrowski.

even though ivy st.james may not possess those same demure qualities as sandy, she knew she was a good enough performer to pull it off. after all, hopelessly devoted to you was her very own don’t rain on my parade. this wasn’t her first trip around the block when it came to auditioning for william mckinley high school’s arts department. and although she was seasoned at this sort of thing, it didn’t mean she was going to let her guard down.

her nerves of steel couldn’t exist without her carefully crafted strategy of avoiding everyone like the plague pre-audition and chugging water whilst reviewing her materials. immediately when the bell rang, she was sure to change out of her cheerios uniform and into a simple, non-distracting yet still flattering black dress. of course, coach t wasn’t exactly pleased to have some of her cheerios participating but she wasn’t so psycho to the point of kicking them off. one lesson ivy had come to learn was that coach tanaka was a whole less scary once she realized that she needed the girls on her cheerios just as much as they needed her.

once she was physically ready, ivy kept to herself and got into the correct head space for her audition. she sounded great, her monologue was convincing, her dance combination looked good. everything was going according to plan. upon reaching all levels of preparedness, she took a moment to flip through her book which included other selections just in case and to check that her printed resumes were still pristine. maybe it was all a little much, but ivy would rather do too much and frame herself as a professional than fall short.

“ivy st.james?” was called and she took a final sip of water before setting her water bottle down with her other things, rolling her shoulders back, and striding into the finn hudson auditorium with a confident smile on her face. she greeted both dan and miss holliday with the customary, “good afternoon.” before moving off of the stage to hand them both a copy of her resume, “i know it’s not like a requirement or anything, but i figured it wouldn’t hurt.” she said, directed at miss holliday more than anyone. dan had compiled quite the stack of resumes from ivy st.james in the past couple of years.

back up on the stage, she planted herself center and spoke clearly, “hello, i’m ivy st.james and i’ll be performing how ‘bout a dance from bonnie and clyde, music by frank wildhorn and lyrics by don black.” she began without missing a beat, “in addition to my song, i will be performing hope’s monologue from almost maine by john cariani, then performing my own take on the ‘born to hand jive’ choreography. i would also love to be considered for the role of sandy dumbrowski.” after giving them a moment to process all of that information, she flashed yet another smile, followed by a, “thank you.” then a nod for her music to begin.

as the beginning instrumentals drawled, ivy found a seat at the front of the stage, dangling her legs off of it. “how 'bout a dance, what do you say?” the song was undoubtedly a little sensual for someone looking to play sandy, but that wasn’t done without purpose. ivy might not have wanted to entertain the idea someone else could be sandy over her, but it was always a possibility especially since this was a genderblind production, so in choosing how ‘bout a dance, she was attempting to showcase her ability to channel some of the raunchier qualities of other characters. and if not that? it was a perfect window into just how well she’d deliver a ‘tell me about it stud’ on opening night.

“let's find a spot and dance the night away...” ivy sang with a certain clarity and tone that was captivating. boldly, she slipped off the stage to continue performing as the tempo of her song increased. maybe it was risky to hop off the stage and proceed with the rest of her number at the front of the house, but she’d rather leave an impression than fly under the radar and regret it.

while ivy vocalized, she sauntered over towards an invisible person to her right. there wasn’t a single flat or sharp note that left her mouth as she continued her simple blocking. if there was one thing to be said for her performance is that there was little technical fault to be found in her singing capability. it was both easy on the ears and eyes as she continued to parade around the front of the house. periodically she would make eye contact with the director’s panel, but never daring to miss a beat or forget this invisible person she’d established to her right.

that being said, as she arrived at beltier parts of the song, she paused her motions and faced front with her hands clasped over her chest in order to allow her voice to speak for itself. her talent, power, and presence as a performance were all undisputed, but she also knew there was something meaningful in, pausing, not performing, and letting her voice show off for itself. after a solid moment of letting her singing do the talking, ivy concluded with a gentler “you'll lose the blues, and you may lose your heart.”

at this point, after issuing a thank you she was climbing her way on stage to do her monologue which started with a, “i took a taxi here. from bangor. to see him.” and ended with a “do you know him?” overall it was a comedic monologue, but ivy injected her own brand of sandy-esque whimsy when she talked about matters of love. still, the jokes managed not to fall flat and by the time it was over she was feeling pretty confident.

another audacious choice of ivy’s was to perform her combination to a song from the show. but nothing in the guidelines said she couldn’t and what better way to prove she could do the style of dance the show demanded with ease. before she got to hand-jiving though, she took a moment to politely remind the directors, “it’s like, listed on my resume, but i am one of the best tumbler’s on the cheerios. i just thought i would like remind you i can do specialty work since it isn’t included in this routine.” she rambled, though she spoke quickly and clearly. moving past speaking, born to hand jive started up and ivy flourished with her own fast paced choreography.

when her combination was concluded, ivy was feeling solid about her audition as she gave her final thank you to the directors. then dan piped up from up in his seat, eyes glaring down at her deep in thought “ivy, would you be willing to play any role other than, sandy?” no. and just like that her confidence crumbled. not letting that absolutely gutted feeling show, ivy put on her best smile and answered, “of course, i’m absolutely willing to play wherever you see fit.” no director likes someone difficult to work with. “that’s all, thank you then, ivy, the cast list will be up sunday.” dan said and ivy offered a miserable little nod. “no, thank you.” and turned on her heel to leave the auditorium, wondering just what she had did wrong.

#crhq:grease

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antiquecompass · 4 years

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A quick Long and Happy Life ‘verse ficlet for Jiang Cheng’s birthday, bc sometimes you just got to be that basic. This falls about two years after Just Two Lost Souls, so tech there are spoilers, but...not really bc everyone knows how part of that story ends.

“Remember, remember the fifth of Novem—”

“Finish that rhyme and I will drive over to that house of yours and kick your ass before you’ve even had a chance to brush your teeth,” Jiang Cheng said to his brother. “Also, good morning.”

“Happy Birthday, you old bag of bones,” Wei Ying said.

“Still younger than you,” Jiang Cheng said.

“Well, at least I’m not fucking the Cryptkeeper,” Wei Ying teased.

“Rude!” Jiang Cheng yelled into his phone, hoping his brother’s ears were ringing. “Rude and uncalled for.”

“Should’ve let me finish my rhyme,” Wei Ying said.

Jiang Cheng grumbled at him.

“You’re coming home today, right?”

<i>Home</i>. That was a hell of a concept for him now. Home was technically his condo here in Boston, but home had really become Xichen’s house up in the Berkshires. All the pets were up there full-time now, not wanting to keep disrupting their lives by carting them back and forth. His condo was pretty cold and lonely these days, but he was still working on setting up a proper satellite office in Western Massachusetts. When he stayed for long stretches in the Berkshires these days, it required lots of video-conferencing and rearranging of schedules.

He was trying to feel less guilty about not being as hands-on as when he took the reins of the company, but as Qingyang pointed out, repeatedly, he’d worked so hard then so he could enjoy his time now.

And he hadn’t taken any significant time off since July.

“I’m booked with meetings until the afternoon, but I should be there in time for dinner,” he said.

Wei Ying made a dissatisfied sound. His brother and nephew had gone up to the Berkshires for a long weekend, and while Yuan--Sizhui now--was shadowing Jingyi in classes, Wei Ying was by himself. And bored.

“Then I won’t get to see you until tomorrow because Xichen’s got dibs now.”

“He does, indeed, have dibs,” Jiang Cheng agreed. “I’ll be over there tomorrow morning, so you don’t have to wander your estate, wailing about your abandonment, as your husband and child go off to school.”

“I’m getting pretty good at the ghost sounds,” Wei Ying said.

“You have too much time on your hands for someone who is supposed to be finishing the draft of his book.”

“Rude!” Wei Ying yelled. “Rude and uncalled for!”

**********

He came back from his lunch meeting to find his desk covered in no less than three gift baskets, a bouquet, a cake, and his heavily pregnant sister trying to fit a crock pot between it all.

“Yanli, what the hell?” he asked, hurrying over to her. “You’re supposed to be on bedrest.”

“I wanted to see you on your birthday,” she said as Jiang Cheng carefully guided her over to a chair. “Honestly, you and Zixuan both. You act like I’ve never been pregnant before.”

“You’re carrying twins,” Jiang Cheng said. “And you have doctor’s orders.”

“I’m fine,” Yanli said. “Now come here so I can hug you.”

He did as she ordered, reveling in his sister’s warm touch.

“Is that a muffin basket?” she asked.

“Probably.”

“And flowers in the shape of a white dog?”

“That’s from Xichen.”

“Zixuan made the cake.”

“Please tell you didn’t bring up the cake, go back down, and then bring up the crock pot.”

“Of course not,” Yanli said. “Zixuan and Ling brought the cake and were supposed to come back for the crock pot, but got distracted by the fish tank in the lobby.”

“Which means your husband got back to the car to find you missing?” He pulled back from the hug to look at Yanli’s confused face. “Or did you text him first?”

“I don’t remember,” Yanli admitted.

Pregnancy brain. It had hit Yanli bad this go round.

Qingyang ran into the office then. “Sir! Your sister is….right there. Sitting right there. Perfectly fine.” She pulled out her phone. “Call back security. We found her. She’s okay. Please calm Mr. Jin down.”

“Honestly,” Yanli said, trying to stand up. “Like someone would kidnap me and a crock pot.”

“Wei Ying would,” Jiang Cheng said.

Yanli laughed. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

**********

After a last-minute late lunch featuring his very pregnant sister, his hyperventilating brother-in-law, his pouting nephew who just want to go look at the fish again, and both of his parents, Jiang Cheng had never been more relieved to pull into Xichen’s driveway.

Of course as soon as he got his laptop out of the backseat, he was faced with one Lan Qiren.

“I understand it is your birthday,” he said.

Jiang Cheng nodded. “Funny thing how they happen every year.”

Lan Qiren did not look amused.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” he asked.

“There is,” Lan Qiren said. He pointed to the windows facing Lan Qiren’s home. “Those cats of yours. They keep staring. Control it.”

“Sir, you don’t control cats so much as hope to contain them,” Jiang Cheng said. “That spot gets the best sun; they’re going to gravitate towards it.”

“Well, direct them somewhere else. They keep staring.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said as he headed towards the front door.

He planned on doing not a single damn thing.

Inside Sugar was waiting for him. She let him slide his shoes off and put his coat up, but then it was barks and nudges and time for her treat.

“You were never this spoiled back at the condo,” he said, heading towards the kitchen and the jars filled with all kinds of pet treats.

Xichen might still have a general aversion to grocery stores, but let that man in a pet store and he’d buy out half their inventory.

Honestly, Sugar did not need organic handmade dog biscuits, but try telling that to Lan Xichen.

Sugar taken care of, he went over to Pepper and Nutmeg stretched out on their new bed, perfectly placed on their favorite window seat. He was surprised Pepper wasn’t attached to Xichen like she normally was when he was home, but apparently she’d opted for a longer nap. Both cats made their little pleased sounds as he scratched their ears. Nutmeg even opened her eyes for a second before stretching back out in warm, lazy cat bliss. He kissed the top of both of their heads and then headed upstairs to find his elusive boyfriend.

“Xichen?” he called.

He wasn’t in his studio. Or the music room. Or their home gym.

“Babe?” he called, stepping into their empty bedroom.

“In here!” Xichen’s muffled voice came from the bathroom.

“You okay?” Jiang Cheng asked as he opened the door.

And immediately stopped.

There was a runt of a kitten in Xichen’s hands. A tiny, loud, angry, scraggly brown thing, who was swatting at Xichen’s hair.

Jiang Cheng instantly fell in love.

“Give me,” he said.

“Gladly,” Xichen handed the kitten over. “She’s a biter.”

“Well, of course she is when you hold her like that,” Jiang Cheng said as he carefully cradled the kitten to his chest and slid down next to the tub.

She was obviously a found kitten, too thin for anything from a breeder or from recovering in the pound.

“Where did you find her?” he asked.

“So that 4H field trip I supervised to the Nie farm yesterday,” Xichen said. “I came back with more than just mud on my shoes.”

“I can see that.”

Xichen slid down to join him. “I’m still not convinced Mingjue didn’t find this thing a few days before and purposefully ‘discovered’ it when I was surrounded by a bunch of animal-loving children.” He kissed Jiang Cheng’s cheek. “She likes the sink, so I’m sad to say, your side has now been claimed.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to share yours,” he said.

“Dr. Rose checked her out. Still waiting on some test results, but other than being underweight, she doesn’t even have worms.”

“That’s a miracle,” Jiang Cheng said.

“I was thinking she’s a Cinnamon. I hoping she’s one. I had one of those little tags made at the pet store.”

This man. This too caring, too generous, absolutely got roped into adopting a stray kitten, man. He was amazing. And he was all Jiang Cheng’s.

“I love you,” he said.

Xichen’s face softened, the way it always did when Jiang Cheng told him that. “I love you too,” he said. He rested his head on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder and looked down at the quiet, purring kitten. “Taking care of a kitten was not in my plans for your birthday. But she’s certainly taken over the bathroom, so the long, luxurious soak I planned for both of us is out.”

“I’ll take comfy pajamas and delivery pizza,” Jiang Cheng admitted. “It’s been a bit of a day.”

“I can do that,” Xichen said. He nuzzled Jiang Cheng’s neck. “Whatever you want.”

#long post #verse: lahl #xicheng #fandom: the untamed #my ridic writing #i'm going to need to come up with a name for all these post-jtls ficlets

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seriouslyhooked · 6 years

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Scoring Your Love (Part 13/?)

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six,Part Seven,Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve. Story also on FF here and AO3 here. Banner by the wonderful @timetravelandfairytales

Modern AU where Killian is a world famous soccer star who has hit rock bottom and been sentenced to the place where ‘football’ legends go to die – America. While here he crosses paths with Emma, an up and coming musician and film scorer who challenges everything he thought he knew and makes him want more than the game he’s always loved. Will be filled with fluff for days. Rated M.

A/N: Okay my friends. I just want to inform you all before you start reading that this chapter is not my usual happy go lucky fluff. For some of my more soft-hearted readers (you know who you are), I would recommend that you wait to read this until tomorrow when I will post chapter 14. I won’t be offended at all if you wait, and by then the stormier seas will have calmed a bit. For the rest of you, however, I hope you will enjoy this chapter. It’s a really important one for the story and it brings us to a cross roads I have been anticipating since I first came up with this AU. That being said I appreciate you reading and look forward to hearing what you think!

“Okay, so does anyone have any questions about what our next steps are?” Tiana posed the question to a room filled with staff from the show who were all gathered for the weekly update. Before anyone could respond, however, Tiana ran through the final bullet points of the meeting they’d just had. “We’ve got the writers working on crafting episodes seven and eight now, filming of five ends today and six starts tomorrow in Burbank, and three and four are finishing in post.”

Everyone in the room nodded in agreement, giving Tiana the green light to end the meeting much to Emma’s enjoyment. Not that it wasn’t fun to be a part of a big show like this. So far she’d felt simultaneously challenged and excited at all of the scoring work she got to do to keep pace with a network production, but Emma always did better in one on one or solo settings. Being a part of a larger team and running through the plans had never really been her style. She was a workhorse, but she preferred to focus on her piece of the puzzle and leave the grand designs for showrunners and producers.

“Emma, can I talk to you for a quick sec before you bolt?” Tiana asked, her smile wide as she called Emma out for her more singular tendencies. Emma agreed that she could and waited behind as everyone else filtered out of the conference room.

“What’s up?”

“’What’s up’ is that you are unbelievable, girl! I got the final cuts you sent over last night and it’s amazing. I got chills like five times, and I knew every twist that was coming.”

Emma smiled at the praise, knowing that the magic of sound when added to a base cut was really something. A show or a film was never finished without it, and though it wasn’t the flashiest part of production, Emma knew the music and the score could pack just as much punch if done right as any dramatic acting or cinematography.

“Oh good, so this isn’t one of those ‘you’re fired’ kind of meetings then?” Emma joked.

“Hardly,” Tiana said with a genuine laugh as she shook her head. “You’re the real deal, Emma, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. I sent your stuff up to the network execs and they’re thrilled. They’re convinced we have a hit on our hands and you helped make that possible.”

“Just doing my part,” Emma said honestly.

“Well either way you’ve made some powerful people very happy, especially since there’s a new potential producer that wants in. A very wealthy producer.”

Emma’s eyes widened at the statement. It wasn’t unusual from Emma’s understanding for producers to join as shows were still on the air, but to add someone with money this early when the pilot hadn’t so much as premiered was a big deal. Though Emma hadn’t worked much in TV before, she knew that shows were seen as a big risk in their first few seasons. There were a lot of factors that could make or break a new series, and at the end of the day the most important thing was ratings. To survive, a show needed to resonate with a lot of people, millions of people, and that wasn’t so easy these days.

“Congrats, Tiana. That’s awesome. I know how hard you’ve worked on this, and you deserve every success.”

“Thanks Emma. So that being said… I was hoping I could ask for a favor.”

“Name it,” Emma said, willing to do whatever she could to help out her friend and boss.

“The potential partner is in town just for today and he’s coming to check out the production side of things. He’s going to see a bit of the set and meet some of the actors but he’s also interested in post, specifically the music. Turns out he’s heard of you and he was hoping to get a look at your process.”

Emma hadn’t expected anything like this and to be honest she was surprised. Despite all of the interest that she’d garnered after the Oscars, Emma still felt strange about being noticed, and the actual craft of scoring was always a relatively personal thing. She collaborated of course, working with other musicians and sound designers, and reporting to directors and show runners like Tiana, but to have an outsider in her space was a very different thing. For some reason it made her a little uneasy, but rationally she knew that was silly. She should just take the compliment and live up to her promise to Tiana. This would be fine, just a few minutes spent schmoozing with a potential investor, and then she could go on her merry way.

“I know, I know, it’s kind of weird and intrusive. I wouldn’t ask if I could see a way around it, Emma, but he seems really interested and…”

“And in this business money talks,” Emma said, prompting a knowing nod from Tiana.

“Exactly. I mean technically we don’t need the money, but it just never hurts, even if we know we just have it for a rainy day.”

The rationale Tiana offered was something Emma understood well. It fit in with the facts of Tiana’s backstory that Emma already knew. Coming form a working class family and losing her Dad early in life, Tiana was used to living in the real world where having things was not a given. She might have had some advantages over Emma, being raised by her mother and her grandmother, but that same underlying pull to try and create a comfort that she never had was there. Money was something that granted access and possibility, but it had to be worked for and protected. Emma knew that first hand, and she knew the drive to collect and save what she could just in case something went wrong. For that reason she could let go of her misgivings and do this for the show and for Tiana.

“I understand,” Emma said. “Just send him down whenever you’re ready. I’ll be around most of the afternoon.”

“Fantastic!” Tiana said with a clap of her hands. “I owe you, Emma.”

With the conversation now finished, Tiana took her leave, no doubt to play superwoman and handle every possible crisis or flare up that would crop up through the day. Emma, meanwhile, headed to the studio, deciding it was best to continue on like it was a normal day instead of focusing on a potential visitor. She situated herself in the booth and got to work.

Having just finished the final touches on an episode the night before, Emma now had a whole episode to create for. It was a real blank slate to start fresh on, and there were completely different themes needed for the final cut. She needed a few pieces for Ruby and her costar – the heroes of the hour and the side of good that the audience should root for. Some of those themes she had already made, and she’d only have to rework them a little from previous episodes, but others required she start completely from scratch. Emma needed emotion packed pieces for the episode’s twist and one for the sad state that the victims were in at the beginning before Ruby and her partner stepped in to save the day. But in the end Emma decided to go for a darker, more sinister piece today.

In every episode of the show there was always some kind of villain, the person (or creature) that committed the crime or was causing the chaos that the heroes had to fix. Usually that was a harder mindset for Emma to get into, and for the past few episodes she’d left that piece almost for the end, but after last night’s fiasco at dinner and the run in with that terrible Gold fellow, Emma was feeling strangely inspired. It wasn’t difficult to channel the emotions needed to depict monstrosity, not when she’d experienced his cold, calculated evil, and been filled in on so much more after dinner.

“Truth be told, Emma, I don’t even know where to begin,” Killian said as they finally entered his apartment and she told him that it was time for them to talk. “The lies that man has told… they’re not something I ever want to touch you.”

“I think it’s too late for that. I know you’re trying to protect me, Killian, but the only way to do that is to tell me the truth.”

“Aye, love. I know. I only wish it wasn’t quite so ugly.”

Ugly or not, Killian confessed everything to her that night. He told her about the life he used to have, which was pretty much on par with what Emma imagined the life of a world-famous soccer player would be. She had hardly imagined he was a monk, and honestly she’d just been glad it wasn’t as bad as it could be. In the scheme of things, the unmoderated drinking and the partying and the fights wasn’t that bad. When she thought about the drugs and the lifestyle of some of the people she’d met here in LA she was relieved. That being said she wasn’t exactly thrilled at the fact that there was a time when he leaned into the bachelor playboy image, and hearing about his liaison with Gold’s ex-wife… well it just didn’t sound like the man she knew now.

“Why did you do it?” Emma asked, genuinely curious as to why he would start something with a man like Gold. Surely Killian had to know it would go terribly, but he’d made the choice anyway. He wasn’t stupid, so there must be a reason.

“Because my life was in shambles, love. I had nothing even thought it seemed that I had everything, and I was too foolish to realize that the dream I’d always had lacked anything like substance. I was tricking myself into believing that I had what I wanted, but everything I had was a lie. It wasn’t real or authentic, and I think deep down I knew that. I was desperate to be checked, to be forced out of the same bloody horrible cycle, and this was just a way to have to face the music.”

Emma thought long and hard about that, and it made sense the more she thought about it. Killian had been scouted when he was still so young, and before that he’d dedicated his whole life to this sport. He had no one in the world except for his brother and the only thing they really seemed to share was soccer. Emma imagined what a dream like that would mean for a young man, and she knew that anyone is his position would be tempted to give in and live the fast life that went with it. She could even understand his reasoning now about subconsciously wanting someone to put a stop to all of it, even if she never would have made those kinds of choices herself.

“Do you regret it?” Emma asked, wanting to hear what she already knew – that he was different now and that he wanted different things than he had in the past.

“No,” Killian replied, surprising her. “I mean yes, I wish I hadn’t made that choice with Milah. It was beyond bad judgment. It was seedy and ugly and it’s spiraled to something I never imagined or ever wanted. But even the worst parts – the complete lack of privacy, the lies, the character assassination – they were worth getting here. I wouldn’t have ever found my way to you without those choices, Emma, and though I’m ashamed at the man I was, I had to make those mistakes to find you and I can never regret that. I can only move forward. I can only try to show you that I’m not really that man. Not anymore.”

For better or worse Emma heard those words and she felt them to be true. She looked at him and the details of his past that weren’t all happy and shiny and hopeful and she accepted them. Killian wasn’t perfect, but Emma knew she couldn’t judge him. Bad choices were something everyone dabbled in at some point or other, and after Killian had told her everything and more, Emma felt like she had room to share some of her own worst moments too.

“I was in juvie,” she blurted out, both because she wanted to alleviate some of the feelings of shame on Killian’s face that had formed since his confessions and because she knew that she wanted him to know every part of her just like she did him. “I was sixteen. I’d run away from another group home and I tried to hotwire a car to get me out of the state.”

“Tried to?” He asked, clearly shocked but not giving off any kind of judgmental vibes as he pushed for details.

“Okay, I did hotwire a car.” Her words made something shift in his gaze and Emma swore he looked impressed. Leave it to Killian to find the best in one of her worst faults. “And I made it a whole ten miles before I got caught.”

“What kind of car was it?” he asked after a thoughtful pause, completely surprising her. Most people asked what happened. They asked what juvie was like or if she regretted her decision, but not many cared about the car. She’d always appreciated that since it was a bit embarrassing.

“This vintage yellow beetle, and by vintage I mean old.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

She’d then proceeded to tell him the rest of the story, about how juvie was the scariest thing she’d ever gone through and how she’d started to really let go of the belief that things would ever be okay. Emma had been alone her whole life, but solitude was better than being there those first few weeks. The culture inside there was tense at best, and she’d felt isolated and afraid all the time. Only when she’d been put into some of the art and music classes had she found any sort of comfort, and the only reason she’d had a fighting chance at a better life thereafter was because her music teacher and her social worker had stayed in touch. They’d seen something in her and they fought for her second chance when Emma didn’t know how. Everything she had now she owed to them, and she didn’t think she’d ever have found her path if she hadn’t made some terrible mistakes.

But even though last night had proved a critical step in their relationship, Emma couldn’t help but resent Gold. His presence in LA might have forced Emma and Killian to be open with everything, but his intention was hardly helpful. He was a cruel man and a vengeful one and Emma could never forgive him for what he’d done to Killian and what he was still doing. Wasn’t it enough that Killian’s reputation had taken such a hit and he’d been forced to leave the team he loved? What kind of person kept kicking someone when they were down?

Someone with an unchecked ego and a whole bunch of crazy, Emma reasoned to herself as she thought it over, and it was that dynamic that made Gold the perfect muse for a villainous figure. He lacked the heart most people had, and his actions undercut the sympathy any one could feel for him. Maybe he’d been wronged, but his vendetta surpassed the bounds of decency and that was a monstrous trait indeed, one Emma hoped she’d never have to deal with face to face again.

“Knock knock,” a voice said, pulling Emma from her music, and as she pulled off her headphones a sudden wave of apprehension hit her. The voice had been muffled by the audio on her feed, but even before she looked her hair stood up on edge. When she turned to find Gold, she was only half surprised even as she recoiled. God this man was creepy, and she definitely did not want to be anywhere near him.

“How did you get in here?” Emma asked, ignoring any kind of pleasantries with a man who deserved no such kindness. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Now, now, Emma. Is that any way to talk to a new investor?” He said with a wave of his hands and a flash of his teeth that was less a smile and more a snarl.

Emma’s heart sank at the realization that Gold was the potential producer Tiana was scoping out and she knew that despite Tiana’s hopes this was not going to work. She hated to make her new friend choose but if Gold was signing on then she was signing off. That being said, Emma had always prided herself on being able to read people, and she didn’t actually think Gold was here for an investment opportunity. He was here to cause trouble, plain and simple.

“You and I both know you don’t actually give a shit about the show,” Emma said, wanting him to give himself away without her asking him flat out.

“Oh Miss Swan, how you wound me. You really think I’d stoop to such a low? You think I’d come all this way for nothing?”

His voice dripped with sarcasm, making the strange tone it had grind upon her ears even more. It was almost sing-songy and Emma wondered if and how he got away with these theatrics in the real world. Apparently money bought a lot of freedoms the rest of the world didn’t benefit from. After all, she couldn’t be the only one who thought he was so over the top. It was clear as day and frankly undeniable.

“I think you came here to mess with Killian, and it’s not going to work.”

“You say that now, but that’s only because you don’t know -,”

“I know,” Emma cut in, interrupting whatever crazy rant he was about to go on. “I know what Killian started with you. I know the choices he made.”

Gold grinned at this, seeming to take a sick satisfaction in the fact that he had forced Killian to reveal himself. Emma wasn’t swayed by his reaction in anyway though. In fact, she just felt more hostility and more need to defend Killian and assure Gold he hadn’t hurt them in the slightest.

“I also know that you’re insecurity is what’s brought you here. You’re fighting a war over what, your hurt pride? If you ask me that’s the sign of a very insecure kind of man.”

“Well no one asked you, did they?” he snapped, his attitude shifting from the weird playfulness to full on threat. Her blood ran cold as she saw the malice that crossed his expression, but just as soon as it was there it was gone. Jesus, this guy was a full on sociopath. “Besides, it doesn’t matter what you say, dearie. My battle with Jones ends when I say it does.”

“What else is left?” Emma asked. “You’ve already taken so much -,”

“I have,” Gold sneered, interrupting her. “I thought I’d taken everything, in fact. But then low and behold you arrive and now it’s like he’s won. I can’t have that, Miss Swan. Surely you must see that.”

“So you what? Thought you’d get on this show and threaten me.”

“It crossed my mind a time or two,” Gold said brightly. “But you strike me as the kind of woman who is burdened with integrity. My guess, having met you, is that you’d play the martyr. You would leave this job and any other before you hurt him.”

Emma stayed silent even though what Gold said was true. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right, but Emma knew that this job wasn’t worth more than what she had with Killian. Music would be her passion no matter what, and as for the rest of it, she’d figure it out. She’d always figured it out before.

“That’s why I’ve decided to change my strategy. You can relax, dearie. I won’t be signing on for the show. You’re little dreams are safe from me. But Killian’s…”

“What about Killian’s?” Emma asked defiantly. “You can’t get to him. He’s protected now. He’s signed on with Regina and they have an agreement.”

“They do,” Gold said. “And at one time she was a valuable ally, but the tides have changed.”

“What did you do?”

“I did what I do best, Miss Swan. I found the person I needed, then I found their greatest weakness, and from that weakness I struck a deal. This deal just so happens to be with the president of the European Soccer League.”

The sense of foreboding Emma got from this weighed heavily on her. She had a thing about lying – she knew when someone was being honest, and Gold had all the power here. Whatever weapon he had found he was being honest about it, and Emma knew exactly what he had planned without his even having to say it. He still did of course, because he was terrible, and as the words washed over her Emma only felt worse and worse.

“You see, in exchange for some discretion about the… less than savory parts of his life, he’s made me a promise – that Killian Jones will never play in Europe again without my say so. He’ll never play in any respectable league without my go ahead, and he will never get that, dearie… unless.”

“Unless?” Emma asked, her heart pounding in her ears as her palms grew sweaty and her eyes threatened to form tears. She fought them though, unwilling to show weakness to such a man.

“Unless you end things with him. Now.”

And there it was, the ultimatum. Either Emma would give Killian up or she would take away the biggest part of his world. Killian loved soccer, and for all Emma knew he had every intention of doing his time here before going back. Everyone talked about how he deserved that chance, how the league here wasn’t challenging enough for him, and how the world deserved to see him on a stage befitting his skill. But in giving him up Emma would be giving up so much of herself, because she loved him – she loved him in that big, huge, once in a lifetime kind of way, and she didn’t think she’d ever get over him no matter what other dreams may come her way.

“I know this is a lot to process, Miss Swan, you seem very taken with Jones for whatever reason. I realize you’ll likely have to think about it. But I will warn you my offer is not without limits. You have twenty four hours to make your choice and in the meantime there will be no contact. No calls, no visits. If you speak to Jones the offer is void. I want you to cut him off completely. It’s the only way I’ll consider the score even.”

The numbness Emma felt at taking all of this in was debilitating. She was so angry and so hurt at the same time. There was so much emotion swirling around inside of her that she was paralyzed from it. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think. She felt trapped and suffocated all at once. It was excruciating, and Gold loved every second of it. He even had the balls to laugh at her pain and at the horrible choice he’d given her.

“I’ll take your stunned silence as a sign that you understand me, and that I should go.” With that he grabbed his things and made to head out. But before he left he turned back once more offering one last cruelly gleeful grin. “Good-bye, Emma. I hope you make the right choice.”

Emma couldn’t say exactly how long she stood there when Gold was gone. It could have been seconds, or an hour or more. Honestly, she was reeling from the interaction, caught up in a daze that she just couldn’t seem to shake. She was stuck in limbo, unsure of where to go, but eventually something did pull her from the mire of her thoughts: the familiar ding of a text message sounding from her phone. She reached for it quickly, hoping it would be Ruby or Mary Margaret. Someone who could help – someone she could trust, but instead it was exactly the person she wasn’t supposed to see.

K: Missing you like crazy today. We still on for tonight?

Her finger hovered over the reply bar for a while. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three. Four. Five. But the more that came the harder it was to think. She just didn’t know which way to go. Her heart was dying to say yes and to tell him she loved him. She wanted to run to Killian, to tell him the truth, and to find a way to fight this together. But she hesitated, wondering if that was love or if it was selfishness. Was she making that choice for them, or would she be doing it for herself because she loved him and couldn’t picture a life without him?

Emma didn’t know the answer to that question, and Gold said reaching out in any way would make the choice. Once she replied the damage would be done, and so she didn’t, instead shutting off her phone and slipping it into her bag with the rest of her things. She didn’t know where she was going, but Emma knew she had to leave. She had to run, and right now she didn’t where she was going, only that she had to go.

Post-Note: To those of you brave enough to ignore my warning and read this I hope you aren’t too angry with me. I did warn you after all, so you kind of knew what you were in for. That being said I PROMISE I am going to fix this for Emma and Killian and I am going to fix it next chapter, which as I have said, will be posted tomorrow night. I really hated to make it a cliff hanger at all, but the chapter was already a lot longer than my normal one so the cut off had to be made. Don’t worry though. I will make the next chapter longer too to make up for it. Anyway, thank you all so much for reading and I hope you have a good rest of your night!

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dzamie · 7 years

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Fuckton of OC questions: Dzamie

Questions from @liaraliara‘s post here. Doing these for Dzamie, will do more for other characters eventually, whether y’all want me to or not.

1. What’s their full name? Why was that chosen? Does it mean anything? Dzamie Deshulian. Dzamie is one of my common pseudonyms (linguistics joke I stole from a family member), and Deshulian... in-universe, he chose that name from a Chinese word for “skill” and the French "de.” It is almost certainly pronounced wrong, but it’s his name now.

2. Do they have any titles? How did they get them? Holy fuck does he have titles. Well, descriptors mostly, though he does carry the moniker of Blue Bandit from his attempts at being a phantom thief, Lord of the Yellow Hive from Equestria shenanigans, and some places call him the Reaper due to his high body count nearby (he decided to get a scythe when he heard that, though he didn’t practice using it much for a long time). Title-wise, he’s described himself as a spellsword, archmage, weaponsmaster, assassin, illusionist, and complete fucking nerd. He self-describably “moonlights as a Lesser Spirit of Chaos.”

3. Did they have a good childhood? What are fond memories they have of it? What’s a bad memory? Oh man his childhood is tragic as fuck. Birthplace village burned down, his parents presumably killed or captured, and essentially left with his half-brother (HM) to fend for themselves. Managed to find their way to a really helpful... institution, for lack of a better word. Except it’s a place dedicated to teaching people how to kill dragons. HM happens to be a dragon. Dzamie went anyway, and HM sort of let dragon instincts help him survive, with help from Dzamie. Dzamie was at some point convinced to inflict an ambiguously-large amount of torture on a bunch of dragons, at first because... well, dragonslayer school at the time was fucked up, and later because science. And then people kept trying to kill him, but that’s just... that just keeps happening; it’s not a childhood thing.

4. What is their relationship with their parents? What’s a good and bad memory with them? Did they know both parents? No strong memories. His father died in the fire or shortly after, and his mother is in hiding to keep herself alive definitely dead. No need to look for her.

5. Do they have any siblings? What’s their names? What is their relationship with them? Has their relationship changed since they were kids to adults? H.M. Deshulian is his half-brother (genetics are weird when dragons are involved). They’ve always had a pretty good relationship, though strangely tempered with a mutual feeling of “I don’t want it to happen for a really, really long time, but I’m pretty sure he’ll be the direct cause of my death.” Dzamie is HM’s favorite food, and HM is the reason Dzamie decided to increase his acid resistance to a ridiculous level.

6. What were they like at school? Did they enjoy it? Did they finish? What level of higher education did they reach? What subjects did they enjoy? Which did they hate? Dzamie was wonderful at the technical stuff, but completely refused the “dragons are evil”-type rhetoric, so he just barely got by, eventually graduating bottom of his class (though the dragonslaying done as the graduation test was definitely the most efficient and least risky of the lot). He’s taken a few college courses here and there, but all after timelines start getting weird around him, so it’s hard to tell when or how many. He enjoys applied math

7. Did they have lots of friends as a child? Did they keep any of their childhood friends into adulthood? He was completely study-driven, with HM being his only friend - though, it didn’t help that most kids he could’ve been friends with would’ve wanted to kill HM on sight. Interestingly, Kenny was in his year, though they never really liked each other much.

8. Did they have pets as a child? Do they have pets as an adult? Do they like animals? Well, he has HM No pets to speak of. Closest there is is Smugleaf, a Serperior who occasionally lets him have her Pokeball and direct her in combat. He loves birdwatching, snakes, and a bunch of other animals.

9. Do animals like them? Do they get on well with animals? Animals are generally somewhat neutral towards him, though he can regularly get pretty close to wild animals without them caring.

10. Do they like children? Do children like them? Do they have or want any children? What would they be like as a parent? Or as a godparent/babysitter/ect? No (but he does well with them anyway), yes, no, neglectful, not too bad (just because it’s not much interaction. Facades are tough to keep up over long times)

11. Do they have any special diet requirements? Are they a vegetarian? Vegan? Have any allergies? Will starve without meat. His species generally views bread as a mild poison, but Dzamie being Dzamie, he no longer has to care.

12. What is their favourite food? Brownies, the chocolate-ier the better.

13. What is their least favourite food? Sourdough bread.

14. Do they have any specific memories of food/a restaurant/meal? Nothing in particular. He remembers being food a lot, especially for HM, but that’s not really the same.

15. Are they good at cooking? Do they enjoy it? What do others think of their cooking? He’s amazing at cooking, especially at arguably-taboo meals (though he won’t make anything he wouldn’t eat). He has a lot of fun with it, because he “gets to play with knives and fire, and out comes delicious food.” He’s quite the showman while cooking, which can be hit-or-miss, but most people like his cooking, assuming they like the dish he makes (i.e. he obviously can’t make a PB&J that someone who’s allergic to peanuts would like).

16. Do they collect anything? What do they do with it? Where do they keep it? He hoards knowledge, gold, and some shiny jewels, which he blames on growing up with HM. Additionally, he keeps trophies - the left horn of each dragon he slays, and the sword of any dragonslayer he bests in combat (not usually kills, just leaves weaponless for a while. It’s a slayer thing).

17. Do they like to take photos? What do they like to take photos of? Selfies? What do they do with their photos? Nope! He likes to be on camera, but photos aren’t really his thing.

18. What’s their favourite genre of: books, music, tv shows, films, video games and anything else Books: Fiction with interesting worldbuilding stuff. He tends to visit those places. Music: Anything with a good rhythm and tempo, since he often fights in time to whatever’s playing in his head. Electro-stuff is good. TV shows: No preference, really. He doesn’t watch much. Films: Same as books, though he tends to riff on the films he watches. Video games: Platformers with tight controls.

19. What’s their least favourite genres? Most things to do with rural stuff, come to think of it.

20. Do they like musicals? Music in general? What do they do when they’re favourite song comes? He likes the idea of musicals, rarely the implementation. Music is very important to him, especially as he can mimic male voices, and move precisely to rhythms.

21. Do they have a temper? Are they patient? What are they like when they do lose their temper? He kind of does. He’s pretty patient, and tends to do the silent-rage sort of thing when upset enough. Though, it’s a little bit of a tell that his magic spikes and its color turns from green (pride) to red (anger).

22. What are their favourite insults to use? What do they insult people for? Or do they prefer to bitch behind someone’s back? He’s definitely the kind of person who’ll insult someone to their face, either backhanded or up-front. Either directly pointing out flaws (”Let’s get this straight, you thought coming at both me and HM unarmed was a good idea? Did you maybe think the price on his head is that big for a reason?”) or just calling them names that probably don’t make sense if not for inflection (”You absolute salmon.”). Mostly for suicidal lack of common sense.

23. Do they have a good memory? Short term or long term? Are they good with names? Or faces? He has good auditory and muscle memory, but can’t remember faces, and names are tough. He knows a lot of trivia, and has memorized a bunch of really useful dragonslaying regulations, but it can be kind of random what he remembers.

24. What is their sleeping pattern like? Do they snore? What do they like to sleep on? A soft or hard mattress? He sleeps whenever. Nobody’s known when or where he’s ever slept for almost two years now, save for a few times people could make guesses from him somehow waking up in a pile of dragons.

25. What do they find funny? Do they have a good sense of humour? Are they funny themselves? It’s really hard to predict, except for puns. He loves puns. He makes a lot of them, too.

26. How do they act when they’re happy? Do they sing? Dance? Hum? Or do they hide their emotions? If it’s necessary to keep up a Facade, he hides his emotions well. If not, he smiles, sings and hums, and sometimes fiddles with knives.

27. What makes them sad? Do they cry regularly? Do they cry openly or hide it? What are they like they are sad? Not much, actually. He hasn’t cried in years, and nobody’s really known if he’s sad - even him.

28. What is their biggest fear? What in general scares them? How do they act when they’re scared? HM deciding he’d rather not have him around. HM with a large tactical advantage over him. Manic grin, blatant rules abuse.

29. What do they do when they find out someone else’s fear? Do they tease them? Or get very over protective? Depends on if he likes them or not. If he does, he usually doesn’t bring it up, and warns them if something he’s about to do is gonna be really scary (though he usually does it anyway after telling them how to avoid experiencing it). If he doesn’t like them, he’ll try to abuse that fear as much as he can without letting on that it’s him doing it.

30. Do they exercise? Regularly? Or only when forced? What do they act like pre-work out and post-work out? “Does playing with people trying to kill me count? Because if not, all I’ve got is sparring with Kenneth and HM, and occasionally going for really long walks.

31. Do they drink? What are they like drunk? What are they like hungover? How do they act when other people are drunk or hungover? Kind or teasing? Nope, but he can act it really well!

32. What do they dress like? What sorta shops do they buy clothes from? Do they wear the fashion that they like? What do they wear to sleep? Do they wear makeup? What’s their hair like? He has three modes of dress: comfortable and casual, ridiculously-accurate cosplay, and naked. To sleep, generally just a comfortable pair of PJ bottoms and a t-shirt. Dzamie doesn’t usually wear makeup, but does an excellent job of dying his fur to pass for a tiger or leopard when he needs to have a non-magical disguise.

33. What underwear do they wear? Boxers or briefs? Lacey? Comfy granny panties? Boxer-briefs, if he’s wearing anything.

34. What is their body type? How tall are they? Do they like their body? Lean, somewhat muscular (but it doesn’t show through his fur at all). He’s roughly 6 feet tall, and makes sure he’s very comfortable with whatever form he’s in - he’s very physically expressive, and also does a lot of things that require knowing exactly where every part of him is.

35. What’s their guilty pleasure? What is their totally unguilty pleasure? His guilty pleasure is probably making up identities to pretend to be online. His totally unguilty pleasures are a good swordfight, casual pickpocketing (though he generally returns the stuff he swipes), and being eaten, usually by HM, Smugleaf, or Sylvia.

36. What are they good at? What hobbies do they like? Can they sing? Dzamie’s good at... a lot of stuff, actually. He’s kind of a Mary-Sue. Most of my OCs for the Combined Setting are poorly-written, really, so I don’t write stories with them. He likes playing videogames, making his hoard look nice, and bothering talking with HM. And yes, he’s an amazing singer, pitch-perfect and flawless rhythm. Has trouble with female-sung songs, since he can’t just mimic those.

37. Do they like to read? Are they a fast or slow reader? Do they like poetry? Fictional or non fiction? Fast-ish reader, prefers fiction (fanfiction especially). Dzamie enjoys poetry and abhors free verse.

38. What do they admire in others? What talents do they wish they had? Fuck if I know. He wishes he could learn a telekinesis spell (he’s fundamentally blocked from doing so, ever), but this fosters resentment, not admiration.

39. Do they like letters? Or prefer emails/messaging? Definitely emails.

40. Do they like energy drinks? Coffee? Sugary food? Or can they naturally stay awake and alert? “Awake and alert” is his default state, but he’s not known to turn down sugary snacks.

41. What’s their sexuality? What do they find attractive? Physically and mentally? What do they like/need in a relationship? Self-described as “complicated, or alternatively ‘straight plus also into women’” (he has a variety of transformation spells, and form affects mind). Physically, he likes... scales, tails, and forked tongues. Mentally is a bit tougher, but usually stable and steady enough to not go off the deep-end when he, HM, Dream, and/or Kenny inevitably do something... sanity-testing.

42. What are their goals? What would they sacrifice anything for? What is their secret ambition? Dzamie doesn’t have any goals in particular. He’d sacrifice anything but his or HM’s life for, well, his or HM’s life. No secret ambitions, really.

43. Are they religious? What do they think of religion? What do they think of religious people? What do they think of non religious people? He’s not very religious, though if he had to choose he’d say he “observes” Eris (the chaos noodle, not the Greek deity), and he does tend to celebrate major Jewish holidays (Yom Kippur isn’t really “celebrated,” but you get the gist) and Christmas out of tradition. Nobody really knows where this tradition came from. He generally doesn’t really care about people’s religiosity or whatever, so long as they’re not bonkers enough to try to, say, ritually sacrifice him or someone he cares about, or to try to stop his kobolds’ “cult” at the source by killing Azurel (him as a dragon).

44. What is their favourite season? Type of weather? Are they good in the cold or the heat? What weather do they complain in the most? Definitely autumn, and heavy cloud cover (but not quite overcast). He’s pretty good in the cold (fire spells just in case) but complains about high temperatures, blaming his fur coat for his crabbiness.

45. How do other people see them? Is it similar to how they see themselves? They generally think Dzamie’s a bit to the side of normal and sane, but almost disturbingly effective. Those who aren’t used to him find him a bit unstable, but HM, Dream, and Kenneth figure he’s surprisingly predictable - just not in ways most people are. He, on the other hand... actually, he’d agree with all of that.

46. Do they make a good first impression? Does their first impression reflect them accurately? How do they introduce themselves? He doesn’t usually have the opportunity to make a good impression; most new people Dzamie meets are met amidst chaos. “Introductions” tend to range from “Hey, I don’t suppose you’ve seen, like, six kobolds run through here?” to “Hi. I’m Dzamie Deshulian, but you can call me your worst nightmare.” to “Don’t worry! This spell should last for at least ten seconds, so you should run that way before it stops working! Name’s Dzamie, by the way.” to “Good evening. I suppose I should mention a bit of a hole in your security system. It’s about Blue Bandit-sized, which is going to be a problem about two minutes ago.” to “Hi. Dzamie Deshulian. I noticed you guys used to have a dragon problem with a nifty reward. Note the past tense. Here’s her horn.”

47. How do they act in a formal occasion? What do they think of black tie wear? Do they enjoy fancy parties and love to chit chat or loathe the whole event? Generally hates them. Plays well, but generally expects a pretty big payoff (assassination target, scoping out a Blue Bandit target, some really good food, etc.) if he’s going to pretend he’s actually enjoying his time there.

48. Do they enjoy any parties? If so what kind? Do they organise the party or just turn up? How do they act? What if they didn’t want to go but were dragged along by a friend? He vaguely enjoys get-togethers, but often stays away from group conversations, content to just watch people do people things. If it’s a party where a lot of the guests are dragons, he can usually expect to wake up in a pile of dragons. He has no idea how this keeps happening.

49. What is their most valued object? Are they sentimental? Is there something they have to take everywhere with them? Tough call between his twin katanas, his Dragonslayer blade, and the mana-crystal necklace he wears pretty much all the time. The katanas are actually everywhere he goes as well, but they usually don’t actually exist until they need to.

50. If they could only take one bag of stuff somewhere with them: what would they pack? What do they consider their essentials? His spellbook and a bunch of knives. Everything else can be summoned, created, traded for, stolen, or... harvested, if they’re not the necklace (always on him) or his twin swords (also always on him).

#text #ocs #dzamie #tag

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its-actually-withered · 7 years

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Hazards, once a one-shot, now a mess.

Summary: Ichigo and Rukia; best friends, roommates, college students. Life gets easier after saving the world a few times, but it also gets harder. There were hazards to having your whole world altered by the presence of a single person, falling in love with them is pretty high on the list. It also doesn't help that she keeps wearing his clothes. [Inspired by Telephone by KurosakiLove]

Dedicated to @hashtagartistlife because you’re literally my source of ichiruki trash, and also the one that convinced me to get a tumblr and now I’m dead

"You're cheating on me, is that it?"

There were hazards to being best friends with a girl, and even more when it came to living with one.

Telling people they were just roommates didn't exactly pass muster when two minutes into their shared apartment, decorated seamlessly to incorporate both their styles with pictures that could be misconstrued as "couple-like" scattered around, Rukia would walk out of their room wearing his clothes.

He really had tried to convince people, though that they were roommates and had been since he was fifteen. But he just got condescending nods, and eventually, he learned to pretend that the fact that people thought they were dating (or at the very least, screwing) didn't bother him.

It certainly didn't bother the girls that still came up to ask him out, much to Rukia's amusement.

He grumbled, "You're such a bitch."

"Your creativity is lacking in the insult department, Strawberry-chan."

"The least you can do is be sympathetic," he sulked.

"Oh, woe is you, the tragic Kurosaki Ichigo being constantly approached by beautiful women! Where's the sad violin music that is the soundtrack to your life?"

Girls like Kuchiki Rukia had hazard signs all over them: Danger! Don't underestimate! Danger! Don't be deceived! Danger! Danger!

"Your acting's gotten worse, is that possible?"

"It depends," Rukia mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "did you really use me as an excuse to not go out with Inoue-san again? You do know she knows we aren't a thing, right?"

Girls like Inoue Orihime wore different hazard signs, ones he tried to adhere to always: Danger! Fragile! Danger! Made of glass! Danger! Not suitable!

Ichigo grumbled at the very reminder of her. He still couldn't believe she had followed him to study in the city, and though he knew he probably should have just told her straight out he wasn't interested in her romantically, he also still secretly harbored the hope that the buxom girl really did always dream of studying in Tokyo.

"I'm going to keep using it if it's all the same to you," he retorted.

"Fine, but don't come crying to me when you finally find a girl you're interested in, and she thinks we're a thing," she said, already smug despite the sheer impossibility of the notion. That she didn't bait the issue anyway was something he was only marginally surprised by.

The Kuchiki princess' near-permanent move to the World of the Living resulted in her needing to dedicate time to doing actual living human things which considering the age she was playing at, required her to get into university, and at her own admission in wanting to have an immersive 'young adult experience' get a part time job to tide her over. She had the time for it, after all.

Hollows weren't very bright, but going into the territory of the savior of the world (twice!) just wasn't something they were doing.

Ichigo, for his part, couldn't complain what with his medical degree well under way, and though Rukia had never had an inch of bloodlust in her that wasn't incited in the name of justice, she grew bored of feigning interest in class.

It was her own fault really, why she chose to major in historical studies was beyond him, and a job at the local coffee shop? What kind of act was she going for?

Even if the work was easy for her on both fronts, the load couldn't be ignored.

Just that morning she had accidently woken him up as she was getting up to leave – gracelessly climbing over his prone form to get out of bed. He had scowled at her, resisting the urge to pull her back beside him as she muttered, "My paper's due for ten." He had watched her, blurry eyed as she clumsily put on his discarded sweater from yesterday – the room being too cold for even her at the hour – and grumbled, "It can't wait for after three in the fucking morning?" She had yawned adorably wide, running her hand haphazardly through her dark hair as she did so. "Six o'clock shift at work."

In the bluish light from the television, he could make out the slightly darkened smudges beneath her eyes.

"You're staring."

He covered his embarrassment with a snort. "You're wearing my shirt again."

"It's comfortable," she informed, tugging at the hem in demonstration, showing off the skin of her décolleté as the shirt hung off one shoulder to expose her collarbone. His eyes flickered at the sight, though valiantly, not long enough for her to notice and smack him for it. "Besides, it's the least we can do if you're going to keep pretending we're dating."

"It's easier," he insisted, "plus, no one believes us being just friends anyway. We sleep in the same bed, damn it!"

"Only because you wouldn't let me sleep in the closet," she reminded, still displeased at being evicted. "It's bigger than the one at home!"

"You're not sleeping in the closet, I already told you. When school lightens up a bit, I'll get on to getting that other bed for you, okay?" Rukia rolled her eyes. He'd been promising that since they started university, and he knew it.

There was a certain intimacy he had become accustomed to since Rukia had come barreling into his life.

Random attacks in the morning or after school, his dad had him covered. But there was no preparing for the short shit shinigami that would change everything.

She used kido, for god's sake, and he was still shit at it.

And when it came to the odd Hollow attack, she'd face plant him with that trusty glove of hers as she sat on his chest, or set Chappy on him; and Ichigo still couldn't decide which was worse (it would probably be Chappy if Rukia hadn't taken such a liking to summer dresses).

Not that he would ever admit it aloud to her, but ever since his powers were taken away from him, he realized how he actually hated to be alone, though not in the I-need-to-be-around-people way, but in the I-keep-looking-for-her in shadows way.

After his powers came back (along with her) he was more relieved than anything when she turned down the bed in Yuzu and Karin's room. The sneaking around, he could deal with, and if he offered his closet every time they got back from Hollow hunts despite them not having dinner with the family yet, neither remarked on it.

The arrangement couldn't continue when they moved to Tokyo.

If Byakuya found out she was still living in his closet, Ichigo knew he'd be fearing cherry blossoms for the rest of his life.

Shifting her legs across his lap, he caught sight of the boxers she was wearing. "Are those mine?"

"Probably," she replied, shrugging nonchalantly.

He sighed.

Whether she was hanging out in his clothes, stealing food off his plate, stretching out across his lap, messing his hair as she walked passed him while he studied, hip checking him as they washed dishes or brushed their teeth; Rukia gave zero shits about personal space and boundaries.

At one point, he had sarcastically offered his toothbrush to her on the first night in Tokyo, and she just looked at him like he had cooties.

It figured that the only thing she wasn't willing to do was swap spit.

He inwardly scoffed at the thought.

Even he had to admit it was kind of gross to share a toothbrush, but it was a mindboggling normal thing compared to the lines they had crossed with one another.

The first time they met, she did put a sword through him.

"You're never going to let that go," she declared, rolling her eyes, all too used to his thoughts occasionally being verbalized when he was thinking too hard.

"Our swords are extensions of our souls; mine could've seriously fucked yours up."

Rukia raised a brow at him, giving him that 'you can't seriously be this dumb' look that he's both infatuated and infuriated by, and the hazard signs flashed in his mind's eye: Danger! Feelings ahead! Danger! Possible heart-to-heart expected! Danger! She's going to say words that are going to make you feel dumb!

"You tried to offer yourself to the Hollow to protect your sisters, you idiot. Delinquent or not, you have a good heart, a good soul, and that's all that matters; even if you are as dumb as a pile of rocks."

He rolled his eyes.

"And for a prude," she added a second later, "you're taking the fact that our souls basically had sex quite well."

He choked, and almost sagely, she remarked, "Oh, I spoke too soon."

"The hell is wrong with you?" he spluttered.

"What?" she asked innocently. "My soul technically did penetrate yours, you know. Or didn't you get this talk? What are you – twenty, or twelve? Come on Messer Med Student, cat got your tongue?"

"You're insane."

"By some definitions," she allowed with a smirk. "What's brought this up again?"

"What? The whole sword through the chest thing?"

"Un, that. Reminiscing?"

Shrugging, he stretched his arm across the back of the couch, and vaguely recalled, "Just thinking about your total disregard of normal human boundaries."

On cue, she kicked him in the rib. "How dare you? A Kuchiki always respects boundaries."

"Then please explain, with citation, on what planet your brother would be okay with you wearing my clothes and sleeping in my bed?"

Rukia scowled. "Get in line, I have enough papers due."

"Face it, you have no defense," he pointed out with a snicker.

"Of course, I do. Don't be stupid, you think I'm this relaxed with everyone I meet?" He'd actually hate himself if the answer was yes, and the thought of her this comfortable with everyone made him momentarily forget the blinking hazard signs. She rolled her eyes at his silence; rewarding his lack of response with a lack of her own.

He hated it when she did that. "You aren't comfortable around many people."

"Hence why it's a luxury, idiot."

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "Fine. Citation?"

She made a sound of annoyance at the back of her throat before she vaulted up so fast Ichigo almost fucking squeaked when she was suddenly nose to nose with him; her thighs bracketing his as she straddled his lap. "Citation? You really want to go there?"

Danger! Danger! This is not the friendzone!

Even he could feel the bounce in his Adam's apple as he swallowed. "What do you mean?"

Huffing, she muttered under her breath, "You're so fucking dense."

There were hazards to having your whole world altered by the presence of a single person, falling in love with them is pretty high on the list.

Chap2 Chap3

#ichiruki #fanfic rec #ichiruki fic rec #ichiruki fic #shipper trash #college au #Telephone by KurosakiLove #Me: escaping 686 #fuck that ending #death and the strawberry #deathberry

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sudsybear · 6 years

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More changes

Something happened at Wooster. These days I don’t remember exactly what that something was. Although, I do remember talking it through with Ross; one of those late night confessionals when we admitted our fears and insecurities, gaining trust in each other. Seems to me there was a story of an unsuccessful suicide attempt; scratching his wrists with razor blades, drawing enough blood to be scary, but not enough to be deadly. I picture him standing in the lobby of the Civic Center, I hadn’t seen him for months, and he had bandages on both wrists. No one else I’ve asked will corroborate that memory. Did I make it up? Is it a figment of my overactive imagination? I honestly don’t know. Later, Ross led some to believe he hacked into the school’s mainframe, and was expelled. With others he joked about eating too many Twinkies and watching too much television. He was good at evasion and kept his own counsel. I don’t remember enough to know what to believe anymore. Whatever the reason, it was a doozy of a sophomore slump and his parents made the three-hour drive on I-71 to the college and brought Ross and his stuff home in January. He needed to sort out what he wanted in life. He needed time to heal. Wooster was not a good experience. I’ll never know all that happened. I just know he came home.

Along with Liz, my friendship with Shari blossomed in the aftermath of David’s and my demise. We shared choir and Triple Trio rehearsals; and were thrown together for study groups and Teen Counseling sessions. Shari was strong then, She had ideas, plans, dreams. I enjoyed her confidence, a bit amazed by it. Proud of and loyal to her Jewish heritage, she refused to sing the sacred Christmas music our choir director chose for the winter concert. By February we were fully engaged in co-producing the Corral Show together. As producers, Shari and I made sure all the acts had parent sponsors and filled all the show committees (publicity, program, house manager, etc.) Later we followed up with the committees making sure the myriad tasks were taken care of. We had to be at every rehearsal to make sure all the would-be participants showed up. I spent Saturday afternoons with Shari at the Civic Center.

Since Ross was home from college, he was put in charge of shuttling Scott around. Scott was playing guitar with a re-hash of the band Ross had played with two years previous – some of the same faces, a couple of new ones. They would perform in the show. Ross stayed at the Civic Center and listened while Scott played. He had little else to do. And when Ross showed up, Shari’s and my friendship strained. You remember reader, Ross and Shari had dated a few years back. The three of us tried to joke and laugh together. They had been intimate. I never knew the extent of their attraction. And while I recognized the irrelevance of the relationship, my own insecurity fed my curiosity. I asked questions of both of them, and worried how I compared in Ross’ eyes.

Ross and I started slow. We really were just pals. Ross drove me home from Corral Show practice. Scott rode in the backseat with his guitar, and Ross dropped me off at the end of our driveway. As the weeks wore on, Ross and I took longer drives home from the Civic Center with detours to an eatery. We were comfortable, natural with each other. No pretense, we thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.

I fell for Ross in a big way. Just seventeen, I was sure I could soothe his troubled soul. I knew his struggles. And was smitten with a stubborn case of puppy love that I’m still not completely over. I’m confident declaring that at the time the feeling was mutual.

* * *

I still had school, homework and rehearsals. So did he. Ross wasn’t home but a couple of weeks, and he was registered for computer classes at Cincinnati Technical College (Now Cincinnati State). That was his Dad’s doing, “If you’re home, you’re going to be in school.” While I never actually heard him say it, the message was clear. “No son of mine is going to be a college drop-out. I don’t care if it is a technical college, you’re going.” So, school it was. He started with just a couple of classes, not a full load. Enough to keep Ross busy, but not enough to overwhelm him. We made time to spend with each other.

My father was gone much of the time, traveling for work. Mom was busy working to finish up her nursing degree, taking the last class and getting her hands-on training at the local hospitals. Her mother, my grandmother, lived at one of the newer retirement/nursing home villages in town. Mom worked part-time as an aide. She checked in on my grandmother and took her to the grocery store, post office and such. Mom still ran life squad. Sunday dinners were a must-attend, but beyond that, we left messages for each other on the kitchen counter. We were very good at the message system. The back door was never locked; the dogs were let out any time someone was home. Mom fed them and changed their water dishes. We were an active and cooperative household.

Any time Dad was out of town, I had the Pinto to drive – which was most of the time. And even though we lived less than a half-mile from the high school, I drove half the time. That gave me freedom to ditch class and spend time with Ross. So I did. Not often enough to get in trouble…but often enough to make it worth our while.

I didn’t take seriously my role as Mark’s first girlfriend, and I dropped him – rather suddenly and inexplicably, I’m afraid. Poor guy, he never had a chance. It was very unfair to him, and I’m truly sorry for the way I treated him. There was nothing wrong – he didn’t do anything to upset me. He just wasn’t Ross. Ross and I had history, friendship, and a connection that Mark could never equal. Mark hated girls for a long time after that, and I should have been kinder.

* * *

“Boyish Enthusiasm.” That phrase was invented to describe Ross with a new album. Ross picked me up from some activity, either from school after a choir rehearsal or at the Civic Center after a Corral Show practice, and we HAD to get to his house. What was the deal? We pulled in the driveway, ran in through the garage, flew up the basement steps, his mom was in the kitchen. “Hi, Mrs. Jeynes!”

“Hi, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know…Ross just bought a new record. We’ll be upstairs.”

“Okay, have fun!”

Ross was in his room by the time I finished that quick greeting. “Soozin-X, come up here!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming! What’s the hurry?” as I ran up the stairs.

In his room, Ross took the pleasure of slicing through the cellophane wrapping. He inhaled the smell of new cardboard and vinyl, and the delight of a pristine album untouched by a needle. Bliss. The album was Phil Collins’ latest solo release, “No Jacket Required”

He pulled the album out of the sleeve, holding it carefully, thumb on the outer edge, index finger on the center hole. Placed the album gently on the turntable, put the needle in place (first checking it for dust), lowered it, and cranked the volume. I had no idea music could be played that loud. (The knob must have gone to 11 at least!) He stood in the middle of his bedroom where the speakers had been strategically aimed to maximize acoustic performance and listened – really listened to the first side. I sat on his bed; sheets and bedspread scattered under me, leaned against the wall and watched him. I was amazed at the intensity with which he concentrated on the music. He stood with his hands by his side, eyes closed, or occasionally glancing around the room, with periodic eye contact and a smile. Air drumming or air guitar…he concentrated on the sound…he absorbed it.

The first side ended, my ears were ringing by this time, and he turned the album over to play the second side. Entranced by his behavior, I just watched and listened…the album ended, and Ross wanted to play it again. This second time, I convinced him to turn the volume down, and we sat on his bed and listened …together. Then it was time to get home for dinner with my folks and do homework.

* * *

In April, I started receiving acceptance letters from colleges, and had to decide where to go the following fall. My choices were Ohio State, Augustana, Tufts (I was wait-listed) or UofR. Oh what a decision that was. Money was a huge issue. We didn’t qualify for financial aid at that point, and UofR was one of the most expensive schools in the country. Friends were going to Ohio State, and I thought that might be comforting. I never did take Augustana seriously. I applied on a lark. Basically I had to choose between OSU and UofR.

While we disagree about it now, at the time, I believed my father pushed for UofR. Dad liked the prestige of the school – he had applied and considered the school back in the fifties. He even pulled out thirty year old slides of the campus that he took when he visited. Dad ended up at MIT. He thought it was neat that his daughter might attend a school he had considered a lifetime previous. He was especially impressed that the dean of Students taught in the Religion Department and was the baseball coach. I had my misgivings, but chose Rochester, and decision made, forgot about it, sort of. More fun to live in the moment.

* * *

Ross acquired a project car. An old Pinto he bought from a friend for $1, it never actually went anywhere that I ever knew, although others tell of him driving it. Ross worked in the driveway in back of the house, wearing a Rush concert T-shirt overtop cutoff cargo pants, Converse Chuck T’s and no socks. His short bland hair was growing out from the color black he had dyed it. He welded new metal plates to the floor to cover the holes in the bottom, then put in new carpet. Remnants from a carpeting job his parents had done. He repaired the seats and upgraded the sound system (I must say the subwoofers he installed in the back of that thing were "kick-ass") for what’s a car if it doesn’t have decent sound? He tinkered with the engine, learning any and all that he could about cars. I passed tools to him like any smitten female does, but eventually I got bored and found something else to do. If Ross wasn’t working on his own Pinto, he helped his friend Greg with his Dodge Dart.

The Dodge Dart. Why is it that anyone in High school in the mid 1980s has a friend or acquaintance or drove himself, a Dodge Dart? That was Greg’s fancy. Ross had the Pinto, and Greg had the Dart. They were great friends, and Ross loved to rib Greg about all the time and effort he put into that car. Like the Pinto was such a great car either? They had dreams, and were learning, and it kept them out of too much other trouble.

* * *

Suffering a severe case of senior-itis, I purposefully gave myself a light academic load. Math was a relaxed affair, social studies required some attention, AP English was supposed to be a tough course, but with the teacher mix-up, I ducked the writing assignments as much as possible. Art and Choir required little effort outside of rehearsals. I had no first period class and standing permission to be off campus for Teen Counseling, I spent my free time with Ross.

One morning toward the end of the school year, I left for school late and instead of the short ride to park in the school lot, I drove around the corner and up to Jeynes’ house. Our parents were at work. Scott was at school. I parked my Pinto next to Ross’ in the driveway behind the house, walked in through the garage, up the basement steps to the breakfast nook, tiptoed around the hallway and up the stairs to the second floor. Turned right, and sneaked down the hall to Ross’ room. Ross was not quite awake, still in the blessed morning state halfway between, “Do I want to roll over and go back to sleep…or wake up and go take my shower?” Once in his room, I took off my shoes and socks and crawled into his bed. We curled around each other and both fell back asleep.

We woke up later, enjoying a morning snuggle. We still weren’t motivated to do anything productive. We talked about how much time we were spending together, and how comfortable we were. I asked something about Wooster, and Ross dug around in some boxes and found the letters I sent to him. He kept them in a shoebox. He also had letters from other friends and previous girlfriends. I was thrilled and flattered that he had kept my letters. We re-read them. Sitting on his bed, the covers strewn around us, we started laughing. Oh, how we laughed.

Ross described walking to his mailbox with his buddies. He checked his mailbox, sorted through the letters, and stuffed the one from me in his jacket pocket.

“Hey Man, you got mail. Aren’t you going to read it?”

“Nah, I’ll save it for later”

“Oh, it’s a good one, eh? From a girlfriend or something?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just this girl who writes to me. It’s bizarre stuff.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alright, I’ll show you.”

It was one of the coloring book pictures I colored and sent.

“You get that stuff all the time?”

“Yep.”

“Weird. What do you do with it?”

“I don’t know, man. I just don’t know. She just keeps sending it.”

We laughed so hard that morning, looking through the mail I had sent him. Poor Ross, what I had put him through sending him mail. Yes, he was happy to get it, but what strange mail to receive.

After we laughed, I lay in bed while Ross showered and dressed. By this time we were ravenous, and it was almost noon, so we left the house and drove to Burger King for brunch. He had to go to afternoon classes, and so did I. I was distracted the rest of the day, in anticipation of seeing Ross again. Afternoon classes, and choir rehearsal…my heart wasn’t in it.

* * *

I had an Eddie Bauer backpack to carry my textbooks and spiral notebooks. Book packs have been all the rage since the mid-70s at least, and in the 80s having the right label on yours meant everything. I begged my parents to pay too much for an Eddie Bauer bag, and I used it and used it and used it. The thing was, the seams were unraveled and I had a terrible time getting my books and notebooks into and out of the bag. I complained about it to Ross one afternoon. He looked at it, said, “Oh, I can fix that. I need a lighter.”

“What?”

“It will be okay, I promise. Watch.”

On the back porch of our house, he sat for an hour melting the seam allowances along the entire interior of the backpack. Tedious and dangerous, burned fingers are no fun. I have a healthy fear of an open flame, despite (or maybe because of) my experiences with teenage male pyrotechnics. I was terrified he would burn himself, but fascinated to watch him work. I used that backpack for another couple of years, took it to college, then summer camp and out to California. A strap finally broke. Mom mailed the pack back to the company, and they replaced it with a new one. When it arrived, I sat on the back porch and melted the seam allowances myself.

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tteastains · 7 years

Text

the tension of opposites

Life pulls alternately back and forth, like a wrestling match. Love, he says, always wins.

All my life, I have been a writer. I have always filled notebooks and journals with all kinds of stories. I have always been eager to share them with people. Writing has always been a deep-seated and essential part of my identity—the way I see myself, describe myself and place myself in the world.

All my life, I have had the idea that creative passions and careers are simply not worth the time or effort thrown at me nonstop. I have heard that creative fields are not “real jobs” and that making a living from creative passions is something that takes nothing more than privilege and a stroke of luck that is not afforded to most people.

I have now finished my first year of college, in which I took two vastly different writing classes that I thoroughly enjoyed. Having already completed two semesters of College English in high school, I’m technically “done” with it. And as my second semester wrapped up and I needed to make a schedule for next fall, I started to have this creeping feeling of something I wouldn’t quite call “dread,” but it was definitely building up to that.

I’ve always told myself (and frankly, have always been told) that writing is something I’ll always “have.” Something I can always “do,” after I find something “better.” After I find A Real Job.

But after this past year, I’ve realized something that makes my heart hurt. The minimal writing that I have been doing since finishing high school is already suffering. As an undergraduate student who did not work, I still didn’t have time to sit down and commit to writing. Because—brace yourself—writing does require discipline and commitment. Especially in my second semester, that discipline and commitment was almost exclusively applied to my schoolwork.

So I’ve had a lot of days (and very late nights) that I just get lost in the thought of letting writing go, completely setting it aside and saving it for when I do have the time. Devote myself to this obscure concept of a “real job” that everyone talks down to me about all the time.

During the past year or two, I have taken a genuine interest in psychology. Now that’s what I call A Real Job, right? There are so many places you go with psych! So many well-paying options! All I have to do is pursue a career in psychology, land a decent job, and then all the sudden I’ll have the time and funds to commit myself to writing again! Maybe I can even write a book about psychology!

That’s not how it works. And it’s so not the point.

I am tired. I’m tired of creative people being forced to stifle their creativity and their passions because they are told that they don’t count. I’m tired of hearing the same story over and over of artists pursuing a degree in a field that they hate because they have been taught that that’s just what they have to do to survive. I’m tired of the people who do honor their creativity being stepped on by others for doing so.

Now, I understand that doing sitting at my desk alternating between scribbling in a notebook and tapping furiously at a keyboard is not a valid career option in the eyes of many. I understand that maybe it’s not a valid career option, period.

What I want to know is what the point of life is if all you’re doing is setting your passions aside for the promise of money.

The prospect of starving to death or being stuck in one miserable place (physical or metaphorical) is the only thing that has ever stopped me from completely diving into writing with everything I have. Toward the end of last semester in my writing class, we were given an assignment that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. It was a question that we had to respond to in something like 200 words.

What would we do with our lives if there was a universal basement income and no one had to work anymore? This was part of a whole discussion we’d been having about our future of work becoming overrun with technology to the point of there being no work for human beings.

It seemed like a lot of people in my class were stumped or hadn’t really thought about it that much. I don’t know that for sure because I never saw what they wrote or spoke to anyone about it, but I understand why they might have had trouble. It was a Writing for STEM class, so it’s safe to assume that a lot of the people around me were set on a very smart-sounding and impressive career that they had always wanted to pursue. Chemical engineering, professional hacking, things like that. Various jobs that people don’t really think about being taken over by robots someday very soon.

It didn’t take me very long at all to finish my assignment because it was a question I had already thought about extensively. If I didn’t have to worry about surviving anymore, I would create a space for myself that I could write until my fingers fell off and my eyes fell out. When I ran out of ideas or hit a slump, I’d keep going to school and learn about all the other things that interest me. I’d take a breath and commit to reading more.

The most refreshing part about that whole discussion was that the professor brought up the topic of music that had been composed by robots and screenplays written by computers. Most of the class agreed (only after the professor said it more than once) that humans in creative fields like music and writing and painting technically can be replaced by machines, sure. But when you listen to that music, or look at that drawing, or watch that screenplay being acted out… it’s just not right. “It’s just very obvious that it was not written by a human being.” After that, we had a brief discussion about how screwed up the publishing process is for writing a book after someone made a comment along the lines of, “if you’re a good writer, you sell a million books, you’re set for life.” The professor and I both cringed because frankly, I wish that were true.

But anyway. For some reason, the reflex of so many people is to stamp out any spark of creativity and spit on people who study the arts. They don’t take into account that discouraging artists will soon make movies, books, music, and interesting clothing disappear.

They don’t take into account how much damage that does to someone, to be told constantly to find something because what they love doesn’t count.

College has brought me many things, not all positive, but I’m grateful for most all of them. Recently, I was granted the choice between statistics and creative writing.

Since go, I’ve understood college in perhaps the most incorrect way possible. I had the idea in my head that picking up classes because they sounded neat was somehow wrong. I also know that an understanding of statistics is a pretty useful tool for most things. Those two things were all it took for me to tell myself, “yeah, math sucks but this is useful and it’s better to just get it over with.”

I didn’t know at that time that a creative writing class was an alternative until a third party stepped in and laid my choices in front of me and started asking me questions that I already knew I was failing to ask myself.

And the fact is that knowledge of statistics is useful and often even required. Another fact, however, is that there is not a shortage of opportunities to pursue a statistics course. I’m not running short on time, either.

Dropping statistics in exchange for a second creative writing course was not a hard choice. In fact, it was kind of terrifyingly easy. When it comes to choosing between writing and something else, writing is my first choice most of the time. However, since about my sophomore year of high school, I’ve had to set it aside and focus on other things, and I guess you could say that my brain is hardwired that way now. Meaning, I tend to just assume that writing needs to go on the backburner until “later.”

Coming into summer and reflecting on the things I’ve learned over the past two semesters has lead me onto a weird thought train.

I’ve learned that it’s not okay to leave the things I love on the back burner or in the margins of my life. That’s why I’m so excited about the classes I’m taking in the fall, and yet I’m still harboring a weird feeling, something that almost feels like guilt.

Because like I said, my brain feels hard-wired into thinking that writing is something that needs to wait. It brings me back to the ideas about “real jobs” that I’ve been taught forever, that have always scared me so much for so many reasons.

Maybe writing isn’t a real job. Maybe I’ll take this next creative writing course and love it, and find the time and motivation to finish the YA novel I’ve been working on for three years. Maybe after that, I’ll be satisfied and never want to write another thing ever again.

That last one may be very unlikely, but I won’t know for certain until I get there. Nothing is certain, especially not when it comes to things like this.

I don’t want to spend my life stifling my creativity and my passions for the sake of not facing criticism or for the sake of money or because I’ve convinced myself that it will make my life easier.

I will start my second year of college in the fall, and I will be starting it with a new mindset. I don’t want to deny myself the enjoyment of pursuing courses that seem cool just because I won’t “use” them.

I had to take a Geometry and Trigonometry (twice!) in high school and I suffered all the way through. It’s safe to assume I won’t be using those in my everyday life. So, forgive me if I’ve realized that now’s the time to take a few classes that I enjoy, even if I won’t “use” them or don’t “need” them. Because I no longer believe that those two things are or need to be mutually exclusive.

I’m not ready to be “done” with writing or English classes, and that’s something that I have always known but I had to be pushed toward realizing. Especially realizing that it’s okay, and that if I don’t go for it now, I will probably grow to resent myself at some point down the line.

Because, of course: in the end, love always wins.

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