#the heatwave has been “mild” here where I live

[xceanlynx]

Tomorrow will be one of, if not the hottest day of the year. The heatwave has been very severe, some states have been measuring up to 42°C (107,6 °F). Rio de Janeiro had a thermal sensation of 52,7 °C (127°F) at 8:30am.

Seriously... the end of times is very near.

#brazil #the heatwave has been “mild” here where I live #like here it's hot all the time anyway #people noticed but not like other cities #also my city is in the coastline so the winds help just a tiny bit #but anyway #we are all going to die

[the-iron-orchid]

Rimworld: Arcana, Part 4: Hell-Pit to Hell-Home

Tsedi: “The hat stays ON in bed”

(This is actually a glitch lmao)

A few notes about defense: as you can see here, the cave they’re inhabiting bridges two areas. The first is this large valley of sorts between mountainous areas, with multiples areas of Rich Soil (crops grow faster). It behooves us to eventually build a perimeter wall to the west to defend our crops from raiders.

We can also control this entire area to the south by placing a blockade at this two-tile choke point. Raiders come in from the edge of the map, and they will either have to group up here to try and break through (where we can shoot them through the embrasures), or take the long way around.

Tsedi and Heron discuss the important things in life. (I’m grabbing all the silly interactions I can now, because as the game progresses it will get harder to catch them lol)

Tsedi chose an inopportune moment to come in and start whittling away at that wall in the communal bathroom, and Jinana is upset about it. Oops. “Are you poopin?”

Heron is researching batteries by shroomlight at the shiny new Research Bench, Tsedi is determinedly hacking away at that limestone wall with his big Mining skill of 0, and Turel and Jinana are.. sigh. They fuckin again

The next day brings unwelcome news. Fortunately, our little guys currently live in a nice cool cave, and we can build passive coolers to keep it comfortable in here.

Tsedi shoots his shot with Heron, to no avail. RESEARCH IS HIS TRUE LOVE

Unfortunately, we really need Heron to do some Construction work, because he is very fast and efficient. But what’s this?

It’s Julian, stepping up to finish researching! I somehow completely forgot that he has the second best Intellectual skill (8 to Heron’s 10). The day is saved!

Julian burns the midnight oil to finish researching batteries for their electrical system, while Tsedi mines out the room some more and Jinana cuts the waste rock into usable stone blocks at their new stonecutting table. That’s fuckin teamwork~

...OK? Self-domesticating rat, just what we need ig

This one goes out to @xx-sharpfawngz-xx​ ahahaha. Looks like we have a new colony mascot!

I let the randomizer make the faction name, but lol

Here we can see the classic defensive trap-maze at the more open entrance of the hellhole they live in. Colonists can go through the doors, but raiders and manhunting animals are forced to go through the steel spike-traps instead. Also, I guess barfing is funny.

Turel got mild heatstroke because he insisted on gardening in 117F-degree heat, so I recalled him inside to cool off and make some stone blocks instead. I was concerned about Lucio because goats are only comfortable up to about 104F, but he has been completely fine. It figures.

This tracks tbh

The heatwave is over, but poor Turel is just having a Time of it.

What happened is that our supply of Packaged Survival Meals has run out, so the pawns are currently eating foraged fruit. For some reason the game considers raw fruit to be ‘dangerous’, with a risk of contracting food poisoning. (This is also true of raw meat, food prepared by an inexperienced cook or prepared in unsanitary conditions.) It doesn’t help that the conditions are kinda poor - they keep the place as clean as possible, but it’s still a cave. In the meantime, Turel’s work speed is slowed and he will pause occasionally to hurl, which someone then has to clean up. Sigh.

Bedtime once more - but we now have a working generator, one measly light (non-Undergrounder pawns hate being in the dark), a battery that still needs to be hooked up, and A FREEZER

That last one is the key to our survival! We can now store all kinds of food without it spoiling, including prepared meals, which will make our colonists much happier and even provide some buffs if the meals are good quality. Fortunately, Heron is a good cook (so much less chance of food poisoning), and we have access to varied ingredients, which pawns like.

Next project: a KITCHEN.

#Jenjamin plays Rimworld

[dawsons-justice]

He Promised, You Trusted.

Part Two to “I Promise, You Trust”

A/N: Reader is between 14-17, so this is a Father Figure!Antonio x Reader. No romance, 100% platonic. 

TW: Nothing horribly graphic, some mild angst, but mostly just to lead up to the fluff

Masterlist

It sure was cold outside. Chicago had been cold, but Minnesota somehow was colder. Your aunt had apologized she couldn't pick you up from school but it wasn't really her fault. She had to pick up some extra shifts to keep up with the bills. You're just glad she let you stay with her. 8 months ago, you really had no idea where you would end up.

8 months ago...

Detective Dawson ran off to make some calls, leaving you to your own thoughts. You noticed the worried glances of his coworkers watching you from the unit floor. You didn’t know any of them, they were all sorta intimidating in their own way, well, except for the woman with brown hair, she looked nice. It just felt better to block them out and focus on the mug in your hands. The hot chocolate had gotten cold in the time it took you to process everything and really you haven’t truly processed anything.

Dawson came back in the room, his face muddled with several emotions. There was some stress, determination and anger but you made out the sympathy on his features most of all. Most people don't want sympathy, but you were just glad someone was caring enough to do so. Trailing behind him was another cop, older, you'd seen him before, just didn't know his name.

"You got anyone we can call?" Antonio asks. you had to wrack your brain a bit. It hadn’t occurred to you that this would be important. "I have an aunt. I haven't talked to her in years. My dad and her don't get along."

The two men exchanged a glance. And you understood now. If you didn't find a home yourself, they'd have to put you in a group home. That was not good. You had heard stories, everyone has. Group homes only provide shelter to trouble. If you ended up there who knows what would happen to you after. You hadn’t thought this through, this was a bad idea. In some sort of a desperate plea, you grab the detective’s hand as he’s about the leave with the other guy.

"Wait no no... I can't live in a home. I can't. I'd rather go home to my dad. Please no." Panic evident in your voice. His face softens, kneeling down to your height. He was just going to try to comfort you. You forced yourself to remember whatever he says can’t change the truth. He isn’t the one making the rules. You’re not naive.

"Hey, hey kiddo. Not there yet, let's give your aunt a ring and see if we can get ahold of her. You got a name?" His voice calm, if he was worried you really couldn’t tell now, unlike when he first returned. You gave her name, not knowing anything besides she lived in St. Paul. But they were cops, you figured they could track her down.

The other guy, Voight, left, you heard him call out to someone named Halstead to run your aunt's name. Antonio didn’t move, just kept holding your hand looking around as if he wasn’t. The fact we seemed unbothered by the comforting gesture put you more at ease, yet you still were struggling with this.

"B-but what if she doesn't want me?"

There was a look of disbelief in his face, as if you were made of solid gold. It was fake and you knew it, still, it was comforting. "We're gonna figure it out, ok? I'll tell her myself what a great kid you are."

"I'm sorry."

The detective didn’t have to say anything, but you knew he deflected your apology. Somehow you just knew the minute you said it what his response was going to be. He didn’t feel bothered. And on top of this it was going to work out. He would make sure it worked out.

And it did. Given the explanation of the situation, your Aunt was happy to take you in. Antonio pulled some strings and you spent one night with his colleague Kim Burgess (the woman with the brown hair) before your aunt took over custody. In less than 48 hours you were on your way to Minnesota with a bag you packed and your dad had no clue. For once you knew there was at least one person who was worth trusting in this world.

The snow crunched below your feet. It was only another mile or so to your aunt’s place. The roads were pretty clear. Much of the snow had been packed down for days, but a recent heatwave melted and refroze the roads to solid ice. The deceiving snow was only an inch or two thick on top of the slick icy layer beneath. So, when you hear tires squeal, it is not in any way surprising. You were learning to drive yourself; ice roads were something that even your aunt had trouble managing let alone teach you how to navigate. You had respect for anyone who was able to successfully manage those roads in two-wheel drive. Whipping around, there’s not a two-ton car sliding towards you as you had expected, planning to dive roll into the snow. There’s a black van with a guy in a ski mask running towards you.

Crap.

Taking advantage of the ice, you threw your backpack at him, hoping he’d lose his balance and walk onto the more slippery road. Yet things do not go to plan as he easily recovers and continues to pursue you, reaching you and wrapping his arms around your waist. You fought. You screamed, wailed, bit, flailed, kicked and every other defensive action your subconscious could think of. It didn’t work, he was just too much bigger than you. You were thrown into the back of the van.

no no no no no this can’t be happening.

You considered yourself a calm person, but that was before you were tied and gagged in the back of a van. The darkness seemed to only escalate your fears as you had a blank canvas to imagine your worst nightmares becoming reality. "Please, just let me go” you must have said it 40 times before something heavy hit your head.

Things faded in and out. Darkness and light fought a battle, but you could never really tell if you could see or not, it was all just shadows. The nausea was also coming in waves, paired with the throbbing sensation on the back of your head. You had been pistol whipped. But of course, you didn’t know that. The sheer terror of the entire situation still had you disoriented. You couldn’t feel the time pass, most people know what a minute or five minutes feels like, but you couldn’t focus. It was all too much.

 When the van doors slide open you hear the guy who grabbed you talk to whoever was driving. “I still can’t believe this guy.” His gruff voice scoffed, close by.

“Well, he had the money, who are we to judge.”

“Guy? Had someone hired them to take me? Was I about to be sold or something?”

 You’re embarrassed to say the next voice you heard brought you half a millisecond of comfort, it was misplaced. “You had to put a sack over her head?” It was your dad. How? Better question why would he ask that question though he had no emotion in his voice.

The men and your dad talk as you wrestle with this entire shock. Suddenly someone picks you up and carries you over their shoulder. You figured it was guy who grabbed you, but feeling that whoever was holding you gently lowered you to the floor, you made the new assumption it was your dad. The blindfold and gag came off in a quick motion. You were met with the hollow face of your father in some sort of abandoned room. He gave a sickening smile, one that brought no relief with it. “I brought you back sugar!”

“Dad, let me go.”

He nodded and started to undo your restraints. It couldn’t be this easy. Taking a moment, he was preoccupied with removing the duct tape glue from your arms, as if he cared, you jumped up, running across the room to open the metal door, but it was locked.

“Open the door, dad.”

“Y-you’ll just leave.” He whimpered, face looking offended.

This wasn’t your dad. The eyes were too hopeful and the demeanor was too caring. This was you dad having some sort of a mental breakdown. The pieces came together as you watched the tremors in his hands. Not knowing the man in front of you felt more terrifying than the man you ran away from. Before, you knew somewhere buried deep in his subconscious he would never seriously harm you beyond some bruises. But you stared into eyes you didn’t recognize. It was entirely possible he was going to kill you. All of that mess 8 months ago just to end up dying in Chicago and nobody knows about it.

But that’s where you were wrong.

Within a 25 mile radius…

“Detective Dawson,”

The somewhat uncaring police deputy at St. Paul started running down the situation. There wasn’t much to tell. Your backpack was found in a snowbank near some blood in the snow with you nowhere to be found. Your aunt had been adamant that the deputy at the front desk reach Antonio. And of course, the detective roped his unit into the situation. Voight made it a priority. It didn’t take a psychologist to see that Antonio cared about you, he cared about all his teen CIs. They were his secondary kids. He would find you, even if he hadn’t promised you to do so. He promised himself. When word had come in that your dad had been behind the entire situation it was not much of a shock. A man with a past of petty crime and domestic abuse with mental health concerns did seem like a high probability suspect. He had also rented out a storage container on the industrial side of town. Antonio and his team suited up. He was going to end this situation here and now.

 “CHICAGO PD OPEN THE DOOR”

In a frenzied craze, your father throws you to the floor. It would make sense for him to run, but logic wasn’t a key factor right now. His foot goes to your neck and the gun points to your head. The gun must have been on his back, you hadn’t seen it until now.

I don’t want to die.

Not like this.

Not here.

Please no.

Please.

 Bursting through the door you make out several people with weapons drawn on your dad. Light floods the dark room leaving the two of you partially blind, yet the tension still filled the air.

“LET HER GO.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order. Regardless, your neck was still being crushed. Air was slowly waning from your lungs. And then it wasn’t. In an instant you felt his foot roll out from over you, giving you a chance to scramble away.

“Y/N, Y/N, it’s ok. We’re police.”

And that was likely the only time anyone from your side of town was happy to hear that phrase. But still, you couldn’t quite comprehend it. It was a full mess of tears, screaming, wailing and shaking. You had been mere seconds from death by gun or choking, you couldn’t just suck it up. Not even you were that badass. Nonetheless, the cops weren’t getting anywhere with calming you down.

“Call an ambo.” Calls another voice, a woman. “Tonio, you ok?”

“Yeah” And under normal circumstances you would have connected the dots, but as it has already been overly reiterated, you were not stable right now. The only thing you could register was the familiar hand on top of yours gently squeezing your arm below.

“Shhh shhh, it’s ok kiddo, we got you. He’s gone.”

Hold it, you know that voice.

And what would you know, you finally grasped it. Staring down at you is Detective Dawson, once again saving your neck, literally. It was probably against some rule, but you just buried your head in his shoulder trying to block out everything outside. He let it slide, just holding you there, seemingly not in any rush to move you till the paramedics arrived. In time you realized the other officer trying to calm you down had been Burgess, but you just hadn’t recognized her. You’re in pain, but not horrendous amounts, must be the adrenaline. Regardless, Antonio calls another officer, Atwater, to carry you outside to the ambulance. Before you know it, the ambo is driving away from the scene to Chicago Med, leaving the Intelligence Unit to deal with the aftermath including Dawson.

Sitting in the ER, you wait for test results to return on your head scan. More had happened in the last 12 hours than in the last 8 months. You realized how much you liked the simplicity and (relative) safety of Minnesota, but now you’d at least carry pepper spray. You’re pulled from your thoughts as you see Dawson peak from the side of the curtains. You had not felt too lonely or afraid before given the officers stationed outside your room, but seeing him made you feel better.

“Hey kiddo, how’s the neck?” he smiles, moving into the room slowly as if he was trying not to scare you.

You smile weakly, still exhausted. “Alright, considering.” You noticed tape on the base of his neck on one side extending underneath his shirt where you couldn’t see. “What happened?”

“I might be getting a little long in the tooth for tackling suspects.” And by suspects, you knew he meant your dad. He was the one who got him off you. “Are you ok?” You ask. “All good, just had to get my shoulder checked out.”

“Ok, glad you’re ok.” And you truly were. You would feel awful if you had been the reason he had been seriously injured, especially after you were supposed to be out of his hair.

He nods, fiddling with his hands on the rail at the end of your bed. “Hey, your aunt is on her way to get you, it’s gonna be awhile, but I talked to your doctor and they said they’ll keep you till she arrives to monitor your concussion.”

You nod. “My dad?”

“We got him, he’s going away for a long time.” You notice his lack of enthusiasm in that response, obviously thinking that justice had not been fully served.

“But not forever.” Your voice soft, barely over a whisper.

He shook his head. “Long enough you’re not going to need to worry about him.”

“But you’ll come rescue me again if he tries, right?” You cocked an eyebrow, knowing it wasn’t a promise he could make, but every reassuring thing he told you made you feel better anyways.

“As much as I love the job, I don’t know if I’m going to be on the force in 40 years.”

“Yeah, you might not be able to a shoot a gun while using a walker with tennis balls on the bottom.” The two of you laugh a bit at that visualization.

As you quiet down you notice he looks a bit more serious.“But yeah, I’ll get you.”

Once again, probably against some protocol, but you just had to reach out and hug him burying your face in his leather jacket. He leans forward to pull you in. Something about it was just natural, you knew he’d protect you, you knew that now.

“Thank you so much. I’d be dead.”

“Of course,” He pets your hair, resting his chin on the top of your head.

“T-thank you for caring.” He pulls back to look you in the eyes.

“I checked your record, no priors since you left. Thank you for being worth it.” He smiles.

The two of you sit there for a minute, staring at each other, his hand still the (good) side of your head. You’d never really had a dad moment like this, but if this was the first and last dad moment you ever had, you were ok with it. It was perfect. He stands up, stretching out his back as if he’s about to leave. But instead, he pulls up a chair.

“You don’t mind if I stick around till your aunt arrives do you?”

You gently shook your head. Truth was, you were too afraid to ask him to do so, but of course, somehow, he knew what you needed. So there the two of you sat. Talking about the extremely normal things you had been involved in back in Minnesota. You swear he kept a small smile on his face the entire time. Just happy to see you moving on. It was done.

 When you turned 18, you reached out the Antonio again and asked if he would be willing to meet up for lunch, now that it was “legal” to do so. And now it has become an annual event with occasional bonus trips when you somehow wind up in the Windy City. Your lives may have grown apart in distance but something would always keep the two of you together. He’d always be there for you, and you needed that. Maybe not everyone needs a perfect father figure to survive in the world, but knowing a tough boxing detective would be by your side in one phone call gave you the freedom of safety. Your aunt is an amazing woman, but Antonio Dawson is really the one who you owe everything to.

He promised, you trusted, and it was the first decision of your life that truly mattered.

A/N: I know my presence on this account is sporadic, but I hope some people enjoy this. I’m going to dive into my drafts to work on some of the partially written responses I have for some old requests. (: 

#antonio dawson #antonio dawson x reader #Chicago PD #one chicago #antonio dawson imagines #antonio dawson imagine #antonio dawson baby #fanfiction #fandom #fanfic

[donaldduckisdead]

Okay so anyone who thinks climate change is not real here's some proof:

So I live in England and have done all my life and am nearly 20. And I do not remember the last year I did not hear BBC news state that this was "the hottest summer" or "wettest winter" with the added "since records began on the end". And if you need more proof; when I was in primary school...so from about 2007-2013 it was always if a summer was hot the next winter would be cold. But now it has barely hit below zero since the winter 21/22 began and I think the last time I even saw a fine dusting of real snow that lasted longer than an hour was boxing day night in about 2016 or 2017 where it had gone by the time it hit morning.

Every summer there's always been a week long heatwave. The last 3 years those have been about 2 weeks and with summer 2021 having an almost month long "heatwave".

Since 2022 has started the winter temperatures have not fallen below the same temperatures of those in Greece and Turkey. MEDITERRANEAN countries. These are further south and should be warmer than England but are now the same temperatures as us.

So don't even call this climate crisis a hoax when literally last year saw an entire month where British summer temperatures barely hit below about 22⁰C. Now that might not seem hot for others but for us bits that is bloody boiling. Britain is supposed to be a mild temperate climate but now we are seeing Mediterranean temperatures and British infrastructure and houses are not built for heat they are built to keep heat in.

In 2020 Texas saw snow for the first time ever. 2021/2022 winter in Britain is the first winter where I have never seen frost coated grass or feared slipping over. The most iciest it was lasted a day rather than the normal week.

Wake up this is real.

#climate change #climate emergency #winter #summer #britain #england

[prettybirdy979]

Summer Omens: Melting

Another flash fic from these prompts by @thetunewillcome. More Ineffable Husbands fics here 

‘I’m melting. Melting!’ When Aziraphale doesn’t look up from his book, Crowley adds, ‘Angel, I’m melting. I’m demon soup right now!’

‘You’re dramatic, is what you are,’ Aziraphale says, turning the page of his book. It is warm out, he’ll concede that but Crowley’s being dramatic. 

Though it might have been cooler if Crowley’s earlier little mischief hadn’t developed from an enraged neighbourhood cat, to the whole village being without power. Crowley’s always been a master of dominos but this is one of his better efforts.

‘I’m dying here.’

That gets Aziraphale to look over the top of his book at Crowley, who has collasped in a puddle of ice water in the middle of their living room. ‘You’re barely sweating.’

Crowley rolls his head towards Aziraphale, yellow eyes wide. ‘I’ll be a puddle of goo and then where will you be?’

‘Reading my book in peace,’ Aziraphale says, pushing his sleeves up as he goes back to his book. Crowley’s grumbling is making it harder to ignore the heat but he’s spent decades in these clothes, through heatwaves far worse than this little one. He’s good at ignoring the weather and his human need to react to it.

‘You’ll missssssss meee,’ Crowley drawls, touching Aziraphale’s bare foot with his head. ‘Won’t you angel?’

Aziraphale nudges at Crowley’s head with his foot, a bolt of amusement going through him when Crowley lets the movement push his head around like a loose balloon. 

‘I may eventually have some mild discomfort,’ he concedes which gets a grin from Crowley. ‘Of course, you’ll be a demon puddle by then, so I’m not sure it’ll make much difference to you.’

Crowley raises a hand to his heart. ‘Ouch,’ he says with that same grin. ‘You really know where it hurts.’

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale snaps his fingers, burying Crowley in ice cubes. Crowley squeals, a high pitched noise that has Aziraphale grinning as he goes back to his book.

‘I’m saved!’

Honestly, Aziraphale thinks as he turns back a page realising he’s not taken anything in. Why do I love him?

Crowley snaps his own fingers and a fan appears by Aziraphale, working miraculously despite the power loss. 

Aziraphale looks at it for a long moment with a soft smile before going back to his book. Yes, okay that’s why.

#good omens #summeromens #ineffable husbands #My Scribbles #My Story

[charliekeeting]

alternatively, three moments of clarity and one moment of heartbreak.                                                  [ feat. @royisms ]

“you can call me charles”

it’s a late night at the office and there’s an early morning the next day. both charlie and amanda know this, but it never stopped them from staying up late, and it doesn’t tonight. with both of them living such busy lives - charlie a newly elected government official and amanda running a successful campaign herself, the pair found every moment they could. sometimes, it was 3am between a bottle of red wine and some green.

charlie pulls themselves off their fire escape, extinguishing the remainder of the joint.

i once set off every smoke alarm in this building, they told her earlier when she watched them climb out the fire escape and light a joint for the first time. i’m not letting that happen again. and although he most certainly did in the coming months, that night, charlie wandered back in without having to deal with the fire department.

midnight conversations about shit neither of them understood were common. about god and science, about skeptics and supernatural, about the fear of the unknown. one might have argued they were too optimistic for their own good sometimes, but charlie enjoyed the late nights and early mornings with amanda, where they could fall asleep with her in their arms, their tall body wrapped around her small frame.

charlie barely remembers it, but in the back of his memory sits a piece of a conversation they’ve had only had with a handful of other people.

“you can call me charles, you know that right?” they whisper, eyes fluttered closed. “i don’t use it in the house because people are assholes.” their words begin to slow slightly, as if the speed was being turned down. “but i like the name. it’s why i never changed it fully. i just don’t like giving those dickheads power over me. but you can call me charles… if you want.”

“the breakup”

they are never at a loss for words. of all the public speaking and here they are, sitting on the kitchen counter, fumbling over syllables. they wonder if she notices. they wonder if she can tell every time they sit on a counter now they think of him. it’s an idle distraction - although not completely harmless - for the moment. for some reason, knowing what they’ve planned to do tonight has taken charlie’s brain through the ringer. they wrote something down and scrapped it a hundred times and how exactly do you break up with someone who’s perfect for you but the timing just isn’t right?

they near spill the words out of their mouths at the same time, and it takes charlie a second to process what’s happening, but they laugh about it after… a long time after. at first charlie is sad about the fact that they both thought there was too much going on to keep the other in their life. something about that fact makes it all the more painful.

“just friends”

tequila before a what’s sure to be a shitty week in the house is common at this point, but tonight, there was something else behind the drinks.

after rekindling their friendship, charlie and amanda find themselves stumbling out of the one bar that’s open past two am, holding onto each other. charlie’s probably more drunk than amanda, or at least, he believes that’s the case. his tall, lithe frame is teetering on his heels. his hands hold her body for balance even though she is much smaller than they are. still, there’s no denying they’re both out of it. she runs ahead for a moment, and charlie nearly topples over before they catch their balance. they watch her spin in front of them and charlie smiles, admires the way her body moves again, hopes they aren’t crossing a line with their eyes. they show off the new piercing sitting in their left ear. charlie asks if maybe next they should get a belly button piercing and their laughter elicits a couple of grumbled groans from annoyed neighbors.

the taxi ride back to amanda’s was something charlie didn’t realize they were waiting for. the stories are familiar until amanda whispers “you know, you were some of the best kisses i’ve ever had.” and charlie smiles and says thank you and part of him wishes she had said something more.

and as if god herself heard charlie’s prayer, he feels amanda’s breath fall out ever so gently…. “do it again?”

they barely make it into amanda’s apartment before charlie’s hands move to amanda’s waist, holding her as if letting her go again would be the worst decision in the world. their bodies intertwine again, and this isn’t the first time, but god, charlie knows this is the worst.

she says “we can call this closure right?”

he can’t help but think, no. i can’t. they don’t say that out loud.

“at your door”

that hot july night, amanda shows up unexpected.

charlie’s glasses sit on the bridge of their nose, hair tied in a messy top knot. they move their papers aside to get up off the floor when the doorbell rings and their eyebrows twist together for a moment as they look through the peephole in their door, not sure who would be stopping by tonight. like second nature, charlie slides open the deadbolt and the door as soon as he sees who’s on the other side. before it’s even is fully open, charlie’s immediately asking questions. what’s up? is something wrong? are you okay? what happened? the words stumble out of their mouth quickly only because he doesn’t know why she’s here.

she doesn’t answer with her words.

it takes all of thirty seconds before amanda’s shoes have been popped off in the entryway and charlie is carrying her into the bedroom, lips tangled into each other. their paint-covered tank top is thrown across the room, amanda’s skirt is on the ground and all of a sudden their bodies hit charlie’s mattress before the world stops for a split-second. their eyes meet. charlie’s brown pupils and her green ones find each other in a moment between heatwaves. they don’t need to ask if she’s okay - deep down, they know the answer. they know that amanda probably needs their warm body tonight and nothing else. but something about this split second between them changes things. as if their eyes tell each other stories neither understands. their lips move down to amanda’s slowly, softly. charlie knows what his kiss means, what it really means.

i love you so much. 
i want you. 
i need you. 
i miss you.

please come back to me.

they don’t say any of those things, but confusion compounds when she kisses back softly, as if the unspoken dialogue between them is a cracked cypher code. as if maybe she gets it.

that night is different than any other they’ve spent together. for the first time, charlie takes control in a way they never have with her. amanda has always been the one to instigate, to lead, to show charlie exactly how they want to be loved. but this time, the movements between them are soft, gentle, as if neither wants to break the other’s already broken pieces. charlie handles her with care that night. it’s the first time they don’t just fuck each other, the first time they touch each other in a way that cuts deeper than the nails on each other’s backs. this time it is raw, and honest, and more than just good sex.

the next morning, charlie wakes up before she does, feels their long hair falling out of the elastic wrapped around their brunette locks and walks over to the washroom. the small task of redoing their hair breaks them that morning. they feel their eyes well up ever so slightly, throat tightening around the truth sitting in their lungs as they stare at their face in the mirror, blurry without glasses. they know that despite what last night may have seemed like, charlie isn’t an idiot, and neither is amanda. he knows when the universe just makes things work and he knows that is very different from when amanda doesn’t call him for months on end only to show up at his door and immediately press their lips together. he knows that he is nothing more than her safety net - a home when the wind breaks walls.

it doesn’t stop them, though. it never has. they splash their face with water and pretend they weren’t just a mild mess in the bathroom, picking up their glasses from the floor where they had fallen the night before and move back into the bedroom, stopping in the doorframe to look at amanda’s sleeping frame, smiling tragically at the blonde - as if maybe they could stay in this moment forever.

she shifts and wakes up. charlie catches her movement through the lens of his horn rimmed glasses. his vision is clear now, but it’s tainted pink today. she looks over at him and he smiles back before crawling back into bed with her. their lips pressing together again, soft and gentle, a good morning charlie didn’t ask for.

that’s when charlie knows he’s fucked.

#good morning pain time! #ft. amanda

[athina39]

smut wip

• smutty wip (that’s ~50% done) (who am i kidding this is probably just 25% orz) (sorry senren i haven’t had time to write in the past 3 weeks T__T) + title: anatomy of a love story (the cock, the brain, the heart) + summary: Dazai holds a meeting for his squad in the conference room. Chuuya is there, blindfolded and gagged, in full display. + tags: blindfold, exhibitionism, mild petplay, obedience kink, smell kink, voice kink, sensory deprivation, possessive behavior, body worship, bandage bondage, enthusiastic consent, verbal humiliation, frottage + part one (outsider pov), two (dazai pov), three (chuuya pov)

-

one;

-

Cock.

That’s the first and last thing that comes to his mind, which is definitely the wrong thing to think about, given that they’re here to… to discuss strategies. …Right? But his eyes are glued to the front of the room. Not to Dazai-san, no. Nobody dares to establish eye-contact with the youngest Executive in Port Mafia’s history. No, his eyes are focused somewhere a little bit lower.

Even the newest recruits know Dazai-san, and once you know Dazai-san, you must know about his partner. Nakahara Chuuya. Petite frame, crackling firepower. Nobody’s been able to even get a scratch on him. And there are ex-JSAFs in those that have been initiated last month.

He feels a little bit justified, because he’s pretty sure that everyone else’s eyes are also focused on the same sight.

Nakahara Chuuya.

Everyone knows Nakahara Chuuya.

Knows the rumors that he’s the strongest martial artist in the entire Port Mafia—possibly in even its entire history. Knows the whispers about him being able to shoot an entire room filled with trained, experienced assassins without needing an actual gun. Knows the anecdotes about how the subordinates assigned under him, as well as anyone who’s been remotely linked to any of his operations, all stubbornly reject the idea of being assigned under anyone else. Knows about the tales of heroism that are more suited for superhero comics rather than underground mafia, about how he takes charge in spearheading attacks and ensuring that no lives are lost in vain. Knows about the stories of an easygoing superior who memorizes all of his colleagues’ faces, who treats everyone to a sumptuous buffet after a mission, who is in charge of a running tab for all of his subordinates under a good half of the bars in Yokohama.

Knows the gossips about how he’s the dog of the youngest Executive in Port Mafia’s history, how he’s leashed to the organization by one Dazai Osamu, how he’s prone to wholeheartedly following any and all of the Demon Prodigy’s whims, commands, orders to the letter, even if it means exchanging his own life.

He’s scoffed about the last point, upon hearing it.

Even brainwashed slaves aren’t able to achieve that level of loyalty. Human nature just doesn’t make it possible. That’s not even counting the fact that the two of them are well-known for bickering and fighting to the point that there’d be violent outbursts and property damage. That’s also discounting the reality that Nakahara Chuuya is strong enough to pulverize anyone’s skull, even without using his Ability.

So, he’s chalked it up to exaggeration. Dazai Osamu and Nakahara Chuuya are known to the entire underworld as soukoku, after all. The most dangerous and devastating pair in the underworld. It only benefits the Port Mafia if everyone thinks that they’re such a solid pair that not even death could tear into their teamwork.

…Chalked it up, that is.

Right now, his eyes are probably wider than a rifle’s scope.

He’s vaguely aware that there’s a number of figures and charts on the white-board screen in front, the overhead projector giving it a hazy glow, transmitting the information from the laptop that Dazai-san had previously plugged in.

Just vaguely.

Unlike the usual conference rooms, this particular room is set up differently. As though to emphasize the difference between ranks, there’s no one long table where the attendees could sit around in a loop around the presenter. Instead, there’s one oak desk up front and center, one wingback armchair behind it. The desk is constructed in a way that there are no drawers underneath, making the occupant’s legs visible to onlookers. There’s no clutter atop the desk, only a laptop resting on the rightmost corner.

There’s only one seat in the entire room.

High-ranking members of the guerilla squad are subjected to standing stiff with their back ramrod-straight, nearly flat against the wall.

Nakahara Chuuya is on the carpeted floor.

How long he’s been there is anyone’s guess, but his knees are tinged a dark pink. Carpet burns. Unlike his usual many-layered outfits, right now, Nakahara Chuuya is only wearing two things. A pale cream blindfold—a bandage?—and a black choker that serves as an actual leash. The end of the leash rests on Dazai-san’s hand.

Like this, it’s easy to see the beads of sweat that dampen the edges of the blindfold, that weighs down the russet curls and sticks them close to the man’s forehead, cheeks and nape. It’s easy to see the dark pink flush on the other’s cheeks, running down on the other’s clavicle and upper chest, the same heated blush that makes the rippling planes of his back glow.

As though to correct his earlier assumptions, Nakahara Chuuya shifts to crawl in all-fours, moving from where he’s been seated outside the right-hand side of the table. With liquid grace, he avoids catching on the wires as he’s nimbly able to situate himself between Dazai-san’s legs. For his part, Dazai-san looks bored and unaffected, like there’s nothing new about parading his naked partner that’s crawling toward him like a dog begging to be petted.

Nakahara Chuuya remains on all-fours, once he reaches his destination. His cheek rests against Dazai-san’s knee, his back curved so that his backside is displayed prominently, showing everyone that there’s one more thing that he’s wearing. There’s a flash of silver, like a bullet, nestled in-between the heart-shaped ass-cheeks. If every single person in the room holds their breath—they’re only able to hear the pronounced breathing from Nakahara Chuuya, as well as a faint whirring sound. A vibrator.

He gulps, feeling his tongue grow heavy and his mouth go dry.

He tries to conjure a disgusting image inside his mind. A two-week corpse exposed in garbage dump during a heatwave. Maggots crawling out of spoiled food. His old organization’s wrinkly prune of a boss, belly-dancing.

It doesn’t work.

He’s too tense to even think about looking down to shoot a chastising glare at his tented pants.

Dazai-san doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that every one of his subordinates are literally standing stiff in front of him, blood all rushing south as they gape in similar states of shock and arousal at the display.

In fact, Dazai-san doesn’t bother with introductions, knowing full well that everybody in the room knows his identity and the purpose of this meeting.

Strategies.

Right.

Dazai-san starts discussing things such as the current figures for the establishments under their squad’s territories, current expenses and inventory information about their personnel and artillery. There are graphs about the trends for their expenditures and casualties. There are a lot of things that he needs to pay attention to.

But his eyes are glued on the powerful-looking thighs that are covered in a golden sheen of sweat, as Nakahara Chuuya seems intent in rutting against Dazai-san’s shoes and pants leg, undulating motions rippling like waves on a beach paradise. Both of Dazai-san’s hands are on the desk, no tremors of any sort on his body, not even a twitch on his leg.

The Demon Prodigy is quite well-known for having a silver tongue when it comes to small-talk, seducing information with dark eyes and an even darker voice promising intimacy. He’s especially popular amongst the ladies—though not so much the lovely flowers who work under Ozaki-sama’s purview.

For a moment, he thinks it’s because of the fact that Nakahara Chuuya isn’t a woman.

But then again…

His gaze zeroes in on the choker wrapped around that pale neck. Dazai-san’s left hand is on the desk, the black loop of the leash on his palm.

If he’s so disinterested about men, would he really be here, dragging his dog along, naked and writhing for everyone to witness?

Of course, given that he’s a Demon Prodigy, it’s also entire possible that he’s simply doing this as a punishment? Is that how he’s able to maintain his composure so well?

Nakahara Chuuya seems to sense this too, because he starts letting out breathless moans as he tries harder to rut against a clothed leg. His head dips forward, slowly sliding his cheek from a knee to Dazai-san’s inner thighs. Dazai-san doesn’t seem to notice it, simply continuing his slide presentation about the current affairs of the Port Mafia and the guerilla squad. Nakahara Chuuya whines when he’s unable to delve as far as he can—because Dazai-san’s foot is apparently pressed against a stomach, preventing his dog from getting too close.

“…listening?”

There’s a couple of seconds of tense silence, punctuated by the moans emanating from under the oak desk.

…Shit.

The steady melody of Dazai-san’s speech has stopped!

He lifts his eyes away from the glorious sight of the rippling muscles moving along with Nakahara Chuuya’s movements. Dazai-san’s expression is colder than usual, like his subordinates’ distraction is within his expectations, yet he’s still disappointed in them. He wants to cry out that this is injustice, true unfairness! They’re mafioso, not monks! Actually, scratch that, he’s 100% certain that even hundred-year-old monks would still have their blood stimulated by the feast in front of their eyes! Even an actual block of ice would melt from the heat radiating from that pink-flushed hole fluttering around the silver vibrator lodged inside!

Of course, he hasn’t managed to literally stab his ex-superior in the back to escape a certain hellhole that is a two-year war over resources in the Continent by being foolhardy. He keeps his voice down—the one thing he can control at the moment, because his cock twitches inside his pants when Nakahara Chuuya simply continues trying to wantonly rub himself all over Dazai-san’s leg, seemingly unaware of the audience behind him.

…He hasn’t led a pure, sheltered life, at all. He’s seen a lot of things in his lifetime—war carnage, villas filled with drugged sex slaves, whorehouses that could regulars of opium dens blush. He’s seen a lot of things—and there’s nothing more wanton than the sight in front of him, all that power and grace tucked away to give room to a sexy little thing trying to get their master to pay attention to him.

For a terrifying moment, his not-foolhardy self is captivated with the urge to step forward and slide his hands over the delicious cords of muscle starting from the backs of his knees up to the curve of that neck. Unclasp the choker and transfer ownership of the leash to him. He won’t be like Dazai-san, who’d sit there impassively and continue talking about boring things such as the Port Mafia’s future and the guerilla squad’s achievements. He’d start by petting the hair on that nape, dragging upwards so he can get a stable hold of those curly locks, loop them around his fingers so he can systematically drag that beautiful face over his cock.

It’s only a moment, because Dazai-san’s cold expression drops several degrees further, before he starts speaking again. Presentation slides change, more charts and numbers that don’t make sense to him. Nearly all of his blood has pooled south—the only thing left in his brain is the hardworking part that’s stopping him from doing something drastic, like begging pitifully for Dazai-san to let him have just one taste of that glorious body. It wouldn’t be so bad, right? It’s not like Dazai-san wants him! It would be such a shame if nobody would pay proper respect and attention to those curves, to those moans…

Eventually, Nakahara Chuuya tires of trying to smear the pearly sheen of his precum all over those slacks. He starts crawling upwards, showcasing off his great sense of balance that doesn’t require his Ability’s assistance when he situates himself on Dazai-san’s knees. Dazai-san doesn’t close his legs and he doesn’t move his hands away from the laptop, one hand resting on the mousepad and the other holding on to a laser pointer so he can highlight whatever bullet point he’s on. It means that Nakahara Chuuya has to hook his ankles on Dazai-san’s calves, as well as balance his weight so that he doesn’t topple off gracelessly from his new seat.

Dazai-san doesn’t look bothered—actually, he looks like he doesn’t even notice that there’s someone who’s crawled up to his lap. There’s no change to his demeanor, his actions, his timbre of voice. There’s no change on his breathing and there’s no beads of sweat forming on his forehead or collar.

He’s seen countless things in his life, but he truly hasn’t seen anyone this frigid.

He doesn’t waste time forming opinions about the possibilities of Dazai-san’s sense of aesthetics or humanity being especially faulty. He’s more focused on the fact that Nakahara Chuuya starts moaning louder and thrusting against Dazai-san’s groin, collapsing his upper body forward so that his forehead is leaving sweaty patches on Dazai-san’s lapel, so that his nipples are occasionally rubbing against the tailored suit, so that his getting more friction than before.

He dry-swallows once more. The definitely-not-foolhardy him briefly entertains a thought of upending his entire life savings and offering them upon this altar, for a chance to see Nakahara Chuuya position himself another way, so that he’s facing Dazai-san’s squad instead of his master. In a work environment where every minute could be his last, he’d surely die a happy man if he can have a close look as to how temptingly red Nakahara Chuuya’s cock would be, at this moment.

There’s no discernible rhythm to Nakahara Chuuya’s thrusting and moaning. He’d spend a couple of minutes slowly dragging his body in lazy waves, then he’d suddenly speed up, like he’s suddenly losing control of his hips in his chase for pleasure. And then it would subside, like he’s catching grips of sanity, like he’s remembering that there’s nothing worse than revealing one’s weakness in front of the Demon Prodigy.

They’re halfway through the presentation when Dazai-san coldly calls for a five-minute break.

Nobody moves.

Nobody matters to Dazai-san, apparently, because his idea of a break is to apparently break the pet on his lap.

And because nobody moves—not to adjust their pants, not to run to the nearest bathroom and relieve themselves, not to jump off the Port Mafia Headquarters as a means to escape from this strange haze—they’re all able to witness the next set of events.

Dazai-san’s indifference feels like a crushing weight, affecting him even though he’s safely a few meters away. As though he’s the one with the gravity manipulation Ability. There’s boredom in his countenance and his voice as he asks, in a volume that’s almost too-loud in the enclosed space, “What do you think you’re doing?”

And almost as though it’s an agreed-upon sign, Nakahara Chuuya’s entire form trembles and he loudly moans out a, “Dazaiiiii…”

He’s simultaneously awestruck and baffled by Dazai-san’s self-control. He’s standing at a fair distance away, yet his cock jerks from the heady desire dripping out from that moan. To be assaulted in close-contact of that neediness… he’s not sure anyone could survive.

“Such an unruly pet.” Ever-so-flatly, Dazai-san continues, “You make a mess for your owner and you can’t even bark properly?”

Another full-body tremor, the rippling of those back muscles truly an enchanting sight. And then, a choked-off moan that tapers off to a purr.

There’s a sudden stinging sound.

Nakahara Chuuya mewls.

Another stinging sound. Nakahara Chuuya arches off his back, making his asscheeks more visible. Alongside the fact that there’s a reddish handprint on one of them. On his other cheek, the culprit for the stinging sound and mark is still present, the hand gone from its spot on the mousepad and is instead disciplining an unruly pet.

“A dog who knows how to purr?” There’s a bandage over his right-eye’s side, but there’s an impression that his right eyebrow is raised. “Are you actually really stupid?”

Dazai-san doesn’t wait for an answer, only delivers five more strikes against the pert, wriggling ass on his lap. Each spank against the sweaty skin is punctuated by the sound of flesh slapping together, by that back curving and stretching taut, by shamelessly loud groans that logically should be barked ‘woofs’ but are stretched out so that it ends up being closer to an unintelligible moan.

Dazai-san’s expression and intonation doesn’t change when he rests his hand against the reddened skin, cupping it so that his blunt nails are resting against the reddest parts, as though to remind his pet about the lesson. “Hmm. So you do know how to properly act.”

In response, Nakahara Chuuya rests his right cheek against a shoulder, openly pants and even lets his pink tongue loll out. After a few seconds, he drags out another ‘woof’.

…He’s starting to think that he’d go through the rest of his life getting an inappropriate boner whenever he even thinks about barking. He’s torn between wishing that the five-minute break gets extended to five hours and wanting the five-minute break to be over immediately so they can all be put of this misery.

And there’s really nothing more apt than describing this as a ‘misery’.

Here he is, witnessing a one-of-a-kind beauty be abused and played with, but he can only stand-still and watch with a gaping mouth. His fingers twitch with the desire to touch, to possess. He wants to be the one to pluck the strings on the other’s body, wants to be the one to tease out those degrading sounds out of the man’s throat. Just five minutes… no, even just fifteen seconds! To be able to come close to such a paradise, even a handful of seconds would be more than enough!

As though to laugh at their plight, the Demon Prodigy calls out a callous observation, “Hmm. You’re acting like some dog in heat.”

Nakahara Chuuya wriggles, nodding frantically that it’s an outright wonder that his blindfold doesn’t slip off his eyes. Gone are the usual heated responses made of rude, vulgar words—right now, it’s replaced by something equally heated and vulgar, because that pink tongue darts out and licks at the cloth under his mouth, painting a wet sheen over Dazai-san’s black necktie. Dazai-san’s hand tightens around a black cloth and tugs.

Even while blindfolded—and possibly drugged?, because there’s just no way that the Nakahara Chuuya would allow himself to be humiliated like this, right?—the legendary synchronicity between the two seems to be still in-effect. Of course, the remaining alternative is that Dazai-san has physically trained his pet…

He dry-swallows again.

He watches, with wide, eager eyes, as Nakahara Chuuya moans and slides downward, smooth as a rivulet of water, until he’s kneeling in-between Dazai-san’s outstretched legs. Palms and knees are flat against the carpeted floor, ass sticking out.

No matter how unobtrusive the desk’s design is, it’s not enough to broadcast every single thing that’s happening under it.

But he’s not a fool either.

There’s no mistaking it—Nakahara Chuuya rubs his face against a clothed groin. And then there’s a deliberate slide—of the pet successfully dragging the zipper down simply by using his teeth. The smoothness of the motion can either be due to the man’s gifted physical abilities or due to the fact that he has lots of practice. Either way is enough to stoke his arousal.

He holds his breath, as he watches.

It’s unmistakable, the bobbing motions of Nakahara Chuuya’s head, delving deep until it’s certain that his mouth closes in on the base of his master’s cock. There’s a ‘hnnghh’ that slips out, but it’s drowned by the slick sounds of spit generously being laved all over a certain someone’s dick. And then, some rhythmic choking sounds as Nakahara Chuuya angles his head, presumably to lessen the pressure as he enthusiastically deep-throats Dazai-san… Dazai-san who still looks bored.

Before he knows it, his breathing has aligned with each sigh that slips out of Nakahara Chuuya’s mouth. It just so happens that the sigh happens each time he draws away from the cock that he’s enthusiastically slurping away from, like he’s feeling a profound sense of loss whenever he has to have his mouth and throat free of intrusion, like he can’t bear to be apart from his treat.

And what a treat it is.

Nakahara Chuuya sighs when he’s parted from it, lets out a thrilled moan once it’s inside his mouth, sounds of sucking and slurping unmistakable.

#athina writes fic #wip #soukoku #will probs delete later #once the full fic is completed

[shazyloren]

Under The Table

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14256564

Summary:  Modern AU - Jon and Dany are having dinner with her two brothers when Jon's hand begins wandering.

-----------

She had just taken a sip of her red wine when she felt the contact of his coarse fingers on her inner thigh. She felt her skin tingled, jolts of electricity through her nerves down there, all bundling up into her centre. His whole hand grabs at the flesh and pinched and teases, her mind suddenly full of him.

Really, now… while we’re having dinner with my brothers?!

“Not now” She mumbled so quietly that her two brothers who were in conversation with each other over the lasted sporting result, arguing over a refereeing decision, did not hear her. But Jon did, and Daenerys swore she could feel his smirk as he sat next to her.

You are an arse sometimes, Jon Snow!

Jon, ignoring what she said, began to lightly run his fingers up and down the milk like flesh of her right leg. Dany flinched, her thighs instinctively closing together around his hand to try and stop the sudden heighten of sensuality in her skin. Her body was going to betray her, she knew it. It always did.

“I read your paper on the Shakespeare and how he was a very modern man for the age he lived in, Jon. I have to say it was very eloquently put” Her sister Rhaegar spoke as he sipped his own wine. “What got you so interested in him as a cultural figure anyway?”

Daenerys had gone quiet, hoping that her brother’s sudden questioning of his work would distract him from the ‘work’ his hand was doing. She knew if he did not stop, sooner than later her knickers were going to be soaked for him. But she’d been wrong, his hand, despite her thighs clamped around him, continued to grab and touch her fleshy hamstring. This is not happening at the dinner table with my two brothers, she had to believe this.

“A love of the Much Ado About Nothing film, the one by Kenneth Branagh” Jon chuckled. “My father used to show me this film every night at one point. I demanded it I guess, and then I’d read the screenplay and fallen in love with storytelling through words. Shakespeare was a master of his craft and his work shows for that time he was a modern man”

As they spoke on their favourite lines from Much Ado, Daenerys had never focused so hard on a glass of wine. She swirled it in her glass as his hand crept up closer and closer to her sex, her heartbeat thrumming frantically as it struggles to understand what to do. She should close her legs tighter, she knows this… but it feels so good… She knows what she should do, but what does she want to do?

Screw it.

She parts them slightly, not much but enough to give Jon a little more access than he did have before. He took advantage as she finally gives into him. She feels his fingers slide over the front of her panties, damp with want and shaking with need. She glances at him out of her peripherals, he’s smirking one again.

“Beatrice shows how forward thinking he is for a modern man, yes she ends up marrying Benedict in the end but it’s not without her coming to her own decision about how she feels for him. It’s not her mind being made up for her, and that while literate is littered with characters like this, Shakespeare really got it” Rhaegar agreed, Viserys nodded too.

Daenerys just smiled, she couldn't focus, her head was getting a little woozy. His three fingers were rubbing over her covered entrance, she was gripping onto the wine glass so hard she was sure it was going to break it. It was either that or cum all over Jon’s fingers and possibly her brothers dining chair.

Yeah you haven’t thought this through Daenerys, cum all over his fingers and you’re found out. You’re a screamer and you know it you dirty bitch...

“Are you alright, sister?” Viserys asks, his brow arched as Daenerys’ own expression was one of intense regret.

Daenerys eyes widens, not from his questions, but at the exact moment he ask if she was okay Jon decided to slid her panties to one side and began rubbing her soaking wet pussy. She could held but part her legs a little more, instinctively needing him inside her. “Y-yeah, just feeling a little warm in here”

Jon stops for the smallest of second, as if he’s finding Daenerys torment funny. You’re not going to find it funny when I fuck you at your father’s house tomorrow night, Jon Snow. She was promising herself she’d get him back, she had too, it wasn’t fair that he did this to her body and he knew it.

Viserys didn’t say anything else then, just continued asking Jon questions about his current play he was writing. Jon was very creative, particularly with words. In the bedroom, he could make her cum just from dirty talk and now as his fingers press harder into her folds, she’s remembering their most recent encounter. There had been talk of fucking her blindfolded, while she was on her weekly phone call with her mother, in her office on her desk…

Fuck me, Jon. I need you to fuck me now.

But he couldn’t, desert had only just finished and they were compelled to stay at least another hour. Plus who was to say that they’d make it to the house before he took her as his and fucked her roughly. She hoped he’d do it from behind, spanking her ass while he nailed her pussy. She always came when he did that… You always come when he does anything!

As her mind turned filth and her brother’s voices were sounded out, he slid a finger inside her. It took everything she had not to moan, him doing so with ease as he slick cunt allows him inside her so easily. The next thing she remembered was the conversation turning to the mild heatwave they were having and all daenerys could think about was the heatwave in her panties happening right that moment. “It has been so… humid”

Daenery side-eyed Jon as his voice was laced with sarcasm and smugness. She sat up straight, in an attempt to not draw attention to herself, but her cunt just seemed to arch into his fingers more. Her sudden need to come there and then was a red light, particularly when he stuck a second finger inside.

“My dear b-brothers” Daenerys stated, a preted yawn coming along to aid her in getting out of the house quick enough to the point where Jon could finger bang her in the car. “I’m feeling a little tired, we’re going to go if that’s alright”

“Of course” Rhaegar said none-the-wiser, but Viserys raised an eyebrow and had a little smirk on his face to suggest he knew exactly what she wanted to go for. She avoided his stare and turned to Jon who looked confused at Daenerys sudden control of the situation. Her hand pulled his fingers out of her allowing her to scoot the chair back and breathe due to the sudden relief.

That was a close call…

It was a matter of minute before they said their goodbyes and left the house to get in the car. The boys waved them off and she watched them disappear out of the rear view mirror. She leaned her head back and sighed deeply, her loins still on fire from the promise he gave her earlier.. “You’re a fucking ass, Jon Snow”

“I’m not that bad” He chuckles, the gruffness making Dany even wetter. “Shame you’ll have to deal with all that yourself now. You stopped me halfway through, I’ll let you finish it”

“You will not” Daenerys growls, her fiery temperament coming out in snarls. “When we get home you will fuck me or you’ll be sleeping on the sofa all week! I mean it, Jon!”

“We’ll see” Jon smirks and Daenerys wonders why she ever married the prick. Then, she had a wild idea. He always gets her off by just talking. And yes he was driving so she couldn't get too wild. But she could firmly put him in his place to let him know exactly what was going to happen when they walked through the front door.

I’m so wet because of you...

“You are going to fuck me, Jon Snow. And you’re going to do it over and over until I come on every surface… you’re going to fuck me so good that I can’t walk tomorrow. And when I’m sat on my office chair at work, it’s going to hurt. And every movement is going to remind me of your cock inside me” His grip on the wheel tightened as she spoke and she couldn’t help but wonder if his pants also had tightened. It didn’t matter, they didn’t live far from Rhaegar’s house and soon she would be feeling it inside her.

Her phone dinged to momentarily distract her from the situation ahead of them, but when she read it, her suspicions were revealed to be true. Make sure you’re using protection… Unless you want to give me a niece or nephew then go ahead! Vx

Daenerys usually would feel mortified, but she did not care. They were seconds from the house, and she had the keys in her hand ready to open that door. They didn’t even have Ghost to worry about, the husky was at Robb’s for the weekend. “You’re going to scream my name, Dany”

“I’m counting on it” Daenerys enjoyed this, it was her turn to smirk. And as they pulled into the driveway of their victorian styled four bedroom house, Daenerys was almost willing to jump out the car before the ignition was turned off. Her passenger side door swung open and she stepped out into the cool evening air. Her panties were soaked and so as she walked up to the house, neighbours curtains twitching an all, she began taking them off before she got the key in the door lock.

“Someone’s eager” Jon chuckled in the street as he locks the care up. “Mrs. Arryn will be watching you waving your knickers around in the street”

“Shut up and get inside me” Daenerys grumbles as the door swings open and she begins to unzip her dress from the back. She throws the keys at him and hears the click of the door. Then, the lights come on and she shimmies herself out of her dress. As it falls to the floor, she takes her bra off and throws it behind her. Walking into the living room, her heels still on, she climbs onto the sofa and just watches Jon as he goes to sit on the chair and turn the TV on.

“Don’t feel like it, babe” He sighs.

“Oh no you don’t!” Daenerys grabs the remote out of his hand and turns the TV back off. She throws it to the ground and leaps on him with vigor. Their mouth clash and she throws every emotions she’d felt while he fingered her at the dinner table into it. He hand scrambled to undo his trousers to which he began chuckling.

“You��re insatiable” He laughs.

“Thanks” Daenerys replies. “Now fuck me, please”

“Well at least you said please this time” Jon snickers. He undoes his own belt, the button and the zip of his jeans following. He lifts his hips up and Dany pulls the trousers down. His pants follow shortly and his cock spring free. She’s always surprised by its size when her face is this close to it, but without even remembering a condom she goes to climb on it. They were married after all, they both did want a child so Daenerys decided not to bother. And Jon didn’t seem to remember in this moment in time so she went with it.

He was inside her within seconds, her back on the wooden floor of the living room, legs spread as far open as possible while he pounded her cunt with ferocity. Daenerys arched her hips into him and her back with it, her head flung back and her  arms above her head. She was panting and moaning with a fever she’d not felt between them in weeks. “Oh fuck, yes!”

“Gods Dany, you’re so wet” Jon says through gritted teeth, his cock plunging into the depths of her cunt all the while. Their bodies were soon sweating, the heatwave mentioned earlier in the evening meant they were wet, and skin was sticking together. It was satisfying her, but she wanted it rougher and so, putting her hands on his chest she pushed him away. He pulled out of her, his cock red and hard with want.

Dany rolled on her front and stuck her ass in the air, wiggling it for Jon to enter her this way. She felt his hands grab her hips and his member submerge into her hidden depths once again. It felt like a tighter fit in this position and instantly her back arched to let him all inside her. “Mmmm harder”

He did as he was told. He started this and he damn well needed to finish it. She was almost like a dog in heat how she was behaving, her inner wolf coming out. If she’d have said this aloud Jon would’ve laughed, his family were known as the wolf pack. Maybe she was becoming one. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, yes, yes, yes.

Her mind was filth now. “You like that, Dany?”

“Yes, oh fuck” She was feeling his nails dig into the soft and sensitive flesh of her hips. It heightened the experience, her mouth became a bed of vulgar language because of it. “God Jon, you’re so fucking big. You’re gonna fucking rip me… oh shit I can feel you in my stomach… mmmm yeah, fuck me”

“Shit Dany” He dug in harder, slamming himself into her, their skin slapping and sticking from the heat. “You’ve got such a pretty clam, it’s so red and wet. All for me, are you all wet for me, baby girl?”

“Mmm yes” Dany mewled as her eyes began watering. Jon, being rough with her like she wanted, pusher her face into the floor as his landed either side of her as he piledrived into her. Daenerys body was going to get floor burns, she could feel the pressure from Jon on top of her, slamming into her with as much force as he could muster and between the wooden floor which made her skin stick to it.

“Dany I’m gonna come, all over you back you my dirty little slut” Jon almost snarled and Daenerys was surprised.

Her walls clenched around his dick, her own orgasm ripping through her body as she began to ache all over. He continued to thrust even though her cunt had seized up and she’d gushed everywhere. He lifted himself off of her and spanked her ass nine or ten times in a row as he pulled his red and bulging dick out of her sore pussy. Daenerys looked over her shoulder and saw him jacking himself off the last few seconds before he spurted all over her back.

Daenerys collapsed on the floor, a wave of exhaustion taking over her every muscle. Jon fella to the side of her. Their eyes found each other and they smiled. Jon kissed her forehead sweetly. “I’m sorry for doing it at your families house”

“Viserys knew” Daenerys sighed causing Jon to go wide-eyed. “And it’s okay”

“Not really okay if he knew…”

“It is okay thought” Daenerys smiled to herself.

“Is it?”

“Yeah, because I’m gonna suck your dick at your parents house tomorrow”

Jon paled.

I am your dirty little slut  after all, Jon.

#jon snow #daenerys targaryen #jon x daenerys #jon x dany #jon x dany fanfic #jonerys #jonerys fanfic #GOT #game of thrones #modern au #Modern Setting

[xtruss]

Severe Drought Threatens Hoover Dam Reservoir – and Water For US West

The wellspring of Lake Mead created by the dam’s blocking of the Colorado River has plummeted to an historic low as states in the west face hefty cuts in their water supplies

— By Oliver Milman at Hoover Dam | Tuesday, 13 July 2021 | Guardian USA

Had the formidable white arc of the Hoover dam never held back the Colorado River, the US west would probably have no Los Angeles or Las Vegas as we know them today. No sprawling food bowl of wheat, alfalfa and corn. No dreams of relocating to live in a tamed desert. The river, and dam, made the west; now the climate crisis threatens to break it.

The situation here is emblematic of a planet slowly, inexorably overheating. And the catastrophic consequences of the extreme weather this brings.

Lake Mead: largest US reservoir falls to historic low amid devastating drought

Hoover dam is the height of a 60-story building and is 45ft thick at the top and 660ft at the bottom. Its construction, in the teeth of the Great Depression, was a source of such national pride that thousands of people journeyed through the hostile desert to witness the arrival of what has become an enduring monument to collective effort for the public good.

The engineering might of Hoover dam undoubtably reshaped America’s story, harnessing a raucous river to help carve huge cities and vast fields of crops into unforgiving terrain. But the wellspring of Lake Mead, created by the dam’s blocking of the Colorado River and with the capacity to hold enough water to cover the entire state of Connecticut 10ft deep, has now plummeted to an historic low. The states of the west, primarily Arizona and Nevada, now face hefty cuts in their water supplies amid a two-decade drought fiercer than anything seen in a millennium.

“We bent nature to suit our own needs,” said Brad Udall, a climate and water expert at Colorado State University. “And now nature is going to bend us.”

Surveying the dam’s sloping face from its curved parapet, Michael Bernardo, river operations manager at the US Bureau of Reclamation, admits the scarcity of water is out of bounds with historical norms. While there is no “average” year on the Colorado River, Bernardo and his colleagues were always able to estimate its flow within a certain range.

But since 2000, scientists say the river’s flow has dwindled by 20% compared to the previous century’s average. This year is the second driest on record, with the flow into Lake Mead just a quarter of what would be considered normal.

1984 Boundary of Lake Mead as Compared to Its Current State

Guardian graphic | Source: Satellite data from NASA Earth Observatory showing 1984 lake boundary as compared to 2016 boundary.

“These are scenarios that aren’t necessarily where we expect to be in our models,” said Bernardo, whose work helps deliver a reliable level of water to thirsty western states. Nearly 40 million people, including dozens of tribes, depend on the river’s water. “We’re getting those years that are at the extreme ends of the bell curve. We’ve seen extremes we haven’t seen before, we now have scenarios that are very, very dry.”

In June, the level of Lake Mead plunged below 1,075ft, a point that will trigger, for the first time, federally mandated cuts in water allocations next year. The Bureau of Reclamation (the government agency originally tasked with “reclaiming” this arid place for a new utopia of farmland and a booming western population), expects this historic low to spiral further, dropping to about 1,048ft by the end of 2022, a shallowness unprecedented since Lake Mead started filling up in the 1930s following Hoover dam’s completion. This will provoke a second, harsher, round of cuts.

“We’ve known this point will arrive because we’ve continued to use more water than the river provides for years,” said Kathryn Sorensen, a water policy expert at Arizona State University. “Things look pretty grim. Humans have always been good at moving water around but right now everyone will need to do what it takes to prevent the system from crashing.”

Seven states – California, Utah, Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico and Nevada – and Mexico are bound by agreements that parcel out the river’s water but those considered “junior” partners in this arrangement will be hit first.

Should second tier cuts occur, Arizona will lose nearly a fifth of the water it gets from the Colorado River. Nevada’s first-round cut of 21,000 acre-ft (an acre-ft is an acre of water, one foot deep) is smaller, but its share is already diminutive due to an archaic allotment drawn up a century ago when the state was sparsely populated.

The latest era of cooperation between states that rely upon the Colorado River has now entered the “realm of lose-lose”, according to Colby Pellegrino, deputy general manager of resources for the Southern Nevada Water Authority. “Everyone’s going to have to do more with less, and that’s really going to be challenging for people,” she said. “‘Drought’ suggests to a lot of people something temporary we have to respond to, but this could permanently be the type of flows we see.”

The decline of Lake Mead is apparent even at a cursory glance. The US’s largest reservoir is now barely a third full, the dark basalt rock of its canyon walls blanched by a distinctive white calcium ring where the water level once was. This level has plunged by about 130ft in the past 20 years and is currently receding by about a foot a week as farms hit their peak irrigation period.

Guardian graphic | Source: Elevation data from Bureau of Reclamation Records for Lower Colorado River Operations.

The pace of change has been jarring to the millions of people who regularly boat, fish and swim on the lake, with the National Park Service recently laying down new steel platforms to extend launch ramps that no longer reach the water. Some marinas have been wrenched from their moorings and moved because they have been left marooned in baking sediment.

Seen from above in time lapse over the years, Lake Mead looks like a spindly puddle withering away in the Mojave Desert, as nearby Las Vegas, which gets almost all of its water from the lake and went a record 240 days last year without rain, balloons in size. The west’s ambitions have crunched into the searing reality of the Anthropocene.

The Colorado River rises in the lofty Rocky Mountains, before tumbling through 1,450 miles of mountains, canyons and deserts until it reaches the Sea of Cortez in Mexico. Seasonally melting snow has traditionally replenished the river but snowpack on mountaintops in the west has declined by an average of 19% since the 1950s, while soaring temperatures have dried out soils and caused more water to evaporate.

This morphing climate, plus the rampant extraction of water for everything from golf courses in Phoenix to vegetables growing in California to gardens in Denver, means the Colorado fizzles out in dry riverbed before it even reaches its Mexican delta.

Only 1.8% of the west is not in some level of drought, with California, Arizona and New Mexico all experiencing their lowest rainfalls on record over the previous 12 months. Lakes in Arizona are now so low they can’t be used to fight the fires themselves spurred by drought, while the retreat of Lake Folsom in California uncovered the wreckage of a plane that crashed 56 years ago. The governor of Utah has resorted to asking people to pray for rain.

The white ‘bathtub ring’ around Lake Mead shows the record low water levels as drought continues to worsen in Nevada. Photograph: David McNew/Getty Images

The heat has been otherworldly, with Phoenix recently enduring a record six straight days above 115F (46.1C). A “heat dome” that settled over the usually mild Pacific north-west pushed temperatures to reach a record 108F (42.2C) in Seattle and caused power lines to melt and roads to buckle in Portland. A few hundred miles north, a fast-moving wildfire incinerated the town of Lytton in British Columbia the day after it set a Canadian temperature record of 121F (49.4C). Barely into summer, hundreds of people have already died from the heat along the west coast.

The west has gone through periods like this “megadrought” , with only occasional respite, for the past two decades. But scientists have made clear the current conditions would be virtually impossible without human-caused climate change, pointing to a longer-term “aridification” of the region. All of the water conservation efforts that have kept shortages at bay until now risk being surpassed by the rising heat.

“The amount of water now available across the US west is well below that of any time in modern civilization,” said Park Williams, a hydroclimatologist at Columbia University. Research by Williams and colleagues last year analyzed tree rings to discover the current dry period is rivaled only by a spell in the late 1500s in a history of drought that reaches back to around 800, with the climate crisis doubling the severity of the modern-day drought.

“As the globe warms up, the west will dry out,” said Williams. “The past two years have been shocking to me, I never thought I would see downtown LA reach 111F as it’s so close to the ocean, but we have some of the driest conditions in 1,200 years so the dice are loaded for more heatwaves and fires. This could be the tip of the iceberg, we may well see much longer, tougher droughts.”

In the guts of the Hoover dam, down bronze-clad elevators and through terrazzo corridors, a line of enormous turbines help funnel water out downstream, creating hydro-power electricity for more than 1m households in the process. Five of the 17 turbines, each weighing the same as seven blue whales, have been replaced in recent years with new fittings more suited to operating in lower lake levels.

Even with these adaptions, however, the decline of Lake Mead has caused the amount of hydro power generated by the dam to drop by around 25%. The drought is expected to cause the hydro facility at Lake Oroville, California, to completely shut down, prompting a warning from the United States Energy Association that a “megadrought-induced electricity shortage could be catastrophic, affecting everything from food production to industrial manufacturing”. The association added that such a scenario could even force people to move east, in what it called a “reverse Dust Bowl exodus”.

Bernardo said a similar shutdown of the Hoover dam would require more than 100ft in further water level retreat, which is not anticipated, although he finds himself constantly hoping for the rains that would ease the tightening shortages.

“We all want the nice weather but we need those good storms to build everything back up,” he said.

“We’d need three or four above average years, back to back, to restore the lake. Your guess is as good as mine whether we’ll get that. I’ll continue to watch the weather, every day.”

[littleroma]

It’s been a long, hot week

Wow, this week has been incredibly hot. I’m not even sure how many heatwaves we’ve had this year. All I know is that it snowed later (and heavier) than usual, then a very hot summer. And oh boy July has just started!

We tend to get humid, moist heat, where you feel like your sweating bucket and the air always feels very close and muggy. I don’t live close to the sea or a river so I’m not getting a breeze, so today for example the air was incredibly still while still baking down. I asked Mum when we has moved to hell?! In case you can’t tell my sarcasm comes in full force after an infusion and I’m not built for any of head. Give me mild days and while I might moan a bit about it, I’m more used to it. Even a bit of rain. We are in a drought now, so at least the kids who live behind us haven’t gotten their paddling pool out! Small mercies I suppose.

I was down in Waterford at the weekend, where I was getting a bit more of a breeze. I forgot that I was indeed getting the sun and my face is all burnt now. Hopefully the sun burn goes before Thursday, it’s my brothers graduation and I’m not looking forward to the idea of putting a makeup brush over inflamed skin. I always burn, curse my Irish genes!

I’m very tired tonight, so I don’t really feel like writing a lot here but night guys!

#vimizim #health #disability #enzyme replacement therapy #sun #skin #sunburn #wear more SPF guys

[flightyrock]

Laundry Day

Summary: It’s laundry day for a certain pair of half ghosts.  But when Vlad digs deeper than he should, he finds more than dirty laundry, testing the bonds between father and son.

OR

A shameless fluff fic in which Vlad is too hard on himself (as usual), Daniel does his best to reassure him, and Vlad proves he is father of the year material.

Featuring: accidental naps, hugs galore, and rambling internal monologues.

Characters: Vlad Masters, Daniel Masters

Tags and Warnings: Father/son relationships, Backstory, Emotional fluff/pain, Really Long Flashbacks, invasion of privacy, miscommunication, allusions to suicide, hopelessness, fake science, grey ethics, fake medical jargon, dehumanization, Vlad’s special brand of angst, mild body horror, clichéd tropes, happy ending, cuteness

If you’re concerned, feel free to PM me and I will be more than happy to provide a detailed summary or tell you what parts to avoid.  All of the iffy ones, save for the emotional hurt/comfort, only last for a few paragraphs.  Most of them are contained in the flashbacks, which are in italics. But on a whole, it’s father/son fluff and feels.  Be safe!

Word Count: ~10,500

I’ll also make this available on AO3 for your viewing pleasure, since I know some people (myself included) prefer that format better.  But tumblr makes it easier to share, so that won’t be linked for awhile; I’m thinking a week?

Some notes before we dive in, since this is the first fic I’ve written in this particular universe, so there are a few (read: a lot) of things I need to cover.  Explanation and story under the cut!

Update:  This isn’t posting right, so I’m going to remove the links for now.  If this works, I’ll make a separate post with the links.

This fic takes place in what I’ve nicknamed the “Perfect Son AU,” an alternate universe to Danny Phantom where Vlad successfully created a clone, which he named Daniel.  It’s a working title, and someone else might have already come up with something better, but I’m running with it for now.

I did not create Daniel; he was originally introduced as an unnamed character along with a possible future version of Vlad in Butch Hartman’s second “Danny Phantom: 10 Years Later video.” All we’re told is that he’s a mixed clone of Danny and Vlad.

Of course, this premise has tons of potential, and several artists have created content for him.  I fell head over heels for @schnivel‘s interpretation; the designs and characterization are just incredible, and gave me that creative itch. I live for that cute picture of Vlad and Daniel at a Packer’s game.  There are also a bunch of doodles, and the tags provide fun details, hinting at character dynamics and firmly establishing Daniel’s presence in-universe.  The rest of his art is awesome, too; it’s incredibly expressive (facial expressions and body language are always SPOT ON), and he has some really neat OCs, so be sure to check him out!

Schnivel also took the time to chat with me, and answered many of my questions regarding Daniel’s characterization.  Thank you so much!

I discovered that other artists loved this version of the character as well, and during one of schnivel’s discussions with prom during one of @promsien‘s streams, she had the fun idea that Vlad knits Daniel sweaters, and heaven help anyone who ruins one of those.

Needless to say, this (and other details surrounding the fallout) gave me…ideas.  This incident is only hinted at in this fic, which started out as a cute 1500 word fluff piece I thought up on the bus back to school after Thanksgiving break.  But then plot and angst snuck in, and the characters just weren’t quite right, so four rewrites, 9000 words, and about two months later, here we are; the longest piece I’ve ever written.  

Keep in mind that this is just my interpretation of schnivel’s canon, based on details from several sources, so the events described here may or may not have occurred; essentially, it’s a fanfic of schnivel’s AU.

This story takes place after about a year after Daniel’s creation, in the transition period between schnivel’s 16 y/o and post puberty designs.  While not necessary to enjoy the story, I strongly recommend taking a look at these before you begin reading; you won’t be sorry.   Some other quick details to keep in mind:

1.  Daniel is still in high school, and is enrolled in Casper High.

2.  Daniel =/= Danny

3.  Yes, Daniel knows Danny and they do not get along.

4. Vlad and Daniel live together, and share a healthy (and frequently adorable) father/son relationship.  They get along incredibly well most of the time, and genuinely care about each other.  Vlad is finally happy (mostly), and it’s my favorite thing ever.  Do me a favor and do not tag this as ship, please and thank you.

5. Danny is not in this fic, but he is referenced a couple of times; once, confusingly, as Daniel.  (I’m sorry; blame Vlad.)  It’s not mentioned in this fic, but he doesn’t call Danny “Daniel” anymore, for obvious reasons.

Alright, enough notes!  I’ve rambled long enough!   Kudos to you for reading this far; I do think the context is necessary to fully appreciate this story, so if you skimmed, I completely understand, but I urge you to check out the five-point list and links  [sorry guys, removed these to see if they were the problem] above. And remember to check out @schnivel and @promsien.  Thanks, guys!  So, without further ado, enjoy!

“Daniel, laundry!”

The amiable call echoed off the interior walls of a luxurious but tasteful mansion overlooking Amity Park; walls that had changed extensively in the past year.  Previously, the nondescript barriers existed out of necessity, stabilizing the considerable load of the structure and dividing too much space into too many cold, empty rooms.  

One wall in particular, located between the entry and the main staircase, changed dramatically, and now proudly announced to visitors that two shared the space, and quite happily at that.

An eclectic selection of frames housing amateur photographs were mounted artfully in a quantity bordering on excessive.  From this, an outsider could reasonably assume that the curator was either an overly-enthusiastic hobbyist or a new parent.

In this case, both assumptions would be correct.  Indeed, most of the photos focused on a single boy, specifically, a teenager, sporting unique, striped locks and a smile.  

But this wasn’t your average, awkward, get-me-out-of-here, oh-my-god-are-we-still-not-done-taking-pictures-yet kind of smile that most teenagers plastered on instinctively to escape the camera: No, this was a genuine, candid expression of happiness that would make any photographer worth their salt dissolve into blissful tears.  It would have been hard to believe the boy was truly a teenager, if not for the distinctive, almost puppy-like proportions that suggested there was still growing left to do.

He was occasionally joined by an older gentleman wearing a smile of his own; more guarded, but no less genuine.  In these photos, the boy veritably beamed at the camera or the man himself, expression all the brighter in his company, leaving no doubt just who was responsible for cultivating such joy.  Likewise, the boy coaxed the man out of his shell, steadily transforming a shyly quirked corner of the mouth into a joyful grin as the series progressed.

The gentleman in question was currently strolling around the house, dressed casually in socks, slacks, and a button-down.  His sleeves were neatly rolled above the elbows, exposing muscular forearms that strained to maintain an awkward hold on the large basket of casual wear.  His burden couldn’t have been too cumbersome, however, as he took a moment to admire the photo wall, as he always did.

He shifted the basket, clamping it against his left hip with the same arm, freeing his right to compulsively straighten an already perfectly-aligned portrait of the boy, providing an excuse to linger.  

It was one of his favorites; a candid shot he had snagged during one of their first snows together.  He was quite proud of it.  Daniel kneeled on the plush window seat, dwarfed by the dual floor-to-ceiling windows.  His features were alight with childlike wonder and the soft, winter sun, breath fogging the glass as he peered out of the pane, entranced by dancing flakes.  Vlad’s eyes grew misty, recalling cold, damp clothes, laughter, and hot chocolate   His shoulders softened a touch, mouth pulling upward fondly.

The reverie was broken by an uncomfortable burn in his forearms as the basket slipped slowly downwards under gravity’s influence, prompting him to readjust his hold and resume his search.  

It was that time of year again; the relentless heatwave had broken at last.  Residents of Amity Park gave a collective sigh of relief, enjoying cool days and brisk evenings just shy of uncomfortable as summer gave way to autumn.  Full suits were no longer suffocating.  And football season was in full swing.

In short, life couldn’t be better.  There was something invigorating about the crisp, cool air that accompanied the changing seasons, putting Vlad in the rare mood to do some tidying.  Housework was a small pleasure he had rediscovered recently; busy hands left the mind free for reflection, something that Vlad wasn’t as eager to avoid these days.  The reason for this?  Well…

“Daniel!” he called again, perplexed by the continued lack of response from his young charge.  No, his son, he reminded himself, distracted for a moment by the thrill of excitement and anxiety that still shot through him at that thought.  Against all odds, he was a father.  

He savored the feeling as he searched, peeking around the corner to the living room on a whim, and bit back another call.  Warm affection swelled in his chest at the rare and, admittedly, adorable sight.

His son, Daniel, was sprawled lengthwise across the couch, out like a light.  Sleep had hit him hard and fast; the awkward position of his limbs was telling, and looked anything but comfortable.  

A socked foot was braced on the floor while its twin was slung over the couch’s far arm, still trapped in a sneaker, laces tangled from an abandoned attempt at removal.  One arm hung limply to the side, while the other was likely going numb, trapped against the back and beneath the Maddies, who were taking full advantage of their human’s compromised position.  

The opportunistic felines were curled up on the half-ghost’s broad chest, passive-aggressively close to one another, soaking up the warmth.  Like many cats, they managed to radiate smug bliss even from the depths of slumber, much to Vlad’s amusement.  

He really couldn’t blame them.  Naps for Daniel were a rare occurrence, after all; the boy rarely slowed down long enough.

But Vlad had almost forgotten what else autumn meant; school was once again in full swing.  A ridiculous amount of coursework accompanied Daniel’s ambitious class load, pushing the limits of an already-taxing daily schedule.

In addition to coursework, he participated in several extracurricular activities, made time for friends, and dedicated himself to a rigorous training and tutoring regimen of Vlad’s own design. No wonder the boy was exhausted.

Not that he had so much as hinted at fatigue, eager to prove himself.  

Vlad mentally shook his head, pride mixing with fond exasperation.  He had, admittedly, forgotten just how difficult it was to be a teenager (though he thinks he can be excused for this oversight given that it’s been over twenty years since then; twenty long years).  He vaguely recalled expectations to tackle a workload any self-respecting, paid employee would strike over.  

Daniel, like many teenagers, did that and more with only a fraction of useable energy at his disposal at any given time, resources diverted to accommodate the emotional and physical stress the body underwent as it matured.  Puberty had hit Daniel late and with a vengeance.  The boy had been shooting up like a weed lately, the gap between his cuff and ankle widening at an alarming rate (not surprising given the state of the pantry at the end of any given week; the teen had to be burning through massive amounts of energy in the process).  

As his coach, Vlad had noticed he was struggling physically; his center of balance shifted so rapidly he just couldn’t keep up.  Daniel’s frustration was all but tangible at times, face heating with anger and humiliation when he fumbled through warm-ups and drills that had once been simple. Recently, more often than not, he left their practice sessions drained and irritable, shower doing little to dispel a dark mood that carried over into their evening lessons.

Vlad wondered if he was sleeping enough.

Judging from his current state alone, the poor boy needed all the rest he could get.  Vlad quelled a rush of remorse for pushing him so hard, reminding himself that Daniel had set the pace.  

Insisted, really.  He was normally eager, almost desperate, to improve, diving into training with a single-minded intensity that rivaled Vlad’s own.  Daniel had protested furiously when Vlad had suggested they take it a bit easier during the school year, pushing himself even harder.

Vlad chuckled fondly; Daniel was his son, after all.  But perhaps he could persuade him to revise their schedule to an every other day kind of thing; in hindsight, it was a bit ambitious to have lessons and physical training on the same day…

Musing about schedules, he set the basket aside and approached, debating whether the merits of repositioning gangly limbs into a more comfortable position outweighed the risk of waking the boy.  

No, better to let him rest. He was young, after all; he probably wouldn’t suffer from the stiff neck Vlad wouldn’t admit to getting if he slept at the demonstrated awkward though, admittedly, impressive angle.  (His neck definitely did not twinge in sympathy. He wasn’t old.)

He settled for carefully prying off the remaining shoe before unfurling a fuzzy throw that hung over the back of the couch, settling it gently over long legs, careful not to disturb the felines.  They, of course, would have no such qualms about waking Daniel in their subsequent bid for freedom should they be trapped beneath the heavy fabric.

His fond gaze migrated upward upon completion of his task, settling on Daniel’s face, relaxed in slumber. It was a rare treat to observe his son in such a peaceful state, and he was somewhat tempted to take a picture (too bad his camera was in his room).  

Daniel looked so young this way.  The man’s eyebrows bunched, oddly nostalgic as he took in the boy’s strengthening features, an early sign that he wouldn’t be one for much longer.  Soon, soft lines would vanish completely, giving way to the strong jaw and defined cheeks that were already taking shape.  

He would miss these days. Vlad felt an irrational surge of longing and loss, feeling absurdly cheated out of the early years, of a tiny Daniel smiling at him, of endless questions and childlike wonder (which was absolutely insane, considering he didn’t even like children.  There was a reason he’d decided to create a teenaged clone).  But if that was the case, Vlad supposed he wouldn’t be the Daniel he knew now.  It was probably for the best.

He sighed, and ran a gentle hand through thick stripped locks, marveling at the silky softness as it slid through his fingers.  It really was getting long, Vlad thought idly, scratching lightly across the scalp, delighted when the crease between Daniel’s eyes smoothed, and he sunk deeper into sleep with a content sigh.

Vlad lingered for a moment before withdrawing reluctantly, gathering up the basket again with a sigh of his own.  A nap would do the boy good, he reminded himself, so he’d best leave Daniel to it.

Of course, this meant he was back to square one with the laundry.  He was looking for Daniel in the first place to gather his dirty clothes so Vlad could start a load or two before dinner.

Well, perhaps he could still do that.  He could always take a detour into the boy’s room himself.  He was certain Daniel wouldn’t mind the intrusion; after all, he was simply retrieving laundry, so he wouldn’t be there long.

Decision made, he turned back, pausing to empty his basket in the laundry room before ascending the stairs once again to the wing that housed their personal quarters, hesitating for a moment before cracking open the door and entering Daniel’s room.  

It was strange, being here without the room’s main occupant.  He felt a bit like an intruder.  The space was shockingly well-kempt for belonging to a teenager, not that he was surprised; Daniel was hardly your average teenager.  

As expected, his dirty laundry was in the hamper, and Vlad wasted no time in sorting through it.  

Something was off, though. Vlad lived with his son, so of course he noticed that Daniel had started sweater season as soon as he no longer ran the risk of suffering heat stroke.  That meant there should be about two weeks’ worth of ripening knitwear, as none had been sent out recently.  But there were none to be found in the hamper, and, despite the fibers’ natural resistance to sweat and grime, it was certainly time for a wash.

Most, if not all, of Daniel’s sweaters were handmade, knitted by Vlad himself, so required special care.  He supposed Daniel could be keeping such garments separate in a display of caution. Conscientious, as always.  

Not that it was necessary; Vlad only hired the best, and, of course, always ran a brief inspection of the sorted garments before they were taken to the proper cleaning facilities. Details meant everything in his line of work, and his appearance was one of many he monitored personally.  Sure, he was a billionaire, and could afford purchase a new wardrobe any time he wished, but it hadn’t always been this way. He was taught to take pride in his possessions, and waste was unthinkable; far be it for him to neglect his roots.

Shaking himself out of his musings (he certainly was distracted today), he got back to the task at hand; finding the sweaters.  He supposed he could simply wait and ask Daniel during their evening session, but leaving the job half-done would bother him.

Vlad was a completionist to a fault, and knew that if he put this off, he ran the risk of losing his productive mood.  Not to mention the thought of the laundry sitting half-finished would torture him all evening; it would have been better to have not started at all.  And he wouldn’t wake the boy.  But this also toed the line of invasion of privacy.  

He weighed his options, and decided that a taking a brief look couldn’t hurt; he was already here, after all. In such a neat space, there weren’t exactly an abundance of hiding places.

He checked the walk-in closet first.  A thorough search left him baffled by the complete lack of sweaters, dirty or otherwise. He had checked the drawers (meticulously folded), hangers (formal wear was sorted by degree of formality then color), and even the floor (his shoes were lined up so perfectly he put showrooms to shame).

Daniel clearly treasured his possessions, and Vlad felt a rush of pride.  His son kept his space in perfect order, and everything had a logical place.  Except for the sweaters, it would seem.  Which didn’t make any sense.

His frustration grew as he continued to pace the room and failed to find a single one.  He was running out of ideas, and was uncomfortable at the thought of exploring much further.  On a whim, he ducked his head under the bed, admittedly feeling a bit foolish; this was one of the oldest clichés in the book.

But his eyes were immediately drawn to a large cedar chest, a copy of the one he himself used for keepsakes.  He had forgotten the boy had one as well; Daniel had been delighted with the gift, especially when Vlad had shown him the contents of its twin in his private study.

Vlad slid the heavy container out, running a hand across the sanded, weighty lid, hesitating for only a moment before giving in to his curiosity and lifting it before he could change his mind.

Sure enough, here were Daniel’s sweaters.  He let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding.  Mystery solved.  The quantity bordered on insane, way more than he remembered making, Vlad observed somewhat sheepishly.  What could he say?  He was a stress knitter.  

But he was particularly fascinated with the way the garments were packed.  Despite the large quantity, each sweater was folded with a degree of precision that spoke wordless volumes of care.  Handmade garments often had quirks; small flaws that made each piece unique, making it nearly impossible to pack them away neatly.  Daniel had somehow managed it by treating each sweater as an individual, modifying his folding technique slightly to ensure optimal fit.  Even the dirty ones were carefully folded, and placed on the smaller, right-hand side of the central divider.  It made his closet look sloppy in comparison.

Reluctant to ruin what was clearly several hours of work, Vlad carefully flipped through layers of sweaters, separated with tissue paper, the garments growing smaller as he descended. He was sure most of these didn’t have a hope of fitting Daniel any longer.  

One stood out from the others, though.  It rested at the very bottom of the heavy chest, and was individually wrapped, obscured by many layers of delicate tissue and tied loosely with string.  This deviation from the established system sparked Vlad’s curiosity further, overriding common sense, and before he knew it, he was carefully removing the wrappings.

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.  

He drew in a sharp breath, unnerved, and delicately traced the ragged edge of a black-rimmed tear with shaking fingers, transfixed.  It extended downward from right shoulder to sternum in a great slice, like it had been severed with a hot knife.  

Bafflingly, someone had also gone to great lengths to attempt repair; the edges were joined with neat, if pointless, stitches.  Only the lack of patching material revealed that this was a rush job.  Admirable effort, but an exercise in futility nonetheless; nothing could hope to fix the charred edges.  

The garment was utterly ruined.  No wonder Daniel kept this one covered so well; it likely brought back unpleasant memories, but the boy clearly didn’t have the heart to get rid of it.

Upon closer inspection, Vlad realized he recognized this sweater.  The vague unease grew into a feeling far more unpleasant.

It was the first one he’d ever made for Daniel, not that he’d known that at the time.  It had been started with his own dimensions in mind, but modified on a whim; gold and green, stitched together with hands bathed in the eerie green glow of the incubation chamber.  

He had been a different person then, twisted by hatred and blinded by his obsession with the Fentons.

Each stitch had been formed in bitter anger, to keep him grounded, patient.  Clicking needles helped to cover up the maddening hiss of the central air system and the relentless beep of monitoring equipment.

He knew at his core that this would be the last plot, his last attempt to take what was rightfully his; should he fail yet again, the fallout would be devastating.  He would be unable to stop himself from giving up, from descending irrevocably into madness.  Because at the end of the day, hate was all he had, his only constant along with his pride. But hatred took energy, and he was tired.  So tired.

Lips curled in disgust as he ran the clumsily-constructed fabric sitting in his lap through his fingers, reliving the turmoil through the record of amateurish mistakes that littered the garment.  Each pucker and twist, invisible to the untrained eye, glared at him accusingly, reminding him of sins he could never atone for.  Made him sick with guilt as they whispered to him, reminded him of a time when Daniel had been merely an “it” and “the clone,” a tool he had every intention to use for revenge.

He was practically living in the dim, sterile, underground room, on standby to respond in a moment should the clone destabilize again.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in his own bed (he kept a cot down here), gotten more than two consecutive hours of sleep, or eaten something more substantial than the occasional protein bar. He carefully refrained from imagining the state of the companies he was neglecting.

But this stage of the project was too unpredictable to leave unattended, the clone’s outline in the cloudy fluid filling the tube bobbing peacefully up and down, blissfully unaware that its existence could end in an instant.  But he wouldn’t let that happen.  He would have his prize.  With a completely obedient half ghost by his side, he would rule.  He had taken no chances, had combined a stolen sample of the Fenton boy’s DNA with his own.  It was his ultimate weapon.  No one would be able to stop him. No one could keep him from his rightful place.

But throughout human history, it is in moments like these that astounding things can happen.  Picture a person building a perfect pyramid, finally reaching the absolute top, standing on that tiny, sharp pinnacle, at the very highest they can go.

It is when we are at this peak, feel the most unstoppable, have the firmest foundation, are the most confident in our convictions, that the smallest breeze can topple us over and force us to rethink the foundations of our self-constructed realities as we fall, force us to shift our reality; rebuild, or cease to exist.  

It is the small things that shake us to the core, that have the power to change us forever.

Be it stroke of luck, fate, divine intervention or pure coincidence, one such moment occurred in that sterile lab when a rare set of circumstances coincided.  The fluid ensconcing the clone ran clear for several minutes, reflex prompted new eyes to flutter open, and Vlad happened to look up.  

And looked into a familiar set of blue eyes that he hadn’t seen anywhere other than a mirror since his mother had passed away all those years ago (he had searched for her desperately after he learned the nature of his transformation, to no avail).  They may have been obscured by fluid, but the shape and shade were unmistakable; they were her eyes.  His eyes. Staring unseeingly back at him.

It was…disturbing, to say the least.  Blame it on sleep deprivation if you will, but he felt his mother’s eyes cut right through him, accusingly, judging him for his behavior in her absence.  Forcing himself to do something he had done his very best to avoid, in a way only she ever could.  

So Vlad Masters took an honest look at himself for the first time in several decades.  

And he wept, because he knew that she didn’t like what she saw, was disappointed in him.  He had known this, on some level; it was why he had been putting off this realization for years.  But, he was surprised to find that she wasn’t disappointed he had fallen so far; no, because she knew and he knew now, too, that he had fallen.  Which meant that he was capable of picking himself back up and hadn’t. He had chosen not to, had chosen temporary comfort over the harder but healthier path.  But he could do better.  He would do better.  If not for her than for himself.

And on that paradigm shift, he rebuilt his world.  The eyes closed.  

And Vlad, with fresh eyes, truly looked into the face of the being he created for the first time.  But dread overtook him when he realized he wasn’t seeing the face of a clone.  No, instead, he was looking into the face of a child.

It took him back to the first time he had met young Daniel at the college reunion, blindsided by an irrational rush of paternal pride and unspeakable longing to get to know this boy, realizing that he wasn’t, didn’t have to be alone anymore. (How wrong he was).

That familiar, fierce longing again surged to the surface, become part of his world once again.  A desire he had buried long ago when the hopelessness simply became too much to bear.

All he had ever wanted was someone to love.

He thanked everything he could think of that he hadn’t started the programming, that is, the brainwashing, yet. And he wouldn’t.  He’d keep the basic learning protocols, so the boy could communicate, have basic knowledge about the world, but nothing else. If he wanted a son, he’d earn his trust and affection the old-fashioned way.  The right way.

But he was forgetting something.  New hope warred with sick dread.  But why? What threatened his happiness now? Because this being he created wasn’t a tool, this was a child.  His child. So still.  So fragile.  

The realization opened the floodgates, and he fought to keep the rush of panic at bay. What had he done!?

Once again, in a display of arrogance and ignorance, he had put someone at risk.  He already cared too much about the boy, was once again on the verge of losing everything. Because the child, Daniel, was dangerously unstable.  He could die.

Vlad couldn’t let that happen.  

For the first time in years, he was truly terrified of the consequences of failure.  Because he wasn’t used to consequences.  In an instant, the project had evolved into a horrible tightrope walk between life and death. He hoped the anxiety wouldn’t kill him first.

It was touch and go for a small eternity.  Vlad lost sleep, hair, and his lunch to far more close calls than he cared to recall.  He was certain he aged about twenty years that month, trapped in a micro-hell of his own design; he still had nightmares about that innocent face devolving into ectoplasm, but awake, screaming in agony from the confines of the tube at a pitch that made his hair stand on end…

Vlad mentally shook himself. No.  He thought about this quite enough at night, no sense in dwelling on it during waking hours as well.  

Preoccupied with the stressful task of keeping Daniel alive, sleeping in the lab even after the boy had stabilized out of sheer paranoia, he realized he was woefully unprepared to care for a child; embarrassingly so.  He panicked when Daniel emerged from the tube, realizing he hadn’t given a thought about basic needs.  Like clothing, for example.  

His “newborn” was freezing; his small frame shook uncontrollably in the thin sterile gown as he was propped upright on a cot so Vlad could monitor his vitals, a pile of medical blankets doing little to combat the chill. The boy was in tears; uncomfortable and confused, agoraphobic and overwhelmed by this strange new world, so Vlad had grabbed the completed sweater instinctively and helped the boy into it, hoping the warm weight would ground him, rambling about inconsequential things to distract from the alarming machines as he worked to reattach feeds and wires.

He cringed; in hindsight, he had risked further overstimulation that way, and the outcome could have been disastrous.  His palms still grew slick with cold sweat, and his blood pressure skyrocketed whenever he thought about everything that could have gone wrong, all the mistakes he had made in those early days.  He cursed his stupidity.  

Vlad shook off his self-disgust in favor of gathering up the old sweaters, having forgotten his original task, otherwise occupied with the chaos of his memories.  They didn’t fit Daniel any longer, so there really wasn’t any sense in keeping them.  

It was embarrassing how amateurish they looked now.  They were an unwelcome reminder of a time when he was at an absolute low.  He just wanted them gone.  Especially that first one.  The marred fabric seemed to mock him.  Yes, better to dispose of it, and bury the anxiety and fear that came with it.

He gathered his legs under him with mild difficulty, surprised to discover he was a bit stiff—he had been kneeling on the floor longer than he thought—and glanced up at the doorway.

Only to lock eyes with Daniel, who stood, gaping, in the doorway, hand frozen in an abandoned attempt to straighten tousled locks.  Tension radiated from his too-still frame, and wide eyes flickered from confusion to shock to panic.

Vlad froze as well, uneasy; he had never seen this look in the boy’s eyes before, and never cared to again.  Sick dread pooled heavily in his stomach as all other thoughts evaporated; he knew without a doubt that something was very wrong.

“Dad,” Daniel whispered, hand dropping abruptly.  “What are you doing with those?”

His gaze lowered, fixed on the pile of sweaters in Vlad’s arms.  Vlad looked down as well, and blinked, bemused by the sudden lack of sweaters there.

Daniel hugged the garments to his chest tenderly, like a young child would cuddle a favorite stuffed toy for reassurance after a scare.  In moments like these, Vlad was reminded of how new to the world the boy really was; it was too easy to forget when he wore the skin of a teenager.

A familiar, irrational stab of loss joined the budding guilt and self-loathing; that strange yearning for early years that never occurred.  

Nostalgia must be a theme today, he thought idly.

Reason returned as he watched Daniel drop carefully to his knees a deliberate distance away to begin refolding the stack.  Vlad’s inquisitive and concerned gaze was studiously avoided as the boy focused entirely on the task at hand.

Careful hands guided handmade fabric into precise creases reverently, deep blue eyes gleaming with a look of concentration so intense, it might have been comical under different circumstances.  If he didn’t recognize the carefully constructed front for what it was.

Upset was an understatement; and despite an admirable effort, Daniel was unable to conceal the slight tremble that made his hands clumsy and slow, an obvious tell that only intensified the harder he tried to hide it.  

Overall, he gave the impression of one who had survived a close shave.  As the shock slowly abated, Vlad’s mental alarm bells became more insistent.  This reaction was a bit extreme, even for someone experiencing the emotional fragility that was part and parcel of an unplanned nap.  Something wasn’t quite right; he was missing some crucial detail.

“Daniel, what…” Vlad trailed off, at a loss, hands reaching toward the boy helplessly, then falling short, uncertain.  “What did I—”

“You were going to get rid of them, weren’t you.”

It wasn’t a question. The words were tight, clipped. His eyes remained fixed studiously downward, even though it was obvious that he wasn’t truly looking at the abandoned sweater in front of him, fists clenched in an a futile attempt to suppress trembling fingers.

Daniel abruptly rocked back on his heels and wiped roughly at his face, shattering the invisible barrier between them, allowing Vlad to finally take action.  He scrambled in his haste to close the gap.  

He gathered the boy clumsily into his arms, and Daniel practically melted into the firm embrace before returning it fiercely, clinging to him in turn.  A striped head filled his peripheral vision, resting its comfortable weight on his shoulder, and soaked the light fabric covering it in warm wetness.

It was unclear how long they remained that way, respecting an unspoken agreement to set aside the circumstances for awhile in favor of comforting another; indulging in the unique security that came from holding a kindred spirit close.  

After a while, Daniel pulled away reluctantly, sniffling wetly and wiping halfheartedly at his nose. Vlad produced a fresh handkerchief and settled into a cross-legged position, facing the teen, waiting patiently for him to collect himself while he gathered his own thoughts.

“I apologize, Daniel,” he began, slowly, when the sniffles had eased, and the boy settled into a similar position, rolling edges of soft fabric anxiously between his fingers as he met Vlad’s gaze.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I know that I am at fault here, but I do admit that I’m not entirely sure what exactly I did to cause you this much distress.  Regardless, I should not have been in your room or searched through your things without your express permission.  I knew better, but I did it anyway.  I invaded your privacy, and for that, I am sorry.”

Daniel maintained eye contact, reddened and puffy appearance doing nothing to diminish the sincerity evident in their depths.

“I forgive you.”

There was no hesitation. The honest declaration mowed through Vlad’s emotional barriers, and his vision blurred as identical blue eyes prickled with tears of their own.  

He bit his lip.  His mistakes had long entrapped him, clinging fast and weighing him down.  Experience taught him that, once made, he would never be rid of them.  This knowledge, this fear, were iron shackles. It was his curse.  But this boy…

Never before had he known such forgiveness.  

Daniel absolutely hated to see his dad cry.  There was just something fundamentally wrong about seeing someone you cared about in distress.  So he was quick to reassure, hoping to fend off the flood and the inevitable interrogation.

“There’s really no harm done.  They’re all here, they’re safe.”

Honestly, this assurance was just as much for himself.  Of course, he would have forgiven Vlad regardless of the outcome; his dad was way more important to him than keepsakes, but this had come completely out of left field.  

He had always been so careful, and seeing his collection spread across the floor had been the last thing he had expected after trudging upstairs to finish his homework before training, cursing himself bitterly for falling asleep.    

He had really only meant to rest his eyes for a second or two, having gone distractingly cross-eyed while undoing his laces, falling instead into the deep kind of sleep that left one feeling fuzzy-headed and irritable upon waking instead of rested.

Daniel looked over at his favorite sweater, the one he had taken the most care to preserve.  As always, fury at the damage was tempered with fond warmth.  He flushed lightly, briefly recalling the circumstances of its repair.

His dad, who had since pulled himself together, followed his line of sight, brows drawing together in confusion, focused on the blackened article.  

“Why keep these?  Most are much too small, and this one,” he pulled the garment closer, “is damaged beyond repair.”

Daniel’s hands twitched instinctively, ready to come to the rescue at any moment.  

Honestly?  The thought of getting rid of them had never even crossed his mind, so he hadn’t.  And he felt much too strongly about the garments to ever consider it.

But his dad was looking at him expectantly, obviously waiting for an answer.  He had no idea how to put his jumbled thoughts and feelings on the matter into words, so he called upon the time-tested art of stalling.

“But you made them for me,” he settled on a basic truth, trying to buy a bit of time as he scrambled, struggling to string his thoughts into a pattern his dad would accept.

“I can make more, you know,” Vlad pointed out reasonably.  “There’s no sense holding on to something that’s outlived its usefulness. At this point, they’re just clutter—”

“They’re important to me!” Daniel snapped, and Vlad blanched, drawing back in shock.  

Daniel’s eyes widened, immediately regretting his outburst.

He didn’t mean to yell at his father!  But that statement hit distressingly close to home.  It was like Vlad wasn’t talking about the sweaters at all.  For a moment, his nightmares were playing out before his eyes…

He forcefully shoved his insecurities to the back of his mind in favor of running damage control; he had hurt his dad, and he looked on guiltily as his father struggled to school his features into a neutral position.

“I’m sorry, Dad!” Daniel rushed to explain, mentally kicking himself for his tone.

“I would never get rid of these.  I just can’t. You spent so much time on them, and it makes me feel cared for, kind of important, you know?”  

He traced the hem of the special one, eyes softening as his face heated up, but he was determined to get this out before he could talk himself out of it.  “Not to mention they’re basically portable hugs.  You’re with me all day this way.”

He hadn’t exactly wanted to give quite that much away.  But if he had to choose between his pride and his dad, his dad would win every time. It was the truth, after all, and he knew he had made the right choice when his dad’s eyes softened, and he was swallowed in his embrace once again.

Daniel had learned a long time ago that his father’s hugs went beyond the physical; they were part of an extensive nonverbal language, expressing what words simply could not.  

Because he maintained a stern public image, a necessity in his line of work, most people didn’t realize that his father was a very emotional man.  Daniel had seen how often he was misunderstood and slighted by his peers (to Daniel’s fury) because they never experienced this.  

For someone who claimed to have little experience in the area of affection, he sure didn’t act like it. Daniel still had no idea how he managed it, how exactly he coordinated the variations of timing and pressure into such clear but complex expressions.  This time, Vlad was conveying relief, awe, gratitude, and as always, more than anything, love.

The guilt intensified, sitting heavy and low in his stomach.  He didn’t deserve this.  He’s such a hypocrite, furious when others fail to appreciate his father, but hasn’t he done the same thing?  Vlad cared so much, almost too much, about other people; he would do anything for the ones he loved, for Daniel.  Anything.  And yet, Daniel was upset because he had tried to declutter.

Of course, Daniel is fully aware that this isn’t exactly the reason he’s upset, but he’s very careful to avoid the thought.  Now is not the time to think about this.  It’s much easier to tell himself he’s simply sentimental.  Nothing else.  

Vlad’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly, seeking reassurance, and Daniel pushed aside the painful train of thought, eager to provide it.  

He returned the embrace fiercely; he loves his dad more than anything, and he was determined to convey this. He knows he can’t hold a candle to Vlad’s raw skill in this area, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

He must have succeeded to some degree, because he feels his dad relax a bit.  Daniel sighed, settling his head once again onto a broad shoulder, still a bit damp from earlier, and takes the opportunity to burn this moment into his memory, to add it to his collection.  

He savored the slight tickle of grey locks on his upper check, sprung loose from their ties; the pleasant burn of cologne mixed with a scent that was simply Vlad drying his sinuses and coating the back of his tongue; the unnatural heat radiating through his silky shirt, warm and comfortable. For a small eternity, he knows nothing but safety, comfort, and love, and basks in the feeling.  

They eventually break apart and, once again, take a moment to collect themselves before Vlad looks again to Daniel’s favorite sweater.

“What happened?” he ventured, concerned by the implication that someone had attacked his son in human form (and rightfully so), but reluctant to upset Daniel further.

Daniel gathered it up with a sigh, reluctant to delve into complicated memories again.  He began to refold the garment, grateful for the excuse to avoid eye contact as he, fumbled for an answer that would satisfy his father, struck with an annoying sense of déjà vu.

“I took care of it. Doesn’t exactly fix this, though.”

Vlad sighed; he knew that truth all too well.

They kneeled there awkwardly for a moment, neither entirely what to do, caught in that strange limbo that followed any major argument; that period where you tell yourself everything’s okay now, but you know deep down that it’s a lie.  Because the cycle of injury, apology, and forgiveness isn’t some magic fix, and no relationship pops back to how it was before even though the issue has been resolved.  Things weren’t really okay yet, and they probably wouldn’t be for a little while.

Honestly, the invasion of privacy didn’t sting nearly as much as his own insecurities; he’d move on. But would Vlad?

Daniel glanced surreptitiously his father.  Vlad was an expert at the practiced neutral face, but Daniel knew better; his poor father would be beating himself up about this for days.  

Sure, he was still a bit shaken, but nothing had happened.  Vlad was just too hard on himself.  He had been a mess for weeks that time he had broken Daniel’s nose after opening a door too quickly, despite the fact it had healed without a scare in a matter of days. He had hated the way his father had tiptoed around him, hated that tortured look in his eyes as the incident no doubt looped in his mind, on repeat; over and over again.

If only there was a way to reassure his dad that he still had Daniel’s trust, a way to break through his uncertainly.  He played with a loose hem pensively, cursing the circumstances that had led Vlad to rummage through his sweater box in the first place…

Sweaters.  It was so obvious.

He gathered up the unwearable sweaters into a neat pile again.  He was embarrassed by how reluctant he was to go through with this, but if he had to choose between his dad’s happiness and sweaters that didn’t even fit anymore, well…

There really wasn’t a choice at all.

He got to his feet, and hefted the pile (there really were a lot of them), depositing them in his father’s arms.  He smiled wryly as his dad looked down at the pile, bewildered, before raising his gaze and quirking an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Take them.”

Vlad blinked, lips parted slightly to respond, before they shut again.  He glanced to the side, brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to reconcile the large volume of mixed messages he had received that afternoon.

“What?” he asked, settling on the explanation that, somehow, he had simply misheard.

“Take them.” Daniel maintained firm eye contact, staring into blue pools identical to his own.  “You were right, they don’t even fit me anymore.”

“But, Daniel, those are yours,” Vlad sputtered, intelligently.

Daniel smiled softly.

“They were.  But now I want you to have them.”

Vlad looked helplessly at the pile, as if it held the answer to the puzzle that was currently throwing him for a loop.

“But why, Daniel?  You told me you love those sweaters.”

He left his father on the floor and walked to the door, grabbing his backpack on the way.  He’d do some homework at the kitchen table for a while, give his dad some time alone to process.  He paused in the doorway, a melancholy smile pulling at his lips as he gave his answer over his shoulder.

“I do.  But I love you more.”

                                                      ><><

This particular project normally would have taken months; Vlad had it done in one.  But not because he had rushed; no, he made absolutely certain it was perfect.  Nothing less for Daniel.  He didn’t sleep much anyways.

Daniel’s demonstration had the intended effect; knowing he still had his son’s trust even after his mistake meant the world to him.  

It had been a shock, at first.  He hadn’t known what to think when the boy handed his treasured pile of clothing over with barely an explanation.  It had been more difficult than he’d like to admit, allowing his son to walk away after sharing such a sentiment, leaving him on the floor to collect his thoughts. But after the shock (finally) wore off, the implications of the gesture warmed him to the core.  

(He also was trying his best not to dwell on the implication that someone attacked Daniel.  His son.  In human form, no less.  Because if he thought about that for too long, it took him to a dark place.  He trusted Daniel.  He did.  But surely it hadn’t been out of line to investigate the incident himself, not that he found anything, to his frustration.)

By the time training had begun that evening, Daniel appeared to have forgotten all about the incident. To the untrained eye, that is. Vlad had to give credit where credit was due; he had admirable focus during training and finished all his homework, but he’d caught a glimpse of him with the cedar chest out again later that evening on his way to bed; reorganizing.

Vlad truly had no idea the boy was so fond of the sweaters.  He could have kicked himself.  He thought he knew his son so well; how had he missed something so important to him?  Sure, he always beamed and hugged him whenever Vlad presented him with a new one (which may have contributed to the vast number now that he thinks about it, hmm…) but then again, Daniel always thanked him for gifts, equally delighted be it a motorbike or a new toothbrush.

In hindsight, though, the favoritism for knitwear was obvious, in the way his eyes would light up just that much brighter, how he’d wear it the very next day.  And his words…

They’re basically portable hugs.  You’re with me all day this way.

He had replayed this exchange countless times over the past month, the warmth in his chest just as strong as day one.  Never before had he known such happiness.  Such love.

His eyes prickled a bit. It was strange kind of responsibility, to have such a significant role in the happiness of someone else.  He both cherished and feared it in equal measure, terrified he would wake up one day, and he’d realize he’d imagined this whole thing. Or worse, that he would drive Daniel away himself one day, just like every other important person in his life. He’d be alone again.

For years, he chased a mirage of this feeling, feeding his obsession with a woman who would never return his affections, and later, her son.  At some point, he had given up, resigned himself to a lifetime of loneliness and swore revenge instead. He had cursed his failures, then.

Now, he thanked whatever power was responsible for those failures; any “victory” he may have achieved during that time, which now felt like lifetimes ago, would have been a mockery of the affection he craved, a mere taste that would have eventually driven him mad with longing.  Daniel had freely given him what he’d never dreamed could exist.  And it meant the world to him.

He didn’t deserve Daniel. But for some unknown reason, he had decided to stay.  He was the first person who had chosen Vlad above all others, and Vlad longed to show him how much he meant to him.  

He would continue to make the boy sweaters.  Socks. Hats.  Scarves.  Heck, he’d learn how to sew properly and make all his clothes, if it meant this much to him. But one step at a time.

On that note, Vlad put the finishing touches on the piece, feeling the strange mixture of melancholy and satisfaction he experienced whenever he completed a long-term project.  

And to his delight, it turned out much better than he had hoped.  He had conducted extensive research regarding design and technique; it was pretty far out of his comfort zone, and he only had one chance to get it right.  But it was worth it.  Anything for Daniel.

He took a moment to appreciate the fruits of his labor before packing it away with the utmost care.

Everything had to be perfect.

                                                     ><><

Something was up. Daniel’s eyes narrowed as he watched his dad make breakfast.  The change was subtle.  Only someone who saw the man on a daily basis would notice the difference; he was almost twitchy, movements sharp and almost harried as he fixed Daniel’s plate.  

His Dad placed the food in front of him with a quiet “good morning” and a tired smile.  Daniel noted the bruises under his eyes were darker than usual.  Daniel thanked him before focusing on his plate, inhaling sharply at its contents.

Pancakes.  In fun shapes.

Oh no.  It was worse than he thought.

He kept stealing glances at his dad as he ate, watched him worry at the handle of his coffee mug and pick at his own pancakes.  Daniel hated to leave him like this, but really, there wasn’t anything to be done when Vlad was in one of these moods.  And his dad wouldn’t want him to miss school.

If he lingered a bit during his goodbye hug, his dad didn’t comment.  Just bid him to have a good day, like usual.

Daniel tried to go about his day as he normally did, but was unable to shake the concern for his father. They texted as per their habit during his lunch break, in between laughing with his friends, but Vlad seemed a bit…distracted, he supposed.

(His friends could have told him that Vlad wasn’t the only one, but, like all good friends, they didn’t comment, opting instead to respect his privacy, confident that he would talk when and if he wanted to.)

Needless to say, Daniel wasn’t entirely sure what to expect when he crossed the Masters’ threshold that afternoon, hanging his jacket on the rack and shouldering his backpack, anxious to check on his father.

“Dad, I’m home!”

No answer.

He deposited his keys in the dish, and moved through the entryway, calling twice more, trying not to worry when he was met with silence.  

While uncommon, it wasn’t unheard of for Daniel to get home before Vlad.  But with the mood his dad was in that day, he was on edge.  Normally, he would text Daniel when he was working late.

Daniel sighed, running his fingers lightly along the wall of pictures as he made his way down the hall and up the staircase, deciding to distract himself with a bit of schoolwork while he waited for his dad to get back.  He hoped he was alright.

Daniel deposited his backpack beside his desk, taking a moment to kick off his shoes before pulling out his phone to text his dad, making his way over to sit on his bed, glancing up to check the height (his muscle memory wasn’t the most reliable these days; he was running into furniture and walls so often that his dad often joked about childproofing) only to stop short.  There was already something sitting there.

It was a box of medium size, just short of being too large to hold comfortably with two hands, wrapped simply but neatly in white paper.  Resting on top was a light green envelope, with his name inked in gold in a familiar hand.

He furrowed his brows, perplexed, and set aside his phone to pick up the envelope.  Unless he was very much mistaken, this was a present from his dad. Strange.

Not that surprise presents were an unusual occurrence; on the contrary, his dad loved giving him gifts, much more than Daniel enjoyed receiving them.  The quantity had been truly ridiculous at first.  It took a while for him to convince his father to relax, admitting that while he appreciated the thought and attention, he felt guilty that he was unable to reciprocate.  So they had compromised, agreeing to save gifting for special occasions.

Of course, Vlad pushed the boundaries of this rule, but it made him so happy to do nice things for Daniel that the teenager didn’t have the heart to call him out.  As long as he didn’t go overboard, Daniel had decided he could live with the occasional surprise.

He picked at the flap of the heavy paper envelope.  

But, unlike any other time his dad gave him a gift, he wasn’t here.  Daniel knew from experience that the real fun of gift-giving came from watching the recipient’s reaction.  

And his dad’s absence was clearly intentional.  Vlad was a master of presentation; the private location combined with the open and inviting position of the box and envelope was not coincidental.  Not to mention his unusual absence from the house at large.  And no audience meant no pressure, no need to control his reactions with the feelings of other in mind, free to be himself.

Which meant it was a gift intended for Daniel and Daniel alone.  He was touched.  And intrigued.

He finally managed to get a thumb under the tight seal, prying the glue apart slowly, careful to leave the envelope intact.  He pulled out a sheet of simple off-white stationary, revealing a message in his father’s distinctive hand.  

Daniel chuckled a bit; for someone so detail-oriented, his handwriting was atrocious.  He sat down, and began to read.

Dear Daniel,

I apologize for violating your privacy and your trust about a month ago.  I have no excuse.  I allowed my curiosity to overrule my common sense and overstepped your boundaries.  Worse, I used this knowledge to impose my will when it was neither wanted nor necessary, failing to respect your space, and by extension, you.  I am sorry, Daniel, for this, and any similar past missteps that I failed to recognize.

I cannot promise you that something similar will not happen again; I promise to try my best, but as much as I pretend otherwise, truly, I have no idea what I’m doing.  You are the first person I have shared a space with in over twenty years, and those past examples did not end well.  Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I successfully drove away everyone close to me.  I hurt people.  I’d like to think that I’m a bit wiser now, but I know that’s not entirely true.

To be completely honest, I’m terrified, Daniel.  You are my only son.  I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hurt you as well.  And I did hurt you, that day.  Others have left for far less.

Imagine my surprise when you forgave me so easily.  I simply couldn’t believe that it could be that easy.  You know that I trust you, Daniel, but you have to understand that years of evidence to the contrary are not so easily ignored.  

And then you decided to prove that there were no hard feelings; you gave the subject of my betrayal back to me, as a sign of good faith.  Your prized possessions.  Given freely.

I suspect you don’t have any idea clue how truly special you are.  So selfless, so kind.  If I hadn’t had such an involved role in your creation, I never would have believed that you were my child.

So thank you, Daniel.  Thank you for being you.

Daniel blinked back tears, taken aback by the forthright nature of the letter.  It was just so honest, so Vlad that he wasn’t sure if he should shake his head or cry.  Honestly, he was a bit disappointed; he had thought that his show of trust with the old sweaters had been enough to assure him of Daniel’s sincerity, and relieve him of guilt.

He loved the man, but it killed him how stubborn he could be.  He didn’t need to apologize again; Daniel had been tired that day, and overreacted, reading farther into the situation than he should have.  They were just a bunch of old sweaters.  This was his dad.  Why couldn’t his dad see that?

He decided to move on, rubbing at his eyes, unable to suppress a snort at the next line:

Now, because I know you, I’m certain that unlike every other teenager in existence, you read the card first. So do me a favor, please; open up the box before you read the rest.

He shook his head.  No one knew him like his dad.  He’d worry about the implications of his predictability later.

For now, he took the box into his lap; it had heft, but wasn’t heavy, per se.  He turned the package over, searching for the seams, and methodically pried tape away from the wrappings, careful not to tear the paper, savoring the anticipation.

He set the paper aside, and grasped the lid of the oversized white cardboard clothing box, prying it away from the bottom half, and brushed aside green and yellow tissue paper.  His hands began to shake.

He was greeted with something familiar, yet new.  He traced the old knit pattern, yarn soft from wear, but freshly laundered.  He tried a couple of times to lift the bulky block of fabric from the box, but it was packed tight, and he was unable to find purchase.  So he gave up and turned the box over onto the sheets instead, then unfolded its contents, eager to see the piece in its entirety.  He gaped.

They were all here. All of his old sweaters, the ones that he had given to Vlad that day.  The ones that he reluctantly put aside one by one when he could no longer slip into their warm embrace.  He had mourned the loss of the memories that went with each one, resigned to enjoy them as mere keepsakes.  

He didn’t regret giving them to his dad, but he had missed them.

Here they were, but not as they were; the torsos had been divested of the sleeves and divided in half down the sides, former front and back forming large patches that were sewn methodically onto an oversized sheet of ultra-soft fabric.  Parts of the sleeves had been repurposed into artful borders to separate individual sweaters.  The construction had been stuffed lightly, and formed a type of quilt.

Overall, the effect was stunning, striking a perfect balance between respect for the past and celebration of a new era.  

As far as he could tell, every salvageable part of his collection had a place.

In the middle, framed like a piece of art, was the front of his favorite sweater.  His first one, complete with mar and repair job.  He traced his friend’s handiwork reverently, taking a moment to reflect before taking action.

He arranged the quilt on top of his comforter, admiring the personal touch it brought to his space.  He itched to burrow under it immediately, but he knew better; there was no way he’d be able to avoid falling asleep right now if he was that warm.

It was, without question, the most thoughtful gift he had ever received.  So much time and care had been poured into this.  He had no idea how his dad had managed to organize the diverse collection into the aesthetically-pleasing and functional piece of art resting on his bed. He felt a rush of concern for his dad.  When had he found time to sleep this month?

With a jolt, Daniel remembered that he still had half a letter to read.  

He bit his bottom lip, conflicted, and decided to take a calculated risk; he burrowed socked feet under the quilt and shimmied down to his hips, sighing in delight.  The warm weight was unbelievably comfortable, and his feeling of nostalgia only intensified with contact. He had missed this.  His dad’s voice colored the rest of the text.

Life is full of change.  I often did my best to resist it, believing it could bring only pain.  You have taught me that this isn’t always the case.  Change can bring pain, but it often brings benefits as well.  Especially when it brings about growth.

Take your sweaters for example. You were, and still are, incredibly fond of them, despite the fit becoming uncomfortable as you outgrew them.  To continue to grow unhindered, you had to take the small sweaters off.

You’ll continue to grow in many different ways.  I look forward to seeing who you will become.  

But you will find that you will outgrow more than old sweaters in the course of your life.  Mindsets, routines, places.  At some point, you’ll realize that they’re no longer as comfortable as you remember, but moving on can be hard.  

When you reach the point of no return, Daniel, you must promise me you won’t linger.  Trying to fit into that “old sweater” again, as tempting as it is, will only bring you pain.

I regret to say I speak from experience.  I was stuck, for many years, trying to fit into my own “sweater,” denying the restriction because it was all I had.  I was stuck, longing to change my circumstances, but unwilling to release my hold on the “then” and embrace the “now.”  

It was painful, to say the least. I wallowed in anger for years, refusing to share blame, placing it fully on the shoulders of my friends, pushing them away.  Then I wondered why I was always unhappy and alone, with only my dark thoughts to keep me company.

I was still that person when you came along.  No hope, intent on using you as a tool for revenge and conquest.  But you were greater than I ever dreamed, far more than I could ever hope: A person.  My son.

It terrified me; you were too good for this world, too good for me.  And I was ashamed, thought myself unworthy to be your father, terrified I’d ruin you. That I’d fail you.

Please don’t make my mistakes.  Make your own.  Grow.  Live.  

Let this quilt remind you that it’s okay to remember the past, but not to dwell on it.  With some imagination, your memories can grow with you.   The past has its place, but life can only continue when you let go.

You taught me this, Daniel.  Let me return the favor.

And no matter what else in your life may change, you can rest easy with the knowledge that I will always be here for you, for as long as you’ll have me.

I am so proud of you, son.  I can’t wait to see what kind of man you’ll become.  

I love you.

-Vlad

An ugly mix of tears and snot streamed unchecked down Daniel’s face, dripping off his chin onto his shirt, arms carefully outstretched to preserve the letter.  

Sure, parts were a bit embarrassing. And sad.  But while his dad expressed his love often enough verbally, it was a different experience altogether see it in writing.  It felt more authentic, somehow.  Perhaps it was the deliberation that was required to record such a sentiment on paper; completely separate from the heat of the moment.  Sincere.

Today had been a roller coaster of emotion, from pancakes to quilts; he was exhausted.

When he first slid under the blanket, he had thought he’d never want to get up, reminded of his dad’s embrace.  But now, he found himself longing for nothing less than the real thing, confident he knew where his dad had been hiding under the circumstances.

In his haste, he elected to phase out from under the quilt, pausing only to set the letter carefully on his desk before phasing through several walls into Vlad’s private study.

Sure enough, there he was. Daniel barely registered that the man was staring blankly, hunched over an old photo album before it was lost from sight as he released the transformation and buried him in a hug from behind, over his shoulders and the desk chair.

Vlad tensed at first, so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard the boy come in.

“Thank you,” Daniel whispered.

Vlad relaxed, closing the book before turning around with a tentative smile.

Daniel let go, and Vlad stood so he could hug his son properly.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading!  I hope you had just as much fun as I did writing it!  I’m pretty new to writing fiction (I normally write research papers), so I’d appreciate any feedback you’d be willing to give me.  Feel free to point out any mistakes or oversights!  Overall, I’m really happy with how this turned out.  I guess fifth times’ the charm and all that.  I was concerned about the pacing being too slow, so I’m curious to see what you guys think.

I’m also open to requests!  Feel free to hit me up.  I have a few more shorts planned in this universe, namely, the story of how Daniel’s favorite sweater was damaged and an, admittedly, crack-ish short where Vlad and Daniel react to the sketch that started it all (Vlad commissions a family portrait, but has mixed feelings about the result); but after that, nothing’s planned, but I do have a couple of vague ideas.

Thanks for reading!

#flightyfiction #danny phantom #fanfiction #vlad masters #daniel masters #au #this got really long #oops #long post #tumblr didnt like it the first time #i hope its fixed #update: progress has been made but it still doesnt show up in search #maybe its the links #i might try a link-less version later #here it is #if this fixes it ill post the links seperately #technical difficulties

[fumpkins]

Climate driving interstate arrivals to Tasmania as tree changers to escape 'unbearable' heat

Posted December 16, 2019 10:03:34

Photo: Desmond and Linda Cornford enjoy life without the heat and humidity. (ABC News: Henry Zwartz)

Desmond and Linda Cornford left Brisbane five years ago because temperatures had become unbearable.

Key points:

A University of Tasmania study has found climate is the biggest driver of migration to Tasmania

Des and Linda Cornford fled Brisbane five years ago because it was “getting way too hot”

Australia is this week suffering through a heatwave, but Tasmania will mostly escape the sweltering weather

Mr Cornford said Brisbane was a country town when he moved there in 1977, but it had grown into a big city and he felt temperatures had soared.

“I think it has got warmer and I think the summers have got longer,” he said.

“The winters, well there’s really not a winter up there in our opinion, but it has changed a lot.”

This year, Brisbane’s July was its hottest on record.

South-east Queensland is also today expected to break temperature records as the mainland swelters through a heatwave.

Mrs Cornford said the move was “just something that we had to do”.

“It was just getting way too hot and the humidity was an absolute killer,” she said.

“You couldn’t do any gardening because it was just going to be too hot, you couldn’t use your water because they were on restrictions. So Tasmania it was.”

The couple moved to Port Sorell on Tasmania’s north-west coast and couldn’t be happier with their decision. In fact, they believe it’s added years to their lives.

“Most of our time is spent in the garden which is wonderful, so that is extending our lives,” Mrs Cornford said.

“We’re exercising and we’re enjoying it.”

Climate most popular migration driver

The Cornfords are not alone.

A recent survey of people who had either moved to Tasmania or were considering doing so found climate and weather were the most commonly reported reasons for a tree change.

Environment was close behind.

Photo: Hot weather is short lived in Tasmania. (Pixabay: Gerd Altmann)

The number of interstate arrivals has also been increasing.

In the year to March, 14,521 people moved from around Australia to settle in Tasmania, surpassing an average of 12,874 per year since 2003.

University of Tasmania demographer Lisa Denny from the Institute for the Study of Social Change said in the past, employment opportunities, connecting with family and lifestyle reasons were the main drivers behind people’s decisions to relocate.

“We were actually surprised that climate and the environment was the number one reason for people coming and for people leaving where they came from,” Dr Denny said.

“The risks of more natural hazards and natural events like floods and cyclones and bushfires, the costs associated with insurance are making people reconsider about where they live.”

‘Last climate refuge in Australia’

Professor of Sustainability at the University of Tasmania Barry Brook said heatwaves on mainland Australia would be hotter and more extreme in the future.

“I’ve heard a lot of people say Tasmania’s the last climate refuge in Australia,” he said.

“Although we will have hot days, we’re not subject to the same extended hot periods.

“Places like the north-west coast are particularly mild, they have got Bass Strait around them and I’ve heard of a lot of people seeking to move there to escape those extreme conditions.”

Simon McCulloch from the Bureau of Meteorology agreed.

“We generally don’t get that really extreme heat,” he said.

“So the temperatures on mainland Australia are pushing up into the 40s, we do get days pushing into the high 30s and the low 40s, but generally not a lot of them.”

And Professor Brook said it would not be just humans seeking refuge in Tasmania.

“There are animal refugees and plants as well and one of the things I am interested in here is whether there’s going to be mainland species not in Tasmania that can no longer cope with the conditions,” he said.

“You see things that live in mountain ranges like in central Victoria in the Snowy Mountains, it might be their last refuge is Tasmania.

“So it’s not just going to be people, it might well be species we have to think about moving permanently down here.

“It is a real possibility for some threatened ones, for example the mountain pygmy possum found only in snowy areas [in Victoria and New South Wales], if they’re all gone from the mainland in 50 years the only place left [for them] will be Tasmania.”

Photo: Professor Brook says the endangered mountain pygmy possum is one animal which may eventually have to move to Tasmania. (Supplied: Victorian Department of Environment, Land, Water and Planning)

Topics:

climate-change,

environment,

human-interest,

animal-science,

animals,

tas,

qld,

hobart-7000,

launceston-7250,

port-sorell-7307

New post published on: https://www.livescience.tech/2019/12/16/climate-driving-interstate-arrivals-to-tasmania-as-tree-changers-to-escape-unbearable-heat/

[agentmarymargaretskitz]

AMENDMENT TO PREVIOUS ASK: I would also like to see 18 for Captain Canary, so it's writer's choice

18. “This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”

(Setting this on Earth-10)

AO3

Sara was laying on the couch, blond hair splayed out on one of the throw pillows. This wasn’t her first brush with frostbite, not after all the encounters with Captain Cold. Being able to heal fast was a bonus, but it still hurt like hell getting hit with a blast of cold. At least Leonard hadn’t gotten hit, or they’d be in a worse case.

“I just got off the phone with Mick,” Leonard said, entering their living room. “He and Lisa lost track of Palmer. Or Killer Frost, as he keeps insisting his name is.”

“That’s not good,” Sara muttered as he sat down in the chair beside the couch. “I thought we had a chance to maybe get him to see sense, but I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Did you realize that before or after he tried to kill us?” he asked sarcastically.

“When he tried to kill you,” Sara replied. “Ray Palmer, Killer Frost, whatever, he’s angry. That anger is fueling his powers, and it’s keeping him in that mindset that he’s Killer Frost. We need to find a way to get those cuffs on him to neutralize his powers or get him to ARGUS.”

Leonard looks sharply at her. “We’re talking ARGUS now for containment?”

“They have the resources to keep him contained if we can’t get the cuffs on him,” Sara shot back. “And I trust Kendra to make sure he’s treated humanely.”

“Fair point,” Leonard nodded. “How do we get Frost from his rampage to ARGUS though? Just you and I taking him isn’t going to work, and Mick and Lisa’s first priority has been looking into the QC fire.”

“Well, I have an idea,” Sara announced. “But you might not like it.”

“Depends on what it is.”

“We get help from Captain Cold, Golden Glider, and Heatwave.”

“You’re right,” Leonard muttered. “I don’t like it.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Sara shrugged. “Are you in?”

He sighed. “This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”

“Stupid?” Sara questioned.

“We’ve faced the Rogues before, Sara,” he reminded her. “It doesn’t usually end well, even though you and Stein have some weird hate-friendship going on.”

“I’ll just have to figure out a way to persuade them,” she said. “Still, wanna come with me to talk to them?”

“As your partner or as back-up?”

The speedster smiled weakly. “Bit of both?”

Saints and Sinners was practically empty when the couple walked into it. The establishment was on the rough side of the city, but it was still kept pretty clean than some of the other places that Sara or Leonard had seen on the same side of town. Still, given the Rogues had discovered their secrets, it was risky walking into the dive bar. Leonard had wanted to bring his bow in, but settled for a few throwing stars hidden away instead.

Felicity Smoak was behind the bar, cleaning glasses. She didn’t seem to notice them yet. Meanwhile, Amaya Jiwe and Lily Stein were at the pool table, cues in hand. The Golden Glider was lining up to take a shot when Captain Cold looked up across the table and noticed them. Stein’s eyes darkened as she set her cue down against the table and walked over to them.

“Lance and Snart,” she remarked with a grin. “What brings you here, Flarrow? We haven’t been causing trouble…for a while.”

Leonard suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at her nickname for him and Sara. “We’re not here to fight, just to talk.”

“Cut to the chase,” Jiwe muttered as she and Smoak come up on either side of Stein.

Sara could see Jiwe’s hand resting on the handle of her gold gun. Smoak looked ready to grab her heat gun. Leonard reached into his jacket to for one of his throwing stars. Stein shot her compatriots a look each way, and they relaxed their hands at their sides. Sara placed a hand on Leonard’ shoulder and he removed his hand from his jacket.

“We need…help,” Sara admitted reluctantly. “There’s a metahuman going on a rampage, one who needs containment. He’s calling himself Killer Frost.”

Smoak snorted. “Sounds lame.”

“He’s got ice powers and is out of control,”Leonard told them. “We want to stop him before he kills any more people.”

“Wait,” Stein held up a finger. “You’re asking someone who possesses a gun that can create ice to stop a metahuman with ice powers? Explain the logic in that?”

“It’s not the gun we need,” Sara explained. “What we want is backup as your skills. Jiwe and Smoak’s weapons are more useful here than yours, Stein.”

“So if we trap your meta,” Smoak stepped up beside Stein. “What do we get out of this?”

Now Leonard couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Of course you want something.”

“Everyone wants something,” Heatwave fired back. “We don’t get satisfaction from saving the day. Hero isn’t on any of our resumes.”

“What if I erased your records?”

Leonard turned to Sara. “Are you crazy?”

She gave him a lot that said ‘work with me’, “All criminal offences gone, all data on your wiped from the system. You can do whatever you want after that.”

Jiwe seemed tempted. “It would be nice to travel around knowing there’s not a warrant for my arrest.”

Smoak shrugged. “It’ll do.”

Sara and Leonard turned to Stein.

“Fine,” the brunette heaved a sigh. “But this is a one time thing. As soon as you erase our records, we’ll help you out.”

“Deal,” Sara nodded. “I’ll notify you when it’s done.”

“And then we have to help the Flarrow duo,” Stein finished. “No one hears about this though. Like Felicity said, hero isn’t on any of our resumes.”

“No kidding,” Leonard muttered under his breath as he and Sara left.

Two nights later, Sara and Leonard managed to subdue Killer Frost with the help of the Rogues. Once Sara had gotten the meta suppression cuffs on Killer Frost, the mild-mannered Ray Palmer resurfaced and the Rogues split. Leonard had to admit, Sara had been brilliant getting their help. For a group of crooks, they weren’t half bad on the side of the angels. 

“I’m so sorry about all this,” Palmer apologized as they waited for Kendra’s contact to arrive. “I thought I’d be able to control my powers like the Flash. But he’s too strong. I should be locked up in case Frost ever gets out again.”

“So you don’t have control of your powers,” Sara said, vibrating her vocal cords. “It happens. I couldn’t control my speed at first either.”

“You couldn’t?” Palmer frowned.

“Nope. It wasn’t easy, but I found a way to control it.”

“And what was that?”

Sara looked over at Leonard. “I found someone who kept me grounded when I used them. An anchor, I guess.”

Leonard was thankful for the dark as he smiled beneath his hood.

A large container truck drove up to where they were waiting. The driver’s door opened, and a man in an ARGUS uniform stepped out. He looked over at the two heroes flanking the metahuman and gulped. 

“You Kendra’s contact?” Leonard inquired after flicking on his voice modulator. 

“Yessir,” the man nodded, looking over at Palmer again. “She told me there was a meta to transport.”

“Hi,” Ray raised his cuffed hands to wave weakly.

“Shut up,” Sara muttered. “You know your instructions. Agent…”

“Hall,” the man said, giving another nod. “Agent Saunders was very clear about what to do. I can take care of it from here.”

Leonard and Sara watched as Ray allowed himself to be lead into the back of the container truck. The man gave them one last week smile before disappearing from sight. Then Hall shut the doors and nodded at them again before getting back in the truck. He drove away, and Leonard looked over at Ray.

“You ground me too,” he told her.

She tilted her head. “Leonard, you’re the most in control person I know.”

“Because of the particle accelerator, I can’t miss anything,” he reminded her. “Perfect marksmanship isn’t super speed, but it would be too easy to kill someone. You’re my anchor to not kill.”

“I’m glad I have you,” Sara smiled. “We’re good for each other.”

“That we are,” he agreed.

“Now, ready to go home?”

He nodded. Sara took hold of him before speeding them away.

Ray Palmer sat on the floor of the cell that was build into the container. He traced the metal of the cuffs with one finger as best he could. They were the only thing that was keeping the monster inside him at bay. His attempts to find a cure had backfired and released Killer Frost rather than destroying. Maybe wherever he was going, he would be able to get a cure there.

The truck jolted suddenly, and a hand emerged briefly from the shadows. Ray sucked in a breath when he realized he wasn’t alone. He climbed to his feet and backed against the wall of his cell.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. “I know I’m not alone.”

A man emerged from the shadows. He was dressed in dark grey suit with an evergreen tie. Ray recognized him immediately.

“Hello, Mr. Palmer,” Oliver Queen greeted him. “Or do you prefer Killer Frost now?”

Ray swallowed. “You’re with ARGUS?”

Queen shook his head. “No, not at all. Neither is the driver. As far as ARGUS is concerned, you broke out during transport.”

“So where am I going?”

“A place called Cadmus,” Queen smirked. “We’re very interesting in you, Mr. Palmer, and your extraordinary abilities.”

Prompt-a-thon

#chillin like villains #ask box #legends of tomorrow #captain canary #ray palmer #lily stein #amaya jiwe #felicity smoak #carter hall #oliver queen #ship prompt #earth 10

[therealmaggiemedia]

The Wilsons  E205 Susanne Naked Sunbathing WARNING Contains mild  nudity from the start.

FADE IN

INT, SUSANNE'S BEDROOM-DAY

Susanne  is still in bed when Alice enters the room and wakes her up.

ALICE

Hey Susanne wake up and look outside!

Susanne wakes up and she sees its Morning.

SUSANNE

morning Alice!

ALICE

Daddy says we can have the pool out but we have to wait till he comes home from work!

SUSANNE

We can sunbathe till then!

IN THE GARDEN

Susanne  is wearing a t-shirt and shorts and sandals and she is sunbathing.

SUSANNE

Now this is relaxing!

Then the sun gets really hot and Susanne starts to feel the heat.

SUSANNE

boy its hot!

Susanne stands up and takes off her T-Shirt then she gets back on the grounds.

Then Susanne feels very hot so she decides to take off her shorts and underwear.

SUSANNE

that's better!

Susanne sunbathed naked then Alice comes out wearing a bathing suit Alice sees her sister naked and she wonders why.

ALICE

what  are you doing Susanne people can see your bum!

SUSANNE

Alice its hot and nobody can see us Dad made a fence remember!

ALICE

oh yes that's right, can I do it too?

SUSANNE

Yes of course Alice!

Alice takes off her clothes and lays next to Susanne revealing her bare bottom across the road an old man is at his bedroom window and he has seen Susanne and Alice sunbathing naked.

OLD MAN

I  could stand here all day and I will!

IN THE GARDEN

Susanne and Alice stand up the camera moves up to there neckline they have both seen the old man at the window so they cover themselves with a sheet.

SUSANNE

its Mr smith I've heard he's a dirty old man!

ALICE

well he should take a bath if he's dirty that's just disgusting!

SUSANNE

I don't think we should tell Dad about this lets go in the house and go to our rooms and put on our clothes!

ALICE

what  do we say if mummy sees us wearing a sheet?

SUSANNE

hmm Best sneak in and hope for the best!

ALICE

okay Susanne!

IN THE HOUSE

Alice and Susanne are sneaking past the kitchen hoping they don't get seen by Mavis then they go upstairs and in there rooms.

FADE TO LATER ON THE LANDING

Alice and Susanne are now standing on the landing now wearing clothes but not wearing shoes as they are still in the garden.

ALICE

Susanne we're going to have to go in the garden and get our shoes and clothes before Dad comes home because he might be mad!

SUSANNE

yes you're right Alice lets go outside in our socks!

We see Susanne and Alice standing on the landing looking at they're feet.

ALICE

my socks have pink on them!

SUSANNE

come on  Alice!

IN THE GARDEN

George has just come home from work and he sees on the ground two piles of clothes.

GEORGE

Hmm these look like Alice and Susanne's I wonder how they got here!

He picks them up and takes them in the house but he is stopped by Alice and Susanne.

ALICE

hi Daddy!

GEORGE

Girls can I ask you something why are your clothes on the lawn?

ALICE

we were sunbathing with no clothes on!

GEORGE

(ANGRY) what inside both of you!

They both do as they are told.

IN THE LIVING ROOM

George   has put Alice on the naughty step and Susanne in the naughty corner.

SUSANNE

its your fault we're here you told Dad the truth instead of lying to him!

ALICE

I  don't like lying I always tell the truth and I'm taking my punishment like I should!

SUSANNE

fine Alice  if you want to be a goody two shoes then fair enough!

Then George enters the room.

GEORGE

I can make your punishment longer!

ALICE

sorry Daddy!

IN THE KITCHEN

Mavis is asking George if he is being too hard on them.

MAVIS

aren't you being a bit hard on them George!

GEORGE

Mavis the girls have to learn that sunbathing with no clothes on is not acceptable!

EXT, ACCROSS THE ROAD-DAY

Susanne is on her way to school when she is stopped by her neighbour.

MAN

hi!

SUSANNE

hI!

MAN

do  you know who I am?

SUSANNE

the man across the street who saw me sunbathing with nothing on!

MAN

I was wondering if you have plans to do it again!

SUSANNE

I can't do that anymore sorry and now I have to get to school!

Susanne continues walking to the school.

From inside the house his wife is calling him.

MARTHA

Charles, I  hope you haven't been bothering the neighbour girl!

CHARLES

No Dear!

INT, GREENFORTH PRIMERY SCHOOL-DAY

IN THE CORRIDOR

Susanne  is telling her friends about the dirty old man.

SUSANNE

and  he saw me and my sister sunbathing with no clothes on!

MARY

Technically your not suppose to do that!

SUSANNE

It was a heatwave Mary and me and Alice were hot!

KATE

Isn't your sister like three doesn't matter then!

SUSANNE

you  try saying that to Mr law and order!

KATE

what  did he do?

SUSANNE

he put me and my sister in the naughty corner and step!

KATE

that wasn't even called for!

SUSANNE

I know but what can I do!

KATE

Give your Dad the silent treatment for a week and get your sister to do it too!

INT,  ALICE'S BEDROOM-EVENING

Alice  is in her PJ's and is sitting on her bed when Susanne enters the room.

SUSANNE

Alice  Remember yesterday when Dad punished us for sunbathing with no clothes on?

ALICE

yes I do!

SUSANNE

well  I'm taking a stand and for a week I'll give him the silent treatment and you can do it too!

ALICE

how do you do it?

SUSANNE

not talk to Dad for a week!

ALICE

I can't do that Susanne it will hurt Daddy's feelings!

SUSANNE

and  did it hurt your feelings when he put you on the naughty step?

ALICE

Yes and that step hurt my bum!

SUSANNE

now you know where I'm coming from so from tomorrow we will do it for a week!

ALICE

got it Susanne!

SUSANNE

good  now get into bed and- uh oh!

Susanne has seen a wet patch on Alice's PJ's.

ALICE

Susanne I've weed myself!

FADE TO THE NEXT MORNING IN THE KITCHEN

Susanne and Alice are sitting at the table not talking to George.

GEORGE

so Susanne  what will you be doing at school today?

Susanne doesn't answer but Alice was about to talk to him but Susanne stops her by waving her hands about.

GEORGE

so Alice I  hear you'll be starting nursery soon!

Alice can't take not talking to George anymore.

ALICE

(YELLING) I  can't carry on with this charade me and Susanne have been giving you the silent treatment for punishing us yesterday we're really sorry!

Alice starts crying at the table.

SUSANNE

you little squealer just you wait till bedtime that's  all Alice!

GEORGE

(ANGRY) When I come home tonight you'll both be punished now go upstairs until I come home!

SUSANNE

Thank god its Saturday!

ALICE

Yeah Daddy mad!

GEORGE

(REALLY ANGRY)

now!

They both go to there rooms.

IN ALICE'S ROOM

Alice  is crying because she got shouted at.

ALICE

I got shouted at I hate that (CRIES)

then Alice as an idea

ALICE

I'll run away!

Then Alice sees the window is too high.

ALICE

well I'll go  to the old apples and pears its too high guess I can't botany bay!

FADE TO LATER IN ALICE'S BEDROOM

Alice  is sitting on her bed in her PJ's when George enters the room.

ALICE

(SARCASTIC) Oh look its officer Dibble!

GEORGE

I deserve that for what I  said to you this morning and to Susanne too I had no right to punish you for what you did but if you want to do it in future that's fine I'll have to make the fence higher I'm sorry Alice for shouting at you!

ALICE

that's okay Daddy!

They both hug

ALICE

Susanne  isn't going to be that forgiving!

GEORGE

I'll see to her but I don't want to wake her!

ALICE

right  i'm going to get in my pit now goodnight!

Alice gets in bed and George kisses her goodnight and turns out the light.

THE END

#screenwriting

[designonaut-blog]

Protect your Baby from Mosquitoes

BabyHub’s business development officer, Gemma, wrote the post below. She has a young daughter of her own and has been concerned about the growing danger from mosquitoes. Gemma researched the options offering protection to babies from mosquitoes and writes here about BabyHub SleepSpace and other portable cots:

Have you heard the news about the danger from mosquitoes?

If like me you can’t sleep soundly without first frantically checking walls, ceilings, furnishings or just about any nook and cranny of your home or beautifully decorated holiday suite for mosquitoes then you may have noticed, or is it just me, the sheer number of articles in recent months featuring news of the spread of deadly diseases by mosquitoes?

Perhaps it is because I’m relatively new to this parenting malarkey but I’m noticing, all the more, how important it is to have products that protect babies and children from the world around them; in particular protection from biting insects that can cause severe illness or indeed even death. Now, I don’t particularly want to be all doom and gloom but let’s just take a minute to look at some of the facts and figures. I recently read the article published by The Daily Star “Heatwave sparks spread of lethal Mosquito virus in Europe – 22 Dead” The article reads in part:

“Health experts have warned cases of West Nile Virus (WNV) have increased dramatically in 2018 compared to the previous four years.

“A total of 401 human WNV infections have been reported in Europe with 22 deaths according to the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control (ECDC).”

“The most affected countries include Serbia (126 cases), Italy (123), Greece (75), Hungary (39) and Romania (31).”

“A staggering 84 people have been struck down by the virus including four deaths in Veneto, north east Italy.”

In the article the ECDC say “Rocketing temperatures and extended dry spells following intense short periods of rain throughout the summer have helped mosquito breeding.”

“Most people infected with West Nile Virus do not develop symptoms, but one in five develop a fever and around one in 150 infected sufferers can develop a severe and potentially fatal illness affecting the central nervous system or meningitis.”

“It is reported that 59 of the 84 cases in Veneto were described as mild but in the rest encephalitis, inflammation of the brain which can be life-threatening, had developed.”

OK so maybe it did get a bit doom and gloom back there - my heart particularly took an extra beat or two when I read the word “Meningitis”! But you can see how as parents we need to be so vigilant? I don’t think we can take for granted that we might be living in parts of the world where we don’t see deadly diseases anymore. Recently the “Jersey Evening Post” from the tiny Island of Jersey, located just off the French coast and part of the British Isles, published the article “New Insect Threat on the Way? - ASIAN tiger mosquitoes capable of carrying both dengue fever and the Zika virus are likely to spread to Jersey within the next few months” The thought of these little buzzing irritants around my daughter and even more so, little buzzing irritants carrying deadly or infectious diseases, sends shivers down my spine and makes me want to wrap my 2 year old in bubble wrap! But we all know that those pockets of air just aren’t going to last - *pop*! So I instantly took to Facebook to remind my friends that there are products which can protect our little ones.

For instance the SleepSpace travel cot from BabyHub. This award winning travel cot is designed to allow babies or young children to stand and play with the full length mosquito net in place. The net and tepee cover come in the box with the travel cot; its fantastic value for money when you consider how much it costs to buy a cot these days plus a net, and then a play tepee as well! What a deal! This full size travel cot is suitable from birth to three years of age.

Now I know BabyHub most definitely are not the only company to sell a travel cot with mosquito net to accompany their products, though I am struggling to find travel cots that sell the mosquito net with the cot on initial purchase, but that might just be me not doing a very good job at finding them. Let’s just take a quick look at some I have managed to find though. Firstly, you have such products as the Arc-2 travel cot by LittleLife which features netting, forming part of the arch shape of the cot and so allows for protection against insects without needing an add on – This cot reminds me of a mini tent so could very well be suited to families wanting to go on their first camping trip with baby in tow. Of course, there are other options out there like the Inovi Cocoon Bassinet suitable for up to 6 months. It has a removable mesh cover that protects your little one from insects and curious pets whilst allowing air to circulate around them. Brands such as Nuna Sena sell the Nuna Sena insect net to be used with their cots and also there is the Babydan mosquito net which can be used with most of the standard shape travel cots by simply placing the net over the open section of the cot and securing around the sides. As I said earlier there must be other cots out there that do offer insect/mosquito nets for their products so if you have found some why not leave a comment below?

Have Mosquitos been an issue for you this season? Have they always been an issue for you but now even more so? The question remains what insect protection will you and your family use on your travels?

 Gemma Stansbridge-Aubert

#mosquito #mosquito control #baby #travelcot #playpen #cot

[clubofinfo]

Expert: What will it take for society to make the deep-rooted changes required to prevent the terrifying and awesome threat of climate breakdown? This summer’s extreme weather events are simply a prelude to a rising tide of chaos that will be punctuated by cataclysmic individual events – floods, heatwaves, superstorms – of increasing severity and frequency. How long before people demand radical action from governments? Or, and this is what is really needed, how long until citizens remove corporate-captured governments from power and introduce genuine democracy? Consider just some examples of this summer’s extreme weather. In Japan, ferocious heat killed more than 80 people and flooding killed more than 200. In Greece, 80 people died in terrible wildfires. In Canada, a heatwave killed more than 70. In many places around the world, including northern Europe, central America, Russia and parts of the US, extreme drought has put harvests at risk. Across the globe, 118 all-time records were broken or tied. In the United Arab Emirates, a record temperature in excess of 51C was recorded, Montreal broke 36C, the Baltic Sea reached 25C and the Swedish polar circle saw temperatures in excess of 32C. The Russian Arctic experienced ‘anomalously high temperatures’ more than 20C warmer than usual. And on and on. To his credit, BBC News North America correspondent James Cook gave a sense of the scale of the climate disasters that were unfolding, with the reported death toll in Greece still rising: ‘Climate change. It’s here. It’s catastrophic. This month alone: — “50 dead” in Greece wildfires — Arctic Circle ablaze — Japan heatwave, flooding and landslides kill hundreds — Record temperatures in Algeria, Morocco, Oman — Drought squeezes US lemons’ Under the heading, ‘The world on fire’, Assaad Razzouk, a commentator on climate and clean energy, also tweeted a disturbing set of numbers: ‘New July 2018 temperature records UAE: 51.4°C Africa + Algeria: 51.3°C Tunisia: 49.2°C LA: 48.9°C Baku: 42.7°C Yerevan : 42.4°C Japan: 41.1°C Kabul: 40.5°C Tbilisi: 40.5°C Montreal: 36.6°C Lapland: 33.4°C Swedish polar circle: 32.5°C Baltic Sea: 25°C’ Scientists report that the ‘signal of climate change is unambiguous’ in these extreme phenomena. In Europe, climate change driven by humans has made such events more than twice as likely to occur, and possibly as much as five times more likely. By the 2040s, heatwaves even worse than this summer’s will likely occur every other year, if not more often. This will lead to a tripling of annual heat-related deaths in the UK to 7,000. MPs say that the country is ‘woefully unprepared’ for such deadly heatwaves, with ‘the government ignoring warnings from its official climate change adviser.’ Andrew King and Ben Henley noted in an article on The Conversation website: The world has so far had around 1℃ of global warming above pre-industrial levels, but at the global warming limits proposed in the Paris climate agreement, hot summers like that of 2003 in central Europe would be a common occurrence. At 2℃ of global warming, the higher of the two Paris targets, 2003-like hot summers would very likely happen in most years. Similarly, we know that heat exposure and heat-induced deaths in Europe will increase with global warming, even if we can limit this warming to the levels agreed in Paris. Climate scientists have ample evidence that human-driven global warming is already ‘making heat waves longer, hotter and more frequent’. Corinne Le Quéré, director of the Tyndall Centre for Climate Change Research at the University of East Anglia, describes the evidence as ‘really compelling’. Michael Mann, one of the world’s leading climate scientists, says that: The impacts of climate change are no longer subtle. We are seeing them play out in real time and what is happening this summer is a perfect example of that. He added: We are seeing our predictions come true. As a scientist that is reassuring, but as a citizen of planet Earth, it is very distressing to see that as it means we have not taken the necessary action. ‘The Climate Change Monkeys are in Full Voice’ How have the media been responding to the ‘very distressing’ reality that humanity has not taken the ‘necessary action’ to avoid climate breakdown? Some of the usual fringe voices lurking beyond the realms of rationality, yet still enjoying high-profile media platforms, issued standard denunciations of reality. For instance, in a Mail piece about ‘hysterical doom merchants’, Quentin Letts gave the UK Met Office a piece of his mind: The Met Office, once a level-headed analyst of barographs and incoming weather fronts, issued bubonic plague-style warnings that we should not step outside in this heat and should not open our windows. The commentator sighed: Whatever happened to Keep Calm and Carry On? In the Sun, Rod Liddle scoffed that ‘the authorities’ have declared that ‘nice summers are a crisis’, adding: those tiresome drongos at the Met Office put out an amber alert when the temperature rose this week. “Don’t go out! Stay in your homes! Or you will die — DIE, I tell you.” Oh, with the greatest respect — f*** off! Liddle bemoaned that: the climate change monkeys are in full voice. In short: The Met Office can stick advice where sun doesn’t shine — let us enjoy the heat while it lasts. In slightly less intemperate language, but still rejecting the huge weight of scientific evidence, longtime climate ‘sceptic’ Christopher Booker declared: Yes it’s scorching, but claims that the heatwave is down to climate change are just hot air: June was even hotter when Victoria was on the throne. He went on: ‘this kind of summer heat is far from unprecedented. In fact, as people have begun to observe, the nearest parallel to what has been happening this year was the celebrated “drought summer” of 1976.’ In fact, the comparison to 1976 is deeply misleading, as a viral tweet from Simon Lee, a meteorology PhD student at the University of Reading, brilliantly made clear: The big difference between the heatwaves of 1976 and 2018. June 1976: the UK was one of the warmest places relative to normal across the globe, with most areas cooler than average. June 2018: the UK was just another warm blob in a mostly warmer than normal world. #GlobalHeatwave. So much for Booker’s science-denying diatribe and the other media extremists still trying to dodge climate reality and promote climate fiction. As Carbon Brief editor Leo Rickman pointed out: As temperatures in the UK near record levels, MPs warn today that heatwave deaths could triple by 2050. So what do the editors of the Daily Mail and the Sun do? Order their writers to aggressively attack climate scientists… Staring in “Open Mouthed Disbelief” at the News But what was the media response in more ‘respectable’ quarters, particularly the BBC? Media Lens does not have the huge resources required to monitor all BBC News coverage across television, radio and the internet. But observations suggested strongly that, although the link with climate wasn’t entirely ignored, the bulk of the broadcaster’s coverage of global weather extremes gave it short shrift. Citing Simon Lee’s comparison of the 1976 and 2018 heatwaves, Emma Pinchbeck, an executive in the renewable energy industry, tweeted the BBC: More reasons that climate change should be getting a mention in your drought coverage .@BBCr4today @BBCBreakfast (sorry if this repeated exasperation is getting… exasperating… but honestly I start every day in open-mouthed disbelief at the news) For some time during the day on July 24, BBC News website actually had three of its top six stories about weather extremes, but with no substantive discussion of the link to human-driven climate instability. Even mild exceptions to the rule stood out, such as when BBC science correspondent David Shukman spoke briefly about the role of global warming: We can never say that a particular weather event like this heatwave is just because of global warming. What you can say, that the science allows you to say, is that the world is warming, that makes certain things more likely. While welcome, this was the most conservative expression of scientific caution – typical of the BBC. Compare with the kind of urgent and impassioned comment seen above from Michael Mann: that ‘it is very distressing to see’ this summer’s weather extremes ‘as it means we have not taken the necessary action’. Also in a low-key, cautious vein there was a pre-filmed Newsnight segment, ‘Heatwave 2018 explained’, on July 24 featuring climate scientist Joanna Haigh of Imperial College, London. She told BBC reporter David Grossman: The sort of temperatures that are occurring now would’ve been a 1 in 1,000 occurrence in the 1950s & now they’re about a 1 in 10 occurrence. This was a rather dry statistic; but perhaps it served as a preamble to the requisite urgency that was still to be addressed? The opportunity came in a follow-up, live studio interview conducted by Newsnight presenter Emily Maitlis with two more climate experts: Stephen Belcher, the chief scientist at the Met Office, and Chris Hope, a climate change policy researcher at Cambridge University. But, once again, they made rather careful statements that did not stray far into territory in which urgent and radical action would be made crystal-clear. Scientific rigour is, of course, necessary. But, given the stakes of what is involved, academics now need to speak out forcibly and repeatedly against ‘business-as-usual’ and for sane alternatives. Kevin Anderson, a Manchester-based professor of energy and climate change, is a much-needed outspoken example. He tweeted recently: How far will we go to justify our lies – Heathrow expansion, shale gas & more roads are all good for the climate. Fortunately the uproar from our vibrant & ethically robust academic community will soon draw attention to such aberrant nonsense – or will it be a compliant whimper? All too often it is indeed just a compliant whimper. Consider, by contrast, the warning from leading climate scientist James Hansen: There’s a misconception that we’ve begun to address the climate problem. The misapprehension is based on the Paris climate summit where all the government leaders clapped each other on the back as if some great progress has been made, but you look at the science and it doesn’t compute. We are not doing what is needed.’ In an interview, Hansen was even more blunt, describing the Paris climate summit as ‘a fraud’: It’s just bullshit for them [government leaders] to say: “We’ll have a 2C warming target and then try to do a little better every five years.” It’s just worthless words. There is no action, just promises. As long as fossil fuels appear to be the cheapest fuels out there, they will be continued to be burned. More climate scientists need to speak out in this way. The time for remote detachment from the urgent need for societal and political action, out of a misplaced fear of being perceived as a biased activist academic, is long gone. Being fully human, and expressing valid criticism of government policy and priorities, does not negate one’s capacity to be a rigorous researcher. At least this particular edition of Newsnight showed that one thing had improved in BBC climate discussion, however. Ten years ago, as Leo Hickman observed, one of the two interviewees would likely have been an extremist climate ‘sceptic’ like Nigel Lawson to maintain the BBC’s notion of ‘balance’. However, Newsnight shot itself in the foot when it later gave a misleading account via Twitter of what the Met Office’s Stephen Belcher had actually said in the discussion. Newsnight tweeted the first part of his essential message: The heatwave that we’ve got is probably part of natural cycles in the weather. This made it sound as though human-driven global warming probably plays no part in current weather extremes. But his full remark was actually: The heatwave that we’ve got is probably part of natural cycles in the weather but it’s superimposed on this background of global warming, and that’s what’s elevating our temperatures. In other words, anthropogenic climate change is behind the heatwave. Newsnight later corrected its ludicrous error. What about press coverage? Using the ProQuest newspaper database, we found the following search results on July 31 for UK newspaper articles since June 22 (i.e. around the date the heatwave began): ‘heatwave’: a total of 3101 results ‘heatwave’ + ‘climate change’: 255 results. 8% of the total ‘heatwave’ + ‘global warming’: 95 results. 3% ‘heatwave’ + ’emissions’: 89 results. http://clubof.info/