#(I’ve done that! recognizes the self through the miles morales…)

[quietwingsinthesky]

oh other thoughts about spiderverse is that I know that Miles is autistic, I don’t have any proof of this, but I’m telling you, I can sense it.

[iheartbookbran]

Ok so actually my biggest problem with the whole “Daenerys will burn KL” theory—not even the Mad Queen Dany theory, which is of course very sexist for obvious reasons, but just like, the idea that Dany will ~accidentally~ ignite the wildfire in the city, burning it all to the ground. That, at first, doesn’t sound that bad, but the longer I think about it the more I hate it because tbh it doesn’t do anything for her character? And also… that fate for her is just down right cruel.

Like, the most frequent argument I see on why this would be at all satisfactory for Dany’s arc is basically that it would be a sort of lesson for her about the dangers of unchecked power and the real threat the Dragons can pose on humans and that she shouldn’t use them to fight against other people. And that’s all well and good, excellent message… except that’s not something Dany’s ever really needed to learn? Not anymore that her fellow rulers, which I will touch on more detail later, but in general Dany has seen what the abuse of power can do. Starting with her conflicting feelings regarding Viserys and how she recognizes that even though he was her brother and she loved him, he also abused his power over her as her older brother, her only family and her king; she feels guilt about the atrocities Drogo committed to the lhazarene and tries to help them; she feels so much guilt about not handling things correctly in Astapor that she decides to throw away all her plans to go to Westeros and instead stays in Meereen.

And about not knowing the true danger that her dragons can pose? I mean, this is the same girl that literally agonizes across several of her ADWD chapters because Drogon killed a child, and then takes the extreme measure of caging Rhaegal and Viserion to prevent that from ever happening again. I think she’s at least a little bit aware that the dragons can be dangerous, thank you very much.

Ok so this got long...

Anyways, the only time Dany legit uses Drogon to harm someone and not just as bluff was at the house of the Undying, where she was being attacked, and in Astapor… and like, lmao, that asshole Kraznys mo Nakloz and the rest of his slaver buddies deserved it. Don’t at me. Also, Dany’s hardly the only one with a big magical and deadly beast at her disposal, why didn’t Robb had to go through some horrifying traumatic incident to learn he shouldn’t use Grey Wind in battle to tear his enemies’ throats. Bran will be learning about the dangers of abusing power, but that’s linked to his magic powers and an actual reprehensible thing he’s doing, not the use of his glorified prehistoric dog to kill, which he’s done, just like Robb. By all means let the narrative hold Dany accountable for her mistakes… but her actual mistakes and not shit she has no control over, because she doesn’t have much control over Drogon or the other dragons even though she’s trying to, and that’s very obvious in her last ADWD chapter where she’s delirious and Drogon could kill her at any moment, and she knows that.

The other big argument people make for Dany burning KL (even if it’s by accident!) is that it will teach her about the price of war, that someone as young as her shouldn’t be leading armies and conquering kingdoms, and that fighting for the Iron Throne is not a worthy cause, and I feel like that misses the actual point of her story by a mile. First of all because a) Dany is hardly the only teenage ruler in the story and b) this is a fantasy medieval story, a lot of the characters shouldn’t be doing the things they do, aaaand yet. Also speaking of other teenage rulers with far more power that they should have—Robb and Jon, being the biggest examples.

Granted, Robb and Jon aren’t exactly successful during their time as rulers, they’re literally betrayed and killed by their own men (even if Jon will technically come back for round 2 of bullshit he’s too tired for). But the moral of their stories is not that they lost because theirs was an unworthy cause and they were stupid kids wholly unprepared for their roles. And I actually partially agree! They are just kids, including Dany, and they shouldn’t be responsible for looking after so many others and going to battle, but their cause is still just and worthy, even with all the mistakes they make along the way. Robb didn’t loose because he was wrong in demanding justice for his family or trying to protect the riverlands from the Lannisters and their minions, he lost because Tywin Lannister was a giant coward who couldn’t take him out in a fair fight.

Likewise, it isn’t wrong of Jon to try to incorporate refugees from beyond the Wall into Westeros. He’s not too stupid and honorable to do politics like his father (how I hate when people insult Jon and Ned like that), and while he did some very obvious mistakes that inevitably ended in a coup and in him dying, this is more connected to his inability to let go of his ties with his family (mainly Arya or who he believes to be her), and in isolating himself from his friends and the people he could actually trust.

I’ve always thought that Dany and Jon share a parallel narrative within the story, so while Jon is struggling with that Dany is faced with similar problems. She cages her dragons, that to her represent the only family she has left, and she tries to compromise with the slavers, marry a man she doesn’t love, pretend she’s ok with reopening the fighting pit. While she tries her best to rule wisely in Meereen, it all comes at the cost of betraying herself and her beliefs, so it’s no surprise when it all crashes around her and she’s betrayed and nearly killed. Ironically, it is Drogon who comes to rescue her.

If they are monsters, so am I.—Daenerys II, ADWD.

This is hands down one of my favorite Dany quotes from the whole series, and I hate that it’s been given such a negative connotation in the fandom, when for me it represents Dany’s humanity and compassion at the fullest.

GRRM has a knack for humanizing the ‘monsters’ of his story, for showing the good in the outcasts and the ugly and the scary. He embraces their ‘otherness’ and makes them the heroes of his stories; Arya, Bran, Brienne, Dany, Tyrion, Jon, Theon and many others are all compared to monsters or beasts at one point or another in the books.

Dany sees herself in her dragons, literal monsters in every sense of the word. Later on she faces Drogon inside the pit, and in that moment you could say that she accepts that ‘monstrous’ part of her, and in doing so she’s saved from her fate of dying at the hands of the men who would crucify innocent children and gleefully profit off of the suffering of their fellow human beings while watching them fight each other to the death for their own amusement. Now tell me who’s the real monster in this situation.

But shortly before that happens, Dany is able to see the humanity in Tyrion, an outcast who has been branded as monstrous and unlovable due to his disability all his life, a man who has come to believe in his abusers’ rhetoric about him so strongly that he’s started to act cruel and detached. She saves his life. She sees value in his life when few others would, because she cares.

I’ve always find it funny that the “dragons plant no trees” is—another—example fans use to argue in favor of Dany’s descent into Darkness™ because the actual scene goes like this:

You are a queen, her bear said. In Westeros.

"It is such a long way," she complained. "I was tired, Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl."

No. You are the blood of the dragon. The whispering was growing fainter, as if Ser Jorah were falling farther behind. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be. Remember your words.—Daenerys X, ADWD.

Now am I the only one who finds it at least a bit relevant that it’s freaking Jorah Mormont aka Jorah the Enslaver whom Dany’s subconscious, at her literal lowest moment, utilizes to represent this particular thought, which btw I’ve always interpreted as Dany’s own self-loathing manifesting in her, and this is something she’s actually always struggled with—the idea that she’s not enough and she’s failing. Because above all things, even Westeros or the Iron Throne, what Dany wants is peace, she wants to plant trees.

When Dany made her descent, Reznak and Skahaz dropped to their knees. "Your Worship shines so brightly, you will blind every man who dares to look upon you," said Reznak. […] This match will save our city, you will see."

"So we pray. I want to plant my olive trees and see them fruit." Does it matter that Hizdahr's kisses do not please me? Peace will please me. Am I a queen or just a woman?—Daenerys VII, ADWD.

But of course the world doesn’t work like that, and so long as there’s Jorahs and Tywins and Eurons out there, men who would take the freedom of humans and submit them to their will, Dany can’t have the luxury of peace, just like Jon can’t have the luxury of belonging and family so long as there’s people still beyond the Wall who need his protection.

And I think that’s fine. It’s fine that Dany failed, it will help her develop as a character and realize that there’s no room to compromise with slavers, the metaphorical monsters of the story who do far more harm than the other more literal ‘monsters’ of the story. So that when she has to face down Euron Greyjoy—who btw, there’s a high chance he will end up stealing one of Dany’s dragons via Victarion using Dragonbinder… y’know, as in enslaving one of her children and using said dragon to inflict god knows what horrors, yet not many people ever consider this for some reason?—she will know. When she has to face down the Others, the magical ice fairies with no regard for human life, she will know.

That’s why I believe that it would make absolutely no sense for Dany to have to go through such a tragic and traumatic experience like burning a whole city even by pure accident, over something that’s either never been a problem with her character or she’s well into her way of learning anyways, so it would just feel repetitive. As I have pointed out, she’s already reached one of the lowest moments of her arc. Not saying there will be no other blows for her, and probably the destruction of KL will be one of them, and knowing Dany she will feel responsibility over it no matter what, but that doesn’t mean she has to be the culprit, intentional or otherwise.

[cryinginthebackseat]

initials t.c.

Fandom: Open Heart

Pairing: Tobias Carrick x MC

Words: 7.299 (I’M SO SORRY)

Summary: Tobias Carrick makes Claire an offer she can’t refuse.

Warnings: 50% plot, 50% smut, swear-a-thon, blasphemy

Author’s Note: when the book first introduced us to tobias carrick, the first thing that hit my mind was “okay, but that dude is like the carbon copy of jesse williams and that’s hot” but then, once it reveals who he is and what’s his role in the book i went “interestinggggggg” cause you know, i’m a sucker for morally grey characters and all, and i’m not even ashamed to admit it. also, carrick is shaping up to be such an interesting character with each chapter and maybe one day- okay, maybe this sounds like a pipe dream- but one day, i hope he can be a li (let a girl dream plz) lmao

also if anyone’s interested, i made a PLAYLIST to accompany reading the fic.

the title is inspired by serge gainsbourg’s initials bb

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Cast down off heaven Cast down on my knees I’ve lain with the devil Cursed god above Forsaken heaven

To Bring You My Love - PJ Harvey

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Whenever Claire thinks about Tobias Carrick, admittedly, unfortunately, tragically, she always thinks about his eyes first before remembering what a colossal pain in the ass he is.

It always comes in that order. Like the number 3 always comes before 4, like the seawater dragging back from the shoreline before a tsunami occurs, like pouring milk before the cereal (she honestly didn’t get what the fuss is about until one day Elijah cried ‘oh, hell no you don’t, satan!‘ one morning and proceeded to give her bullet points why pouring the milk before the cereal is considered a sin and more of an abomination than Nephilims’ existence and that there’s a higher probability that she’s a psycho for being a ‘milk first’ kind of person). So apparently, Claire’s a psycho now which explains so many aspects- but she digresses and the point is, the reaction is uncontrollable and she high-key hates how she can’t control her goddamn mind most of the time.

The point is, she needs to stop thinking about him to begin with. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Claire Castelnuovo was born in the summer, under the sign of Gemini. Marilyn Monroe once said that stands for intellect, being a Gemini, but she was too blissfully unaware of this guerdon that she devoted her adolescent years to being outdoors instead. Too many days she spent trampling along the cornfields with her cousins until the skies faded out with brilliant purple-tinged amber and she was carrying a piece of the sun in her skin and smelled like one, stuffing wildflowers inside her boots as she walked around the neighborhood with her dad’s old stethoscope, napping in a hammock with Oasis’ All Around the World on repeat. By the time she hit 15, her black strands had turned brown from repeated sun exposure. She loved it.

But it was a different time, a different place. Somewhere that only exists on the margins of her memories, lost and hidden.

Now, Claire prefers the night.

It’s 9:30 pm when she arrives at a hotel bar in downtown Boston. A newly christened establishment which has somehow become a regular spot for Hemingway’s enthusiasts once the Boston Globe wrote an article about their Hemingway Daiquiri and how, as they wrote it, ‘probably the only place that’s brave and crazy enough to adhere to the 1930s original recipe’ and bourgeois party birds at wee hours during the weekend.

Her eyes are gritty, dry and strange. Her mind’s much worse for the wear- she feels like shit, like in the middle of watching that scene from The Green Mile shit when all is hopeless and you feel like walking out of the theater, but you’ve spent your last savings just to buy the ticket, so you decide to stick through it.

Claire makes a beeline for the bar, tries to flag down the bartender. She orders an Old Fashioned, making sure to specify to double it because she’s not a regular here and he’s not Reggie and that’s how she’s been taking her drink for years.

She knows well deep in her bones that she should be somewhere else. Somewhere more familiar, somewhere where Tim Mcgraw often plays from the subpar speakers, and the rustic wooden bar countertop is gouging and discoloring from the cheap household cleaners and alcohol stains, and her friends are cramming together in the same booth in the back, reveling and laughing until they close the bar down and make a mess all over. Perhaps it’s a mistake coming here, where no one’s a familiar face and the drinks are a tad overpriced for her budget.

But then, perhaps this is exactly what she needs; the unfamiliarity, the visceral feeling knowing that she doesn’t belong here, where no one knows her name and the huge deal of weight she’s currently carrying on her shoulders. Perhaps, she can’t face her friends after what happened, after what Esme has done. Shit, how could any of this happen? Claire knows this all on Esme’s, but her guilt has grown hopelessly tangled with her anxiety. She’s her intern, for fuck’s sake, Claire’s supposed to prevent this from happening in the first place.

Man, where’s Declan Nash when she feels like punching someone in the face?

Claire makes the mistake of drinking her drink too quickly, because it hasn’t been ten minutes and she’s drained half of the content. Then she reaches for her phone in her bag, fiddles with it, absent-minded, equal parts bored before then settles on watching the band performing Art Pepper’s You Go To My Head and immediately thinks of that time she accidentally dropped her brother’s saxophone in a moment of her rather graceless, wine-soaked self with the whole family present.

Someone plops down on the empty stool next to her. Claire’s now scrolling through her phone- again, bored. Sienna commented on the post Elijah shared to the group chat with a few unnecessary-yet-totally-necessary emojis to the already convoluted series of texts and Claire only reads them in silence, not only because her friends’ texting behaviors are too chaotic for her to follow sometimes but she’s not really feeling like talking to anyone right now.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Famous last words.

Claire freezes in her seat. Her phone’s still glowing in her hand, alighting her features. She recognizes that voice- too well, that is and it’s enough to set off her flight-or-fight response.

She glances up from her phone, preparing for the worst.

Well, what’s presented before her is literally the worst.

“Of all the gin joints…” she says once her eyes find Tobias Carrick sitting next to her, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled-up, a few buttons undone, reeking of smoke, soap and antiseptic with a shit-eating grin plastered over his face.

She should have gone to Donahue’s instead.

“Evening to you too, Castelnuovo. Drinking your dinner tonight, I see?”

“What, this? No, this is breakfast. 100% daily value of alcohol and pretty much nothing else. I mean, it’s not the weekend without a bad case of hangover and an aspirin snowglobe in the morning, am I right? You know, like a glass of aspirin? Not a literal snowglobe?” she blabbers, realizing just so by the time she hears him snort. Claire chokes down another sip to shut her mouth up. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m about to commit first-degree murder and burn this whole place to the ground,” he drawls, the ever goddamn sarcastic. “What do you think? I’m trying to get dru-”

“No, I mean what are you doing here, of all places? Can’t you get drunk somewhere else?” she interrupts, her midwest accent does funny things to the vowels and consonants- something that only happens whenever she’s in distress, or at least according to Jackie.

“Last time I heard, this joint’s still owned by the Hilton, not a certain junior member of the Diagnostics Team at Edenbrook hospital.”

“Dude, what do you think of the H in Claire H. Castelnuovo stands for?” Deadpan, trying to keep up with the rolling sarcasm, she retorts. He smirks.

“Horatio?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” she mutters, mid-eye-roll, mid-snickering.

He chuckles, his voice rich and smoky amidst the late-night swing and distant chatters. Carrick doesn’t leave, of course, typically him- if those anecdotes Ethan told her has taught her anything about his character, that is- defying everything, scheming his way to the top, the embodiment of ‘those devilish boys with their heavenly eyes’ type your mother warns you about.

Not that the latter is relevant.

“Or what?” His mouth twitches but there’s a hard, challenging light in his eyes that she knows too well by now.

“Or I’m leaving.“ She shoots him a glare. He’s testing her patience- again, like it’s his finesse. Some things never change, it seems.

“Come on, Castelnuovo, don’t be a sourpuss. The night is young and I can promise you, the last thing I am is a horrible drinking buddy.”

With a touch of irony, she replies: “I’m sure. I bet you asked your friends to fill out a questionnaire every time you went out with them, did you?”

Carrick hums.

“You’re funny.” But he says it in the same tone that someone might say Jesus fuck, you’re probably one of the most frustrating creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on. Also, because the next thing he says is: “A little rough around the edges, but funny nonetheless.”

“That makes one of us then.”

Carrick frowns, which is kind of a surprise because she’s half expected him to flash her that signature cheeky grin of his.

“Listen, I’m just trying to make a friendly conversation here. I know we haven’t really seen eye-to-eye with each othe-”

Claire snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. “That, doctor, is an understatement of the fucking century.”

“Okay so, we’re like Tom and Jerry but sans the background music and a naive little duckling running around calling one of us his momma, but I feel like now’s the time to call out a temporary truce between us.” A beat, then: “I heard about what happened with the intern.”

Something flashes across her face- and Carrick must have noticed it, because his face does this odd thing- it softens, even for a moment. She hates it. He’s not supposed to be looking at her like that, not supposed to see her at her weakest state or saved her ass- And Jesus, why does she have to be indebted to Tobias Carrick, of all people- But god forbid, the last thing she’ll ever do is crying in front of him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters, barely audible, trying to temper her fluctuated emotions.

“Then don’t. We can talk about anything else or fall into some sort of endless, meaningless platitudes. Whichever will work.” As if sensing Claire’s lingering hesitation, he adds. “Tell you what, to sweeten the offer, your next drinks are on me.”

She assesses him for a long minute, eyes narrowing. She’s shaking her head, but her mouth, as if against her will, instead says: “Careful, Carrick, there’s a chance I’ll be abusing that offer and run you dry.”

"Hey, if you want to butcher your liver so bad, don’t stop on my account,” he says. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll make sure to save your ass again this time around. Pro bono.”

Claire looks as if she’s just swallowed a dead rat. “Thanks, but no thanks. Death seems more like an appealing choice.”

“Well, I stopped death from interfering then, I’ll stop it again.” Carrick winks, she pretends to gag again yet remains still in her seat, so Carrick waves at the bartender for their order- she orders for a refill and he, a martini and Claire is this close from asking 'shaken or stirred?’ but then remembers who he is and immediately washes the question down with her drink.

“You know, if anyone told me weeks ago that I’d be having a drink with you tonight, I probably would have socked them.“

Carrick is in the middle of lighting his cigarette, but laughs instead. “The Times They Are a-Changin’, as Bob Dylan said.” A puff of smoke escapes his mouth, curling around his fingers. Claire instinctively looks away. “Which reminds me of that one time your mentor sang Ballad of A Thin Man on the fucking subway when we were 20.”

She swivels her head to his direction, on the verge of choking on her drink. “Hold on, hold on, Ethan Jonah Ramsey sings?”

“Give him a dare he couldn’t refuse and a few shots of whiskey, and I promise you he’ll sing like Sinatra on crack.” He grins, his eyes are all crinkled and bright; she thinks that means he’s genuinely amused. “Ah, good times. We were like- wait, who was it he’d like to say we’re like again?”

A small smile pulls at her lips. “Bert and Ernie.”

“Jesus, he really fucking compares us to some Sesame Street characters, huh?” She laughs at that, loud and bright. He does the same. “Personally, I’d always say we were like Butch and Sundance back then- rebels with a cause, a band of misfits, trying to leave our marks on the world. You know those types. We were young, we wanted so much- I still do. I mean, let’s be real, whoever’s wanted to be defeated at their own game?”

A crease forms between her eyebrows, not quite a frown.

“Nobody,” Claire concurs, hating herself for it. “But was it worth it? Betraying the closest thing you had to a brother or a lover…” Carrick coughs on his smoke from the latter. “or whatever in the process just to get what you wanted?” Claire was obviously aiming for that brash, hard-hitting jab, but it lands gloriously too soft.

The bartender finally places their ordered drinks down on the bar. Carrick reaches for it, taking a careful swig, then sets his glass down. He takes a deep breath.

"It’s nothing personal. It never was. I never considered him as my rival.”

“Yeah, but by doing whatever you did, you’ve made an enemy out of him,” she counters. “Look, Carrick, I know we live in a dog-eat-dog world and I know being good sometimes doesn’t get the job done. Perhaps Machiavelli was right. Perhaps, when necessary, you have to be ruthless, dissembling and manoeuvring- what did he say again? ‘The end justifies the means’? But if any worthwhile end can justify the means to attain it, if everyone outright surrenders to their darker side, then what’s left of our humanity?”

For an interminable moment, there is only silence. He simply stares at her, as if she’s a walking, talking Rubik’s cube he can’t solve or a book that he has opened and now he’s got to know so much more and she feels pinned under those warm irises, uneasy.

Suddenly, his mouth begins to take shape; the corners hike up, stretch and then he does the unexpected.

The bastard fucking laughs.

“Excuse me?!” she spits, white-hot anger lacing each word. Carrick laughs harder- the audacity- despite Claire’s growing razor’s edge stare. “Did you just laugh at me? I was being fucking seriou-”

“Sorry, sorry.” Wiping an imaginary tear from his left eye. “I was just remembering Harper’s words. She’s right, you really are on the side of the angels, aren’t you?”

She points at him with her glass, snarling. “And you, mister, are the devil himself with a medical degree and an egg head- and I don’t mean the slang for a highly academic person.”

“Ouch,” Carrick says out loud, still kind of laughing, borderline frowning. “Okay, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Damn straight. Though you have a lot to apologize for.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about that one patient I stole under your nose?”

“The North remembers, ser,” she says, mean-spirited.

“Then does the North remembers that I saved her life?”

“Oh, so you’re discrediting the efforts of the other doctors that helped you make the cure?”

“Alright, alright. You win.” Carrick holds up his hands, the universal gesture of defeat and takes one final drag of his cigarette. He stubs it out, all the while keeping his gaze on her.

“So, how exactly can I make it up to you?“

Claire blinks- once, twice, thrice, realizing his intent. His voice drops an octave and he’s leaning in, close enough for her to notice the constellations of freckles splaying across his face and the way his brown eyes glinted like two shots of whiskey under a stream of light, intense and all-consuming. She feels her mind races, her brains feel as if they underwent a short-circuit and get caught on fire, and the fact that her mind’s on the precipice of exploring the idea is not helping.

A burst of laughter erupts from her throat, not that it’s funny- there’s nothing funny about the situation, but someone ought to diffuse this shift of tension between them, or that was her aim, at least.

“What, you wanna pay me back?” she asks, trying to keep her voice from cracking but failing miserably. Fingers trembling against her glass as she chugs nearly a quarter of her drink in one go.

He notices that.

"A Lannister always pays his debts, does he? If you think that I owe you one, then I’ll gladly pay.” His eyes flick back to her face, searing into her. The air crackles between them. The band is playing a different song now, a sound that only exists on the margin of her attention. If they’re in, say a mid 2000s rom-com movie, someone would probably interrupt this moment and save her from this. But this isn’t a movie.

Claire licks her lips, a candid reaction which encourages him to inch closer- or is it her? She can’t tell anymore. Tracing odd patterns on the palm of her hand with his finger and oh god, this is Carrick, the bane of her fucking existence, she’d shoot him first before she kisses him. But something about the prospect of fucking this bastard twists her insides deliciously into a confused mess.

“How? By fucking me?” she inquires, feigning scandalized- all that Catholic guilt bullshit.

He grins, all-teeth and wolfish and shrugs as if they’re talking about his life insurance policy or shit. “Well, that’s the idea.”

“But you don’t even like me.” It should come out as I don’t even like you, but even she knows that’ll be just another lie she tells.

“On the contrary, I enjoy our rivalry far more than I should, Castelnuovo,” he purrs and places a hand on her knee. Her throat bobs. She’s wearing a skirt, it didn’t seem important then, but now his hand feels warm against her skin, dangling on the edge of impropriety. Like gravity, all it takes is a little push for him to cross that line.

“I should be disliking the way you talk to me, challenging me and putting me on the back foot every goddamn time. I should be focusing on taking you down a peg, but the more I see you, the more I realize you have an attractive kind of power. And I’m just one man. And if there’s anything I learned, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

But then his movement suddenly ceases. Claire almost asks why.

"However…”

“What?” she stares up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching.

“However if you only accept alcohol as the currency for transactions, then I’ll tell the bartender to get us another round instead,“ he tells her, offering her one last chance to back out from this, from making this mistake with him.

Claire stares into her drink, actually mulling this over. Her mind tells her no, but the other part- the alcohol-infused part of her mind- whispers otherwise. She imagines if Ethan or any of her friends are here, they would probably grab her shoulder and shake the living hell out of her for even reconsidering his offer.

But then again, intelligence, alcohol and desperation have always had a bad history of getting along together.

“What about June?” Claire asks against her better judgement, after a long, considerable pause. Carrick raises a confused brow.

“What about her?”

“I thought you guys…” she trails off, makes a face, feeling all-kind of flustered and aroused and wow, she’s really doing this, huh? “I mean, I don’t know- I don’t wanna get in between you guys.”

“Nah. It was only a three time thing, but there’s never been anything between us.” He chuckles at Claire’s askance look. “If you don’t believe me, you can fact-check it with the woman herself,” Carrick adds, looking at her dead-on with his eyes like he wants to get the message across.

She regards him silently for a long second, and maybe she’s a touch drunk now, maybe the bartender put something in her drink, or maybe she just needs to blow off some steam after what’s been happening in these past few weeks and Carrick happens to be a decent warm body for the occasion, but Claire finds herself shifting closer.

"Then I want you to pay me back.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” she answers, more sure this time, more determined.

Her nose bumps his, his breath fanning across her face all the while Carrick’s slightly pushing her skirt up, letting his fingertips travel higher. His eyes keep darting back and forth from her eyes and lips, checking for her reaction. There is no inhibition here, not anymore. People might be watching- heck, they could be already watching and it terrifies her that she doesn’t give a damn about it.

“But if you tell anyone about this, I swear to god… ” she warns and a shadow of mirth passes across his eyes, making her almost regretting this. Almost.

“Claire, darling.” It’s the first time he’s ever said her name and her stomach does a tango. “Your secret is safe with me.“ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

He gets them a room in the hotel, it’s on the twentieth floor. Carrick handles the accommodation- he can afford it, apparently, which is not really surprising and the nuisating check-in procedure while Claire only waits in the lobby like a beautiful, agitated china doll amidst the turbulent sea the whole time until he comes back, flashes the room key at her and beckons her to follow.

She goes ahead of him, but he catches up. His body heat sends her anxiety rocketing sky-high through the roof as they walk next to each other, hands briefly brushing against one another but she ignores that (or at least she tries).

They are silent in the elevator, they are silent even once they reach the designated floor and walk down the hall to their room where the dim and shadowed lights follow their steps like vultures.

Carrick holds open the door for her and she enters, taking in the windows and the striking view of Boston skyline peeking behind the curtains, the TV and the queen-sized bed. The latter does nothing to assuage the anticipation that’s bubbling in the pit of her stomach, by the way.

Claire hears him shut the door, locking both bolts. She peers at him over her shoulder, half-turned, one eye on him. Their eyes meet, neither speaks. He’s taking off his black peacoat, back against the door, he’s looking at her as if wanting her is his full-time occupation and the realizations comes in like a mule kick, how that tiny voice inside her head, the one that tells her that this is a bad idea and she’s better off leaving never comes.

The room is not considerably huge (with $110 per night, you would have expected you’d get a bigger room), he could easily have her in six large steps, yet he stands there. Sizing her up, smirking rather devilishly, handsomely as if challenging her to make the first move. It’s another fucking game with him. A display of power, waiting who would fall first.

Claire finally turns around to face him. With a renowned determination, she removes her coat, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the carpeted floor. Her blouse follows next and her skirt, which she tugs it oh so slowly down her legs.

Carrick’s eyes widen, if she doesn’t know better, she thinks he’s speechless. He takes a deep breath, his gaze religiously following every movement as she twirls around once more to unhook her bra. His jaw clenches and unclenches. He’s having a hard time keeping himself in check which she takes an immense pleasure in. Claire just wants to see the man squirm for a change, even if she has to shed every article of clothing she wears.

By the time she slips off of her underwear, she is breathing raggedly. He hasn’t yet approached her so she crawls onto the bed, lying on her back with one elbow props her up, legs crossed. She kicks off her heels, rolls down her stockings with a bit of that noir come-hither, Lauren Bacall-esque heavy bedroom eyes.

Finally, Carrick steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away, like a target, filling her line of sight. The tension in the room is hot enough to send the thermometer reaching its maximum limit and she’s burning, burning, burning right through the core.

Claire cranes her head up to meet his gaze, noticing the way he’s drinking in her body like a pirate ogling a bottle of rum. High-strung, tense, Carrick lowers his head to her, his fingers carding through her long hair. Dimness consumes him raw, his silhouette is starting to find its place amongst the shadows except for his eyes. Never does the fire in his eyes falter, merely alight.

They are already nose-to-nose when Claire suddenly raises her hand over his lips. He withdraws from her, looking confused and hot and bothered.

“Take a seat over there, will you?” She motions to the settee near the bed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He smirks, but she can see his bravado if faltering. “Ordering me around in the bed now, are we?”

“Didn’t you say tonight is about you making it up to me?”

“Touche, touche.” Carrick straightens his posture and makes his way to the settee across from her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat given the growing issue in his pants.

With eyes still trained to his, Claire cups her own breast, fingers pinching her pebbled nipple before the same hand travels lower down her stomach, her thighs. Carrick leans forward in his seat, obviously liking where this is going before Claire slowly and teasingly part her legs for him to see.

A surprised groan escapes him.

“Jesus, Claire,” Carrick hisses. “Fuck, I didn’t know you’re a goddamn tease.”

She doesn’t bother replying to him, but a winning grin finds its way across her face as she lays on her back, her shame and modesty are distant, knees pulled up so he can have a clear view of her. With two fingers, she runs them along her folds, dragging them slowly up to her clit. Claire imagines they are his fingers- which once upon a time would have horrified her, but tonight, as she repeats the motion over and over, knowing that he’s sitting there, watching her without being able to get his hands on her, she decides to submit to this newfound fantasy.

A rustle pulls her back to reality. He’s undoing his own pants, palming his cock, runs his fingers over the leaking head.

A low moan catches in her throat at that, her gaze snapping up from his erection to his face where his irises have darkened and pupils dilated. He wants to show her, that’s he’s as depraved as her when it comes to wanting, that he fucking wants her and in spades and she fails to think like a normal human being anymore.

Claire uses that image to work on herself harder, faster, feeling the intense pressure beginning to build beneath her fingers. She’s so wet now, despite him being able to see that, she wants him to hear it as well as she uses her idle hand to tap against herself. Carrick growls, his pace matching the rhythm she’s setting.

She slips her fingers inside her, drops her head back against the mattress and bites a loud moan that threatens to escape her lips. Flushing scarlet all over her abdomen, her breasts and up to her neck. Her blood thumping louder than bombs in her ears, her breaths begin to come in gasps.

Another fast and hard thrust from fingers, and Claire finds herself sighing his name.

“Tobias…”

And every last bit of his self-restraint snaps.

In just a blink of an eye, Carrick is already on his feet, grabs her waist, harshly, and tugs her down onto the edge of the bed where he’s now kneeling before her. He doesn’t bother with the teasings or soft kisses or caresses, and even before Claire has the time to register what’s happening, he crushes his face between her parted legs and eats her out.

She gasps, high and fleeting, twisting the bed sheet between her fists while his tongue flicks over her, moving back up, back down, lapping along her folds in the same motions she showed him with her hand, how she likes it. Claire forgets how to breathe. It just occurs to her just how arousing the sight of him on his knees like this, sending her mind hitchhiking into outer space.

“Oh, fuck.” She breathes, back arching on the bed with a drawn-out moan. “Fuck, Tobias!” Her hips gyrate over his mouth and she presses her heels against his shoulder blades. She’s so close. All she needs is a little push to send her careening into oblivion and it seems that Carrick can sense it because he brings two digits to her entrance and slides easily inside her, setting a ruthless pace.

With her hands reaching out to the back of his head, Claire cries out his name and trembles violently. Encouraged, Carrick curves his fingers inside her, hitting that exact spot that finally undoes her as she comes, long and hard, around his mouth and fingers- the kind of orgasm that you can feel deep in your bones- and watches as fireworks dance behind her lids.

When she finally comes down from her high, everything is hazy. It’s like waking up from a deep slumber after a decadent soak in a scented bath and she loses all orientation, until she feels him nipping the inside of her thighs. She hisses, glances down, heavy-lidded eyes finding Carrick is leaving bruises after bruises all over her skin like some kind of a lewd memento of his work, like he wants her to remember this the next time she wakes up in her own bed and he’s not there.

"Are you trying to turn me into a Na'vi, doctor?” She asks, still kinda breathless, feeling surprisingly conversational despite having just experienced, if not, one of the best orgasms in her life. He smiles against her thigh and withdraws from her, only after her thighs are sufficiently bruised enough, licks his fingers clean and stands up at the end of the bed.

“Maybe. You’d make a cute blue extraterrestrial creature, though,” he replies cheekily, then undoes the button of his shirt, showcasing his naked torso.

Claire feels her cheeks heating up again, but forces herself to stare; eyes following his pectoral muscles, down to the toned lines of his abdomen while he slides off of his pants. The man is one fine specimen, alright, and he knows- smug bastard- and she thinks it’s such a shame that Carrick is… well, Carrick. If the man learns how to shut up for one minute or avoid trying to sabotage everyone’s career at Edenbrook altogether, maybe, just maybe, she’d consider him.

“But honestly, I just wanted to hear you say my name again,” Carrick continues, crawling his way up to her, pulling her out of her musings. He settles between her thighs. His lips finding her ear and nibbling at the lobe while his fingers pinching and pulling at her nipple. Claire shivers. Nails scraping along his skin, raising angry marks that would certainly be there tomorrow.

When they kiss, it’s so good that she can’t help but curl her toes. He kisses her like he’s trying to steal her breath or her name. She can taste herself in his mouth, which sparks so many feelings inside her. Her mind’s foggy, sweat pooling on her forehead. Carrick is but shoves his tongue into her mouth, lapping at her, biting, sucking and she leans hard into the kiss, retaliates by scraping her teeth against his bottom lip. It spurs him on. Making his cock twitch against her thigh and Claire decides she can’t wait anymore.

Claire rolls her hips at him. He takes the hint and rolls over to grab a condom from his pants. Then he’s back on top of her, his weight and heat crushing her most deliciously and brings her body further up the bed with him; she drapes her legs around his hips, hands gripping his arms. Her lust and anticipation collaborate to the point of near madness.

Carrick nips the taut line of her jaw and drives himself into her.

They both groan in unison.

“Oh, fuck.” Carrick mumbles between shaky breaths, his face pressed against her throat. “Fucking hell, Claire, you feel so warm.”

Claire, on the other hand, goes rigid under him. Her mouth hangs open and her world narrows down to the feeling of his cock inside her and the pleasure that builds up again in her abdomen.

This is happening, she thinks, he’s inside her and it feels so amazing. She might as well be crazy for agreeing to do this with him in the first place, but the promise of the thrill beats the doubts.

He starts slow, just the smallest fraction of hips, gently thrusting back and forth in shallow motions. She whines, frustrated and impatient, raising her own hips to meet his, but Carrick’s weight pins her onto the mattress and she can’t fucking move.

“F-faster,” Claire stammers, her molars grinding like toothache.

The bastard smirks, like he’s been anticipating the word coming out of her mouth.

“Beg for it.” His words are punctuated with every unhurried stroke he’s giving her, teasing her and if she’s not in the middle of being fucked right now, she would have kicked him in the balls.

Growling, she swallows her plea by pulling Carrick down for another kiss. This time, she’s the one who does the biting and the sucking, making sure he’s distracted enough and then just like with all the things she does in her life, she takes the matter into her own hands.

With all her strength, she scrambles up, pushes him off of her and knocks him onto his back flat on the bed. When she swings her legs to straddle him, his eyes pop.

“Holy shit, you are feisty.”

“Only cause I’m angry and horny,” she bites off. Angling herself above him and with one hand, guides his shaft back to her opening. “And you- you weren’t doing a proper job fucking me.”

He smirks. “I was trying to wind you up.”

“Fuck you.”

She lowers herself and sinks back onto his cock, relishing in his moans and growls.

“Baby, you’re doing it.” His hands curling around her waist, his head falls back onto the bed, exposing his throat and Claire is so hard-pressed not to bite him there.

Claire ignores his smartassness, naturally, and lifts herself, drops back down. Slamming her hips into his until she’s bouncing on him. Nails clawing at his chest. Finally be able to set a pace she desperately craves for, finally wiping that smirk off of his face.

Under her, Carrick is biting his lip in an effort to not to lose control. His hands are everywhere now; her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her cheeks. Leaving fire on its wake. She might still hate him after this is strange, little arrangement is over but at this juncture, he’s exactly the remedy she needs after everything.

Then Carrick wraps his arms around her and picks up the pace, thrusting into her hard and fast. Claire shakes. She can’t catch her breath, her forehead pressed on his shoulder, her teeth latching onto his skin. Breathing a string of 'fuckfuckfuck’ while he squeezes her ass and continues to fuck her with careless abandon.

"Tobias.” Her moans amplify. She’s close to climaxing again, her legs quivering. Eyes wide shut. “Please, please.” So much for not begging.

He pulls her to him so their foreheads meet. Their lips brush against each other, but they aren’t kissing, merely trading breaths. A hand touches her cheek and her lids flutter open, finding his eyes- those depthless, amber eyes that pretty much lead her to this point, are watching her, pulling her in.

“Say it again,” he encourages darkly, face twists in pleasure. “My name. Say it again.”

She does it again, it comes out as a groaned whisper, repeating it over and over again like a sacred mantra.

Her second orgasm sweeps through her, making her spine arches, it tears a winded moan from her throat and it’s more than enough to trigger Carrick’s own release; fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, groaning gutturally.

Panting, sore but sated, Claire collapses on top of his chest, his arm still drapes around her. The rise and fall of his breath lull her to sleep. Before she knows it, he gently rolls her to his side, pulling the covers for them and kisses her on the shoulder, which comes out as… odd for her.

The bed moves and she feels him leaving.

He’s leaving.

He’s leaving.

She doesn’t know why it stings, but it does. But also Claire opts not to pay no mind to it and forces her mind to surrender to sleep that once again tries to take hold.

Claire wishes she doesn’t dream of him that night, but she does.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s way past midnight when she wakes up. The room is dark. The curtains are closed. She’s still naked and sore under the covers, mind reeling in from what has just transpired.

One might ask in which universe does Claire Castelnuovo agree to sleep with Tobias Carrick? Well, apparently they did it in this one and oddly still, she doesn’t regret it. Though she’s still low-key sad that he left her straight after sex, but hey, what can she do about it? This arrangement itself is nothing but a means to an end, anyway, a perverse alternative for him to pay back what he allegedly owes her, she shouldn’t be surprised if he left after the ‘debt’ is paid.

Feeling her mood somehow takes an unexpected dip, she gets us from the bed and gathers her clothes on the floor.

She’s in the middle of zipping up her skirt when the bedside lamp flickers and comes on.

Claire turns around. Carrick, rousing from sleep, looks at her, rubbing his eyes and stifles a yawn. His lips still tinged from her kisses and bites.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, voice still raspy from sleep and Claire thinks her mouth is hanging open, standing rooted to the spot like a spider on an icicle; frozen in time.

For a moment, she does nothing but stares at him, being rendered speechless. For many times, Tobias Carrick never fails to surprise her. Just when she thinks she has him all figured out, he comes sneaking in through her windows like a thief in the night and it just strikes her, how he really is an uncharted territory for her. Despite her having him pinned under her, exploring the hard planes of his body under the touches just a few hours ago.

The man is like a fucking myth, at this point. She knows him only from stories and her limited time around him, but who is exactly Tobias Carrick? Is he the competitive doctor at Mass Kenmore, the Machiavellian asshole that severed his friendship/relationship with Ethan for the sake of his greed and ambition? Or is he, Tobias Carrick, the man who saves her life, makes her laugh and kisses her shoulder in the afterglow?

She’ll probably never know.

“Yeah, my roommates will probably deploy a search party if I don’t come home tonight,” she replies, distracted, finally finding her own voice back. He nods, feigning disappointment- or is he not? She clears her throat and continues putting on her clothes. “I thought you left.”

He chuckles at the absurdity of her deduction. “And without saying goodbye?” Carrick rolls off of the bed and rises to his feet. He’s already wearing his pants- thank fuck for that- and approaches her. “I may be an asshole, Castelnuovo, but just so you know, my mother raised me better than that.”

So they’re back to their usual last name basis perimeter. That’s good, right? After all of this, she thinks a little familiarity would be nice for her sanity.

“Good to know, then.”

Silence encompasses the room. It’s awkward and overwhelming and it throws her a little off-balance. At the bar, they seemed to know exactly what to say to each other- especially him; but now, even she can sense the hesitation in his gait, at the way he’s looking at her and a faint alarm is trilling her head. Because if he’s making this awkward, she can do a whole lot of worse.

"Oh, before you ask, that makes up for pretty much everything, yeah. I mean, it’s alright.” You fucking dumbass, she thinks to herself, averting his gaze while a smile blooms on his face.

“Good to know, then.” He parrots her words and she huffs a laugh, freely and sweetly, like she’s currently not knee-deep in her problems or she’s just fucked the most incorrigible man that ever exists. He does too, but his gaze lands on her mouth before going back to her eyes.

Another silence passes. It’s time to go.

“I have to go now.”

He nods mutely and moves away so Claire can step past him.

She wears her coat. In the mirror, she still looks thoroughly fucked; her hair’s dishevelled, she smells like him now, but she really needs to go. She promises herself that this will be a one time thing because, Jesus fuck, she’s supposed to be smarter than this. She’s not fifteen anymore, and this is not the summer where she can watch the sunset from the cornfields with her cousins even though his eyes possess the same color.

Yet she walks toward the door in a daze, like she’s forgetting something but can’t pinpoint what it is.

“Can I-”

“Hey, do you-”

She stops, mid-turning, and closes her mouth. She doesn’t realize she’s interrupting him.

“Oh, sorry,” Claire says, embarrassed. “You go first, it’s alright.”

“Can I have your number?” he asks, uncharacteristically hesitant.

She thinks he’s joking or maybe he’s just feigning interest, but one look at his eyes and she can tell that this isn’t smoke and mirrors.

The eyes, chico. They never lie. It’s dumb, but that line from Scarface is the first thing that comes to her mind. That’s why when she hands him her phone, her hand is shaking slightly. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning like a maniac.  

Claire takes a cursory glance at her phone once he returns it. He saved his number solely as t.c. with the water drop, the syringe, the ghost, the eggplant, the firework emoji and she chuckles endearingly, questioning the universe how he can easily get both a rise and a laugh out of her.

“I’ll text you?” Carrick asks again and she nods a little too enthusiastically at it, but what the hell?

“Sure.”

“Alright.” He takes one look at her, steps closer and for a moment, she thinks he might be going to kiss her.

“Goodnight, Claire,” Carrick says instead and she nods, admitting the fact that he’s not going to do it.

“Goodnight to you too, Tobias.” Then pauses at the doorway, feeling surprisingly bold. “I gotta give it to you, though, for someone who’s become the bane of my existence for months, you’re a damn good lay.”

He barks out a laugh, obviously, that Claire can hear all the way down the hall. And she thinks she can get used to the sound.

                                                         fin.

Tag list: @villain-fuckarooni @beckaroo @arfeiniel​ @this-person-is-busy @colossalpainintheass​ @drethanramslay @hatescapsicum @theeccentricbibliophile

[keyofjetwolf]

Hi would you like some rage about She-Ra season 5?

If the answer is no, please don’t click below. For real. Really for real. I’m not looking to piss in anyone’s Cheerios. I think if you were satisfied (or better!) with the show, that’s fantastic and I envy you. As I have always said, love what you love. My opinion is mine and means precisely nothing beyond that. If you think you may be even a little bummed reading about how someone didn’t like it, skip this post and go on with your day, I promise you’re not missing anything worthwhile.

IN A SIMILAR VEIN: If -- before, during, or after reading -- you feel inclined to argue with me, I am begging you to please not. I cannot begin to tell you how much I don’t want to be argued with on this right now. I’m still extremely disappointed and cranky, and I’m not much in the mood to have a measured, reasoned debate about my feelings. Much as my opinion has no bearing on you, your opinion has no bearing on me, and as I’m giving you the option to opt out, I’d appreciate the same courtesy. If you want to write your own post on your own blog, go nuts! Just please leave me out of it. I PREFER TO BE CRANKY AT TELEVISION SHOWS THAN PEOPLE.

The rest of you, come on down. I don’t promise coherency, but I DO promise a lot of stuff said in all-caps!

---

Hello! Thank you for joining me! We watched the remaining few episodes of She-Ra last night! I hated them! Yaaay!

What did I hate? OH HO HO MANY THINGS FRIENDS MANY THINGS. It’s not just stuff from the final couple of episodes either, I want to clarify. It’s the entire final season, settling on last few episodes like the freshly fallen snow on your front lawn that some frat boys decide to pee their names into. By the time we’d gotten to these last episodes, there was really nothing left for me but confirmation of all the shit I’d come to hate. SO THANKS I GUESS FOR PROVING ME RIGHT

Which isn’t to say there was nothing to enjoy in the final episodes! There was!

5. She-Ra’s Triceps. GET BUFF GIRL. I LOVE how Adora and She-Ra look similar, but very much not identical. Adora’s no slouch when it comes to physical stuff, but they go the extra mile to show us how She-Ra is that much more. HOW RARELY DO YOU GET TO SEE A WOMAN WITH MUSCLES. I’ve been nothing but impressed by the ways the show drew the line between Adora and She-Ra, and however I felt about its handling of other elements, it didn’t let me down here.

4. Sometimes A Family Is A Twink, A Lizard, And Their Imp Baby. I don’t have further commentary on this, and I need none.

3. Welcome Home, Daddy. THIS WAS SO SPECTACULAR. Glimmer had, I would argue, the most realized arc in the story. It was so gratifying to see this as a culmination, not just of her own struggle with her magical power and ability to harness it, but her willingness to do what needs doing, however personally difficult. That was a stumbling point Angelica could never overcome, continually trying to micromanage and protect Glimmer rather than trusting her and recognizing her for the asset she was. Also though, more succinctly: YESSSS BITCH

2. A Shanty! THIS WHOLE SCENE WAS PERFECT NO NOTES. Just the right blend of silly and sincere, a genuine delight as even brainwashed Mermista had had enough of Sea Hawk’s shit, AND so much more clever than it seemed at first glance. THIS IS THE ONLY VALID HETEROSEXUAL RELATIONSHIP IN SHE-RA I AM NOT TAKING QUESTIONS AT THIS TIME

1. Shadow Weaver. SHADOW FUCKING WEAVER. What a complicated, fascinating character, bar none the most interesting in the entire series. I do think they pulled their punch right at the very end with her, but I AM capable of remembering I’m watching a kid’s show, so I can only get so disappointed about it. Mostly, she remained a beautifully morally complex character, and she was one of my greatest personal delights from beginning to end*.

(*) Boy did this show have one single solution for mommy issues though.

THAT WAS ABOUT IT. So let’s get to why we’re all really here, and that is MY SCREAMING OH MY GOD WHERE DO I BEGIN

Nah, I know exactly where to begin.

GLIMMER AND BO JESUS MCTRISKET I AM GOING TO EXPLODE AND SHOWER THE UNIVERSE IN THE SHRAPNEL OF MY HATE

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING

WHERE DID IT COME FROM

HOW CAN I SHOVE IT BACK IN THE HATEFUL SPEWHOLE THAT SIRED THIS BULLSHIT

WHY WHY IS THIS HERE WHY IS THIS IN MY FACE WHERE MY EYES HAVE TO SEE IT FUCK ME SIDEWAYS THIS IS THE MOST UNNECESSARY SHOEHORNED IN HET ROMANCE FUCK A DOODLE NONSENSE I HAVE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO BEAR WITNESS WHAT IS IT DOING IN THIS OTHERWISE EXPONENTIALLY GAY CARTOON

WERE YOU PANDERING TO THE STRAIGHTS

WHY ARE YOU PANDERING TO THE STRAIGHTS I ASSURE YOU WE ARE COVERED BOTH HISTORICALLY AND FICTIONALLY

ALSO NEED I REMIND YOU THAT YOU HAVE ALREADY ACHIEVED HETEROSEXUAL PERFECTION

NO MERMISTA NO WE ARE NOT ALL JUST LIKE OKAY WITH THIS

Oh my FUCKSTICKS, I could’ve rolled with so much more that angers/disappoints me about She-Ra’s ending if every single thing I feared about this hadn’t proved true.

AND. IT. WAS. SO. UNNECESSARY.

What exactly did pairing off Glimmer and Bo do for the story? For their characters? THIS IS THE PART THAT’S STABBING ME IN THE DELICATE WEBBING OF MY TOES. Because -- COME WITH ME A MOMENT SWEET ANGELS -- because I was under the impression that, oohhhh, I dunno, FRIENDSHIP WAS A HUGE FUCKING IMPORTANT PART OF THIS PASTEL HELLSCAPE

Is it, She-Ra? IS IT REALLY???? When not one but BOTH of your childhood friendship pairings end in romance? When you close out your five seasons with romantic relationships so painfully and specifically sown across the character landscape like an overzealous gardener turned loose on the world?

You know what you have at the end? DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID

THIS ISN’T A BEST FRIENDS SQUAD IT’S A DOUBLE DATE THAT NEVER MERCIFULLY ENDS

And again I ask, Why?? What was it about Glimmer and Bo’s relationship that needed them to become romantic? What was LACKING that this was the solution?

THIS IS WHAT MAKES ME LOSE MY GODDAMN SHITTING MIND I AM SO FUCKING DONE WITH THIS INSIPID MYOPIC TRASHBAG OF A CONCEPT

I believed She-Ra’s entire premise about friendship, I believed it wholeheartedly, and I’m so PISSED that at the close of day, narratively, it swept it all the bin. AND YES, YES IT DID, otherwise, WHY IS IT THERE. It serves no story-based need, it serves no character-based need, it has no NEED at all. So is it meant to be a “reward” to Bo and Glimmer for winning the war, as if their lifelong friendship were not reward enough? Is it meant to show they’ve walked through the flames and emerged with stronger, deeper bonds, because of course a relationship can only go SO deep without fucking. There’s no avenue to Romantic Relationship that doesn’t simultaneously point to something lacking in Platonic Relationship, AND I AM FURY PERSONIFIED

I am so tired of this. I’m SO TIRED of this.

And it didn’t need to be there. They didn’t even TRY to give us a good reason. That may be the part that makes me the angriest. Of COURSE they hook up romantically, of COURSE their platonic love would grow into “more”.

Fuck YOU, She-Ra. I thought you were better than that. YOU WERE SO CLOSE TO BETTER THAN THAT

THEN THERE WAS CATRA

I get it, I guess. I mean, I think it’s shittily written, but I GUESS. Honestly, end of day, I just don’t care about Catra enough to really get too angry about it, particularly when as I’m so fucking incendiary over something much more important to me. But it’s also the show’s greatest creative failure, and even if I HADN’T gotten angrier at other choices, it would’ve still cut its own legs out from under it.

Catra’s “redemption” was weak and sad and did a disservice to her and everyone involved. She started self-centered and shitty, and she ended just as self-centered and shitty, only we’re fine with that now. She learned nothing and changed nothing, but also nobody ever demanded it of her, so I can only lay so much at the character’s feet. The problem is ultimately creative, where I think Noelle Stevenson got lost in her own love of the character, and somewhere along the way forgot that if you take them out that far, you have to be willing to walk them the long road back. Compare to poor Glimmer, for fuck’s sake, whose greatest sin was being desperate enough to be manipulated by the character whose entire fucking DEAL is being THE manipulator. How much shit did she get for that? How long was she punished? Meanwhile Catra becomes THE Big Bad for a while, nearly unravels all of reality in a fit of supreme lesbian angst and self-pity, directly leads to the death of the planet’s ruling monarch who also happens to be GLITTER’S MUM and DIRECT FRIEND TO THE SHOW’S HEROES, but that’s fine, you did one sorta good thing one time and even though it was also wrapped in a thick film of self-pity and a final fuck-you at Adora, all is forgiven!

Speaking of, Adora suffers just as much from stunted growth. From the beginning, her thing was control, unable to free herself from the responsibility of everything and everyone. What did we have at the end? Adora as the only one who could save everything and everyone. Yeah, they kept asking what it was SHE wanted, BUT THEN SHE NEVER ACTUALLY GOT TO CHOOSE. NOT activating the failsafe wasn’t an option for her, and while she wound up not having to die to do it, even that wasn’t her choice in the end, it was Catra’s. (Don’t even get me started on her nth hour “You love me?” fuckery when it wasn’t once for one single second shown to be a question of such life-turning importance.)

All of which could be interesting! That Catra and Adora went through all this, came so far to wind up right where they started? AWESOME. LOVE IT. FUND IT. But really all that happens is nobody minds now that Catra’s a self-involved little shit and tee-hee another Best Friends Squad Mission being bullrushed by Adora within five minutes of ending the last one isn’t that funny?

I can’t even dig much enjoyment out of Adora and Catra as a trope subversion (if one of them was a male, their romantic involvement wouldn’t have even been a QUESTION), because the show lost its fucking mind with romantically pairing everybody off in the final five minutes. WHICH BRINGS ME RIGHT BACK TO MY PREVIOUS SCREAMING SO I’LL STOP THERE.

There was other stuff, of course. I think it was a TERRIBLE decision to spend the last season with the focus split between the two groups of rebels, and writing half the cast into brainwashing. I think the Nettossa and Spinnerella stuff was wasted and lacked any punch at all because the show for some reason or another couldn’t be bothered to let us spend any time with them to care. The waste of Scorpia and Mermista especially (to people named Jet Wolf who are me) was fucking CRIMINAL. Speaking of Scorpia, wouldn’t her showdown with Bo have been so much more poignant if they’d had really any kind of interaction before that moment to build from? (Sure, it’s Scorpia, so if you’re going to sell the lack of context with anyone it’s her, BUT ALSO.) Hey, remember Huntara? No? NEITHER DID THE SHOW.

All my details aside though, MY MANY MANY MANY DETAILS, what kills/rages me most about She-Ra was how so much potential from the first four seasons was just flushed away. Whether it was the creative team shooting itself in the foot or corporate pressure and rushing from Netflix, I don’t know. I don’t CARE. This is the show I was given, so this is the show I have, and that kind of fall after that kind of potential doesn’t just irritate me, it makes me SAD. I wouldn’t be this disappointed if I didn’t think it could have been -- WAS -- so much more.

Time will tell if I can separate out the final season from how much I loved those that came before it. I like to hope so, because I did love it intensely and loved whenever I got the chance to really dig in and talk about it.

WHATEVER ELSE I SUPPOSE I WILL ALWAYS HAVE THIS

Again please remember that I am not at present looking to argue or debate my feelings and opinions. I get to just be angry and disappointed, as a treat!

[marksarmel]

What I’m Consuming 02/09/21

You know it’s been a long time since I’ve done one of these. I could make excuses, but they’re the all same ones you and all your friends are making about not getting shit done, and they’re all true! 

So, gather ‘round ye mongrels of media as we attempt to satisfy our primal urge to consume!

TV

Wandavision - So much good stuff! I don’t need to talk much about it because everyone else is doing it for me. Just watch it and then talk about it with all your friends.

30 Coins - This Spanish horror series started out great and stayed great…until the last episode. I still recommend watching it because it veers from camp to monster gore to pure horror fun and back again. The characters are well written and some “heroes” end up playing against expectations while others are just what they seem. It’s a good watch just reset some expectations for that last episode. 

The Head - A group of scientists and support crew hunker down in a remote arctic research station and before you know it strange things are afoot! The communications have been destroyed, people are dying and no one knows whodunnit! This is that fun genre of movies where a group of people are completely isolated and it constantly has you asking, “whose the bad one?”. Good stuff.

MOVIES

Sound of Metal - Can a movie about a metal band be introspective and even meditative? Watch and find out. Riz Ahmed paints an enthralling portrait of loss, stubbornness and what comes after. Props to the deft sound design of this movie.

Palm Springs - If you’re like anyone else in the world right now you probably need a pick me up. Watch this This time loop, comedy, love story if you want to laugh and smile. If you’ve got someone to share it with all the better.  I would love to see this movie again at a drive in with someone special.

His House - This haunted house horror movie about two Sudanese refugees hits on several levels and bursts at the seems with tension. I quickly recognized Wunmii Mosaku from Lovecraft Country, but this is the first time I’d seen Sope Dirisu. Both put on great performances that pull at the heart in both fear and sadness. Great overwhelming dread throughout!

MUSIC

Operators - Some friends recommended this other other band from Wolf Parade frontman Daniel Boeckner.  It’s full of 90’s synth nostalgia references while pushing their sound into something modern and intriguing. A good listen on a road trip with your 90’s high school friends or to bop along to while housecleaning.

Dave Grohl and Greg Kurstin’s Hanukkah Sessions - Note: I was supposed to write this in December so this is a bit outdated, but this is still a fun thing to listen to so shut up and listen). These fun covers dropping daily throughout the 8 days of Hanukkah stretch from The Beastie Boys to Drake to Peaches to Mountain’s Mississippi Queen and more. Just good grungy fun, my favorite of the bunch is Elastica’s Connected.

Y La Bamba - Entre Los Dos (Between the Two) - I stumbled across this band on Spotify through their track Ojos Del Sol. Their sound immediately grabbed me in a warm caress and lovingly held me as ones cultural mother might hold a long lost child. This is folk music, Mexican music and in some way spiritual music. It will firmly be part of the soundtrack to the journey of me discovering more about my culture and my own self.

COMICS/BOOKS

The Glass Hotel -  I finished Emily St. John’s most recent book far too quick. A plot device that finds characters orbiting around a key event only to come crashing into each other is her signature move at this point. And while things are slightly different this time around, it’s all told with such mesmerizing prose that I can’t help but long for her next book. The characters are at once real and fantastical, they’re not quite someone you know, but are more of a friend of a friend. Complicated and simple and sad and selfish and hard to figure out, in other words, like actual people.

Miles Morales Spider-Man - Book 3 - More good stuff writer Saladin Ahmed and a bevy of top notch artists, including Javier Garron, Ze Carlos and Belén Ortega. This story moves at a breezy clip and Ahmed excels at building relationships between characters, but the action seems to move along too quickly.  There’s no highs and lows in the fights scenes, an enemy shows up, a few punches are thrown, Miles quickly gets the best of the enemy. I just want to see a bit more tension in some of these scenes. Otherwise this is a fun read that add some nice bits to the Miles Morales character.

GAMES

Hades - This is a fantastic Metroidvania style game that instantly had me staying up way past my bedtime. While some may not like the repetitive gameplay I wasn’t bothered by it. I was also completely hooked by the storyline and the great dialogue. Also, the art and music is top notch!

RANDOM NOTES

I’m going to try and get one of this out every month. Wish me luck.

[jonathanvik]

Starlight Dream - Chapter 6

“Are you okay?” Aiko asked, concerned as Seina approached her from across the street. Her friend was moving sluggishly and had deep bags under her eyes.

“Fine, I suppose.” Mr. Kiyojiro hadn’t been lying about pushing her until she dropped. Her entire body hurt from the countless katas he’d forced her to carry out. Worse, even in her dreams, she couldn’t escape from them, forced to continue her training even there.

Colten zipped around her head. “I’m surprised he’s even allowed you a day off considering how serious he’s taking your training.”

Seina’s fairy friend paused for a moment before brightening. “I just thought of a cool name for your magical girl form!” Seina groaned. Not this again. She was fine with just being called Seina!

After doing an elaborate circle in the air, Colten spread his legs wide. “Lotus Karate!”

“No Colten. Just no.” Seina replied without hesitation.

“Okay. That was kinda bad.” Colten replied, dejected.

Mr. Kiyojiro coughed in his fist, reminding them they were talking about someone right behind them. “You need time to rest your body, too. Besides, your training is going better than expected. You’re a real natural.”

“Sure,” Seina replied, unconvinced. Her body didn’t agree with that statement.

“So, uh.” Aiko paused, reluctant to speak her next words.

“Yes, Aiko, we will learn cool moves soon.” Mr. Kiyojiro said, reading the girl’s thoughts. “In fact, I plan to have her start sparing soon. She just needs a good training partner. I’d do it myself, but I’d rather have someone around Seina’s age. I think she’d learn more effectively with a rival of sorts.”

“You might have someone who’d be a perfect fit,” Colten said, giving Aiko a meaningful glance.

“Don’t look at me!” Aiko replied. “I’m fine sitting on the sidelines. It’s safer.”

“Well, well. You need a sparring partner? I can think of someone who’d be the perfect match.” A figure said, appearing from an alleyway for a second before screaming in pain as Mr. Kiyojiro jabbed him in the stomach and flipped him onto the ground. His victim gave a strangled cry from having the breath knocked from his lungs.

“Oh, it’s you.” Mr. Kiyojiro said, finally getting a good look at the intruder. It was the former Lotus Butcher thug Masato.

“Are you okay?” Seina asked, concerned.

Masato wheezed some more, fighting back tears of pain. “Nah, I’m fine.” He stood straight, pretending he hadn’t gotten thrown onto his butt.

Colten groaned. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Masato crossed his arms, giving a confident smile. “Helping you defend the world, sister.”

Seina blinked. “Sister?”

Colten snorted with disbelief. “Really?”

“That’s right, brother. I figure you need all the help you can get. I heard about your training.”

“Why would you help us?” Siena asked, giving the former thug a suspicious glare.

“Because, we are siblings, you and I,” Masato replied. “You, Colten, and I share a special bond. We’re freaks, outcasts, someone no one wants. While we don’t share blood, the bonds we’ve formed run much deeper than that.”

“What’s this, we business!? What bonds?! Don’t lump me in with you!” Seina replied, agasted.

“As your big brother, I thought it would be only proper if I assisted your training.” Masato continued.

Seina gave her bodyguard a questioning glance. “Is there anything he could teach me?”

“No.” Mr. Kiyojiro replied automatically.

Seina nodded her agreement. She’d arrived at the same conclusion. “Thought as much. I appreciate the offer, but no thanks.”

“Yeah, this guy is kind of weak,” Aiko said.

“Oh come on!” Masato said in protest. “I have years of experience!”

“How many? How old are you anyway?” Seina asked, curious.

“14.”

“Eh? 14?!” Siena gapped at the massive muscle bound man in total shock. Colten made a croaking gurgling sound and Mr. Kiyojiro’s jaw dropped.

That’s only four older than me! “You look like you’re in your thirties!”

“I’ve lived a hard life,” Masato replied.

Mr. Kiyojiro rubbed his face. “Those must have been a hard five years.”

“You’ve probably already done the math and are a little confused. As I previously said, my family kicked me out. I bet you’re asking how that adds up with the vampire’s arrival? Doesn’t this mean I was kicked out about around nine? Yes, it’s a sad tale.”

Masato blinked. “Hey! Where are you going?!” Seina and her entourage were already walking away, losing interest in whatever the former thug had to say about his past. Just because he’d stop being a bad guy didn’t mean that she wanted to be his friend.

“Hey, I know! Instead of that guy, I’ll ask around.” Aiko said. “I might find someone local who’s interested.”

“Damn vampires. If only dojos still existed, it’d make this much simpler. There’s no guarantee we’ll find anyone with talent.” Mr. Kiyojiro grumbled to himself. “Nevermind. While not a perfect solution, it should suffice.”

“Perfect!” Aiko snapped her fingers. “I’ll ask around right away!”

Hey, I might make a new friend! Seina was looking forward to seeing what training partner Aiko might find for her. During her childhood, it was difficult to make friends with children her age. Many didn’t survive, or the vampire overlords moved them somewhere else. It forced her to have mostly adult friends. If it meant making a new friend, she’d endure the repetitive exercises and sore muscles.

“You could always ask me, little sister,” Masato said behind them. “I happen to know an ancient martial art that goes back centuries! No? Fine… I’m here if you need me!”

---

“Are you serious, that’s wonderful news!” Lilha almost bounced on her feet, giddy with excitement. Luck was finally on her side.

“Make sure no one else applies. Keep a watch on this, Aiko.” Lilha told her minion. Despite being a deposed vampire queen, she still wasn’t without influence. The servant nodded, disappearing through a window.

“What is it?” Shinobu said, approaching with interest. “Have you found something that will help us kill the magical girl?”

Since joining their side, the clerk had shown a vested interest in killing their target. Lilha had worried that he’d have some compunction about killing a ten-year-old girl. But the prospect of restoring his son to life blinded him to such petty moral scruples. He’d spent many long hours in Lilha’s crummy apartment, helping her hash out their assassination strategy. They’d been rooming together as they devised their plans. He’d proven a reliable roommate.

“Yeah, that fool girl has created the perfect opportunity for us,” Lilha replied.

“Oh, really?” Takako said from Lilha’s battered old couch, looking up from her manga magazine. Her voice showed mild interest. Unlike Shinobu, however, their magical girl ally hadn’t assisted with their plans at all. She cared more about slacking off, eating junk food, and reading manga. Lilha’s loathing for the girl grew by the day.

“Yes,” Lilha replied, fighting back venom. “Seina has created an opening we can exploit. She’s looking for a sparring partner. Apparently, her bodyguard is teaching her martial arts.”

This news made Lilha curse inwardly. The last thing they needed was for their enemy to become more capable. She’d been counting on the foolish girl to bask in her power, assuming herself unbeatable. Reality, however, told a different tale, meaning they needed to plan their surgical strike even more carefully.

Takako made a face. “And you’re expecting me to join her and get all sweaty, no thanks.”

“It’s a perfect opportunity to learn more about our enemy and her weak points. If you pretend to become her friend, it will create a weakness we can exploit.” Despite her great power, Seina was an ordinary girl. The fool girl would never suspect a friend of betraying her.

“Yeah, right.” Takako rolled her eyes. “Besides, won’t she recognize me? I doubt a wig and glasses will fool anyone.”

Shinobu stroked his chin. “Actually, disguising you with my powers shouldn’t be difficult. As long as you don’t venture ten miles away or purposely ruin the illusion, it should fool her without issue.”

“No! I’m not learning martial arts! That’s so lame.” Takako summoned her twin pistols, spinning them around in her hands. “I have these. It’s more than enough.”

Lilha seethed with frustration. Why couldn’t this lazy girl understand what an opportunity this provided? She opened her mouth for a nasty rebuke, but Nier surprised her by flying forward.

“Takako.” The fairy’s tone was stern. “You saw Seina’s power for yourself. Even with the vampires’ help, defeating her won’t be easy. You can’t fight her with half-measures. You heard the vampire, she’s learning martial arts and honing her abilities. What do you think will happen once Seina completes her training? If an opportunity to increase your own power presents itself, take it. Unless you’re comfortable being second fiddle to Seina for the rest of your life.”

The magical girl’s face scrunched up in irritation. Much to Lilha’s astonishment, Takako absorbed Neir’s words. The girl had never listened to her.

“Fine!” Takako threw up her hands. “If it means beating Seina, I’ll get a little sweaty. But only a little!” After a moment her grimace turned into a smirk, returning to her usual cocky self. “Besides, a little more awesomeness couldn’t hurt. I’ll enjoy making Seina look like a fool once I beat her with her own martial arts.”

“How did you do that?” Lilha whispered to the fairy, while Takako continued to brag about herself.

“You just need to know to talk to her,” Nier replied. “We’ve known each other for years.”

That’s a relief. Children were such an annoying pain. Why anyone purposely endured the grueling insanity of parenthood, Lilha never knew.

“Perfect, we can spend the next hour working on your disguise.” Shinobu rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation.

“Won’t she detect your true nature?” Shinobu asked.

Takako waved a dismissive hand. “I can hide my magic. No big deal.”

“Just remember this, Takako,” Lilha said. “Act normally. We don’t want Seina or her bodyguard to get suspicious. It would ruin everything.”

“Act normal?” The magical girl replied, insulted. “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything that will draw attention to myself.”

Good. The first step of her master plan was falling into place. The rest would soon follow, and the hateful, magical girl would soon be dead.

---

“Again!”

Seina grunted and performed the same sequence of katas she’d been performing for the last hour. She winced as Mr. Kiyojiro cracked a wooden sword he’d been holding against the ground and walked up to her.

“No, like this.” Her bodyguard adjusted her posture by a minute detail. “Again.”

Seina performed the sequence again, trying to perform the movements just as Mr. Kiyojiro instructed. Her heart bloomed with pleasure as he nodded, indicating she’d performed it successfully. Inwardly, she sighed. If only it didn’t mean that she’d need to perform this same move another hundred times.

Here we go. Seina thought with little enthusiasm.

“Seina!” Colten said, flying down towards Seina from an upper window.

Thank you, timely interruption!

“What is it? Are vampires attacking the city?!” Seina said, her voice hopeful.

“Nope, everything’s calm,” Colten replied with a shake of his head, much to his magical girl’s disappointment. “But I have good news. Aiko has found someone interested in joining our training sessions!”

“Oh, is that right?” Mr. Kiyojiro said with interest.

“She basically jumped at the chance to receive some martial training. I think she has some real promise. There’s something about her.” Colten replied.

“Who is it?” Seina said, her interest peaked. Perhaps training wouldn’t be as miserable if she had another girl training with her.

“Come in!” Colten yelled.

The door opened and in walked Aiko along with another girl their age. The girl’s face extended into a cocky smile, and she vanished in a blur. She leaped high into the air, flattering her body and letting out a loud cry “Hi-ya!”. While in mid-air, she performed a triple spinning corkscrew and landed with grace on her feet, only a meter away from where Seina stood, arms extended.

“My name is Maeko Kodama.” The strange girl said. “And I’m interested in being your training partner.” Up close, the girl stood a few centimeters taller than Seina. She wore her hair short too, but a longer single braid fell over her right cheek. She had strong features and her green eyes spoke of mischief and confidence.

“Right. Um, Seina, Seina Kamiyama.” Seina nodded dumbly, taken aback by the girl’s dazzling display of athleticism.

Meako smirked, raising her head high proudly. “Could you have a better training partner?”

“Wow, that was amazing,” Aiko said from the doorway. “I hadn’t expected she’d do that.”

“Yeah, she’s, uh, interesting,” Colten said.

Mr. Kiyojiro crossed his arms, not as impressed as the others. “And you wish to learn martial arts? May I ask why?”

Maeko only shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a dangerous world out there. So, why not?”

Seina’s bodyguard studied the newcomer for several long moments. For reasons Seina didn’t understand, his expression turned hard, considering the matter with the utmost seriousness. After several more moments, he nodded. “I’m not opposed to it. As long as your parents don’t oppose it.”

“They don’t,” Maeko replied.

“This is perfect!” Seina surprised Maeko by grabbing her hands, gripping the girl’s with hers. “I can’t tell you how lonely it is to train alone. I can tell we’ll become the best of friends!”

“Yeah, it’s nice we’ll be outnumbering the boys,” Aiko added, giving the newcomer a big hug.

“Right,” Maeko replied, shifting awkwardly, disliking all the sudden familiar attention.

“We should have a sleepover tonight!” Aiko said. “I found some more old movies we can watch. They’re not in the best condition however. They might not play right.”

“Movies?” Maeko asked, surprised.

“That’s fine. I’m sure we’ll find one that works” Seina waved a dismissive hand. “What are they about?”

“They’re a little random, but many of them are kid’s movies,” Aiko replied. “I found an animated one about Momotaro!”

“Even I know about that one! That sounds so cute!”

From Maeko’s expression, she didn’t know what they were talking about. Good, Seina always loved the tales of Momotaro’s adventures with his animal friends and would love to explain them to her new friend. She could build puppets.

Mr. Kiyojiro coughed, pointing to the training mat. Seina still hadn’t finished training for the day.

“Okay,” Seina replied, her mood deflating.

“It won’t be for too long.” Her bodyguard gave her a rare smile. “Just for another half-an-hour, then you can play with your new friend.”

“Nice!” Seina beamed. The day had finally improved.

“Uh, what about me?” Maeko asked.

“Just watch and observe.” Mr. Kiyojiro replied. “We can begin the basics tomorrow. There’s no rush.”

Colten snorted. “I hope so. If Lily Annihilator has run back to Starlight Dream with her tail in between her legs, we’ll be in trouble.”

“She would never do that!” Maeko replied, indignant.

Seina blinked. “Sorry?”

“I mean. I heard about this evil magical girl.” Maeko coughed in her fist. “She’s the talk of the town! Pretty scary from all accounts! Proud too! I bet she’s lying in wait, eager to strike when you're least expecting it!”

“Please.” Colten rolled his eyes. “She’ll just fail all over again. I’m worried about her bosses. They’re the real threat!”

“Shows how much you know!” Takako snapped, crossing her arms, a smug expression on her face. “I heard how she killed that Lotus Butcher guy in one hit. She’s far more dangerous than you give her credit for!”

“Like killing a vampire is anything worth noting,” Colten rolled his eyes.

“Now guys, let’s not fight,” Seina said before the argument got worse. “Maeko, I haven’t forgotten about Lily Annihilator. She just isn’t my primary concern right now. I’ve been thinking I’ll need some new tricks if I need to fight her again.”

Maeko perked up. “Really? I’d love to hear about them. That’s so cool!”

“Sure, we can talk about them at supper,” Seina replied. “Mr. Kiyojiro is making curry!” Curry was her favorite dish ever. She liked the spiciness. Colten wasn’t a fan, but that was alright. Her new friend might like it too. She enjoyed sharing a good meal with friends.

“Which you’ll have once you finish your training for today.” Mr. Kiyojiro said, his voice firm. Training always ended when he said so, no compromises.

“Okay,” Seina replied, not wanting to argue.

She began the sequence again, performing it without error, determined to make a show of it. Mr. Kiyojiro nodded his approval, smiling again. Although somewhat impatient, Maeko absorbed the lessons he was teaching her. Good. Seina had a good feeling about her. They’d be fantastic friends and training partners!

---

“Come,” Emiyo said, crossing her legs. Her fairy partner, Nyx, was sleeping in her usual bed on the floor of her office. Despite being built for dogs, Nyx found it quite comfortable.

“I have the latest reports here.” Miko, her personal assistant, entered Emiyo’s office and passed her the note. Her fairy partner, Jin, sat on her head. The girl wasn’t much to look at, very small and mouse-like, but she was efficient and good at getting the job done. The efficiency rating of her office increased by 44.9 percent since Miko became a magical girl.

“Good, misery is spreading nicely.” The sixth sector of the multiverse was especially suffering, increasing by forty-two percent. It constituted several hundred billion universes.

“That isn’t all,” Miko said, her voice tense. “Look at the next page.”

“I see.” Emiyo’s voice was tight. The suffering overall in the eighth sector had decreased by a significant amount, almost 70.12 percent! It made her head spin. “Reasons?”

“We aren’t sure yet,” Miko replied. “It might be the rebel. She’s a tricky one to track. It’s impossible to predict where she’ll appear next.”

Emiyo rubbed the bridge of her nose. “What’s being done about this?”

“Well, Takako went to investigate the strange drop in one particular universe, but she hasn’t reported back. She’s days overdue.”

“Typical. She’s probably slacking off somewhere reading local manga.”

“The other girls aren’t so confident.” Miko’s tension increased. “Some are saying the rebel has gotten her.”

“I’m surprised you care.”

Miko snorted. “Hardly, but it’s more about what it represents. Takako isn’t the only one to not report back. Five other girls have gone missing, each in the eighth sector.”

“So, the rebel is making her move again.” Emiyo ground her teeth. “After her last beating, it’s a wonder she’s even alive.”

After several hundred years, everyone had assumed she’d died. Her bid to create a rebellion in Starlight Dream had ended in failure, almost resulting in her death. Was she picking off weaker girls to hurt their efforts instead? While numerous, the magical girls of Starlight Dream weren’t infinite.

“Whatever she’s doing, it’s undermining our operations.” Emiyo stood from her desk and paced.

Nyx yawned, raising her head from her bed. “What’s the matter?”

“Trouble,” Emiyo replied.

“If girls are going missing, someone needs to investigate. Not me, of course!” Miko said quickly. “If it is the rebel, then someone powerful needs to go. Should I inform the Devil Princesses?”

“No.” Emiyo considered this a private matter. Contacting the Four wasn’t necessary or wanted. “I’ll go.”

Nyx beamed, flipping in the air. “Great! We’ve been cooped up in this office for too many centuries.”

Emiyo nodded her agreement. “Watch things here. I’ll find out what happened to Takako. Pretend she’s just being lazy as usual. I don’t want more doom and gloom rumors spreading around.”

Miko saluted. “Got it.”

Nyx flew over to her shoulder and landed on it. “Road trip! Yes!”

“Watch the suffering quote in the eighth sector,” Emiyo said, her voice nasty. “It’s about to increase by at least 200 percent.”

[enigmatic-elegance]

Mas’ Must Follow MASterpost

[In no particular order]

People

@risrielthron One of the best. You will feel as if you are talking with your lifelong friend. Sweet, friendly, and generous. A true example of who we should all try to be more like.

@theodorebennas Daddy Beans. Chill dude. Knows he can be a bit of a meme and owns it. Actually extremely smart and has a ton of good sense. Crusade!

@tanzrielle Super chill in the most not chill way. Will talk your ear off about their awesome characters and want to hear all about your own too. Great person to know and bounce ideas off of.

@thebattlesheep @a-sheep-does-art Sweet thing. Loves to meet new people. Does not RP much but when they do they kill it.

@possum Loser. (Seriously such a humorous, sweet, and all around amazing person.)

@wiedaashcroft Really great character, and the person who plays them is extremely laid back and chill.

@the-petalpaw-family They don’t RP as much right now, but their stories and characters are next level. No lie, they take things like plot and character lineage to places you rarely see. Amazing places.

@kat-hawke ICly very interesting and intense character. OOCly a more grounded individual. Blunt, but never cruel.

@darthscharactervault Someone who does not give themselves nearly enough credit for how creative they are with their ideas and characters.

@gwenya Often NSFW but she’s a gem of a person. Amazing, chill, down for whatever. She’s the raunchy friend you never knew you wanted.

@the-real-arcanist-val Smart person, fantastic writer, extremely sensible and rational. All around someone you want to know.

@vaard Never personally interacted with him, but he’s an iconic figure among the community. Everyone should follow. (Does not take commissions but is an amazing artist, too.)

@harvee-sarah-zena One of my closest RP partners. Might not post as much as they SHOULD but if you can catch them their RP is some amazing work. And their characters are all so unique.

@thegreatnyehehe Likely not returning to WoW any time soon, but still one of the best characters ever. To this day, worth reading through their posts.

@kinzorscarstorm Chill dude with a cool character. Have not interacted much IC, but respect them OOC for their char and methods.

@open-world-azeroth Not really a ‘person’ but a great resource for some fantastic RP spots.

@mediocre-bladeleaf Very cool aesthetic, and from what I see of their writings they have some awesome characters.

@draenei-tales Shout out to a fellow active and really cool looking Draenei RPer. All I see from them is extremely interesting.

@leora-strauss Don’t know much about the character but their aesthetic is so amazingly cool.

@serelia-evensong Active and interesting RPer. Will fill your dash up with fun to read posts of all kinds.

@susan-gampre Hoe. But she knows it. And she’s good at it. The character and RPer both are sassy and take no shit, and I love them for it.

@storykeeper-wra Spooky character. But not tired and boring spooky. The sort that’s very interesting. Like a good book. Makes sense they are the storykeeper, because their story is very appealing.

@halforc-mercenary Have always wanted to interact with their character but never much got the chance. Still adore their writings on my dash, and they often impress me with their plots and quality.

@rhysgoodwin Cute char, updates often, fantastic writer.

@priestess-nightfury Elf RP/Aesthetic at some of its very best.

@stonestridernerd They will love you and make you feel like the best person ever just be hurling likes at you and complimenting your work. They are just a gem of a person. So, so sweet.

@theshadowborn Shame I’[ve not interacted with their character much, but they are a clearly talented writer.

@durotan-ofthe-frostwolf Lot of OOC silly stuff, but genuinely a cool person and always a pleasure to see on your dash.

@ranekvilmas Just a very talented writer and all around chipper guy. One of those people who always has something interesting on their blog to read.

@penvenomstarkstar A good head on this one’s shoulders. ICly their character is extremely well written with so, so much depth. Endless things to discover here.

@ravenpriest DAMN awesome aesthetic. Really nails the gothica vibe.

@longveil Such a cool aesthetic. I’d follow for that alone, and there is so much more there too.

@kyuusei-shadowleaf Another blog worth the follow for aesthetic alone. So cool to see across your dash.

@k-sunrael Followed for a long time. Their blog can sometimes be a bit NSFW but the content is quality.

@monster-of-master In the vibe of ‘dark’ aesthetic without being overtly in your face. The sort of subtle horror we all secretly crave. Very much enjoy their content.

@summysparklesprocket Such an amazing, kind, and funny person. And the character is next level because they are a Gnome taken seriously. Love them.

@quai-mason @andrew-mason Extremely talented writer and one of the few who posts so, so frequently. You’ll eagerly await their next post, trust me.

@unabashedrebel ICly they are a very cool character with awesome stories. OOCly they are a smart and conscience driven individual with a good moral sense. More than once they’ve shown they are not afraid to stick up for what matters. Lot of respect.

@safrona-shadowsun Killer character aesthetic, great reblogs, and does not ruin their theme with bullshit. Fantastic follow, this one.

@helryder666 All over the place with their posts, but its never unwelcome or uninteresting. They always seem to know what you wanna see, even if you don’t know.

@thewardancer Some of the best troll aesthetic I’ve seen, honestly.

@brandstonethings Just a big bear of a man. I love him, and you will too. He’s so well written he feels alive.

@archmage--khadgar I hesitate with people who RP lore characters. This one managed to be one of my few exceptions. They actually do a really great job with it.

@forhonorandglory Only followed for a short time, but still worth it in my books. Sharp wit, great character.

@covexalexanderkingsley Don’t know if they still RP as much these days but they remain a very fantastic and creative individual.

@eilitheduskbringer Very talented writers. One of the best I’ve seen. And they host to an amazing community I’ve come to respect.

@thepalewolfhowls Great artist too, but I mainly know them for their awesome character and fantastic sense of story and plot.

Guild/Other

@the-royal-courier A fantastic source of events and stories. While they don’t host many writings of their own, they still reblog community events. Absolutely advise a follow.

@stormwinduniv Been around about as long as my old arse. Very talented group of writers who put on so many community events and intellectually focused debates.

@the-silver-circle A group of extremely talented writers focused entirely on Kaldorei writing and storylines. Very high levels of respect from me.

@moment-in-time-wra Less a ‘guild’ but still a great service for in game photography. They make your events look fantastic! Run by Risri.

@atc-wra A very talented small group of RPers who know how to make stories pop. You just want to be a part of them, or read what happens next.

@deadsunharbor Very fantastic crew who are open to all manner of amazing RP opportunities. They do criminal/dark correctly and with finesse rarely seen.

@oathswornvanguard Lawful good guild done proper. They have stood the test of time not only with their quality but their kindness and openness to the community.

@wraconnect A great source of WoW events and blogs to follow.

@wowrpevents Another fantastic source of WoW events and blogs to follow.

@wracentral ANOTHER fantastic source of WoW events and blogs to follow.

Artists

@whimsicallyart @elaianna Talented, intelligent, observant, and all around a gem of a person. Worth knowing.

@littleliongod One of the best I have worked with. Talented, priced very fair, extremely punctual, very communicative. Can not possibly recommend enough for any commission work.

@artofaokori Worked with them before and would absolutely do so again. Their style is very unique and you’ll recognize it anywhere in a good way.

@vintrove @vinsketchbook Extremely talented. Some next level stuff. Commissioned them twice and both times they blew me away with the end product.

@catbatart @cat-bat Such a shame I’ve only worked with them one time. One day, I must commission them again because they are the sort of artist who will go that extra mile and bring your piece to life.

@ferachidoesart They are Ferachi. They do art. Really well. Great style, super unique, and their commission prices are way more reasonable than you’d expect for their amazing quality.

@auggusst-art @auggusst Really such a kind and talented soul. One of those hidden gems of tumblr. They deserve more notice, so go give it to them!

@blackdogmelancholyooc @blackdogmelancholy Nerd. But actually a really cool dude with a ton of raw talent. They are great to work with.

@anzka Have not posted here in a while, but you should take a peek. Why? Because no one. Draws. Gnomes. Better.

@planktonheretic You like thick ladies? What about buff ones? Then my friend, have I got a treat for you. That treat is Plank. Check out their Twitter too for even more fantastic work!

@kellydidathing Amazing artist. Very busy person, but worth the investment because the art is top notch.

@izzarra Talk about raw talent refined into a craft. This artist is going places, seriously. Amazing stuff.

@thestringking @jane-fitzgerald @ahn-qiraj Extremely talented young lad who I know will go on to kill it in the art industry. Already one of the best out there, no lie.

Self Plug

My blog should be easy to find, right at the top of this post here, or the bottom. If you want to see all my character blogs, please check out RIGHT HERE (under repairs atm so a few of the characters might not work or link improperly) for a complete list. Each character page here contains a link just under their summary that will take you to their individual blog. Check out the ones that interest you!

Also want to plug my own guild, @coldwall-collective, for still being some of the best writers and content creators I’ve had the pleasure of working with. Go check us out!

Not Here?

Don’t be sad! Many reasons could be the cause. Maybe we’ve just not interacted enough. Or maybe I’ve not seen many of your posts. Maybe I overlooked you because I’m silly. Any of these could be a reason. If you don’t see yourself here, it does not mean I don’t appreciate you. I do. You’re a part of what makes this community great and I have all the respect for you.

[timeisacephalopod]

Have a TonyRhodey AU in which Tony is complaining about his children to Rhodey, who is not at all lost on the fact that Tony’s kids act like him so its kind of funny that he’s mad about it.

*

Rhodey laughs, hand covering his mouth and Tony lets out a noise of frustration. “Stop that! You don’t get it, Peter was being deliberately stupid. Like who decides to walk up to the cops with information on the asston of property damage and say ‘do you want the tea?’ instead of just telling them what happened?”

He doesn’t say anything about that time he and Tony got into a nasty car wreak that neither of them should have survived let alone come out untouched only to tell the cop that he’d rather be eating a burger than talk to them. And he did this for an hour until he got the damn food, then he continued to purposefully badger the cop because he thought it was funny. So its really not shocking that Peter thinks irritating the cops is funny too, he comes by it honestly. “That’s pretty funny,” he says and Tony’s eyes bug out of his head.

“No! Give him those ‘respect cops’ talks you always gave me, shithead!”

Rhodey squints, “I gave you ‘don’t torment cops with your black friend in shooting range’ lessons, lets not twist things. And no, parent your damn self you were the one that adopted like fifty kids.”

“Excuse you we have three and one is part time Pepper’s so she barely even counts so really we have two kids and a pest,” Tony says. “Fifty kids my ass. And you’re his parent to, do parent things,” he says, poking Rhodey in the side.

He smacks Tony’s hand away, “stop that. And Morgan is your actual child, how’s she count less?”

“Because Pepper has her equal time, Rhodey. And they’re all my actual kids, just because one was once a sperm that was-”

“Okay, you don’t need to finish that sentence. Peter sassing the cops is so not the worst thing he could be doing. Remember that ridiculous Jake Gyllenhaal looking bastard with the fish bowl head? Absolutely worse shenanigans than asking the cop if he wants the tea. Just saying.” And Peter is a good kid too, the least troublesome one they have and the little bastard got bit by a radioactive spider and became a superhero. But he’s the least troublesome kid they have. Sometimes Rhodey wonders if Tony is secretly Harley’s actual father because they share way too much in common and how come none of the kids are like him? Rude.

“Fine, Peter being a dick to cops is fine. Harley nearly died twice because, and this is a quote, ‘I wanted to make a cool Tik Tok.’ I had to look up what the fuck that was,” Tony says, exasperated.

Yeah, Harley is a certified Dumb Bitch but if Tik Tok and superheroes had been around in their youth he knows he’d have to find a way to save Tony’s dumb ass as he made videos in the middle of superhero battlefields. Shit, if that was the case in their youth deciding to make cool videos would have been Iron Man’s origin story instead of the terrorist thing.

“Tones you know you’d do the same thing, you can’t really judge the kid,” he says reasonably.

If it were possible for steam to blow out of Tony’s ears it would have. “He almost died twice under crumbling buildings for a twelve second video with Mii music in the background captioned ‘my last brain cell trying to avoid death while I ruin my life.’ He almost died twice for that,” Tony says like he didn’t once give out his personal address to terrorists only to be surprised when they blew up his house. And that’s one of the less dumb things Tony has done that’s nearly resulted in his death.

“Uh huh. Baby I hate to tell you this, but he’s just acting like you,” he says, wincing a little as he says it.

Tony reacts exactly how he thinks he would, mostly offended about it. “Rhodey, that is the problem. I’m an idiot, I like to think I have raised my kids to not be idiots.”

“Eh,” Rhodey says, waving hand. Tony smacks him playfully.

“Don’t be rude and talk to the kid, he listens to you,” he says like Harley doesn’t listen to him too.

“Its a phase, he’ll get through it,” Rhodey says.

“He almost died for a twelve second video that is an insane phase! Why are you not worried about his safety?” he asks, confused.

“I’m assuming this was the same event where Peter asked the cops if they wanted the tea, yeah?” he asks.

Tony huffs, “that’s not the point.”

“Is so. I know you wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him and neither would Peter, he was fine. Stupid, but fine. Besides, I can’t talk braincells into the kid,” he points out. “Didn’t work on you anyway.”

“Well... can you just talk to him?” Tony asks, shoulders slumped.

Rhodey shrugs, “yeah, alright. I doubt I’ll do more than you did but I can talk to the kid.” Tony nods, visibly relieved and Rhodey waits for him to go on but he doesn’t. “And Morgan?” he asks, figuring she’s gotten into some kind of something this week. Last time he got an update she tried to bleach her hair so she could dye it pink except she’s five so that didn’t go well and Tony spent a lot of time yelling about potentially going blind while Morgan watched on. Her only defense was that she’s not dumb, she knows not to bleach her eyes.

He’d had to leave that alone too and he and Pepper had a quiet moment about how Tony one hundred percent would have done the same thing. Kind of did in college when he decided to go blond and he looked awful. Then he decided the solution was shaving his hair short, which mostly made him look like a skin head so Rhodey told him to dye his hair back but Tony’s dramatic ass hid under the bed for a month until it grew out enough to leave for more than a few hours at night to eat, shit, and shower. So really, Morgan was just reaching out to some Stark genes there and she was fine, if sporting some awful hair, so he and Pepper got a good laugh out of Tony’s reaction.

“Oh she’s fine, turns out she’s a music prodigy so there's that. But I’m sure she’ll do some stupid thing soon. In the meantime though she’s not doing anything particularly stupid so that’s nice, I’ve got my hands full with Harley and Peter anyway.”

That doesn’t surprise Rhodey much, she insults Tony’s music taste too much to not know things about it. “Guess she had some insight when she told you Alice Cooper was worse than Barney,” he says and Tony makes an offended noise.

“She did not!”

*

Rhodey looks over the kids sternly until Morgan raises her hand. “I didn’t even do anything so can I leave?” she asks. He nods and she grins, taking off presumably to go harass Tony about his music that she’s deemed awful. Tony has threatened to disown her four times today alone.

Harley and Peter wilt a little and Rhodey sighs. “Harley, nearly dying for a Tik Tok is not nearly a cool enough death to risk it. Peter, that’s hilarious. Keep pissing off New York’s finest, you’re bullet proof anyway. Stop doing it in front of your father though, I’m tired of Tony losing his ass about it.”

Peter frowns, “I’m not bullet proof.”

“I rescind that, stop pissing off New York’s finest, I don’t put it above at least one of them to shoot Spiderman. Harley, learn how to edit, man. What the hell are you doing running around in superhero battles for? Go ask Ned if you need help with it, you know Ned is good at editing and he’s a good boy, I’m sure he’d help you.” Helped Peter hack into his suit and they both thought Tony didn’t know right away like he didn’t plan for the possibility that someone would tamper with the suit Peter or otherwise. Ned got himself a job out of it and Peter got grounded, which meant no Spiderman.

“Please don’t call Ned a good boy,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose.

“Hey, I found another Spiderman and his suit is way cooler than Peter’s!” Morgan says from behind them. Rhodey turns to find a kid standing there in an admittedly very cool design but its clearly painted over one of Peter’s suits. He’d recognize one of those suits anywhere the design is so unique. He turns to Peter, who smacks Harley.

“You said he was well hidden!” he hisses.

“Morgan’s a busybody, you know that!”

“He was in your closet, that’s not well hidden. You should have hid him under the sink,” Morgan tells them, hands on her hips.

Rhodey lets out a long suffering sigh. “Alright kid, who are you?”

“I’m not Miles Morales. I’m some other guy,” he says, looking away and Rhodey hopes this kid has loving parents because he’s absolutely dumb enough for Tony to adopt.

“Yeah alright, lets get you to the lab so you can get your own suit. Peter, you can explain yourself to your father and Harley, you too. Morgan... good work,” he says awkwardly but Morgan looks proud of herself so at least there’s that. Miles looks upset that he’s outted himself but it does seem like Peter is incapable of finding friends who are good liars. Better for him and Tony though so he’ll take it.

[moon-czennie]

Coven or pack // Taeyong au

Word count: 2.0k Genres: Supernatural, werewolf, semi fluff Warnings: None really, just the mention of a supernatural fight and blood. Pairing: reader x werewolf!Taeyong

When your coven refuses to help out the local werewolf pack, you can’t just stand by and do nothing. Not when there’s a cute puppy amongst the group of boys, who doesn’t deserve to die.

"Will you help or not?"

Standing in the back, you watched as your coven's leader stood face to face with the town's Alpha werewolf, engaged in a heated discussion.

It was a well known fact that witches didn't want to be associated with werewolves. Supernatural or not, there were certain borders that weren't to be crossed.

You, however, had never understood these rules. You drew a line between good and evil, and the men in front of you seemed anything but the latter.

"No", your leader spoke. Her voice sounded much calmer than before, but somehow all the more intimidating. "We will not abandon our morals. And I will not put my people in danger to fight a battle that isn't ours."

"Fine," the Alpha said through gritted teeth, a low roar escaping his lips as he turned around.

You knew you could get in trouble, but as you watched the pack walk away, you felt the urge to do something. And maybe the red haired boy, who you had spotted among the group, had something to do with that.

• • •

You didn't know any of the werewolves, so finding them wasn't an easy task. You had tried a locating spell, but without any names or personal items, the only thing you could go by was the discovery of a strong supernatural presence near the outskirts of the forest.

Not sure who or what you'd find, you kept your guard up as you neared the area. You regretted not bringing a weapon, suddenly doubting your own powers. Nerves soon took over as you looked around and your glance fell on the boy you had hoped to see.

Sitting outside an old cabin, it looked like he stood guard for his pack, who you figured were inside. You didn't want to startle him and get attacked, so you had to be careful to approach him.

His seemingly cold demeanor didn't make it much easier, either. Sitting with his legs slightly spread out, leaning back against the wooden building, he looked intimidatingly cool and though it was something you secretly thought was an attractive look, it did make you feel nervous.

You were self-conscious of your own appearance as you walked closer to him. For a second you considered using your power Glamour, to mask your true self and match his vibe instead, but you wanted him to like you for who you really were.

"What am I even thinking? I'm here to help, not date." You thought to yourself in a poor attempt to convince yourself of the reason why you were there.

Not wanting to step into his territory unannounced, you stopped for a moment and cleared your throat before calling out to him from the tree line.

"Hi, sorry to disturb. Is it okay if I come over?"

The boy didn't even move a muscle at the sound of your voice. Granted, he had heard you coming from a mile away and had sensed you weren't a threat so there was no need for him to be alarmed.

"Sure," he replied, his voice so low you just hoped you had heard him right in inviting you over.

As you walked up to him, and were able to take in his features properly for the first time, your breath caught in your throat and you briefly thought about whether it was too late to turn around and run.

Lifting his head and staring up at you, you noticed how his eyes were big and sparkling. It instantly made him look much more cute than intimidating.  

"You're one of the witches, right?" He asked.

Once again you were caught off guard, both by him recognizing you and his voice. It was a little higher and much softer than you were expecting.

Analyzing his voice almost made you forget to answer his question.

"Anyone home?" He asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Sorry, yes." You replied, lightly shaking your head. "Yes, I am one of them. My name is Y/N.”

"What are you doing here?"

Although his voice was calm, it was obvious that he wasn't in the mood for chit-chat.

"I want to help," you replied, getting straight to the point. "I don't think it was fair of my coven to say no. I've been taught to fight evil, so here I am to do just that."

"Yeah?" He said, tilting his head to the side. "And what's in it for you?"

You knew he was hinting at some kind of payment or favor in return, but you didn't want either.

"Nothing," you shrugged. "Although I wouldn't be against making a friend along the way."

A surprising tiny smile, but a smile nonetheless, tugged at his lips and for the first time since you'd started talking, he broke away from your gaze. You noticed the tips of his ears turning pink, making him look more like an innocent puppy than a menacing wolf.

• • •  

The boy you had come to know as Taeyong, had introduced you to his Alpha and the rest of their pack. You had explained them your power and how you could be of use, and started planning an attack on the enemy in secret. Your coven wasn't to find out about this, and the werewolves had given you their word not to tell.

You met up with the pack several times, every time making sure you spend some quality time with Taeyong.

He turned out to be the complete opposite of what his exterior made him seem to be. Something that only made you like him more. His kindness, his calm aura and silly humor were what slowly made you fall for him, but you couldn't let it distract you. You had an evil demon to defeat before it could kill you, or the others.

You had been confident about your role in the fight, and knew your power wouldn't let you down, yet you couldn't help but feel nervous on the day of the planned attack. You had never faced a demon as your opponent before, so the thought of going up against one, without having other powerful witches to back you up, had you feeling on edge.

Taeyong, having his own set of supernatural skills, could sense how you were feeling and wanted to make sure you were okay.

"You know we've got you, right?" He said, waiting for you to stop looking down at your fidgeting fingers before he spoke again.

"I got you. I won't let anything happen to you."

Grabbing your hand, he squeezed it lightly as he looked you directly in the eyes.

"I know," you replied, smiling in return. "Thank you."

Taeyong nodded before walking over to his leader to go over the final details. And then it was time to set off to the forest.

The plan was simple. You would use your Glamour to transform the surroundings, making the demon think it was only you and him there. The werewolves would hide behind the trees, invisible to the demon, so their attack should catch him off guard. And hopefully it would be enough to defeat him before he could use his powers on them.

The last part was the reason the pack had reached out for help. No matter how hard they fought, the demon seemed to always gain the upper hand by using his powers.

The outcome of the upcoming battle was to be decided mostly by what you would do and how well you would do it. It was a lot of pressure, but you knew you could do it.

Not that you had another option, anyway.

• • •

Walking through the forest, the pack following you from a distance, you knew it was only a matter of time before the demon would show himself. So you were ready to carry out the plan at any moment.

As you arrived at a clearing, a sudden strong airflow swept over the grass. You stopped in your tracks, waiting for the demon to appear as leaves swirled around you.

A mini whirlwind formed a few meters away from you and you knew the time had come.

Before you could see the demon, you had already transformed your surroundings and as expected, it caught him completely off guard. Instead of trees and silence, the demon found himself in between tall buildings, in the middle of a vibrant city.

You were the only one who could see through the fake world into the real one. The werewolves had spread out around you, so it took you a few seconds to spot Taeyong. He no longer looked like the cute boy you knew. He had grown shaggy dark sideburns, his nose bridge looked scrunched up and long fangs glistened in the moonlight. You noticed his sharp claws and how his usual brown eyes were now a dark gold, glowing and fixed sharply on the enemy.

"What is this?!" A loud voice boomed in the air.

It startled you, bringing your attention back to the demon. He looked angry, but confused, which meant you had done your part right. And when a big white wolf, the pack's Alpha, jumped out of the tree line into the clearing, it was your cue to step back.

What happened next seemed to go by in a blur.

The only thing you were focused on was the spot of red amidst the battle, moving back and forth inhumanly fast.

You lost sight of him for a second, and that was when it happened.

Taeyong stumbled backwards, limping away, clutching his stomach.

Before he could even reach the ground, you had already called out his name. Your heart was beating in your throat as you sprinted towards Taeyong who'd collapsed in the tall grass.

“Tae!” You called out again, dropping yourself onto your knees next to him.

Moving his hair from his face, you could see he started to look pale and as his werewolf features slowly disappeared, you knew it wasn't a good sign.

You looked down at his stomach and saw the blood seeping through his fingers. You had to act fast or you'd surely lose him.

You had only healed one other person before, and that time wasn't even half as bad as Taeyong’s injury. Not sure if you could do it, but having no other option but to believe in yourself, you placed your hand on his wound. You channeled every inch of power you held inside you towards your hand, combining it with a healing spell, but you just didn't seem strong enough.

Staring at Taeyong’s face, you didn't know how you could hold in your tears any longer and did the only thing you could think of in that moment.

Inching closer, your hand still on his stomach, you placed your lips against his, your eyes squeezed shut.

You had never figured out how you were able to heal the other person before, until now.

Your eyes shot open as you felt a hand on top of yours. You leaned back slightly as you stared at Taeyong’s face. He had his eyes open and a playful smirk on his lips.

"You never told me you had a second power,"

"I didn't know I had one," you replied, slightly abashed by the fact he had woken up right as you were kissing him.

"A magical kiss, interesting." Taeyong chuckled.

The only other person you had ever healed was your first love. You had no idea love could enhance your powers.

Love.

The realization of liking the boy in front of you that much made you blush and you quickly turned away.

You noticed the fight was over and it seemed like the good guys had won. Taeyong saw this and sat up straight, glad to see his pack was okay.

"Guess this is it, then." He said, looking back at you. "Can't you just leave your coven and join us instead?"

He said it with a laugh, but there was a clear undertone that hinted at him not wanting to stop seeing you, and you picked up on it.

Taking your chances, you leaned in to kiss him again and this time, he kissed you back.

"Coven or pack, I'm not going anywhere."

[dannyphantomisameme]

Excuses

Phic Phight Prompt by @ave-aria 

“In the wake of Phantom Planet, school resumes at Casper High. Lancer tries to collect homework assigned before the Disasteroid, but - of course - who does homework during the end of the world? Nobody, that's who.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He was late. Again.

Lancer was surely going to kill him. He’d been late to school everyday last week and by now he could recognize that his first period teacher was getting annoyed. In addition to his horrible attendance, he hadn’t completed the assignment that was due today, but this time, he had a reasonable excuse.

Capping the thermos in his hand, he stuffed it into his purple backpack which slung loosely across his shoulder. He leaped into the air, setting off in an attempt to make it before his first class ended. Today, it had taken an abnormal amount of time to get Technus to surrender, considering he didn’t have Tuck and his PDA. But he had finally done it, and now he was late.

Soaring through the air with the minimal amount of energy he had after barely receiving any sleep last night, he headed in the direction of the only high school in miles.

Casper High was notorious for its constant claims of ghost infestations. Although other high schools ridiculed the institution for its absurd claims, the citizens of Amity Park knew the reality of it all. The students often received breaks because of the constant rebuilding required to fix the destruction ghost attacks posed. Unfortunately, today wasn’t one of those days.

He swiftly descended onto the the ground and landed on the stairs in front of the school. He dashed into the building, running as quick as he could while transforming. A ring of blue light fell from the top of his head all the way to his feet, leaving an alternate version of himself. His shoes skidded against the linoleum floor as he turned a corner. Running down the hall once again, he turned another corner and slammed into an unsuspecting figure.

“Sorry!” He yelped as he regained his composure and took off once again. He had run into Principal Ishiyama, who was left confused at his hasty appearance. She shouted after him, but Danny didn’t take the time to listen. He finally found the classroom door and quickly opened it.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The door swung open, interrupting Lancer and revealing a disarrayed teen. “Sorry I’m la-” Daniel replied in haste only to suddenly stop as he noticed the stares he was receiving. All of the students had their eyes on him. Looking back at everyone with a questioning glance, the boy shuffled into the classroom and closed the door behind him.

Although Lancer understood why people were staring at him, it felt odd that Daniel, an outcast, was being watched like a celebrity, which ironically, he was.

“It’s nice to see you Mr. Fenton.” Lancer greeted as the raven haired boy shuffled over to his desk at the back of the classroom. Everyone’s stares followed him as he sat down and placed his backpack on the ground. Just as the student sat down, a sudden explosion of voices from the others filled the previous silence. The cacophony of conversations prompted an annoyed Lancer to silence his students.

“Students, please be quiet.” Lancer said in an aggravated tone. “I understand that there are some matters from this weekend that you would like to discuss, and I will allow you to, once I’ve collected your assignments from Friday.”

His students eyes went wide as they realized they hadn’t done their homework. Even the smartest kids who usually had their homework completed weeks in advance had managed to completely forget about the assignment. Given the circumstances that the world had been in danger and was close to destruction, it felt fitting for the students to dismiss their assignments and only hope that a certain ghost boy could save their world.

“Please hand your assignments to the front of the classroom, and then we can continue with our plans.” Lancer said as he glanced around the classroom.

Nobody stood up.

The students looked around the class to see if anyone had completed the assignment, but no one had.

“Is there anybody who did the homework?” Lancer asked only to receive shaking heads in return. One student raised their hand.

“In our defense sir, we were in a global crisis. How could we have worked on our homework when the world was in danger?” said Mikey somewhat defiantly, unlike his usually introverted self. Another hand shot up.

“Like, it would have been impossible to do my homework when some giant asteroid was hurtling towards me.” Paulina said as she filed at her nails. Lancer swore he could hear Samantha mutter something along the lines of ‘not everything revolves around you Paulina’, leaving him battling to keep his smile from showing.

Lancer let out a sigh. How was he going to teach his class if no one had done the preparatory work for today’s lecture? After considering the situation for another minute, he decided to let it slide. He could adjust his teaching schedule to accommodate for one day.

“Alright fine. I’ll extend the date to tomorrow. Rest of the class is a free period. Please keep your conversations to a low volume.” Lancer instructed as he sat down in his desk chair. All the students turned backwards to face Daniel, some even moving their desks.

“Uh Fentur- I mean Fenton, is it true? Are you really Phantom?” Dash asked as he turned to face the raven haired boy. The question intrigued Lancer and he decided to listen in while simultaneously reading through his emails.

He had seen the news and the revelation as Phantom as his own student, Mr. Fenton. It had initially shocked him, how could one be a human and a ghost simultaneously? Was he even human? How had this come to be?

As he further pondered the questions, gears began to click as he recognized his obliviousness to this whole situation. How had he not noticed the student’s constant bathroom breaks and late attendances? The injuries he seemed to sustain after returning from said breaks? The daily uncompleted assignments? The lack of sleep he seemed to have?

The teacher had previously chalked it all up to bullying, as he had known Mr. Fenton was a common punching bag for the upperclassmen jocks. He knew it was wrong to not discipline the jocks for their disrespectful behavior, but they were considered the schools prized possession and on strict orders under principal Ishiyama to not be penalized for their misconduct. It frustrated Lancer, not being able to uphold his moral standards just because some school wanted to make money off of their students.

But he let it slide, only for the sake of not being fired. Any salary, even one as small as his, was necessary for his survival. At hearing the voice of his most reserved student, he was sucked out of his thoughts and brought back into reality.

“Well, uh… yeah I guess.” Daniel stuttered as he rubbed his neck with his hand. It was a common gesture that Lancer had caught on to over the years. The student used it whenever he felt shy, timid, or was bending the truth and making an excuse.

“Can you show us?! I wanna see the ghost boy!” Paulina practically screeched. She was the one who ran the Danny Phantom Fan Club, however despite her immense liking for the famous hero, she wasn’t the only one bouncing out of her seat in joy.

“Uh,.. I don’t know.” He said eyes shifting to the ground. It was obvious he wasn’t enjoying the attention from his fellow classmates. His best friend Tucker nudged his elbow in an attempt to get Daniel to continue. “Mr. Lancer, can I-?”

“Go ahead Daniel.” Lancer said as he nodded towards the boy. Daniel stared back in disbelief. It was obvious he didn’t want to transform into his alternate self so soon after his revelation, let alone in front of a group of his crazed fans. But he couldn’t say no to his classmates, especially with the approval of Lancer.

Sighing, the boy stood up and backed up near the wall. He looked around the class and suddenly two rings appeared at his waist. Lancer couldn’t remove his eyes from the spectacle. It was one thing seeing it on TV, but it was another to see it up close and personal.

One ring descended to his feet while the other rose to his hair, leaving the boy looking like an inverted version of himself. The students ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ at the wondrous display of light, some girls were even screaming at the sight of their beloved hero.

Once the rings disappeared, Daniel levitated off the ground, neon green eyes piercing the crowd of unruly teenagers. Lancer noticed himself gawking at the sight and quickly reoriented himself. How did his most enigmatic students manage to save the entire world? The student who he thought would never amount to anything? The student with the worst grades he had ever seen in his entire career of being a teacher?

But Daniel had proved him wrong. He’d never seen a student rise so quickly from the dead, quite literally too. He’d secretly been one of the most iconic people in town, and now globally. It truly warmed his heart to know that his student had been the one to save the world. If only he had known sooner of Daniel’s alternative self, he might’ve helped the boy on his assignments and decreased his overall workload.

“I can’t believe it. You really are Phantom…” Dash murmured.

“Wow Fenton, what else can you do?” Kwan shouted.

“Can you take me on a ride ghostboy?” Paulina asked in a flirtatious voice.

Several other students began talking simultaneously, making Lancer annoyed. It seemed as if Samantha and Tucker were also displeased at the several voices.

“Quiet down students. Daniel can only answer one question at a time, so please, raise your hands.” Daniel seemed to let go of his tense posture as he slowly returned to a slouch.

“Uh... Valerie.” Daniel said as he pointed to the African American girl in the back after looking through the crowd of students.

“Why didn’t you tell any of us?” She asked somewhat aggressively with narrow eyes. Her question seemed to have some hidden meaning, but Lancer couldn’t define what exactly was her true message.

“I couldn’t risk anyone’s lives in danger.”

“What about Sam and Tuck? They knew about it. Weren’t their lives important?” She questioned the boy.

“Well uh, they were there when it happened…” Daniel replied unsurely.

“It?” Valerie asked as she leaned out of her seat and towards the ghostly teen.

“The accident.” Daniel said dropping back to the ground and transforming into his former self. He seemed uncomfortable at the mention of this accident, which meant Lancer would need to intervene. Before he could, Samantha replied.

“Val let’s not talk about that day, ok? Clearly he’s not ready.” She said standing up and looking the African American girl squarely in the eye. Valerie reclined back in her chair from her previous tense posture and began muttering something incoherent.

“Next question.” said Samantha as she turned to face the students who had once again shot their hands into the air in an effort to be called on. “Lester.”

“What powers do you have?” asked the red haired boy from the back.

“Uh, ecto-ray, intangibility, invisibility, flight, ecto-shield, cryokinesis, body manipulation, extra strength, extra healing, and uh… those are the ones I can list off of the top of my head.” Said Daniel as he crossed his arms over his chest. Lester was left in awe as he wished he had powers too.

The class continued like this until the last five minutes of the class period, where Lancer interrupted the students Q&A session to remind them of their assignment tomorrow.

“Remember students, complete Friday’s homework by the beginning of class tomorrow if you would like to earn credit. I will adjust our schedule to accommodate for today’s missed lesson. This means you will have double the assignments tomorrow. Is that clear for everyone?”

Many students groaned, while some replied with a ‘yes’. They began to gather their things and straighten out the desks to their previous placements. The bell rang a second later and students began filing out of the classroom, conversing amongst themselves.

“Mr. Fenton, could you come see me for a moment?” Lancer said as he glanced at the boy. He nodded towards his friends, who left the classroom to wait for him outside. The boy shuffled up to Lancers desk, backpack loosely hanging off his shoulder.  

“Daniel, I want you to know that I’m proud of you.” Lancer said with a smile, prompting the teen to return the smile as well.

“Thanks Mr. Lancer. You don’t know how great that is to hear from you.” He said through his wide grin.

“Just when I thought I might have to recommend your for summer school, you manage to save the entire world.” Lancer said sarcastically. “I’m just curious, why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped you.”

“Like I said Lancer, I couldn’t risk your’s or anyone’s life. If you knew I was Phantom, the ghosts would come after you.” The raven haired boy replied quickly.

Daniel’s answer was reasonable, but something felt missing. It was as if he was leaving some crucial information out of the picture.

“Is that truly why you didn’t tell anyone?” Lancer questioned.

The boy was left speechless, and Lancer knew why. He had uncovered another part of his student that he had kept so strongly concealed. Daniel stared at Lancer for a few seconds before replying in a lower and softer voice.

“I didn’t know if people would accept me. Would I be even more of a freak than I am now?” he replied staring at his shoes.

“Daniel, you realize that no matter who or what you are, I will always accept you. You’ve done astounding things with your special powers, and despite your mix of identities, I will always be there for you. And like I said, I am very proud of you…”

Daniel stood there soaking in the words, for a moment he looked like he was going to say something, but then he shut his mouth. He walked around the desk and towards the teacher. He then wrapped his arms around Lancer, and Lancer returned the embrace. The two hugged for a moment, with Lancer patting Daniel on the back. Leaving the embrace, Lancer spoke to his student.

“Now go to your friends, they’re waiting.” he said with a smile.

“Thank you Mr. Lancer.” Danny said looking straight at his teacher. Lancer could’ve sworn he saw a flash of green light from the student’s eye, before he turned around and walked into the hallway.

Lancer watched as the trio walked past the door and into the sea of students.

He really was proud of the enigma everyone called Danny Fenton.

And so was everybody else.

[lokiarsene]

I know modern fandom folks--mostly young adults--go into moral panics about “problematic” characters, which is really just shorthand for characters who aren’t one dimensional mouthpieces that in no way contribute to the necessary drama of a story. And I think this is a really pointless way to look at and work with pieces of fiction, especially a game like Persona 5, whose main cast of “heroes” are intentionally made to be by default non lawful.

If you look at what they do removed from context, you have the following: a group of people invade the most personal, private spaces within the human consciousness in order to trigger a dramatic mental and psychological change in someone they’ve deemed a fitting target. They do this regularly in Mementos, and are basically little more than hired mental hitmen thanks to the Phan-site giving them suggestions of who to find next. If successful, the target suffers physical and mental distress, sometimes to the point of requiring hospitalization, and a complete emotional breakdown when forced to face up to the severity of their actions.

All of that is fucking terrifying!

Most of their targets were horrible fucking people so I waste no tears or sympathy on them. And while I as a person would totally support these methods if they were possible in real life, I also recognize that to study P5′s characters and analyze them, you have to set aside your personal moral code to look at what is the story’s moral code.

And the moral code is large swathes of gray.

Nobody in the main crew of Persona 5 is purely “innocent” (in the sense of puritanical fandom’s concept of innocence). None of them. By default the PT are lawless, and if you go by the D&D morality alignment (which isn’t about how moral your actions are from an outside perspective, but what the character’s personal morals and behavior are) they are chaotic good at best.

What the PT do is justified in the sense that corruption is so deeply entrenched in society that they can’t rely on adults or the justice system to bring about true justice. The ends (change of heart) justify their means (forcing a change of heart), and that’s borderline Machiavellian thinking. What stops them from being purely Machiavellian is the fact that the PT are also driven by empathy and a sense of morality. We see them struggle against vain things like self-interest while also working to uphold their original goal of bringing society’s corrupted adults to justice.

I really think this is one of the major things that people in the P5 fandom on here don’t get, especially if they have some weird hate fascination with Akechi. It’s absolutely hypocritical to point fingers at Akechi for what he did and yet completely overlook everything the game set up to remind you, the player, that the PT are doing risky, dangerous shit and forcing themselves into someone’s consciousness. Akechi spends half the fucking game talking about how questionable their methods are! Did you think that was just put in there for shits and giggles? There’s a reason why it gets under the PT’s skin--because it’s not far from the truth!

They are forcing a change in people who, yeah, shouldn’t be doing what they’re doing, but that doesn’t change the fact that the PT are the ones conducting a mental and moral breakdown that forces a confession. And you know, when I put it like that, you know what that sounds like? Ren getting beaten in the interrogation room, drugged, and forced to sign a confession.

The game repeatedly draws lines between what the PT does for “justice” and what they’re trying to change because they’re comparable methods with different motives. But they’re still the same (or similar) methods! We can talk for days about whether this is morally justified or not, but the fact still remains that the game is drawing these lines and it is foolish to overlook them.

That’s another reason why Sae’s final words to Ren are what they are--she asks them to leave reforming society in her (and adults’) hands now. That’s the end result of all the efforts in P5: you can’t and shouldn’t take the law into your own hands. If you want to see change happen, you need to be a part of it from within. You have to contribute to the change, instead of force it. I wonder how P5R will add on to that theme or even change it, since a big thing this time around seems to be wishes/dreams coming true, “stealing” those dreams, and whether dreaming itself is even a good thing if all it does is lead you to retreating from reality. Maybe that’ll be the third semester’s plot point?

Now. I mention.... all of that because one of the other things I think people miss is how Ren isn’t some pure uwu cinnamon roll, either. He was falsely accused and unjustly labeled a criminal, but he’s also the ringleader of a group of people who invade and force changes inside people’s subconsciousnesses. He constantly forms bonds and makes deals with people on the fringes of lawfulness themselves (with very few exceptions--which is weird to me, because those exceptions stand out as functionally pointless in a story like this). He’s the Trickster, the Wild Card, the core of the PT’s spirit of rebellion. Those words and descriptions aren’t just for show, y’all. Plus his Velvet Room is him locked up in prison! It reflects his view of himself as a criminal! So if Ren sees himself as a lawless outcast, why are there people in the P5 fandom who can’t see that themselves?

I think it would’ve been far more satisfying (and more overtly establish Ren as morally gray) if Ren remembered Shido from the beginning, and had his end result goal as finding a way to Shido to make him pay. Knowing Shido’s identity from the start removes that pointless “twist” at the end about him being bad, but it also sets up a really fucking strong rebellious motive for Ren from the start. Everything he does with the PT would be about taking apart Shido’s web of informants, sycophants, and puppets without that “you can see it coming from a mile away” ~twist~ of Shido being evil all along.

There really isn’t any point in messing with Ren’s memory--it doesn’t add anything to the story. If his damaged memory is a result of trauma, it’s never addressed or handled in any way. So just get rid of it and have Ren know all along who he wants to go after, he just doesn’t know how. Which would add so much drama and tension to the already dramatically satisfying Ren/Goro stuff the game gives us. Because Goro is nothing but honest about his goals: getting revenge on the adult who ruined his life. He might be hiding his other plans, but the main motive and his main focus isn’t hidden from the PT at all.

Now just imagine the conflict that Ren would have to go through when he realized not only was Goro trying to trick them, but they were both going after Shido all along. Aren’t enemies of your enemy your friend? They were both going after the same man who ruined their fucking lives--wouldn’t that make them allies (of a sort)? And as if that weren’t enough, all the time they spent together, all they shared and learned of each other--all that Goro confided in Ren--would make for an even more dramatic and painful conflict of trying to trick Goro before he can sell them out. Because it’s not like all those moments together were for nothing. They still happened, they still mattered, they still changed Ren because it was significant enough to be a Confidant link for Ren. But wouldn’t Ren, being Ren (empathetic, determined, stubbornly selfless to a fault), want to at least try to get Goro to change his mind? Talk to him? Listen to him and still offer that hand to help? Y’know, the thing he does in Shido’s Palace?

This could have happened earlier if Ren knows his target is Shido, deduces that Shido, or someone close to him, is Goro’s target too, and does a desperate attempt to appeal to him--to ~steal his heart~--before it’s too late. And hey, they can still do a twist in the Palace and have them pretend to be enemies, since the writers love twists instead of satisfying writing like they’re a Marvel movie.

I was thinking about all that this morning, and how I actually wish Ren had remembered Shido from the start and what that would do to the story and his relationship with Goro. I don’t really know why they mess with Ren’s memory and do that whole ~remember your bonds~ thing during the interrogation, since it doesn’t make sense. Especially since they had him do that later during the Yalda fight, where it makes more sense (and it’s something the previous games have done). They try to pass it off as Ren struggling to remember the truth, but then the whole first three acts of the game are him clearly remembering everything he did since he got to Shibuya, and telling it to Sae in the interrogation room. If they just removed his damaged memory entirely (both wrt Shido, and wrt the truth serum), I think the story would be far better off for it.

I’ve always said that this game really needed a second draft and a partial rewrite, so I’m hoping that’s what P5R ends up being.

[allofthefeelings]

To be brutally honest, I am starting to believe that Scar Jo isn't even remotely a good person... She only seems to care about discrimination when it directly affects her. No celebrity is perfect (like any other person), but there is no excuse for this. Her response via her rep was just awful AF. When will this woman learn her lesson? When she is called out in an interview? When she is nominated/wins a Razzie?

Okay, so I wrote a really long response to this, and most of it is me reflecting on morality and privilege and my personal quest to be a less-shitty person, which is not what you’re asking. I’m putting it under a cut, in case anyone’s interested, but it’s not exactly necessary reading.

The TL,DR is that “good person” vs “bad person” is not a framing I choose, because I think it absolves people (on both sides of the good/bad divide) of the responsibility to try to be better. That said, I think ScarJo is making a series of shitty choices that don’t indicate an understanding of what she’s done wrong or a desire to learn from her mistakes, and I hope that there IS something that will show her where she’s wrong, if only because I think her choices reflect what too much of the world sees as normal.

As I’ve gotten older- and came to the realization that I was often a jerk and wanted to be less of one, and tried to find ways to do that- I’ve seen that far more people than we want to believe only care about (or even really understand) discrimination when it directly impacts us, and many of us aren’t interested in learning, because it’s hard and uncomfortable and it doesn’t fit the way we all approach the world, which is from our deeply biased perspective where everything that happens to us personally is prioritized and understandable. Even as we have empathy to specific individuals, we don’t grasp overall systemic issues outside our scope.

That’s not okay. It’s not a good way to live, in terms of how it impacts other people or in terms of how it ultimately impacts the person making those choices. But I make a concerted effort to recognize it as the default, in large part because otherwise the disappointment (from celebrities, sure, but even more just from people in day-to-day life) is crushing. It is absolutely something that can be unlearned, but it’s a constant struggle rather than a simple choice.

I also try to avoid the question of good person vs bad person, because I think that’s- too easy, almost? I think that when we see people (rather than actions) as Good or Bad, we are unintentionally implicitly granting permission to not try to be better. I don’t ever want to say that people can’t improve, by taking the steps to grow, but they have to do the work- which isn’t good or bad, it’s just work.

I think that everyone defaults to seeing themselves as good and perceiving their own reactions in that light. And in that context, I think it’s easy to see how this choice (and so many other choices she’s made) were originally perceived and/or rationalized behind the scenes. (I’m not going to go through how here, because I think that comes dangerously close to supporting that rationalization myself, but I think the steps are pretty clear. And they should be, because we should all be aware that this could be us, and as a result use caution.) We all see the world through our own distorted lens, and interpret data through that, and would never do things we think would make us bad, because that would challenge our self-perception.

But none of that is acceptable or right. All of that is shit we need to be unlearning, and I am grateful every day that reality television, of all things, gave me the framework to comprehend how harmful it is. And because I live in the world, surrounded by toxic messages, the unlearning is a constant process that has just as many steps backwards as forwards, because the bigotry of society is so deeply embedded that those of us with privilege may not even realize certain concepts need to be excavated until they’re called out.

I am constantly impressed on social media when I see people who seem to instinctively grasp systemic as well as individual empathy, and wonder sometimes if they all realize how much that isn’t the norm. We live in a society where seeing everyone as people and trying to understand their stories (as THEIR stories, not just things for us to consume) is seen as an extremist position, where most people don’t even realize that unlearning is something necessary.

And I really don’t know how to work past that. I don’t know how to enact broad societal change that hinges on a paradigmatic shift of perspective. (It’s hard not to think of that viral headline, “I Don’t Know How To Explain To You That You Should Care About Other People.“) Or rather, I think that that change IS happening, but at such a glacial pace it’s hard to see and far too many people are being caught in the crossfire.

I believe that the majority of people in Hollywood don’t realize how many choices they make are bigoted because I believe the vast majority of America doesn’t recognize them as such. I believe that they take five steps forward and don’t realize other people have progressed miles in the same span of time. I believe that’s how someone like ScarJo can genuinely see (and present) herself as progressive when we can see how regressive so many of her actions are. I believe all of that, but I don’t know how we can fix it.

This isn’t a good answer to your original point, anon, and I’m sorry. I’m much better at silly headcanons than this. I keep writing and deleting a lot here because I know there can be a thin line between analyzing behavior to see how we can be better and justifying that behavior, and I absolutely don’t want to cross it. But you made a good-faith point, and I didn’t want to not engage with it. Sorry if my response is incoherent.

[caeliri]

Wake of Woe

[[ Belated aftermath to the last Summerglen event, Fallow Fields and Hallowhearths!

Thank you once again to everyone who came to the event, it warms my heart that people have taken an interest in Summerglen and the story I’ve been slowly writing around it!]]

The bitter tang of blood was heavy on the air, plumes of sickly sweet rot rolling over the ruined floor in billows and bursts, permeating upheaved stone and sinking deep into the dark soil below. Spring was on the wind, bearing with it wet-heat and pollen that danced in heavy clouds through the fel-streaked valleys, but within the devastated halls of the chapel it only served to hasten the putrefaction of flesh and heating stagnant smears of blood until they birthed a more belly-churning scent. A hellish haze hung around her shoulders, and Caeliri let herself be swallowed whole by the trademarks of decomposition.

“Why do you return here?”

Caeliri’s eyes swept along the long-dried river of blood, following the snaking trail of maroon down it’s path to the edge of similarly colored skirts. She did not need to raise her eyes to her Seneschal’s face; she knew the woman’s pale, thin lips were pulled into a solemn frown and that the crimson brows above her bright blue eyes were furrowed tight enough to cast shadows over her sallow skin.

Lyla Redgrove was not a woman to question her employer or her oft-odd habits; the quel’dorei was stoic, polite, statuesque in the way that frightened people are, still when they did not need to move, exact in their motions when they did, trying to minimize their existence until they blended into the woodwork. It did not make her less effective in her position; she ran the young Dame’s small household with a terseness that did not allow for error, as if error was the foremost thing to be fearful of.

Thus, she did not question commands that came from Caeliri’s lips, nor offer argument as Liadove did; it was not her.

Not usually.

It was beyond the scope of Caeliri’s downcast vision, but Lyla’s hands - pale and near skeletal, ran through with veins so stark blue that her skin seemed almost translucent - curled tightly together, catching a loose length of blood-colored skirt and sliding it between her knuckles to soothe the tension twisting in her belly.

Caeliri said nothing, turning her head slightly towards the gruesome mound of flesh that had once been villagers, then a monster made of their disparate parts, then nothing more than loose skin and punctured organs that the Sunguard had laid to rest.

For days she’d come to the chapel and sat among the rot and ruin, and it was beyond worrisome.

No answer given, Lyla pressed on, her voice wavering --

“This behavior… is beyond unseemly. It speaks of madness--”

Reflexively Caeliri laughed - a short, sharp sound, entirely unlike her normal symphony of sweet giggles - and it did not help her case, “You think me mad, Lyla?”

The corner of Lyla’s mouth twitched, nearly reeling back into a fearful grimace, “Not mad,” a pregnant pause passed between them as the frightful woman selected her next word with a scholar’s scrutiny,”... morose.”

“Morose,” Caeliri parroted back, her shoulders heaving with a sigh. She forced her eyes away from the floor to the heap of rotting faces. In the slurry of skin, there were faces she recognized - decrepit and looseleaf as they were - and it made her stomach turn. Light be blessed there was nothing but bile in there. Guilt, hot and sharp, panged in Caeliri’s chest, and she drew in a deep breath, tasting turning flesh and old blood on her tongue, “...I can’t just leave them--”

“They are no longer; you mourn nothing but meat.”

It was a harsh truth; when the Legion’s fel-fissures were purified, the magic that bound the unwilling spirits of the dead to Summerglen was severed, and they had fluttered away like so much sand on a windy beach. Still, Caeliri could feel a lingering presence, a whisper of agony still etched in the stones of Summerglen, an unending reminder of the life lost here.

She’d noticed it first with Elleynah, in the ramshackle ruins of Azsuna; phantom fragments seemed drawn to them both - Elleynah for her Sight, Caeliri for her sundered soul, still marked by death, blackened by the Winter of Woe and the time she’d spent in the unwieldy Inbetween - and even now, a thousand miles away from that cursed place, she felt the fear and pain of those whose lives had been ended here. Caeliri had hoped that employing the talents of those Light-blessed would purge the spirits in their entirety, but it seemed as though the echoes of their violent end would never fade.

Or maybe it was all in her mind. Maybe at last all the guilt she slung over her slim shoulders was crushing the sense out of her.

”You only make yourself suffer more.”

Silence swelled between them again, and Caeliri could not - would not - pull her eyes from the bloody avenues that ran through the crumbling floors. “Do you know why I built this place?”

“For spiritual enlightenment?”

“For sanctuary.”

At last she hauled herself up from the floor, the motion slow and labored, as if her slight frame weighed a thousand, thousand pounds and ached with ages that did not belong to her. She kept the same haggard pace she moved to the nearest support column, fingertips finding a vein of pale grey that snaked lazily through the creamy stone, tracing it up and out as far as her arm could reach as she spoke, ��Lord Firestorm advised against it; he told me that funds would be better spent on arms and armor, on barracks, on something befitting war… but he ceded to my judgement. He let me make my choice, because I knew Summerglen better, and put forth the money to build this place.”

“It was a noble endeavor,” Lyla offered, an earnest edge in her voice; what else would a Confessor say?

“It was,” Caeliri agreed, letting her fingers slide back down the stone, until her hand came limply to her side. “This place was supposed to be for everyone, all faiths, for them to find solace and comfort, for us to hold sermons or village meetings or just give people a place to be alone with their faith. I wanted to fortify this place, so that it would be a bastion, a final stand for the people of Summerglen if ever the time arose. Tahnuu was meant to help me secure the supplies to erect Lightforged barriers.”

The Draenei had not failed on her part; with old hatreds laid to rest, it was easy to facilitate a meeting with engineers eagerly adopting the blessed metals of the Lightforged, and several Artificers of the Lightforged themselves. But no warrior of the faith would freely relent on their divine gifts without scrutiny, and rather pursue her initial plan to fortify the chapel with other worldly advancements… Caeliri had burned her favor on a gift.

“You spent the allotment of supplies on Lord Dawnstrider’s arm,” Lyla stated simply, her voice bereft of judgement - that didn’t stop Caeliri from flinching where she stood. “You feel guilty.”

“I am guilty,” Caeliri turned, letting her back thud against the pillar, “I told them this place was safe. I told them, time and time again, that this would be their safe heaven should anything happen.” Her hand shot out towards the lingering, lifeless lump in the corner, but Lyla’s eyes would not follow her arm. “They all came here, seeking safety, and they died here.”

“You ordered the evacuation of Summerglen prior to the assault, did you not?”

Caeliri let her hand drop heavily to her side, her wrist striking her own bony hip so hard it sent an ache shivering through her arm. “I did.”

“Many citizens stayed behind, did they not?”

“Yes, but --”

“There is no ‘but’ -- there is nothing more you could have done. The Archon, your Lord, ordered you to the west to defend the Evergrove, and you went. What difference would it have made, had you come to Summerglen?” Lyla’s pale, thin lips pressed into a stern line. “You would have traded lives in the Evergrove for lives here - maybe. More likely than not, you would have died here.”

“I would not--”

“You would have stayed and held the line until every last villager escaped. Do you know who stayed to hold the line?”

Caeliri did not answer the question - it felt pejorative and foolish to offer a response. She knew the names of the Guardians who had stayed behind, and she knew where they were now.

Lyla did not press her point. Between them the silence drew on, until it was taut and oppressive.

A sigh slipped through the former Confessor’s lips, and at last the tension that trembled through her knuckles eased ever so slightly. Daintily, she lifted up her dark skirts and crossed the space between them, small feet weaving artfully over the filth that stained the stones. Lyla laid one pale, bony hand on Caeliri’s shoulder, and Caeliri could feel the cold seeping through the shoulder of her blouse. “This is not penance - this is self-mutilation of the soul. You ruin yourself with this quest for moral purity. Your suffering now does not ease theirs then. You have already committed yourself to Summerglen’s renewal, this,” Lyla let loose her skirts and wafted her now free hand through the air, her skin catching the light and seeming to glow, “solves nothing. Nor does it help you grieve, stewing in your mistakes. Reflect, adapt, but do not linger in the remnants of what-has-been.”

The effort of touch grew too much for the Steward to bear, and she pulled her hand away, taking a few shuffling steps backwards to regain a more appropriate distance. “The Anori priests will be here any day now to assist with the last rites and the funeral pyres; you needn’t maintain this vigil any longer.” Lyla offered nothing more than a polite curtsey, and left, artfully dodging the ruined remnants of the chapel as she made her way back to the manor.

Caeliri was not so quick to depart, tethered to this place by a thick strand of remorse, but slowly, she pressed forward, down the stairs, along the aisle, and out into the white-hot light of day. It was harsh enough to sting her eyes, and she lifted an arm to block it, wincing against the brightness. There was a clarity in the burning as enlightening as Lyla’s harsh words, and when the world around her began to bleed back into view, Caeliri hefted a mighty sigh, deflating slightly where she stood - before pulling her shoulders up and back.

She had sworn to see this through unto the end - she would not renege on her promise to the citizens of Summerglen. If she could stare down the black-rot face of death and still stand to swing a sword and bear a shield, she could rebuild a village ravaged.

[[ Tags: @vaelrin @stormandozone @veloestian @thesunguardmg @telchis ]]

[sumigakure]

Well Then

To: @arrowsbane

From: @pwnie3

Title: Well Then

Rating: M

Wordcount: 8520

Prompt: In an AU where Orochimaru never took Danzo up on his offer for labs, Sarutobi dumps a trio of genetically-altered brats on him and hands him a ‘Teaching for Dummies’ book, which is not appreciated. Turns out, Orochimaru is pretty good with kids, but thinks he isn’t. Nobody else is buying that lie though.

Warning/Notes: I never thought I would have to tag a six-year-old for suicidal ideation but here I am. Friendly reminder that I love Kakashi and I wish my fingers didn’t know how to type independent of my will.

“Think about it,” Danzo says, then shunshins out of Orochimaru’s front garden.

The old man’s offer is tempting. A set of labs all to himself, all materials provided, not on paper anywhere. Sarutobi, ever Orochimaru’s moral compass in the absence of Jiraiya and Tsunade, has vetoed almost all of his ideas without even reading the full hypothesis. And he knows as well as Orochimaru does that if he had labs and materials, he would go ahead with his projects whether the Hokage gave him permission or not.

It’s one of the things Sakumo always said was the mark of a good shinobi– not following unjust orders, although he probably didn’t mean it to be used quite in this context.

Orochimaru traces the snake curled around his neck absently and his eyes remain fixed on the wall just to the side of where Danzo had been when he made the proposal two weeks ago. Sakumo, now three months dead by his own foolish, selfish hand, wouldn’t approve of this. Orochimaru may not know Danzo very well personally, but he knows enough about the man to figure out that the kind of experiments Danzo wants him to do won’t be the experiments Sakumo could be proud of.

When did this happen? When did he stop thinking in terms of what benefitted him and start using Sakumo’s approval as a benchmark for right and wrong?

There’s a knock on the door. Orochimaru snaps back to reality and gently reaches out with his chakra. He’s no sensor, he can’t track someone’s chakra footprint a hundred miles, but he can recognize a familiar signature ten feet away.

“Oro?” Kakashi’s voice is muffled, both by the door and his scarf. “You home?”

In a flash, Orochimaru opens the door. Kakashi is there, and judging by his clothes it’s a hot morning. His short sleeves show off the tattoos on his arms, and what’s visible of his face is flushed. Orochimaru makes a note to buy something thinner so Kakashi doesn’t pass out from the heat.

The boy doesn’t tell Orochimaru where he wants to go, but it’s easy enough to guess. Where else would he want to go with Orochimaru than Sakumo’s grave?

The majority of their walk to the cemetery is silent, punctuated only by a brief stop at a flower stand. Orochimaru picks spider lilies. Kakashi picks asters.

It is, perhaps, too late for Orochimaru to remember how terrible he is with children. When Sakumo was alive, it was easy to think of Kakashi as a small, grumpy version of his father, but with the man gone all Orochimaru can see is the five-year-old who’s lost his father.

Orochimaru clears his throat and hopes it doesn’t sound as awkward as he thinks it does. “How have you been, Kakashi?” It takes all of his willpower not to call him ‘Cub’, seeing as how, along with many other things in Kakashi’s life, the nickname likely died with Sakumo.

Kakashi makes a quiet noise. Orochimaru assumes it means something along the lines of ‘I’ve been okay’, as that has always been his answer to the question.

“How is your aunt?” Ah yes, the fifteen-year-old aunt Kakashi has been living with because Orochimaru doesn’t trust himself around children. “Is her team doing well?”

Kakashi grunts. “I guess. I think Mikoto is engaged now, but I’m not sure anyone else is supposed to know about that.”

With a faint sound of acknowledgement, Orochimaru files the information away. He can’t think of any occasion where the marital arrangements of the Uchiha clan will ever be of use, but intel is intel.

Just as the pair is about to enter the graveyard, there’s a shout from behind them. “Hey, Orochimaru!”

“That’s the guy Auntie has a crush on,” Kakashi supplies, murmuring. “Minato.”

Minato comes to a stop a respectful distance from Orochimaru. He pants a little from the exertion of, presumably, running around doing D-ranks all day. “Lord Sarutobi wants to talk to you.”

Orochimaru looks back at Kakashi, who’s eyeing Minato with something like scrutiny. “Is it urgent?” he asks like he doesn’t already know the answer.

Minato nods. Orochimaru is disappointed, no, angry. Angry at himself for not being able to put aside even this small amount of time for the boy who, for all his ineptitude, he loves with every ounce of his being.

Another glance at Kakashi. The boy shrugs. “It’s okay, Oro. I’ll be fine.”

He lays the bouquet of lilies in Kakashi’s arms with the asters. As Orochimaru is walking away, he hisses quietly at Minato. “If you wish to remain in Kushina’s good graces, you’ll keep an eye on Kakashi.”

Minato, who is most certainly recognizable as the ‘pretty boy’ Kushina referred to him as the last time Orochimaru found time to sit down with her, stands stock-straight and meets Orochimaru’s gaze– but only for a moment. Still, it’s better than most people manage. “Of course, Lord Yashagoro!” Then he runs over to walk behind Kakashi.

It takes little more than two minutes to get to the Hokage’s office, and inside Sarutobi has the audacity to be leaning back behind his desk and puffing on his pipe like he didn’t just take away precious time to be spent with the last part of Sakumo Orochimaru has.

Orochimaru stands in front of his old teacher and waits. After a few seconds, Sarutobi opens his eyes and sits up. “Ah, Orochimaru. I didn’t expect you here so soon. I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?”

It’s been a long time since he wanted to punch something, as it’s never been his strong point, but in this moment there’s nothing he wants more than to break Sarutobi’s nose.  Besides, why else would he have come in through the window, if not because he was annoyed? Even if it’s not Orochimaru’s preferred method of entry, it does happen to be one of Sarutobi’s biggest pet peeves.

“Of course not, sensei. Your messenger told me it was urgent?” Orochimaru asks, hiding his anger behind a thin smile.

“Not nearly as urgent as Minato made it out to be, but it is somewhat time sensitive.” Sarutobi pushes a file across his desk. “These are your new orders, effective tomorrow.”

Orochimaru takes the file and opens it, expecting some kind of long-term information gathering mission having to with the war effort, and his eyes widen when the papers enclosed are the ones given out to prospective jounin teachers.

“Sensei, is this–”

“I am not mistaken. That is the correct file. I am assigning three children to your tutelage and, if you’ll be willing, your care.”

The assignment hits Orochimaru like a fist to the face. “I’m not sure if you recall, sensei, but while I have many and impressive talents, handling children is not one of them.”

Sarutobi smiles. “Orochimaru, believe me when I tell you that you are uniquely suited to this team over any other mission I could offer you. Do you recall the organization Root?”

Why yes, in fact your long-time friend recently offered me a very nice position within that very organization. “Yes. You disbanded it when you took office.”

The smoke from Sarutobi’s pipe circles the ceiling. “We discovered Root to very much be alive and kicking last week, under the coordination of Danzo Shimura. After a raid on their various locations, we found four children in a lab there. One killed himself when we tried to remove him from the laboratory, but the other three are currently in rehabilitation in the hospital. They are being entrusted to you, as several experts have assured me that putting them into the Academy would be counterproductive.”

Briefly skimming the mission file, Orochimaru finds it giving him that exact information under about five more layers of official jargon and emotionlessness than Sarutobi normally uses during these briefings.

“Until further notice, you will be off the active duty roster. Your first and foremost priority is acclimatizing these children to life outside of a laboratory.” Orochimaru nods along with Sarutobi as he translates the purple prose of the file. “Oh, and you’ll probably need this.”

Without thinking, Orochimaru takes the thing his teacher passes him and when he looks at the title, in a move he must have learned from Sakumo because he’d never done it before they started dating, he absolutely bristles with fury.

Well, if there was one thing being best friends with Jiraiya has taught Orochimaru, it’s self-control, and it happens to take every last ounce of that carefully-honed control not to put Teaching for Dummies through Sarutobi’s skull.

Sarutobi, for all his old man-ish airs, is no fool and does not have the memory of a goldfish, so he must recognize the calm detachment in Orochimaru’s face as the kind of thing he used to wear just before Jiraiya became best friends with the business end of Kusanagi.

“Meet me back here tomorrow at eight. You are dismissed.”

Kakashi is already out with his team by the time Sarutobi releases Orochimaru to his own devices– Kakashi’s fourth team in as many months, if Orochimaru’s impeccable memory serves him correctly– so he returns to the graveyard alone.

As much as he loves the boy, Orochimaru is glad to have the opportunity to visit Sakumo’s grave alone, and something tells him that maybe Kakashi feels the same. The grass is pressed down tight against the ground in front of Sakumo’s uniform headstone, and a few yards back there’s another spot where the ground is just as disturbed. The flowers have been rested carefully below the deep lines that form Sakumo’s name.

Orochimaru sinks to his knees fluidly. “I had an important meeting yesterday. I wore the blue yukata, the one you always said compliments my eyes.”

It’s a common enough practice for shinobi to talk to their dead loved ones, even if not quite the healthiest. Any passing civilian won’t question Orochimaru talking to the departed quite as much as they’ll question his choice of Sakumo Hatake, and it’s not the kind of thing any coincidentally present ANBU will feel the need to report.

But Orochimaru’s reluctantly-assigned Yamanaka psychiatrist says it’s a good way to grieve (and while she doesn’t outright say ‘I know you’re still mourning the absence of Jiraiya and Tsunade’, he hears it all the same) and he knows that ANBU Panther has been told under no uncertain terms that he’s to make sure Orochimaru talks to Sakumo a little bit. Though as with all things unfamiliar, the Snake Sannin takes to it with a fair bit of caution.

“Sarutobi has assigned me a group of children to train.” He shakes his head. “I suppose my only relief in this is that Jiraiya isn’t here to see it.” A pause, the kind he used to leave for Sakumo to say his piece. “It’s summer now, he’s been gone nearly nine months.”

Orochimaru has never believed that the dead linger, but when he closes his eyes he’s willing to pretend the wind playing with his hair is a tanned, scarred, calloused hand with the most gentle touch in the world.

He stands and brushes a few blades of grass from his clothing. He walks home in silence.

When Orochimaru sits down in his kitchen with a cup of tea in hand, he finally looks over the file Sarutobi gave him.

The first student, Akira Senju, age eleven, was kidnapped when small and her eyes were replaced with a set of stolen Sharingan. She was then pumped full of bijuu chakra siphoned off Lady Mito Uzumaki to see if the Sharingan could control bijuu as easily from within as well as without.

Orochimaru’s second pupil, Akane Uchiha, age twelve, is a half Inuzuka who was tattooed with some beautifully– the report on her doesn’t say it quite like that, but art is art no matter the canvas– elaborate seals that, according to the file, give her the ability to use the Mokuton.

The final child is Hikaru, age eight, was grown in a surrogate, and is the finest example of what happens when an Uchiha member of Root and a Senju member of Root both give over DNA for identification purposes and the DNA is instead used to make a baby. Heavily tested, very intelligent, not very emotionally stable, the boy is implied to be the “problem child” of the three.

Orochimaru puts down the file. From what he can tell, both the people giving the order and the researchers who worked on these children were clumsy. It seems like multiple, independent projects were being run of each child without regard for how the effects of the other experiments would skew their results. What’s Tsunade’s favorite saying? Too many cooks in the kitchen?

What’s done though, is done, and Orochimaru can’t do a thing to remedy the errors of fools. He stands from his chair.

The house is older than even Orochimaru’s parents, and it takes ridiculous effort to keep it in good condition, but if it has anything going for it then it has to be its sheer size. The Yashagoro clan has never been large, definitely not large enough to warrant a house so big, and for the last twenty years Orochimaru has lived here alone. He has no wandering relatives who drop in on a whim to see how well he’s grown up, no drunk friends taking over his house at ungodly hours, no quiet bedmates who wake him up with fluttering kisses and a laugh like rolling thunder. Not anymore.

There are spare futons tucked away in a closet, and while it’s hardly the kind of thing his mother would approve of using his abilities for, Orochimaru is pressed for time and hardly hesitates in using– this is the kind of play on words both his father and Jiraiya would find amusing– a fuuton jutsu to air out the bedding. Perhaps, if Sarutobi doesn’t come to his senses and reassign the children, Orochimaru will find sturdier, more permanent bedframes for them.

He doesn’t sleep. Instead, he wanders the many halls of the house and tries to memorize the silence, the solitude, the way this is the one place where he lets his footsteps echo into the night. He listens for the faint memory of his father’s laugh, his mother’s admonishments, and his old grandmother’s refusal to avoid the nightingale floors when she wandered in the middle of the night.

He wonders if these children will know any better.

Orochimaru shows up early to his old teacher’s office, and is not disappointed. Sarutobi is already waiting for him, sharing a cup of tea with three children who probably shouldn’t be as small as they are.

“Ah, Orochimaru!” Sarutobi exclaims. The three children turn around sharply, even the tiny little boy.

The files hadn’t included photographs. There hadn’t been time to get the photographer out to see them, nor would he have had clearance to do so if he’d tried. But aside from the activated Sharingan, the extensive tattoos, and the multitude of poorly-hidden scars, the children don’t look like anything special. The Senju girl looks like how he would expect a little Senju girl to look. The Uchiha-Inuzuka girl looks like how he would expect an Uchiha-Inuzuka to look. The Senju-Uchiha boy looks like how he would expect a Senju-Uchiha to look.

This is good, he thinks. The tattoos and scars are normal enough, not the kind of thing most people would glance twice at. The Sharingan will be easily hidden. At least they won’t have to grow up with the look of a half-dead pixie with too much purple eyeliner and a frankly unrealistically dark head of hair and all the stares that come with.

“These are your students,” Sarutobi continues. “Akira, Akane, and Hikaru. Children, this is to be your guardian.”

The half-Inuzuka girl, Akane, stands. The other two follow her lead. Though Orochimaru knows that these children have been kept apart until now, as per ANBU policy about test subjects, they have easily fallen into something like a pack formation with Akane at the head.

Orochimaru bows his head slightly, not breaking eye contact with Akane for a second. After a long pause, she does it back. Again, Akira and Hikaru follow her lead.

Sarutobi looks between the four of them and nods. “It seems my work here is done. Orochimaru, I’ll be by later with some paperwork.”

He takes this to mean that he’s been dismissed, and so Orochimaru gestures for the children to follow him. The whole way back to his house– on foot, using the not-yet-crowded streets to travel because he hardly remembers trusting himself on rooftops when he was their age and most certainly won’t put that faith in three strangers– they trail behind him at a respectful and regular distance. Though they haven’t spoken a word to each other, the three of them instinctively fell into a standard, if rough, team formation. Akira is at the center, keeping a careful eye on Orochimaru, and on either side she is flanked by Akane and Hikaru in some kind of bodyguard position.

The first two steps inside Orochimaru’s home are nightingale flooring, and while he treads lightly and with a certain kind of speed born of practice and watching snakes go across the boards silently, the children don’t know the house. As soon as Hikaru hears the first tremulous chirp of the floorboards, he jumps back and pulls the girls with him.

“Come now. It’s just a noise the floors make. Nothing to be scared of,” Orochimaru says in what he hopes is a teasing voice. “They’re not going to hurt you any more than the grass out there will.” Though, thinking about it, the grass (or rather, what the grass hides) will actually hurt them more than the floors.

Eventually, Orochimaru gets them into the kitchen, and only then does it occur to him that he only owns one chair and his table is too small for four people. He also owns a meager set of dishes that can only hold enough food for one, maybe two people if they have appetites as small as Orochimaru and Kakashi (how old is the food in his fridge? And come to think of it, is bread supposed to be blue-grey?). Well, those bowls are probably small enough to count as cups, right?

“Perhaps,” Orochimaru starts slowly, “a trip to the market is in order.”

Orochimaru hasn’t been a child in a long time, so he doesn’t know what they like to eat. When he went out shopping with Sakumo, it always fell to Orochimaru to keep Kakashi occupied, and thus he was never really sure of what Sakumo bought for Kakashi– not to mention that Kakashi is significantly younger than Orochimaru’s students and also likely has very different preferences.

Orochimaru himself is a simple man. He buys spices when he runs out and a dozen eggs every week, ham when he can get it, and everything else comes from his mother’s garden. His parents raised him to eat what was put in front of him without complaint and that mostly carried over into his adult life.

So what do children like to eat?

“What would you like?” he asks them. All three heads jerk towards him simultaneously. “To eat.”

For a long moment, there’s silence from the three of them, but then it’s Akira who answers first. “One of the researchers in charge of me used to bring dango when I was cooperative.”

“One time someone brought me pretzels,” Akane says.

“They let me have strawberries once.” Hikaru rounds out the bunch.

The bakery sells five kinds of pretzels and strawberries are in season, and by the time the four of them make it to the dango shop Hikaru has eaten almost half the container and Orochimaru has reminded him three times that eating the strawberry hulls isn’t something people generally do.

As soon as they enter the shop– which is abuzz with people as always, seeing as how Shouta Mitarashi makes the best dango in the village and everyone knows it– the place hushes significantly. Civilians are always put off by Orochimaru’s presence no matter where he goes, and while it’s a trifling matter to be invisible in a crowded marketplace that same innocuity becomes impossible in a small, enclosed space.

Akira, Akane, and Hikaru fall into battle stance at the attention. Their shoulders square, their limbs relax, and Akane has two fingers on the kunai in her belt. Orochimaru says nothing; he just strides forward– the crowd shies away from him like he’s diseased– picks up a few boxes of sweets, and hands the money over to the owner without speaking a word.

He, and the children too, are silent the whole way home. They do not step on the nightingale floors a second time.

His three students eat their food quietly, and Orochimaru makes himself a pot of tea. When he has finished his first cup, he speaks.

“The first thing you will learn in this village is that no-one is going to be kind to you. I do not know what conditions you were in before or how they treated you there, but it will be different and worse out here. You will be feared, and that fear manifests as anger, and you may have to deal with the outlet of that anger. Strangers will hate you for no other reason than your association with me. If you wish for me to find you a different caretaker, tell me and I will do so.”

Akane crunches on another pretzel. Hikaru carefully separates the hull from the rest of his strawberry and sets it on a paper towel. Akira puts a whole skewer’s worth of dango in her mouth at once. They say nothing.

Orochimaru pours himself a second cup of tea. “Very well then,” he sighs. “It is my job to teach you how to interact with other people. I will not be lenient with your training. Starting tomorrow, you will wake at dawn and training will last until I say it stops. Do you understand?”

They nod, and if Orochimaru has the barest hint of a smile on his face, then no-one has to know.

The next morning, though waking the children by way of snake messenger was fun and he’ll never let himself forget Akira’s screams, Orochimaru faces a certain problem. After watching the children make a mess of training ground 6, he decides to pit them against each other and quickly finds that watching Akane and Akira go at it is something like how he imagines a timid Tsunade would approach Jiraiya if Jiraiya didn’t know how to control his temper and also thought he could take on Tsunade at full strength.

In short, it’s giving him a headache.

Akira has a certain kind of inhuman strength that tends to show itself in anyone with more than a drop of Uzumaki blood, and Orochimaru is quickly realizing that there’s no way she’s not at least one quarter Uzumaki– maybe it’s a byproduct of Lady Mito’s jinchuuriki chakra?– but the Senju in her negates the red hot Uzumaki blood in her.

Similarly, Akane has exactly the temper Orochimaru would expect from the offspring produced by an Uchiha and an Inuzuka and the control over her anger to match. Like most Uchiha her age she has all the musculature of a finely-carved twig, but more than enough dramatics to make up for it.

“Come on, I can take it!” Akane shouts from the proper battle stance Orochimaru just corrected her on. “Come at me already!”

Akira looks to Orochimaru with something he thinks is a question on her face. He nods minutely at her. “But…” she trails off.

The other girl makes a very loud, very frustrated noise that only reinforces Orochimaru’s belief that Jiraiya is dead and his soul now exists in the body of a twelve-year-old girl. “Come on!”

Akira flexes her hands and curls them into fists. She pulls back one arm, then throws an undercut–

Which connects just under Akane’s ribs and throws her against a tree twenty feet away. She collides with a sickening crunch which sounds suspiciously like bones breaking and it takes everything in Orochimaru’s power not to flinch at it.

Ah yes. Definitely reminiscent of Jiraiya and Tsunade’s earliest interactions.

Hikaru crunches down on a strawberry flavored biscuit stick louder than necessary and shoots Orochimaru a look he can catch out of the corner of his eye. With a sigh, Orochimaru stands and walks over to check on Akane.

She coughs, then lets out a long, painful groan. “Sensei, am I dead?” She whines.

He hums. “Not yet.”

“Can you make me dead?”

To his own surprise, Orochimaru laughs. It’s small, barely more than a chuckle, but it’s there and it surprises Akane just as much as it does Orochimaru himself. “Only if you want me to.”

For two full seconds, she’s quiet, then she reaches up with one arm and lets slip a thready “please”.

The next morning, if it can even be called that yet, Orochimaru wakes to the incessant tapping on his window. The hawk sitting on his sill has a message tied to it’s leg. He lets the bird in and takes the scroll from the leather tube, letting the hawk back out as soon as he does.

It’s a summons for tea from the Hokage. Orochimaru huffs out a breath and briefly considers whether or not he could get away with killing Sarutobi, and when he figures that now probably isn’t the best time to contemplate murder he decides to just get ready for the day. He sets out breakfast for the children– all three still asleep in their rooms– and sets one of his summons by each bedside to keep watch.

Sarutobi is waiting for him in his office with a pot of Orochimaru’s favorite tea already sitting out. It burns Orochimaru in places he can’t describe to think that after ignoring him for so long and then dumping three children even more socially stunted than Orochimaru himself, all Sarutobi can do is set out tea and play

“Ah, Orochimaru. Sit down, I’m glad–”

Orochimaru does not sit. “Spare me your pleasantries. Why have I been summoned here?”

Sarutobi sets down his cup with a sigh. “How are the children?”

“They are making progress. Considering how long I’ve had them, they’ve adjusted well, though I’m certain that they would do better under a different teacher who knows better how to deal with children. Given time, I believe they will become a strong team for almost any kind of mission.”

The Hokage nods. “Very well. If there is nothing else to discuss…” he trails off to give Orochimaru space to say something more. When he doesn’t, Sarutobi continues. “Then I believe you are dismissed.”

Orochimaru leaves.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Sarutobi looks down at the reports on his desk from Panther and Bear.

Subject’s methods are unorthodox, but effective. Advise that the team remain in his care and assign the Subject a second team upon current team’s graduation.

Subject interacts well with charges. Likely extenuating circumstances contributing to camaraderie. Advise not to assign a second team to the Subject.

Fox drops down from the rafters silently. “Sounds like he doesn’t know himself too well, huh?” she says.

Sarutobi steeples his fingers. “Perhaps it is because he knows himself too well, and it is blinding him to his own strengths.”

“Perhaps it is because he’s never had to interact with children.” Crow quips.

Goose hesitates. “…Perhaps it’s because no-one has ever trusted him with children before.”

“Sakumo did,” Fox mumbles after a moment. “Sakumo trusted him and Kakashi loves Orochimaru to death.”

“I think we can all agree that Sakumo Hatake is a special case in many respects, and his son follows closely in his footsteps,” Sarutobi says. “But in this, I too will follow Sakumo. Orochimaru is better with those children than he thinks he is.”

Crow hums, disinterested. ‘They day Orochimaru realizes that children follow him like lost puppies is the day I retire.”

Hikaru, Orochimaru finds, is like Kakashi. He rarely smiles, but when he does it’s all the more precious for it. He likes to disappear at odd hours, but can always be found napping peacefully in the grass by the Naka with empty cartons of fresh fruit stacked neatly next to his head.

Akane is happiest when curled up by a window on a rainy day. She prefers hot tea and a thick blanket and a good book over training in the cold any day, and every last one of Orochimaru’s summons agrees with her (he finds them sleeping once, in front of the fireplace and curled close under the blanket to Akane, though to protect her or for her body heat is unclear). But on the hot days where the sun is too bright to look at she can’t be pulled away from the fields for anything.

Akira is the outlier. She wants to be good, wants to be better. She has bright ambitions but hardly has the means to do so. She trains with Kakashi, who outstrips her in talent at every turn but is no match for her spirit. She is the one who asks to learn the obscure jutsus, the one who practices seals a thousand times before even trying to pump the chakra through them.

They have been in Orochimaru’s care for five months, and have not mentioned leaving once.

He finds himself stopping by the dango shop every three days, it seems, and the longer he shows up regularly the wider Mitarashi smiles at him. He has a regular order and everything. More and more, Mitarashi’s little daughter Anko– who can’t be much more than three years old, but Orochimaru’s never been good at pinpointing the ages of children– decides to talks to him about his day. In twelve years or so, she’ll be an excellent saleswoman if she doesn’t follow through with her interest in the poisonous flowers Hikaru likes to braid into Orochimaru’s hair.

It’s not just Mitarashi and his daughter that have taken a shining to Orochimaru. Vendors in the marketplace have gotten increasingly familiar with his larger purchases of meat, bread, and most importantly, fresh fruit, romance novels, and pretty yet practical clothing for a six feet tall fourteen-year-old girl.

It all comes to a head the day jounin start coming to him to ask if their teams can train together. The first one, Sabe Tachibana, is a large man, taller than Akira and twice as broad, who looks like he could crush Orochimaru’s head between two fingers if given the chance.

“My team is made up of three strong-willed boys that just graduated from the Academy on their first try,” he says. “They think they’re all that and a bag of sealing scrolls. I think they need to be put in their place before I can teach them anything, but for the life of me, I can’t get them to listen. They’ve been like this for all three weeks since graduation.”

Orochimaru smirks. “Oh, don’t worry, Tachibana. They’ll be at your beck and call before tomorrow is done.”

He pretends that he doesn’t notice the five other jounin watching the inter-team practice, where all three of Tachibana’s genin show up late while complaining loudly about the hour and not giving one whit of attention to the other team on the training field.

“Sensei, are those girls?” one of them asks, his tone about as demeaning as it can get. “I thought you said we’re gonna train with the best genin team in the village, not that you wanted to get in their teacher’s pants.”

“And we are, Koushi. This is the best genin team in the village,” Tachibana responds evenly. He doesn’t acknowledge the boy’s second statement.

Orochimaru makes sure his hair swishes as he turns to face the three boys and hopes he looks more male and less androgynous than usual today. “And I thought I was pitting my team against worthy opponents. I look forward to you trying to prove me wrong.”

Tachibana gently resumes control of the conversation. He gestures to Orochimaru. “Boys, this is Orochimaru Yashagoro. He’s got the finest first-year genin I’ve seen in a long time, so keep your guard up.”

“Don’t go too hard on them, you three. Leave at least some of their dignity intact,’ Orochimaru instructs as he turns to his team.

One of the boys scoffs. “Like we need them to. What harm can two girls and a baby do to us?”

Orochimaru sees the immediate shift in the way Akane, Akira, and Hikaru are assessing the situation.

“Sensei, are you sure we have to hold back?” Akane asks, sickeningly sweet. “I would hate for them to think we’re not giving our all.”

“Dignity is useless. All that matters is skill. If they have it, then we don’t need to go easy.” Hikaru looks up at Orochimaru. “Right, sensei?”

At Tachibana’s direction, the two teams settle themselves at opposite ends of the training field. Orochimaru’s team falls easily into battle formation and move away from each other. From his place at one edge of the field, Orochimaru can see Hikaru reaffirm his grip on the hilt of his sword, Akira flex her fists, and Akane finger a tagged kunai. Conversely, Tachibana’s boys are too relaxed and hold their kunai like toys– and they’re all only wielding kunai.

“It’s a miracle they graduated, with form like that,” Orochimaru mumbles to his fellow teacher. “What kind of test did you give them?”

“I put an apple on my head and had them throw kunai at me to get it off.”

“Were you at least moving?”

Tachibana’s flush is answer enough. He clears his throat. “You fight until incapacitation or surrender. On my mark!” he shouts, raising one hand. The instant his arm drops, the three boys are off towards Orochimaru’s stationary team.

The first one to get in range is closest to Akira. She throws a punch. The instant it connects, the boy realizes his mistake, but by then it’s too late. He flies fifty feet before he hits the ground and then skids another ten before coming to a stop.

She sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Sorry!” she calls after him.

The second one thinks it’s a good idea to go after Akane, who is, admittedly, tiny for her age and looks like an easy target. But the moment he steps into a three-meter radius, he freezes in place and all Akane has to do is walk up to him and push him over.

The third is perhaps the most foolish, because under any circumstances it’s a bad idea to approach a child holding a sword, but Hikaru is especially dangerous. It takes all of a second for Hikaru to strike out with his lead hand, drawing a thin red line across his opponent’s face and sending strands of his hair fluttering to the ground. The boy’s hand shoots up to cradle his cheek, but before he can even get it high enough Hikaru drops down low and sweeps the boy’s legs out from under him.

His head meets the hard-packed earth with a crack. With that, Tachibana steps out onto the field and ends the match.

“I hope that you remember this day as the day you got your collective asses beat by two girls and a baby. Got it?” Akane sneers. “And next time you assume our teacher needs to use his team to get access to dick, I’ll make sure you won’t have to worry about yours anymore.”

Other fresh jounin teachers almost start lining up with their teams.

The childrens’ first mission is small. He gives the missions room a collective heart attack when he enters and requests a C-rank with his team in tow. They must strike quite the image, he thinks. The Hidden Leaf’s own double-edged sword, accompanied by the unholy offspring of an Uchiha and an Inuzuka, an eight-year-old who carries himself like the most weathered of jounin, and an otherwise nondescript girl with brown hair and a set of blazing Sharingan.

The terrified chuunin behind the deck passes Orochimaru an assignment for a message run to the Fire Country capital.

“We have hawks for messages,” Hikaru states, but in the month since he came into Orochimaru’s care he’s learned to read between the lines with Hikaru.

“A hawk is faster than most shinobi, that’s true. But hawks are easier to intercept than we are. If time is of the essence, the village will send a hawk. When security is valued over speed, they send shinobi,” Orochimaru says.

Two steps out of the gate, Akane trips over thin air and nearly sprains her ankle. This is the worst injury of the mission.

Orochimaru himself has been to the capital a scant few times, and the children have never left Konoha’s walls so while it’s always a treat for the Snake Sannin to see the city it’s nothing quite like the identical look of amazement that crosses all three of his charges’ faces.

The buildings in the capital are by far taller than anything in Konoha but the trees, of which there are few here. The marketplaces are more bountiful, full of all manner of things that just don’t make it to Konoha in large enough quantities– expensive teas imported from across the sea, delicate sheer fabrics that have no place in a shinobi village, household items imbued with seals that draw chakra from the environment to cook food faster or heat beds in the winter. The fresh flowers Konoha prides herself on can’t be found so easily here, replaced commonly by shining metal or fine Suna-blown glass replicas. The sturdy weapons the children know from their home are almost nonexistent, though Orochimaru does know where to get them if the need arises. Instead, tiny shops sell decorative knockoffs that won’t hold up for half a second in the field but look nice and shiny hanging on a wall.

“Can we come back someday?” Akira asks, once they’ve delivered their message and set off back to Konoha. She has three new shawls and a set of beautiful emerald jewelry in her bag, among other baubles.

“I certainly hope so!” the other girl exclaims. Akane’s found no less than five Uzushio fuuinjutsu scrolls sitting in a secondhand store and paid less than a quarter of what they’re worth.

Orochimaru smiles despite himself, looking at Hikaru. The boy is happily munching on some blackberries and has more cartons of fruit sealed away than Orochimaru cares to count.

“I don’t see why not.”

The next time Orochimaru has the opportunity to see Kakashi is on the boy’s birthday. He is six, and after the small celebration at Kushina’s apartment– complete with gifts Hikaru, Akane, and Akira had bought in the capital, because after their first meeting with the younger boy they had all become rather attached– Orochimaru takes Kakashi to visit Sakumo’s grave.

It’s not something he would ever do with his team, simply because they wouldn’t know the significance of it and he’s not in the mood to explain why his single best bonding activity with his kind of stepson is visiting Orochimaru’s ex-boyfriend’s grave.

Dust has formed on the headstone, so Orochimaru carefully brushes it away with one blessedly pale grey sleeve before setting down the bouquet he brought today. Orochimaru’s yellow camellias look nice with Kakashi’s white roses, and they look even prettier against the grey stone.

Neither one of them says anything until halfway back to Kushina and Mikoto’s apartment.

“I miss him,” Kakashi says, his voice painfully small and muffled by the mask Orochimaru just gave him. “Sometimes I wish he took me with him.”

Orochimaru’s blood runs cold. His heart stops beating for several seconds. His mouth is hanging open, and when he gathers the brainpower to realize he isn’t breathing, his next inhale shudders in his throat. Before he knows what he’s doing, Orochimaru drops to his knees and pulls the boy to him. There are tears leaking from his face into Kakashi’s silver hair.

He can’t say he hasn’t had the same thought. He wasn’t much younger than Kakashi when he lost his own parents, and both when they died– his father from sickness while his mother was on a mission she never came back from– and only a few months ago when Sakumo took his own life, the same idea plagued his every waking moment. Why didn’t I die from the epidemic too? Why didn’t Sakumo kill me as well as, instead of, himself?

“Kakashi, I’m sorry,” Orochimaru whispers. “I’m sorry the world had made you think that way.”

He remembers being six and being left alone in that big dark house because there was no-one to care for him. He remembers being thirty-one and watching as Kakashi was left alone in his own big dark house because his clan laws– the precious clan laws the village had to accommodate for fear of clans rioting– wouldn’t allow anyone outside his clan to do it. He remembers going to visit Kakashi every day for a month and getting turned away by ANBU at the door every single time until Kakashi finally told Orochimaru to stop coming.

Kakashi’s hands clench in Orochimaru’s hair. “Sometimes I wish I had died with Mom.” He’s quiet for a few moments. “You told me once that Dad killed himself because he was ashamed of how his choices were affecting me. So he would still be alive if I had died in the Massacre, right?”

Orochimaru had told Kakashi that about Sakumo so that he wouldn’t think that Sakumo hadn’t loved his son. What possessed the gods to twist Kakashi’s mind to misinterpret it so badly?

“Oh cub, I never meant for you to take it like that. I miss him too, but I never, ever wanted you to think like that.

“What your father did was foolish and wrong, and every day I wish that someone had been there to talk some sense into him. I wish that I hadn’t been out of the village that day. I was too kind the last time I spoke of your father. He thought that by taking himself out of the equation, the village wouldn’t project their hate elsewhere and that you wouldn’t be affected. In his haste to right what the village perceived as wrongs, he forgot that he was all you had. His actions were selfish and shallow, no matter how honorable his intentions happened to be. Don’t let yourself be dragged down by the choices of kind-hearted fools.”

Kakashi sniffs, then pulls away and wipes his eyes with one overly long sleeve. “Okay. That means to stop listening to Aunt Kushina then, right?”

Orochimaru chuckles low in his chest and ruffles Kakashi’s hair. “Don’t you go twisting my words, little one.”

“Then don’t give me words to twist,” the boy shoots back, a gentle smile in his tone. Orochimaru is sorry he can’t see it.

As with all things, it comes crashing down around his ears eventually.

It is either late at night or early in the morning depending on which child Orochimaru asks for the time, and all four of them have been summoned to the Hokage’s office.

“You asked for us, sensei.” Orochimaru states as he rises from the crouch he landed in. His children straighten up too behind him.

“Danzo has escaped captivity,” Sarutobi says. It’s unlike him to be so short, to use four words where he could make it boring with twenty. “I am confident in both your abilities and those of your team, but until Danzo is captured I am placing ANBU outside your house. It is likely he will come after the children and try to leave the village with them.”

Behind him, the air goes deathly still, and for one horrifying moment Orochimaru thinks that the children have scattered just from hearing Danzo’s name. If any of the reports he’s read– many of which he didn’t technically have permission to know about– are true, it’s a wonder they didn’t run for the hills.

“You are dismissed. ANBU Crow, Fox, and Goose will meet you at your home.” Sarutobi goes silent, looking down into his telescope jutsu’d crystal ball. Orochimaru stiffens at the names.

“Sensei, is there any significance to those three ANBU being assigned to our case?” Hikaru asks halfway back to the house in his attempt to break the tense silence– something he’s gotten better at in the past months.

Orochimaru nods gravely. “ANBU Crow, Fox, and Goose are the Hokage’s personal guards. That he’s reassigning them means Danzo is more dangerous now than he was before.”

“What was lesson fifty-one again? A desperate man is a dangerous man?” Akira supplies.

“And a dangerous, desperate man is a cornered man and cornered man is unpredictable,” Akane finishes, uncharacteristically somber.

“Sarutobi-sensei never told us stories about Danzo from his youth, but I think we all know there’s a reason why he of all people was the leader of Root. Be cautious,” Orochimaru warns. He feels like he’s being watched and he hates nothing more than being watched.

The instant he sets foot on the property, a shiver runs down his spine and he drops lower to the ground. He draws Kusanagi from its sheath. When he enters the house, he does it slowly and deliberately. The children follow his footsteps exactly.

The nightingale floor shrieks. Instantly, Orochimaru extends an arm and pulls his children behind him and brandishes Kusanagi.

Danzo looks worse for wear, like he’s probably been tortured. Whoever helped him escape T&I– because there’s no way he got out on his own, not on Itsue Morino’s watch– must have had some kind of medical knowledge, because the aging man’s injuries look half-healed.

“Don’t cause a fuss now, Orochimaru. Just give me the experiments and I’ll disappear,” Danzo says, just as calmly as if he was ordering lunch, but there’s a low hum of killer intent in the air. “This doesn’t have to be messy.”

Orochimaru bristles and bares his teeth. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s killer intent, and Danzo just doesn’t have the same dark, oily chakra that makes people shiver when they face Orochimaru on the battlefield. “Over my dead body.”

The elder scowls, but he draws a bloodied kunai from one tattered sleeve and leaps forward.

Orochimaru catches the blade with his own, and it doesn’t take much to force Danzo back. He may be older and more experienced, and the chuunin guarding his cell may have been weak, but Danzo’s been atrophying in a cell for six months while Orochimaru’s been training three energetic kids in how to fight and kill.

“I will be dead and buried before you lay another finger on my children. Do you hear me, Shimura?” Orochimaru snarls. He parries away the kunai again. “But don’t you worry–” a quick slice and a dull thump– “you’ll be gone before you get the chance.”

It’s a gentler death than a man like Danzo Shimura deserves, but Orochimaru is in no mood to play with delusional old men. He has no energy to call the Hokage and tell him of events. But if the three ANBU arrive not two minutes later and find nothing of the old man, well Orochimaru can’t control his snakes all the time. They are among the more fickle of summons, after all.

As if to show just how shitty his life is, Jiraiya gets mugged a scant two miles from Konoha.

He’s been away for three years, and before he can get home to his favorite bath house– full of his favorite patrons who he used to swear could smell him coming from a mile away and still hit him dead-on with their shoes– he gets jumped. And not just jumped, but jumped by three kids.

That’s it. He’s done. He just flops down on his face and pretends to be dead. Maybe all they’ll take is his money.

But the kids climb off him and don’t even go rummaging through his things.

“Are you sure this is him, Hika?” says a decidedly female voice. “Because he doesn’t exactly strike me as Sannin material.”

“Yes. He matches the photograph in the Hokage’s office perfectly,” a child replies. “I would also like to make you aware that I am hurt by you questioning the information I gave you.”

A second girl groans. “Hikaru, when Dad told you to be more apparent with your feelings this isn’t what he meant.”

“If Dad was displeased with my actions he would tell me so himself,” the child says.

“He didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” the first girl speaks again. “He knows you’ve been working hard at opening up to other people and just because Akane can’t appreciate that doesn’t mean that the rest of us can’t.”

“Thank you, Akira,” Hikaru says with a smile in his voice.

“Can we get back to the old geezer on the ground? I think he might be dead.” Akane’s voice is closer now. Did she kneel?

“You’re the medic. And I should remind you that if you call this man an old geezer, you’re saying the same of Dad,” Hikaru snarks.

Akane snarls again. “I swear to every god above and below, Hikaru, if you don’t shut up–”

“Children!” comes a harsh cry. A harsh cry that Jiraiya recognizes. His head jerks up and one of the three– Akane, probably– trips backward and falls.

“Hikaru, Akane, Akira, what are you doing?” Orochimaru demands, his hands firmly placed on his hips.

The taller girl stands stock-straight and seems to shrink under Orochimaru’s piercing golden gaze. “Nothing, Dad.”

He rounds on the other two. “Hikaru? Akane?”

Akane points an accusing finger at the ten-ish-year-old next to her. “It was his idea.”

Orochimaru hums. “Was it now?”

“I heard through secure channels that the Sannin Jiraiya would be returning to the village via this path today and, given the emotional shambles you were reportedly left in when he disappeared in Ame three years ago we decided to wait for him and make sure he wouldn’t hurt you again,” Hikaru rattles off. “Was this not appropriate?” For a moment, Orochimaru says nothing and Jiraiya prays for the kid’s safe passage into the Pure Lands. Then, he huffs out a sigh and smiles.

“Go home, all three of you. We’ll talk later.” The children– though two of them look to be fifteen and up– make off towards the village, Akane muttering about stupid gossipy gate guards with the wrong loyalties. Once they’re out of sight, Orochimaru looks to Jiraiya and his smile wanes. “So you’re back.”

“So you have kids,” Jiraiya retorts as he stands. “Who decided to give you kids? I haven’t been gone that long.”

Orochimaru extends one arm towards the village. “A lot has happened. I’ll explain on the way to tea.”

If you enjoyed this piece, why not take a look at other pieces written by the same author on AO3.

[lubbuthedigitalnomad]

IN ONLY @1000 WORDS — Clarity, Communication, Politics, and Religious Arrogance

About the Author

Doug “Ten” Rose may be the biggest smartass as well as one of the most entertaining survivors of the hitchhiking adventurers that used to cover America’s highways. He is the author of the books Fearless Puppy on American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense, has survived heroin addiction and death, and is a graduate of over a hundred thousand miles of travel without ever driving a car, owning a phone, or having a bank account.

Hello from the Himalayas! 

I hope you are happy, healthy, and enjoying the winter. Things are just beginning to possibly change for the better. There are logical reasons to think that 2021 will be a better year than 2020 was and, in a few months, Spring and the new life it brings may witness some progress in the human condition. From out here, it looks like we will have to remember at least two things in order to have any chance of that progress taking hold.

1. Staying active on behalf of the lessons we’ve learned is essential. The Himalayas didn’t briefly become visible again by accident. It happened because people and their machines started pumping less crap into the atmosphere. The environment is certainly not the only issue at hand — but if that issue isn’t addressed immediately, there won’t be any other issues.

2. Many of us see life through the wool that has been pulled over our eyes, and attend to illusions and delusions more than we attend to the world we would see without them. No matter how unpleasant reality is in spots, we cannot allow ourselves to be frozen into inaction by externally manufactured and dangerously manipulative bullshit, or internally manufactured fears and frustrations.

“The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something and tell what it saw in a plain way. Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion all rolled into one.”

John Ruskin

This is an excerpt from the book Fearless Puppy On American Road

Mary and I have hitchhiked over fifty thousand miles together by now. We are not judgmental or prejudicial but have put in enough observation time and earned enough experiential education to recognize some patterns in humanity.

Three Types of Communication

When you are hitchhiking, there are three types of communication that you can have with your host. These are:- a shallow conversation, a deeper conversation, and silence. Silence speaks for itself. It can range from uncomfortable through comfortable, and on to transcendent.

The shallow conversation mode may have more of religion and politics in it. Many people seem to think that just choosing these topics to speak about qualifies the conversation as being in deep mode. I have to disagree. Regardless, politics and religion seem to be the most popular subjects in human dialogue.

The evidence of fifty thousand miles worth of listening suggests that many folks may not give these subjects as much thought as they should before they open their mouths about them. That doesn’t seem to stop many of my fellow humans from talking about these subjects for hours on end — and thinking that their personal opinions should become global mandates.

I can sum up what I’ve learned from listening to several thousand hours of conversation on these subjects in two very short chapters.

Defeating Organized Religious Distortion

The quality of attention paid by the student is more important than who the teacher is. A kind Christian is better than a harmful Buddhist. A kind Buddhist is better than a harmful Christian.

Jesus is not going to keep you dry if you piss into the wind.

(Almost) every religion is waiting for someone to come save us. Jesus is going to come back and save the Christians, Messiah is going to come to save the Jews, etc. My guess is that all this divine saving comes later. There seems to be a lot of saving that needs done by us amateurs before the professionals get here.

Some folks think that Salvation will never come. Some folks think that it’s already here. It seems more likely that Salvation has been circling the planet for a very long time but can’t find a suitable place to land! Unless each individual human on Earth starts taking on the serious tasks of saving both themselves and their fellow humans, we will disappear as a species — with or without God’s help.

There have been many examples of how very capable we are of getting the job done if we would all just get about doing it.

Ending Political Malfeasance

Some politicians may be less full of shit than others. Maybe not. Maybe some are just better at hiding it. As a rule, politicians get to be more full of shit as they climb higher up the political ladder. Some start out full of shit. Some actually start out with the altruistic intention that would be necessary to do the job correctly. After a period of time, they also succumb to the necessity of playing the game and the self-interest that has become the basis of political systems.

The self-interest of the rich and powerful in every society seems to have consistently required the compromise (or martyrdom) of that society’s authentic leaders. Couple that general coercion and threat with the more personalized temptations (money, sex, power, cars, control, etc.) offered to those who would be public servants and leaders, and the result is the sacrifice of moral priorities by those climbing up the ladder and…

Actually, all of the above is a very shortsighted observation. None of these malfunctions are the fault of individual politicians, even the most despicable ones. It is the duty as well as the right of the public to install the systems and representatives that we want to be governed by. Politicians are indeed full of shit, but the public is responsible for that. We let the situation get out of control and we are the only ones who can potentially reel it back in.

Politicians don’t rate praise or blame. We do.

Supposedly, the government is in the process of saving us from several varieties of terrorists. No one has quite figured out who is going to save us from the government, and from the power brokers that bend government to their will. It seems it will have to be us.

Part of what we built works great. Part of what we built badly needs fixing. It is delusional to think that a few politicians can fix what took several hundred million people to build — and run down.

And The Very Next Ride…

From New Orleans, we got a ride with an annoyingly loud evangelist preacher. He was driving his brand new Cadillac to Houston for a big revival meeting that would reap him “many souls and dollars to do HIS work, Amen.” The man was wearing enough money in diamond rings to feed a small nation.

After about an hour of his self-righteous attempts to convert us in the name of his Lord (who, it seemed, also had a very good credit rating, no concern for humanity, and the ability to prattle on at a pace that would scare the shit out of an auctioneer), we asked to be let off at the next exit.

“But I’m going all the way to Houston,” said our host, who it seemed had mistaken himself for The Host.

“Thank you anyway, but we won’t be going with you.”

We got out of the car and walked to the nearest town for coffee. Mary showed me what the preacher had inspired her to write during her silent hour in his luxury car’s back seat. She was so impressed by the arrogance of one of his statements that she quoted it as the title.

“I Think What God Meant to Say”

“You think you know everything, in general. This seems to interfere with you knowing anything specifically. You crisscross the country as quickly as delusions cross your mind, as quickly as mindless platitudes fly from your mouth. You maintain a facade of happiness, but it is only a vehicle for salesmanship. You strive to control the weak and gain stability through materialism. Your pace is too fast, false, and graceless for the normal human to want to learn from. Your only visible value is teaching by negative example. You are what not to do. You are who not to be.

“You are trapped in the quicksand of your own outdated bullshit. How could you be expected to re-examine preconceived notions when you run so quickly past thought in order to reach manipulation? You don’t have the time or heart to pay attention to your own conscience, much less anyone else’s needs.

“Professed internal wholeness is belied by your fragmented external judgments and condemnations. You relay pretentious truths of minimal depth with maximum coercion. I heard them all a thousand lifetimes ago!

“Business gets done. Profits, not prophets, have made you pay them a heavy price. It’s not my way.

“Go on by yourself!”

Mary was a very smart woman. She was also an exceptionally kind-hearted, patient person and rarely had a bad word to say about anyone. I think the few paragraphs above are as ill as she ever spoke of another living thing.

The books Fearless Puppy On American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense by this same author are also available through Amazon or the website, where there are sample chapters from those books. Very entertaining TV/radio interviews with and newspaper articles about the author are also available there. There is no charge for anything but the complete books! All author profits from book sales will be donated to help sponsor an increase in the number of wisdom professionals on Earth, beginning with but certainly not limited to Buddhist monks and nuns.

If you missed the Introduction to the new book that will be titled Temple Dog Soldier or would like to see several chapters of it that are available for free online, go to the Puppy website Blog section. This is a book in progress. You will be reading it as it is being created! Just like you, I don’t know what the next chapter is going to be about until it is written. As the Intro will tell you, this is a totally true story — and probably the only book ever written by and about a corpse journeying completely around the world!

FEARLESS PUPPY WEBSITE BLOG

FEARLESS PUPPY ON AMERICAN ROAD/AMAZON PAGE

REINCARNATION THROUGH COMMON SENSE/AMAZON PAGE

FEARLESS WEBSITE (About Author section)

[webgeekist]

Holiday Karma Pie

I paid for someone’s groceries today.

I didn’t do it for the karma. I didn’t even do it for the charity. I did it because the lady in front of me was having technical issues, and the less-than-$30 bill was worth sparing my sanity and getting out of that line. I played it off as a Christmas thing, asked the lady to pay it forward, and assured her that, yes, I was serious when I said it was no big deal. It wasn’t. I was happy to pay to get out of there.

I have a habit of picking the worst grocery lines. I thought, for a while, it was just this new place I’m in, but then I went home for Thanksgiving and went through 20 minutes of hell waiting for the family in front of me to finish arguing with the cashier about the $20 in savings they weren’t getting because their coupons weren’t scanning, or whatever other nonsense was preventing them from scanning an entire conveyor belt full of items, $200 and two carts into the bill. We moved to another line, finally, when one seemed available nearby. When we left with our own hefty bill in the cart, they were still there, slowly scanning the rest of their items.

I am also the person who will pick up the one item out of 100 without a bar code, and take three of them to the checkout lane.

It’s funny, this idea that you can buy karma with good deeds, as if your motivations don’t count. I’ve seen The Good Place. I know better than that. My motivation today was entirely self-serving, as is most charity in this country. We overwhelmingly donate our time or our money because it makes us feel better about ourselves, not because we genuinely care about giving. We’re scared into doing the “right thing” by a book that has been mistranslated and misinterpreted for centuries, and somehow have this warped idea that doing the right thing will buy us grace. Good Karma. A spot in heaven. Optimal reincarnation. At the end, there’s always something in it for us.

I’m no better than others in that regard. I do good deeds infrequently, and when I do, it’s almost always born of convenience. “Would you like to pay an extra 63 cents to round up your bill and donate to the Children’s hospital?” Sure. “Would you like to donate a dollar to aid in wildfire relief for Sonoma County?” Whatever. “Give a dollar to homeless pets?” Okay. “Save free information!” Click.

The result is positive for the recipient. That doesn’t make the motive for donation genuine.

And it doesn’t make the universe less likely to balance out your good luck with misfortune.

I think about that a lot. I’m always grateful for the positive experiences in my life, but I’m hyper aware of the fact that they often come at a premium. There’s a trade owed the universe, and you will pay it in painful ways. Maybe it’s a hard lesson you need to learn after you land your dream job. Maybe it’s illness, recovery, and loss after you find a few years of companionship. Maybe it’s your family turning their back on you a month before your wedding to the love of your life. And oh, by the way, she’s a girl and you are, too.

I’ve enjoyed two years with my fiancée. I marry her in 23 days. How many of my family will actually show up? At this point, I’m not sure.

I took a job in the Bay Area in July. It wasn’t so sudden that my fiancée didn’t have input. She absolutely did, and though we didn’t expect to be able to afford Northern California, we’re happy we could make this work. Or, at least, that we will make this work after June, which is when her teacher’s contract runs out in Texas. I’ve raked up so many frequent flyer miles, going back and forth every spare moment, and in the airspace between SFO and DAL, I’ve uncovered an anxiety I never expected to have: a fear of flying.

I have flown a Cessna. I have logged hours in a genuine full-scale 737-700 simulator. My dad was a professional pilot at one point in his life, my uncle still is, and all his kids can fly. My grandfather flew for the Thunderbirds. My brother is on his way to being a commercial pilot. I am not afraid of planes.

I started crying and choking before walking through security. I panicked when I booked tickets. If not for some of them being booked immediately after I got the job, I would not have gotten on a plane after September, but I’ve been on five trips since, fifteen total, and for most of them the what-ifs and potential loss has consumed me to the point of paralysis. Every bump and adjustment on takeoff freaks me the fuck out. The changing sounds of the engines at different altitudes and powers freaks me the fuck out. It’s taken every moment of every one of those harrowing trips to learn how to manage the anxiety, to rationalize the noises I hear from the engines, to normalize the dips and turns out of each Bay Area airport, but come Thanksgiving, when I climbed on a plane for the first long break I’d gotten at the new company, when I was so over the project I was working on that I was relieved to be standing at another fucking gate and boarding another fucking plane, all the stress management techniques I’d gathered in my anxiety did nothing to stop me from experiencing sheer terror flying out of SJC, meeting some bumpy air, banking to head south down the coast to catch a connecting flight out of LAX and bouncing around in the turn. I landed at SAT five hours later, cried in relief when the plane touched down (I always do, and I thank the plane for getting me there. That plane’s name was Tank. I gave it that name.), and stumbled into the terminal as fast as my eighth row seat would allow.

And then, I went to my family’s Thanksgiving.

I should precede this with the statement that the nine days my fiancée and I spent at my mom’s house started fairly early on with some culture shock. My fiancée is in grad school, and one of her class assignments was a “cultural plunge.” That’s a hilarious concept, because her entire life is a cultural plunge. She was born in Houston, but raised completely in India, went to college in Singapore, and came back to the states after. Living here has been one awkward learning experience after another, and with her brown skin, it’s also often been an experience of racism, of profiling, of assumptions made by ignorant people. She can’t go through an airport without getting her bag inspected and a pat-down (that happened once with my mother, and after we told her that no, my brown fiancée really does get profiled, and my mom damn near got herself arrested chewing the TSA agents out because how dare you treat her daughter like that. Yes, my mom is privileged. But, go Mom). Her background in science has often made living in Texas not unlike living on an alien world where logic and reason are outlawed. And oh, she’s a lesbian too. Discrimination trifecta.

Anyway, she submitted the idea of going to a Catholic Church on Sunday and staying for a mass as a cultural plunge, because unlike her white middle-class native Texan classmates, this was something she’d never done before.

I mean, what are the odds that they’d pick a gospel that would somehow relate to one of the many hot-button issues that any church in a red state could pick? The Pope is fairly liberal for a Catholic, and neither my mother nor I really remembered the sermons being terribly political.

Clearly, it’s been a while since we attended church.

My mother was horrified. Here was an opportunity for her to show her daughter-in-law a bit of her culture, and her upbringing, and therefore a bit of where my own morals and morality comes from. Here’s a chance for her to prove to me that the church of her childhood might have had these tenants but the sermons didn’t get into specifics, and people mostly just tried to Love Thy Neighbor.

I was pissed. I glared hard at the deacon as he climbed off the dais and walked back to his seat, and I’m certain he saw me. I’m certain he paused for a half-step because he saw my face, which I’ve been told can be really menacing when I’m angry. I don’t keep my emotions to myself very often. I don’t have a poker face like my fiancée.

She couldn’t muster that face. She was openly crying and trying not to show it. This church – this remarkably diverse church where she didn’t stick out like a sore thumb, which had epistles in three languages, which was holding a bake sale as we walked in had on its staff a white conservative deacon who took an unrelated Gospel and warped it into a hateful political rant that didn’t hit one button. Oh no. That sermon was an IED array and it hit every single freaking target on the list.

We left during the Eucharist, and we didn’t buy a pie on the way out.

Five days after this experience that left us all in a drinking mood, and which after several bottles of wine was still a little painful, we went to the Thanksgiving party with my dad’s side of the family.

A lot of my aunts, uncles, and cousins seemed genuinely excited about the wedding. There was a bit of a shadow over one of my aunts because her father is really, really ill. Dad and my stepmother told a story about my grandmother, the escape artist, who is probably a lot more together than they think but who was put in an old folk’s home for people with memory problems about two months ago. I dread going to see her because the last time I saw her in a rehab facility, after she knocked her head and suffered the brain trauma that probably drove a lot of the symptoms she still has, it was a little difficult. It’s not going to be easy to see her in a home that isn’t actually her house. She apparently agrees, because she treats visitors to a tour of the place and asks a lot of pointed questions, like how many nurses are at the front station and whether or not you think someone can get to the parking lot from any given set of doors. She’s an inmate in a place she doesn’t feel comfortable staying, and she’s already made it to her car with an overnight bag once. But they have the keys locked up. I think she’s trying to figure out where they are.

She recognizes me. Remembers my name. Knows the wedding is soon. Asks about California. Hugs my future wife. And maybe goes through a few names before she gets some of my cousins’ and uncles’ names right, but she’s been doing that since I was four. We’re a big family. She always gets it right in under six tries.

My aunt looks hesitant to talk about her father, but she does. Both of us listen as she expresses her fears about being away, even for a day or two, because the doctors haven’t been very precise in telling the family to “spend time with him while you can.” It could be days, or maybe months, but probably not through winter because winter seems to be when so many people go, like the warmth-starved land sucks them dry. Which is weird, because we’re all from South Texas, and winter there is like 80 degrees.

We sympathize, and a pang of something I have only been able to define recently shoots through me. It feels like mortality, and reminds me of my fear of flying. It reminds me that I have this thing, this person, this state of being that I found and eventually will lose, that the loss won’t come when I’m ready for it (because that is never. I will never be ready for it). My heart hurts for her and my cousins, because the man is in his 80s like my two surviving grandparents, and that is a long and accomplished life, but it is still too soon for all of them. We have fought for my grandmother often enough and recent enough that I understand that position, too.

Hours later, before the annual turkey bowl, that aunt and my uncle, plus their oldest son come find my fiancée and I in the upstairs game room where most of the cousins retreat after lunch and before football. They ask us both to come out onto the balcony with them for a few minutes. Their younger son, recently married, follows shortly after with his new bride.

And my cousin starts….with a prayer.

“Heavenly Father, please guide our conversation today in your wisdom and light.”

I have my fiancée’s hand in my own. I hold it tighter. I know where this is about to go.

My cousin is a stalwart, honest guy. He’s the eldest son of two people who have always given where they could. They drop what they’re doing to help people, simply because they need help. They give within their means, which are better means than most. Their big and open hearts were passed to two of their three sons, both of whom were standing on that balcony with them. But they are sinners, my cousin says, all of them. And he is no better than anyone. He cannot cast judgment upon sinners as one of them, as someone who has been addicted to pornography, and has crossed lines with women. He loves us both, they all do, but surely we’ve read what the Bible says and it’s wrong, wrong, wrong.

My uncle says to us, we love you. We will not change how we treat you…but we’ve prayed about this for a while, and we can’t go to the wedding.

“We can’t celebrate the sin,” my cousin says.

And I know they love us, the best way they know how. I told them that I understood their perspective, though I disagreed, and respected their decision. We hugged, my aunt called me big-hearted, someone mentioned chocolate (it might have been me), and they started filing off the balcony.

I stayed behind and broke down in my fiancee’s arms.

See, my family had been outwardly accepting until that moment, when something finally broke enough for the first people to say something about it. And my fiancée – my tall, brown, “foreign” fiancée who has tried so hard to get my family to like her – felt instantly like all that effort had been for absolutely nothing. And I? I felt guilty for putting her in that position, for forcing us into a position where my family may never truly be okay with any of this, where a lifetime of loving and supporting each other so demonstratively may yet be lost on so many people I love, because somehow our relationship all boils down to sex to some people. Theirs is about love, but ours is about sex, and lust, and sin, and how the context of the Bible may be all about polyamorous lustful activities but a committed, loving, monogamous relationship between two women is just the same as sexually abusing guests and having orgies in front of idols and a really vague Greek word which in context probably means “men who sleep with boy prostitutes” but magically includes all people who engage in the act of sodomy and well never mind that you’re not actually doing that you’re just the same as the literal “man bed” who will not inherit the kingdom of heaven.

Maybe karma can keep that paradise, because I don’t want to spend eternity in a place where loving companionship is the same as assault. I get enough of that in the news.

It took me a while to come out of the bathroom I found to hide in, because there was no amount of water that could bring the redness down, and eventually my fiancée brought my closest cousin to find me. She saw us walk out, she counted the time, and she knew something had gone wrong. We told her what had happened.

This is the brewing rift. There are some people in our family who sit in Catholic services every Sunday and are not only going to the wedding but are genuinely excited for it. And there are some who might yet show up, but will be at the bar a lot.

Those excited for it will probably not enjoy learning why so many of us are absent. What happens then is probably not high drama, but probably won’t be business as usual either. Said my closest cousin, “I don’t know what to do with them now. You have a bigger heart than me for walking out of that situation without coming downstairs and telling everyone about it immediately.”

Twice in one day, in different contexts, two people I care about made reference to my perfectly normal sized, potentially smaller than average heart. Karma revealed the consequences of my good fortune that night, and they continue to unfold by the minute. For the first time in my life, I may miss Christmas with that side of the family this year. I suspect it won’t be the last thing we miss.

I climbed on the plane to come back to California two days later, and cried over the root of the problem with all these flights: the separation has been torture, and after the emotional week we had, it was going to be hard for us to heal apart. I put on my noice-canceling earphones and turned on Radiolab just before takeoff. It was a podcast about a girl without an identity, whose family kept her sheltered and off the grid, who didn’t have any kind of paper trail because her parents didn’t believe in social security numbers, and so never let her have one. I flew over Kerrville, where she had lived most of her life, while listening to the story. Takeoff was smooth. So was most of the trip back to SJC. And except for a really rough patch of air over New Mexico on the way to Dallas on Friday, my flights this weekend were just as painless.

I landed at SFO on Sunday and thanked the plane, as usual.

My eyes were dry.