#I will learn how to draw these old geezers but that day is not today

[awzominator]

Old Gays in love 🥰

[quinloki]

I'm usually pretty open about everything - kink, smut, sex, morality, etc. including, I hope, mental health. But I don't know that I talk about it often as I could.

I'm not obligated to share things about myself. I choose to - I'm not obligated to write, draw, or even answer asks - I do these things because I find enjoyment in them, and I personally find extra enjoyment by creating a space that's comfortable for more than just me.

Today, is a bad day. I get them - I talk about getting them I know, I'm pretty open with "don't panic, I'm just taking a day away." or lower keyed, or some such.

One of the reasons I'm like that is because about three years ago I lost an exceptionally dear friend.

A force of nature.

A... objectively good person, who was, at the time of his passing about a year younger than I was.

Far too young. Here one moment, gone the next.

Today is hard. The A/C is out, it's hot outside, there's three fans in the room and one in the window trying desperately to keep things cool and comfortable enough. Funnily enough my day job, that good old 9-5 is the least stressful thing I'm dealing with.

I passed out from the stress a bit ago. Not like, blacked out and hit the floor, but like, one minute I'm eating on the couch, the next it's 2 hours later and my throat hurts because I was leaned back snoring like some old geezer conked out for an afternoon nap.

Which was more stress - I missed waking up my spouse, missed the time I could've spent doing other things, missed - well.

It's not yet a good day.

Honestly, I'm not sure what I mean with this post. I'll be okay, I always am. I guess I wanted to let people know, as much as I appreciate that y'all look up to me, please do not ever make the mistake of thinking I'm, I don't know, endlessly in control, I guess.

I struggle, say dumb shit, make mistakes, have pretty severe panic attacks, am 100% depressed, am egregiously terrified of bugs (I cannot tell you how much I loathe the fact that the window is open right now), and certainly have plenty of times, moments... days - weeks, every now and again - where it's not ideal.

Being true to myself in the face of that is, probably, kind of cool. I can concede that much.

Whatever my point for this post was, in closing I'll say - you're not alone. You're 100% worth it. It's so much bullshit to hear "it does get better" because it does, but it's never fast enough I swear. It's okay to have it down pat and then just not. Mistakes are a part of life you'll be making them in your 70s, but so long as you can take something from learn - a lesson learned, a capacity expanded, an understanding that some mistakes will be things you repeat, despite your best laid plans, and that's okay.

I love you - as a friend, as an acquaintance, as a fellow member of the wildly variable and frustratingly complicated collective known as humans, and maybe even as something more.

I'm glad you're here.

[noyzinerd]

I guess we're all just over here posting Sterek snippets-(Part 1)

So, I guess here's one of mine, not that anyone was asking 😅 (with more snippets to come soon, after some polishing).

A snippet from "Pseudology"

Understandably, Derek hadn't even thought twice about how Stiles had known, at the time, that Jennifer was the 'second psychotic, mass-murdering girlfriend Derek had ever dated'.

Because of course Stiles had found out about his relationship with Kate. That wasn't a surprise. He was Stiles. The boy was as curious as they came.

Derek had always just assumed Stiles had snooped through his records or something else highly invasive.

If that had been the case, Derek didn't think he would've even been that upset at Stiles for prying where he had no business prying.

If that had been the case, he would've just been grateful Stiles was able to keep his secret to himself for as long as he had.

If only that had been the case.

As Stiles' memory manifested all around Derek, building itself brick by brick in a swirl of clouds before his eyes, the scene laid out to him left his pulse pounding hot in his ears.

Boyd had long since fell unconscious under the unrelenting bite of the electric current. Erica was still able to watch through lidded eyes, however, as she had always had a higher tolerance for pain.

The crack of Gerard's fist against Stiles' face over and over again was loud enough to drown out the overworked whirring of the generator. A breathless cry slammed out of the boy in a wheeze as the Argent patriarch's fists began laying into his thin chest and stomach. Each impact landed with the devastating power of a military-trained veteran against a kid literally half his size.

The moment Gerard had thrown that first punch, Derek's body had instantly reacted. He had immediately grabbed at the old man in an effort to throw him off, only for his clawed hands to slip through the memory as if he were gripping smoke. 

Three more frantic tries proved just as ineffective as the first.

Derek could only watch uselessly as Stiles attempted to curl in on himself to soften the blows, trying his best to shield his face with his only free hand.

"Today's youth could do to learn some manners. Back in my day, you would address a man by 'sir.' 'Old geezer' would've gotten you the belt, no matter if you were at home or in the middle of the market. Seems that father of yours never took the time to properly discipline you."

He could hear the moment Stiles' ribs cracked, the snap of his bones under the skin, the plump lips that Stiles always worried between his teeth when he thought too hard were suddenly split open under the force of one of Gerard’s punches and it was awful. The more he saw, the worse it felt, and the tighter his chest got. As he watched, it was as if the knife he felt in his guts twisted deeper and deeper. The softer Stiles' grunts and whimpers got—the boy's will dropping farther and farther as the abuse continued—the more Derek wanted to do just about anything to make it all stop. He wanted to be there, not just watch, but really be there. To nuzzle up against the bloodied cheek, hold and comfort the boy, hold his hands over the blackening eye and draw away as much pain as he could into himself until the simpering cries faded into his shoulder where he would hold Stiles gently to him. Derek would rub his back and apologize for anything and everything and promise that it would all be alright. But as he stood, shifted with all the power in the world, watching the person he cared for more than life itself hurting, being tortured by the psychotic father of the psychotic bitch that had left nothing but a husk of what was once Derek, he couldn't help but clench his claws tightly into fists. The pain of his claws sinking into his own palms grounded him.

He had to focus. This Stiles was long passed. Present-Day Stiles, the Stiles of now, his Stiles needed him. If Derek managed to miss the secret of this memory, then the both of them would be subjected to this senseless beating all over again. He wouldn't be the one to do this to Stiles again. So as difficult as it was, Derek held himself back.

And Derek watched.

"The Argents will always be the last to stand amongst the filth as it washes away. We are the mighty pillars of the Coliseums while the creatures, the monsters of this world, the werewolves, are nothing more than the mindless lions. Even as the spectators sit cozy, in their stands, unaware of the protection we provide, we will prevail against the test of time. While they and all of their treacherous collaborators hide in the shadows we will do what we must to draw out the darkness and purge them all. Just as my daughter did, just as my granddaughter will. You will never understand the lengths our family will go to for our cause. Why, even if she had to sink to the depths of fornicating with the beasts, that was Kate's loyalty, her devotion." Gerard took that moment to straighten up with a crack to his back. The seasoned hunter let out a relieved sigh as he stretched out his arms and wiped his sweaty brow, like he had finished putting in a long day's work tending to his farm rather than physically breaking someone apart. There was no move to continue his attack once the old man was satisfied in knowing that Stiles wasn't going to uncurl from his huddled position on the floor anytime soon. However, that didn't stop the venomous words from continuing to spill into the air like a toxic vapor. "Not that that mindless thing would have any understanding of that. With nothing more than a few honeyed words and a wink, Kate single-handedly was able to reveal the beast beneath. So barbaric and dimwitted, he couldn't even think beyond his carnal urge to breed, spilling his secrets like a little songbird at the drop of a hat. The thing was too stupid to even look after his own kind. Led her straight to his den! See, that is what makes the difference between man and animal. Loyalty and devotion. It's what I like in you, Stiles. Here you are, beaten black and blue, yet still unwilling to rat out your so-called friends. That kind of devotion keeps you human. But tell me, young man, when the next pretty little thing tosses her hair at your 'pack', where do you think their loyalties are going to lie? Do you honestly think Scott would ever pick to save you over Allison? We already know Derek wouldn't, seeing as he would rather see his family burn in favor of any warm body he can find. What about these two? Or any other members of the Hale pack for that matter? If I were to cut them down right now, do you think either of them would rescue you? Because I'd be willing to bet they'd run with their tails tucked between their legs straight to their Alpha. They are driven solely by their instincts to feed, fuck, and flee. Face it, boy. Your loyalties are ill-founded. It would probably be in your best interest to stick with your own kind in the future."

In a whorl of misty fog, the Argent basement slowly faded away to a different setting.

The werewolf found himself now sitting beside Stiles in his Jeep as he drove himself home in silence, presumably only minutes after the beating that had occurred. Derek placed his hand carefully on top of this young Stiles' incorporeal one resting on the gear shift. It was all pointless, he knew, but at least this way he could pretend that he was doing anything to soothe the pain. Derek could trick himself, for just a second, into believing that maybe, in some way, this past version could feel even the tiniest bit of comfort from him.

God, it hurt.

Stiles hadn't said a word or shed a single tear during the entire drive. The silence was the eerie photo-negative of the chattering Stiles he knew. Even when he was furious or upset, Derek was so used to the constant stream of words occasionally mixed with tears and frustrated cries that seeing this quiet boy—gazing through his windshield with the blank stare of a prisoner of war—it scared him. It was like watching an echo of Stiles clicking on his right turn-signal to go home as if he hadn't been beaten into the ground and was now bleeding from his face. This Stiles felt wrong.

He felt wrong and hurt inside in a way Derek didn't know how to fix.

If they had been outside of the memory right then, the wolf wasn't sure he would know how to fix present-Stiles either.

[Part 2 of snippets]

[flickityfics]

Ch.10 A Day Without Zuko

a/n:Warning: smut

Hi, Gaang! The construction is going to take another six months but it's coming along nicely. I've met a lot of people and they're all use to me being around, they've helped me as well so it's been great knowing everyone and being a regular here. I learned things down here doing laundry, cooking and I'm always doing my training of course, gotta stay sharp you know! Katara, I'll never underestimate women ever again. I've seen first hand how hard it is for girls to be taken seriously or respected, its brutal and outrageous. Let me know how you  guys are doing by the way, its taking a long time to see you guys again and I wish I could be over there helping you but as long as I know you guys are okay, I don't mind staying longer to help out over here so just take care of yourselves .

-Sokka

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Suki its so hard being a girl. So many creepy guys hit on you or don't think you can do a job on your own, its annoying. Then they're the girls who starts fight with each other or looking at you with disgust and pure hate, you just can't win with anyone when I'm just trying to mind my own business here. Anyways I'm working different jobs here, still searching on how to turn back when I can, mostly stuck at the library with no answers and just crossing things off that don't make sense with my situation. I'll probably have to look into some spirits like you mentioned before. Oh and what could really help me is if you can tell me different parts of my body and what it does? Maybe even draw me a diagram as a reference please and thank you, so sorry for this uncomfortable favor. I'll keep my head up and keep trying to work this out. Hope you're doing fine on your side, write me whenever you have the time, take care.

-Sokka

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Sokka mailed off the letters deciding to use his free time before work to put up the posters he made earlier of Appa around Ba Sing Se. He just wanted to do his part in helping out the gaang however he could. It took about twenty-five minutes to get all the posters everywhere before taking a snack break. After a small meal he headed to his new job.

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Sokka came into the Jasmine Dragon exhausted and ready to vent at Zuko but caught Iroh instead by himself in the kitchens.

"Hey uncle, where's Lee?" he asked curiously looking for the scarred teen.

"Ah, my nephew went on an errand getting new tea sets and tea." Iroh expertly lied.

Sokka couldn't help being suspicious since it was late to be getting stuff at this hour but he also didn't know how businesses do there whole delivery system so he'd just question Zuko later and see if their story matches up.

"Guess I'll just have to settle with talking your ear off old man." He grinned to the elder.

Iroh grinned back, "Well you know this old man is a big talker so go right ahead." He waited curiously knowing the young girls story will be interesting from the conversations he's overheard from her and his nephew.

"I just can't seem to find a job that I enjoy or liked to stick with. This is already my seventh job and I want a new one already but I'm limited to jobs because of stupid men not thinking I'm capable or not deeming the workplace fit for women. On the other hand I can't be too picky either because I have living expenses and don't want to come off as unreliable from switching jobs so much, I'd like to find my calling and enjoy a job I'm passionate about. I have skills but they can't be utilized because dumb men don't want to hear opinions from women. I know how to fish, somewhat fight, I'm good at planning, being a strategist, fast learner, strong, learning how to take charge and great with organizing and planning. I've just got all these good ideas and things to invent but no one wants to hear me out or to take me seriously." Sokka was frustrated with these types of problems, he realizes what a complete jerk he's been himself towards his sister and other girls but he's definitely gonna try being a better person seeing all the efforts they put in but don't get the same efforts back.

"What do you think uncle? Am I asking for too much?" He asked.

Iroh stroked his beard, "Let me get us some tea." He then left the young girls side to prepare the tea he had in mind.

Sokka could only lift his brow at the old man, watching impatiently as he took his sweet old time with the tea.

"Now it's not bad trying out different things to find what you're good or passionate about but I do see where it'll be difficult since most people are set in their ways and not wanting change. You are young and strong-willed, I believe you have the courage and strength within to make these changes possible no matter how slow the progress may be so long as you do not give up." Iroh really believed in his words about Miyuki, she was quite stubborn and willing to tell people off for any injustice she felt towards herself or others. It's why he's liked her so much near his nephew.

Sokka really thought about the uncle's wise words, it seemed so simple hearing it out like that. All it takes is small steps and he knew he wasn't one to give up....well, maybe only when things are really looking bad. In all honesty Sokka was sure he could keep up and handle being a girl a bit longer even though he'd really like his body back but he's gotta do what he can to live comfortably as is for now. It may not to be as freely as when he was a boy but he could handle putting some rude men and or women in there places if need be.

"Thanks for the pep talk geezer, that actually helps clear my mind, guess I just needed someone's perspective on stuff." He was happy talking with Zuko's uncle, it really helped him get things off his chest and feel heard. Normally these would be talks with Zuko but the jerk bender just had to be off on an errand.

"I'm gonna take off now, can you let Lee know I stopped by?" He asked.

"I'll let him know. I'm glad you drag him along places, thank you." Iroh was really grateful towards Miyuki always taking his nephew out, she brings more life into him he noticed.

Sokka waved off the old man as he left the tea shop. The sun was down and already the streets were lit. It was a nice, calming walk with the light buzz of late night activities. He really did enjoy the weather here in Ba Sing Se instead of being in layers, he had loose pants with a dark green tunic. As he kept walking he noticed off to the side a wanted poster that caught his eye, he walked over seeing a vaguely familiar mask but not really remembering, scanning the words he mumbled to himself, "Blue Spirit wanted blah blah may be a ghost? uh..Kidnapped Avatar, hmmm... feels like something I should know." The poster piqued his interest for a short while before he shrugged it off as no importance to him and went his merry way towards the inn.

Back at the inn Sokka felt like a nice hot bath would be perfect to relax at the end of the day. He went straight for the bathroom as he got back in his room, did some cleaning around the room as he waited for the tub to fill. He still felt awkward with his body but today he felt sure to do some more exploring.

The warmth of the water relaxed him to the bones, it felt like such bliss to feel the nice heat incase his whole body. He splashed around a bit making ripples in the water. This was the first time he took a bath with his eyes opened, he tried to avoid washing for two to three days and when he did it was only a quick rub down and rinse with eyes closed the entire time. But now? Now he watched himself as he slowly moved his hands on his new girlish thighs, he could feel hairs along the way, they were actually quite long, he knew Katara and Suki kept they're legs smooth but not how and now there's another embarrassing question to ask Suki later.

He tried again groping his chest just going for it, squeezing and moving them in all directions, it didn't really feel much to him still. He just kinda bounced them but couldn't feel anything sexual, he was sure if he had a girl in front of him and not his own body that it would be more exciting. Going a bit more down, he played with his soft little plump of a stomach, he definitely missed his flat stomach that he was working so hard on for nice abs. Eyes scanning further, he thought his feet were kinda cute not to say he checked out feet but he totally lucked out in cute feet as a girl.

                  --Warning: smut--

Now for the part he was anxious to explore more thoroughly. With a deep breath he ran his hand down feeling the dark course hairs covering his newly made vagina. He split the wet hairs just twirling them and rubbing between his fingers just curious at how they felt and looked. They felt much the same as his so no difference there...well besides the obvious missing usual protrusion. It was kind of fun playing with it and sorta felt good to. Closing his eyes he slipped a finger in his folds noticing it wasn't as wet as the other times he felt awkwardly aroused as Suki embarrassingly explained through letters. Sokka rubbed at the nub he felt and added pressure realizing the pleasure it caused, he pressed down harder rubbing slow circles. As he rubbed himself he could feel his wetness making the pleasure easier. After feeling the fun sensation for a bit he then lowered his fingers again feeling a dip into a small hole, it felt tight but once he tried to dip his finger in he flinched from the dry pain he felt. "Okay, that definitely didn't feel nice." It was actually quite scary he thought, he waited til his body relaxed once again before foregoing that area and sticking with the pleasure he got from the small bud up top. He didn't think of much besides building the pressure towards this nice pleasure he felt, it was like a nice slow yet intense build up to an amazing uncontained burst. He couldn't stop himself from speeding up his fingers and thrusting his hips slightly to catch that release, his fingers were aching with the pleasure that was sure to come. It felt completely different from his own body but totally awesome still. His hand was cramping, he could hear the splashes in the water but all he cared about was that sweet peak and nothing else, he was so close, so close.

"Ah, ah right there. " Sokka let out his moans as he felt his hips shake and hand move faster finally falling into an amazing orgasm. He had to catch his breath and remove his hand gently now feeling the unpleasant cramping. "Oh that was different but so so amazing." He tilted his head back enjoying how relaxed he felt and finishing up in the bath. He emptied the tub and rinsed once more getting out on slightly shaky legs.

                       --End smut--

He was back in his room relaxed and feeling good. He did feel kinda weird about the whole self pleasure with the new body of his but it was great once trying it. Before heading to bed, he did some light combinations of kicks and arm movements along with some breathing techniques he's learned form Zuko. He started doing them every night and morning as Zuko suggested, 'dang, that violent jerk is actually giving him good habits to learn from.' he realized. Everytime he tried to repeat how dangerous and horrible Zuko is it just gets overruled  by the Zuko he's been getting to know now. And that's how the tanned teen slept, with thoughts overflowing with prince Zuko.

[westernhoodrat]

Meet Dani

The following is an excerpt from my first book that I recently self published on amazon. If you’re interested in science fiction, adventure, or just a good story? Give it a read, let me know what you think and consider checking out The Map: Book One of the Edwina Chronicles.

Chapter 4

August 4th, 3108 AA 

Olympus, Gaea (Colonial Capitol City)

     The warehouse was grubby, grease-coated and run down; piles of star ship parts sat idly all about it. The lights were dim and the air was stale with the scent of old oil and a haze of drifting dust. It was like a giant mouse nest, that had been patched together out of scrap metal and broken engines. In the middle of this vast stillness, something stirred, tussling through the dust, occasionally clanging parts together and hammering on metal.  Beneath the layers of scrap and decay was a small blonde girl toiling away at a fighter engine, mumbling to herself. She wore a tattered old blue mechanic’s jumper and oil-soaked leather boots. Her fingers seemed held together by various bandages and bits of gauze and they were currently clinging tightly to a hammer and pair of pliers. She had a small, but lean face with a long nose and jawline. A pair of round brass colored goggles clung tightly over her bright blue eyes. Her hair was unkempt and long, the only thing holding the thicket in place was a pair of green welding goggles and a bit of wire tying it back into a ponytail. A small patch on the right breast of her jumpsuit read “Dani.”

    Dani was arguably the best mechanic ever to be dishonorably discharged from the Colonial Corps, and she had worked her whole life to be so. Her father had been a mechanic, her father’s father before him and so on for almost eight generations. But unfortunately Dani had a fondness for making unorthodox modifications to regulation equipment; one such modification had literally blown up in her face. Now, she found herself stuck in an enormous warehouse on a dead planet, trying to piece together old ships and sell scrap just to get by. 

    “Be an ace mechanic Dani!” she muttered to herself, mocking the advice her father had given her years before. “It’s a great career oppawtunity!” she balked in her heavy Gaean accent. She angrily ratcheted a nut on to a bolt. “This war’ll never end! Don’t you worry love! You’ll always ’ave me!” She shook the parts in her hand. “Then the old geezer goes an’ dies!” She let out a heavy sigh, looking around at the enormity of the pile around her. She was a small speck in a sea of particles and shadow, trying to swim her way out. She rubbed her forehead vigorously “You’re alright Dani, deep breafs old girl, deep breafs.” 

     She  had been just a girl of eight when the war started. Her father was arguably the best human mechanic in the galaxy at the time, so he joined up and for nearly eight years Dani and her father “lived off the fat,” as he used to call it. But when she turned sixteen it was her turn. She was at the top of her class in basic, outpacing her fellow students by light-years. It wasn’t fair really Dani had practically  grown up inside an engine block. To her it was as comforting as her mother’s womb. She had advanced to deployment nine months ahead of schedule and at his request served in her father’s division. But her father never lived to see the Colonial victory. It turned out that stomach and lung cancer were the reward for all his hard work in the war effort and for the first time that she could remember, Dani was alone. She became angry and over time her skills were overshadowed by her grief. She began to experiment and modify things out of boredom and frustration. Then one day she’d managed to modify an engine on board a frigate without the proper authorization, it had exploded, almost killing all two hundred and eighty crew members on board. They discharged her, instead of sentencing her to a penal colony, leaving her to rot on the surface of the rotting corpse of Gaea. 

     It had been hard at first. When she’d stepped back on the surface from Gaea’s orbital blockade she didn’t understand what had happened to humanity. Before she had gone into orbit the planet was lush and green, but when she came back, all victory had won mankind was a homeworld that couldn’t give anymore in the way of resources. Gaea had been stripped and mined and farmed to the point of exhaustion. The soil was sterile, the water was poisoned and they lived in a constant, storming, dust-ridden wasteland. But the war had been won. The soil was sterile, the water was poisoned, and humans lived in a constant, dust-ridden wasteland. But the war had been won.

     There had been more people on Gaea when she’d first stepped back on the ground. Some were just trying to get by and others were eating them alive, sometimes quite literally. Roving gangs of violent, broken men, back from the farthest reaches of the galaxy had taken what they learned in war and turned on the very people they’d been fighting for. The learning curve had been steep in the beginning, but over time she’d learned that it was survival of the fittest. She hadn’t killed anyone, she didn’t want to for that matter, but she had given a number of fellows a good clout on the head with a wrench when they came around trying to take her things, steal her water or worse, she never let them though, not once. After a while the gangs in her area figured out that they better not come around the old warehouse looking for trouble, because Dani could take care of herself. After she’d established those boundaries life got a little easier. She managed to sell what little scrap she could to folks looking to patch up homes and huts after the storms, she’d rewire engines to provide heat or cold as needed. But that didn’t stop her from thinking, dreaming, hoping that some day she’d get out. 

     Suddenly she heard a loud crash from the far side of the hangar. 

     “What the ’ell was that?” she whispered as she shot up and began looking around frantically. Another clank came from her left, echoing through the large building. She grabbed her large pipe wrench and went running in the direction of the noise. She slowed her pace as she came to a corner near the building’s entrance, pressing her back to the wall, raising the wrench to her chest and gripping it tightly. 

    No. she thought. Not again, her heart began to race as the thought of fighting off the gangs and robbers made her fear for her life, made her wonder if they had grown bold enough to attack her again, or worse, managed to find real weapons, guns and the like. It made her wonder if today was the day they’d get her.

     She gently peeked around the corner to find a heavily armed man and what appeared to be a dog with a bomb strapped to its chest. 

    Robbers! she thought as she bit her lip. The man was glancing around the room as the dog seemed to almost mutter at him with a series of groans and whimpers. 

    “It’s alright Nugget, I think the computer was right, we just need to have a look round. Try to relax.” He turned and smiled at it before it barked back at him in response. His accent was different than how any of the thieves she know spoke. He sounded like the people in the High Command, the big-wig military types who were the only ones allowed out of the muck and mire on Gaea. They lived in a great black tower complex which was guarded like a fortress and had access to what few resources were left on the doomed planet. For a split second the pair unknowingly turned their backs to her. 

     Alright Dani girl, ’ere’s your chance, she thought, taking a deep breath and leaping out from behind the wall, flying at the man and swinging the pipe at his head. 

   Quickly and without warning the man turned around, reached out and caught the wrench with a thud, just before it reached his temple. “Oh hello!” he said with a devilish smile. He ripped the wrench from her hands and pushed Dani to the ground with his boot, dropping her weapon with a dust laden thud. Dani crashed flat on her back with her legs in the air. The force of her landing made her fuzzy as she tried to draw focus back to the pair. The dog was snarling, hackles up, poised to strike. The man looked down at her in delight. 

   “Who the ’ell are you?!?!” Dani shouted at them.

    The man placed his hand on his chest. “I am Captain Ashley Odessa Cumberge and this is Nugget.” He gestured towards the dog, who was still snarling at her, its eyes nearly popping out of its skull. “Nugget?” She looked up at him. “Heel.” He smiled at her as she immediately relaxed and moved to a seated position. He stood up straight and extended his hand to help her up. “Sorry about that, but you were about to hit me in the head with a rather large wrench.” He grinned. “I don’t know about you, but I’d say that’s just a little rude.” Dani eyed him skeptically until she took his hand, pulling herself up. 

    “What do you want gov?” She shrugged at him wiping her hands on her pant legs. 

     “Ah! Yes, well we are looking for a mechanic.” He pulled a small, blue handkerchief from his breast pocket and offered it to her. 

    “Well you’ve found one.” She grimaced at him, blowing her nose with his hanky. 

    “Indeed.” Ash nodded. Now it appeared it was his turn for skepticism. “But we are looking for a very specific mechanic. Specialist Daniel Colbert, so if you could perhaps point us in his direction it would be much appreciated,” he finished as she handed him back his hanky. Ash stared at it for a moment in minor disgust. “Please, call it a gift.” 

    “Thanks,” she replied, shoving it into her pocket. “Well that’s me mate,” she said, still dusting herself off, only half paying attention to him. 

    Ash paused for a moment and eyeing her with a frown. “You?” he raised an eyebrow.

    “Yeah.” She replied looking down at Nugget.  “Hi doggy!” She smiled as Nugget began to wag her tail. 

    “Daniel?” Ash continued his eyes glancing around. 

    “Yeah,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “My dad was brilliant wiv a wrench, but he couldn’t spell to save ’is life. So he wanted a Danielle, got a Daniel. But call me Dani.” She stuck her hand out to shake his. Ash shot her a fleeting, half-hearted smile before gingerly shaking hers.

    “Specialist.” Despite the smile, his face went slack and his doubts about her identity floated in the air, as heavy as the dust between them.

    “What’s wrong?” she scoffed at him.

    “You’re a world class, ex-military mechanic?” He forced another smile as his brows drew together. 

    “Yeah why?” She sassily put her hands on her hips, cocking them to the right. 

    Ash eyed the thin, mousey girl, with the rats nest of hair on her head, long crooked nose and obnoxious demeanor. He seemed taken aback. In his experience all the top military mechanics were broad shouldered, square-chinned men and while a woman in the service wasn’t out of the ordinary, one had to be particularly well educated to work on star ships. A slight, young girl whose name wasn’t spelled correctly and who spoke in a manner consistent with that of the rabble who now inhabited what remained of Gaea didn’t seem right. Her mannerisms and appearance were slovenly and simply not in keeping with military standards. 

    “I apologize.” He said softly. “I believe I have made a mistake.” He turned to exit the building.

    “Wait a minute!” she shouted, grabbing him by the shoulder, spinning him around and sticking her index finger in his face. “You can't just march in 'ere with this adorable little dog, ask me one stupid question an' expect to walk off without explainin' yourself!” She grabbed him by his collar. “Now what do you want fancy man?”

    “My dear,” he let out a little laugh and a smile, raising his palms. “I need the best mechanic in the universe to maintain my ship. It is unlike any other that has ever traveled through space. Your name was at the top of the list when I looked through the Colonial database. But now that I’ve met you, I dare say they can’t be right. No offense.” he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling his collar out of her clutches. 

    “A mistake?” she said, raising both eyebrows and rocking back on her heels, crossing her arms. “Oh really? You don’t fink someone like me couldn’t be the best mechanic in the whole universe? Why? Because I’m a girl?” Dani was turning red, as she began to tap her foot. 

    Ash again raised his eyebrow and shrugged. “Well…,” he began to explain.

    “Right well let me tell you somethin’ Cap’n Ashwin Odooly Cabbage!” she pointed her finger at him. “My father only ever taught me ‘ow to do one fing in ��is world an’ at was ‘ow to take care of starships!” She threw her hands in the air, waving them at him. “My entire life people ’ave tried to tell me I am not who I say I am! But I swear on me father's grave an’ ’is father’s before ’im that there ain't an engine in the universe I can’t fix!” She pointed at him again as her eyes widened. “And if you fink that you can judge ’is book by its cover an' walk out without a piece of me mind you’ve got it all wrong!”

    Ash stood in aghast, eyeing her for a moment. “Cumberge.” he said sharply.

    “What?” she snapped at him.

    “My name is Cumberge, Specialist.” He stood at attention. “What do you know about maintenance on a zero point energy engine?” 

    “I know ’em inside an’ out if yew really 'ave one? I heard they was too expensive to put on most military ships. Even so, we was trained at length on ’em. The principal construction is the same as a combustion, but it only works if you've got it paired wiv a jump drive an’ everyone knows they don't exist.” She calmed down as she spoke, her face turning back to the pale color it normally was, her attitude now shifting from one of anger to arrogance. 

    “Hmmmm…” Ash responded. “What if I told you we’ve got one?”

    “Right! Now who’s tellin’ lies?” She laughed. “You’ve got a ship outfitted wiv a jump drive?” she asked skeptically. 

    “We do.” Ash smiled looking at Nugget. 

    “And I'm supposed to believe you because you’ve got all those guns an’ medals, eh?” She let out a laugh. “Besides you ain’t no captain anyway.”

   “I beg your pardon?” 

    “Look at that old bomber. Blue and gold ain’t the Colonial colors no more, everybody knows ‘at. They’re black an’ red now.” She turned up her lip in a sneer. “So tell me another one ‘captain’.” 

    “Oh yes, just as I am supposed to believe you are the best mechanic in the universe because you’re covered in dust and oil? If I’m not mistaken you’re wearing the same colors as I.” 

    “You’re damn right I am!” She pointed a finger at him before thumbing her chest. “An ’is is my father’s jumper you geezer so don’t you tell I’m wearing the wrong colors.” 

    A pause followed between them as the mood grew sullen. They eyed each other a while longer, each having just as much cause to mistrust the other. Ash looked down at Nugget, who whimpered at him. “Look I don’t know if you are who you say you are but if you can get my ship to work, I can offer you a place on board.” 

    “Oh yeah? What's in it for me?”

    “Well I can’t promise much, nor can I guarantee your safety, but I can promise that it’s a damn sight better than this place.” He looked around at the piles of junk. 

    Dani paused then and thought about the years she had been there, how long it had been since she had worked aboard an actual star ship, how much she missed her father and how badly she wanted to redeem herself. 

    “What are you doin’ wiv the ship?”  she questioned. After all, this fellow was awfully strange and seemed to appear out of no place; for all she knew it could be some sort of trap or ploy to get her out of the hangar, kill her and take her stuff, or sell her into slavery. But then she remembered that nobody had guns on Gaea, except the big wigs in the tower of course, especially ones like the one this fellow had. 

    Ash paused for a moment, seeming to choose his words with care. “That information my dear is on a need to know basis; however, in the very near future we are looking to acquire a very special map.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Does that suffice?”

    Dani thought again for a brief moment. “Anything illegal?” she eyed him.

    “Ah. Well there might be a bit of trouble involved, but nothing serious.” Ash replied looking down at his dog, who squeaked back. 

    Dani looked down at her dirty boots for a half second of hesitation then said. “Alright Captain. I’ll take a look at your ship, but no funny business?” 

    “I would never dream of it.” 

    “An’ first I 'ave one more question, before we go.” 

    “Yes?” 

    She pointed to Nugget. “Why do you ’ave explosives strapped to your dog?!?!” She shouted, her brow furrowing. “She’s a cute dog an’ you don’t see many of them runnin’ around now do ya?” Dani did have an affinity for cute things and this dog was the cutest thing she’d seen in years, even if it was ready to attack her.

    Ash smiled. “She’s not a dog.“ He shook his head. “She’s a bomb.” He turned and began to walk away, Dani exchanged a look with the mutt who seemingly shrugged at her. “Come Nugget.” The dog followed him quickly as the two put distance between themselves and Dani. 

    “What?” Dani shouted, shaking her head and wrinkling her nose.

    “Coming Specialist?” Ash called.

    Dani looked around at the hangar one last time, with a sigh and then ran after them without the slightest notion of what was to come next. 

[xxxtrouvaillexxx]

Paper Cranes

 A/N: I swear that I’m working on the first chapter of LSaD, I plan to have it out by THIS Saturday! I promise that it’s coming! In the mean time, I’ve been working on this piece for a hot minute and it’s kind of just been sitting around in my drafts and in the back of my head. So~ while you wait, here is a little something something to keep the waters calm. And I needed a little something to deal with quarantine. 

Pair: Bucky x Reader (platonic)

Synopsis: Y/N is an empath... More specifically, a healer with empathic abilities, which leads to from very severe trauma for y/n but you’d never stop helping your team for the world. Even when that trauma leads you to spend a night on to roof in tears and a very heated talk with your best friend Bucky.

Masterlist

Warning(s): angst (I’m a sucker for it...), an alarming amount of fluff, as usual.

Word Count: 3,931

The Tower has been bustling with life ever since the city closed down, or more aptly, the world as it seems. Every single one of the Avengers, other than Barton himself, was closed up in the same building for the last three weeks, and the air was becoming more restless every day. And the more anxious it became inside of these walls, the world was still doing worse for wear. 

You, feeling all of that, felt all of your own worries too. Not that you let anyone in on that little fact. You’re the personal on-site doctor to the Avengers along with being one of the hero’s themselves, though you had no real special power to name in the ways of fighting. You simply were rather good at kicking bad guy butt and were a rather well-known assassin with the Black Widow herself.

And though the two of you are as close as sisters, she doesn’t even know about your ability.

“Lady Y/N!”

You whipped your head around so quickly at Thor’s booming voice, you could have sworn that you’d given yourself whiplash, but you managed to give the large man a large grin and match his excitement.

“Thor!”

Laughing, he scooped you up and off of the floor in a tight hug as if you were light as a feather. If there was anyone who, throughout the entire time of being shut up in a building with the worlds most lovably irritating heros, could keep spirits high, it was Thor. The man was like a giant teddy bear, to be frank. You could swear that the only time you ever see him get intensely serious about an issue is during a mission, and it surely wasn’t anything you were going to start complaining about now.

Letting you down again to stand on your own feet, he grinned widely and with mischief.

“I require a bit of aid, I’m afraid. Sparring with the two super soldiers seems to be only a tad bit more interesting without the use of powers.”

“Don’t let him fool you, doll. We pummeled him and he doesn’t want to admit it,” Bucky said from the doorway. Steve was coming up from behind him with a smile too.

“Well, it seems you boys have had an eventful morning then.” The humor was obvious in your voice and they all laughed, Thor of course boomed.

“Indeed!”

“Well, how can I assist you three then?”

“Just Thor today, actually. He thought it would be funny to go easy on us old geezers. Lessons learned,” Steve said grinning as he passed you with a pat on the shoulder to the kitchen.

Thor after, another, belly full of laughter, showed you the bruises that now littered his arms and torso. There were no major wounds, and it looked like it was just hand to hand sparring, though if it were anyone other than Thor the damage would have been far worse coming from the two super soldiers.

Shaking your head, you smiled and pointed him to the couch. “You might as well get comfortable while we do this. You’ve got enough bruises to keep me busy for a week,” you joked and sat down beside him. “You know the drill, eyes closed and deep breaths.”

He followed your orders without complaint and you rested your hands against his chest first and matched your breathing to his and felt the steady stream of power flow through you. It was light, airy and cool, shining a beautiful gold from your fingertips in waves. But as gorgeous as it looked, this amazing power to heal the injured was a double-edged blade.

As soon as the marks on his skin began to fade and return to its normal color, images of their match flashed in your mind. Every punch and kick that Thor received felt like a blow of your own. Needless to say, you figured it hurt a lot more for you than it had for the god in front of you. Even if you knew that you didn’t physically attain any of the damage, it didn’t dull the sharp pains that coursed through your body.

The reason you always made them close their eyes before healing them of anything, an illness, battle wounds, haunting dreams, or trauma, was because it was easier than trying to force down every wince and grimace. Sometimes it just seemed impossible, which is also the reason you tried to keep healing sessions like this to more personal settings, not that that was always possible.

After a few measured deep breaths to match with Thor’s, you moved onto his arms and repeated the process. It didn’t take long, and by the time you were finished the sharp pains had faded into something of a dull throbbing. Though you didn’t imagine that would stop anytime soon.

“I feel like a brand new man! Thank you, Lady Y/N!” He grinned and launched himself into another suffocating hug before turning to the men in the kitchen. “I will remember to not pull my punches with you two the next time around!”

“We’ll look forward to your next challenge then. But don’t go crying to Y/N next time you get your ass handed to you,” Bucky hollered back.

“Hey! Language!” You exclaimed with a laugh when you heard Steve grumble and say something about needing to forget that moment ever happened… Not that any of you ever would, of course.

You all sat around for a while before Steve went off to speak with Tony about something or another and Thor decided to find and pester his brother. ‘Which I’m sure I’ll have the pleasure to hear about later from Loki himself’, you thought with a chuckle. And soon enough it was just you and Bucky left in the kitchen sharing a peaceful silence and tea for several minutes.

The two of you had grown particularly close over the time since he’s come to the tower and in Wakanda. He was one of your closest friends next to Natasha. Because of that, you took extra care of him not that you’d ever tell him that. You took extra time with him in the evenings and during routine checkups to help him with his nightmares and the general horrors his mind puts him through. You’d be sure to brush your hand across his skin periodically throughout the day subtly to draw out any built up worries and anxieties and he usually stayed pretty close by when he was feeling extra tense.

Of course, there was a part of you that dreaded his checkups and the late nights. Not because that you didn’t want to help him, but the pain that it caused you was sometimes almost to much for you to handle. His memories that flooded through your mind when you touched, the phantom pains you’d feel... You couldn’t understand how anybody could ever do something so absolutely horrible, least of all to another human being. And it was almost incomprehensible how Bucky had managed to survive so long after all of it, but you had managed to tie that to the fact that he was the strongest man you knew.

But no matter how much you may dread those visits and the things that followed, you would never stop helping him. And you would never tell him the truth about your power. You doubted that he’d ever let you continue if he knew what it did.

“I think everyone is going out for joyride tonight, you plan on joining?” He interrupted your thoughts with a warm voice and kind smile. 

“Not likely. I think I’ll just take the evening for myself. If everyone goes out, it might actually be quite around here for a change,” you chuckled. “What about you?”

“I haven’t decided yet, but Steve is trying pretty hard to get me out this time around.”

“So, probably then?”

He laughed and nodded, “Yeah, probably.”

“Where do they plan on going, anyway? Everything is shut down right now, so there isn’t much to do,” you asked. And it was true, with a global pandemic going around, everything was basically closed down until further notice everywhere. 

He shrugged and looked to the ceiling, “Who knows. Stark thought it would be a good idea to get the quinjets out and running before they sit around to long and need a toon up. And he thought it would be good for moral if we weren’t all cooped up in the tower again for another night together.”

You guffawed and shook your head. “Oh? And having everyone cooped up in the jets is going to be so much better for team moral, huh? Tell me how that works out for him.”

                                          »»-———————-««

It was roughly 11:30 now, and everyone was still out of the tower and flying around Lord knows where and you were in the tower alone. It had been nearly two months since these halls last ran silent except for the sound of your own footsteps. Nearly two months sinces you could freely express all of the pent up rage, and fear, and pain, and anxiety that has been building up inside of yourself.

On most if not all occasions, you were a very happy person. You enjoyed your work and the people you work with. You loved your family and friends, and the world even with all of its problems... And there were a lot of problems. And normally it would just be enough to spend a day to yourself with a book or a blank canvas and paint to release everything. You tried to always look toward the brighter side of things, but recently- without a way to vent out everything you’ve been taking in, things were to much. 

So you found yourself up on the towers roof at almost midnight with tears running down your cheeks and finding it hard to catch your breath. Your chest ached. The instant that the door closed behind you and you were hit with the cool night air it was like everything just rushed out in waves. 

You screamed, and wailed, and cried. You let yourself feel everything that you had been burying. Every last punch, kicks, knife and bullet, nightmare. It all came out in coughs and harsh please and grief. For yourself and for the people who went through it all. 

“It’s not fair,” you cried. “It’s not fair!”

After what felt like an eternity and your throat was coarse from the yelling and sobs, you felt like there was nothing left to cry. You’d gotten it all out and let go of everything, finally. And you knew you would be able to face everyone tomorrow as yourself rather than the shell of a person you have been until now. 

What you didn’t know, was that Bucky was there to witness it all.

                                         »»-———————-««

When you woke up the next morning you felt a great deal better than you had the previous night. Let alone the previous week. In a rather bright mood, you woke early and decided to make breakfast, nothing special because let’s be frank- you weren’t any Gordon Ramsey. But you could make a mean stack of pancakes and eggs.

An hour later, the kitchen was flooded with tired heros and grumbled good mornings. Though you were aware that Bucky seemed to linger in the doorway a little to long and continued to stare at you throughout breakfast. You could practically feel the discomfort and tension poor off of him. He didn’t mention it though so you assumed he wasn’t ready to come to you yet.

It wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to try and handle himself first, be it a nightmare or his own thoughts he tried to take care of it first. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. But you never wanted to try and take that chance from him, so you let him be until he decided for himself.

They all happily ate their share of pancakes, gave thanks in some form or another; hugs, verbally, a slug to the shoulder, the usual. And then everyone dispersed to go about their own day. 

By the time that a week went by, you started to become genuinely concerned about Bucky. He was still tense and sticking close to you, but he wouldn’t let himself get close enough for you to touch him and draw out whatever it was that was causing him to be so worried. But he never left your side either. Everytime you left a room, a few minutes later he would follow. It was becoming so apparent that even Natasha said something over dinner, but Bucky didn’t bother to respond.

You didn’t want to take away the option of helping himself if he felt like he could, but he’s never gone longer than two days before saying something to you. It started to make you wonder if you had done something wrong or if he really felt like he didn’t need your help anymore.

Either way, you had to figure it out. The worry was beginning to choke you if you thought about it for to long. So after dinner, you excused yourself from the table and waited in the hall for Bucky to follow. 

Sure enough, after a minute he started down the hall too searching for which way you disappeared to.

You showed yourself to him and ignored his apparent surprise, “Are you okay, Bucky? Did something happen?”

His face changed, he looked hurt and sad. Like he couldn’t really bring himself to say anything or absorb what you asked. You waited patiently while he grapled for an answer. 

“What?” Was all that he managed to get out. 

“Well, you’ve been following me around a lot recently, and you only really stick to my side like this when you need to talk or help with something. But it’s already been a week and you haven’t said anything yet so I was starting to get worried that it was worse than usual or that maybe I did something wrong or that you-”

“That’s supposed to be my line!” He exclaimed, efficiently cutting off my nervous rant and giving me a turn at being confused. 

It must of been written all over your face because he quickly continued, “I was there. I saw- I heard you last week on the rooftop! How can you possibly be asking me if I’m alright!?”

Your heart stuttered to a stop at his words and you could practically feel the blood draining from your face. You didn’t even know where begin to explain why or what happened last week.

“Oh...” you trailed off and stepped back. “I didn’t know you were still here. I thought you went with Steve,” you have a humorless chuckle. “I don’t know why you’re so worried about it, I’m alright. Can we just forget about it?”

You knew it was a pathetic attempt to get him to let the problem go, you knew that there was no chance he was going to now that he’s been thinking about it for a week. 

“You were begging out there, Y/N. Begging! You can’t just tell me you’re alright and expect me to just let it go like this is nothing!”

You were silent for a long time, taking deep and long breaths to keep yourself calm before taking the corner of his sleeve and dragging him to your room. “We should go somewhere private so we can talk freely.”

He followed you without question.

                                        »»-———————-««

The two of you sat silently for nearly half an hour in your room. You felt completely uncomfortable in the situation. Usually, you were the one who was patiently waiting and comforting someone else while they thought over what they wanted to share or compose themselves. You were used to that, but being on the opposite end of that was new and something you came to learn within the first five minutes that you weren’t particularly fond of. 

Finally, Bucky decided to break the silence. “Why do you have so many origami cranes hangin’ in here?”

Your room decor was a bit unconventional, compared to that of everyone else in the tower that is. The room was covered in your own oil paintings, all the ones you deemed should never see the light of day but didn’t get rid of, couches and chairs, bookcases, and of course, countless bunches of paper cranes you’ve hung from the ceiling. Unconventional, maybe. But you loved it anyway. 

“There is a myth,” you nearly whispered it but you were sure that he caught the words anyway when he turned toward you. 

“Tell me about it?”

You took a deep breath and nodded. “It’s an old Japanese legend. It says that anybody who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by the gods. Some of the old stories even say that you are granted happiness and eternal good luck instead of a wish. But you can use the wish on anything, a recovery to illness or injury for example. Usually they’re made as gifts for special friends or family.”

Standing, you grabbed one of the many strings of cranes and gave it to Bucky. “Cranes in Japan are considered holy creatures and supposedly live for a thousand years. That’s why a thousand cranes are made, one for each year of their life. And there are some stories that even say that all have to be folded within a year and strung together on the same string by the one who is making the wish for it to actually work.” You drifted off and smiled at the strand he held and shrugged. 

He stared at you for awhile before he looked around your room again. “All of them are stung on one sting.”

“So the legend goes,” you answered. 

“But you have at least a hundred of these hanging around your room,” he awed and shook the his gently. 

“53 to be exact. There are 53,142 cranes in this room. I’m working on another one now,” you laughed as his face grew in een more amazement. 

The strands all hung next to each other. Currently you had two rows of 25 and one of three. Honestly, it was rather beautiful in your opinion. It created a sort of curtain on one of your walls filled with different colors and stories. 

“Why?” He asked softly.

“Because I have a lot of wishes?”

“No. Don’t dodge. You wouldn’t have gone through all of this effort,” he waved toward the curtain, “for yourself alone. So why? How long have you been doing this for?”

“Nearly 15 years? I usually try to fold 10 every night before I go to sleep. You would be disgusted by how much I spend on paper,” you joked but he didn’t break. You groaned, “Fine! It’s because I didn’t know what else to do, okay? People were sad and hurting and scared, I felt it, and I didn’t know what I felt like there wasn’t anything I could do to help them. And so I started to make wishes for strangers mostly, people I felt needed it.”

“Felt?”

You bit your bottom lip and nodded hesitantly. “Or saw depending on the person. And it’s not like I’d ever do it on purpose, I’d just bump into someone and see everything! And I wouldn’t be able get it out of my head. I felt like there wasn’t anything I could do, Bucky. So I wished and wished and wished for them. For everyone.”

He looked at you incredulously, “Y/N... What do you mean, “See everything”?”

You blinked rapidly a few times and grabbed three more of the strands from the wall. “These,” you handed them to him, “are yours. These are the wishes I made for you. And before you say anything, just... Don’t freak out, okay? I didn’t make all of those to upset you, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’m a healer, that’s always been who I am. But for me to be able to use that gift, I have to make physical contact with my patient. And I’ve been blessed to be able to mend body and mind! There isn’t anything in the world that would make me want to give up that gift, Bucky. But when I... touch people- anyone, Wanda, Nat, Thor, a stranger... You- I can see exactly how they got hurt mentally or physically. And I can feel the hurt too, like it were my own.”

You could barely bring yourself to say that last part, and it was barely a murmur as it were, but you knew that he heard it by the way that the color drained from his face and he slouched back a bit.

“Bucky,” you reached out for him but stopped when he flinched away from you. You swallowed harshly and continued, “I don’t hate it Bucky. I prefer it this way, really! It makes it easier for me to understand who I’m helping and more than anything else it brings me closer to them. I’m okay, Bucky.”

“Stop telling me that you’re okay! How could you possibly be after-” he paled more if that were possible as he looked at the four rows of cranes he carried now, “Oh my God. Four years, you’ve seen everyth- You’ve felt everything for four years! Y/N, I-”

“Don’t you dare try to apologise or regret coming to me, James,” you interrupted in a hurry. “If I can breathe then I’m fine. And I will never regret helping you when you needed me. You’ve never done anything wrong. And what you saw last week wasn’t usually how I deal with... Well, everything that gets piled up. Usually I go out for a day to breathe and just let go. It’s just that with everything closed down right now, I hadn’t had the opportunity in months. It got to much, that’s all. It had nothing to do with you, I promise.”

Everything you said seemed to go in one ear and out the other with him. He simply grasped the cranes tighter and refused to make eye contact. 

“Bucky,” you whispered again and reached for him one more time and this time, he didn’t turn away. His wave of emotions hit you hard, there were to flashes of images or memories, just feelings of regret and horror and shame and fear. “It’s okay,” you breathed and raised to give him a hug. “It’s okay Bucky.”

Slowly he calmed down, and his emotions subsided into ripples rather than waves. His regret eased along with his fears. He pulled away from you eventually and offered a weak smile, that didn’t necessarily confirm any suspicions that you may have that he was lying or otherwise. 

He held up the cranes and smiled, “Thank you, so much, for these.Y/N I can’t ever thank you enough for these, let alone everything else that you’ve done for me. I understand why you would’ve kept this to yourself, if I’d known sooner I’d never had come to you. But because I did- God, I can do things without begin afraid. I can go out with Steve and not freak out, or go through the night without nightmares. I’ve you to thank you for that. You’ve done more for me than I could have ever asked you, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that but-”

You smiled and shook your head, “This, Bucky, is plenty.”

[howtolistentomusic]

Dear people that think the Goodwill wants to sell your Ziploc baggie of used crayons: it doesn’t. That shit goes directly into the trash, right on top of your broken furniture. Surely you mean well when you donate, say, an old dresser with a busted leg. But good intentions can’t magically transform a ragtag crew of temp agency employees into proper handymen. 

If, however, you need an informed opinion on one of those homemade mixtapes that sometimes find their way into the warehouse, I might be your man. 

Once upon a time I managed to con my way into the world of online music writing. As one might expect from a blogger haughty & naive enough to write under the banner How to Listen to Music, many of my insights have aged terribly. But I was constantly learning from the best critics, journalists and bloggers in the field and HtLtM was gaining steam before my fragile discipline collapsed under the weight of increasing visibility. I still believe deeply in the merits of the template I created to analyze songs on Youtube, which was unlike anything on the internet before or since. Maura Johnston seemed to like it, at least. 

And yet I failed miserably at turning these creative endeavors into a sustainable career. So here I am, handling donations at my local Goodwill warehouse for minimum wage. Today old man Kenneth and I are inside the container, which is the detachable part of a freight truck the drivers dump on the dock for the roll-off team to unload. We’re placing the donations on the open edge for the guys outside to grab and toss into gaylords. Yes, the thick cardboard boxes with an open top we place on pallets to store donations in are called gaylords. And yes, my coworkers think this is hilarious. Death, taxes, and “they’re calling you!” from one roll-off laborer to another every time the term is overheard. 

***

“You dropped this,” Kenneth says as he hands me a crate of CDs. 

“If there’s no Justin Bieber, it’s not mine.” I say.

“You better cut that shit out!” David says. 

“He’s joking,” Donald tells David. 

I laugh.

“I know you!” Donald says.

“Dude, I’m a poptimist.”

“A what?“ 

Let’s start by pointing out that it’s a hell of a lot easier to be an "authentic” artist, as a certain orthodoxy of criticism dictates one should be, when your very existence isn’t under constant attack. You’re in luck, straight white dudes! Again. What a coincidence. 

Poptimism basically says nay! to all the noise. The Beatles go to Jupiter to get more stupider. Gaga goes to Mars to get more candy bars. Or college, I suppose, if your childhood sucked.

“It means I listen to pop.” Among many other genres, to be very clear. “Top 40. All the stuff you guys probably hate.”

“Bullshit!” Donald says.

I don’t know who he thinks I am but it’s clearly someone much, much cooler. 

“I thought you were smart!” David says.

“Am I no longer smart if I listen to Justin Bieber?”

“Nope!” says Kenneth.

“Oh shut up!” I say to the grizzled geezer. “Go jack off to Creedence.” 

“I’d rather get gang banged by CCR than listen to that little homo.”

You heard it here first. Listening to Justin Bieber: gayer than being gay!

“Really? Justin Bieber?” David says. “Wow. You think you know a guy.”

“Any recommendations?”

“Marvin Gaye! Stevie Wonder! James Brown!”

What’s Going On. Songs in the Key of Life. Think. These are all stone cold classics. I have a healthy respect for these artists but they aren’t in my regular rotation.

“Those guys are before my time. If we move up a few decades, I’m totally there. New Edition, Boyz II Men, Soul 4 Real …”

“Now we’re talking!”

“Bieber’s better though.”

David throws up his arms in wild exasperation, as if his favorite sports team just botched an important play. He doesn’t seem to understand that I’m trolling him.

To be clear, I do indeed listen to Justin Bieber’s music. “Baby” is catchy as hell, and the song’s DNA can be heard in other notable pop releases from the era such as Katy Perry’s blockbuster Teenage Dream and internet darling Carly Rae Jepsen’s Kiss. I also like “Never Say Never” if only for hearing Jaden Smith say “No pun intended / was raised by the power of WIll.” And for an album created by a former child star falling apart at the seams, Purpose has no business being as good as it is. Stand-out track “Love Yourself” contains the immortal roast “My momma don’t like you and she likes everyone.” And with its heavy utilization of short, staccato notes and sudden, dramatic rests, the song is my favorite example of a distinct style of guitar playing favored by many male musicians. Such “cool pauses” give these songs a slightly broken, incomplete feel that mirrors the artist’s self-assured “deal with it” tone and I love it.

Even Carlos, my arch enemy, likes “Love Yourself”. A while back we were inside the warehouse creating pallets of our best furniture to be sent to proper Goodwill retail locations. Supervisor Anna miraculously felt like hearing some contemporary hits that day and had the building’s three radios tuned to Live 105.5, our local top 40 station. “Love Yourself” played. 

“This is Bieber’s only good song,” Carlos told me. He tried to sing along but quickly lost the words. “Sing it!” he said. “I know you know it!” 

I wasn’t sure if I should be offended by being stereotyped or impressed by his accuracy. Nonetheless, it was true! I did know the words! I picked up where he left off.

”‘Cause if you like the way you look that much / Oh baby you should go and love yourself / And if you think that I’m still holdin’ on to somethin’ / You should go and love yourself.“ 

It wasn’t a particularly strong vocal performance but Carlos, somehow, was awed. 

“Daaaaaaamn!” he cooed. It was perhaps the only time I ever impressed him.

Carlos, in case it wasn’t clear, is an asshole. He’s the type of open misogynist that progressives, in our insulated internet bubbles, are shocked to realize still exist. My masculinity isn’t up to par with his standards and he likes to torture me because of it.

Carlos is off today but there’s a small part of me that wishes he was here. He’d have no trouble buying the fact that I listen to Justin Bieber. At the same time, I know I need to be careful. After all, Bieber is far from my favorite musician. But I can’t help it. Playing Bieleber is such a fun and easy way to rile up my coworkers.

“You need a lesson in quality, my boy!” David says.

“I’m all ears!” I say, but he just shrugs.

If I wanted to be really mean, I could point out that David just might be the true Bieleber in roll-off. See, David the Bieber-hating quality expert is the same David that sometimes drops me off at the bus station after our shift ends. More than once on these trips, a Justin Bieber song played on the radio. Did he change the station? Nope! 

David seems to be harboring a lot of hate for a musician whose songs he doesn’t even recognize. This doesn’t surprise me, of course, because Bieber hate is barely about Justin Bieber.

Leonardo DiCaprio. Robert Pattinson. Zac Efron. Boy bands. The Biebs. Celebrities like these are cut from the same cloth in that they’re overwhelmingly attractive in a way that draws ravenous, predominantly female fanbases. In turn, this provokes intense contempt and ridicule from traditional dudes everywhere. This is bullshit. It’s retaliation against open female desire that, in an affront to their entitlement, isn’t directed towards Man McAverage.

Evoking “quality” is no exemption from these kinds of considerations. Many people treat the word as if it’s an objective and universal set of standards everyone intuitively understands but this is nonsense. Quality is more like a self-shaped hole we attempt to carve into the world, both encompassing and reproducing our ideals, desires, prejudices, etc. It sure as hell doesn’t explain itself.

I’ve been immersed in the world of music writing for a long time. My favorite publications tend to be ones that upend the very idea of quality. The Singles Jukebox gathers a variety of writers to weigh in and score the same song, and reading wildly different takes on what makes art good or bad is enlightening. One Week // One Band achieves something similar by inviting a different writer (sometimes a professional, sometimes not so much) to take over the blog for a seven-day deep dive into a musician they love, with “no rules and no canon” dictating who that musician can be. And then there was Hipster Runoff, the defunct but brilliant meta exploration of taste and identity that often delved into the ingredients of quality that we don’t like to talk about. 

I think I ‘like’ them because they are differentiated from 'traditional music’ and 'modern indie music.’ When I listen to them, I exist on a higher plane of musical appreciation and consume products for 'all the right reasons.’

- Carles, the voice of Hipster Runoff, on Animal Collective

Quality shouldn’t be a Get Out of Bullying Your Co-Worker Free card. But after a lifetime of living with what is often considered bad taste, I’ve learned to be on the offensive just in case.

Try harder, fuckers.

[saintcheesus]

Dutch had been yelling at Arthur something fierce since early this morning, I thought that as I sat in our tent, listening to Dutch bark at Arthur for what seemed like the millionth-time today. I learned that whenever Dutch was in a mood like that, I should stay in my tent until it passed. Arthur, however, he weren’t so lucky. He never was much of a lucky feller I guess. Arthur’s the oldest, by ten years, he’s a damn geezer compared to me and I ain’t even fifteen yet! But that’s why Dutch yelled at him so much, I guess. 

I ain’t hear the exact reason, but in the morning I heard something about some ruckus in the town just five minutes from us. Dutch and Hosea just pulled a job in that town, so we had to be careful for a bit, at least, that’s what they been saying to me, I do not even go in that damn town. Arthur does though. He sneaks off in the night to go to that saloon I ain’t old enough for. The bastard don’t even bring me back nothing! He sneaks off last night like he thought I weren’t awake, but I guess Dutch and Hosea were awake too and saw him riding his horse out of here. 

He stopped yelling, but I do not know if I wanted the silence either. I was waiting for Arthur to come stomping back in, and he did come in to our tent, but he weren’t stomping. He’s a big feller but he could be as quiet as a mouse when he wanted to be. I think he told me once it was cause of his dad, but he ain’t say much more about it. He ain’t say much when he came back in the tent neither. 

“What you doin’ awake so early, John? You know you gotta sleep else you ain’t gonna grow no more.” 

He was being an ass, as per usual. He knew ain’t nothing scared me more than not being tall. I had goals of being as big as him! 

He was also trying to distract me. I ain’t so smart as him, but I know that much. 

“Can’t sleep if Dutch’s barking like that. He sounds worse than Copper.” 

Arthur was in the process of taking his shirt off. Looked like he was about ready to go to bed. It was about to hit noon. He stopped when I spoke. He looked sad when I said that. 

“I’m sorry, John. He just...he just a little angry is all. From lack of sleep, and planning for the next job and such.” 

I don’t know why he is lying to me. Even the townsfolk can hear Dutch cursing Arthur’s name. It ain’t right. 

“So why ain’t he yelling at Hosea? I only heard your name from out his mouth, Arthur.” 

Arthur ain’t like it much that I did that. I poke a lot, asked him too many things, but he says my fingers is too bony and he don’t like all them questions. I like all them questions because I like talking to him.

“You smell like whiskey.” 

“Oh and I suppose you know what whiskey smells like, huh kid?” 

“First off, I ain’t no kid--” 

He is trying to distract me again. I truly hate that it works so well each time. I take a deep breath, Arthur taught me that when I get too worked up for words, and I start speaking calm again. 

“It’s just...I know you been sneakin’ out to go to that saloon. I know you go every night.” 

Arthur’s eyes got big and he closed the flap of the tent. He knelt down to me. 

“Don’t say that so loud you idiot! Dutch only caught me the once, he ain’t know about all them other times and he ain’t need to know now.”

That’s when I realized that Arthur had a shiner that’d rival the best jewelry. 

“You got into a fight.” 

His hand went up to his right eye before he yanked it back down to his side. He ain’t say nothing to me. He just got back up and quietly kept taking his clothes off. 

“It weren’t Dutch...that hit you...was it?” 

For a moment I thought Arthur was about to knock me upside my head with how angry that made him, but then he sighed and it was like nothing. He shook his head. I hope he weren’t lying. Dutch ain’t seem like the type, but I’ve only been with these three for little under two years now, and Arthur always just seemed...sad. 

“...Dutch...he been yellin’ a lot lately, right?” Arthur looked at me real careful. Like he felt bad. Like it were his fault. 

“Yeah, he been yellin’ at you.” 

I had to ask him. 

“You okay, Arthur?” 

“Yes.” 

“...You said that too fast.” 

“Just go back to sleep, John, please. I’m tired as all hell right now, I don’t got it in me to argue with two of my folks right now.” 

He was getting worked up again. 

“I ain’t tired.”  

“No...no of course you ain’t.” 

“I was just asking if you was alright, Arthur.” 

He walked over to his bed and laid down in it. He let out a heavy breath and said, “I just need a little sleep is all.” 

He did sound tired, and sad, and angry. But everyone who knew him, learned that he was always these three things. It ain’t my heart hurt any less to think about it, though. I’m thirteen, Arthur’s only twenty-three. That’s old, but ain’t that old. Dutch treats him like he’s older than that. Much older. Arthur don’t have much time to himself on account of Dutch working him like a mule. He always got Arthur beating people up, shooting people, robbing people. But sometimes, sometimes Arthur tells me that sometimes he just wants to draw while looking at the lake behind the camp. Sometimes he just wants to pet his horse and play with Copper. 

But Dutch yells at him if he says he ain’t feeling up to it. So Arthur don’t got much choice but to do what Dutch says, and he keeps them tired, sad, and angry eyes for a little longer. Well I ain’t tired, but I’m sad and I’m angry, so I leave the tent. Hosea gives me a warm good morning but I see him marching off towards Dutch’s tent and I know Dutch is about to get an earful and that makes me smile. I call Copper over to me and we walk to the lake. It is a rather pretty lake, don’t know what makes it so pretty that Arthur just sits here and draws all damn day and night, I’d surely get bored of just staring at water. 

But I got to thinking about Arthur again and how he had a black eye and smelled like whiskey, so Dutch yelled at him. I thought about Dutch yelling at him all damn week, and then I thought about Arthur being alone. I ain’t like being alone when my pa went on his drunk rants, Dutch weren’t drunk, but I reckon Arthur felt sorta the same just now. I shouldn’t leave him alone. He ain’t never done that to me, nightmares and all. So I get Copper and we go back to the tent. I heard a sound, I ain’t ever heard no sound like it before. 

Arthur Morgan. My big brother. He was crying. 

I ain’t say nothing. I did not know what to say. He would’ve gotten mad if I spoke, would have yelled at me and told me get lost or something. It is what he should have done but he didn’t. He just kept crying, making those sad sounds and I wondered if Dutch could hear him. 

I told Copper to shush, and he sat at the foot of Arthur’s bed while I climbed on. Arthur is far from dumb, he could feel me getting on his bed and I braced myself in case he would shove me off. He ain’t do it. His back was bare, he had no shirt on. It was warm and a little sweaty from the heat. I laid my head on his back and I started to rub his shoulder carefully. We ain’t talk. Arthur just cried and I gave him a little comfort until he fell asleep. It ain’t matter to me that he snuck off to a saloon, or that he had a black eye. I just wanted him to feel okay, even for a little bit. I worried about him, but Arthur does not let anyone worry about him. 

After he went to sleep I went over to my bed. I ain’t want to leave him alone and Hosea wanted me to read some new book he stole, it is a good time to read it. Something clinked when I sat down. It was under my pillow. I lifted up the pillow and I could not help but smile. 

Arthur snuck me a bottle of whiskey. 

-------

I’m thinking of making this into a short series about John and Arthur being brothers. Maybe something along the lines of five times John saw Arthur cry and one time Arthur saw John cry or something. 

I hope you enjoy!

(PSA: I’m not trying to make Dutch an abusive asshole, i

[th3p41n73dpr1nc3]

BNHA OC Template

Name: John Roderick Porter

Pronunciation: jon : rod-er-ick : poor-ter

Meaning of Name: John: Biblical Hebrew name meaning Jehovah has been gracious/has shown favor. Roderick: Middle Latin Rodericus; derived from Old High German Hrodrich (Famous Ruler), a compound name composed from the elements hruod (fame) and rik (king, ruler). Porter: English and Scottish roots; occupational name for the gatekeeper of a walled town or city, or the doorkeeper of a great house, castle, monastery, from Middle English porter ‘doorkeeper’, ‘gatekeeper’.

Hero/Villain Name: Kingslayer

Nicknames: Scip, prince, immortal douchebag

History of Nicknames: Scip is the slang used by the SCP Foundation to describe an anomalous object, person, or place. This is always connotated in the form of SCP-[Insert SCP Number Here]. Prince was given to him as a shortened version of his self-proclaimed nickname of “The Painted Prince”. Immortal Douchebag; this nickname should really explain itself.

Aliases: Mr. Death, Agent Porter, Captain, the Grim Reaper

Nationality: American (Ex Patriot)

Affiliation: SCP Foundation; SCP Foundation Ethics Committee; The Cult of Jashin

Student Number: N/A because he is a teacher.

Quirk: Quirkless. His abilities are not the result of a quirk. They were obtained through anomalous means.

Anomalous Abilities: Reincarnated by the god of death (Jashin) in order to follow His will with the myriad of siblings he has that also inhabit this world. He is invulnerable to physical damage and upon offering a blood offering, (usually his own heart by cutting it out of his chest), to be blessed by Jashin, he may access a heightened state that excels his physical capabilities to rival All Might’s. The heightened state will only last as long as the heart he as offered stays beating. As a new heart regenerates within his chest, the heart outside will gradually decay. When the new heart has fully regenerated, he no longer has his powerup. He is experienced with the use of most firearms, several forms of martial arts, including bladed weapons training, from his centuries of service to the Foundation.

Birthday and Astrology Sign: [REDACTED]

Birthplace: [REDACTED]

Death Date: [REDACTED]

Death Place: [REDACTED]

Age: ~ 475 - 500

How old does he look: Mid-Twenties

Mental Age: 12-50 (it depends on the kind of mood he’s in)

Gender: Cis-Male

Orientation/Sexuality/Preference: Prefers Alternian men. Humans began to bore him after so many failed relationships. On his first try with an Alternian, there was immense friction (giggity) but the two of them eventually learned to love and crave one another’s company through and through. (Total Bottom Bitch but still masc.)

Appearance:

Eye Color: Neon Pink

Eye Shape: Average/Round

Do they wear contacts/glasses: Both; he will keep a pair of regular brown eyed contact lenses if he is feeling a need to blend in with less effort. Glasses are more for the fact that he loves how fashionable and hates that he actually needs them.

Hair: Bleach/Bone white. Kept in a neat and tidy undercut with the hair always styled back. Light stubble on his face as well, (slightly lighter than Aizawa).

Weight: 86.2 kg

Height: 180.3 cm

Body Build: Toned/Lean. He has slight disgust for people who take their muscle masses too far. Looking like a Greek god is one thing, but it is an entirely different issue for those who “go beyond”.

Body Shape: Elongated Downward Trapezoid

Complexion: Fair skin, no wrinkles despite his [REDACTED] age.

Cup Size: [REDACTED] (lol)

Blood Type: [REDACTED]

Handedness: Right handed. (Sidenote): Prefers a bladed weapon over firearms or fists but will use the firearm if he’s in a hurry or his hands if he wishes to experience the intimacy of a kill if it’s personal.

Hand Type: Average Sized/Proportional to his body. (Practiced Hands).

Nails: Clean, Well Maintained/Manicured.

Movement:

How does he walk: Carries himself well, walks with a purpose. Typically tries to keep an average pace as he feels that if he is moving too quickly it will likely raise suspicion.

Posture: Tall/Imposing, vulnerable when he is with his troll husband.

Flexibility: Can do all sorts of things with his body.

Voice: Booming when needed, (used to train recruits). Can sing relatively well if he’s had a decent amount of liquor. Not too deep but not too high pitched either.

Speech Mannerisms: None, he is very good at orating, especially since he is a teacher at UA. Orally gifted. (Approved by Arcita Porter).

Scars: “Y-Shaped” autopsy scar, outer/inner arms and legs are riddled with cut marks from sacrificing. Back is covered in whipping scars as well as deep scratch scars from his troll hubby.

Birthmarks: None

Piercings: Ears, does not wear anything in them anymore. Had snake bites when he was much, much younger, but the holes have filled in these days.

Tattoos: Inner right forearm where scars are not as prevalent; inverted equilateral triangle inside a circle, the symbol of Jashin. Above and below this tattoo are the names of friends and esteemed colleagues that he has lost throughout the centuries. Inner left forearm has the insignia of the SCP Foundation, along with additional names of friends and colleagues. Arms and body are riddled with various runes (blood, moon, and daedric), all of which are paying religious homage to Jashin.

Facial Structure: (Will be devoting more time to bring you an actual picture of this when my drawing skills improve as I have just started drawing and am nervous about butchering my muse).

Statistics:

Power: 4.5/5.0 Stars A-

Speed: 3.0/5.0 C (Regular) : 4.8/5.0 A (Heightened State)

Technique: 5.0/5.0 A+ (He’s an old geezer he knows what he’s doing).

Intelligence: 4.9/5.0 (Experience far outweighs youth in his case).

Extra Explanation: The man is centuries old. He has no issues getting his hands dirty, as he has a long career of doing so for the sake of the Foundation’s secrecy, and acquisition of scips. He was one of the first pairs of boots on the ground when it came to rounding up individuals with quirks in an effort for his superiors to document and study what was at one time considered an anomalous humanoid. Ironically enough he met his current husband through the same way. He is loyal to the Foundation but he still has enough of a brain to think for himself. As a great agent once said with his dying breath, “You ain’t machines. You ain’t tin soldiers. You’re people, men an’ women who do the shit nobody else can do. An’ people make a choice. There’s a damned big difference between doing’ the job because you were told to, an’ doin’ it because it’s gotta be done.” Although he detests some of humanity’s more harsh decisions, he will still lay himself on the front lines if it means the protection of the masses. He does not usually talk/brag about his faith, but he has no problems answering honest questions about it with honest answers. Questions pertaining to his past/current career however are met with the typical response of “it’s classified”.

The reason he is as old has he is was essentially my own personal compensation since a genetic trait taking over 80% of a population of a number > 7 billion would take an immense amount of time. The reason that history is not nearly as long as it normally would be is because there was an GH-0: Dead Green House Scenario where the Foundation had to utilize the site located in SCP-2000. Shortly before shit hit the fan for the world a new anomalous virus was discovered that allowed humans to obtain superpowers. The virus was immensely contagious and would register as a recessive trait in the human genome that carriers often went unnoticed and were often successful in flying under the Foundation’s radar. All it took was a few of the recessive carriers to live amongst the general populous for the virus to take effect; the Foundation only being able to notice this after it was too late and reluctantly giving up efforts to confine individuals with quirks, a.) because their cells were filled, and b.) because quirks became generally accepted. However, that doesn’t essentially mean that the Foundation chose to stay uninvolved.

Eventually, through manipulation of their allied nations’ governments, they were able to obtain specimens to research on, which allowed them to design and manufacture a variety of products that ran from containment procedures and tools that the police forces of today are often found using, to various types of clothing and products that are aimed to be sold specifically towards individuals with quirks. The profits of these products go straight towards the Foundation’s budget as maintaining a global fascist coalition of a pseudo secretive shadowy organization with little oversight can tend to be quite expensive. (To be clear, none of the aforementioned products have anomalous properties, they are strictly for selling to the masses to increase funding efforts).

Description of Anomalous Abilities: John Porter is a Painted Child of Jashin. This essentially means that he wouldn’t die even if God him/her/themselves was the one pulling the trigger. He has an ability known as a “Heightened State” where through the obtainment and offering of his still beating heart out of his own chest, he is able to access Jashin’s wrath, a power boost that is highly similar to All Might but without the whole huge muscled look. The power boost only lasts as long as the heart outside his body while a new one regenerates within his chest.  

Clothing:

Hero/Villain Costume: Foundation Issued Black Multicam Fatigues and Jacket, 5.11 Tactec Plate Carrier Vest, Black Hiking Shoes, a black skull balaclava, a black multicam baseball hat with a grim reaper patch on the Velcro front, a pair of Oakly Straight Jacket sunglasses with the Fire lenses, a durable over the ear headset with a microphone, a pair of Oakly Pilot gloves, and a military sapper backpack.

Equipment: (All Foundation Issued). Preferred primary weapons of choice are the M4 carbine and the SR-25 designated marksman rifle; preferred sidearm is the HK USP .45. He also has been known to carry a machete, gifted to him by the Unholy Father (Jashin). On occasions it has been known to cause people’s limbs to go missing. Where they go…nobody knows.

Uniform: He is not a student so no uniform. He does however always ensure that he is looking presentable in a three-piece suit. The colors vary as he is very gay and loves to have options.

Preferred Outfit: His husband. (Lol jk, but not really…they screw a lot). He typically likes his stay at home days where he can wear nothing but a tank top and his boxer briefs and lounge around while he is grading papers and homework assignments. Should spontaneous company show up he will wear a bathrobe.

Characteristics:

Personality: John Porter is a man who will happily sit back and observe a conversation before kicking the proverbial door in and offering his two cents. He tries to find a balancing point between giving people honest advice in ways that will not cause emotional trauma.

Meyer’s Brigg’s: ENFP, -A / -T

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Big Five Personality Traits: Gay, Calm, Intelligent, Quiet, Honest

Enneagram: 4 Individualist, Romantic

Most prominent personality trait: His calm demeanor.

Best Traits: Gay and Honesty

Worst Traits: Gay and Honesty

Likes: Clothing, Liquor, Sex with Husband, molding young minds, seeing his husband perform in concert.

Dislikes: People’s useless bullshit, overtly preachy religious people, hero’s who abuse the popularity system for monetary or status gain.

Quirks (little silly things he does): When seated he will shake an empty whiskey glass full of ice to anyone that is walking by and is physically between him and the source of his beverage, (typically a bar).

Fear: Losing control during a heightened state and hurting someone he cares about, (this has happened on more than one occasion).

Hobbies: Visiting a gun range, visiting a winery/whiskey distillery, visiting secret bars, underground fight rings.

Skills/Talents: Can cook a variety of meals from most nationalities. Takes various types of poisons regularly to quickly and easily identify them. He is fluent in thirteen languages: English, Spanish, French, Russian, German, Arabic, Chinese (Mandarin and Cantonese), Japanese, Afrikaans, Swahili, Farsi, Korean, and Italian.

Weaknesses: Arcita’s Iron Will.

Reason to keep on living: He detests humanity on occasions but still swore an oath to protect them by any means necessary.

What their self-image is like: He believes that he is a monster, and that someday all of his past sins will eventually catch up to him. But until that happens, he will try to be as decent of a person as he can while still working for one of the shadiest organizations known to man.

Religious/spiritual faith: Jashinism

How does his faith affect him: It made him an immortal douche bag.

What superstitions does he have?: Needs a cigar and/or cigarette for the end of a mission.

Coping mechanisms: Cooking, shopping, exercising/sex with husband.

Any Life Motto: “We Secure. We Contain. We Protect.” “Praise the Unholy Father.” “Goddammit John, did you take your fucking meds today?”

Favorite things: Fine whiskeys and wines, preferably aged. A one inch grouping from 250+ m away.

Health:

Physical: Flawless

Mental: Medicated

Emotional Stability: Due to a majority of the dirty work that he has had to do for the Foundation over the years, he obviously suffers from PTSD, Anxiety, Depression, and Panic Attacks. (He and his husband Arcita share a bit of the same mental illnesses). He is medicated however and makes sure to be on schedule for taking his meds properly, knowing how bad things could possibly get if he were to slip up.

If faced with a crisis, he immediately fights.

Nutrition: He tries to eat as healthily as possible to ensure that he will have the longest amount of time possible in a heightened state.

Habits: Drinking socially, smoking occasionally.

Family History: (We’re not going to talk about this, mainly because this a muse that has gone through multiple rewrites and I haven’t gotten this far yet)

Background:

0-4: N/A

5-8: N/A

9-11: N/A

12-14: N/A

14-25: N/A

25-Death: N/A

Death-Reincarnation:

Post Reincarnation: Was captured by a Foundation retrieval team. Was able to use a silver tongue and convince them to employ him.

Did he like his upbringing: Yes, he simply regrets how he left things.

How did his upbringing shape him?: Taught him the consequences of making the blatantly wrong choices, hence why he willingly went with the Foundation to work for them. It also gave him a pretty thick skin to face the scrutiny and lack of trust he faced from his colleagues in the beginning of his career.

What did he enjoy most about his childhood: His loving parents.

What did he hate most about his childhood: everything else.

Current Dream: Mold young minds and keep humanity safe.

Long-term goal: To be left the fuck alone until the apocalypse.

Family Background:

Any Friends: Benjamin Miller (Deceased), Dr. Claire Porter(?), Koryn Wong (Deceased), Dir. Alexi Harkov, Ethics Committee Representatives Greene and Harrison, Toshinori Yagi, Shota Aizawa, Grisha Neloth.

Any Family: Husband; Arcita. Son; Novuck. Daughter: Madeline.

Relationships:

OC Family Character: Arcita Porter

·         Status: Married (Husband)

·         How well do they get along?

o   Terrifically now. Although in the beginning the two of them were constantly trying to kill each other. This however slowly devolved into a flourishing kismesitude before mutual suffering brought out more positive feelings towards one another. The result of which was a longer and more sustainable relationship that eventually led to matrimony.

·         What John thinks of Arcita: “He is the man that I would trade my immortality in for and die for again and again and again.”

·         What Arcita thinks of him: “I initially saw him as a challenge. Something I could fight and dominate. These days that attitude still hasn’t changed but the context definitely has.”

·         What John calls Arcita: Papa Lion

·         What Arcita calls John: My Prince

OC Family Character: Madeline Porter

·         Status: Single

·         How well do they get along

o   Madeline hated her father at first because he left her at the hands of the adoption agencies of the US. However, upon discovering why he did this, as she herself is now an employee of the SCP Foundation, she fully understands and no longer resents him. A bonding moment happened when the two of them realized that she shared his anomalous abilities. She now enjoys any time that the two of them can have to hang out together in a secret bar and exchange war stories. She finds these to be therapeutic at times as she utilizes the fact that her father is a wealth of knowledge.

·         What John thinks of Madeline: “She and her brother are my entire world.”

·         What Madeline thinks of him: “I used to hate him, but now I can’t see any reality where he’s not there to help me through my deepest moments of suffering. Nor could I live in a world where he would not be able to walk me down the isle one day. He may not have been there in the beginning, but he has more than made up for that now.”

·         What John calls Madeline: Maddie

·         What Madeline calls John: Dad (what else would she call him?)

OC Family Character: Novuck Porter

·         Status: Single

·         How well do they get along?

o   Novuck and John are loving and endearing to one another, and there is nothing Novuck wouldn’t do for his father and vice versa. That being said, Novuck and John do not get along nearly as well compared to Novuck and Arcita. Interspecies differences aside, Novuck and Arcita simply have a better relationship, as both John and Madeline have a better relationship. Nothing to do with bad parenting.

·         What John thinks of Novuck: “He and his sister are my entire world.”

·         What Novuck thinks of John: “I’m really happy that someone as tough as he is, is one of the two best dads a grub could ever ask for. Considering the circumstances of how he found me, things could have turned out much worse. I’m very happy to have him as a father.”

·         What John calls Novuck: Yard rat. (there’s a story behind this).

·         What Novuck calls John: Dad Lusus / Father Lusus.

Canon Character: Toshinori Yagi

·         Status: Single

·         How well do they get along?

o   Due to the Foundation’s availability of amnestics, the two get along very well.

·         What John thinks of All Might: “All Might was the difference the world needed but I remain reserved to the fact that the peace he’s created is not remotely sustainable.”

·         What Toshinori thinks of John: He is a good friend and a fearsome warrior, but he is also a man who understands where the battlefield ends and where civilized life begins.

·         What John calls Toshinori: Brother

·         What Toshinori calls John: My friend, John (any variations of his name).

Canon Character: Shota Aizawa

·         Status: Single (tho John occasionally tries to set him up with Mic).

·         How well do they get along?

o   They have a steady working relationship, but they do not typically socialize on a personal level.

·         What John thinks of Aizawa: “Aizawa is what I would call a more effective hero. The press constantly gets in the way and has a tendency to butcher whatever they can only make out in front of their faces. They never see the bigger picture and it is foolish to pander to their desires. It is for this reason that the shadows are the place where a hero can truly shine.”

·         What Aizawa thinks of John: “He is a crazy man that should not be allowed to have a firearm.”

·         What John calls Aizawa: Sleepy Kakashi, Broody Spiderman, Sir Sleepsalot.

·         What Aizawa calls John: Crazy bastard, loose cannon, overtly covert.

Canon Character: Enji Todoroki

·         Status: Married (?)

·         How well do they get along?

o   They don’t. John has to ensure that he is not in the same room as this man, else an accidental misfire could occur. To him, Endeavor represents everything that is wrong with the hero system. He would not willingly pull the trigger on the man in front of a room full of witnesses, but if orders came in from his respective Foundation handlers saying that Endeavor needed to go, he certainly wouldn’t hesitate to follow through.

·         What John thinks of Endeavor: “I think he’s a cunt.”

·         What Endeavor thinks of John: “Who is John Porter?”

·         What John calls Endeavor: Fucknut, cuntbag, dipshit, fuck knuckle.

·         What Endeavor calls John: Immortal Douchebag.

[saiyukisecretsanta-blog]

When Morning Breaks

For @junkerfox by @imaginarydragonling (imaginary_dragonling on AO3)

Surprise! I hope you like this gift!

Title: When Morning Breaks Pairing/Characters: Sha Gojyo & Cho Hakkai; Sha Gojyo & Genjo Sanzo Genre: Outer Space AU; Astronaut AU Rating: Teen & Up Warnings: Some foul language Optional: Playlist on Spotify

“Home Command, come in, Home Command.” Gojyo counted to three before pressing the intercom button again. The signal at mission control back on earth should have alerted someone that he wanted to talk by now. “Home Command, come in, Home Command.” Gojyo didn’t know what the signal was, but he hoped it was a big flashing red alarm. With sirens. And whistles. “Home Command, come in—“

“WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY?!”

“Ohhh, so you are alive and listening!” Gojyo couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face at the rage in his flight director’s voice. Genjo Sanzo sounded like he was several notches above his usual eight on the irritability scale.

Excellent.

“I was beginning to think that you were all dead…” Gojyo said. “And I’d come home to the zombie apocalypse and have to shoot you all to survive.”

“If you were here, I’d put a bullet through your brain.”

“Whew, woke up on the wrong side of bed did we? Or haven’t you had your morning cigarette yet, eh Sanzo?”

“That’s Genjo to you, Sha. And none of your goddamned business!”

“Yes sir, Genjo Sanzo-sama.” Gojyo raised his hand in a mock salute even though Sanzo couldn’t see him.

“You’re such a shithead, Sha. And you’re late. Where’s your status report?”

“Well, somebody didn’t pick up when I called.” Gojyo tucked his hands behind his head and kicked off from the control panel wall.

“I had other matters to attend to. I’m not your babysitter.” Gojyo smiled at the aggravation in Sanzo’s voice.

“Sorry. I forgot how busy you must be, running a whole mission control center by yourself.”

“Piss off!”

Gojyo laughed. “What’s been happening back there? You’re crankier than usual these days.”

“Never you mind.”

“Must be something big then.” Gojyo braced his hands against the wall to halt his momentum. He flipped over and kicked off again with practiced ease. “Come on. What’s been happening down there? Share the gossip will ya?”

Silence from Sanzo, and Gojyo was eyeing the intercom button again when Sanzo’s voice crackled in his ear, “Is your newslink working?”

Gojyo twisted his head to scan the panel of lights and switches that made up the control system of his spacecraft. He spotted the green light on the bulb after a moment of searching. “Yeah…”

“Read the damned news yourself.”

“Aww, come on Sanzo. Maybe I just want to hear your voice.” Flip. Kick. Float. “It gets lonely up here, ya know?”

“Disgusting. I better not be in any of your perverted fantasies.”

“Oh, would you like to know? Let’s see, there was last night when—”

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

Gojyo cackled. “C’mon Sanzo… It’s so fucking boring up here. Humour me with a story.”

“Go read a book then. Isn’t the ship library full of them?”

“They’re all so boooringggg. Nothing but audio films about human nature and the histories of war. Not even a cartoon porno among the lot of them. Whoever stocked this baby up must have been an old geezer.”

“Hmph, sounds educational. Maybe you could learn a thing or two and fill that empty head of yours.”

“Hey, my head is plenty full. I’ve got all these fantasies about you in here.”

Gojyo grinned and did two more laps between the walls of the control compartment while Sanzo ranted about kicking his ass and shooting him when he got back to earth.

Gojyo waited until he heard Sanzo drawing deep calming breaths and the tell tale drag of a cigarette before Gojyo drawled, “So, I guess that’s a ‘no’ on the story then?”

There was the shattering of a cup and the clatter of files and papers hitting the floor from Sanzo’s end of the line. Gojyo reminded himself to get something nice for housekeeping and janitorial services when he got back as he listened to Sanzo redecorate his office.

“Just give me your damned report,” Sanzo grit out after he had finally finished cussing out Gojyo.

Gojyo rated Sanzo at a nine point five and figured he had pushed him enough. “Righto, Sanzo-sama~~”

“Oh, this will be the last time we talk for awhile.”

That made Gojyo sit up. Although ‘up’ was a relative term when one was floating in zero gravity. “You going on vacation or something, Cherry-chan? I know you don’t have a girlfriend, so it can’t be that you’re getting married and going on your honeymoon…”

“Shut up. It’s none of your business.”

“I disagree. You’re leaving me for someone else and you won’t even tell me what she looks like? Does she have a big rack?”

“…”

“Is she prettier than me?”

“…”

“It’s actually a boyfriend isn’t it.”

“I SAID IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, YOU PERVERTED COCKROACH!”

“Sanzo, we’re friends, right? You know you can tell me if you got demoted—”

“If you must know,” and Gojyo could clearly visualize the vein throbbing at Sanzo’s temple, “I have to go oversee a training mission.”

“Wow wow, Mr-High-and-Mighty supervising a training mission? Don’t you have subordinates for that?”

“None that are competent, clearly.”

“What’s wrong with this guy?”

“He’s a promising candidate, but apparently can be quite the handful.”

“That’s what they said about me and look how I turned out!”

“All the more reason for me to nip this in the bud and beat some sense into him now. You’re a lost cause.”

“Oh stop. You’re making me blush. Sounds like the little monkey is about the get some training. You should hand him over to me when I get back. I could give him some tips.”

“Not a fucking chance. He’s stupid enough to believe what you say too.”

“Aww, he sounds adorable. I can’t wait to meet him.”

Gojyo thought he heard Sanzo mutter ‘over my dead body’ under his breath, and decided to switch gears to more pertinent matters.

“So, who’s your replacement going to be? Not some brown-nosing intern right? I need a professional here.”

A pause before, “You’ll see soon enough, Gojyo. I gotta go. They keep calling me about the twerp. It’s annoying. Your new flight controller will check in with you at the usual time tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

“Naww, you’re going to leave me hanging, Sanzo? After all the pictures of the moon I took for you…

“You’re letting a chick take over right? Please tell me it’s a chick, Sanzo. Sanzo? Sanzoooooo!”

Gojyo knew when to give up. Sanzo was probably long gone and Gojyo wasn’t feeling like enough of an ass today to annoy anyone else at mission control. He had had enough fun winding up Sanzo to last him a while. Gojyo blinked. He was going to miss him.

Space was boring. It was quiet, empty, cold. Gojyo worked out, ate, attended to bodily functions. He even started on an audio book, a Chinese classic. He got through about five minutes of it before he gave up and shut it off. Gojyo blasted music from the speakers and waited for sleep to claim him.

Alarms were blaring. White and then red. White and red. White. Red. She was white. The water was red. The tub was full. Red. The water was spilling over. Red. Pooling around his ankles. Red. Soaking his pants. Red. The water was cold. Shouts. Screams. The scent of copper was overpowering. He couldn’t breathe—

Gojyo’s eyes snapped open, gasping for breath. His ears were ringing, but it was just the ship’s intercom begging to be answered.

Someone was trying to reach him.

Gojyo ripped his sleeping bag open, was waylaid by the tangle of straps anchoring him to the sleeping alcove before he freed himself and kicked off the wall to shoot the ten feet or so across the main hub to get to the control compartment. His shoulder slammed into the wall as he flipped the switch to open his coms channel.

“What the everloving fuck is the emergency Sanzo?! If the ship’s not headed towards a collision course I’m gonna roast your ass!”

Silence. Though, he was sure that there was someone there because he heard their sharp intake of surprise, could almost hear the gears turning in their head at his less than courteous response. Odd, Sanzo never hesitated to give Gojyo a piece of his mind.

“My apologies.” Gojyo froze. That wasn’t Sanzo. The voice was male, but the tone and timbre of it was all wrong. Unless Sanzo has caught a head cold that made his voice higher in register, milder… sadder? “Did I wake you, Mr. Sha?”

“Err…no, no, I was awake at umm I mean it’s already six-oh-six…oh fucking hell that’s early.”

“Do you not rise at oh-five-hundred hours everyday, Mr Sha?” The way the voice said it, Gojyo didn’t know if he was supposed to be ashamed for not being up at the crack of dawn or reassure the voice that the notes he had on Gojyo’s schedule were, in fact, correct.

“Oh-five—? Oh no, fuck no. I mean, I know check in is supposed to be at six, but Sanzo never cared. Heck, he’d murder me if I called at six before he had a chance to read his paper. Much better to wait til eight when he’s got at least two cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes in him.”

“You check in late because you’re afraid the flight director will murder you in space? All the way from earth?”

Gojyo didn’t know if he should be insulted or amused. “Hey, the man’s a demon. If there’s something he wants, he’d move heaven and hell to get it.”

“Ah. Yes. I suppose that is rather like him. I still have to log your report though.” There’s a delicate pause. “Could you…?”

“Oh shit man, sure. Here’re my specs.”

Gojyo recited the figures and the man dutifully recorded his dictation, thanking Gojyo when they were done. He sounded young, definitely not much older than Gojyo, if at all. But he was competent. He hadn’t asked Gojyo to repeat himself, hadn’t hesitated on some of the more intricate readings, and Gojyo got the sense that he had been perfectly and thoroughly understood. Not an intern then. Gojyo wracked his brain trying to place him. Who had he known that was this calm, cool, and polite?

Too polite.

“Well, I think that is all. I will let you go and perhaps you will be able to catch up on those hours of interrupted sleep, Mr Sha.” The voice sounded contrite. Or amused?

“You gotta go huh?”

“Yes, I suppose I should withdraw.” The voice was soft, apologetic. “Good morning, Mr. Sha.”

Something stirred in Gojyo.

“Hey wait.”

“Yes?”

Gojyo let out the breath he had been holding, “You my new flight controller?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Aww, shucks,” Gojyo huffed a laugh. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you seem nice and all, but I was really hoping Sanzo would do the world a favour and get a chick on the line for me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. We’re a bit short staffed at the moment. But if you really mind, perhaps I can ask Sanzo to—“

“Nah man, it’s fine.” Gojyo located his headset and put it on. “I was only kidding. You gotta learn to live a little. Anyway, I know this isn’t the most exciting job, and I know I’m not the easiest person to work with, but I guess, what I’m really trying to say is…nice to meet you.

“I don’t know who you pissed off to get stuck with this post, but beggars and lonely astronauts can’t be choosers and I’m just happy to meet ya.”

Silence, and Gojyo wondered if he had said too much. He had a tendency to come on strong. But then the voice said, “Thank you, Mr Sha. That’s very kind of you to say.”

“It’s Gojyo. Just call me Gojyo.”

“Alright, Gojyo-san.”

“Say, what’s your name?”

More silence. And then, “Hakkai.”

Gojyo smiled. “See ya around, Hakkai.”

The line went dead and Gojyo checked the time. Four minutes to oh-eight-hundred hours. Not that it mattered. Gojyo found that time held little meaning in space where there was no sunrise or sunset. Gojyo sighed. He let the monotone droning of the narrator from the audio book he had abandoned yesterday lull him back to sleep.

“Let’s play twenty questions.” The words slipped out before he could stop himself.

He had just finished giving Hakkai his report, and Hakkai had just wished him good morning. Hakkai always hung up after wishing him good morning. Just like he had the day before. And the day before that.

“I beg your pardon?” Hakkai sounded surprised.

Gojyo tried to play it cool. “Twenty questions? Y’know… It’s a guessing game. Or a getting to know you game.” He hadn’t meant to say that. So much for playing it cool. “Whatever. I’m bored, man.”

“Hmm, I see.” Gojyo floated with baited breath as he waited for Hakkai’s response. “How do you play it?”

Gojyo’s elbows banged against the wall. When he had finished swearing, “You’ve never heard of twenty questions?! What about I spy? Truth or dare?”

“I can’t say I’m familiar with any of those.”

“… That settles it. This isn’t just about boredom anymore. Y’need an education.”

“I do?”

“Yup. Here, I’ll start. I’m thinking of something. You have twenty questions to guess it. Go.”

“Umm, what colour is it?”

“Black.”

“Is it cold?”

“Yep.”

“Is it space?”

“Gee whiz, you’re good at this.”

“Ha ha ha, thank you, Gojyo-san.”

“Beginner’s luck. Your turn. Got something?”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Boxers or briefs?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you wear boxers or briefs?”

“How is this supposed to help you win?”

“What makes you think this isn’t winning?”

“…”

“Is your silence an invitation to find out for myself?”

“You do know that this is recorded right?”

“Sanzo’s the only one who would listen to this. He wouldn’t care.”

“How do you know?”

“You’re right. He would care. He’d be furious. I’m wearing boxers by the way. Black with little red hearts. Wanna see?”

“Gojyo-san!”

“Alright, alright. Well, boxers or briefs?”

“Umm…”

“Oh, I know! You go commando like Sanzo!”

“What?!”

“Yeah, didn’t you know? Do you want to know how I know?”

“…no, I don’t think I do.”

“Aww, I love that story. I tell it all the time at parties. Or to anyone who will listen to me really. Hmm, maybe that’s why Sanzo stopped assigning other people as my flight controller. You can tell our Great Leader I told you all about it… Hakkai? You still there?”

Gojyo somersaulted and looked at the panel. The intercom light was still on. For one long moment, Gojyo thought that maybe he had gone too far, that Hakkai had simply gotten up and walked away. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened to Gojyo.

But then—

Hakkai’s laugh rang in his ears. It was a melodic sound, delightful, genuine.

“Do you do this with all your flight controllers?”

“Only the ones I like.”

“Oh, really?”

“Oh, really!”

When they had both stopped chuckling, a comfortable silence fell between them, broken only when Hakkai, soft and serious, said, “Briefs.”

They played twenty questions everyday. Sometimes Gojyo won. Hakkai won more. Even when Gojyo tried real hard. Before he knew it, a month had passed, and winning or losing didn’t matter so much anymore.

“What do you do for fun?”

“Fun?”

“Hobbies. Y’know, things you do in your free time.”

“Oh! I cook, clean, do the laundry—”

“Hold up. Seriously? You sound like an old lady.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“N-no… Are you an old lady?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m about the same age as you.”

“How do you know how old I am?”

“It’s in your file.”

“Oh… Oh right. … What else does my file say?”

“Sha Gojyo. One hundred and eighty four centimeters, seventy-five point three kilo—”

“Skip the boring stuff, man. What does it say under the personality evaluation and comments section?”

“Lecherous. Simpleton. Pain in the ass… I don’t think I should repeat the rest.”

“… Sanzo wrote that didn’t he?”

Hakkai was easy to talk to. Gojyo found himself looking forward to their chats after they were done recording the status of Gojyo’s ship. Waking up at oh-five-hundred hours didn’t seem so abominable anymore. Gojyo almost looked forward to it.

“I’ve been thinking about your question.”

“What question?”

“About my hobbies. Something I would do for fun.”

“Oh. Did you come up with something?”

“Gardening. I think I would have liked to take up gardening.”

“What do you mean you ‘would have liked to?’ Don’t you have a garden?”

“… No, I don’t.”

“Hmm, well, something to work towards I guess.”

“Perhaps.”

“Don’t you have a hobby now? What do you do when you’re not working or sleeping?”

“I… I’ve started practicing tai chi?”

“… You’re really an old lady at heart aren’t you…”

“Ha ha ha. I suppose I am.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Don’t what?”

“Take up gardening. If that’s what you really want to do. Just do it. Give it a try. If it brings you happiness, who cares what some fucker up in the sky says.”

“I sail.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I sail. You told me your hobby, I’m telling you mine. Fair’s fair.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s a nice hobby, Gojyo-san.”

“Have you sailed before?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“Shit man, you haven’t lived then. Sailing… It’s an adventure. Wind in the sails and sun on your back. And my boat, oh… This baby I’m in right now might be newer and shinier, but she’s got nothin’ on my girl…”

“He.”

“…huh?”

“He’s got nothing on your girl.”

“You calling my spaceship a ‘he?’”

“Trust me. It’s a he.”

“Alright, man. It’s a he.”

Those were good days.

After two months of talking to him daily, Gojyo thought he knew the man pretty well. Gojyo could at least tell when Hakkai was being honest and when he was hiding. From what, Gojyo didn’t know. There was more to Hakkai than met the eye. Or the ear, for that matter. However, it wasn’t his place to pry. But sometimes, it made him wonder.

Especially on the bad days.

“It’s raining, isn’t it.”

“Ha ha ha. Wow, Gojyo-san. How did you know?”

“Sanzo hates the rain. He gets grumpy and closes in on himself. Becomes even more of a crab ass. You’re like him in that sense.”

“I’m a crab ass?”

“No, but you also shut everyone else out.”

“I’m sorry. That was rude of me. Whatever you’re dealing with is your business, man. I’m just… Eighteen months is a long time to be alone. It’s in the job description, and you talk to all these shrinks before you go, but you’re never quite prepared, y’know? What am I saying, of course you don’t know. I hope you never know either. It’s like prison. Not that I’m wishing that on you either, but, sometimes, I feel like I’m going crazy. Or like my mind is just going. It’s like a never ending journey. Alone. I think that’s the worse part. I think I could handle it if I wasn’t alone. Sorry. Give me a minute, I think one of the food packets got loose. Some days… I just wish I never woke up.”

Time wound on. Six weeks. Five weeks. Four weeks before he could dock at the International Space Station and shuttle back to earth. Gojyo felt his spirits lift. Hakkai must have sensed it too, because he was back to his cheerful self and seemed determined to keep things that way.

“What’s the first thing you want to do when you get back?”

“You planning a surprise party for me?”

“Hahaha. I can’t tell you if it’s a surprise.”

“Fine… I would have a smoke. Drink beer. Pick up chicks and definitely shag someone.”

“That’s quite the list.”

“Gotta have things to look forward to, y’know… Otherwise, what’s the point of living?”

<hr>

“You should come by sometime. I’ll be down by the docks. Look for the biggest whitest yacht in the bay. My sailboat will be right next to it, with the scuffed up hull and red sails.”

“Isn’t that painting yourself poorly?”

“Nah man, my boat—she’s a babe. What really matters is what’s under the hood. She’s got heart and she’s got soul. She’d never go down. Not without a fight.”

“I see.”

“You’ll come right? For a day trip at the very least. You’ve gotta experience the sea at least once. It’s warm and slow and rough and you’ll never know what you’re gonna get next.

“Not like space. One short struggle with the G-forces, then it’s over. Rest of the time you’re just floating, feeling your body rot away. Space has got nothin’ on the sea.”

“Why did you become an astronaut then?”

“I dunno, because people told me I couldn’t be. Why did you become a flight controller?”

“It’s something to pass the time.”

“Shit, man. That’s depressing.”

“Oh, is it? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Nah, man, it’s cool. Just…you sound like you’re on your deathbed.”

“Oh. Right.”

Gojyo twitched.

“You’re not, are ya?”

“What?”

“Dying…”

The silence was deafening. Gojyo was about to ram his fist into the intercom button when Hakkai spoke, “Gojyo-san, I want you to know that—“

Alarms wailed and the warning lights around Gojyo flashed orange and red.

“FUCK!” Gojyo punched the alarm button, muting the sirens overhead even as he stared at the screens on the control panels.

“Gojyo-san! What’s going on?”

“You tell me! I— Shit! Micro asteroids. Coming in hot! They’re going to shred right through me!”

“Bank starboard! Full blast on aft thrusters.”

The window of space that had been relatively static throughout his journey spun and wobbled with disorientating speed. There was no time to think. Hakkai directed him with laser precision and Gojyo’s acted, timing burns and bursts of speed to maneuver his ship away from the asteroids that were hurtling towards him. The spaceship whined and rattled in protest.

“Push it. You need more speed.”

“I’m already pushing it to the max! Any more and I’m going to blow this baby apart.”

“Reroute power from the side thrusters to the pod blasters. You’ll get more speed that way.”

“Are you crazy?! Did you hear the part about blasting apart?!”

“Do it. Jeep can take it. Trust me.”

Sweat beaded on his forehead and the hard knot in his stomach made him want to hurl. Gojyo could feel the ship shuddering around him, the impact of asteroid bodies reverberating through the metal and the control stick he was wrestling with.

In the madness and rush of adrenaline, Hakkai’s voice in his ear was tranquil. A bell that chimed into the void, pure and true. A beacon that promised a way out of this nightmare. Gojyo trusted him.

Gojyo survived.

“How did you know?”

“The calculations on my screen indicated that—”

Gojyo shook his head. “Not that. How did you know where to get more power from. And that it wouldn’t tear the ship to pieces.”

A beat of silence, and then, “I knew. I’m the one who designed him.”

The questions came then, welling up like a spring, beating down like torrential rain. But Gojyo held back the flood and let Hakkai speak.

“It wasn’t just me. My sister was involved too. It was a joint effort.”

Gojyo could hear it then—the smile in Hakkai’s voice, the utmost fondness with which he spoke about her, the shadow that chased his every word and mention of her. It stained everything.

“You know, she wanted to call him Hakuryuu—the White Dragon. I liked Jeep better. She pouted at me for days.” Hakkai laughed.

It was the saddest sound Gojyo had ever heard.

“I owe you a beer.”

“Gojyo, I told you, it’s quite alright—“

“Hakkai, it’s the least I can do. I mean, you saved my life and shit. How about the day I get back to earth, I’ll take you out. My treat.

“Sanzo can come too if it makes you feel better. Though if he’s coming, it’ll be his treat. He’s the one with the corporate card.”

“Gojyo, thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me. But I’m afraid I will have to decline.”

“What? Why man? If you’ve got a girl, she can come too. We can all just go out as friends to celebrate you saving my sorry ass.”

“Ha ha ha.”

“C’mon… What’s holding you back? Are you sick or something?”

“…Something like that.”

“Oh shit. I mean… I’m sorry man. We don’t have to go out if you don’t feel like it. Is it…is it serious?”

“Hmm, the prognosis is quite bleek.”

“Shit. But you can get better right? You’re going for treatment or something?”

“After a fashion.”

“Fuck man, what are you doing sitting behind a desk then? I know you’re dedicated and all that, but if I were you, I’d be out there living, doing whatever—whoever—the fuck I wanted, no fucks given. I’ll take care of your baby for you. I promise to bring her—him—home safely.”

“Ahahaha, I’m sure you will. Or rather, Jeep will take care of you.”

“Hey, that works for me too. So go on. Tell Sanzo you quit. Go live your life man.”

“I wouldn’t know where to go if I left.”

“Don’t you have friends? Family? You could go visit them. Hey, go see your sis! Crash at her place. Maybe introduce us. What do ya say?”

“Ha ha ha, she’s not very good company these days I’m afraid. Quiet. Doesn’t say much.”

“Bet ya I could get her to talk.”

“Ha ha ha. You don’t know my sister. What makes you think you could do that?”

“I got you to open up didn’t I?”

“…”

“Is that a challenge? I like a challenge.”

“You would lose, Gojyo-san.”

“Such negativity! Give me one good reason why I wouldn’t succeed.”

“She’s dead.”

“Well, shit.”

<hr>

Conversation fizzled out, and Hakkai hung up soon after that. Sleep eluded Gojyo, and the next morning found Gojyo huddled by the control panels, impatient for the red numbers in the timepiece to change to the hour when Hakkai would greet him with a ‘Good morning, Gojyo’ as was their custom. Gojyo couldn’t wait.

“Hey, Hakkai. About yesterday, I—”

“Come in, Jovian Exploration and Evaluation Pod, this is the Houtou Space Research Organization. Can you hear me?”

Gojyo paused in shock. He had another week before he was due to dock at the International Space Station where Jeep would be handed off to astronauts from Tenjiku. He had assumed that Hakkai would walk him through the docking process. Or at least be with him right up until the handoff moment. He was supposed to have another week. It was too early.

“Come in, Jovian Exploration and Evaluation Pod. Is Sha Gojyo there?”

If he hadn’t already been suspended weightless, Gojyo would have collapsed as another shock hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. Because he recognized that voice.

“Jien?”

The silence seemed to stretch on forever before the voice on the other end answered, “Gojyo! So it is you! I saw your name on the log but I couldn’t be sure. It’s so good to hear from you! How’re ya doing kid?”

“I’m fine.”

“Whew, you’ve been on quite the adventure! I always knew you’d go far. You’ve gone the furthest that any man ever has! How does it feel—”

“Where’s Hakkai?”

“Uhh…Hakkai?”

“Yeah, the guy who’s been my flight controller for the past three months.”

“Umm…” The sound of papers being shuffled crackled harsh in Gojyo’s ears. “Genjo Sanzo?”

“No, not him. The other guy. The second one. The nice one.” The one who laughed when he should cry. The one who pretended that nothing was wrong when his world was falling apart. The one who smiled when his heart was breaking. Gojyo had never seen Hakkai smile. Didn’t even know what Hakkai looked like. But it didn’t matter. You couldn’t see broken hearts either.

“Hmm, the only person listed here as a flight controller is Genjo Sanzo. Are ya sure—”

“Listen, Jien. It’s not that I’m not happy to see you, or hear you, so to speak, but why are you here? Isn’t this kind of ahead of schedule? Did something happen at Keiun?”

“Oh, yes, about that… I don’t know either. This was all rather sudden. We weren’t expecting you for another week at least. But we got the call yesterday. The big bosses talked and, well, here we are.

“I guess there must have been some emergency over at your base? I got the brief this morning and dialed in as I was instructed.

“This is quite the coincidence isn’t it? I mean, I knew you were on this mission, but there are other flight controllers, and I was already assigned to our guy on the station.

“But hey! Now I get to walk you through the docking procedure, just like I taught you how to drive. Remember that? Man, you were such a punk back then. I hope you fly your ship better than you drive. Especially after the micro asteroid field you guys went through. Man, that was a close call. Your engineers did a good job with the ship. Seems like she’s quite the trooper.”

“He.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s a he… the ship…. Nevermind.”

“Uhh, ok… Oh! Did you hear about the explosion? I mean, it was months ago but…”

Gojyo tuned Jien out. He was glad to hear from him, but the incessant chatter felt jarring, wrong somehow. It was like an itch that he couldn’t scratch, and Gojyo suddenly wished for the vast emptiness of space and the silence of his thoughts.

“…the sentencing is gonna happen really soon. Someone’s gonna go to jail. I mean, it was a catastrophe.”

“Huh? Oh, right. Listen Jien, I’m gonna go. Gotta make sure stuff up here is ship shape when I hand him off to you.”

“Oh, is there anything you need help with? I can pull up the schematics—”

“No. Jeep’s fine. I just have my shit all over the place. I’m gonna start cleaning up. I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

Gojyo hung up before Jien could protest. Gojyo pushed himself towards the fore windows where he could see the Earth and the moon approaching, small blue-green and white orbs that would only grow with each passing day. He was closer to home and other human beings than he had ever been in eighteen long lonely months.

He had never felt more alone.

It was good to hear from Jien. It really was. Gojyo just found that he didn’t have much to say. So Gojyo listened to Jien describe his life in Tenjiku. Their Research Director was a genius, but he sounded like an asshole. Jien talked about the team of people he now worked with. The guy he supported was actual royalty. He talked about him a lot.

“He kind of reminds me of you.”

“Devilishly handsome and a smartass?”

Jien laughed, full throated and hearty. Gojyo’s lips quirked up in a smile.

“Ayy, I won’t deny he looks a bit like you… But no, that’s not what I meant.” Gojyo waited. “You’re both stronger than you look, but more fragile too… I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“Hey, what happened with mom… It wasn’t your fault.”

“I could have done more.”

“You did enough. Look where we both ended up! Not bad for a couple of orphans they said would never amount to anything.”

“There was no stopping you. Not when you had your heart set on something.”

“You didn’t do so badly yourself. This Kou guy sounds like a real dream to work with…”

“Hey, Gojyo?”

“Yeah?”

“If you have some time off, you can always come visit, you know?”

“Yeah… Maybe I will.”

Docking was easy. Jien walked him through it and Gojyo piloted Jeep into place without a hitch. Just before entering the airlock tunnel, Gojyo paused at the threshold, his bag of meager belongings slung over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you back on earth, buddy.”

Gojyo patted Jeep’s hull and stepped out of the ship.

The guy who greeted Gojyo was shorter than him, with long dark red hair like fire and serious violet eyes. He nodded and floated to the side, allowing Gojyo to enter the station unimpeded.

“Thank you~~” Gojyo said as he moved past him.

The station felt enormous, alien after the familiarity of Jeep’s white walls. Music echoed down the curved corridor, the electric guitar riff a stirring anthem of defiance. Gojyo grinned.

“You Kougaiji?”

“Yes. Are you Dokugakuji’s brother, Sha Gojyo?”

“Yep, that’s me. How long you staying up here?”

“I have three more months before the next astronaut arrives. Someone from the Western Space Coalition. You’re not coming back, are you?”

“Me? Fuck no. I’ve had enough of space to last me a lifetime.”

Gojyo made his way towards the pod that would shuttle him back down to earth.

Jien talked over the com to both of them as Kougaiji helped strap Gojyo into the seat of the pod that would take him back down to earth. When Kougaiji had double checked his harness, Gojyo held out his hand.

“It was nice meeting you, Kougaiji. I know my brother likes to nag, but he’s got your back and he’s looking out you.”

Kougaiji’s eyes widened, the seriousness of his expression lifting to let something softer shine through for the first time. Gojyo smiled.

“Hey, Jien. Take care of Prince-sama here and keep him company. I guess I’ll see both of you again soon.”

Gojyo laughed as Jien spluttered into the com and he kept the grin on his face as he hurtled through the atmosphere. He was going home!

He wondered if he would find anyone waiting for him.

He was looking, for everything he couldn’t see.

He was listening, for something he will never hear.

He’s waiting, for nothing.

The cigarettes were stale. The beer tasted flat. The conversations were trivial, as were the people he chatted up.

Gojyo tried to enjoy himself. He really did. It was his party after all. Or at least, his return and the success of the mission had been used as an excuse for the employees of Keiun Space and Aeronautics Institute to let loose and drink the night away. Gojyo plastered a smile on his face, tried to listen to the chick with the ponytail who was bouncing in front of him as she told him about her six cats.

Gojyo’s eyes scanned the crowd, gaze drifting over the party goers packed in the hall. The attendees weren’t just people from mission control. Engineering, R&D, even corporate administration had been invited, and turnout was high.

A flash of gold caught his eye. Gojyo excused himself from ponytail girl and made his way through the crowd. But by the time he had pushed through the throng of people, Sanzo had disappeared. Gojyo swiped another flute of champagne from the nearest waiter and downed it in one gulp.

“Do you have a last name?”

“Umm, no. Can’t you look him up with just the name I gave you?”

“He’s not in the system of current employees. I could check the archives, but I need a full name for that.”

“Couldn’t you just look again? He works here. I spoke to him barely two weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry, Gojyo. I’ve checked twice and his name doesn’t come up anywhere. I’m sorry…”

“Hey, it’s ok… No, don’t cry. It’s my bad… I must have misheard. I can still come and pick you up at eight? Yeah? Ok… I’ll see you then. Oh, one last favour. Could you please be a dear and give me a list of everyone who worked on the JEEP project…”

No one has seen him.

No one has heard of him.

No one knows.

The list was useless. Even Google failed. He was a ghost. A memory. A dream.

Gojyo refused to believe that.

After a week of hanging around mission control, ignoring the raised eyebrows and curious stares while he tried to catch more than two seconds of Sanzo’s attention, Gojyo had had enough.

He marched into Sanzo’s office armed with newspaper, coffee, and Sanzo’s favourite brand of cigarettes one morning. Sanzo only raised an eyebrow and glowered as Gojyo slammed the offerings on his desk before kicking the door shut and locking it behind him.

“Hakkai? As in Eight Prohibitions? Never heard of him. What kind of idiot would think that’s a real name.”

“Maybe the idiot who was abandoned by his assigned flight controller.”

“Whatever. It’s clearly a pseudonym.”

“You let the guy take over for you. Surely you must know his real name.”

“If you want to know, ask him yourself.”

“And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that when I don’t know who he is?”

“Not my problem.”

“Seriously?! Maybe I should just go up to every single person in this facility and ask them—”

“Haven’t you done that already? How’s that working out for you.”

Gojyo slumped into his chair, head cradled in his hands. He missed the way Sanzo’s eyes flicked up from scanning the newspaper spread out in front of him, deep purple gaze regarding Gojyo over wireframe glasses.

“At least…tell me that he’s ok?”

“Sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Sanzo!”

“Look, why are you so fixated on finding him? You should be enjoying your time off. Sailing around the world or whatever. Stop wasting your time.”

“I can use my time however I want. And I’m not fixated, alright? The guy saved my life.”

“He did his job.”

“Is it too much to want to know who he is, so that I can thank him in person?”

“He must really want your thanks if he went through all that trouble of making sure you knew his name.”

“Gods, can’t— Can’t you just tell me? I just want to know that he’s ok. I won’t even try to contact him. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“…”

“…”

“Maybe, he doesn’t want to be known.”

The day was hot and the sun beat down on him without mercy. His neck and shoulders were already starting to sting. If he wasn’t careful, the skin would burn and peel.

Time for a break anyway.

Gojyo secured the last bit of rigging and reached for his bottle of water, dumping the warming liquid on his head. It was cool against his skin and the water that dripped from his recently shorn hair tickling his bare shoulders.

Gojyo turned and made his way to the shaded part of his deck. The docks were quiet, deserted. Even the gulls were silent, unwilling to waste their energy caterwauling in the stifling heat.

Movement. There was someone walking along the boards, prowling between the luxury yachts moored around him. The figure was tall, of medium build, dressed in a white collared shirt and loose dress pants, walking purposefully between the boats, turning to look at each one of them as he passed. His stride was slow, languid, and his form shimmered in the heat like a mirage.

Gojyo groaned. Another rich bastard shopping for a new toy to impress a new girlfriend or fulfill some empty romantic notion of the sea. It was odd that this one was alone, but Gojyo wasn’t keen on making small talk with anyone who was loaded enough to buy their own yacht for the sole purpose of being able to say they owned it.

The man was heading his way, and sunlight glinted off the man’s glasses as his head turned towards Gojyo. Gojyo cursed, turned his deck chair very pointedly away from the docks and the approaching stranger, and flopped down into it. Gojyo closed his eyes, pulled his bandana over his eyes and reclined, tucking his hands behind his head.

With any luck, rich bastard would get the hint and leave him alone. He really didn’t feel like talking today.

Coolness. A shadow had fallen over him, or the sun had become hidden behind a rogue cloud in the blue cloudless sky. Gojyo opened his eyes and looked up into the face hovering above him. Rich bastard had a pretty face he’d give him that.

“This boat’s not for sale. If ya want to ask about the yacht, you’re outta luck, buddy.”

Bastard smiled. Shit. He had a nice smile too.

“Hard as it may be for you to believe, I don’t want your money.” He was younger than Gojyo had first thought. He looked to be around Gojyo’s age, not yet old enough to find owning his own yacht an attractive way of flaunting his personal wealth. Rich bastard’s son then. “Look, buddy. She’s not for sale and no amount of cash is gonna convince me to take you and your friends’ drunken asses for a joyride.”

The man withdrew, but only to look up and down Gojyo’s boat, like he was thinking about how much his baby was worth so that he could offer it—and maybe some—to Gojyo to tempt him. The nerve of him.

“Hey! I told you, she’s not for sale. Why don’t you take your daddy’s credit card and go fuck off to your own piece of sunshine? You take one step onto her, you touch this boat and I will personally haul you to the police station and report you for private property infringement.”

“What if I had an invitation?”

Gojyo’s protests died in his throat. Because that voice. That voice. He knew that voice.

Gojyo sat up slowly, afraid that if he moved too fast, the image before him would waver, disappear like a illusion, and he would wake up alone to the rocking of his boat and the lonely cry of the seagulls.

“Ha… Hakkai?”

And the smile on the man’s face said it all. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and Gojyo found himself staring at startling green eyes, deep as the lonely sea and just as secretive, just as sad.

“Good morning, Gojyo.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

Hakkai told him the whole story. How he and his sister had been engineers. Their experiment had gone wrong. There was an accident, a whole lab had been reduced to rubble. He had been careless, too ambitious, too proud. His sister and a thousand people had died because of him. There was an extensive investigation. Sanzo had been involved, had confronted him about it, and advocated for him at the trial. He let him work at flight control while decisions were made and judgements were deliberated. The sentencing hearing came sooner than expected.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”

“I tried to find you. I looked for you, asked after you. No one knew who you were. Is Hakkai even your real name?”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s Cho Gonou. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Gojyo wasn’t mad. He’s not hurt that Cho Gonou didn’t trust him enough to tell him his name. Gojyo understood abandonment, the feeling when the world has been ripped away from you, when you are left with nothing but yourself, your sins and shortcomings.

Gojyo fought—still fights. It was exhausting. Cho Gonou fought too, and if he needed a respite and had chosen to hide, faceless, behind the name of Hakkai, Gojyo understood.

“So, what are you going to do now?”

The sun hung low on the horizon, warm rays hitting the red sails of Gojyo’s sailboat and bathing them in crimson.

Gonou shrugged, a simple up and down motion. Gonou was smiling, but his eyes looked towards the ocean, lost.

“You can come sailing with me. I could use an extra pair of hands.”

Red captured green. “These?” Gonou held up his hands—smooth, unblemished, beautiful. “I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

Gojyo grinned. “I’ll walk you through it. It’s not Jeep, but she’s got the same spirit.”

“She?”

“She. Definitely she.”

“Are you sure you want me, Cho Gonou, mass murderer and wanted criminal, at the helm of your beloved boat, manning your rudder?”

“You’re right. I don’t trust Cho Gonou. This invitation is for Hakkai.”

“I think I can manage that.”

THE END

[thisdaynews]

America, the Gerontocracy

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/america-the-gerontocracy/

America, the Gerontocracy

Hate crime is rising, the Arctic is burning, and the Dow is bobbing like a cork on an angry sea. If the nation seems intolerant, reckless and more than a little cranky, perhaps that’s because the American republic is showing its age. Somewhere along the way, a once-new nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal (not men and women; that came later) became a wheezy gerontocracy. Our leaders, our electorate and our hallowed system of government itself are extremely old.

Let me stipulate at the outset that I harbor no prejudice toward the elderly. As a sexagenarian myself, not to mention as POLITICO’s labor policy editor, I’m fully mindful of the scourge of ageism. (I’ve had the misfortune on occasion to experience it firsthand.) But to affirm that America must work harder to include the elderly within its vibrant multicultural quilt is not to say it must be governed almost entirely by duffers. The cause of greater diversity would be advanced, not thwarted, if a few more younger people penetrated the ranks of American voters and American political leaders.

Story Continued Below

Let’s start with the leaders.

Remember the Soviet Politburo? In the waning years of the Cold War, a frequent criticism of the USSR was that its ruling body was preposterously old and out of touch. Every May Day these geezers would show up on a Moscow reviewing stand, looking stuffed and fix their rheumy gaze on a procession of jackbooted Red Army troops, missiles and tanks. For Americans, the sight was always good for a horselaugh. In 1982, when Leonid Brezhnev, the last of that generation to hold power for any significant length of time, went to his reward, the median age of a Politburo member was 71. No wonder the Evil Empire was crumbling!

You see where this is going. The U.S. doesn’t have a Politburo, but if you calculate the median age of the president, the speaker of the House, the majority leader of the Senate, and the three Democrats leading in the presidential polls for 2020, the median age is … uh … 77.

It doesn’t stop there. We heard a lot last November about the fresh new blood entering Congress, but when the current session began in January, the average ages of House and Senate members were 58 and 63, respectively. That’s slightlyolderthan the previous Congress (58 and 62), which was already among the oldest in history. The average age in Congress declined through the 1970s but it’s mostly increased since the 1980s.

The Deep State is no spring chicken, either. POLITICO’s Danny Vinik reported two years ago that nearly 30 percent of the civilian federal workforce was over 55; two decades earlier, it was closer to 15 percent. Of course, the entire U.S. workforce is getting older, thanks to the aging of the Baby Boom—that giant Hula-Hoop-shaking cohort born during the prosperous post-World War II years from 1946 to 1964. But the federal bureaucracy is even older, apparently because civil-servant Boomers, despite their defined-benefit pensions, are less inclined than their private-sector counterparts to retire.

America’s ruling class is of course more nimble than the Politburo ever was. And indeed, the two Democratic presidential candidates proposing the most dramatic departure from the status quo are Bernie Sanders, who’ll turn 78 on September 8, and Elizabeth Warren, who’s 70. Still, there’s something to be said for youth and vigor. John F. Kennedy (then 43) tapped into that feeling in his 1960 bid to succeed Dwight D. Eisenhower (then 70) when he campaigned on the slogan, “Let’s get America moving again.”

Why should we care how old our leaders are? As the journalist Michael Tortorello reported three years ago in POLITICO Magazine, cognitive functioning declines dramatically on average after age 70, and the types of intelligence that decline most sharply on average are “the capacity to absorb large amounts of new information and data in a short time span and apply it to solve problems in unaccustomed fashion.” It would seem advisable to have at least afewmore people in the higher reaches of government on whom we can rely still to possess this skill in youthful abundance.

The cognitive-function issue is not a theoretical one, if political commentators are to be believed. The past month has brought near-daily speculation about our 73 year-old president’s state of mind. “He’s getting worse,” CNN’s Brian Stelter said earlier this month. “We can all see it. It’s happening in public.” In recent weeks, Trump has canceled a meeting with the Danish prime minister because she wouldn’t discuss selling Greenland; suggested that his own Florida resort be the site of the next G-7 conference; and been quoted suggesting that hurricanes be deterred from reaching landfall in the U.S. through the detonation of nuclear weapons. “If Donald Trump were your father, you would run, not walk, to a neurologist for an evaluation of his cognitive health,” John Gartner, a psychologist, wrote in an AprilUSA Todayop-ed.

Whether Trump’s cognition is declining is a question muddied by a wealth of evidence that his speech and behavior were always at least somewhat erratic. (This is a man, recall, who more than 30 years ago confessed to giving his second-grade music teacher a black eye, which may not even be true.) A similar ambiguity surrounds Joe Biden, 76, whose well-documented history of verbal gaffes helped sink two previous presidential candidacies, one of them (similarly) more than 30 years ago. “Biden has always made gaffes by the bushel,” Fox News commentator Brit Hume (who’s also 76) tweeted earlier this month after Biden appeared to think he was in Vermont when he was really in New Hampshire (a state of no small significance in the primary race). “But some of his recent ones suggest the kind of memory loss associated with senility.” (Trump and Biden’s physicians, I should note, have vouched emphatically for their mental fitness.)

Even if the speculation that Trump and/or Biden might be a little bit gaga is unfounded and terribly unfair, isn’t it strange that we’re talking about the 2020 front-runners in the same worried tone we might adopt discussing with our siblings whether Mom and Pop should still be driving? It isn’t the first time. The 2016 election occasioned more muted speculation along the same lines about Trump, and even a little bit about his Democratic opponent, Hillary Clinton, who’s only slightly younger.

None of this means a septuagenarian can’t function effectively as a political leader. House Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Mitch McConnell are 79 and 77, respectively, and by all reports they’re operating at peak mental capacity. But to affirm that not all elderly people are impaired cognitively is very different from affirming that none is.

Even the healthy older brain is, well, different from the healthy younger brain, and if you care about politics that’s worth making some effort to understand. Certain tasks are just harder as you get older, even if you’re very smart. Your mental reflexes are slower. (How do I know? None of your damn business.) It takes you longer to remember someone’s name. Multitasking is more challenging. Learning foreign languages is more difficult, and adjusting to unfamiliar cultures is perhaps a bit harder. You can overcome these obstacles if you make some effort, but not everybody—not even all American leaders—makes the effort.

The most important compensating benefit to old age is greater wisdom, which comes from experience. When you’re making decisions that affect others, it’s much better to have a deep well of experience to draw on than to maintain the mental reflexes of an auctioneer. Wisdom may be more valuable in the digital age than ever before, because the velocity of information and normative judgments on social media, cable news and elsewhere constantly threatens to make glib idiots of us all.

But here’s the rub: The aging of America’s ruling class does not automatically increase its experience level. In presidential politics, notes Brookings Institution senior fellow Jonathan Rauch, political experience, which “used to be a selling point,” has “become a liability. Voters and the public have come to see experience as inauthenticity.”

In a November 2015Atlanticarticle, Rauch plotted experience level for presidential candidates from 1960 to 2012. His graph showed a clear increase in experience level among the losers and a corresponding decrease among the winners. Gerald Ford lost to Jimmy Carter. George H.W. Bush won with more political experience than Michael Dukakis, but four years later lost to Bill Clinton, who had less. John McCain lost to Barack Obama, who’d been in national politics a mere four years.

Donald Trump, who is 73, entered the Oval Office with no political experience at all. The single greatest mental compensation that age provides was therefore unavailable to the oldest president in American history.

***

Why is America governed by old people?Maybe because it has so many elderly voters.

The American electorate is older than it’s been for at least half a century. One reason is aging Boomers. The other is the greater tendency (despite a rising mortality rate) of people who make it into old age to go on living. By 2030, every living Boomer will be elderly (that is, age 65 or older), and by 2035, the Census Bureau projects, the elderly will outnumber minors for the first time in U.S. history.

This demographic trend has an exaggerated effect on politics. According to the Pew Research Center, in the 2020 election nearly one-quarter of the electorate (23 percent) will be elderly, “the highest such share since at least 1970.” But that understates the size of the elderly vote because the elderly are much likelier than any other age group to show up on Election Day. Old peoplereallylike to vote. In 2016, for instance, 71 percent of eligible elderly voters reported to the Census that they voted. For other age cohorts, the turnout percentages were 67 percent (aged 45-64), 59 percent (aged 30-44) and 46 percent (aged 18-29).

The electorate is even older in primaries, and older still in local elections. In 2016 Phil Keisling, chairman of the National Vote at Home Institute, led a Portland State University survey of 50 cities that found the median voter age in municipal elections was 57, “nearly a generation older than the median age of eligible voters.”

The broad outlines of this trend are widely understood, which explains why, for instance, Donald Trump said in 2015 that “I’m not going to cut Social Security like every other Republican.” (He nonetheless proposed in this year’s budget to cut more than $500 billion from Social Security and Medicare, which he’d also pledged to protect, but that’s another story.)It helps explain why the federal government spends more on Medicare, which provides medical coverage to elderly people, than it does on Medicaid, which provides medical coverage to poor people. (Another reason for the difference is that the elderly require more health care.)

It also may help explain why racial tolerance seems in some respects to be in decline, as measured, for instance, by the unnerving quasi-respectability afforded white nationalism by some mainstream players in national politics (including Trump). The elderly, polls show, are in the aggregate less concerned about racial prejudice than the young. A 2017 Pew Research Center survey found a 21-point spread between the elderly and young adults (18-29) when they were asked whether racial discrimination was the “main reason many blacks can’t get ahead,” with 54 percent of young adults answering in the affirmative but only 33 percent of the elderly. The age divide on this question was almost as wide as the 24-point divide between black respondents and white.

Similarly, political support for immigration restrictions may reflect an aging electorate. Pew found a majority in all age categories agreed that “immigrants strengthen the country because of their hard work and talents,” but the spread between the elderly and young adults was 31 points, with 51 percent of the elderly answering in the affirmative but 82 percent of young adults.

It’s often claimed that the elderly care less about the future than the young, but that’s a canard. The elderly care quite a bit about what will happen to a world they spent a lifetime building and populating with their children and grandchildren. (Their lives wouldn’t have much meaning if they didn’t.) Recent polls show the elderly care, if anything, slightlymore about the budget deficit than other age groups (despite not wanting to give up Medicare and Social Security benefits), and are slightlylessinclined to complain they pay too much in taxes.

That said, the young care a lot more than the old about climate change. Polls aggregated by Gallup from 2015 to 2018 show that concern about it drops with age. Fully 70 percent of respondents age 18-34 worried “a great deal” or “a fair amount” about global warming, compared with 63 percent age 35-54 and 56 percent age 55 and up. That’s a 14-point generation gap between the young and the elderly and near-elderly.

You often hear older Americans complain that the younger generation, with its fixation on social media, can’t distinguish between fact and opinion, making it difficult for them to apply the critical thinking necessary to consume news and be responsible citizens. A 2018 Pew survey found that Americans do indeed experience great difficulty telling these two things apart: Given five factual statements and five statements of opinion, a majority of Americans couldn’t identify them properly.

But younger Americans actually scoredbetteron this test than older ones. Thirty-two percent of 18-49 year-olds were able to identify all five factual statements, and 44 percent were able to identify all five statements of opinion. Among the over-50 cohort, only 20 percent identified all five factual statements correctly, and only 26 percent did the same with the statements of opinion.

***

The final leg of America’s gerontocratic triadis its system of government. That, too, is old and a bit creaky.

We think of ourselves as a young country, and in many respects we are. But we are also, as Paul Ryan famously noted in 2016, “the oldest democracy,” provided you exclude older ones that didn’t last (Athens, Rome) and ignore various undemocratic restrictions to the franchise that persisted into the 20th century. No nation in the world has a written Constitution older than ours. And it shows.

The list of the Constitution’s anachronisms and ambiguities is long.

Article One says Congress may “regulate Commerce with foreign Nations, and among the several States,” phrasing that strictly limited the regulation of private business at the federal level until the New Deal, when the Supreme Court reversed itself and concluded the federal government’s power to regulate private business was pretty vast. Had the Founders grasped that the modern economy would all but eliminate purely local commerce—and that it could, unchecked, alter the very climate of planet earth—they might have had more to say on the subject. As things stand, the powers of the regulatory state are the subject of endless legal combat.

Article Two says you must be a “natural born Citizen” to be president, which excludes for no apparent reason Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jennifer Granholm, who previously governed two of the nation’s most populous states. The racist “birther” movement that challenged the legality of Barack Obama’s presidency (and that ushered Donald Trump onto the national political stage) wouldn’t have been possible without Article Two.

Article Two also established that presidents be elected through the Electoral College, an antique mechanism borrowed from the Holy Roman Empire that twice during the past two decades delivered the presidency to the popular-vote loser.Some people have a problem with that.

The Second Amendment frames the right to bear arms within the context of “well-regulated” state militias that no longer exist, an ambiguity that the Supreme Court interpreted in 2008 to mean the Constitution protected the right to bear arms, after holding for the preceding seven decades that it did not. Had the Founders known the extent to which the nation would tear itself apart over the regulation of firearms more deadly than they ever imagined, they might have laid down a few broad parameters.

And so on.None of this would matter much if our government were more amenable to reconsidering first principles, but that’s getting harder, too. The Constitution can be amended, and it has been, 27 times. But growing political polarization in recent years has made that difficult. Only two constitutional amendments were ratified during the past half-century (one giving 18-year-olds the right to vote and another, more anodyne amendment that makes it a little harder for Congress to give itself a raise).

Congress could perhaps pick up some of the slack, but it’s slowed down, too. According to the Pew Research Center, Congress passes fewer substantive laws today than it did 30 years ago.Increased use of the filibuster (which isnotmentioned in the Constitution, but has been around almost as long) almost certainly played a role, and a fed-up Senate has during the past decade started phasing out its use. In a provocative June 2018 essay inCommentary, the political scientist Yuval Levin posited that 231 years on, Congress had acquired a problem James Madison never anticipated: a reluctance to compete with the other two branches of government in the exercise of power. Partisanship, he concluded, had displaced ambition to legislate. Senators and representatives, he wrote, now “see themselves as players in a larger political ecosystem the point of which is not legislating or governing but rather engaging in a kind of performative outrage for a partisan audience.” Levin didn’t put it this way, but he seemed to be suggesting that Congress had grown decadent, likefin de siècleVienna, but without the solace of Sacher tortes.

A more modest theory of governmental decadence was set forward by Rauch in his 1994 bookDemosclerosis. The idea was that democracy had developed arteriosclerosis, not because its system of government was creaky, but rather because the accumulating power of interest groups over time was choking it like a weed. Demosclerosis differs from gridlock, Rauch argued, because gridlock implies that nothing gets done. In a demosclerotic government, plenty gets done. Rather, Rauch wrote, the government’s ability to solve problems is compromised because it can’t easily reassign a finite set of resources. Old allocations must continue, and therefore new allocations can’t be experimented with.

Think of it, Rauch says, like leaving a bicycle in the rain. The bicycle may be perfectly fine, but if you leave it outside long enough rust will corrode it. All things considered, Rauch says, the Constitution is in excellent working condition. But its machinery has been left out too long in the rain.

Bringing a bicycle in from the rain should be within the ability of America’s somewhat doddering polity. Our gerontocracy is a bit rheumatic, but it isn’t hopeless. Still, the task will likely be easier and go much faster if a few more young hands pitch in.

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