#a VERY surface level so they still don't know enough about them to be able to expose them if they wanted to

[ruvviks]

MORE twister valley lore if anyone's interested. it's the first story of the fractured anthology both in the publishing order as well as [current] chronological order :] it doesn't mention calamity much yet because it's still very ~ mysterious ~ about the organization but two of the main characters are in fact part of it. they're the ones who brought the gang back together for "one last gig", because they were assigned the case on account of their history with tornadoes and they thought it would be a good idea to bring the team back together for it since they used to be the best in their field :]

[3verythingiknowaboutlove]

say yes to heaven

how spencer and you deal (or don't deal) with the fact that he doesn’t want a baby anymore after coming home from prison, and you really do.

MDNI | angst

word count: 2226 warnings & tags & stuff: bau!reader, avoidant reader, avoidant spencer, no happy ending (wtf), reader wants a baby, one line about reader not having a certain religious belief, they like almost have sex, spencer undresses reader, lots of talk about a condom, they dont really fight at all?, very underdeveloped/bad description of quantum immortality author's note: heyyyyy guyss whats up..... this is a different vibe to my regular stuff and i fear it may be really ooc?? i don't know how to feel but i literally have to post or i'll go even more crazy sooo here we are!! have a delightful day, let me know your thoughts if you have any, ily!!!

Antique shops, you and Spencer have decided, are the hidden gems of this nation yet to be appreciated enough by the general public. 

Each town or city you visit is bound to have one, and going to them has become a little celebratory tradition. In the early mornings after cases are solved, right before the plane ride home, you take a look around. You’re typically the first and only ones in the store, wandering with intertwined hands and sipping on ‘2 extra foamy cappuccinos with an additional shot of espresso, please’ and occasionally, but not necessarily, choosing something to take back to D.C.

You’ve been trying your absolute hardest to fill your home to the brim– sometimes with objects, and other times with words, or touch, or the ever so valuable and fleeting concept of shared time– in effort to replace what had been lost in that three month long period when it was completely devoid of tangible, fresh love.

It’s today you’re wandering through a quaint, very cluttered shop in western Oregon, the Pacific visible from the store’s windows. 

Wheels up in an hour. Don’t be late. Hotch’s text buzzes in your pocket, but you barely glance at it– there’s something about the Oregon coast that reaches into your heart and gives it a gentle massage, enveloping you in a refreshing lack of urgency.

Spencer, in his own peaceful world, is staring at a tall wall of books. He reaches out to pick up a dusty rendition of Moby Dick, carefully cracking it open to the first few pages to check the publication date, brow scrunching as he reads. You go to peer over his arm to check as well, when something catches the corner of your eye. You let go of his hand to inspect.

A bassinet. Dark wood, surface polished to a faint sheen, with intricate little waves engraved on the sides, like the ocean’s misty outreach had come all the way into the shop and placed this here for you to see. 

You weren’t exactly sure when this now familiar ache had started; this deep, internal desire felt in your stomach for a little hand to be gripped around your pointer and for tiny onesies to fill your laundry basket, but you’re sure, with every fiber of your being, that you want it to be there.

“Spence,” you say softly, voice jarring in the otherwise stillness of the shop. “Come look.” He carefully closes the book and puts it back where it was and pads over, looking down at the bassinet. His eyebrows raise slightly.

“Wow. It looks like it was made in the 80s, maybe even earlier. You won’t find any level of detailing more recently than that, it’s too labor intensive for modern production methods. Good find.”

“I know. Should we get it?” you ask, biting a smile. He quickly meets your eyes, brow raising slightly.

“Do you want to?” he asks, voice even.

“I mean, I just think it’s really cute, with the waves and stuff.” you say bashfully, nudging it with your toe so it rocks back and forth. Spencer swallows, adam's apple bobbing.

“Yeah, I just…” Spencer hesitates. “I don't think we’d be able to bring it on the jet. It would probably snap in half if we held it in the wrong way,” he says, making your brain race even though he hasn’t said a single thing that should cause it to do so.

“Oh.”

You blink.

“No, yeah, you’re totally right. It’s too inconvenient. You should get that copy of Moby Dick instead. That edition looked cool, with the forward explaining all the names,” you say gently, pushing a smile, nudging him back towards the shelf. He goes, shooting you one last glance as you move to observe a few clocks hanging on the wall.

Spencer doesn’t reach for your hand again when he comes back.

…

The house is quiet when you arrive back home, hours later. Spencer sets his bag down by the door, and yours goes next to his to be dealt with later.

Exhaustion from the case is heavy in your limbs; the long flight and the sleepless nights are seeping into your bones, but Spencer seems perfectly intent upon kissing it better. You rest your forehead on his chest, exhaling softly, contentedly, as he presses kiss after kiss into your hair. He gently rests his hands on your waist and pushes you against the door– not as an act of dominance, like if someone were viewing you two from afar might assume, but one of simple convenience.

His hand reaches up to tilt your chin to the position he wants. Before leaning in to your neck, he pauses. 

“Are you sure you don’t just want to go to bed?” he asks. “You didn't sleep last night.” You shake your head, giving his cheek a small peck of your own.

“It’s one of those tireds where I can’t even think about sleep ever again.” 

A small smile grows on his face.

“I bet I can change that,” Spencer offers, knuckles skimming over your waist. You smile and let him tug you upstairs to your room and guide your hips to sit on the bed. His hand cups the side of your jaw, as always, lips moving to press against yours in a soft, affectionate display of his adoration. His other hand moves to your waist, squeezing, and you shiver a little in response, making him hum gently. 

His hands go underneath the hem of your top. “Okay?” he asks. You nod, lifting your arms to help. His eyes take their time tracing over you, but never in a way that couldn't be defined as sweet. His hand leaves your cheek and goes to the bedside table, sliding open the drawer. It draws toward the front left corner, as it always does, when it pauses. He turns to look at you, hesitating.

You, whose legs are now pulled up to your chest, chin resting on them. You stare at the yellow light of the lamp you and Spencer picked out months ago reflecting against those countless little squares of foil. 

Your lips are drawn inwards, between your teeth, unable to help your mind from racing to other realities, ones where every detail is the very same, except Spencer chose not to open that drawer tonight. 

…

Spencer explained the basis of quantum immortality to you a long time ago, in the early stages of your relationship, at a time so late in the night where a regular person would never be able to form coherent thoughts, let alone thoughts like these.

You were slumped over the kitchen island, peering at him as he wandered around, silently marveling at the preciousness of your boyfriend the world seemed to take for granted as he tried to get you to understand how cool this concept was.

“There’s also an interpretation of quantum mechanics proposed by a physicist named Hugh Everett which involves a ‘many worlds’ concept: essentially, it suggests that every possible outcome of an event creates its own branch of reality, meaning an infinite number of parallel worlds exist, each containing a version of events where everything that can happen, does happen,” he starts, widening his eyes for dramatic effect. “So quantum immortality is rooted in the concept that when we die in one timeline, we essentially just move on to the next one where every detail is the same except… well, you don’t die.”

He went on to emphatically talk about some guy’s cat in a box, but how this time, in a thought experiment that demonstrates this theory of immortality, you’re the cat.

You had pretty much lost him when he got to that part.

…

You blink, shoving the memory from your mind. 

“You’re staring,” you point out quietly.

“You’re pretty,” Spencer responds. He sits next to you on the bed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You watch as his other hand fiddles with the condom he grabbed, running his thumb over the edges of the wrapper. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “Did I do something?” You shake your head softly. 

“Mm-mm.”

“Really? Because we’ve been sitting in silence and you haven’t stopped staring at the condom in my hand for the past two minutes.”

You exhale quietly, internally screaming at yourself to just spit it out.

It’s never been easy, being an agent dating an agent. Sure, agreements have been made to not profile each other, but with so many years of experience, small observations and connections about your partner’s nature are an automatic practice. You know that Spencer takes 3 sugars in his coffee just as well as you know he says your name more frequently and shortens his sentences when scared, almost like he tries to instead convey the appearance he’s mad.

You also know very well that you and Spencer have both been consciously avoiding this conversation like the plague, especially since his homecoming. 

You gnaw at your lip, trying to think of something to say, but your mind can only come up with freaky images of cats that are simultaneously alive and dead until observed.

“`M sorry, I was just thinking. Lost in my mind.”

“Thinking about what?”

Relationships that are simultaneously kept and broken until a certain conversation is had.

“Um. Quantum immortality. Who’s that guy? Hugh Jackman?”

Spencer straightens, eyebrows raising a little. “Hugh Everett,” he supplies. His tone is gentle, coaxing. “You’ve been thinking about that? I told you about him months ago.”

He stands as you quietly think of a response, grabbing a hoodie from the closet to tug over your bare torso, letting his hand gently cradle the back of your head after doing so.

“Yeah. I did a little more reading on it. It’s kind of a nice thought I keep going back to. Obviously really, really scary when you think about it for too long. But nice in the sense that there’s probably a version of us out there somewhere where…” you trail off, suddenly extremely aware of the weight of your words. 

He glances down to the condom he left on the comforter.

The thick silence that follows feels like it stretches across a thousand timelines, each one probably also filled with countless what-ifs and unspoken words and really bad communication, and at the very root of all of it, fear. That deep, gaping hole in both of your souls.

When Spencer finally looks at you, his eyes are so deep it takes your breath away. So deep that it jars you into just saying it.

“Spencer,” you begin, voice so quiet. “Do you still want kids?”

You find yourself shooting up a silent prayer to whoever is out there looking out for you– God or Isaac Newton or Hugh Everett or Jason Gideon: 

Pleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyes.

When he doesn’t answer right away, you continue– a habit probably picked up from the person standing right in front of you. “I just feel like there was a time where we were almost talking about it, but then it… went away.”

He reaches out to gently take the condom you were now fiddling with and sets it back in the drawer, his hand resting on the edge of the table as if grounding himself. His face is soft, almost glowing in the dim yellow light.

“I know,” he starts, voice crackling at the edges.

You stay dead silent.

“I didn’t mean for it to go away,” Spencer says, the crack in his voice causing you to glance up and see his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

You nod, shakily, though the perpetual ache in your stomach is sharper now, more like it’s a knife stabbing you through the gut.

“I get it,” you say, even though part of you doesn’t want to. “You don’t need to be sorry.” You can’t even bring yourself to think of the implications of what he just said– all you know is that there is something fundamentally different between you and Spencer that wasn’t there before.

“It’s not that I don’t want it. I do. You know I do. But I can’t. Not now.”

You reach out your hand for him to take.

“Spencer,” you whisper. “It’s okay. Really. We don’t have to talk about it any more.”

His lips press into a thin line, and you can tell he doesn’t believe you. Clearly. It wasn’t a statement said to be believed. There was nothing okay, at all, but this isn’t a fight- there’s nothing to fight about. There's just a quiet understanding. He nods, finally, and steps back. “We should get some sleep,” he says, his voice almost too soft to hear.

You watch as he pulls back the covers and slides into bed, still in his work clothes, leaving just enough space for you beside him. After a moment you curl up next to him because, despite everything, doing the alternative would be so much worse.

Spencer's arms wrap around you, his breath warm against the nape of your neck, and you close your eyes and let the silence settle over you both, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back. Something you would have given anything to have not so long ago.

[itsabouttimex2]

Not a request, just blabbering about the “not the beloved au” because. God. Poor MK. Obviously, y/n is the one suffering the most from the dynamic, but MK’s development is being stunted by the way the two kings are raising him. Never being told no, having everything and everyone live their life to accommodate around him- sure he’s still a toddler, they’re going to be stupid, but he’s resorting to hurting himself when he doesn’t get what he wants (ie Y/N, a whole person!) that is very troubling behavior.

I’d hate to see how he’d be grown up- he’d definitely still be a hero- he IS a good kid, he’d want to help people- but what happens if he’s not able to beat someone in a fight immediately or he’s outmatched? How much of him fighting would just make things worse because he’s used to the world bending over backwards to make him happy?

Poor kid.

Not The Beloved

Anon, I'm so glad you brought this up, because on surface level, NTB!MK is a little entitled menace. But when you take a moment to scratch past that unfortunate facade, then... well, yeah. He is a victim all in his own right, hard as it may be to see from a certain viewpoint. The only world MK knows is his own family and their home- his two dads, Y/N, the Flower Fruit Mountain monkeys, and the mountain itself.

The end. No school. No friends. Nothing.

And that's just the way his dads like it! Sun Wukong likes that his kiddo is isolated, stunted, socially awkward and somewhat entitled! That just makes him easier to spoil! Easier to love! And Macaque, too! If he helps to custom-cater a world that his beloved baby boy can't survive outside of? Then MK can't leave, and thus can never escape his love and care!

Which is exactly why MK needs the reader.

In spite of being everything that the little kid is not, Y/N's startling normality is the only grounding factor that MK has to let him know that something is wrong. Because Y/N didn't have the upbringing that their little brother had, they have a legitimate claim to being the least mentally-skewed of the family, which is, unsurprisingly, one hell of a boon.

Like, MK has it great... at first. Never Having to do chores or make your own food, and having your overbearing daddies brush your teeth and tie your shoes for you is awesome when you're four, but sucks ass when you're twelve and can barely function outside your role as a spoiled prince-

But! There's still Y/N!

Frustrated, jealous, and angry Y/N. Y/N, who seethes and huffs and kicks their feet and grits their teeth and punches their pillow into pulpy fluff, who curses under their breath and has to burn all the letters they write about how much they despise their family. Y/N who was only spared punishment after the scraps of those letters were found because MK cried and begged for his daddies to forgive his older sibling because-

Because Y/N, in spite of their jealously and anger, will still roll up both sleeves, sit down, and teach their little brother how to tie his shoes, how to roll up a tube of toothpaste to squeeze the last bit out, how to boil water and brown meat.

There's this normalcy to being hated by someone that anchors MK to reality, even though he's a little too young and naive to really put his grateful feelings into words, so instead it all manifests as "Y/N is my favorite person ever and ever!" that Wukong and Macaque don't like (because they are both horribly jealous) but will force Y/N to reciprocate.

And even when his beloved older sibling bullies their parents into coughing up the necessary resources in order to head off to college, MK keeps in touch with the phones he begs both his fathers to buy, and manages to maneuver them both into two strict "buts".

Specifically, "You can go off to college, but you have to keep in touch with us and MK." and "We'll foot the bill, but you have to come back and stay here during the weekends."

Which is... enough. Enough of a thread cut loose that Y/N slips free to experience at least a mildly normal life pursuing their desired field with some actual space to grow and heal and establish normal relationships outside of their toxic family.

(Even though they're definitely becoming the mom/dad friend.)

Then there's the matter of "How good of a hero will MK be without his good-natured upbringing, courtesy of Pigsy and Tang?" that you brought up, and the answer to that question is: "Don't worry about it, because MK doesn't get to be a hero."

After all, why would his dads risk losing their miracle baby?

So it isn't even "Would MK ditch a fight or otherwise give up on it when he struggles?", it's "Can Y/N bare-knuckle Red Son's cute face into pulp with only their long suppressed rage as fuel?" because MK isn't the hero of NTB- Y/N is.

And they don't ever intend on losing the new life they fought to find.

[sandsorghum]

And I sat with my anger long enough...

A Reflection on How Trauma, Rage & Grief shaped Higuruma & Nanami (Differently)

Nah, Don't be fooled - Higuruma is not Nanami 2.0, or just a rebrand of noble, stoic workaholic. I explore some of these psychological nuances below in depth.

Frequent Comparisons

People draw parallels between Nanami and Higuruma mostly commonly through their Frustrations towards the System. For Nanami, that's been both Capitalism and the Jujutsu world, and for Higuruma it's the Justice system. This results in an aura or impression of emotional detachment, but it's certainly not to be mistaken for apathy. Quite the opposite in fact! It's because both men are so propelled by their principles that they don't permit themselves the "luxury" of (excessive) emotional fervour - but there may be some distinctions with how they go about that too!

Both have been worn down throughout the years, but both also have an Inciting Incident of a significant traumatic episode. I'll explore how both the long-term slog and traumas have affected them, but first let's make a distinction about each of their inciting incidents.

Duelling Dualities

Both Nanami and Higuruma's major turning points are based around how they couldn't protect someone they cared about, namely Yuu Haibara and Keita Oe respectively. These two also represent a loss of innocence for them.

On the surface, the loss and demise of a friend during formative years (Nanami was still in his teens!) would seem to have a much more significant impact than "losing" a client or case as a working adult, plus the degrees of emotional intimacy and investment are vastly different.

Nanami has also suffered this kind of emotional gradual decay but his experiences were less high stakes, less intense and less drawn out. As a salaryman he was only enduring it for himself, and didn't have the added burden of inadequate efforts jeopardizing someone else's life or liberation.

However, his loss is more literal than the lawyer's - as far as we know Keita isn't dead, but I can't imagine his fate to be very favourable given the circumstances around his..."mistrial". (I don't know what the legal ramifications of your attorney going berserk and offing the prosecution is, but I doubt those are good odds. I wonder if Keita's fate weighs on Higuruma too, after the canon events in the manga.)

Speaking of which, having someone die in front of you for the first time is monumental, and here's where we have another distinction; the kind of Guilt Nanami and Higuruma suffer. *Survivor's versus Perpertrator's.

[*As a a caveat, I'm no expert in clinical psychology so I want to add it might not be wholly accurate to characterise Nanami's guilt as classic Survivor's Guilt, and it's hard to say to what degree he experienced this specific sort, or for how long, but I'm sure he felt a significant sense of failure at being unable to protect his friend, which later expands into frustration into being put into such a situation in the first place.]

When I said "these two also represent a loss of innocence" earlier, I wasn't referring to Keita's, but Higuruma's corruption when he kills the prosecutor and judge. We are led to believe that Keita is plausibly innocent and didn't commit the crime, and is thus morally whole - whereas there's absolutely none of that ambiguity on Higuruma's part

Higuruma's is a moral failing, compared to young Nanami's one of ability and insufficient experience, exacerbated by the jujutsu system's flaws. We don't have the details about how Nanami's ill-fated mission with Haibara unfolded, only that they expected a second grade curse but were faced with a higher level opponent, which they weren't skilled enough to take on.

Nanami might be able to "offset" some of his guilt at being unable to save Haibara by blaming broader forces beyond him, or his circumstances of being too young and not being better prepared - although I don't think this is his nature to rely on that sort of naiveté reasoning and he carries that grief with him anyway (any iteration of survivor's guilt can be quite immune to logic.)

But for Higuruma, that burden of his ethical lapse rests entirely on his shoulders.

Higuruma fails in a way that feels or can be deemed to be much more personal; even as his actions are also similarly compounded by an unfair system but at the end of the day, he still killed with his own two hands.

There's no rationalising around such a crime of passion. There's no abstracting it out to the tolls and pressures the system takes, even if they are critical factors. The system is broken, and breaks him, and for a while Higuruma would rather blame and contend with its flaws rather than his own.

A man strung up by his own high ethical standards, what is he to do?

Conceits Revealed Through Self-Deceit

In times of severe emotional crisis, it's common for people to avoid the truth of what they really feel and/or want, because it's saddled with a lot of pain. As mentioned above, there's a specific kind of grief that festers with Higuruma's guilt which isn't present with Nanami's.

Higuruma snaps and he has to pick up the shards of his world view, we actually get a pretty coherent albeit funhouse mirror version of his moral reasonings but to be clear, this is less confrontation and more qualifiers to deal with the fact that he's now a murderer.

It manifests as a cynicism-fueled delusion where he attempts to argue, or rather persuade himself the killings were just or justified, not only that but that Culling Game killings could be an equally valid if alternative recourse for justice - his own Domain is a reflection of a courtroom turned theater, satirizing the legal process. A show trial in other words. 1ichtbringer has an excellent analysis that further unpacks how his Deadly Sentencing technique falsely stages a trial so that it appears to be impartial, and points out how Higuruma tampers with the process too. Highly recommend reading it to understand how beautifully deranged Higu's processing is, despite dressing it up in the rhetoric of logic (omg he's a delulu is the solulu girlie just like us!1!!)

Higuruma attempts to assuage his guilt by disregarding the justice system (and to an extent, the moral parameters) he has worked within his entire life, by harping on its limitations and flaws which are all fairly valid, but doesn't negate the fact that he's a criminal now

Furthermore, he is confronted by the contradiction between his and Yuji's killings, and the way each contextualizes their culpability couldn't be more stark. Yuji immediately confesses and doesn't try to rationalise or make any excuses. Higuruma on the other hand contorts his heart and head through several hoops so he doesn't have to feel such guilt - until he does.

From Higuruma's perspective, Yuji wasn't culpable for the Shibuya slaughter. Even as Yuji feels responsible, he is still innocent because he was acting under the influence of someone else's will - unlike Higuruma who carried out his executions with his own volition and more self-awareness. Quite simply, being blinded by rage doesn't hold up in court as a reason. Emotional states and pressures can be considered during sentencing but I doubt they would be much of a mitigating factor. Unfortunately for Higuruma it's difficult or impossible to defend his violent outburst of emotion since his framework of ethics and justice is premised so much on logic, which makes the nature of his moral lapse even more tragic and a particularly effective example of Gege writing dramatic irony.

And now, let's discuss the fiction Nanami Kento sells himself on.

When we get Nanami's flashback in Ch30, we're lead to believe he's the kind of guy who has never worried about "the meaning of life or his purpose on earth". Oddly enough, I think there is an element of truth to this for Nanami - Having faced an existential threat at such a tender age probably puts one off contending with such existential conundrums.

But then shortly after we get these panels:

This echoes one of Marx's central critiques of Capitalism, where workers are separated from both meaning and the means of production. Technically, Nanami's job scope - presumably as some type of wealth/hedgefund manager (or heaven forbid a stockbroker) - doesn't even have a traditionally tangible means of production, which only further reinforces the lack of importance of who he is as an individual and the sense of alienation, a pretty common phenomenon under Capitalism where workers feel psychologically and probably emotionally estranged from their work. Oh, the routine malaise!

[I fall back in love with him again each time i see the tear wiping part]

I don't think people have such profound insights or realisations if they haven't considered at length these broader philosophical questions regarding their priorities in life - but what I've always found pretty sexy was the simplicity of the scenario that gave Nanami this insight; an epiphany under ordinary, understated circumstances that he set his mind to without further equivocation. (And yes, I said it, it's sexy)

Who knows to what extent Nanami believed in his obsession about money for those four years; was his sole goal really just to retire young and migrate somewhere cheap? We know he still harboured dreams of moving to Malaysia; perhaps he could have afforded to by the time he was in his 30s, but there is also something within him that compels him to earn that retirement, not in an economic sense but rather in a way that addresses the question of what makes him feel like he'd deserved it. In short, how he earns a living in a way that aligns with and finances living a good life, does matter to Nanami. And by good we reference not just quality but morality too of course. The way things are done, the minutiae and attitude towards process matters very much to Nanami, not just the end goal.

I think that might be another way he differs a little from Higuruma, who could be a tad more impatient and results-oriented or focused, hence he'd be willing to take more risks (personal), bend rules and take advantage of loopholes - these tendencies all dovetail with his background navigating an already unfair legal system.

So, now that I've laid out the "lies" Nanami and Higuruma temporarily let themselves buy into, let's unpack what it indicates about their personalities. Gege often puts his (ill-fated?) idealists through their paces and what these pretences or obfuscations suggest about each man is fascinating and endearing to me in different ways!

The justification of his murder of two civilians is the central fib Higuruma tries to believe, but it's a delusion underpinned by disillusionment and years of constantly engaging with the incontrovertible ugliness and darkness of human nature encountered in his profession. That's how he spends his early adulthood.

Nanami, almost on the opposite end, doesn't want to acknowledge, let alone face such suffering and darkness for years - we might call it wilful or deliberate ignorance, or it may even have been a more subconscious choice. Either way, the avoidance stems from the tragedy of his personal history.

One man believes in his self-deception because he has faced the truth for too long, the other pursued a false priority because he has been attempting to avoid the agony and brutal realities of his calling.

When I think about the nature of their jobs, there also seems to be differences in the emotional and psychological tolls they're dealt. Being a sorceror has less overlap with social work and to my mind, has more parallels with law enforcement with missions revolving around investigation, surveillance, nullification of threats and broadly, maintaining a status quo and security for civilians. Most curses are abstract entities birthed from an amorphous mass of negative energy, there is an erasure of sentience, or at least a greatly reduced need to account for it, since they're already monsters meant to be eliminated in the most straightforward sense. A more sensitive take would be that these mutated souls must be put out of their misery. As for most curse users, fortunately or unfortunately, there's little opportunity, let alone necessity to understand their humanity (apart from Geto, more on him later.)

Compared to a criminal lawyer who has to deal with and get to know (probably not the nicest) individuals over several months, handling their suspicions and doubts, cultivating the trust and human relationships; that takes a lot! No wonder Higuruma gets worn out.

"I have never been and never will be frustrated by my own uselessness." -Nanami Kento

Our bodies have something called a Sympathetic Nervous System and biology predicates its sensitivities and capacities for emotional duress; this also influences how much of others' sorrows we can take on before we become fatigued. Every individual is born with a different endurance. Higuruma and Nanami likely have very high tolerances, but everyone has their limits.

This part is pretty speculative but I think how these two men empathise is different as well; Higuruma definitely uses intellectual empathy primarily, while Nanami experiences emotional empathy slightly more often. He has genuine care and concern for his colleagues, and relationships with them - they may not appear to be exceptionally close ones but they are important to him. Just remember what happened to ponytail guy after he injured Ijichi.

Higuruma on the other hand may not have had the opportunity to cultivate such personal connections with those he works with, either by circumstance, choice or a hybrid of the two. I think he cares about people in a more abstract sense, as representations of his duties, rather than actual individuals whose emotional interiority he must grasp. Perhaps it's out of necessity or an instinct for self-preservation that he maintains this sort of distance. This isn't to say he's callous, just that the way he relates with those in his occupation is more analytical.

Where they are alike is that both probably know it's unsustainable to operate from a baseline of righteous fury or indignation in their jobs. Going off his occasional outbursts, Nanami does seem to have more of that undercurrent but I don't think he's suppressing his anger daily or at least, he has some way of coping with it long term so it doesn't reach a critical mass, whereas Higuruma, if he had any awareness of his encroaching cynicism, probably couldn't afford the time and headspace to process his emotions properly.

Corroding Cynicism, Corroborating Hope

Initially, I had a difficult time understanding a particular line in Higuruma's monologue in Ch166, the version I read translated it as:

"I thought I should value that very depravity, which other animals don't have!"

I realised this line has a resonance with another ardent idealist, Geto, who observes this hideousness in "monkeys" as a trait he abhors, unlike Higuruma who cherishes it and believes it's the thing that sets us apart from other beasts.

It was only after contrasting this pair of idealists' motivations that I could comprehend Higuruma's breakdown.

Unlike Geto, Higuruma's raison d'être (before he gets a taste for homicide) isn't in achieving grand ambitions, he's not trying to permanently overturn a system but would rather manoeuvre within one. It's not so much revolution as it is mitigation (via litigation, hah). He is determined and convinced he can do this despite the odds he's given.

The issue with this granular type of change of course is that it's just as likely to erode their agents, through "the accumulation of little despairs". Not so little in Higuruma's case of course, since even his hard won interventions are significant as they determine the fate of people's freedoms.

What initially confounded me about Higuruma's breaking point and his tirade about how "the darkness before your eyes is just darkness" is that it didn't seem to challenge or contradict the reality he knew about before he snapped, that people can be awful.

Weakness and ugliness will always exist in humans, but I don't think Higuruma anticipated or believed such weakness was embedded in the legal system to such an extent. He's finally made aware of it with Keita's case, and I think that's when he decides the system isn't simply flawed but fundamentally corrupt and that he can no longer make any further progress within it, that his struggle isn't worth it.

The inherent fallibility of humans remain a fact. However, there's a distinction between universal and personal truths; the former often informs the latter, but what really matters for how we act are those individual, internalised truths. Higuruma's most fundamental truth is:

He's someone who operates from his principles, regardless of results or odds - it's why he fights losing battles, it's why he goes up against Sukuna. But for a moment, he's blinded by disappointment and anger and forgets that this is his ultimate north star.

Nanami goes through a lot less to remember his conscience, and I partially attribute that to surviving something as terrible as he does at an early age. Closure might be a bit ambitious, but I'd like to believe how he handled and addressed the loss of Haibara was to honour him by returning to the jujutsu world and looking out for other young sorcerors in his own way, guiding those like Ino and Yuji.

The sense of accountability and empathy he indirectly instills in Yuji is something Higuruma picks up on later, and it gives him some semblance of hope that there are other people like Yuji trying to do the right thing, those worth protecting and supporting, and keeping his eyes open for.

Conclusions

One last thing I want to compare between Nanami and Higuruma is how they approached the talents they were born with. Nanami has his Ratio technique, and Higuruma is intellectually gifted though later we understand his true inherent genius lies in his jujutsu abilities.

In a way it's inevitable for our destinies to be shaped by our capabilities, but I think it's interesting that Nanami tried to deny this innate rare skill as a sorceror and find something else he could do. If he wanted to lead a fulfilling life helping others, say as an educator or firefighter or paramedic (swoon) I don't doubt he could have, but he chose the path not many people are cut out for, returning to it not because it was pre-determined or cause he'd excel in the area, but because he knew he could guarantee doing it well in the moral sense.

Higuruma strikes me as another individual who'd be impressively competent at almost anything he sets his mind to. But the thing he's best at, given the circumstances he discovered them in, are skills he's now obligated to use in service of jujutsu HQ's higher ups. Higuruma wouldn't go so far as to reject using his natural powers and skills as a sorceror because of the unpleasant association of their origins, but he might struggle with how best to use these new tools, instead of being used. There may be another period of apparent futility he'll have to contend with.

I don't think Higuruma's faith is restored in the justice system by the time the manga concludes, and he'll have a hell of a time navigating the jujutsu one too, however he's more suited to being a sorceror as it would let him act more freely, in accordance with his own assessments, in ways that strike a better balance between his own moral code and jujutsu society's law,; something that he might even be able to shape in the wake of the Culling Games and a paradigm shift for Japan, now it's been forced to reckon with this whole other world.

(Gambatte, Higuruma!)

[on-leatheredwings]

It's not a request, just wanna know your thoughts about yandere masochist Tim?

•́ ‿ ,•̀

> romantic 18+ > twcw: bdsm, yandere-typical behaviors, can be read as dub-con despite reader being the dominant > kinda treated it like a hc/imagine request anyway hahhh it was fun to write!

Man, yandere masochist Tim would be a little bit of a mindfuck. But a delicious one, to be sure! I think the relationship is initially enticing to you because, well, Tim's the one getting dominated here. You're the one with the upper hand.

(He thinks it's very cute of you to assume that. Despite being the submissive, Tim’s definitely the one in control here.)

On a surface-level, Tim would enjoy letting go and putting himself in your hands. The Bats are adept at multitasking, but even geniuses like them get… stressed. Sometimes he doesn’t want to think, Lord knows he does enough of that already. Sometimes, it’s nice to be the pawn in someone else’s game for once, but also be able to enjoy it.

On a deeper level, Tim likes being your sub because it truly means that he's yours and you’re his. He loves when you pull at his hair, nip at him, or bully him. Your anger, your passion, your punishment– only he gets to see and enjoy the darker sides of you that you keep hidden from view during the day. Tim is greedy. Both the pain and pleasure you dish out is for him, and him alone, to take. And the same goes for your softness during the aftercare.

I see Tim enjoying being any flavor of masochist/sub, depending on his mood. And depending on yours as well! He can be a feisty, vexing brat with a smart mouth or a whimpering, pleading submissive. He has nothing if not the range! I think he’d really enjoy spanking or flogging.

His favorite position is head down, ass up. He likes the vulnerability and surprise, and the option to hide his face and mewl into the sheets. He's partial to being blindfolded as well! He enjoys bondage and shibari, too. He could easily escape, but he doesn't - that's him showing his respect, adoration, and trust for you.

Tim's more … possessive qualities will show themselves if you aren’t in a relationship with him, only friends with benefits.

"I may... find another sub, if that's okay with you?" No, it's not okay with him. Only he gets to see you this way. He feels obscenely, viscerally opposed to the idea, but he smiles amicably to your face.

Tim’s requests get more and more extreme to keep your attention. Show you that he lacks nothing, and he can go farther than any other masochist you could find. However, you didn't ask him to perform this way. Sure, you may be the dominant here, but your boundaries still matter don’t they? 

“Fine… but this is the last time, Tim,” you say, relenting. You’ll find him nodding, agreeing that of course, of course, just one more time for pity’s sake. That night, he’ll make sure to make the sweetest sounds. His role usually takes and receives, but Tim decides to also give. You can sit and ride his face until you orgasm. In your post-coital glow, you'll lie sandwiched to each other, breathless. He'll have your fingers trail on his skin and trace the bruises and the pretty pink welts you've left.

He'll whisper his agenda in your ear. You've always been easier to convince after loosening up. Okay, so maybe he was more hardcore than usual tonight, but you liked it, too. Why ruin a good thing? What could anyone give you that Tim can't? Maybe you really don't need to find someone else.

And most importantly, Tim will make it seem like you arrived at that conclusion entirely by yourself.

[ihopesocomic]

To add to the other anon's message about how the sisters suffered under Jasper's abuse

I noticed Hope, Adamant, and Quiet sort of parallel the sisters(not the exact same bit there are similarities)

Hope and Clever both end up fighting Jasper and they're the ones he expresses that he wants dead (Hope as baby, and Clever when she follows him).

Adamant and Vicious are his "favorites", Vicious being his queen and Adamant seemingly being his golden child since he was willing to give up Quiet but not her. Neither of them seem to realize he's abusive, though Adamant does later realize that her dad is a mega loser who picks on people weaker than him.

And then Quiet and Careful, the forgotten ones, the ones who dont seem like they faced any abuse on a surface level until Jasper makes those remarks about Careful's cubs and it's revealed that he caused Quiet's death.

Not to mention but I feel like both Quiet & Careful and Vicious & Adamant could've switched names and it would still fit

So it's not a 1:1 but there are enough similarities to show how he abused one generation of sisters and then immediately moved on to another generation, this time his own daughters.

He caused the death of one of each set of sisters and feels no remorse.

It shows that there's hope as Adamant and Hopeful were able to escape their abusive home and while the scars are still there they can start a new better life

But it's also tragic as Vicious and Careful have been stuck in this situation for so long that they likely don't know how to escape their situation or that they even should

Basically

Good comic

Got nothing more to add to this analysis other than these are very good observations and we apprecaite you taking the time to take note of them. And thank you so much, we're glad to hear we're doing good. We try our best. c: - RJ

[languajix]

Snow Day

A @tmnt-secret-santa-2024 fill for @thisbarbiereallylikesbirds! The prompt was: "The boys seeing snow for the first time as toddlers (03)."

This prompt was really cute and I hope I did it justice! Happy holidays! :D

"How cold is it? I bet it's minus a hundred degrees!" Michelangelo declared as the small family made their way towards the closest Central Park manhole.

"I do not believe it is quite that cold, Michelangelo. We can check the weather report when we get home."

The children had been too small and easily chilled in years past for Splinter to allow outside in the coldest days of the winter. They were finally old enough to be a little more cognizant of their own limits, to communicate when they started to freeze, but also more importantly they had been watching holiday specials on the television for the past month and had worn down Splinter with their constant begging and pleading. So, here they were, heading out into the winter wonderland for the first time in his children's lives.

Donatello's hands were inching up towards his hat again, and beneath the layers of scarves and the puffy coat, his snout scrunched in the beginning of a whine. Splinter reached over and ran his nails gently over the top of Donatello's head, through the cap, trying to scratch away the apparent persistent itch. "I know, Donatello," he soothed. "Unfortunately, if you want to play in the snow, you must wear a hat. If you don't want to wear a hat, you must stay underground. "

While Donatello had been lagging behind, Leonardo pushed his way to the front of the group, holding their makeshift pull-behind sled, a garbage can lid with the handles on the side which Splinter had wrangled some knotted rope through, over his head like a shield. He marched forward like a military commander, but with a childish bounce in his step.

"I'm gonna fall in a- a big snow pile!" Michelangelo declared, waving his little arms around and rocking onto his toes. "It's gonna be this big!"

"I'm gonna fall in a bigger one!" Raphael said immediately, predictably, always trying to one-up his brother. The two of them glared at each other, and the air between them chilled, nearly as cold as the air outside, which Splinter could smell drifting through the holes of the distant manhole cover above.

Even now, so close to the park, they were trudging through slush - by the time it dripped down to sewer level, it was melted and dirty, rivulets of icy, chunky water running towards the canal. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Splinter was grateful for his homeless friends, who had kindly rifled through donations on his behalf to find four pairs of small boots that would fit his children's feet.

"Why don't the two of you find one very large snow pile," he suggested reasonably, "big enough for the both of you to play in?"

They exchanged a frown, suddenly in sync, then turned to Splinter. "Nooo!"

He tried hard not to roll his eyes, but couldn't help the fond sigh.

As they gathered at the ladder, he paused, tapping each of them on the forehead gently so they would settle down and listen to him for a second. "Stay close to me," Splinter urged his sons. "Stay where I can see and hear you. If you are cold, come to me."

He straightened up. Donatello was still fidgeting with his hat, and neither Raphael nor Michelangelo would be able to keep themselves still if they were left alone, so Leonardo would be the first to be delivered to the surface. He held out an arm, a familiar gesture, and Leonardo understood his intent and lifted his free arm in tandem, allowing Splinter to bend down and scoop him up.

He turned to the others, making sure they would all hear him clearly. "And do not, I repeat, do not allow yourselves to be noticed by any people out and about in the park."

---

Leonardo's first sight of the snow in Central Park had him jumping up and down, little hitched breaths of excitement sending frosty white puffs into the air. He stayed close, though, as Splinter ducked back down through the manhole cover.

The small exclamation of "whoa..." from Raphael as his eyes first fell on the snowy landscape warmed Splinter's heart. In his other arm, Michelangelo squealed, wiggling in Splinter's grip until Splinter set his little feet on the icy pavement. He immediately tried to beeline towards the nearest snow pile, but Splinter hooked a finger in his hood to keep him from wandering far.

"Stay here, my sons, until I fetch Donatello," Splinter instructed. He watched Leonardo move to hold Michelangelo's tiny hand, something Splinter did not teach him but was grateful for in any case. The three of them began chattering amongst themselves, their voices growing fainter as Splinter ducked back underground.

Once all four of them were settled on street level, Splinter took a deep breath. "My sons?"

They all turned to him, despite their body language clearly speaking of their longing to be set free to play and explore the unfamiliar winter wonderland.

"...have fun."

He watched them scatter, and couldn't help his growing smile. Witnessing the world through their eyes was such a rewarding experience; they found joy in even the most mundane things. Even Splinter had to admit, however, that Central Park was magical today, between the beautiful dusting of white and the beautiful multicolored lights strung from tree to tree, the clear blue sky above, and the sparkle of the frozen lake in the distance.

Then Michelangelo plowed right through a snow drift with a youthful holler, sending loose flakes flying through the air, and Splinter turned to watch his children make quick work of the previously pristine landscape.

---

Mikey had never seen so much fluff in his life! Or seen so much white in his life! It was so cold! But he had gloves on, and a big fluffy coat, and special shoes for the snow, and a really soft orange hat, so the only thing really cold was his eyes, and that was okay.

He wanted to explore! He wanted to do everything! Just like the kids on TV and in books. He'd already wandered pretty far... now he wanted to see what his brothers were up to! They were no doubt having a lot of fun without him.

Mikey turned and started running.

---

Donny pushed to a standing position on the rock, swaying just a little as he tried to balance himself. He took in a big breath, like he was gonna take a leap into the bathtub at home, and braced himself to jump. If he aimed his feet just right, he could jump right into the middle of the snow drift. It was light and fluffy. He could go deep! Deep enough that the snow drift would swallow him up, and he could curl up in the fluff and become a little snowball and live there in the snow cave. And, and maybe take off his hat because no one could find him in the cave.

Just as he had started bending his knees, the noise of someone scrabbling next to him had him turning his head to look. Mikey pulled himself up on the rock, too, limbs skittering a little on the loose snow before he found purchase. He took a few quick steps past Donny, and then jumped, himself, laughing all the way. The snow crunched as it flattened underneath Mikey's weight and the bulky curve of his shell and his flailing limbs, and Donny watched as he kicked a big hole through the snow drift on his way out to go bother someone else!

That wasn't fair! Donny was supposed to do that! He stomped his foot on top of the boulder in frustration, heaving a big full-body sigh.

Then he jumped down and started stomping his way through the rest of the snow drift, because if he couldn't live in a snow cave, then at least he could have fun smashing it all flat. The way the snow crunched, the noise it made, was nice, at least.

---

Raph had a stick. There were a couple scattered around, underneath the heavy blanket of snow, but this one was a good stick. Just the right size and just heavy enough to feel good in his hands when he swung it around, like a baseball bat, maybe.

There were so many icicles around, a couple of low-lying branches and bushes that were full of 'em, and Raph took an experimental swing. The bush shook as it met the stick, and a few of the icicles click-clacked together on their way down.

This was fun!

Smash, he hit the next bush, watching them all fall.

Lost in thoughts of smashing, walking from one bush to the next, he didn't hear the crunching footsteps getting louder until the very last second, as Mikey's voice called, "Incoming!" He dropped his stick just in time; something slammed into him and pushed him face-first into a big lump of snow. He scrunched up his eyes and managed to avoid cold eyeballs, but it still got all over his face and up his nose. He spluttered.

A pair of mittened hands pressed down on Raph's shell as Mikey pushed himself up and off Raph, ready to terrorize Leo, wherever he might be, and Raph wiggled his arms until he could push himself, too, back up on his feet. He growled and wiped off his face as best he could, but some of the snow had wedged itself in the corners between his scarf and his scales, and were already starting to melt and make his scarf wet and cold.

He'd been cozy until just now! Now he was wet!

He wanted to go run after Mikey, to shove him face-first into a snow pile in return, but after a few running steps he had to hold out his arms for balance and skid to a stop. His feet kept slipping around in his shoes because they were good-enough shoes, not made-for-me shoes. He'd never catch up.

As he stood there silently stewing, a new pile of snow fell from the sky, landing next to him with a thump. He looked up to see the tree above him, whose branch was slowly bouncing from the lost weight. A couple of loosened icicles tinkled.

---

Leo tugged on the rope of the sled. He had made it to the top of the hill. He couldn't wait to slide down! He was gonna go so fast! He reached down to steady it, about to step in, when Mikey bounced past.

"Coming through!" Mikey called, hopping into the sled; his momentum was enough to send him sliding down the slope, whooping all the way, and Leo wanted to whine. He'd carried the sled all the way here, he'd pulled it to the top, and Mikey had stolen the first ride!

He glanced over to Dad to see if he'd noticed, more than half hoping Mikey was about to be in for a scolding, but Dad was busy playing in the snow with Donny and Raph, currently focused down at the ground, and hadn't seen any of it. It wasn't fair!

He folded his arms, then thought better of just grumping in place and ran down the hill after his poor sled.

---

"Here, Raphael," Splinter coaxed, rolling a handful of snow between his mittens. "Have you tried rolling a snowball? To make a, a snowman?"

Raphael grumpily swung at another icicle that had dripped its way down from a low-hanging tree branch.

Splinter had never rolled a snowman snow ball in his life, but he'd seen other people do it and it looked fairly straightforward. He rolled the ball on the ground and watched it pick up size.

It became heavier as it accumulated, though still quite manageable at this point, and Splinter glanced out of the corner of his eye at Raphael, who was still not paying him any attention.

"My," he commented idly, "this snowball is quite heavy. If only one of my big strong children would come and help me."

Raphael stopped stomping and perked up.

Splinter pushed the snowball over. It was becoming just a little oblong at this point. "Oof," he said very clearly and loudly.

"I can- I can help," Raphael offered, dropping the stick and waddling over in his big snow pants that swished with every step. "Let me help, Dad."

Splinter grinned, leaning back a little to give Raphael space to brace himself and push, too. "Thank you for your help, Raphael," he said fondly.

Raphael just grunted as he pushed; he managed to roll the ball all by himself with Splinter only helping a little tiny bit.

Raphael did not understand the concept of giving up, and after they'd both exhausted themselves trying to push the ball any further, they stepped back to give it a look.

They'd ended up with a very large ball; possibly too large for the base of a normal-sized snowman, a little too flat-looking to be aesthetically round, and Splinter couldn't quite imagine lifting another snowball on top for its midsection or its head. Not with his creaky bones.

"Why don't we make a snow... turtle?" He suggested. "Another snowball here on the ground, for the head, and four small ones for the legs?"

"Yes! Making a snow turtle!" Raphael cheered, already running to a nearby patch of snow. Splinter stretched, feeling his back ache, and limped along.

---

Someone was walking their dog!

"Puppy!" Mikey gasped. He flexed his fingers inside of his gloves, hesitant. He wasn't supposed to be around people. But a puppy wasn't a people, right?

The puppy's person was holding the leash, though. Speaking into her phone. Maybe if Mikey could sneak up... just like a ninja... it would be okay?

He walked up slowly. Sneak, sneak, sneak.

The puppy wagged its tail. It pushed its nose into Mikey's glove and wagged its tail, making funny noises. He giggled, then put his other hand over his mouth. Hopefully he had been quiet enough that the grown-up wouldn't...

"Hi!" The stranger said, pulling away from her phone for a moment, and Mikey jumped and tilted his head down. Just in case. "Oh, you're okay, kiddo. You can pet George if you want to."

"His name is George?" Mikey breathed, and he found himself bouncing on his tiptoes in delight. A puppy! Named George!

"Yeah, he loves kids. I've got two of my own, actually. Maybe a little older than you. Want me to call them over?"

---

Splinter had just gone to settle himself down on a bench to admire the snow turtle from a distance, when... "Dad," Leonardo whispered, leaning up on his tiptoes to get closer and tugging on Splinter's sleeve, "Mikey made friends. Is that okay? Can we play, please?"

Splinter glanced up to see Donatello and Raphael lingering by a nearby tree, nervous pleading expressions obvious even though he could only see the tiniest slivers through their many layers.

"You cannot allow them to see you, my son," he reminded Leonardo. "They cannot know you are turtles."

Leonardo continued to stretch up on his toes, waiting for Splinter to provide a definitive answer.

Splinter's resolve melted. "Be careful," he warned, reaching up to ruffle Leonardo's hat, and Leonardo brightened up with the power of a thousand suns, joyfully hopping up and down and dislodging Splinter's hand as a side effect.

Donatello and Raphael slapped their palms together and then followed Leonardo back to where Michelangelo's hat bobbed in the distance, framed by two more unfamiliar hats worn on heads just a little taller than his own boys.

He settled himself on a park bench. His old bones creaked and groaned as he leaned back.

It would be nice, perhaps, to have someone else to run his children out of energy. He could outsource for a bit. He'd just have to watch carefully, be ready to intervene just in case...

---

They'd made friends. Real friends! Real person human friends!

They were playing snowball fight. That was where you rolled up snow in your hands and threw it at someone else, and whoever threw the most snowballs won! Or something!

Leo tugged at the hem of Donny's coat. "Let's go hide," he whispered loudly. Raph was having a lot of fun throwing snowballs - he threw them really fast and really hard, big messy balls that were only half-formed due to his enthusiasm and speed, which often broke apart partway along their journey through the air. Everyone was watching him, leaving Donny and Leo quietly on the sidelines stockpiling their own set of snowballs.

There were only two new human friends, and Mikey had ended up on their team because he met them first and the two new friends didn't want to be split up. That was a little disappointing, but it meant Raph, Donny, and Leo had a chance for a little revenge!

As they rounded a nearby tree, Donny patted Leo's coat-covered shell several times to get his attention, then pointed upwards.

Pointed to a high branch, covered in a thick layer of snow, sitting right above where Mikey was crouched behind a little hastily-constructed snow wall, rolling a few snowballs for the neighboring fort with their new friends.

---

Splinter buried his face further in his several scarves as the bench he was sitting on creaked. He didn't want to frighten the poor woman who had just settled herself beside him, a dog at her feet.

"I take it one or more of those little monsters are yours?"

He coughed, clearing his throat. "Indeed."

She laughed. "I have a couple troublemakers myself. Just that age where the shenanigans start to increase exponentially."

"I know exactly what you mean." Splinter turned back to his children, to see that in the intervening handful of seconds, Donatello had somehow climbed onto Leonardo's shoulders and was attempting to shake a branch full of snow onto Michelangelo's head... "Speaking of," he said, words nearly lost to the chilly wind as he rushed over to break up that endeavor before someone fell and got hurt.

---

The joys of winter had gradually worn down the endless energy of Splinter's sons in a way that normally felt like a distant dream. Their friends long since departed, they'd resorted to lying in the snow and waving their arms and legs, making snow turtles. Playing a game of tag. Burying Mikey in a pile of packed snow, which he'd wiggled his way out of before they were halfway done. Donatello had been the first to stumble towards Splinter's park bench, curling up against his side and scratching his head underneath his hat with his bulky mittens, whining just a little under his breath.

Raphael and Michelangelo had been next, dragging their feet and blinking slowly, and as soon as they had departed the snowy hills, Leonardo followed along as well, dragging his sled dejectedly at the thought of his fun day cut short.

He'd done such a good job at carrying the sled out that morning that Splinter had no hesitation in carrying it home on Leonardo's behalf. He grabbed the string and tied it to the other handle, wearing it cross-body to leave his arms free.

His sons dragged their feet all the way home, but despite their sluggishness and the occasional chatter of teeth, they still talked his ears off. "Did you see that?" they asked. "Did you see when I did this?"

He assured them he'd been watching the whole time, and that they were impressive with their sledding and their stomping and their snow turtles and their snowball fighting, and they puffed out their little chests and they followed him through the sewers towards their lair.

Each of them had to be reminded - Michelangelo, multiple times - to take off their wet clothes at the door. Normally, they couldn't wait to get out of clothes, but their little heads were full of thoughts, with no room for reminders or gentle scolding as they started clomping dirty ice footprints all over the lair.

(Donatello's hat had been the first thing to come off, removed with such gusto that it had flown through the air and wetly smacked Splinter right in the nose. He felt like that was at least partly deserved on his end, for forcing poor Donatello to wear it all day.)

He ushered the children towards the soft mat and the blankets piled up high, waiting for them in front of their stove. Splinter had built it several years ago with the assistance of the Professor, who had not minded the blindfold Splinter requested of him in order to maintain the secrecy of their location. It vented up to the surface, in a spot that the Professor had assured him would not be questioned, and it would serve to heat up the lair during the coldest parts of the winter, when the chill was wet and seeped in to their bones.

Splinter filled a pot full of water and set it on the stove, then turned to their little battery-powered radio to find a local station playing some seasonal music.

It took some time, but the heat of the crackling fire started to warm the room, and the children slowly leaned towards it like little green flowers towards the sun, curling up in a little pile of stubby legs and arms and shells that Splinter always thought adorable.

The water started to bubble, just a little, and Splinter lifted it off of the heat. A few minutes later, after he'd mixed the packets in and things had cooled down a little, enough to not be dangerously hot, he handed an insulated cup to each of his sons, careful to make sure they wrapped both their hands around it before letting go. "Be careful," he advised them solemnly, "do not spill it."

Michelangelo blinked slowly, surprised and curious, but as he sipped the drink and realized what it was, he started to kick his feet. It seemed he didn't have the energy for full-body happy wiggles. Donatello hummed a long, appreciative hum. Leonardo cradled his warm cup close to his chest, and Raphael sniffed his, then grinned and downed a large gulp.

Splinter took the last cup for himself, breathing in the rich scent of chocolate with a contented smile. He eased himself to the floor next to his sons, running his free hand along the nearest shell in soothing circles as the fire slowly warmed him from the outside in, and the hot chocolate from the inside out, and the radio crooned a cheerful carol.

Their little outing had been quite the success. He had no doubt that they'd be clamoring to go back out as soon as they had napped away the exhaustion from this first adventure. For now, however, the lair was quiet, his sons were happy, and Splinter was at peace.

[all-pacas]

ok i read a house fanfic where they had superpowers and it wasn't that good, but now i'm imagining a world of Thematically Appropriate Powers, but they're all still Terrible Doctors

house - human lie detector. taken to an extreme and meticulous depth; he's developed and practiced. he can tell when someone is lying. easy. he can tell shades of truth: when something is being hidden, when something is partially true. if he knows someone, he can even read them, uncannily, based on the lies and truths and secrets they keep. his ability doesn't tell him what the truth is, but by process of elimination and figuring out what they don't lie about, he can get close ("i am left handed" pings if it's false and not if it's true. ergo…). he can't turn it off entirely but he can avoid "listening" too closely.

wilson - the power to be believed. super persuasion. he can turn it on and off at will, he pretends to prefer to never use it. he can't compel people, he just exudes an aura of such honesty that people trust him, open up to him, end up doing what he says because he's their best friend. naturally, he is as close to immune to house's power as he can get; in turn, house can usually still tell when he's lying, even when he's being Super Sincere

chase - emotion manipulation. he can't generally do anything too extreme - no riling people up into murderous frenzies, or making them fall in love - but he absolutely uses and abuses it. sometimes just to make patients calm, usually to make people like him. it's not a charm power, he can't use it like wilson does, it only works on one person at a time: wilson is making himself believable, and chase is manipulating the feelings of others. he can just… always make himself seem likeable. always make a great impression. he uses it shamelessly and no one trusts him. it doesn't really work on house (house is too aware of the 'lie' of it), but it's why house hired him regardless.

cameron - the actual telepath of the group. she's no charles xavier, but she can read surface level thoughts and memories, as well as show her own - it's easier to show her memories than read others, and it's better if she can have physical contact. she insists she doesn't and won't use her powers on patients/people without their consent (to house's great annoyance). all the same, she uses them more often than she'd want to admit, since it's just so convenient. and then she feels bad about it, and then she does it again… house is not immune to her power, although he's stubborn enough to keep her from being able to pry too deeply, although she very much wants to at times.

foreman - mental acuity. he is immune to all mental powers and emotional control and psychic abilities. he is supernaturally aware of himself, his body/mind, and his surroundings. he knows when he's getting a cold from the moment it starts. he has a bit of a "spidey-sense" as well, and keen observational skills, both of which he uses to absolutely kick ass at his job. the "mental shield" thing is more of a minor side effect, in his opinion… or it was until he started working for house, at which point it became his most valuable ability by far.

[beemovieerotica]

Yoo, your post about the whole controversy around jk Rowling being something not that wide spread outside internet really reasonated with me. I'm openly trans at work + Jewish (and I assume you might know about the Harry Potter game controversy), and one colleague (who I get along well with enough to call my friend) really really loves Harry Potter and keep trying to excitedly talk about it with me... Despite me telling her I am not comfortable about that media. She keep insisting on removing the work from its author because it was her childhood and so important to her.

I just... How do you navigate it when it happens to you? I could really use some reference or perspective overall!

No pressure to answer, I realize it might be controversial subject that may bait I'll faith engagement so I totally understand if you don't respond

oh I'm happy to respond, no yeah when I posted about me blocking anons baiting for discourse I mean I frequently get single sentence asks like "do you support ______" and that's...someone not interested in actually talking to me, but instead doing a witchhunt "are you a Good Person or a Bad Person" to a stranger on the internet. like if someone asked "do you support jk rowling" no context no other discussion, it's weird, it's impersonal, it's not how I want to talk to people (and anyone who has followed me for any length of time would know the answer anyway?)

but yeah sorry getting to your question, that's really difficult to reverse out of that situation if you've already expressed past interest in it...with my coworkers who like hp I'll do a very obviously polite-but-not-part-of-the-group "oh that's fun!" when they talk about it e.g. dressing up as hp for halloween, and I guess I consistently give off enough of an impression of never having cared about it, which is WILD because yeah it used to be my life. so they don't try to get any deeper into it than surface level mentions with me.

but if you've already breached the whole topic of jkr herself...AND they're not responding to explicit requests to steer away the topic...? they fundamentally don't respect your boundaries regardless of the subject matter. like remove hp from the equation and if my coworker said they don't like talking about pirates of the caribbean for even the vaguest reason on earth and I continued to try to engage with them about it, through their discomfort, then it's not really about whether something can ever be redeemed as media or not, they just don't respect boundaries.

at that point that's really shitty if she's in your workspace but she's a kind enough person about everything else to be considered a friend...but if she IS a friend, then you should be able to literally say "sorry I need to step away, this isn't a topic I want to get into" when she brings it up and then. physically step away. like make the boundary an actual physical thing that gets enforced if she doesn't respect your wishes. it SHOULD start to click for her then, because maybe at this point she's learned subconsciously "oh, my friend will talk about my favorite thing with me if I ease them into it, and I can make them get over their discomfort, because they're still here talking to me, aren't they?"

be polite, verbalize the boundary, and physically walk away to enforce the boundary and do something else. you don't have to burn bridges that you don't want to burn, AND you don't have to put up with behavior you don't like!

[kerryweaverlesbian]

Hey I read your Becky/Ambriel foc recently and was wondering how you go about writing the voices of characters who aren't in shows a lot. I feel Becky does have a distinct voice (which you nailed) but for Ambriel (and other characters you have written) did you just watch over her scenes or do you just go for it?

Like there's fandoms I've been in for 2 years and I wouldn't feel able to wrote the main characters' voices right.

Like ultimately when it comes to femslash (and all fic but especially femslash) it's better to write it bad than not at all but I would still appreciate knowing how you go about if that's okay to ask

I love talking about the writing process!! This got long and it's a big scattered mess of thoughts <3 it's hard to pin down a process because all of these thoughts and the actual writing of the piece happen concurrently so, chicken, egg, you know.

First of all, worrying about voice should really be an editing job, not a "writing the first draft" concern, in my opinion. Dean can sound like "good lord, why, is that my old chum Castiel? I do believe it is! Come, come, old chap, let us break burgers together and I shall tell thee of my frankly untenable week" and Cas can reply "bet" and you can put in square brackets [FIX THIS] and keep on trucking. I know this is hard to do. I too will pause on tricky sentences. Square brackets are my best friend. [Add Dean-ism] [insert joke] [reference that means "uh oh!]. But! To actually answer!

A particular character's voice is (unforch) something you can only fully develop through writing more of them and figuring out who they are to you. I used to be very stilted trying to figure out Cas’s voice, and then I wrote a lot of him and read a lot of other people's thoughts about him and thought about his actions in canon and now he's the easiest person for me to write!

What's more important than the surface level character-isms, is that they have depth and are consistent. Does the content of what they're saying make sense with the life they've led. Like, I don't think that my take on Meg really sounds all that much like canon Meg for example. But she is consistent within the fics I put her in, and shares enough snark with canon Meg that it works, AND she has motivations, reactions and ideas that are different to the other characters in the fic. It's like a cheat code, if two characters have different reactions to one event, that makes it come off like they have different voices.

Some other cheat codes: have one of them make a ton of references, and the other speak plainly (dean and sam core! but you can do that for most duos); have them make references to different things (tv vs classic literature, sci-fi vs fantasy); have one of them tell sillyjokes and the other tell dry jokes (destiel core...). Contrasts makes characters seem more separate.

For voice, I'll only rewatch if I don't remember how they said anything at all or if I remember they had a particularly distinctive way of speaking. If I needed to put Gabriel in a scene, I'd probably watch his episodes again. I've found if I do watch an episode to remind myself it can psyche me out of actually writing anything for them—Ava for example, I'm intimidating myself out of writing her at the moment lol.

For establishing a (deeper) character, you first need the basics:

Ambriel, helpfully, fits some basic tropes. Office worker. Apathetic. Angel in the vein of Castiel, Hannah and Anna (which is to say, autistic). I have a LOT of practice writing Castiel, and Ambriel is like Castiel didn't have his drive to help people or love of humanity. She is therefore: straightforward (angel), mildly bored (office worker) and her biggest want is for nothing to change for her (apathetic).

It's then how you build on the collection of tropes that makes them a Character. You figure out how to explain some of the above traits/situations they're in. What is her history? (She went to earth and didn't like it) Who is around her? (Kaisiel, whom she resists making a real connection with due to her apathy) Why is she apathetic? (It's repressed fear of punishment).

Something that really, really helps with unique characterisation for me is a little silly. Give them a niche interest. Something not mentioned in the source material at all, or is only briefly mentioned. Castiel is into the same sitcoms as me (and taxidermy). Ambriel is into data storage. Ava is into collecting small furniture.

And then go, why are they into this?

Castiel bc he loves to experience hunanity at a safe distance (and he likes to rummage).

Ambriel because it's within the scope of her job so is 'safe', which she takes pride in (and which I advanced from "pushing a button" because I thought that was stupid and bad world building 💙).

Ava wants to feel a sense of control in a world that is very much out of her control.

This not only gives you better insight into them as a character, it also makes them YOURS. that's not the cw's Ambriel, that's mine, she's into data storage, so it doesn't matter if she's off-model because no one will know, because she's mine.

As with Castiel's love of tv, you can also do this with canon interests, just hone in on specifically what it is and specifically why they like it. Dean doesn't like "music" he likes rock because it makes him feel powerful and affirms his masculinity and has a connection to his family being together. Charlie doesn't like "fantasy" she likes Lord Of The Rings and The Wizard of Oz because she values escapism and rooting for the little guy (these are also interests of Sam's!).

Plus - making it more niche and specific makes it SEEM like they have this rich inner life and history even if you don't bother to figure out why.

1) "Geraldine sighed and took the dog for a walk" vs

2) "Geraldine sighed, saved her game and took the dog for a walk" vs

3) "Geraldine sighed, saved her game of Pokemon Mystery Dungeon X, and took the dog for a walk."

Now!! Actually! 2 and 3 are where "voice" can come in. Is the POV character someone who doesn't care or know much about video games? Then 2 is the one for them. Does the POV character care a lot about being accurate, know Geraldine well enough to know what she's playing, and/or are knowledgeable about video games? Option 3! Or, bonus option 4, perhaps they're disdainful of video games/annoyed with Geraldine: "Geraldine sighed, saved her little game with the pretend animals, and finally took our very real and very whiny dog for a walk".

So!! We have a character. How do we make her distinct from the other characters in the fic? Build them concurrently!

Ambriel is apathetic about community THEREFORE Becky is desperate for it (and can't hold onto it). Becky is over-verbose, so Ambriel keeps it short (and is misunderstood as a result). Ambriel believes deep down that she doesn't matter, so Becky deep down believes that she (both herself and Ambriel) is special and important and deserves worship.

So. I think you were expecting this but. think about their motivations and then just start writing them and it'll work out.

okay I gotta go make dinner. does this help???? MWAH

[khaire-traveler]

Will the gods mind if I go into periods of stagnancy where I can do little to no active worship? I struggle with a lot of mental illness and am typically very busy so there are periods during which I cannot do my typical prayer and conversing and such

Hey, Entity,

I feel this post by @doves-of-aphrodite puts my thoughts on this matter the best. I feel that the love and care of deities are not so surface level as to disappear when someone isn't able to actively worship.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I feel every worshipper should go a period without giving offerings. For me, it changed my perspective on worship entirely. Just as you ask for help from loved ones without always giving immediately in return, I feel we are allowed to ask for help from deities without being able to give immediately in return. Kindness that is only given with the expectation of receiving in return shouldn't be the cornerstone of a relationship, in my opinion.

Of course, it's healthy to return the favor, especially to show appreciation and care, but that shouldn't be an "always expectation" that happens every single time you ask for help. The relationship becomes more of a formal exchange to me, and that's personally not what I look for when interacting with deities. For me, when a deity relationship is built solely on offerings and nothing else, there is this neverending pressure to give and give and give, and it discourages me from reaching out when I need help because I'm unable to give in that moment. That discouragement isn't a good thing if it prevents you from communicating with your deities. They aren't a bank that keeps a record of the debt you pay back to them; they are beings with the ability to care for and love humans, and the maturity to understand that humans sometimes don't have the ability to immediately give back.

All of this is to say that I don't think it's healthy to put so much pressure on ourselves to immediately provide an offering of thanks. It can easily consume a deity relationship, in my experience, and make a relationship feel much less personal and much more conditional. It's ok to take your time with things. If you feel guilty, maybe just let the deity know that it will take you some time before you can give an offering directly. I'm certain they have the ability to show you some grace for that.

Also, I believe it's extremely important to remember that worship doesn't always come in the form of giving a physical offering. Worship can be subtle, such as listening to a playlist you create for them, saving pictures on a Pinterest board that reminds you of them, or even just taking care of yourself as an act of devotion. You could even just offer a glass of water and proceed to drink that water, and that can be an act of worship. It doesn't need to be this huge and elaborate thing where you dedicate some lengthy ritual and a luxurious offering. It's ok if your worship is much more subtle for a time. You're allowed to worship in seemingly small ways. Those small things add up to a pretty solid relationship built on genuine care - enough care to think of a deity while going about your day.

Even with this idea of subtle worship, however, you still are not required to give a ton of offerings or put a ton of effort into worship when you're unable to. I believe that deities would prefer us to take care of ourselves first, rather than expending every last drip of energy on devoting ourselves to them. Take care of you for now. Your deities aren't going anywhere.

I hope this helped you. This is, of course, based on my personal practice, and there is no right way of going about worship or anything of the sort. There are no rules or guidelines that we must follow; we make of it what we see fit. Take care, and have a good day/night. 🧡

[ceasarslegion]

Ive made my stance on oppenheimer discourse very clear but one detail of it that really bothers me is the "movies about sad white men are always bad" attitude, and i didnt really know why until i was able to sit down and parse it out.

Here's the thing. I have a film degree, I've spent more time in movie theaters than I have sleeping and I've easily seen more films and shows than all of my peers combined. Which isn't a flex btw, I'm a little hermit who prefers the warm embrace of a cinema seat to human connection and is the most annoying mfer imaginable during family movie night; don't be like me.

But I know hollywood, I know cinema history, and I know the legitimate frustration this attitude comes from. Hollywood doesn't like to take risks, they have to historically be dragged kicking and screaming into any territory that isn't a guaranteed profit, which usually means that we get periods of stagnation where every film is the same goddamn formula over and over again until audiences get sick of it and stop buying tickets en masse. Hollywood also tends to reflect the dominant culture and the sociopolitical issues of the time, but not SOOO much that you'd rock the boat. As an exec, you wanna hit that sweet spot where audiences relate to your films without them being so blatant that they'd cause them to question things that weren't acceptable to question. Noir was a picture-perfect example of that.

And in the modern day, that DOES tend to translate into the weird genre of Sad White Man Who Regrets Killing Foreigners movies. Like American Sniper. But I've seen American Sniper, so I can speak on how lowkey disturbing I found it, and the history it's based in and the goals it had as an art piece were to make you sympathize with a system of corruption. And here's my unpopular opinion: if done RIGHT, those films still have a place within the cinematic sphere of influence, like if you made a film exploring the psyche and experiences of what leads a man to willingly participate in a system like that, but that's not really what it was.

Now let's move onto Oppenheimer and other films like it. I don't think these films are at ALL equivalent to films like American Sniper, even if they follow a sad white man who regrets killing foreigners. You are looking at the bare bones surface level of it and assuming its contents both real world and dramatized and judging it based on that instead of the, well, actual film.

One of the biggest differences here is that Oppenheimer WAS an important historical figure just, objectively. Even removing all western racial influence from the equation, you can not look me in the eyes and tell me that the man who invented the atomic bomb in the middle of the largest world war of modern history was not an important historical figure. If you try to make THAT argument just based on the sad white man-ness of him, I'm sorry but your point is already moot, because it's not based in historical fact anymore but your own personal subjective feelings. He IS an important historical figure, he's not soldier number 648 in the middle of a massive battlefield who followed other peoples orders.

And also to be completely honest, you are a huge fucking liar if you try to claim that people like Dr. Oppenheimer are not interesting. Flawed people who make flawed decisions with complicated variables are what make for good fiction, so when one exists in the historical record, of course they are going to interest people. They are going to be studied and interviewed if they're still alive and have their entire lives and every word they said picked apart and analyzed because they are interesting. You are straight up lying if you try to act like these people arent interesting enough on their own to have media made about them, regardless of what identity they had that fits into the opposing side of the 21st centure culture wars. This attitude reminds me a lot of the people who claim that the only reason anybody could find true crime interesting is because they MUST want to fuck jeffrey dahmer or whatever. The argument just doesnt hold up because all it takes is one person going "thats not what i find interesting about them" to collapse that entire absolutist argument.

So yes, hollywood absolutely has a racism and war glorification issue. But I take issue when these accusations are just made blindly against any historical dramatization based on nothing but the poster. If you're going to talk about hollywoods sad white men issue, at least make sure the films youre citing actually fit that bill AND that you actually understand whats WRONG with those sad white men movies, because its not just the presence of a sad white male protagonist, its a conglomerate of various sociopolitical issues that must be present within those characters and what they represent.

[kerubimcrepin]

Liveread: Dofus tome 2 – Le fil pourpre

I didn't know about this until the post by @julith-jurgen that included art from this book, but as it turns out — Kerubim makes an appearance in one of the Dofus choose your own adventure novels.

I will say: I couldn't find PDFs for myself, or any other way to read these books... For a second, I thought all hope is lost... However, fortunately, I am a member of a discord that frequently runs games using these books, translating them along the way. So, while reading this post, you will see quotes from that discord translation.

(It feels a bit corny, but shout out to @uelman for running those games and translating this! ;><)

You ask a passerby how to reach Kerub Crepin's shop. The young man replies that the shop is at the Ecalfip statue's square. It'll probably still be open, even at this late hour.

The novels, as far as I am aware, are set at the time of the Dofus MMOs. This part in particular references the old layout of Astrub city in Dofus MMO as well.

Before a major update, there were various classes' gods' statues around the city, and Kerubim's was right across the Ecaflip one.

You're looking forward to meeting this unique figure described by Meriana. According to the magician, Kerub is a retired hero and a great storyteller... and he's in possession of an item vital in the quest for the Crimson Dofus.

Meriana is a major character in the Dofus MMO, and someone who helps you find all the Dofus in the game. She is an Enutrof demigoddess who possesses a true fortune of knowledge and books.

In the game, Kerubim says that the two of them are friends.

You arrive to a square with an imposing white stone statue of the god Ecaflip. Nearby, a sign in the shape of a bow meow's head swings in the night's breeze. It points to the store of Kerub Crepin, one of the most renowned adventurers in the World of Twelve.

Considering the fact that Joris sends the player, in-game, directly to Kerubim, and says literally nothing about them being related, I like to think that people not into adventurer/immortal/political gossip, knowing that Kerubim and Joris are related is like, "below the surface of the water" knowledge.

Knowing that Atcham exists is "middle of the iceberg" knowledge, and knowing how exactly they're related and who is older, is the "deep ocean" level of knowledge, respectively.

You've never seen such a bric-a-brac. There's vials, flasks, vases, bottle and pots. Old dusty books are piled up everywhere. Some weapons are displayed on the walls. Skulls stare at you with their empty eye sockets, while chests, trunks and cases hide other objects.

Oldass books and creepy decorations are apparently a familial trait.

You climb up the wooden stairway. You hear someone talk in a hoarse voice. "...we're starting to have too much dust around here, Luis. I know you're very touchy on this subject, but just a single good wiping with a thaumaturgical feather duster would be enough... Luis? Ah look at that, the bugger fell asleep! It's not that late, I'd say..."

KERUBIM USE YOUR CHANCE. CLEAN UP WHILE HE'S SLEEPING. KERUBIM——

You enter a room with shelves in front of all the walls. An old white furred Ecaflip is sitting on an armchair, steaming mug in hand. He smiles at you from ear to ear. "Welcome! Come closer, don't be scared. Oh, I see you're accompanied by a spirit... not a violent one, I hope? As long as he knows to keep himself in check and doesn't make my furniture fly around, he can haunt the house freely. So, what can I do for you?" You introduce yourself shortly. "A pleasure. I'm Kerub Crepin, humble owner of the most amazing magic shop in the whole Krosmoz. No matter what you're looking for: you will find it here. Let me guess... You're searching for a magical weapon able to destroy your enemies? I have an inflatable sword right here, a wholly original model that was a huge hit at the latest armourer convention. It comes with a pack of patches. Do you want a way to bring your friend back to life? I think I still have an Erzal potion. Although, I have to warn you that it has some secondary effects, and if his original body was in a bad shape, the result could be... unexpected."

He is never beating those necromancy allegations... But either way, I am pretty sure the Ezral potion here might be this?

Very interested at first, Oskar quickly realises that Kerub's potion is not the solution to his problem. As for you, you tell the Ecaflip that you were sent by the magician Meriana. "Meriana? Haha! How's the old witch doing? It's been a long time since she passed by Astrub. She can't stand crowds. She's always been like that... So, tell me, what Dofus are you after? Emerald, Ochre, Turquoise?" You reply that you're after the Crimson Dofus. "Oh, Ignemikhal's egg! You know, I had it in my hands a long time ago... but I'd need many days just to tell this story, and no doubt you're in a hurry. You've got a long way ahead of you... and it's not going to be a straight line, oh no! You'll have to adventure into the Minotoror's labyrinth... there's a bloody stroll waiting for you there." Kerub drinks a sip of his mug, then stands up and asks you to follow him. "I have a debt towards Meriana, so I will help you. You're lucky, I have exactly what you need. Come, follow me to the attic."

Love how casual he is about asking which Dofus is being sought after, here. Like this is just another weekday for him.

You follow the old Ecaflip and start climbing up the tight red wood stairs. You mention to your host that not that long ago, you too were a Kerub. "Haha, you were part of Incarnam's guards, that right? Many years ago, I served amongst the ranks of the Kerub's militia. At the time, they weren't named that... they took the Kerub name in my honour, to thank me from saving the celestial island from a great danger. It's an incredible story. It all began when...-" "Eh, sorry to interrupt you, Mister Crepin, but... are you renting the loft to anyone?" Oskar, who silently floated behind you, points to a ray of light coming from the floorboard above your head. "Judging from the creaks I'm hearing... I'd say you have a visitor." Kerub frowns. Quickly, he opens the attic's trap door and jumps up with the dexterity of a bow meow. You quickly climb up the last steps.

This part references the Celestial Kerubim Militia, which are a faction you join during the tutorial of the Dofus MMO.

In the game he also speaks of having been the reason the militia is named that way, and you can see a framed photo/painting of him in their headquarters.

The same image can be seen in the shop in Wakfu MMO's times. As far as I know, the Kerubim Militia may not exist by these times.

Your untimely interruption surprises the attic's inhabitants: the moumouses scarper, the arachnees skedaddle... and four masked individuals are caught in the act. The most surprised one is a red-haired female Rogue: she stays still for a few seconds before an open trunk, lit by the moonlight coming from the skylight. In her black gloved hand, there's a red ball of yarn. Kerub proclaims his outrage at this home invasion. "Hey, give that back, it's mine! Luis, wake up, you old shack!" The redhead makes sign to her sidekicks. "Riko, Lequin, Chypel! Take care of these idiots while I grab the scarper powder!" The three Rogues take the offensive. Kerub grabs a broom lying around. "I'll take her of the lady! I'll leave the other scoundrels to you!"

Hey Keke. Look at me, Keke.

Are you sure about that??

(I'm joking. This book takes place centuries after the show. I doubt these rogues in Dofus times, and Remingron in Wakfu times, care about something that happened so long ago.)

Meanwhile, Kerub seems to have the situation under control: perched at the edge of the skylight, he uses his broom to reflect every single explosive projectile the Rogue leader throws at him. Realising that her way out is blocked, the redhead retreats towards the stairs... but Kerub doesn't plan to let her escape! He puts a spoke in her wheels, rather literally throwing his broom at her legs, making her lose her footing... and the crimson ball of thread she held in her hand. The ball rolls at your feet. You pick it up, challenging the thieves to come take it back.

Not going to lie... Kerubim beating someone with a broom is something I didn't know I needed, until now.

Suddenly, the flooring begins to rise. The attic's trapdoor slams closed. Kerub doesn't seem unnerved, on the contrary. "Finally, you woke up! Come on, Luis, let's get to it, time to clean this up!" The Rogue leader shouts in anger. She throws a glass marble at the floor. A thick mist overruns the room. You can't see anything anymore. Kerub is overtaken by a coughing fit. "Khoff, khoff! Luis, do something! Khoff!" The round skylight extends and expands, letting the smoke out. You barely notice a vague silhouette jumping over you... and going out the window open into the starry sky. "Khoff! She escaped! Agh, that vixen!" You look outside. The redhead landed on the neighbouring roof. She looks back to you and curses at you with her fist to the clouds. "You'll pay for this... We'll meet again!" Then, she disappears into the night. You hear an explosion behind you. The three Rogues managed to open the trapdoor with sheer brute strength. "C'mon guys, we're breaking out!" The ruffians rush down the stairs at full speed. You're about to run after them, but Kerub grabs you by the back of your neck. "Let them flee! What matters, is that the scoundrels left empty-handed, without their loot!" The old Ecaflip points at the ball in your hand. It shines in a bright crimson light.

[imagines Kerubim stopping Joris and Atcham from running after some rogues that broke in and beating them to death] [smiles]

"This ball of yarn is not an ordinary one. It used to be the property of the Ecaflip god. The Big Tease collects balls, it's one of his hobbies. He even invented a game with flabby balls... but this one is very peculiar. It is said that the crimson thread that composes it is tied to the tapestry of three Norrai, the fate weavers. It will guide you through the Minotoror's labyrinth." You thank Kerub for his gift, and ask him he he has any idea of who the red-haired thief could be. "Haha, she caught your eye too? Well, I think I've seen her near the old burnt-down church... she was with a group of fairly sinister individuals." "I know her," intervened Oskar, "Her name is Odetta. She's the right hand woman of Han Reddun, one of the leaders of Astrub's crime syndicate. I already dealt with Reddun before... he tried to drown me in a barrel of alcohol mixed with water. Such a crime against Astrub's fine beer... Don't you see? It's the sign of an insufferable cruelty." "I don't really see it, no," replies Kerub shrugging his shoulders. "I only drink mimilk, or exceptionally, a glass of Chichala. In fact, now that I said that..."

Odetta is a real NPC in the MMO, and she does hang out inside an old burnt-down church.

What is more scary to me is that this implies that Kerubim really did cut down on the alcohol after his turbulent youth and being shown with a beer or drunk every other episode. Therapy real???

The old Ecaflip turns to you. "Something tells me your quest won't be a walk in the park, my young friend, and that you'll need a little help... Follow me, Luis will take care of putting things back into place here." As you walk down, you ask who is this famous Luis he keeps mentioning. "Well he's the soul of the house, he is! Luis is a Shushu, a demon if you like. He haunts this place since forever. No doubt what explains why he behaves like a dragon-pig... Ouch! I'm kidding, Luis, no need to put splinters under my paws!" Back at his shop, Kerub rummages through a big golden chest. "Alright, let's see, where did I put it... Make yourself comfortable, it may take a while. Have a candy, there's a whole bowl. No, not this... Did you know you'll need two relics to reach the centre of the labyrinth? I don't have it in stock anymore, else I'd give you a friend's discount. Oh, I thought I had thrown away this old thing... Oof, I'm starting to regret this. I have to tidy all of this one day... Ah, here it is. A flask of Chichala! Although, now that I think about it, you could also use this Matataure cape... or the Unlucky's Joker!" Kerub puts three items before you: a green flask, a deep red cape, and a playing card.

Kerubim is just like me fr when it comes to cleaning. "Ooof I'm starting to regret this, I have to tidy all of this one day" he will not tidy all of this. at any point in time.

This brings my quick little book-review/liveblog to a close. Overall, a very cute cameo. Especially for me, since I am always very interested in Dofus MMO times, when it comes to Kerubim, Joris, and Atcham. (as if you couldn't tell from the 10k word fanfic i wrote. Dofus MMO lore has me bewitched heart and soul ok?)

[jewels-writes]

deception (part 2)

Warnings: mild(?) verbal arguments Word Count: 1,741 Fandom: Call of Duty Notes: I'm sorry if this part is boring, but it's important for the world building lol. Next chapter will have more action <3 As always, not well proofread, apologies per usual. Part 1 Part 3 — — — —

Interrogation after interrogation went by until the entire team was let out for the night. They didn’t have enough information to accuse anyone for now. Despite this, Laswell had ordered that you were to all refrain from communicating with each other.

“You'll be sleeping in separate rooms. We've arranged everything.” She said to the group after she'd stepped out of the interrogation room, motioning to the other agent to hand out papers that you assumed held your new sleeping arrangements in them. You saw Price clench his fists beside you, clearly unhappy about this.

“You are also to not speak to your teammates–or anyone besides me or agents–until this mess is resolved.” She continued. "I don't care about any personal affairs involved, this is above feelings toward others.” Her gaze leveled at Price and you, her implication clear.

Price might have been able to suppress his anger, but not you. “This is outrageous, Laswell.” You spoke up. You knew acting out like this would make you look bad, but you were upset. The pent up stress and uncertainty weighed on you and this seemed to be the best outlet right now.

As the room fell silent, all eyes turned towards you, their expressions a mix of surprise and concern. Price's grip on his clenched fists tightened, his jaw set in a firm line. The tension in the air was palpable, thick with conflicting emotions.

Laswell's gaze bore into you, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of irritation and superiority. “Outrageous? My orders are for the sake of the mission and the safety of everyone involved,” she retorted, her voice laced with arrogant authority. “In times like these, personal affairs must take a backseat, soldier. We can't afford any distractions.”

The weight of her words struck you, igniting a surge of anger that burned in your chest. You took a deep breath, struggling to control your emotions, but the frustration slipped into your voice. “You expect us to trust each other, to fight together tooth and nail, and then you strip us of the one thing that keeps us grounded? Our connection?”

Price stepped forward, his voice firm, but controlled. “Laswell, we may be soldiers, but we are also human beings. We need each other. Placing these restrictions only weakens us, and it undermines the very unity you seek to preserve.” You looked over to him, grateful that he’d taken your side on this mess.

Laswell's expression hardened, her jaw clenched. “Your emotions won't change the facts, Captain. Until this matter is resolved, the orders stand. Separate rooms, no communication.”

You could feel the rage bubbling within you, the urge to lash out growing stronger with each passing second. But Price's hand on your arm, his grip grounding you, reminded you of the bigger picture. You fought against the anger, taking a step back and tried to regain control.

“Easy, love.” He warned you with a knowing kindness in his tone. He knew you were upset, hell, so was he. But he knew lashing out wouldn't solve this. “It's not forever. Hopefully just one night.”

“Better damn be.” You grumbled before stepping back, standing beside Price, his hand still on your arm. 

— — — —

Soon enough, an agent pulled you away from Price, insisting you follow them to your new room assignment. It was degrading, having to be guided around like some child. Though, you were  grateful there weren't any prying eyes like there was earlier. It was late, most other soldiers were asleep, not wandering around base.

As you were led to your new room, your resentment simmered beneath the surface. The agent escorting you seemed unfazed by your mood, their expression stoic and professional. The hallways were quiet, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the floor. It felt eerie, the weight of the situation hanging heavy in the air.

The agent stopped in front of a nondescript door, handing you a keycard. "This will be your room for the night. Rest up and be ready for further questioning in the morning," they instructed, their voice monotonous and detached.

You nodded curtly, taking the keycard with a mild sense of unease. The door creaked open, revealing a simple, sparsely furnished room. The sterile ambiance accentuated the isolation and the growing frustration within you. It felt like a prison, a stark reminder of the rift that had been forced between you and the rest of the 141.

Closing the door behind you, you exhaled a heavy sigh, the exhaustion of the day weighing on your shoulders. The room felt cold, the silence deafening. It was in stark contrast to the warmth and security you found in Price's presence. You craved the comfort and reassurance only he could provide.

As you sunk onto the bed, the sheets feeling cold against your skin, you couldn't help but dwell on the unfairness of it all. The uncertainty and distrust hanging over the team had created a chasm that threatened to consume you. And being separated from Price only made it worse.

You just wanted to be held by him, just as you normally were. You weren’t supposed to, but most nights you’d go to his bed, cuddle up beside him. You knew tonight you’d get caught if you tried, but god, you wanted to. 

Before you knew it, you were crying. The tears streamed down your face, the silent sobs shaking your body as frustration, helplessness, and anger poured out of you. The emotions you had been holding back for so long were unleashed in that moment—raw and overwhelming. The room felt suffocating, the weight of the situation bearing down on you.

You longed for Price's presence, his strong arms wrapped around you, offering comfort and peace. But the reality of the situation refused to allow you such a simple pleasure. It tore at your heart, the pain of separation so acute in this moment of vulnerability.

Your cries echoed in the empty room, a stark reminder of the anguish that consumed you. You wished for a release, a way to make sense of the chaos that surrounded you. But there was no easy answer, only the daunting task of finding the truth and proving Price's innocence.

Slowly, your tears subsided, leaving you exhausted and drained. You wiped away the remnants of your tears, your breathing slowly calming as you were left with an emptiness inside.

Grateful for the second pillow on the bed, you held it close to your chest, wishing it was Price. Or even just an article of his clothing with his scent embedded into the cloth. You were used to stealing a hoodie from him, settling for the clothing instead of him when you two couldn’t be close. Though you were sure the entirety of the CIA was going through his things, ruining their smells. Probably going through everyone’s belongings. Probably making a damn mess of it all too.

You sighed, the fatigue and exhaustion finally settling in. Your eyes slowly closed as the heaviness of sleep came over you, claiming you for the night.

— — — —

The next several days dragged on. The questioning never seemed to end. The agents would pull out an article of clothing or one of your belongings from an evidence bag and ask the most unrelated questions about them, digging way too deep into them. 

The room was filled with the eerie sound of silence, broken only by the scratch of a pen against paper as one of the agents scribbled notes. Their piercing gaze remained fixed on you, their curiosity masked behind a façade of detached professionalism.

You sighed heavily, weariness seeping into your voice. “It's just a shirt,” you grunted, your tone laced with exasperation. “It holds no hidden meaning, no secret codes or messages. It's a personal item, nothing more.”

The agent across from you arched an eyebrow, recognizing the annoyance in your tone. “We've uncovered so much about each member of the team. Every detail matters.” They replied matter-of-factly.

Deep down, you knew their relentless pursuit of information was necessary to uncover the truth. But the constant digging felt invasive, like an assault on your privacy and personal history. The weight of their suspicion bore down on your shoulders, overwhelming you.

“Do you have any actual evidence that I did something? Or any of us? Who even suggested there was a spy?” You asked, knowing you probably weren't going to get a solid answer.

The agent's expression remained impassive as they met your gaze with a cold detachment. “We have gathered enough circumstantial evidence to merit further investigation,” they replied, their voice devoid of any emotion.

Frustration welled within you, and the lack of transparency from the agents only added to your growing sense of unease. “Circumstantial evidence? That's hardly enough to accuse someone of being a spy. You can't base a case solely on assumptions and guesswork,” you retorted, your voice tinged with frustration.

The agent leaned back in their chair, crossing their arms over their chest. “We have a duty to ensure the safety and security of the forces. We must consider every angle, every possibility.” they explained, their tone remaining steady.

The answer failed to satisfy you, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. You knew the importance of uncovering the traitor, but the lack of concrete evidence and the constant questioning wore away at your patience.

“I just want this to be over.” You muttered under your breath, your voice laced with a mix of exhaustion and resignation. Looking up at them again, you asked, “Has anyone been cleared yet?” The question was a shot in the dark, you knew that, but it had been days without anyone but these emotionless agents. You missed Price. You missed everyone.

The agent studied you for a moment, their gaze steady and piercing. “I cannot disclose that information at this time.” they replied cryptically, leaving you frustrated. Yet again. The hope that had begun to rise within you faltered, overshadowed by the lingering doubt and uncertainty.

You clenched your fists, the frustration and anger coiling within you like a tightly wound spring. “We deserve to know if any progress has been made. We need to trust each other if we're going to unravel this conspiracy.” You urged, your voice determined.

The agent's expression remained unchanged, a sense of detached authority emanating from them. “Rest assured that we are doing everything in our power to resolve this situation swiftly and efficiently.” They replied dismissively. (I don't know how to end chapters lmfao. Sorry if it seems like it just cuts off. Next part in a few days, whenever I get around to writing it.)

[ifishouldvanish]

(sorry, one more bc it's been on my mind for a long time)

I worry though, about... the dynamic. Can someone really find and bond with another through their grief and loneliness, without this grim depression they share becoming *worse?*

For me, personally, whenever I think about them... I think there's going to be a level of catharsis. They have something that would be very hard to find in another living being, and a certain love for humanity and the past that would be difficult to find among vampires, and this shapes them into shattered pieces which fit together. But would they still be able to find happiness? It kind of feels like they're two damaged clocks that have coincidentally been stuck on the same minute and hour hand. Would they be able to heal and move time forward?

Okay so like!!!!

I see it less about bonding over the shared grief itself and more about what their responses to that grief have exposed in each of them. Like, in the beginning and on the surface level, yes. It is the grief and loss and loneliness that brings them together. But they are foils!!! I'm telling you!!! They can learn from each other!!!

I've mentioned probably all of this before in scattered pieces across all my posts at some point but!! I think the lowest common denominator, the core of their dynamic, lies in how they seem to have established their senses of self.

Alucard struggles with how not to define himself by his father, and then having to define himself in opposition to his father. "Slave to our families' wishes" etc. And when that chapter of his life closes he's like, "welp, guess I'll just entomb myself here 🤷" until Trevor and Sypha are like "what?? Dude no??" And he's like "oh haha I guess you're right, I can uphold the legacy of the best parts of both of my parents!!" And they're like "ya!!" But then a month goes by without anyone coming round to say "hey!!! Share that knowledge with me!! Fulfill the role you've given yourself" and he is just... so fucking bored and unfulfilled?

He needed they-who-shall-not-be-named to come along so he could fill that role, needed Greta to come along so he could fill that role. He tells Greta about how rescuing others sort of fills a void for him/gives him purpose, which is honorable, yes. But like... It's also so sad imo?? This comfort in denying his sense of self? "I don't know what to do with myself, just gimme a shout if the world ever needs saving again"?? Like Alucard, honey, babygirl, sweetheart... you need to learn to live for yourself 🥺

Olrox on the other hand is... not selfish exactly, but he knows what he's about and he refuses compromise himself. You killed the only man I ever loved? Okay, then I'm killing you, and no, I don't care if your nine year old son witnesses it. You want the juicy story of why that boy is terrified of the big bad vampire? Okay, but you will learn about my humanity first so you can sit with your cognitive dissonance about it later. You think I'm just going to throw myself at your feet because you promise us all eternal night? How about you kindly go fuck yourself? You happily stump for Erzsebet because she promised you that she'll create a world that will allow you to relive your glory days? Couldn't be me!

Like obviously we have a much more limited viewpoint for Olrox because we know so much less about him and his past, but this is not a guy who's waiting for someone to give him a purpose. He acts alone, he doesn't play nice with others, he has his own agenda, and is even a little bit of a hedonist: investigating the relationship between the abbot and Erzsebet? Might as well fuck a hot monk while I'm at it. I said eat the rich, but I might as well look good doing it. You hate/fear me cause I killed your mom? Get over it already. You think the opera singing night creature is annoying? Well, I'm familiar enough with opera music to know he's actually reading you all for filth, so I think it's great!

I think at the end of the day, Alucard is a character who defines himself by others, not understanding why he still feels so empty and alone. And Olrox is a character who defines himself by his own terms, but in being caught between both human and vampire worlds has learned to push people away because he thinks he is better off that way. But by the end of the season, his worst fear is realized: I cannot do this alone. I am at the mercy of someone else's help.

But Olrox isn't like anyone else Alucard has rescued before. He's a fellow vampire. He's a fellow immortal. He's going to be around for as long as he is. And maybe, in that time, a little bit of that ego can start to rub off on Alucard. Maybe he can learn to live for himself without apology, without feeling like he has to atone for the sins of his father. Maybe, just maybe, he can learn to exist outside of the role of the mythical savior.

Because Olrox doesn't want one of those—heaven's no. He can take care of himself, thank you very much. But what if he could learn he doesn't always have to? Who better to restore his faith in the world than the guy who has his mother's conviction that all of this mess is worth saving so deeply ingrained in him that it's been the primary source of his identity for centuries?

I'm starting to ramble here so I hope this is coherent, but in conclusion: they would be so restorative for each other and look so hot together and that is why I believe in Alurox supremacy 🙏

[breathlessmorro]

Okay I am loving your takes so much while I am not a huge fan of Misako and Wu what you said made me think about a few things I'm still not a fan of them buuuut I don't think I dislike Misako as much and I also agreed with your take with the whole Nya Cole Jay thing anyways that's besides the point!!! How would Wu and the rest of the family Garmadon Misako & Lloyd react to Morro liking Kai?

Thank you for saying that, I greatly appreciate it! I get that Wusako isn't everyone's cup of tea, so no worries fam! I haven't been able to really explain my "takes" on a lot of the canon ships before, so it's nice to know my thoughts are being well received lol

NOW AS FOR THE DESTINYSHIPPING MOTHERFUCKERS -

Okay if you're a regular on my blog you probably know I have a million different ways that Destiny can become canon. Beyond that, there's a mullion different ways Morro actually joins the team in the first place. Morro takes Wu's hand. Morro comes back on the day of the Departed. Morro never actually leaves Wu's monastery (but we're ignoring that one for the sake of Destiny)

It's no secret that Kai probably hates Morro the most. He was the most relentless when it came to fighting him, trying to get Lloyd back, et cetera. Even during the Day of the Departed, he's the only one other than Lloyd who actually addresses him, ready to fight. So naturally, when setting up Destiny as a couple, you need to get over that barrier.

Morro joining the team under any circumstances is weird. One, he and Lloyd obviously aren't going to get along. Two, he might not even want to be a ninja. Three, he may not even fit into the group at all. Because of the way the characters are written, I think that if Wu gave Morro the chance of redemption, and Morro actually took it, the team would accept it and him. They stood down when Wu told them to, so it's not unrealistic that they'd trust him - after some protesting - that Morro wouldn't hurt them.

Except for Kai. Kai didn't trust Garmadon in season one, and that was Lloyd's father. Why would he ever trust Morro? Eventually everyone moves past not trusting Morro, if only because they're so annoyed by him and Kai fighting all the time. Even Lloyd I think would want Kai to give Morro a chance. It wouldn't be until either they're united against a common enemy, or until they're forced to see each other beyond their surface level traits, that they'd even be friends. However, I think that the second both Kai and Morro get past their animosity, they're bound to get together. Completely inseparable.

As for the reactions? WELL BABY LET ME TELL YOU -

Wu: He's extremely grateful that they've stopped fighting. Wu will never stop seeing Morro as a son either, so he's happy that he's giving himself the chance to be truly happy with someone. Of course, he gives Kai the stereotypical threat of "you hurt my son I hurt your face" but he's very supportive

Garmadon: Depending on which Garmadon we're talking about here. Evil Garmadon couldn't care less, he's not involved with their teenage shenanigans. Good Garmadon, however, would be concerned. I think he'd want to treat with Morro with respect, given that he's Wu's adopted child, but Morro still hurt his baby. He's always going to be biased against him. Not that Kai is Garmadon's favorite or anything, but he's still a little protective. Regardless, he doesn't voice his concerns to either of them, instead showing support, even if he's skeptical of their pairing.

Misako: I feel like she'd be in the same boat as Wu - relieved that they're not fighting, and that they're both happy. Misako isn't super close with either boy, so she's not as protective, but they're both part of her family, and she's always glad to see people overcoming their differences.

Lloyd: Now Lloyd is the trickiest, because he can either be their biggest cheerleader, or their biggest opposer. It depends on whether or not Lloyd's actually forgiven Morro, how he'll react. If he has, then sure enough he was right with Wu, trying to encourage Kai to stop picking fights, and was glad to find out they actually care about each other. If he hasn't forgiven Morro, however, then it's gonna be all too easy for him to get reasonably upset. Kai is supposed to be his brother - to protect him, and he goes and starts kissing the ghost that forced him to fight his friends??? Lloyd would get bitter fast in that case, and though he'd try to keep his feelings out of the fight, he'd slip up occasionally, and until he resolved things with both Kai and Morro, it would cost the team a lot. Lloyd's understanding and kindness is underestimated a lot; he tries to see the best in even the worst of people, and if you make an effort to do the right thing, he'll notice it. That being said, this is still the same kid who opened three serpentine tombs because he couldn't have some candy. Lloyd's ability to hold a grudge is strong, even turning him against his father at one point, but in the end he always comes around when he realizes the cost of his anger and acting on it isn't worth the consequences