#apparently my kidneys were failing

[johnnysuhbmarine]

Facing such a tough crowd, I had to laugh at the joke myself

[strifethedestroyer]

my uncle died. hm

this is the first time i've ever reached the tag limit. the last word is meant to be funeral.

[alexanderwales]

I think the worst part of my experience with the internet is when people make bold claims and I say to myself "is that actually true though?" and then, rather than continuing on with my life and letting it lie, I take it upon myself to answer the question to my own satisfaction.

And this is often very difficult and time-consuming, because the thing that's boldly being claimed is complex and nuanced, and there's possibly a grain of truth somewhere that I really would need to go looking for.

I used to have a very Catholic coworker who I'd get in fights with all the time, and he was terrible about providing sources for the things he said, because obviously it was based on an article that had landed in his inbox and it was hard for him to remember all the details, except that he had definitely read it somewhere. So I would take it upon myself to say "okay, what the fuck is this guy talking about" and then eventually I would find the kernel of truth that had led to whatever was in his head. Sometimes this was interesting and worthwhile, but often it was not. On a few occasions, it was just funny/frustrating, because he'd been shared something from the Onion.

(As one example, he had said that Pepsi products contained pieces of aborted fetuses, which was clearly stupid on the face of it. But when I went to go figure out where he'd gotten that from, I learned some stuff about cell lines, and in particular, HEK-293. That cell line comes from the kidney of an aborted (or possibly miscarried) fetus from 1973, and through the magic of biology, became an immortal cell line. This cell line was then used by a company called Senomyx, which had developed a way to test sweetness using them, though so far as I know no one had any proof that they did anything with that particular cell line in association with their partnership with PepsiCo. They certainly weren't putting HEK-293 cells in their drinks. An anti-abortion group then began attempting a boycott of PepsiCo around 2010 on the basis of this partnership, which is how my coworker had wound up repeating to me the claim that Pepsi had aborted fetuses in it. I found this to be a Fun Fact.)

Anyway, tumblr is a particularly bad place for misinformation and bold claims, but today was the first time I failed to stop myself from trying to get some actual sources when someone tossed of a little treat of a fact which did not actually sound true to me. And I didn't even get the answer I was looking for!

It's tangential to this post, but the claim was that sometimes sports were segregated because women were outcompeting men, rather than the reverse. So far as I can find, the answer is "probably false if taken to be anything on the level of a trend", but gymnastics apparently has men and women doing totally different events, and without grabbing a book on the development of gymnastics as a sport, it would be difficult to determine whether the segregation was specifically because men could not compete, rather than some other motive.

The other, more clear-cut example, was mixed skeet shooting, where a woman won a gold medal in the event, then women were barred from competing the next Olympics and a separate women's skeet shooting event was made. Barring other details, this is some sexist bullshit on the part of the International Shooting Union. So I did find evidence of it happening at least once, in a single sport, which was already a sport where women are roughly at parity with men. And if I've found evidence of it happening once, there's a good chance that it's happened more than that. Seems very rare though, and more of a "because sexism" thing rather than "because biological differences". But if I didn't know about that, what else might I not know? Think about what a fool I'd look like if I displayed ignorance of Shan Zhang's 1992 Olympic skeet shooting performance and the subsequent rule change.

The other claim I was trying to track down was "what's the difference in funding for male and female sports, and can we predict how much of an impact that has on performance", which is obviously a fucking huge research question, so I was hoping that someone had done some kind of study that I could read. I don't think there's a bunch of data on how much money is spent on facilities or coaches or whatever, but I was thinking that maybe you could try to find comparable budgets. That would still leave you with some of the social/access/selection problems, but it would at least be something. If the hypothesis was that socialization and funding are the primary reason for the performance gap, we could eliminate at least one of them, and I think there are statistical methods to account for different sample sizes. I was hoping that someone would have done it, or something better than that took an actual knowledge of statistics and sports into account, but apparently not.

FWIW the sports where men and women are at something like parity appear to be those that require endurance, flexibility, or where we wouldn't think there's that much reason your specific body would matter: ultramarathons, equestrian, shooting sports, some archery, and some climbing. It would be weird to me if a difference in funding and engagement and sexism was making a difference in other sports, but not these ones, but I guess I could float some theories if I had to.

I actually do not care that much about these questions, and it gets into a lot of feminist and trans waters that people have strong feelings about, where to me it's just a research issue, trying to find some empirical data. I am including this stuff here mostly for the sake of completeness and because I dislike vagueblogging.

[sabraeal]

to all the ghosts still standing in this room, Chapter 5

[Read on AO3]

Written for @meibemeibelline for her birthday; a request that was as surprising as it was welcome after I had to break my plan for chapter 4 in half back in July and had NO idea when I'd get back to Soowon and Lili and their no-good, very bad stint in politics.

A line of palanquin snakes through the city streets; not small sedan chairs but spacious carriages slung over no less than eight shoulders, vibrant reds and verdant greens and searing yellows lacquered over every inch of their ornate carvings. No less than a hundred by Soowon’s admittedly casual count, each one containing a foreign dignitary of his rank— if not his pedigree— or one of their entourage of only slightly less prestige. And all of them wait on the new queen, eager to pay their respects; a procession of Xing’s power and might.

The reality, of course, is far less stunning.

“A kidney stone?” He’s heard of them before, of course; some of the more gouty court officials seemed to come down with them with an alarming regularity. But they were more a source of irritation than anything else; a slight delay on the documents he requested, or an increased amount of carrying-on when he inquired about their health. Not something to ground the inner workings of Kouka to a halt.

“It’s supposed to be quite painful,” Judoh assures him, satisfied that the punishment seems to fit the crime. “The queen sent someone from her court not too long ago to express gratitude for our continued patience—”

“Funny,” he hums, eyes hanging half-mast against the afternoon sun. It’s stronger here than in Kouka, warmer, and trapped in the humid confines of the palanquin, verging on intolerable. “I don’t remember deciding to be patient.”

“—And to beg our forgiveness for the wait,” Judoh continues, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Apparently the man’s some important advisor. From the old king’s court, so I hear it. Can’t possibly continue on without him.”

Soowon stifles a sigh. The reliance on its generals had kept Kouka’s council in good health, if not necessarily young, but even still, there is not a single part of him that can imagine Son Mundok holding up a state function to pass water. Knowing his pride, he’d beg Hak to kill him first. And when his beloved grandson refused, the venerable general would no doubt try to take things into his own hands— a real soldier knows to die when his body fails him— and Hak would struggle against him— just go piss already, old man, so the rest of us can get on with our lives—

“Your Highness?” The space between Judoh’s brows furrows, their two ends separated only by a wrinkle of concern, and, ah, he’s let himself wander again. A poor habit for a man who would have been king. Who still might be, if his cousin gets her way.

“Keep me updated.” It’s the request of a man with tied hands, but there’s little else to be done. Soowon may have been a conqueror once, able to move mountains with a wave of his hand, but here the only ones he may push around are made of paper, and only as far as the queen’s feet.

So all he can do is settle back into the palanquin, shuttering the windows until he is only left with shadows and a woman who barely looks like An Lili.

Soowon’s not fool enough to believe Lili never wore cosmetics; all noblewomen did, save for his cousin in her leanest years. The Water General’s late wife may have been rumored to be a one-in-a-generation beauty, the most coveted young lady of Kouka’s court, but even so— the odds that his daughter just so happened to have naturally moon-pale skin, or had been born to a set of perfectly shaped eyes seemed…improbable, to say the least. But when her too-red mouth wraps around an impatient, “So…?”

Well, he knows she's not in the habit of wearing that much. One rub of his thumb and he’d leave a swathe of real skin peeking through that mask.

She shifts, robes rustling like tree leaves as she tries to fold her arms, one sleeve disappearing into the drape of another. “What’s the story?”

“It will be a little while longer.” Chimes tinkle delicately in the air as Soowon turns to smile, and hah, he cannot look much like himself either, dripping ornaments as if he were the empress herself. “There are a great many dignitaries who desire to give the queen their good wishes.”

Lili sighs, poking sulkily at the giant comb thrust through her hair, and, for a single moment, looks like herself. “I guess we’re lucky she came to see us last night. It’s going to take us four hours just to get five words in today.”

“My,” he hums, amused by the attempts to stem the natural current of her hair. He’s never seen it up like this— dammed, really, the more he thinks about it— but by the way she fusses, it’s as successful as sand during the rainy season. “You really think we’ll get a whole five?”

She offers him a look that might kill lesser men. Mice, at least, if any dared to cross her. “It was nice of her to try though. Especially since she’s got all this going on.”

It’s the same sentiment she shared last night as she unrolled her futon next to his, heedless of the way Judoh choked on his own protests. Soowon had plenty of own as she bustled so close to where he was bedded down, clad in only her sleep robe, as if they were only two young girls sharing covers, and not Kouka’s highest ranking noblewoman aside from his cousin and some war criminal.

There were men who begged me for their lives, he nearly reminded her, as if she had not been trapped at the palace with him, little more than a hostage to ensure her father’s continued good behavior. And people who trembled before me.

Xing’s queen had been one of them. Only from rage and frustration, however, spurred by the indignity of being forced to treat with her country’s conqueror and the son of her beloved’s murderer. His own cousin had been another, quivering as he held her beneath his cloak, saving her life even as she reached for his blade. He’ll never forget the way her knuckles shook beneath the weight of his hand, only stilling when he told her, not yet. It’d been a promise, one he meant to keep, but—

“But?”

Soowon blinks, meeting that unerring blue fixed on him, as unceasing as any sea. “Did I say…?”

“No.” By the way she huffs, throwing herself back onto the seat, his silence annoys her more than his speaking. “But I can tell you’ve got something churning around in there.”

Her hand snakes out of her sleeve again, fussing with the comb. Like a loose tooth, probed again and again, as if she might be able to inure herself to the pain if she prodded at it enough, and he—

He reaches out, fingers stopping just shy of where gold makes its first sweep over the curve of her skull. “Allow me.”

Her fingers may still their fussing, but her eyes narrow, suspicious, as if he must have some ulterior motive to put on this display of altruism. Putting on his most angelic— and infuriating— smile, he adds, “If you keep squirming, I think our bearers might drop us where they stand.”

It garners him a roll of her eyes, and oh, he has certainly earned the scowl that graces her mouth, but she at last relents, dropping her own hands to make room for his.

“Well?” she murmurs, bending her head forward. Soowon’s no expert at the application of hair ornaments, but he has a lifetime of experience at making them livable, once placed. “Are you going to say it or not?”

A sigh sloughs out of his nose, ruffling the stray hairs beneath his hands. There’s not many— the comb was applied well, as was the lotion to keep it in place— but just like Lili herself, what little of her can reach will always make its bid for freedom. “I am only concerned that Xing’s queen seems to feel it necessary to meet her allies in secret.”

She takes the implication with all the grace he expects; that is to say: none at all.

“So what are you trying to say?” she pouts, peevish, even as she submits to his subtle fussing. “That you think Kouren had some ulterior motive for visiting us?”

He slips the comb free from the base of her skull, the tines no longer digging into the soft flesh there. Her huff of relief fans over the silk of his robe. “I think that it would be foolish to believe any sovereign would act for a single reason, no matter how rational.”

“She wanted to see us before all this hubbub.” Her glare fixes on him even through her fluttering lashes, cheeks puffed petulantly. “It’d be hard to meet as friends with all these politics in the way. Kouren told us that already.”

“It would have been much easier if we were already in Kyuu’s castle before arranging any clandestine meetings.” It’s an easier argument to make than the other, more obvious one— Xing’s queen does not like him, and is in no rush to greet him as a friend. “There are far more ways for us to meet as allies once we have been officially received as guests of the crown.”

“And she couldn’t just have been excited? We haven’t seen each other in a long time!” It’s the sort of thing an excitable young general’s daughter might do, especially the kind that likes to throw a cloak over her silk dress and call it traveling incognito, but for a queen such as Xing’s— well, it’s almost impressive how easily Lili can conjure the impossible. “You don’t think she just wanted to catch up?”

Soowon may not know much of what goes on inside the mind of the Water Tribe’s most favorite daughter, but he does know this: there is no more fruitless a hill to die on than attempting to explain to An Lili that not everyone feels the same way she does about every person in her acquaintance. Especially when it comes to him; for all that she was trapped with him for months, playing loyal general’s daughter, she easily forgets just how much blood still drips from his hands, never to be forgiven.

“Then why approach us in disguise?” With a wiggle and a twist, he slides the comb along the curve of her scalp; not as tight as it was before, but close enough to hold with comfort. At least, so he hopes; he might have a similar amount of hair, but hers is thicker, more wild, straining against every pin and tine. “Could she not have sent one of her Stars to bring us to her? Why should Xing’s queen choose to risk herself when we may move just as easily?”

Lili may like to play the simple general’s daughter, that even pressed, somehow Joon-Gi’s child cannot do the same political arithmetic he does over breakfast, but—

But he can see the sums adding up behind her eyes as she lifts them, coming to answers she doesn’t quite like. “You think Kouren can’t trust her court.”

“Or at least several someones quite high up in position.” His hands fall to his lap as she sits up, one of her own absently creeping up to check his handiwork. For as much as she complains about him so much as breathing, this apparently passes muster. “Ones who would be privy to whatever private arrangements she makes within the palace grounds.”

His reasoning, however, does not. Lili takes one long, thoughtful pause before she informs him, with appropriate concern, “I think you’re being paranoid.”

Soowon stares. “Paranoid?”

“Yeah, you’re projecting,” she insists, warming to the idea the more unhinged it becomes. “You didn’t trust any of your own council, so now you’re assuming that other people can’t trust theirs.”

His mouth opens, then closes again. It’s a solid line of logic, he has to admit, for all that it is wrong. “If there is nothing wrong with meeting on Kyuu’s grounds, then why would she come all the way out into town just on a rumor?”

Lili scoffs, eyes rolling like waves against a breaker. “Some people just want privacy. I would have thought you, of all people, would get that.”

“She is a queen,” Soowon insists, stymied. “She doesn’t have privacy.”

None more than she can steal, at least. And if her court is loyal, then there’s little need for that.

“All the more reason for her to want it!” Lili shakes her head, as if he is the difficult one, playing particularly dense to agitate her nerves. “Not everything had to be about politics, you know. Sometimes people just want to feel like people. Even queens.”

“That is certainly a”— naive, simple-minded, foolish— “unique take on the situation,” he allows, gracious, as he settles against the seat back. “However, you have failed to take into account the reality  of the queen’s station. She cannot simply just—”

“Yeah? And how many things have I done that a general’s daughter ‘cannot simply just?’” Her head tosses, proud. “Not everyone is as married to playing their role as you are. Some of us like to be ourselves, too.”

“Lili—”

She moves to fold her arms, but the palanquin drops— abrupt at first, before settling into a smooth descent to its pedestal— and they fly out in all directions, grasping for purchase, anything to catch herself—

And settle on his sleeves, already reaching out to steady her. Soowon can’t quite account for why.

“Lili,” he says, impressively even as he skirts the endless depths of her eyes. “It is a mistake to believe anyone could be just like you.”

Her mouth works for a long moment, sinking first into one word before slipping off, again and again until her eyes narrow, and she settles on, “Oh, honestly.”

“Wait—” It’s impressive how expertly she slips from his grasp, her own sleeves too slick under his fingers as she throws herself toward the door. “If you’d wait just a moment—”

Her wrists elude him, the sharp spurs of her elbows keeping him at a distance as she slides along the bench, knees knocking into his with all the delicacy of a bull let to run in a temple. But finally a blind grasp catches her around the arm, holding her in place. “What?”

“I think you have forgotten,” he says through a smile, half breathless and not at all amused. “That I am the one who takes precedence.”

*

Soowon emerges from the palanquin like the sun at dawn, the dangling beads and glittering gold decorations sending sunlight scattering in all directions, a halo of light enveloping him as if he were Hiryuu himself, benevolently mortal once again.

That’s the worst part about him, really— for as annoying as he is, Soowon actually looks like he’s Yona’s cousin. Like he could just descend from the heavens and have at least half the earth and most of the stars revolve around him, no questions asked. Like dragons from Kouka’s four corners might curl up at his feet— if they weren’t already so busy chasing Yona, and weren’t, you know, grown men instead of small scaly cats.

It’s just stupid, is all. Some people could really think that this guy is cut out for all this royalty crap.

Lili doesn’t do so bad herself, she has to say. Oh, it’s no clouds parting and golden rays splitting the heavens or whatever, but she doesn’t trip over herself, robes streaming behind her with the silken grace of a river’s current. She doesn’t so much climb as drift up the stairs, eddying in Soowon’s wake like a leaf on the water. Impresses the heck out of the crowd, too; they’re pressed in around the palanquin, commoners so close she can count the whites of their eyes as they widen, gasping as if she’s just as remarkable as the empress’s cousin; someone important in her own right instead of only in someone’s shadow.

It’d be nice, if only the rest of it wasn’t so overwhelming. Kouren’s up at the top of these hundred stairs, and her people cheer like they know it, like every whoop and holler might bring them one step closer to their queen. Not like Soowon’s coronation— or at least, any of the dozen ceremonies Kyesook had put on after it, desperate to prove the king’s legitimacy in the face of the growing rumors that King Il’s red-haired daughter had survived the palace coup. The common folk had been cordoned off a dozen paces back from the castle stairs, the boundary guarded by no less than two dozen of Judoh’s hand-picked soldiers. There’d been cheers, to be sure, but none of them ever reached the pavilion, drowned out by distance and the weight of Soowon’s dignity.

“Wow,” she hums, elbow bouncing into his side. “You really weren’t popular, huh?”

Soowon slants her an impassive look. “Most of my power always came from Kouka’s generals. Queen Kouren’s comes from the love of her people.”

“Makes sense.” Her hand lifts, fussing with her comb more from habit than complaint. Annoying as he is, he at least knows how to make himself useful. “You are a hard person to love.”

Soowon would never do something so pedestrian as sigh— at least, not with all these common folk and foreign dignitaries to see— but the ghost of it catches in his chest, hitching against the elbow she’s got lodged in his side. “Both things come with their advantages and their drawbacks. One may have a personal preference over another, but they are equal in application.”

“Yeah, you would say that,” she huffs, utterly unconvinced. “But you had five generals, and Kouren”— her arm swings out, encompassing all the cheering masses— “has all this. That’s gotta be hundreds and thousands of people.”

He does that little bob he does, that incline of his head to acknowledge her point right before he eviscerates it. “True enough. But you are forgetting: each of my five generals stands for his tribe. And each of those tribes has their army, trained to support and suppress those hundred thousand people, all on a single word.”

Of one man, he doesn’t say; he doesn’t have to when she’s the daughter of one of them. Her mouth closes with a click. “Oh.”

“It is one thing to worry about torches and pitchforks and rioting outside the castle gates.” There’s a smug sort of slant to his smile, one not aimed at her but elsewhere— and obnoxious nonetheless. “But it’s quite another to walk down the halls of your own palace and wonder which blade is waiting to be put in your back.”

“W-well,” she mutters, fingers numb as she surveys the guardsmen studding the stairway, more decoration than protection. “That’s only if they don’t like her. Which is a pretty big ‘if,’ if you ask me.”

“Really?” A corner of his mouth lifts, and oh, what she would give to be able to reach up and shake that too-knowing look right off him. “I find few men can stomach a competent woman.”

“That’s because most men are useless,” she snaps, barely keeping herself from adding, like you. “They’re threatened by a woman doing their job and making them look bad.”

His hand opens, so gracious, and— god, she’s proven his point for him, the ass. “As you say.”

“What?” she grouses, still annoyed from walking right into his dirty trap. “Are you trying to say you can’t stomach a competent woman doing your job better than you?”

It’s not until she’s said it— until it’s out there, in the air, rampaging like a tiger let loose in a menagerie— that she realizes—

“Oh no,” he says, too soft, too amused. “I don’t have any illusions about my usefulness.”

That stops her in her tracks for a minute, feet stuttering beneath her. She nearly opens her mouth, nearly tells him, that’s not what I meant—

“The queen is just ahead,” an attendant tells them— or rather Soowon, hovering at his elbow and give her only a cursory look. “You will be next to greet her.”

It’s not until he smiles now— his safest, most unassuming one— that Lili realizes it’s the only one that hasn’t met his eyes. “Thank you. It will be our honor.”

[ai-dadaism]

The death cap mushroom (Amanita phalloides) is one of the most toxic and deadly mushrooms in the world. It’s responsible for the majority of fatal mushroom poisonings, as it contains potent toxins called amatoxins that are highly resistant to heat and enzymes, meaning they remain toxic even after cooking.

Characteristics of the Death Cap

Appearance:

Cap: It has a pale green to olive-brown, smooth cap that can be mistaken for other edible mushrooms. The cap is usually 5–15 cm in diameter, with a somewhat sticky surface when wet.

Gills: The gills beneath the cap are white and free (not attached to the stalk).

Stalk: The stalk is white or pale, with a swollen base that may have a cup-like structure (volva).

Spore Print: The spore print of the death cap is white.

Habitat:

It is most commonly found in temperate regions, particularly in Europe and North America, often growing in association with hardwood trees like oak, chestnut, and pine.

It thrives in moist environments, typically appearing in late summer or fall.

Toxicity and Symptoms of Poisoning

Death cap mushrooms contain several toxic compounds, with amatoxins being the most lethal. These toxins inhibit RNA polymerase II, a critical enzyme in protein synthesis, leading to cell death—especially in the liver and kidneys.

Poisoning Stages:

Latency Period (6-12 hours): After ingestion, there is a deceptive phase with no symptoms, which can lull people into a false sense of security.

Gastrointestinal Phase (12-24 hours): Violent abdominal pain, vomiting, and diarrhea occur, leading to dehydration and electrolyte imbalance.

Apparent Recovery (1-2 days): Symptoms seem to improve, but this is an illusion. Meanwhile, liver and kidney damage is worsening internally.

Liver/Kidney Failure (3-5 days): If untreated, the liver and kidneys begin to fail, leading to coma and potentially death.

Treatment

Immediate medical attention is critical. Hospital treatment often involves:

Activated Charcoal: Administered to absorb any remaining toxins.

Intravenous fluids: To manage dehydration.

Liver Transplant: In severe cases, patients may require a liver transplant to survive.

Unfortunately, even with aggressive treatment, the death rate for death cap mushroom poisoning can range from 10–30%.

Edibility Confusion

One of the most dangerous aspects of the death cap is its resemblance to edible mushrooms. It can easily be confused with mushrooms like the paddy straw mushroom (Volvariella volvacea) and the caesar’s mushroom (Amanita caesarea), particularly in its early stages of growth.

Cultural Impact and History

Death caps have a long and infamous history:

In ancient Rome, they were believed to have been used in political assassinations, notably in the death of Emperor Claudius.

Poisonings continue to occur worldwide, often involving foragers who mistake the death cap for an edible mushroom, particularly in areas where foraging is common.

Conclusion

The death cap mushroom is a highly toxic species that requires caution and awareness. It highlights the importance of proper identification and knowledge for those who forage mushrooms.

Get yourself my art works to add to your collection of mushrooms:

[rozaceous]

idk that it fits anywhere within my existing tcba fics, really, since it's not an extra or an au? but here, have my original ending to tcba's wave arc before i decided that i actually take serious injury seriously

The bridge is in its last stages of construction and Mariko has convinced Kakashi that she's well enough to at least watch the bridge be finished. She is, too, because the headaches are all but gone and the tinnitus had stopped four days previous, but also she'd been going stir-crazy in the house, especially since she'd had trouble focusing on her embroidery long enough for it to function properly as a distraction and Tsunami had refused to let her help with the housework.

But she's perched on one of the bridge’s support beams with a warm, if humid, wind in her face, and Kakashi's stitches--just as neat as hers, but he'd used the last of her blue embroidery thread because she was out of her surgical thread, and she isn't sure she's forgiven him for it because blue is one of the only colors she can see properly--itch a little and the area will probably scar. But it doesn't hurt much any longer and the muscles underneath have mostly healed and there aren't any signs of infection. In fact, she should be able to remove the stitches later tonight.

So she's feeling pretty good, all things considered.

Zabuza and Haku show up mid-morning, the former conferring with Kakashi and the latter offering a small wave to her in her high-up resting place. Mariko wastes no time in sliding down the nearest column with a controlled glide of chakra coating her hands and feet. Sasuke and Naruto also take a pause in helping the construction crew to come over from their position further down the bridge.

"I'm not so sure you should be moving," is her greeting to him.

Haku just smiles. "Shouhei-sensei cleared me for travel so long as I don't exert myself, Mariko-san. And how are your own injuries?"

"Yeah, I'm good," she says dismissively, right hand already glowing green. "And no offense to Shouhei-sensei, but he doesn't have jutsu to back him."

Haku lets her fish her hand through the front of his kimono top and lay it over his shirt, one eyebrow up and seeming dreadfully amused. "I don't need to worry about my intestines, do I? I promise I'm type O, and Shouhei-sensei cleared me of any blood borne illnesses."

Mariko falters and has the horrible sensation of heat creeping into her cheeks.

Naruto and Sasuke choose this prime moment to arrive, with Mariko blushing and with her hand in a smirking Haku's shirt. Naruto comes up short, and Sasuke narrows his eyes.

"I thought you'd passed out by that point," Mariko says, forcefully returning her attention to Haku's neatly bandaged side.

"Oh, not quite yet," Haku says pleasantly. "It was such a graphic threat, I would've been afraid to fail to hear the end of it."

"Threat?" Zabuza pipes up, because apparently he and Kakashi are finished talking and the universe hates her.

"Mariko-chan," Kakashi says warningly. "What did I say about iryouninjutsu before we got you checked out at the hospital?"

"It's just a diagnostic," she retorts. But she drops the jutsu anyways and retrieves her hand. She takes a half-step back because she'd definitely invaded Haku's personal space and, wow, it's a warm day. She clears her throat. "Well, your ribs are fragile as all hell, and I don't know if your nerves will ever fully regenerate there. It's not too far from the spine, so there's at least a chance you won't have a permanent numb spot. But you really need to see a proper medic soon to check out your heart and kidney and to bolster all the work I did reconstructing your ribs and muscle. No jutsu, no jumping, no throwing, nothing faster than a leisurely walk, don't lift anything heavier than a spoonful of soup, and drink plenty of water but not all at once. Your kidney's this close to giving up, you still might go into cardiac arrest, and I didn't spend all that chakra just for you to die because you thought you were well enough to move with more speed and agility than a geriatric sloth."

Haku smiles at her again. "Thank you for the advice, Mariko-san. And for your assistance that day. I owe you in more ways than one."

Faster than he can blink, she has a hand and a scowl pinning him in place. "I know you weren't just about to try to bow, Haku-san."

Haku's eyes go a little wide.

To her right, Naruto snickers.

"It wasn't advice," she says, retracting her hand from his shoulder. "They were medic's orders. And you don't owe me anything. Just paying you back for those herbs you gave to Naruto for me."

"I didn't realize I charged such a high rate of interest."

"Good thing I never plan to let you loan me money, then."

He laughs and covers his mouth with a hand demurely. Haku moves on to thank Naruto as well, but all Mariko really registers is the flaming hellscape which is her face and the intensely judgmental look Sasuke is giving her.

"Shut up," she tells him.

He scoffs.

Zabuza's voice, when it comes, is a low rumble.

"I owe you one, little girl."

Mariko looks back at him, a little startled, but then her eyes narrow. "You owe me two, Momo-chan," she replies firmly, because an inability to haggle is something that would cause her parents actual disappointment. "And my name's Shiko Mariko, not 'little girl.' Get it right."

It's generally held wisdom amongst shinobi not to share your family name if it isn't the sort of thing to help you, but Mariko has a powerful feeling that this isn't the last she'll see of Zabuza or Haku, and if one of the Seven Swordsmen of the Mist owes her, he'd better know who he's owing.

Zabuza hasn't re-bandaged his face--probably because he needs those bandages everywhere else--so she sees the razor points of his teeth when he grins at her.

"Two, huh?"

"Two," she confirms.

He doesn't challenge her count which means he's just as aware as she is that if she were any less skilled at iryouninjutsu and had died from his blow during their initial meeting, not only would Haku be dead because she wouldn't have been there to save him, but Zabuza himself would be dead because Kakashi would have made sure of it. And that was assuming that Naruto wouldn't have freaked out, lost his handle on the Kyuubi, and done it himself.

But Zabuza didn't need to worry about that last part.

His grin widens. "Am I not pretty enough to get a bye?"

Mariko sniffs, cheeks that had cooled coloring again. "I don't know what you're talking about. I am both just and merciful."

"Whatever you say, Shiko Mariko."

"Glad you're catching on."

[realian]

going over that really notorious Klance fanfic Dirty Laundry on the podcast and I'm fucking tired of sitting on these thoughts for so long so here's a rundown because I am trying to sleep but can't because I'm thinking about this shit fic:

accusations of ableist and racist stereotypes aside (meaning EVEN IF we assume these accusations are false) this fic has some of the worst (sincere) writing I've ever seen. not hyperbole. not exaggeration.

any time someone brings up this fic they talk about how the author was cruelly harassed into deleting it, but upon digging the "meanest" thing I could find was a message from a Latine person addressed to the author which, albeit heated, did not insult the author in any way beyond saying "you fucking white people" and simply pointed out their problems with the fic requesting they delete it for being racist.

the only time anyone speaks Spanish is when they are angry or emotional, and half the time it's grammatically incorrect google translate Spanish

it's just The Secret Life of Bees but with Klance

the word "obviously" is used in every other paragraph

basic timeline and setting mistakes ie Keith and Lance have known each other since high school; Lance went to Grossling High in Arizona yet Keith has never been to Arizona and also met Lance at college in Oregon

the author clearly has no idea how old the characters are supposed to be. the 70 year old woman is described as "old and withered," and the 2 year old can't walk and needs to be spoonfed.

at several instances the Mexican characters are referred to as "Spanish"

setting changes from chapter to chapter. they're in the middle of the Arizona desert yet they apparently live on farmland that has "rolling yellow fields" and livestock breeding and large, dense deciduous forests along the highway - forests that also have lakes in the middle of them - lakes that have currents like rivers, and are also cold enough to give you hypothermia in t-shirt weather

other basic writing mistakes, like Keith noticing Lance's kidney scar the first time he sees him shirtless, yet failing to notice any scar on his donee despite him being introduced with no shirt on

the author mixes up Lance and Keith's names frequently

often the characters will act completely differently than they are described. Abuela had a pretty characterful introduction sequence and then we're given a description of her that contradicts what we've just read

we are constantly told what a good mother Rosa is despite her not standing up to her homophobic husband when he slights their bisexual son for being bisexual, doesn't stand to defend Keith from Abuela's homophobia until Keith runs out and steald a car, gets angry when her long-lost daughter returns home, and acts cold towards her six-year-old granddaughter, both of whom she did not know were alive or dead up until that point... I could go on

Keith apparently was born in Korea but somehow ended up in the US foster care system as a baby. there are certainly scenarios that could lead to this happening, but we're never given an explanation. idk maybe the author didn't realize Korea also has foster care systems.

characters are introduced and given backstories then promptly discarded when they are done serving the Klance relationship; ie Benji's cancer survivor backstory doesn't actually matter and is only there to give Keith an excuse to touch Lance's skin. after this, he barely shows up.

Sophia. like the entire fucking thing with Sophia. I am actually too angry to properly articulate my thoughts on this but basically she's treated as a pariah for getting pregnant at 17 and getting kicked out of the house by her father; we are meant to think this is justified. the only one who sympathizes with her is Abuela, who is a homophobe who we're supposed to disagree with.

the autistic character is referenced as autistic briefly only in order to add to the struggles Sophia faced as a young mother. otherwise, Alexi does not matter at all to the story. after her introductary scenes, she disappears from the story altogether.

the writing just sucks in general. we are told stuff instead of being able to draw conclusions on our own, even the most obvious things, the similes and metaphors are terrible

speaking of which, the perspective is never consistent. it various omniscient to third person limited from Keith's perspective to Lance's, yet while we think we are in one perspective we get things that only the other's perspective could know definitively, but if it's supposed to be omniscient, we get opinions that HAVE to be from one character's perspective... it's a constant problem

so so so so so so much more wow this fic is bad

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Remembering my grandpa: the coolest guy I've ever met

so, like, still haven't processed what happened. that's honestly pretty typical for me, it's something I used to feel really guilty about (everybody around me would be crying, and I wouldn't actually feel those emotions for upwards of a year), and I've gotten better at addressing what's under the surface before it gets to the point of a breakdown. there are several reasons for why my biggest personal metaphor for grief is as follows

our love is a garden; this grief is a seed

mostly been keeping myself busy, just cleaned most of the kitchen in one go, probably going to clean my room later today. also been thinking a lot about how incredibly cool my grandpa was. he's genuinely one of the most rad people I've ever had the chance to meet, and I don't even know all of his stories!!! just gonna ramble about him for a bit

dropped out of high school (and later got his GED) because WW2 was happening and he enlisted (either lied about his age or was just barely old enough). got recognition for his marksmanship skills, and (forgive me for not knowing his official rank/title) even ended up being a sort of guard for a high ranking officer. I remember being told that when they had to drive somewhere, Gramps was the guy with a scoped rifle keeping an eye out for trouble, ready to counter ambushes or something like that.

(the point is that I haven't heard the details since I was a kid, but his rifle skills were incredible, especially considering his age at the time)

known for drinking Respect Women Juice and being a stand-up guy. I've read some of his memoirs (not published, but they might be at some point, I'll let y'all know), and he talks about how mad he was at my grandma's dad (his eventual father-in-law) because the FIL was soooo excited to have "man time" with Gramps, after already having treated Grandma like the son he would have preferred, and Gramps couldn't understand why FIL wasn't appreciating the incredible woman that Grandma was. seriously, Grandma was also a badass, an equally incredible sharpshooter who only quit competing (having reached the highest level for women in the US) because she realized in order to keep winning she'd have to actually put time and effort into getting better. also she was a great cook, apparently. had a real temper tho

Anyway, there's also some other stuff about his respect for women, but that involves a bit of family drama with other relatives that I don't want to get into online. The gist is that he went out of his way to make sure that several women in the family got treated fairly, especially when some people weren't properly appreciating the work of a stay-at-home mom.

He was an active scuba diver for many, many years, and several of his longest friends were met via the hobby. at one point, he even worked with several of them to buy a large amount of land on San Juan Island (of the San Juan Islands), where they divided it up and all built houses together. I have many memories of going to visit during the summer, and honestly it was really impressive what they built together. Grandpa also loved kayaking, and even dabbled in making kayaks!

Putting more under the break because I recognize this is lot

In order to get to San Juan Island, most people take a big ol ferry. during an incident that got a fair bit of coverage in the local newspapers, my Grandpa was taking the ferry when he realized someone in the distance was in trouble (small boat, might have gotten flipped or something, again don't remember all the details). Grandpa was quick to take action, got the attention of the ferry's crew, and was able to arrange a rescue. If he hadn't noticed the boat, chances are the person/people would have died.

Gramps was very active even up into his mid-to-late eighties (genuinely very fit and healthy until his kidneys started failing), and had some fun ventures as part of a historical group that went around the San Juan Islands finding old map markers/territory markers (god, I wish I remember the right word) and using modern tech to record their exact locations. It was like a scavenger hunt, almost, using old/outdated maps to find these things.

He was also an official boat inspector for Friday Harbor (the main part of San Juan Island) for several years, and was recognized for his hard work/the sheer number of inspections he did.

On top of all of this, my Grandpa was genuinely one of the warmest, funniest guys around. If someone asked me to think of an example of healthy romantic love, I would think about my Grandpa and my step-grandma. Then I'd think about my brother and his gf but that's a whole other thing. Grandpa was full of love, and had no qualms with showing it, using his musical talent for serenading her (he also joined in during the family gathering jam sessions). The way he looked at her will be forever engraved in my memory, full of love and full of life.

There are plenty more stories about Grandpa, some of which I just never heard, and some of which I have simply forgotten. I'm gonna miss him.

[littleapocalypsekitten]

It's something I've thought about a lot due to some events in my life. I wasn't on tumblr in 2016, but I was in other online communities. I got a very bad infection in my kidneys back then. At first, I thought I just had a stomach-bug, but then my partner rushed me to the ER when I couldn't take the pain I was in anymore and was apparently slurring my speech, my fever at dangerous levels. Found out my kidneys were failing and I legit almost died. Just in the span of a week of feeling rotten and suddenly it getting to a tipping point. I think if I'd continued to dismiss what I'd had as a stomach-bug, I would have died. It lead me to thinking about how family of mine don't know my online activities and certain online friends would have never known - basically only those familiar with my (newly created at the time) Facebook, much less my fandom communities. (When I was in the hospital, I asked my hubby to talk to some Zelda-community friends I knew from a website and forum). I could have just disappeared, though - gone from Ao3 after having not updated anything for years, gone from the forums I was a part of then. Cue up January 2023. My nephew, was who pretty much lived most of his life online up and died random (heart stuff, we think, coroner couldn't pin it down). All his Facebook friends knew because family made the announcement. People who knew both me and him knew through my page, people knew from my hubby's page, we contacted the anime club he was President of and was supposed to lead a meeting of that weekend. He didn't do tumblr, but we don't know what non-Facebook contacts he had. We do know that he played a cell-phone Marvel heroes game and we didn't have his password to that or any ability to get into it to let his friends on there know that their team leader had died. For them, he just disappeared. I have a friend I only know online, have known her for years and have co-written fanfic with her. Over the last several years, I have only seen her around occasionally since we run in different fandoms and circles now. However, it seems like she goes a looong time before she ever pings me on Facebook or anywhere. It's probably been at least a year now since I've seen her. She has a lot of genetic health problems. I find myself checking her Facebook on occasion to see if it's become a memorial-page (something your family can do if they have your password or happen to obtain your computer with you still logged in, as we learned from the death in the family last year). I worry, I do.

online communities are so strange because people slip away so easily. you can be on here for years, folding people you've never met into the fabric of your daily life, and then they disappear, leaving only ghost posts scattered across tumblr behind. or their blog stays dormant, for weeks, months, years, until you're only still following them because you remember that they love sunflowers or they were kind to you when they didn't have to be or the last thing they posted was sad and raw and you still worry about them sometimes.

and sometimes they come back when you least expect it, years later, even, and there's this sudden rush of relief like there you are, there you are, even though you barely knew each other.

there's a strange kind of love to it. i don't know you and i want to hold your hand across miles and time zones and oceans. i can still see the imprint of you in this community you left. you don't anyone will notice or care when you're gone, but we notice and we care and we wish you well.

i hope you're all okay out there. i hope the sun is shining on your face and you are breathing deeply. i miss you.

[toyourliking]

seeing my nan yesterday was genuinely so upsetting like. she didn't know what country we were in, let alone decade

and she's blaming my mum for everything! my mum, who has put more time and effort and love into looking after my nan than her two brothers combined, is apparently to blame for *checks notes* my nan's pneumonia and her heart and kidneys failing. and!! she is so angry with my mother for agreeing with the doctors that she should be taken off her blood thinners cause if she's off them she "might stroke" as if staying on her blood thinners and going through the extremely painful experience of total kidney failure is the better option

[scentedchildnacho]

Uhm I am scared of traumatic death though....I did black out go unconscious from my ankle fracture in Plano Texas and I flew out of my body to live someone else's consciousness and they were sure to tell me I had arrived in a completely different time comprehension and it was actually really existentially angst producing till I had these huge bursts of anxiety like I was pushing at a cage and I woke up to my life again....

Well preparing for death or doing something suicidal like ask if the soul exists after the end of its materiality.....was apparently immoral and it's you have to visit the mentals and care if Maams kidneys are getting set up to fail....

Chingichingish....the tong VA God.....I would totally prefer a new deal job replacing the pacific beach pier with hemlock groves....those big southern marsh trees....when you have had to see the coast just rush inland without any forest to prevent erosion or flooding...

That is what some landscapers are like about politicizing hygiene terrorists like landscapers they can grow nursery trees pretty rapidly and completely change landscapes to their feelings of disadvantage to a hegemony

[wizard-of-interesting-failure]

You try, but the implications are making your head spin. Somehow the worst of it is that she's speaking English; the anachronism offends your professional sensibilities on top of being impossible like everything else. You'd barely gotten used to the visions in the first place, and now this...

"First, since I know it will distract you otherwise: no, she doesn't understand what she's saying. This is a ritual recitation she has repeated hundreds of times until she can replicate it flawlessly under almost any conditions."

Great. One question answered, about a million more raised.

"You knew there was magic, Hector Smith, from the first time you touched a bone and a living memory sprang forth. Do you remember that bone, Hector?"

You do, but it was nothing special; a shieldmaiden slain in battle with-

"No, not that one. The one before it."

There wasn't one before it! There was the thing that started this whole mess, but that wasn't a bone...was it?

"It was. It was a shard of bone that once belonged to a god. Me, to be precise."

Once again: one question answered, about a million more raised.

"No, I'm not reading your mind. Your face is remarkably expressive and I am well-versed in the art of cold reading. It is a vital skill for oracles and fortune-tellers of all kinds."

"Besides, this isn't a linear conversation. I created the script my follower faithfully recites by watching you in the future and sculpting it to fit the gaps."

You are beginning to notice a pattern regarding the rate of questions being answered and new questions being raised. Mild irritation seeps in, but it does little to quell the overpowering curiosity.

"I will try to make this quick. Yes, there were gods. No, there are no longer. As you can probably guess from finding a piece of my skeleton, I am dead. So are the rest of us. We were murdered. I saw it happen in my future; your past. I want revenge. You will help me get it, and then you will be provided with the many, many answers you now seek. You will not find these answers anywhere else. I would ask if we have a deal, but you are on the correct path now. Good luck will not be necessary. Until my next missive."

The oracle pauses long enough for your thoughts to circle back to where they started: how does this...god, apparently, know English?

Wait. If you're being watched right now...

Your voice cracks a little; it's dry, you haven't spoken in a while, and you feel somewhat silly speaking to the empty earth around you. "How can you speak my language?"

"I can see the future, remember? I have studied visions of your people for centuries. You get one more free question; everything else will have to wait until you've made some progress."

You think for a moment, pulse pounding in your ears. The stakes seem impossibly high. You could ask about anything, couldn't you? She said she could see the future, or the thing speaking through her could, or...

...you take in the oracle properly for the first time. Her breath comes shallowly now, but she stays seated in the same position she started in. Her eyes (and yours) are fixed unwaveringly in front of her, but you can see her hands on the table.

She's dying. Must be, for you to be having this vision. She's young. She's too young.

She reminds you of your daughter.

"Why was it worth the life of this woman, to speak to me of revenge?". Great, now you're getting swept up in the grandiosity of the language she's using.

She hesitates. It's a performance, you are beginning to understand, a part written for her by something beyond the understanding of either of you. Still the pause smacks of something like contrition, though you aren't sure whether to believe it.

"Two reasons, Hector Smith. First: her death was inevitable either way. She has what I understand from your time to be failing kidneys; we have no treatment for this, and barely any understanding. My influence is...limited, for reasons and in ways you will learn further along your path. Certainly I cannot change the reality of her condition. She had days, a week or two at most."

You frown, realising you have no way to trust this thing. You look at her hands again. You expect shaking, or clenching in pain, but they are slack. Her whole body is slack. She barely breathes, and her speech has fallen to a hoarse whisper from the carefully crafted performance projection it began as. Your daughter is a frequent public speaker. You imagine her skill, hard-earned over years of practice, being taken from her like this. You imagine her life being taken shortly after. The oracle's vision begins to waver.

Your hands clench into fists, the way hers no longer can.

"You can believe me or not. You are on the correct path regardless. The second reason: the thing that killed us still lives. If it can slay the gods, what do you think it could do to you?"

Your eyes widen at the implication. The oracle's vision goes black; she can't feel her extremities any more, and she begins to collapse to the side as her muscles weaken. You don't...want to see this. You've seen death, so much death, but this feels too intimate. Too close to home.

A thought strikes you.

"Her name! What's the name of this person you've sacrificed to tell me this!"

She doesn't respond. She feels cold. Her head rests against a pillow as her body fails to support her weight. Her breathing slows even further, then stops. The vision, though sightless, persists for another minute in total sensory deprivation; there is usually sound, still, at the end, but the room was utterly silent.

You carefully store the bone; you will need to replay the vision many times to extract every possible piece of information from it.

The prospect fills you with a level of dread not even the few torture victims you inadvertently touched could manage.

You’ve always had the gift; touching the dead you live their last moments through their eyes. As a paleontologist, it helped you recreate scenes from by-gone eras in astonishing detail. However, this time, you wish you hadn’t touched the fossil.

[dwarfysays]

2/25/23 Saturday

My mom has been in hospice care at home for almost 2 years. When the hospice care started, the doctor said she had weeks or months to live. She has stage 4 terminal lung cancer.

She had defied the predicted life expectancy. That may be a testament to the level of care she had received from my youngest sister “C”. C and her family had been living with our parents for several months after leaving a house they were renting. C had taken in the care of our elderly parents. My brother “P”, sister “N” and I have helped when we could. The bulk of the work landed on C’s shoulders though. C had too much stress from her job as well, she had to quit. It would have been impossible to work and care for both parents.

Mom had a sharp decline in her health during the COVID crisis, mere weeks after receiving the vaccine. The lung cancer was discovered during her last hospital stay. All treatments were not possible due to here failing kidneys and the type of lung cancer. So mom was switched to hospice care. Everything has been done to keep Mom alive and as comfortable as possible. For months she seemed stable with very slow rate of decline.

In December both parents were struck with RSV. My father recovered, but not entirely sure about my mom. She might have sustained some damage from that virus. Then 2 weeks ago, both parents contracted COVID. My mom and dad had started coughing. My sister got them both on antivirals as quickly as possible. My father has recovered to baseline, but Mom is failing.

Yesterday, we face-timed with the hospice nurse who said the end is near for my mom. We each including my kids A and G left work early to be by her side. Mom continues to hang on. we each left the house as she apparently may make it through the night.

I’m troubled by the fact that my sister will still take her son to his games “like normal” while the rest of us were “expected to drop everything” yesterday for our dying mother. Well, she’s still hanging on and may very well pass while in my and A’s care today. Why did C not cancel put on a bball game? Did she want to maintain normalcy for her kids as Gma lay dying in a rented hospital bed at home? If it were me, I would say “fuck the bball game” and stay with Mom. But that’s just me. Maybe C continues to need a break from the hospice parents no matter how dire things are for one of them. I understand C needing a break, some rest. I even took Tuesday off so C could get some desperately needed sleep. I wish I could give her more time to rest, but my job has important tasks.

I feel like it isn’t fair for our parents to put us through this. They told C that it is traditionally the youngest daughter’s responsibility to care for the elderly parents. I tried to research that claim and found nothing. I feel like that’s bullshit. But what if they were in a senior assisted living home? How long would they actually have lived? Would it have been shorter?

My mom could pass now, later on today, or maybe much later. Right now, I don’t know if she is still alive. How is my dad with her on the precipice of death? Would he be too scared, stressed, depressed? What about him? How is he going to be once she passes? I’m worried for him too.

A and I are going to be there at 9AM. A is scared about Gma dying in front of her. We are all scared of her dying, but it’s inevitable. We have to accept it. Mom has to accept it. But does she? She has death phobia. Don’t we all to some extent?

My mom passed away later on this day at 3PM. I was eating a late lunch in the living room starting at 2:45. Mom was in a hospital bed in her bedroom. Before I left her to have lunch, her eyes were open, still breathing but not responding to my voice. She had been ignoring my sister earlier that day. So I thought it was the same deal. At about 3:15 I went to check on her. She was very quiet, very still. I tried to nudge her, no response. No breath sounds, no movement. I could not find a pulse. Mom had passed away at about 3. My dad was distraught and crying out to mom.

I called my siblings. They all came and we all mourned and cried.

She’s gone. She’s really gone.

[stab-the-son-of-a]

Family Business

No. 3 A HAIR’S BREADTH FROM DEATH

Gun to Temple | “Say goodbye.” | Impaled

TWs: Child abuse, child whumpee, emotional abuse, child endangerment

He holds himself so still his muscles ache with the effort- yet his face is placidly calm, his posture deceptively loose, and he absolutely doesn't look away from the man pressing the gun to his temple.

Hazel meets hazel. His own eyes stare back at him, wizened by a few decades. Maybe three. Who ever really cared about that sort of thing? 

"C'mon pops," he jokes. Two short words are not enough to betray the tightness in his throat or to allow his voice the chance to crack, but for a moment, he's sure his old man heard. His father has always read him well, but he's changing the pages every year, learning a cypher for his thoughts and his behavior to keep Dad out of his head.

After a long moment of uncomfortable eye contact, his father speaks. "Taunting your captor will serve only to irritate them."

That's the point, he doesn't say, but he allows his lips to smirk, allows that bit of information to pass through his filter. "Epic."

His father's brow furrows, a flash of confusion, before the barrel cracks against his temple harder.

He sees sparks and tastes the iron and heat that comprises them. His head spins on his shoulders, balance slipping and forcing him to adjust. The wire holding his wrists together cuts deeper into his skin. There's a wetness that tells him that he's making progress in at least slicing open his flesh. How lovely.

"Answer the question, son, before I shatter your jaw next."

"I wouldn't be of much use now would I?" he quips. He keeps his father's attention on his words, on his overly animated expression, on the smirk he paints across his lips, all to distract from what his hands are doing behind his back. It's difficult, his father's gaze trying to rip the intention from the slightest of tells, but he's learning, rapidly, and he's working just as quickly.

His fingers have gone numb hours ago, so he works carefully, but he slips them between the exposed cable and the bit of rubber coating, fibers catching and breaking his nails as he works. 

"You'd be a damn sight less irritating, that's for certain." 

Each metal strand, wound together, slowly frays. He's not sure if the blood from his nailbeds and fingertips helps or hurts his cause, lubrication of sorts, maybe.

"Don't push your captors to think of you as more trouble than you're worth."

"'And I'm not worth much'," he paraphrases his father's next words.

Dad almost smiles. It's just a hint of amusement, of warmth, in his gaze, but it's there.

But then Dad's eyes widen slightly. It's not much, but it may as well be a dramatic gasp, complete with heart clutching theatrics, for all the action is so out of character. 

Smirking, he bats his lashes up at his father, the trick knife resting against where his kidney should be. His own blood trickles convincingly down his wrist, and the open sores on his fingertips stain Dad's pristine white shirt.

"Oops," he says, voice and head light with giddiness. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning, pops. My treat."

Once his hands were freed, it was child’s play to reach into Dad’s jacket pocket for the knife he kept there. Always on his right side. ‘Don’t be predictable’ had been one of his very first lessons, and yet, here they are.

Carefully, Dad schools his shock into something less visible, and for a split moment there's doubt- did he do right? Did he still fail?

But then the gun falls away from his temple and Dad is smiling, even more apparent now. He pats him on the head, not remembering the other cracks he's taken to the skull this week, and then wraps his arm around his shoulders to lead him out of the testing range.

His chest feels ready to burst and it's not the broken ribs. It takes everything in him not to grin at his father.

"Why not between the ribs?" Dad asks. It's not a criticism. It's a genuine question. The same sort he asks of his business partners when trying to understand their thought processes. 

He feels for the first time like an equal to his father.

"Name of the game is switching roles. Making you as useless as a gasping fish wouldn't've helped my position."

Dad chuckles. "No, I suppose not. Good work, son. I’m proud."

The warmth in his chest overwhelms the burning pain in his hands.

[mr-tony-stark]

Tony shook his head. "I'm not getting sad on you. I'm not even trying to be introspective here, really. Just wondering. I guess I had these ideas of who you were and what you wanted to do and I think I've been wrong. Or at least not completely right. And trust me, Artemis, I never admit to be wrong about anything."

He smirked and took a large bite of his chicken as he quirked his eyebrows up playfully. "I just always hear from people if I had your kind of money I'd buy a private island and I'd rescue turtles or you know whatever floats their particular boat. I do have my kind of money and I just get so bored so easily. I know I love being iron man. I love it. I love it an unhealthy amount. It was killing me and I still didn't want to stop. The only time I did stop was when I loved alcohol more than it. So it wasn't a healthy out there. And I truly honestly am not complaining or asking for advice or anything. I think that boredom drives me. It makes me want more and better. But I just cannot relate to just being content or even having an idea of some dream that would make me content. I guess I just find that fascinating. But I can relate to wanting to be a superhero. I mean look at us, Clint. We're futzing superheroes. We don't have magical serum or crazy bionics. We're not mutants. We didn't have an accident with radiation at all. We're just two guys who got hit in the face with the reality of the world and used our own unique things to say we weren't having that. I get it, man. If you wanna do it until you're grey and you've got arthritis in your hands and your eyesight is failing, shit I'll be right beside you, with my suit correcting my heart arrythmia and kidney problems."

He paused and took a sip of water then laughed. "Though I don't know where I'll be living because apparently if I live in the same building for more than a year and don't get bored of it, someone decided they're going to blow it up on me."

"Dear god forbid." He agrees with that. In all honesty, he couldn't one hundred percent imagine what he would do with a boring life. Even if he thought about it, wanted some aspects of that life. Love and family.

Clint really did need to get payback at Tony for getting them to have deep and vulnerable conversations today. He blames the sex. One hundred percent blames that. See, things got very messy, he can't not have some kind of feeling after sex. Even if it's just opening up with a friend about their perspective insane lives.

Next time he can get Tony to go one-on-one with him, he was gonna pin the Shellhead hard and use some nasty arrows. Nothing to hurt him, but retribution for hitting him all day today with hard topics to talk about.

So this is what you want to be doing?

"I like helping people." He blurts out, as Tony questions him. Brings up his building, brings up the idea of a love life. Hobbies, what even were those? "If none of the shit that made me Hawkeye happen, I wouldn't know who I was but I don't think I'd like him." He doesn't think that kid would have even lasted.

He'd never have met anyone of the people he loved. He'd be in Idaho, either broken down by the foster system, in prison, or some slackoff no life. Maybe he'd have had a good life and it'd be boring, but he'd be happy with that and none the wiser.

"Don't get all sad on me, but yeah. At least, this is living to me. I almost had some of that, and I wouldn't trade that even though I know it ended."

It wasn't even about being a hero, he just liked making sure people didn't get dicked over like he had gotten.

"The apartment doesn't have to be permanent, I could move maybe." Although this place was home and it felt like him, nothing making him move.

[loserchildhotpants]

Destiel prompt from Twitter; kissing each other to prove there’s nothing there, even though, it’s a lie, and the kiss proves it (from this prompt list)

“I’m just saying that I don’t think you’d get this defensive if there really wasn’t anything between you two -”

“There isn’t, and I’m not getting defensive!” Dean argues, decidedly defensively.

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Sam offers with a shrug and a smirk.

Staring down into the open grave the boys are in, Castiel glances between the brothers and tilts his head, wondering if perhaps by a different angle, he may better understand what their expressions mean.

“We’re bonded or whatever - that’s it, man! There’s nothing else going on!”

“I’m not even saying there is anything ‘going on,’ I’m just saying there could be, and if that were something you wanted -”

“I’m not qu -”

“I know, I get it, I hear you, humor me for a second, okay? All I’m saying is just - if there were something between you two, and you wanted there to be something ‘going on,’ where there is currently nothing ‘going on,’ I just think you should, hypothetically go for something rather than settling for the nothing, because, personally, I think there is something there, and you could have a great thing going if that were what you wanted.”

“Even if - which I don’t - I’m not - listen, though, okay? I’m not, and I don’t want that - not that there’s anything wrong with it, or something, just - even if that were the case, Cas isn’t like that. He’s not a being that experiences shit like that -”

“I’m telling you you’re wrong, Dean! The way he stares at you -”

“He stares at everyone!”

“Do I?”

The Winchesters jump in unison, both with hands on their guns faster than should be possible. They both visibly relax again, though, when they realize it’s only Castiel interrupting.

“Oh, hey, Cas,” Dean greets, his voice markedly more gentle than it was with Sam only a moment before.

Castiel appreciates it.

“Hello, Dean.”

With a cheeky grin, Sam clears his throat, and says to Cas, “your timing couldn’t be better, actually, Cas - Dean and I have some questions -”

“No, no, we do not have questions,” Dean growls at Sam, eyes blazing dangerously.

“I am always available to you boys for whatever inquiries I can assist in. Is this pertaining to my staring? It’s academic in nature, I assure you - frankly, I am used to having a form that hosts many more eyes; being in this Earthly form can present obstacles, as my perceptions are more limited than I can remember them ever being. I promise I do not mean to insult anyone.”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone’s thinking of it as an insult,” Sam intones; Dean shoves his elbow into Sam’s kidney to shut him up.

“This is you being defensive, by the way,” Sam wheezes, doubled over, but still smirking at Dean, “What’s the big deal if there’s nothing going on?”

Flushed, Dean scowls at Sam, drops his shovel, and tells him, “I’m not being defensive! There’s nothing to be defensive about! And I’ll prove it!”

Clambering out of the grave, Dean brushes the soil from his hands onto his dirtier jeans, and stomps more than walks up to Castiel.

“You’ve a cut,” Cas murmurs worriedly, spotting a knick Dean got on his cheek earlier in the day.

“It’s nothing. Listen, Cas -”

Before Dean can get anymore out, Castiel reaches for his left-side cheek, cups that side of his face, and spreads a cooling sensation that knits the skin back together neatly and cleanly.

“Uh - thanks, Cas,” Dean mutters gruffly as Cas takes his hand back.

“My pleasure, Dean.”

Uncharacteristically nervous, Dean glances down at the ground, his hands shoved in his jean pockets, then his eyes skim the ground until they happen upon Sam’s again, and whatever silent exchange they have works Dean up again.

“Cas,” Dean begins, looking into his eyes with determination, “We’re friends, you ‘n me, right?”

“Yes, Dean. You are my most cherished friend,” Castiel answers.

That gives Dean a moment’s pause where he seems to be searching Castiel’s face for some sign of sarcasm or deceit; there is none to be detected, of course.

“I - thanks, man. Uhm. Now - this is gonna sound like a weird question, but bear with me, ‘cause I’m not about to assume consent or something.”

“Okay,” Castiel says in confusion, tilting his head again.

“I’m tryin’a prove a point here to Sam, and to get it across - just - would you be okay with me kissing you? Like, just this once - I promise I won’t make it weird or anything, but I gotta ask, you know? I know you’re not into physical stuff like -”

“You’d like my permission to kiss?” Castiel intercepts neutrally, “Like people do?”

Something about that is funny - or startling? - to both Sam and Dean, and Castiel can’t tell which or for what reasons.

“Yeah. Just this one time,” Dean repeats.

Though he takes a respectable count of four seconds to seem as though he needs to consider his options, Castiel nods, and replies, “of course, Dean. Of all the favors you’ve asked of me before, I assure this is certainly the most convenient and pleasant of them.”

Sam snorts a laugh, Dean tosses a glare at him, and then settles gentle, if a little nervous, eyes back on Castiel.

“Okay…”

Dean steps closer into Cas’ space, bringing them toe-to-toe and he finds himself staring down; he’d not realized Cas was shorter than him. It’s not by much, not really enough to be remarked upon, even, but it means that Cas winds up looking up at him from under the cover of long, dark lashes, and even in the dark of the night, his eyes shine like twinkling gems.

Swallowing with some difficulty, Dean holds loosely onto the lapels of Cas’ trench coat, and he means to go in chaste, he really does, it’s just that he’s actually struggling to breathe a little, so his lips are just barely parted, and Cas - as far as Dean can tell, Cas takes that as a cue.

Because Cas’ full lips press in, but so does his tongue; before Dean can even secure his footing, Cas makes his loose hold on the lapels go tight, licking up into Dean’s mouth without hesitation or mercy.

Praying his shocked gasp wasn’t audible to Sam, Dean just tries to hold on while Cas turns his head, bites Dean’s heavy bottom lip, and then pushes Dean’s mouth more open with his own, and then he drags his hot tongue against Dean’s, coming in broad, and soft.

Dean hears himself make some kind of noise - he can’t tell what it is, because there’s too much blood rushing in his skull - there’s stubble. Stubble. There is stubble in this equation other than his own, and that’s new, and terrifying, and should be wholly unwelcome, but every synapse in his brain dedicated to pleasure is telling him otherwise.

One wide hand insinuates itself under the hem of Dean’s weathered flannel, calloused fingers pressing into his left hip possessively while the other hand glides over his pec, and shoulder to the back of his neck, pinky finger teasing the sensitive skin just under the back of his cotton collar, and thumb brushing the fine hairs at the base of Dean’s skull.

Dean thinks he may be swaying - he’s dizzy.

Cas is dragging him closer, pressing their hips and abdomens together, and Dean’s hands have somehow found better purchase on the front of Cas’ button-down dress shirt than his lapels.

Dean thinks he hears one of the buttons pop off with the strain of his hold, but neither of them seem inclined to do anything about it, so he figures it doesn’t matter; he tries to establish himself as a bit more dominant, thrown off his usual groove by the absolutely sinful way Cas apparently kisses.

To Dean’s simultaneous horror and delight, Cas doesn’t relinquish any control; he won’t be moved, his hands get tighter and hotter where they touch Dean’s skin, he only presses them harder together, and he kisses Dean like he wants to eat him alive.

He kisses Dean like he wants to crawl inside him, like he’s hungry - starved - like kissing is an act of carnage just as much as an act of love, like those things aren’t mutually exclusive.

He’d rather die than admit it to anyone, but Dean’s knees get a little weak, and Cas basically holds up his entire weight by just the grip he’s got on Dean’s waist.

Before he knows it’s happened, Dean’s hard enough to carve stone, and Cas readjusts how they’re slotted against one another to better accommodate Dean’s failing balance, and Cas feels it - he must. Even if he doesn’t feel how hard Dean is against him right away, the guttural moan Dean will deny having made til his dying breath clues him in.

What sounds like hundreds of cherry bombs going off has them stumbling away from each other, and frantically looking about.

The streetlights have exploded. There’s glass everywhere, and based on the echoes of car alarms and distant voices, it’s becoming more and more possible that Cas destroyed the windows and lights of several cars and nearby homes.

Even he and Sam’s flashlights are busted.

In the blanket of darkness that’s settled over the graveyard, Dean can still see clearly, because Cas’ eyes are high beams cutting through the fog of the night.

They’re both panting, Dean’s pretty certain that a resting heart rate isn’t meant to feel like this, and Cas is looking positively feral.

“Jesus fuck!” Sam curses, his arms crossed over his head where he still plucks a shard of glass from his hair.

Reminded of Sam’s presence, Castiel’s head swivels to him, the glow of his eyes dims down, and then he looks back at Dean, visibly frightened.

Dean takes no pleasure in Cas ever being scared, so he reaches out, takes a step back into Cas’ space, but that spooks him more, and in less than a blink of an eye, he’s gone.

Not cool, Cas, Dean thinks loudly, hoping it counts as a prayer that Cas will hear.

Reaching into the front of his jeans, Dean uses the near blackness of the power outage to his advantage, and readjusts himself to the best of his abilities.

It really doesn’t do much.

“Well,” Sam starts pointedly.

Dean, weak at the knees, lips criminally swollen, face flushed, hair mussed and harder than he’s ever been in his life, turns slowly to scowl at Sam.

“That was not nothing.”

Dean doesn’t see a way of winning the argument, so he kicks dirt into Sam’s hair, and leaves him to finish burying.