#gift from son

[knockknockwhosthereartistism]

“He goes to a different school I swear!”

[sesamenom]

Gil-galad Variations, featuring all the gil galad theories i've encountered.

[marzipanandminutiae]

"servants weren't REALLY gifted nice things; they just stole them! stick it to the man!"

I just bought a Victorian desk that was gifted to a maid in the 1920s or early 30s

so unless she somehow snuck an entire piece of carved mahogany furniture out of the house under cover of night...I think sometimes the gifting was legit, guys

[anassemblageofpassions]

Supernatural: hmmm okay so we need a way to show Jack how bad Lucifer is, something really horrible to force him to confess to, something that will make him drop his father forever….hmm, what could we do, what could we do….

Sam, life ruined all for Lucifer, possessed by Lucifer, tortured by him for centuries, multiple attempts on his life by lucifer, loved by jack like a father, main character on the show for 13 seasons, literally in the room when this happens:

Dean: multiple attempts on his life by Lucifer, loved by jack like a father, main character on the show for 13 seasons, literally in the room when this happens:

Castiel: killed by Lucifer multiple times, possessed by Lucifer, loved by jack like a father, main character on the show for 9 seasons, literally in the room when this happens:

Maggie: killed by Lucifer, met jack two episodes ago and barely interacted with him, literally introduced on the show two episodes ago, not in the room when this happens:

Supernatural: yes. Maggie is the one. Maggie is the one who will make Jack see what a monster his father TRULY is. She is such an important character on this show, so important than we will kill her off permanently less than a season later. Her impact is so real.

[moeblob]

They're soulmates in every single universe and I miss them at the most random times.

[hitlikehammers]

there is a tree as old as me

rating: teen tags: future fic, outside POV, trespassing, established relationship, engaged steddie💍 ✨for @kallisto-k at my BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST for the prompt: To Build A Home—The Cinematic Orchestra: 'and now, it's time to leave and turn to dust // out in the garden where we planted the seeds // there is a tree as old as me

She catches the trespassers by chance, really.

She’s awake early even for her routine, age doing nothing for the capacity to sleep in on a good day but her hip’s been a trial, and she needs buy a new mattress but Richard’s insistent he can’t bear to sleep on a stone slab, Patricia, good god—she wants to get one of those Select Comforts that splits their settings between two sides as a compromise; he argues those are for lesser mortals, which she’s long learned has evolved in recent years to mean not just that he thinks he’s above something in general, but more now that he thinks he’s better than technological advances.

And Patricia Harrington has standards, certainly, but she can also recognize when

She’s also old enough to remember when ‘new’ was an opportunity to throw her Black Card and gloat a little in the rush of the novelty, the momentary shine until the next new thing appeared to repeat the cycle.

She might be feeling her years, but she doesn’t understand when her husband got so damn old.

At least he’s still savvy enough to the time that they’ve got an airtight security system for the house itself, given the trespassers—more likely would-be-burglars, given the evaluation they’d just paid taxes on for the property—that she spies out the window, hears where she cracked the window in the kitchen to light a cigarette as she brews an early coffee.

Maybe Richard will agree to motion sensors for the yard, if she tells him about these…miscreants.

They’re moving carefully, like they don’t want to be seen, or more likely caught—suspicious, obviously—but they’re also moving like the know where they’re headed, as if they’re familiar with the space they’re traversing even in the pitch dark: even more suspect, really, and she wonders if they’ve cased the home, adds full-property camera surveillance to her list of proposals for reevaluating their security.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to—“ she barely catches the hiss from one of the criminals from across the yard, but it doesn’t last.

It doesn’t last because the second party drags the first close and: the lighting’s horrible, the moon’s crescent at best, but there’s really only one thing to be doing when two bodies press close, and then break apart with a pop she makes out on the breeze and, well. She was young, once.

“Believe it, baby,” the second trespasser rumbles low, and, oh, good god: “we gotta hit all the landmarks.”

They’re men. They’re both of them men and they were just—

“Landmarks?” the first one hisses sharper, this time, and Patricia…she doesn’t care nearly as much as Richard does about what people do in their bedrooms that she personally doesn’t agree with.

But this isn’t anyone’s own bedroom. This is her lawn.

“Of our story,” the second one, he—he—has got such curly hair she likely would have assume it was a very tall women, if it weren’t for the voice; “all our highlights.”

“What, exactly, was—“ the first man, he sounds a little exasperated as he whispers, but…fond. Fond like Patricia hasn’t heard in…well.

A very, very long time, at least.

“Here,” the curly haired fiend traipsing her property stops at a redbud tree Richard had always despised, said it looked tacky, common. Patricia canceled every removal service he’d had whichever secretary he instructed to send.

The second man turns, moves slow toward the tree before reaching, placing a hand on the trunk almost carefully, reverently. There’s something…familiar about him. The shape of his face, the way the the coif of his hair catches in shadow—

“My nanny used to tell me this tree was planted the year I was born, that it grew up with me,” and oh, oh, that’s, he’s—“so that I’d have to eat my vegetables and stuff, if I wanted to see it grow.”

He sounds so nostalgic, so soft at the edges; Patricia doesn’t know if she’s ever heard her son sound like that.

Because that’s who it is; why he seemed familiar even at a distance.

Even if she hasn’t seen or heard from Steven in nearly twenty years.

“And look at you both,” the other man, with the curly hair, he’s holding Steven by his arms, and the motion, the body language is…tender even before she hears the words filter over:

“Big and strong,” the man says, and then he’s cupping Steven’s cheek and Steven leans in so quick, like he trusts deeply, here: “fuckin’ beautiful.”

She can’t see it, not in the dark, but something tells her Steven’s smiling for the words. It makes her feel…uncomfortable.

Because it’s not as if they hadn’t seen it; she doesn’t know where Steven’s moved, where he ended up when he moved out while they were gone, left his key and a simple, terse little note about the furnace needing looked at—she only knows he’s nowhere near here, anymore, and she suspects there are some, like the former police chief and his wife, who know where he went but she never asks. She’s too proud for that.

But the point is: Steven doesn’t live in Hawkins anymore, and likely lives nowhere near Hawkins. But when The Post ran the engagement announcement it had only been implied, she’d never have been able to place is, but: when and S. Harrington and E. Munson announced their happy news in print, in a town that didn’t house people by those initials, even if it still housed residents by those family names?

Well. Patricia had suspicions. And she remembers the Munson boy largely because his hair was an unmistakable mess.

Apparently some things didn’t change.

“This,” the Munson boy, because that’s who it is, that’s who’s still cradling her son so close and so gently: “this was the first place I knew you wanted me.”

Steven’s head, she sees, still tilts just so when he’s baffled.

“What?”

“I knew you loved me like I love you, I knew that way before but you,” and the Munson boy, he pulls his hand across his face like the night isn’t doing the hiding for him. Preposterous, really.

“The urchins were inside, we were going to grab more pop to bring in and you pushed me up against this very tree,” and the boy—man, they’re men, they’ve long been men and Patricia doesn’t want to pry up the implications of how she saw no part of the becoming part of that process with her own eyes—but the man’s voice is so warm, so…smitten.

It should be nauseating. Another thing she doesn’t want to pry at is why it…isn’t. At least not quite.

“Couldn’t wait, you said, couldn’t keep you hands off me,” and he’s turning Steven, walking him back against the tree as he speaks the words, like he’s reenacting something nigh-sacred.

“And I knew that I was out of my mind with wanting you like that, on top of loving you more than fucking life baby, but,” and Munson, she can see the way he breathes in his deep for the heave in the line of his back, and she can see the way he…brushes the line of his nose back and forth against Steven’s.

Who still has her father’s nose.

“You were hard as soon as you pinned me,” and Patricia frowns at the glass, when she hears that; and she barely hears is, in fairness, it’s pitched low even as they think they’re alone which is the least they can do but they are not alone and Patrician does not need to be subjected to—

“And it was like a light switch, or a lightning bolt,” the Munson boy—they’re boys they are still boys—but the Munson boy whispers it, and sounds like he’s wondering at it;

“He loves me,” he breathes, the line of his back breathing so deep again; “and he fucking wants me.”

And no, Patricia does not need to hear that at all, but.

There is a part of her, buried somewhere, who…does miss the idea of wanting. Of being wanted. In the abstract.

“You’re absurd,” Steven snorts and oh; oh, she remembers that tone, that testy little snark that always riled Richard enough that he’d largely stomped it out of the boy but oh: Patricia did love when Steven failed to rein it in.

Because it always reminded her that Steven was her son.

She doesn’t intend to start rubbing at her chest, but it…it feels kind of tight, there, just now.

It aches, there. Just now.

“I love you,” and Steven’s voice, she’s never heard him speak with that much feeling, and it’s difficult not to…to react to even just overhearing, to eavesdropping, though in fairness: it is, again, her property.

“And I want you,” Steven leans in, and kisses at Munson’s cheek with such affection, a devotion that’s obvious, near-blinding even in the dark; “just as much now as then,” and then Steven, Steven—

He laughs.

He laughs and it’s such a light and carefree sound and it’s so foreign to Patricia’s ears that it almost makes her anxious, or something of the like.

“But then so much more, baby,” and the warmth in those words: those are foreign too.

Those feel strange to hear, not least in Steven’s voice which…

She thinks she may not have recognized, if the first thing she hear were these words, in this tone.

She’s not wholly sure how to sit with that suspicion.

“Ten days,” the Munson boy’s hands go to Steven’s hips and he rocks them back and forth a bounce in the motion, a levity.

“Ten days,” and Steven…no.

No: she would not have recognized that voice.

She would not have known her son.

“You’re gonna be my husband,” the Munson boy whispers, Patricia only hears because she’s trying to, now, she…she wants to even if it hurts unexpectedly, the tightness under her hand in her chest a pain, now, a small little stab when this man cups her son’s cheeks, cradles him so careful and so…so loving, undeniable even like this, and says what she suspected from that notice in the paper.

Steven is getting married. Steven is getting married and he is proud enough to flaunt it in a town who could never prove it, where he no longer has tied; to a a partner who is proud enough to do the same just as brazen, and she doesn’t know if she’s proud or put-off, but she does know here, now—

Steven is in love. And he is loved deeply in kind. And the person who loves him sounds in awe at the idea of pledging forever not as a contract, but maybe more as a privilege.

She wasn’t paying attention for a strand of seconds as she acknowledged this, and decided ultimately to stop trying to do anything deeper than just that.

But she sees them pull apart; they’d been kissing the entire time she’d been thinking it through.

She isn’t even interested in acknowledging the…niggling little feeling of that kind of prolonged affection, let alone the way they reach for each other, steady each other in the coming apart, as if they have no desire to wholly come apart.

The idea of trusting another pair of hands like it looks as if they do, in the dim of these early hours, is…another foreign thing.

“Okay, okay,” the Munson boy laughs, no, giggles; “let’s get out of here before the owners notice.”

And he turns, would meet her eyes if he could see her; she knows he can’t, knows she’s standing just beyond the capacity to be caught and how absurd, caught inside her own house.

But then he’s turned away again; the house, and whatever it holds, far less compelling than the man at his side.

“Wayne’s place?” Steven’s asking and the Munson boy grabs his hand, lifts it to his mouth.

“Yeah,” the Munson boy says so low, so soft and sweet; “we can hit some more landmarks before that bagel joint he likes opens, we can take him breakfast.”

“More landmarks?” Steven sounds baffled, but so very fond and his partner doesn’t let go of his hand once, reels him in to peck his cheek.

“Of course, sweetheart,” the Munson boy nearly…purrs, how ridiculous; “so many. Because we’ve got one hell of a story.”

But ridiculous or no: the moon shifts out from the clouds as they make to scamper off the lawn and Patricia sees her son’s face for the first time in decades, now, and oh.

Oh: she’s never seen him smile like that. Not…not once.

She turns away, because the sting in her chest burns behind her eyes, a little; because the joy on Steven’s face is…

It feels private; like something she’s not meant to see.

She goes to pour herself the coffee she’d largely forgotten, and, well.

She’s still going to talk to Richard about security, but maybe…

Maybe not just now.

permanent tag list (comment to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 

[piratewithvigor]

Meet my son, Pebble Cold Steve Austin

[jasontoddenthusiastt]

The compelling thing about Jason as a character is that I never doubted that he cared about the world just because there weren’t panels of him being overly zealous about “restorative community care”

I’m not coming after anyone who wants to see that kind of stuff, but I do think seeking | that | as confirmation that Jason cares about the world is pretty narrow

[serpentface]

HOSPITALITY AND GIFT ECONOMY IN THE HIGHLANDS: A POST.

Rites of hospitality are of key importance and taken very seriously in this cultural context, especially given the frequency at which individuals will be traveling (as herders, or along intra-Highlands trade routes). These rites exist as the concept of 'Shiab's peace', a divinely mandated contract of hospitality under the watch of Shiab, goddess of the hearth and of travelers. This is invoked with a standardized verbal exchange with a member of the household- the prospective guest will greet with “I would ask Shiab’s peace of you”, the host, if accepting, will respond with “You will have Shiab’s peace here.” While not explicitly an oath, it is understood as such and ascribed the same profound significance (both social and spiritual consequences for violation).

A potential host can refuse (though usually doesn't, hosting is an honor and can be a power play), but the mere request for Shiab's peace imbues temporary spiritual protection on the asker- one’s most loathed enemy must at least be allowed to leave unharmed, even if denied guest rite. (This isn’t a get out of jail free card, a request for Shiab’s peace is a request for hospitality, not mercy, the goddess will not be protecting you if you attempt to use it in the midst of combat or etc).

Once mutually invoked, the expectations of Shiab’s peace are as follows:

The host should provide for the guest’s basic needs generously within their means, and allow them to stay for a night and provide them a place to sleep.

The guest and host much each provide their names and titles, though the guest is under no obligation to explain the reasons for their presence and cannot be asked.

The guest must accept all food offered (and gifts, though this is not specific to Shiab's peace and rather part of a wider practice in the gift-economy).

The guest must ask for nothing, and take nothing that is not offered.

The guest is under full protection of the host, and vice versa. Theft, assault, or murder committed under Shiab's peace is a grave broken oath and one should expect very severe consequences (both supernatural and mundane, should others find out).

The guest (unless offered continued hospitality) must see themselves out after sunrise the following morning. They cannot be made to leave early.

If a guest is offered continued hospitality, they should offer to participate in any needed chores (the host can accept or decline at their discretion).

The protection of Shiab's peace continues until the following sunrise after the guest leaves (ie a host cannot pursue their leaving guest to steal from them)

Shiab's peace is universal and transcends conflicts, and once invoked cannot be violated under any circumstances. Members of a rival clan or of a tribe yours is at war with, a foreigner you're suspicious of, etc, are all fully under protection (and under their full expectations as a guest).

A guest that violates their expectations can be made to leave, as they have broken the oath and are no longer protected. (in practice, many hosts will let MINOR violations slide unless the guest is like, really annoying or godawful)

The host, in practice, will usually be the wife of the household (if present), as the wife is considered the owner of a family’s home, land, and property, and has final say on how resources are used and given. The host is expected to provide the guest food and drink and a place to stay for one night, and supply any other obvious basic needs (ie: if the guest’s clothing is worn or wet, they should be given fresh clothes). These gifts should be generous within one’s means, and in practice will usually be a square meal, mead/wine/murre, multiple rounds of tea, and a breakfast the following morning. A host that does not provide expected basic needs within their means is in violation of Shiab’s peace and has broken their oath, and should expect consequences.

A guest is not literally oathbound to practice ideal social etiquette, but it's a cultural expectation (ie, the guest should finish all their food and save some bread for last to scoop up anything left in the bowl, not a hard requirement but good manners). They are fully expected to accept any and all gifts offered. A guest should neither take nor ask for anything not freely given (all basic needs should have been met by the host to begin with). It IS acceptable for a guest to imply further needs in conversation, so long as they do not directly request them: ie mentioning in conversation that their leg is hurt and they can only hope their travels do not make it worse, as it would take days of rest for it to heal (“I need to stay multiple nights, can we work that out?”), or mentioning that their pack khait has gone lame and cannot carry their supplies, they fear they will have to leave both animal and supplies behind (“Will you lend me a pack ox/khait?”). These roundabout requests are still at least expected to be Truthful in nature (and all of this is happening under the watch of a deity, there may be consequences for lying).

Hosts may give extra gifts at their discretion- these can either be charitable, or indebting. A charitable gift will be given with further verbal declaration of Shiab’s peace, which establishes it as an act of goodwill and that the guest is not in the host’s debt. An indebting gift will be given with no declaration of Shiab's peace. The guest is obligated to accept either.

Indebting gifts are a part of the wider political and economic structure of the Highlands, a separate (though linked) practice to guest hospitality. The vast majority of the economy relies on trade of goods, with an additional dimension of this gift economy. Being able to give gifts is a display of wealth and power, establishing one’s family or clan above another in a social hierarchy. The most powerful are able to give the most extravagant gifts, and will have many other clans/families considered perpetually in their debt if the gift cannot be met with one of equal or greater value. This debt is immaterial- it is not actually Expected to be paid (it’s better for the gift-giver if it ISN'T), rather it establishes/reinforces one's place in a power structure and regulates the conduct of the gift receiver (it can be evoked to call in favors or settle disputes). A debt held by a single person translates to their immediate family, while a debt held by a clan matriarch/patriarch translates to their entire clan.

Cattle raiding is both a practical means of resource acquisition and a part of this wider political schema, and often figures into the gift structure. Stealing cattle and then giving them back as a gift is a power play, it declares ‘our men are better than yours (they’ve stolen the cattle successfully) and we are wealthier than you (we don’t even need them)’, while also settling the score and dissuading retaliation. Stealing cattle and then giving MORE (or different, higher quality) cattle as a gift is a massive power play, declaring much the same things to a greater extent, dissuading retaliation, AND putting the theft victim/gift recipient into the debt of the thieves.

Power structures within tribes are passively enforced by this gift giving structure- the ruling clan of each (which in practice usually controls the best agricultural land and largest herds, and is most involved in trade) will provide gifts to all clans subservient to them (and particularly generous gifts to potential rivals), keeping them indebted and lower in the social structure. Ruling clans who lose the ability to afford to give gifts, or find themselves indebted, will often be usurped (not strictly as a result of their debt, rather that losing ability to stay on top of the gift system generally occurs in conjunction with a diminished material power/wealth).

These combined practices result in very complex, often aggravating political power structures, but reduce the frequency of open conflict between clans within a tribe (which are frequently at odds), providing other avenues for power/material acquisition and for the settling of scores. Most open conflicts occur between clans within separate tribes or entire tribes (less likely to have secure power structures enforced by gift/trade), though practices of raiding and combat-sport provide some levels of tension release via less-violent score settling.

Other dimensions of the gift economy are not directly indebting (in not establishing a power structure), and considered paid via mutual partnership. Alliances between clans of different tribes are usually established in continued gift-giving (declared explicitly as gifts of allegiance), with the implied payment being mutual material support (supplying warriors, sharing grazing land, open trade, etc), which is usually reinforced with binding oaths. Marriages also involve gifts. A bride price is fairly standard (which is a straightforward payment for property and assets the wife's mother will be passing into her son-in-law's care), and a husband who cannot supply one is considered in his mother in law's debt (and may not gain full integration into the family until this is paid). But as supplement to the bride price, members of each family will freely give gifts with no expectation of the value of their gifts being matched (declared as such by being specifically described as a gift of marriage), as a means of further allying both families and a show of goodwill.

[asexualsimonsnow]

Just reorganized my Simon Snow books, rainbow order now; I think they look nice :)

Featuring some new editions to the collection since last I posted it in full: the Italian version of Any Way The Wind Blows, Scattered Showers, and the Indigo edition of AWTWB, which I’m so thrilled to have found.

(Not featuring my paperback copy of the cover of Carry On with art of Simon and Baz, which someone is currently borrowing from me.)

[kaiju-kin]

Giskard again!!! I wasn't happy how I drew him the first time so I decided to redraw him. Full picture under the cut but I didn't quite like it enough lol

[possiblyawesometmblr]

Saw you reblog TMA art, so... ask completely unrelated to everything you're already getting: favorite characters? I like Michael (The Distortion), Sasha, and Tim a lot!

clears throat.

takes deep breath.

I LOVE THE ORIGINAL ELIAS BOUCHARD SO SO SO SO SO MUCH THAT IS MY WEIRD LITTLE STONER TRUST FUND KID AND I KNOW HE'S A BIT OF AN ENTITLED ASS BUT I WOULD KILL FOR HIM REGARDLESS

i'm also gay for melanie

[babsggordon]

Kyle and the devil?

Apparently, yeah. Good for them tbh, they say Mexicans has the devil in their souls

[beyourselfchulanmaria]

The gifts from my son traveled Japan he brought to me. 🙏 Grateful God and beloved son at Christmas. (日本當地品牌的香水和非常精緻美味的日本抹茶巧克力／Local Japanese brand perfume and very exquisite and delicious Japanese matcha chocolate. 💞 and He said: Mom, it smelled like something he liked, so he decided to buy it for me at duety-free shop airport (KIX) Osaka. By the way I taught him how to choose "perfume", if he buys the wrong perfume for his beloved female friend in the future, he will get kicked in the butt by the girl. (I was kidding with son) 😂🤭😏 Lan~*

[basilibino]

Season 8 was like 6 years ago(I feel old) and I know ppl have differing opinions on the Mr Echo thing (but it was intended, made it to storyboard and blocked animation and then dropped, soooo) but. I can see his recruitment p easily tbh. Bc the whole reason Dr J was in that lighthouse was because he was resurrected, forced there, and ordered to build Skulkin vehicles by Samukai. But Samukai in the flashback we see has already been deposed as leader of the Skulkin/Underworld. Which means the orders to do so most likely came from Garmadon.

And since Mr. E is one of the head honchos, he's likely an early arrival to the team, so I don't think Harumi has a whole lot figured out at this point, she's just got her Trauma and some Bad Influence Friends and an obsession with Lord Garmadon. So. Like. Plausible deniability road trip that she's just visiting important markers of Ninjago's recent past, all of which involve Lord Garmadon in some meaningful way; its sightseeing, its cathartic, and it gives her time to develop her dream Motorcycle Gang/Resurrection Cult. She's not looking for anyone at the Lighthouse, but she is looking for vehicle blueprints so she can be the Koolest leader on the block. But oops she looks in the basement and there's an Echo.

And she's flipping out bc??? A Ninja???? In the Lighthouse basement??? I mean it makes sense that it would be this one but???

Except this rusty old robot has no idea what she's talking about with this Ninja stuff, he's just waiting for his dad to come back.

And Harumi pauses.

Because how long has he been waiting? He's not sure, he had no proper way to measure time in the basement, and he doesn't have the best view of his clockwork heartpiece. But it was after his father saw a strange ship docking; Echo was worried it was the People who had locked up his father in the first place, but instead his dad sounded happy when he saw whoever was out there. It could have been a front, though, as clearly it was never safe to let Echo back out. Then Dr J popped down briefly, while everyone above was resting, to tell Echo he was desperately needed elsewhere, that it wasn't safe to bring Echo, but that he'd be back in no time.

And the pieces are fitting together for Harumi. And she's like. Your dad's dead, bro.

And he's like. What? Did he die doing what was needed of him?

And she's like. Oh, no. He died a few years later.

And he's like. Why didn't he come back for me????

And she's like. Probably because they kept him away.

And he's like. Who's they?

And she's like. The Ninja I was talking about earlier.

And it surely can't be hard in universe to find pictures of Zane and Dr J post s2-pre s3, so she pulls one up and shows Echo who is freaking out bc why is that one kind of like him and Harumi explains that that was the droid his father created first, that he became a Ninja, and that hes probably the one who took their father away and kept echo waiting for years.

But Echo has doubts, shocked as he is abt a new older brother, he wants to believe the good in the situation so he's unsure. But Harumi mentions that the Ninja's failures to uphold more than their self preservation/interests has led to uncountable losses and devastation in Ninjago time and time again, before delving into her own story. And she seems so kind, and so hurt, and I do think there's a genuine connection btwn these two that forms from this shared emotional torment that they decide came from the Ninja, and now Echo is more receptive.

And then Harumi gets to start her Garmadon pitch because wait! If Echo was made here, then that could only have happened because of Lord Garmadon. And she reiterates that he's the reason she and her city could have even survived The Great Devourer. And maybe Echo's family-by-creation left, maybe they were untrustworthy and lacking, but that's OK bc if you look at it all a certain way, Garmadon is more of a father to Echo than Dr J was. And Echo is a vulnerable, overwhelmed mess who just found out his dad fucked off for years without him and also died, and also he has a brother??? Who their dad clearly seems to have favored??? Did they even know about Echo??? Did they delight in their life free of him???

Basically. Kinda Spinel-core but getting abandoned and left completely alone does that to you. Especially when the first person to find you after being abandoned is a deeply hurt and misguided teen who is probably kinda desperate for someone, anyone else to see the Ninja the way she sees them.

[royalthorned]

bellatrix/pansy