#it’s all his experience arguing w people online

[spderkid]

put ganke and miguel in a room together i’m telling you ganke will have that man running out crying in seconds

[dreamescapeswriting]

BTS Headcannon || You Had Heart Surgery

⤜Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - July 2024

⤜MASTERLIST

SEOKJIN:

Jin was constantly on high alert whenever it came to your health, he always made sure you avoided stressful situations and kept you away from anything that would make your recovery worse. 

He also constantly educated himself on your condition and everything you were going to need to recover, constantly going to your doctors with questions and concerns for you, which sometimes felt embarrassing but you knew he was only doing it for you.

“They don’t have to give you the answers,” You giggle a little as Jin looks at his sheet of paper full of questions he’d had since your surgery took place

Whenever someone made any kind of insensitive comment about your scars he was the first to jump to your defence and arguing against people who tried to tell you had “ugly the scars were when they were far from it. 

There had been a series of tweets deleted from the managers who were trying to maintain Jin’s good image despite him kicking off about it.

Every night Jin made sure to apply a gel sheeting to your scar, keeping it hydrated and stopping any further damage from coming to you,

“You don’t have to do this,” You whisper, laid down on the bed as Jin carefully applied the sheet to your chest,

“I want to, let me pamper you,” He whines, it wasn’t often he got to fuzz over you so he was going to enjoy it as much as humanly possible

YOONGI:

As soon as you’d had the surgery Yoongi made sure he had all of the information he needed about your health, taking notes whenever the doctors would come into your hospital room to check on you

At home he made sure you never left the bed, bringing you everything you were ever going to need from the living room.

“You really didn’t have to move the TV into the bedroom.” You laugh, watching as Yoongi lugged the huge TV from downstairs into the main room and set it up at the foot of your bed.

“Now you dont have to get up.”

“The doctor said I would be fine to move soon.”

“He knows nothing,” He grumbles at you

As soon as hate started to spread online Yoongi didn’t stand for a single moment of it, he instantly did a live, talking calming but firmly with everyone that if they made any kind of rude comment then they weren’t a real fan and that they needed to care for you in your time of need

Although Yoongi was normally private with his life he was open and honest about all of this, using you to raise awareness for heart health and even helping charities raise money

Every night you went to sleep in his arms and he would make sure you were fully asleep before he ever decided to shut his arms, not wanting anything to happen to you.

HOSEOK:

Despite Hobi normally being the positive and cheery one of the group he’d changed completely when you’d gotten sick and even during recovery, he’d turned a little harder on those who decided to use this against you 

Online Hoseok constantly posted messages about you, showing you how much he loved you and supported you throughout the whole ordeal using his social media to make it a positive experience for you 

He encouraged fans to spread love toward you and those who had been through the same thing. Showing you a lot of other fans who had the same surgery and were giving you tips on how to care for your scars

“This one girl says if you apply cold gel patches they help soothe the itching better,” You eyed up Hoseok who’s eyes hadn’t left his phone since you mentioned your scar was itching 

“Hobi, I’m fine.”

“She said if you put them in the fridge it’ll be even better,” you giggle a little as he continues to research more

Hoseok had become a huge anchor for you throughout everything, offering you a listening ear and always being there whenever you needed him.

NAMJOON:

Namjoon wasn’t afraid to show his support for you publically, and in a big way. He put out a statement letting everyone know he would be gone until you were healed, which hadn’t gone down the best but he handles it well

He shared encouraging messages on social media, praising your strength and resilience, even pushing fans to take lessons in empathy since some of them had been rude about the scars you were now carrying that he constantly complimented you on

“They’re awful.” You grumble as you looked at yourself in the mirror but Namjoon wrapped his arms around you,

“I see the signs of a beautiful and strong woman who fought through a hard surgery to be here with me.”

He was constantly reassuring you that you were loved despite the scars and that just because you had them nothing was going to change anymore between you

All the boys were involved in showing support to you, all of them collectively sending messages as a united front against all of the shit you were facing online

“What’s all this?” You giggled looking at the flowers that surrounded the living room. Namjoon had gone all out, filling the whole place with flowers for you to see when you first woke up

Every vase had a different note attached and a reason why he loved you

When he eventually went back to work he made sure to give a speech to everyone in every concert he went to about the important of looking after their hearts and reminding them to go for regular check ups so they can be well cared for

JIMIN:

Jimin turned into someone you’d never seen him be for himself before and that was a fierce protector. His protective side came out strongly and he constantly stepped up to the plate whenever you were getting hate using his social media to call out all of the negativity taking place

Whenever he was addressing people who hated on you, he was calm about it, urging them to understand the impact of what they were saying to you or about you. Trying to educate them on what your surgery had been about and how it had saved your life

“Jimin, if that’s another gift I swear to god.” You groan as you heard your boyfriend strugglign into the house with a huge box in his hands and a giant grin on his face.

“Surpriseeeee,” he whine and you groan rolling onto the bed. You would have loved it but it was the 10th week of recovery and since then he’d gotten you a gift every single day 

Jimin was there every single step of the way, helping you sit from the bed to the chair. Then walking you up and down the stairs, making sure you knew you were never alone in any of the process

No matter how big or small the victory was in your recovery Jimin made sure to celebrate every single one of them, giving you joy into your life.

He planned dates with you, even when you couldn’t go out, hed bring the dates to you, collectively making you happy and looking forward to when you were allowed out once again

TAEHYUNG:

Taehyung was honest and open about your surgery the moment he knew you were scheduled for it - with your consent of course and you gave him full permission to let him share everything he wanted

He reported on your surgery and recovery the whole time, keeping those who wanted to know updated on everything

He took to hate directly as well, at first he’d been a little on the harsher side but once you’d calmed him down and reminded him that you didn’t care about trolls on the internet he turned calmer. 

“We wanted to address some comments and questions,” Taehyung said into the camera as he kept his arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer to him 

“A lot of you keep asking how I knew something was wrong, or what my first signs were so we’re going to help you all out.” You wanted to use your experience to help educate everyone you could

Tae also did a lot of public interviews or TV appearances, talking about your surgery and addressing the hate by talking about the importance of heart care and health in general

At home Tae constantly tried to keep you happy and having fun despite not really being allowed to move around too much or go outside he tried to bring the fun to you

“An arcade machine? Really?” You giggle looking at the pacman machine that was inside of your garage, the boys all gathered around it before you even had a chance to get on it.

“I thought it could be fun, an arcade date.” taehyung chuckled kissing your cheek softly before kicking the boys off your machine

JUNGKOOK:

Jungkook took the hate personal, he saw it as not only attack on the person he loved but on himself since you were his other half 

He’d tried to distract you as much as possible when you were at home, planning gaming days together, having a movie night and even taking you on a drive (not letting you leave the car of course) 

He was a little overprotective when it came to your health, everything you were eating he was researching it all, googling to make sure it was fine for you to have, or even asking your doctors about it before you could have it

When the hate got a little too much for both of you he finally took a stand, going to the media and taking a huge stand about it. Stressing the importance of everyone spreading love and not hate. Explaining in detail the importance of the scars that you now bared to the world and even asking people to go for checkups 

Jungkook was constantly taking charge of your physical health, joining you in light exercises and stretching, making sure it was in your recovery limits 

Almost every morning you woke up to breakfast and every night you had one of your favourite meals prepared for you, a special date in bed with him as you sat across from one another

“This is so cool.” you giggle staring at jungkook who had placed a TV tray on the bed and sat across from you, a small candle burning as you shared the meal together

“Anything for my girl,” he winks at you, leaning across and kissing your cheek softly

On the nights you were in pain or felt unloveable he spent every single second by your side, kissing your skin and paying you compliments with every kiss to your skin. 

“This song is for Yn, and everything she’s been through” he said as he winked at you, it had been months since your surgery and now you stood at a concert watching your boyfriend perform a song he wrote for you while you were ill

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[hoshigray]

Sweet Blind Summer Fling ༄ S. Gojo

"Due to a bet made by Nobara, I made an online dating account to set myself up with a blind date. Although a bit witty and annoyingly childish, Gojo's remarkably handsome and sweet...So, how the hell did I end up sleeping with him on the first date!?"

A/n: Alright, y'all, it's time for the second entry for my summer series!! Not gonna lie, it was fun to write as it's my first time writing for Gojo. I think I did a decent job capturing his character in my style, but you will be the judge of that. This was supposed to be posted on Monday, but I was overwhelmed (had 1 hour of sleep) and dropped something else. But we're good to go now! :) And fyi: there's a bonus scene at the end that sets up the next story as they are connected. Any spelling/grammar errors will be dealt with tomorrow.

Also, guest appearances from my lovely mooties (@cu7ie // @kazushawty // @etherealxmaya // @hqkalon // @yourrfavzxri // @neptunes1nterweb) because I felt like it, lol. Hope this puts a smile on their faces if they see this :3

Series m. list!! This entry has been updated along w/ its contents.

Cw: switch! Gojo x fem! reader - explicit content, so minors DNI - blind date/online match-up - age difference (the reader is at least in their 20s; Gojo is around early 30s) - texting back and forth - sex at a hotel - one night stands - consensual sex under the influence - protected sex (PSA: wrap it up, or get the fuck up) - cowgirl + lotus positions - pet names (angel, baby, dollface, pretty, princess, sweet thing) - clitoral play (swiping and pinching) - praise - mentions of drug/alcohol use (reader and Gojo don't get blackout drunk, but y'all get tipsy) - a bunch of silliness bc it's a Gojo fic (duh).

Wc: 6.9k (7.4k with the bonus scene...never say I don't do anything for y'all)

Dear Diary...I once again have come to you with more thoughts that cloud my personal judgment. I did not think you'd be of use to me again. But after what happened last night, it's worth having you in front of me and a pen in my hand again once more...

After finishing your finals, summer break has finally welcomed you with open arms. Two semesters of painful studying and sleepless nights have been long forgotten since you turned in your last in-person exam! You've started working at an internship that you've been dying to get, enjoying the new things you're learning from experienced colleagues, and finding love in the field you've grown and studied for this entire time.

In addition, you also have all the time in the world to hang out with your best friends — Yuuji, Megumi, and Nobara! Just last weekend, you four hung out at this new sports bar that recently opened and had the most fun experience! Yuuji made new friends with people at the bar who kept buying him drinks; Megumi had to begrudgingly watch over the salmon-haired other to ensure he didn't croak from alcohol poisoning, and you and Nobara took sweet pictures together for your summer album.

It's been a great summer so far. There has been nothing that could bring you down from enjoying this season in the best way you can. Absolutely nothing that could throw you off your summer grove!

However, that's what you initially thought. Because why else would you be in some random hotel room writing in your diary.

To get the full context, I'll take you back to the night I and the gang left the sports bar. We spent the night at Yuuji's as he and Nobara tried to sober up...

It was a chill evening in your friend's place, you and the other three in the living room chatting with the television on low to not disrupt his sleeping grandfather. Yuuji was sobering up by eating bread and drinking water, Megumi was on the couch reading something on his phone, and you were arguing with Nobara.

The auburn-haired other points to you with her index, holding a glass of water. "I told ya, you lost the bet!"

"How!? You literally cheated!" You push her finger out of the way as you two giggle at your complaints. "You kicked Yuuji in the shin to distract him, and I didn't even know I was a part of the damn thing!"

Now your pink-haired friend jumped to say words of his own. "That was foul with what you did; I should've fallen to the floor and acted like I was really hurt. Have you paying my medical bills."

"Blah, blah, blah, sounds like a losers' pleas to me." Nobora rolls her eyes while you and Yuuji glare at her. "And you! You didn't say you were out of the game, unlike Megumi. I said, and I quote: 'When the wings touch the table, the bet is on,' and guess what? By the time the wings got here, I didn't hear a single peep out of you saying you forfeited from the challenge! Once you picked up a single wing, your ass was set in stone!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you annoying bitch..." you groan in your hands as the woman maniacally barks her laughs. "Alright, fine, I ate the shortest portion of wings. Therefore, I, Y/n L/n, declare myself the loser to this fuckery of a challenge. So, Queen Cheater," Nobara snickers to herself at the title you've given her. "What is my punishment?"

You should've known by the evil twinge of your friend's lip that the punishment would be absurd. "I, Queen Cheater," she takes a confident swig of her water before sealing your fate. The words she says next shake to your core, and the decline of your dignity hits you like a bullet train. "...Hereby dare you, the loser, to make an online dating account and find thyself a blind date!"

Your disapproval fell on deaf ears, forcing you to resentfully grab your phone and download a dating app. To make matters worse, you had to make the account with your friends watching (minus Megumi, who still wanted no part in what you all were doing). Once you were done setting up your profile, the three of you looked to the screen to look at the other users, who were also on a quest to find a sense of courtship.

The past thirty minutes have been spent looking at all the users around the area, swiping left and right for those who did and didn't pique your interest.

Todo Aoi (22) "I like 'em tall, with a FAT ASS. If you don't fit the criteria, it's gonna be hard to convince me."

Oh, brother.

Sol (18) "Don't know about a long-term relationship, but we can be chill if ya wanna be friends! :D"

Seems nice. Maybe a chat wouldn't hurt.

Mei Mei (36) Don't ever expect me to pay for the first date or any date. Will you see me again depends on what you have in your savings. ♡

Alright, I appreciate the honesty. But nope.

Karma (20) "Tbh I'm secretly married to my four wives: Hoshi, Maya, Sae, and Zari. But if you look like or are Toji Fushiguro, hit my DMs pronto!! Shhhh, don't tell Hoshi tho, she might divorce me :P"

Okay then—Wait, isn't that Megumi's dad??

Hoshi (20s) Don't listen to Karma. We are very much divorced, and my heart belongs to my one and only: Toji Fushiguro :/

Alrighty then...

Sapphire (19) "Call me MLK, cuz I had a dream about us 🫦"

Fucking no!

Frustration keens in through a heavy sigh. Usually, you'd be happy knowing you can't seem to find a match; however, for this situation, Nobara Kugisaki will not let you off the hook until there's someone worthy of the swipe of invitation. You groan in exhaustion, throwing your head back onto the couch behind you.

With no luck, you decided to call it a night and try again later. So you called an Uber, took yourself home after saying goodbyes to your friends, and reluctantly promised Nobara you'd let her know if you'd get a blind date. With a nice shower and some comfortable PJs, you're now lying comfortably on your bed and looking through all the pictures you took tonight. Then, for some reason, you had the urge to go back on the dating app to look through more users to match up with. Probably because you'd prefer to get this bet out of the way now than later. Regardless of the justification, you spend about twenty minutes swiping and reading through many other people's profiles, and — just like before — not many people catch your eye.

That holds true until you stumble upon a name and description that sparks your curiosity.

Satoru Gojo (old enough to be irresistible; 31) "I was made perfect, I can do everything perfectly, but I want us to be perfect together (･ω<;)☆"

It might've been the use of the emoticon or the confidence that seeped out based on the tiny description. Whatever the case, you stayed on the user's profile for quite a while longer than the others. Even going far as to read his profile thoroughly: knowing what his likes and dislikes are, his height, a fan of Digimon, and so on.

And you contemplated whether or not to swipe him to the side of approval, but you made up your mind after a few minutes of inner discourse. It's not like I'll match up with him immediately. So, you gave him the go and continued on with your search.

Although, that was short-lived because what happened next surprised you to the point that sleep no longer claimed over you.

"Contratz! You've successfully matched with Satoru Gojo!"

Wait, what!!??

You were utterly perplexed by the pop-up showing up on your phone screen. There's no way this was happening, all under the same night, too! And what surprised you the most was the fact that he was awake as well, sending you the first message:

gogojojo: Hey!

Oh, fucking shit. Your body tenses at the greeting, reading his username and message repeatedly. Quickly, you take a few deep breaths to ease yourself before doing something stupid. You answer him with a salutation of your own:

y/ndontwannabehere: Hi there!

gogojojo: A night owl too, huh? Couldn't sleep?

y/ndontwannabehere: Yeah, was just on my phone for a bit, until I saw your message.

gogojojo: Lucky me! I was surprised to have you as a match, I saw your profile about an hour ago.

y/ndontwannabehere: I'm also surprised as well, you're one of the few people who I seemed interested in.

gogojojo: Well, I'm flattered :D Now that you got my attention, what would you like to know about me?

y/ndontwannabehere: Okay...it says you're six-foot-three, how's that like?

gogojojo: I may be six-foot-three, but I'd like to be six feet under you ;3

y/ndontwannabehere: ......

......I regret giving this dude a chance.

Because of the terrible pick-up line, you closed off the app and turned off your phone to switch the lights off and go to sleep. However, another text sends your phone vibrating on the dresser's surface.

gogojojo: Woooow, not even a pity laugh? :/

You shake your head at the notification, but a smile creeps up when you open your phone and tap on the keys to message back.

y/ndontwannabehere: nope, that sucked ass.

gogojojo: Hey now!! >:T you can't say it's ass if it did what it was supposed to do

y/ndontwannabehere: and what's that?

gogojojo: got you here talking with me ヾ(●ε●)ノ

His message makes your smile broader, and you spend the rest of the night talking to Gojo.

It continues for two more weeks, sharing pieces of info about yourselves while rolling your eyes at his annoying jokes and pick-up lines. But for the most part, you enjoy your talks with the stranger on the other side of your screen.

And it all goes swell until he drops this:

gogojojo: Hey! Wanna go on a date with me this weekend?

You were lying on your bed watching Netflix, and you almost choked on your dinner when the message popped up. So in tune with the back-and-forth between you and Gojo that you had forgotten why you made an online dating account in the first place! You grab for your phone to reply:

y/ndontwannabehere: you're serious?!

gogojojo: yeah! I mean, you and I've been talking for a while, I'm kinda into you, plus we could meet up somewhere close. Besides, I would like to see you, and I know you're dying to see me too :)

y/ndontwannabehere: And what makes you think I'd DIE just to see you?

gogojojo: Because why would you not~? You'd be surprised by how many people I've had fallen head-over-heels for me~

y/ndontwannabehere: well, guess I'll be the first one to not be >:3

gogojojo: HUH!!?? Don't say that, I'll cry

y/ndontwannabehere: LMAO grown ass man crying over rejection

gogojojo: Rejection hurts, and I have a weak heart!! :'000

y/ndontwannabehere: Liar.

gogojojo: ANYWAYS! You up for a date?

And that's how you started dressing yourself up on a Friday afternoon, fixing yourself up in front of your bedroom mirror. Checking your phone periodically for Gojo to tell you when he's in front of your home.

You already texted Nobara that you got a blind date, to which she praised you with monumental amounts of supportive text messages and emojis and a text stating she'll throttle you if you don't tell her all about it. It was humorous: you created the online dating account because of a stupid bet for a random date — and now that it was here, you didn't know how to feel. You can't say when was the last time you ever went out with someone, let alone on a blind date! Anxiousness shadows you about the whole thing, but after chatting and getting to know a little bit of Gojo, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad of a date.

After all, the guy seems likable and fun to hang out with based on your interactions. Plus, it's only a date. That's all it is. Absolutely nothing attached in any shape or form.

Thoughts grind to a halt when you hear your phone vibrating on your dresser, a text from Gojo.

gogojojo: I'm here~~~ Ready to fall madly in love with me? :3

Your heart skips a beat at the message, biting the bottom of your lip in nervousness. You send him a reply:

y/ndontwannabehere: Nah, ready to barf right in front of your face :P

gogojojo: Such a rude person :/ Get your butt out here

You giggle before shutting off your phone and grabbing your bag with all your necessary items. Before you leave, you look in the mirror one last time, using this moment to mentally prepare yourself for what's to come. The day has come; you're about to go on a date. No going back now, and I can finally put this dumb bet to rest!

You open your front door and enter outside, the summer heat crawling on your legs from your cute jean shorts and your shoulders excluded from the cream-white cami top. You see a black car — a black 2018 BMW XI — parked right on the street, windows tinted to hide the face you're looking for. But when you draw closer to the vehicle, the passenger side window slides down, and you finally meet him.

The man of the hour himself, the man you've been talking with for two weeks straight, and the man you were about to experience a complete mess of a date with: Satoru Gojo.

"Hey there," his voice was chipper and friendly; his texting style matched his speech. From the window, you can interpret his outfit: a blue flannel shirt covering his white Tee and black jeans with a silver chain emanating from his belt. His eyes were blocked by dark circle sunglasses, making it hard to decipher the color. But his snow-white hair was the first thing that caught your eye, contrasting with the black interior of his car. "Y/n, right?"

You smile at your name. "Correct, Mr. Gogojojo."

He snickers at the use of his username. "You look cute, and I know you like what you see since you were eyeballing me up and down."

"Yeah, whatever." You roll your eyes before opening the passenger door, putting your bag between your legs as you sit down. While putting on your seatbelt, you can feel the bass subtlety vibrate within the car, and the music was...What the fuck? You look at the front integrated head unit on the dashboard and see what artist the man is listening to. "...You listen to Zack Fox?"

"Yeah, I was listening to his songs on my way here! You know his song Marinate?" And before you could answer, the white-haired man sang along to the lyrics. To your perplexity, you just watch him rap along with the artist and the outlandish lyrics. And he just keeps going until the transition to the second verse. "Funny, right?"

"You know," you shake your head at Gojo, whose grin goes wider. "I was about to fall for you until you started rapping the lyrics."

"Whaaaat, he's a comedian, it's meant to be funny!"

"Whatever. Let's just hurry and get this date over with."

"Oh, sounds like someone's ready to be wined and dined by me." He starts the car and shifts between gears. "Don't rush things, princess. Good things come to those who wait."

"Just drive!"

Gojo laughs at your complaints as he drives off on the street. You playfully groan to yourself at your date's antics, looking out to the window to watch your surroundings move past your line of sight.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊✩₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

"Ever since high school, I would eat a pack of gummies anytime I was doing homework because it stimulates my brain and helps me focus. So by the time college came around, I got so used to eating sweets that I naturally started liking them." Gojo took a sip of his milkshake. "But then, when my best friend and I went to our first house party, I had my first drink. And, Y/n."

"Oh God, what?"

"The taste was so bad that I tried downing it all in one chug. Well, that came back to bite my ass — and my best friend got the worst of it."

"Gojo, what did you do?"

"He was sitting down on a couch talking to someone, and I was behind the couch feeling all squeamish. So, before I could stop myself, I barfed on his hair!"

"Oh, my God, No!!" And the two of you roar in laughter and bang on the booth table you were sitting at.

The date was at an old, vibrant diner in the city where Gojo is a regular customer; the cozy and welcoming atmosphere had you erase any anxious feelings about this date and feel a little more confident. You and Gojo took things slow, you talking about your summer internship and him of his job as a high school teacher.

The conversation started the topic of summer break came to play, prompting you to talk more about yourself and your friends. That flipped the switch entirely as you became more open about your friends and their goofiness. And as a goofy man, Gojo was intrigued with your stories and had him reminiscent of memories from his youth. Although, you've come to find out that Gojo takes his playful nature to a whole other level, and it's been having you two laugh about said foolishness for the past hour.

"The funny thing is, right, he was talking to this sophomore girl that was eyeing him up the whole time we were there," Gojo says through wheezes. "And he was finally talking to this chick, and she was really getting into him. I didn't mean to intrude on his parade or anything, but as my best friend, you're supposed to help me through thick and thin. I was going to ask if it was okay if I headed to the dorm alone while he stayed at this party. And then, vomit happened."

"Ewww, you terrible friend!" You try to eat a fry from your meal, but your giggles make dining difficult. "No wonder he pranked you with a weed brownie."

"Jokes on him; I still nailed my presentation for my exam. I don't remember saying anything I said, but I take pride in whatever I did to get that A." He takes a big bite of his burger and swallows before saying more. "And I started seeing the sophomore girl he talked to afterward, so checkmate."

You gasp at the information and throw a piece of your food at him, which he effortlessly catches with his hand and eats. "You petty bastard! I'm on your friend's side all the way."

"No regrets!" He hits you with his annoying chuckle that has you smiling hard, and the light above your table makes his dark sunglasses shine chicly.

"Oh, yeah?" You inquire. "I bet I could make you regret it."

The man on the other side of the booth scoffs. "Is that so? And how are you gonna do that, my pretty princess?"

You didn't think he'd buy your bluff. So, the truth is, you had no idea of how'd you punish the snow-haired man. Looking around the diner, you scope for anything that sparks a concept. You then turn to his side and notice a booth at the far end. A woman was laughing with her friends and sipping on a cocktail, making a slightly sour face after taking a drink.

And then it hits, along with a sneer, and you peer back to your date.

"You don't like alcohol, right?" He quirks up a brow at your question. "How many times have you had a drink in your life?"

"Three or four."

"Well then, I dare you to drink three or four cocktails. No milkshake or water to help you get through. Just the ice cubes in the drink."

White brows furrow, and even if the shades block them from your interpretation, you can tell Gojo is studying your face in deep thought with your so-called punishment. Ten seconds go by before he scoffs again. "I'll take up on that. On one condition," he leans back on the booth seat. "You have to take the drinks with me as well."

Now it's your turn to raise a brow and think about his words. "You're paying for the drinks."

"Done deal." He pulls his hand outward to you, initiating a handshake to set the seal in stone before continuing on with this game of yours. You happily shake his hand, commencing the punishment to officially start.

One cocktail was a breeze for you but a bit of a doozy for Gojo to stomach; you had to warn him that if he barfed on you, you'd ditch him and block him for life. Two cocktails in is when you begin feeling tingly. Your date was going through it halfway into the glass, so you had to compromise that a glass of water was needed for him.

Three cocktails in, and you undoubtedly feel the alcohol hit you behind its sweet and tangy facade. You can hardly look at the drink, same with Gojo. You two look at each other and shake your heads in disagreement, pushing the glasses to the side and groaning with your now-drunk selves.

Gojo is the first to say something. "As far as disciplines go, that was, without a doubt, one of the worst things I've had to endure."

You giggle. "Honestly. But I—hic! Excuse me. I bet you're regretting throwing up on your friend's hair now. I did it for his sake, after all."

He only looks at you through his glasses. He then gets up from his side of the booth and walks to yours, and you scoot over to let him have a seat. "Nah, don't regret it one bit. Because if I hadn't done it, I wouldn't have you over here laughing and suffering in alcohol with me about it." He maneuvers his hand to rest on your shoulder, and you allow him to move closer to you. "Wouldn't be spending this fun evening with you."

Your eyes hesitantly venture up to his face, welcoming you to the tension that builds up with the lighting and soft music of the diner. His hand rubs on your shoulder in a comforting manner, a gesture you take note of even under the influence. "You know, since you're enjoying having me and all, don't you think I should have a reward for doing your punishment with you."

"And what reward do you have in mind?"

"Can I see them?" You use a finger to motion your own pair of eyes, resulting in the snow-haired man in a short chuckle. But he doesn't argue with you and uses his free hand to remove his shades.

Icy blue is the first thing that comes to mind when you look at his eyes. His orbs are a rarity to the usual crowd, yet they go perfectly with his peachy complexion and pale hair. His orbs hooded and honed in on your figure, appearing soft because of the slight rosy shade of pink on his cheeks. You take in every single feature of his face before speaking.

"Well, I'm starting to see why so many people fall for you, Mr. Gojo." Your face goes hot with the sudden confidence that sneaks within you, yet you continue. "You're very attractive."

He chortles at your comment. "Thanks, dollface. But I don't think it's fair that you only get a reward from me. After all, I almost drowned in alcohol."

You hum. "Fair enough. What would you like?"

His face doesn't change with the following sentence he utters, but you take note of the slight squeeze on your shoulder. "A kiss from the princess would sure warm my heart."

Brows draw upward and breath hitches. A kiss? On the first date? On a blind date?

You don't know what possessed you to do this — it might have been the cocktails. But you incline your face to his and move forwards, your plump lips land on his soft ones for a simple kiss. And with the low hum of his voice, you place another. And another.

When you remove yourself from him, his eyes open to meet yours. A smile gets broader, and so does yours. "You taste sweet," you say.

"So do you." His fingers toy with the strap of your cami top. "Kinda want to kiss you more. And, you know, do a little more, only if you're up for it."

You give him a look. "I believe I just gave you a reward after receiving yours."

"I know, I know," he raises his other hand defensively, but he doesn't remove his smirk. "That's why it's up to you."

You only look at him as he waits for your answer. You already kissed the man; what more is supposed to happen on a blind date? Thoughts on what to do are carefully calculated in your mind, remembering the reason why you're even on this date in the first place. Without Nobara's stupid bet, none of this would be conspiring. Yet simultaneously, it's not like you were having a terrible time. If anything, it was quite the opposite. Not once did you feel uncomfortable around Gojo's presence or feel the need to call off the date. Just enjoying his company and character that attracts you to him more. Even if it means spending the entire night with him.

I'm already deep into this night. What's the use of stopping now.

"So?" Your eyes peer up and down on his figure. "What does 'a little more' entail?"

One moment you and Gojo were enjoying each other's company at a diner, then the date was moved to a different location the next. Now you and the white-haired man are in a cozy hotel nearby. You expressed your worries about Gojo driving you two to the new spot as he still had alcohol in his system. But your complaints fell on deaf ears as he persuaded you into trusting him ("Don't worry, it's like three streets away! Plus, it's almost midnight. No one's on the street." "If you crash us into a pole or something, don't ever ask to talk to me again." "Duly noted~" )

The two of you got yourself into a small hotel room. Soft lighting from the lamps bathes nude bodies lying on the comfortable queen-sized. You mount on top of Gojo, a makeout session warming the two of you up with the exchange of body heat. Sucking and biting each other's lips, his big hand at the back of your neck to deepen the kiss, and the grind of your hips on his firm erection makes the throbbing sensation between your legs flourish with your slick painting him.

His kisses trail down to your neck, and you allow him to venture below your clavicle. Pillowy lips pepper your chest and eventually find your breasts, taking a hardened nipple into his warm mouth.

A sharp cry exits your mouth when Gojo lightly teases your nipple with his teeth. "Mmmm! G-Gojo, pleaseee, I want it," your words come out in whimpers, your body quivering as your cunt brushes against his erect cock shielded by a rubber.

"Is that so, dollface?" He coos at your pleas, his hand running up and down the cusp of your ass and slender fingers teasing your aching entrance every time they draw nearer. "Then go on, ride on my dick like you want to."

His permission has your face go hot, but you station your hands on his chest to propel you upwards, admiring the view of him below you for a moment before lifting your ass. He moves his hands behind his head to relax, signaling you to do the work yourself and at your own pace. And with that, you do.

Your bottom raises until you position the tip of his shaft on the squish lips of your folds. Your breath hitches at the contact of his glans. His smooth voice coaxes you. "Relax, sweet thing. Take your time." You take a few moments to even your breathing and mentally prep you for your following actions. Hips gradually go down and push the cockhead further between your folds. Entry is prompted through the pain with every breath, and a sharp gasp lets you know that his girth finally enters you. And Gojo moans as well.

"Hmmm, that's it." He comments sweetly, his blue orbs tracing the union of your sexes. His hands now snake to your hips, and he throws his head back on the pillow under him. "Ready when you are, princess."

When you're ready, you move your hips downward to take in more of his member, the size of him widening your folds to accommodate the foreign limb intruding inside your vulva. His curve nudging your inner walls has your legs quake, and you concentrate on not being hasty and taking his cock all in one go. So once you finally meet the base, you exhale shaky and use a few seconds for your body to adjust.

Knowing you have the reins, you start to move. You start off with a slow speed, letting the feeling of his dick rub your walls in a steady position. Your whining is muffled with the bite of your lip, but not the man below you. He proudly expresses his pleasure in his moans, the hold on your hips getting tighter.

"Haaahhh, so good and tight," Gojo purrs, egging you to dial up your tempo. He notices you biting the bottom of your lip, and he chuckles. "Come on, baby. I wanna hear that cute voice of yours. Lemme hear it all." He then surprises you with a sudden thrust, evoking a choked cry from puffy lips.

You get the memo then and just let the pornographic noises fly, every moan getting higher and louder with the pace of your hips. His length drilling within you with each intake, and you lean forward for your clitoris to stimulate with the friction, causing you to jerk. You can't tell if it's because of the sex or the cocktails from hours ago making your nerves so sensitive and tender. But in any case, it makes you feel so good right now.

And when you lean back, the feeling gets even more ecstatic, resulting in more mewls from you. His dick goes even further than before, grazing your sweet spots and walls with precision with your increased speed. You swerve your hips in circles, having the man groan. To counter, his hand snakes down to your clitoris to play and pinch on, and you scream.

"Ahhhnn! Haaaah, Gojo! It feels so," the sounds of your ass smacking on his things are now apparent to the ears. The raunchy squelching noises of your cunt embarrass you; however, you can't deny the grip your cunt has on his cock with every rock. Your mind slowly descends into a dreamy haze. "Nnnmph!! Feels too goood, wanna commme..."

He opens his eyes to look at you; the erotic display of your nude body bouncing on his shaft turns him on even more. "Yeah, wanna come with me?" You nod lazily, earning another chortle from the man beneath you. "Alright, stay still for me."

It takes you aback when he suddenly moves up from the bed, sitting with his legs crossed under your ass and his handsome face too close to yours. You instinctively avert your gaze away from the frosty-headed other, bashfully turning your face to the side. It amuses him, guiding your face back to him with his hand. "Hehe, don't be scared of me, angel. I wanna see that beautiful face of yours."

Again, you can't tell whether or not it's the effect of the alcohol, but your face and ears go uncomfortably hot at his compliments. And now that his face is so close to yours, you can clearly take in his features. His sky-blue eyes were extremely fixated with yours, softly hooded with the flutter of his snow eyelids and in contrast with his rosy cheeks. Your heart skips a beat. What is with this beautiful motherfucker?! "Stop flirting with me in the middle of this..."

He laughs at your sheepishness, kissing your cheek. "Flirting with you is what got you here in the first place, baby. Now," his hands slither down your ass, squeezing the flesh with his fingers. "I'm gonna start moving — get ready."

He waits for you to wrap your arms around his neck and lift yourself from his legs before he begins moving his pelvis. The rash jabs of his cock leave you gasping for air and clasping around him. He hisses to your ear with his arms now wrapped around your back as he brings up the rhythm of his hips. You're now forced to bounce onto his crossed legs, his dick scraping your insides deliciously so that you can't think properly.

It's now that everything feels better than before; his member now achieving deeper penetration to the point of hitting your G-spot accurately with the underside of him. You no longer try to suppress the sounds leaving your lips, your wails bringing life to the hotel room. And Gojo's moans get louder and louder when your legs slither around him, and your ass matches the climbing cadence.

"Oooooh, fuck, Gojo! Shit, shit—Mmaah!!" With every rut to your cunt, you can feel the pounding of your head get louder and louder. "Oh, Christ, it feels tew good, so gooood...!!"

"Hnngh, mmmnph!!" Gojo groans at the pleasure, placing his sweaty forehead on yours. His eyes survey your certified expression caused by his touch. He chuckles, "You look so cute jumping on my cock like this. Such a pretty angel."

Timid by his words, you shift your face onto his shoulder to shield away from his line of sight. "Haaaah, stop saying stuff like that—Ahhhhhnnn!!"

You shriek when two fingers come down to your clitoris, the digits swiping and pinching the tender bud. "Hiding away from me again, huh, dollface?" He continues to mess with your clit ensuing in choked mewls and tears streaming down your face, and his hips increase in speed.

Your brain is a mushy mess, fighting the right to form coherent sentences. His fingers go at a hurried pace, abusing your clit. You're so close. Almost there. "Ahhh! Ahhhhh! Go-Gojo, pleaseee, I'm gonna cum—Hmmm!! Ahhaaaaaa!!!"

The peak hits you hard like a train, your body shaking uncontrollably on Gojo and his cock, the walls of your cunt fluttering beautifully on his length. And the contraction pushes him to release, his essence captured in the condom to prevent a spill.

Pants and groans fill the hot space between you two, and Gojo kisses your shoulder as the shockwaves die down with every passing second. A wave of calm covers your body while exhaustion crawls up your spine. You lift your head from his shoulder, and he's met with the most beautiful dazed expression he's ever seen.

"Heh, I should drink with you more often if it means I see you like this." He kisses your nose, and you smile.

"Oh, shut up," you remark breathlessly, and your lips meet his. He kisses you without hesitation, bringing you with him as he lies back on the bed. The sounds of his lips smacking with yours fill the room with a romantic glow, and it stays that way even when slumber claims you both.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊✩₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

You're woken up by some sort of light on your eyelids and the sound of birds chirping. With a few blinks, your eyes open and are met with the sun's glaring rays peeking through the blind of the hotel window. Begrudgingly, you rise from the mattress and stretch your fatigued limbs. A massive headache greets your head without your consent, pounding it like a drum. The sheet above you slips from your figure, and you find out you slept bare nude.

Too flustered for exhaustion to take control, you grab the sheet to cover your chest, afraid that someone would've seen. The headache vanishes into thin air as you whip and search the room. But there's no one here? And you then notice the blue flannel on the side next to you. The side of the man you were on a date with.

Wait? I was with Gojo last night, right? Questions of the night prior finally come to you. Okay, wait, we went to that diner. Then we had those cocktails, which was a bad idea on my part. So what else? Oh. We kissed. Yeah...we kissed...then I got in his car and drove to this hotel room, and then...And then we.....we—

Unable to complete that thought, a sudden click catches your attention, whipping your head to the hotel door to see it open. And there he is.

Gojo enters the room with his clothes back on, his white tee and black jeans. His shades now block the beautiful eyes you had seen last night — perhaps it was a fever dream, imagining that you did see them. He's holding a paper cup, which you could only assume was tea or coffee. When he notices you, he greets you with a smile.

"Well, good morning, sunshine~" his tone gets chipper the closer he walks to the bed. Placing the cup on the bedside before grabbing for his flannel. "I brought you some tea since I'm sure your throat is sore from last night," your face heats up at the comment. "Plus, I didn't want to leave you empty-handed before I head out."

You blink at him. "You're leaving?"

"Yeah, sorry about that. Remember my friend I told you about last night?" You nod at him while he ties his blue clothing around his waist. "He texted me earlier, saying something came up with one of our other closer friends, and they need my help. He tried calling me, so I had to leave the room to let you sleep."

You hum at his confession. "I see..." How considerate.

"Hey," He climbs on the bed to be close to you. "Sorry that I can't take you back home or treat you to breakfast or something. Maybe next time."

Now that he's close to you like this, you can make out the implications of his eyes behind his dark sunglasses, blue orbs honed in on you and you alone. Your cheeks gradually go warm. "Next time?" You didn't mean for it to be a whisper, too entranced to notice.

He chuckles at your comment, and you swear your heart's beating irregularly. "Yeah, princess. I'd love to see you next time." He draws closer to kiss your forehead, and it takes every nerve in your body to not melt then and there. He then removes himself from the bed, the dent returning to normal now that his weight is off.

Gojo straightens himself and turns away from you. "Alright, I'm off. I'll leave my hotel card by the door. Text me if you need money for an Uber, 'kay?" You hear the door open. "Be good, ya hear!?" He shouts to you from the other side of the room, practically already in the hallway.

"Same to you!" You reply back in the same manner.

"No promises~." And with that comes the sound of the door closing, confirming your isolation in the now quiet hotel room. You're left to properly rekindle everything that led you up to this point, yet even then, you feel so at a loss.

As far as blind dates go — or dates in general — it's safe to say that this was the most bizarre one you've had. Not because anything dire happened. And that's probably the reason why it felt so surreal. You came into this date to release yourself from the shackles of a bet, knowing that you wouldn't see the end of it from your friend if you didn't take care of it with haste.

Nevertheless, thanks to Gojo, it didn't feel like a bet. Not at all. It felt like an actual, fun date with a new person. With a great person at that. Not once did you express any uncomfortable feelings or ill will towards Gojo. And if you did, you're sure he tended to your worries without your knowing.

"I'd love to see you next time."

His words ring in your ear once more, and they resume to do so when you exit from the bed to grab your bag on the chair next to you. You grasp the most necessary item inside — your diary — and sit at the hotel room desk to document your concluding statements appropriately.

...What happened last night was something that I had no vision of seeing. So, now that it did happen, I just feel a little...empty? Probably because I took care of Nobara's bet and don't have to worry about going on another date again.

But, deep down, a part of me wants to do it all again — Not with just anyone, but with him. What we shared yesterday was one of the most refreshing days I've had all summer. Although he was a bit childish for his mature age, maybe that made me like him even more. He was kind to me, funny, and, dare I say, an attractive guy, both in personality and physical appearance.

Thanks for the date, Satoru Gojo. And if you wish to see me again, any time at any place, know that my heart will accept with glee.

˚₊‧꒰ა Bonus ☆ Scene!! ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Gojo exits the hotel room and walks down the hall to the elevator, whistling a tune that only he could understand. He presses the button to summon the machine to his floor, and it comes in a few seconds with the soft ding to mark its risen state. And before Gojo could fully get inside, he sensed his phone vibrating in his right jean pocket.

He grabs for it and stops whistling, tapping on the green call button and placing the device to his ear as the elevator doors close. "Morning, you man-bunned prick."

"It's midday, you blue-eyed sheep." A voice comes from the other side of his phone. "Judging by how you didn't know that, you went out last night, didn't you?"

"That's none of your business~," the white-haired man says in a sing-song manner.

"Shut the hell up~," The one on the phone returns the sentiment. "It's not like I don't know practically every person you screwed in the streets with."

The elevator door opens to the main floor, and Gojo exits to head for the entrance. "Yeah, yeah. I will say this: I had a great time with them."

"You say this about everyone who opens their legs for you."

Gojo sucks his teeth. "Well, this one really had me enjoying myself from start to finish. They were fun to be around. Shit, they even made me drink alcohol."

"Really? And you didn't barf on the spot?"

"Fuck off, Suguru." The one from the phone line — now named Suguru — chuckled at the curse thrown his way. Gojo walks out to the parking lot and enters his car. The phone call is transferred to the car's Bluetooth when the engine starts. "I don't know...They were just great to be around, ya know? Haven't had that in a while."

Suguru hums, vibrating the car with the bass systems. "Think you wanna hang with them again?"

"Mmmmm, I'd like to."

The one on the phone chuckles. "Well, don't get to whipped. Especially since you promised to be at Shoko's beach house this month, we don't want you canceling on us again because someone scheduled you for a dick appointment."

Gojo smirks at the comment. "Yeah, I won't. You'll see me." A few seconds of silence follow through until Suguru asks another question to his friend.

"So? How was the sex this time around?"

With a twinge to his lips, Gojo snickers to himself from reminiscing about the events of last night.

"Man, let me tell you..."

[sardonicdoll]

able-bodied artists (or artists who don't have the relevant disabilities even if they are physically disabled in some way) really need to start checking themselves because i have seen more than enough ableist garbage on my TL recently. i don't get any traction on twitter though so i'm posting this here instead.

1. i'm not giving my thoughts on "AI art" because i do not have the patience and energy but bringing up physically disabled artists with limb differences, motor impairments, etc. (the ones that able-bodied people put on a pedestal because inspiration porn, anyway) as a gotcha is just as bad as the "AI art" bros you're arguing with who aren't disabled themselves (or disabled in these ways) but also tokenize these forms of disability. we're not ammunition in online discourse, i bet 10-1 that you people never uplift and empower and give a platform to disabled artists w/ limb differences/motor impairments/etc. in your online art spaces otherwise, and any logic that amounts to "this disabled person can do [x] so you're just not trying hard enough/what's your excuse?" is always always ALWAYS ableist no matter how you try to spin it, sorry.

if you don't have these conditions and consider yourself an ally to us then you do not have any business speaking with any kind of authority in conversations involving limb differences, motor impairments, etc. and art-making, or bringing artists with these conditions up when people are talking art-making and accessibility. full-stop. speaking from experience, being an artist with coordination and motor skill impairments when i'm surrounded by artists who aren't hindered by those things (even if physically disabled) really takes a mental toll on you and being all "oh this guy learned to draw with his teeth, so" does not help that whatsoever.

2. speaking as a horror artist/author - critically examine what you consider monstrous or horrific and the overlap between that and visible physical disability. not only have i had the above nonsense shoved in my face but then semi-popular art account posted a few photos (from online assumedly) that they called "monster eyes" when one of those images was leukocoria and another looked something like tonic pupil and/or coloboma (the pupil looked atypically large and out of place.) structrual eye conditions that cause visible differences aren't "monstrous." one of the images had crystals growing out of the eye, which, yeah! do more with that. but consider that images of "freaky" eyes you find on the internet are in fact eye conditions that real people have and what you're doing is associating how their bodies look with "monstrosity."

people have talked about this quite a bit with limb differences, bodily proportions, gait differences, motor impairments, etc. but i've never seen it talked about nearly as much with eye conditions. stop associating aspects of visible bodily differences with horror and monstrosity. even if it's unintentional that's purely due to your ignorance of the wealth of conditions that cause disability. exploration of disability and bodily difference within the context of horror and monstrosity can and honestly should be explored but that should be left to to those of us who actually understand what that is like rather than those who only have an outside perspective.

generally i'm very tired of able-bodied artists and then any physically disabled ones who lack respect for those of different experience to their situation.

[helloaugustmoon]

guys omfg this is bringing me back to my days of arguing w random ppl on twitter on things they clearly know nothing about and I’m gonna rant

this person is trying to act like some kind of martyr for saying it’s wrong to sexualise Michael (apparently Michael is the only one to ever experience fangirl culture bc my point about The Beatles and Elvis all generating teenage fans in all generations got NO response lol)

but what really pissed me off? despite this being an mj fan account who advocates for Michael’s innocence, this person DEADASS on the last point of the second slide is basically saying (and I asked them to clarify in the comments bc I couldn’t believe this) that “people say Michael liked kids but the children are the ones liking him” AS IF CHILDREN HAVING CRUSHES IS EVEN REMOTELY COMPARABLE TO THE ABUSE OF CHILDREN ???????? why would you even MAKE that point and IMPLY that in relation to Michael when he was literally innocent??? girl wtf. seriously.

Idk if there’s an age/language barrier here bc this person seems to only be talking about kids making accounts w weird usernames and sexualising Michael (which is unverifiable unless they’ve got their age stated in their bio and even that isn’t necessarily true) but all the comments they seem to be interacting w on this post do come across as literal children talking to each other? Idk it all just sounds v childish to me bc I cant imagine a single adult fan of Michael being this vexed abt this topic

and also, Michael - if he was here - would be embarrassed by internet culture and the level of obsession w him, PERIOD. would he ask/demand people to talk about him in a certain way? absolutely not. but do you rlly think the man who wrote about rockin with you, makin sweet love til the break of dawn, if it’s aching you have to rub it- is some kind of saintly virgin who would be completely appalled by every person online expressing their attraction to him? pLEASE. Michael was an angel in a lot of ways but he was also a man, as demonstrated by his songs. he would be thrilled by the attention and love in whatever form it comes in online, but I’ll hold your hand when I say this: Michael IS NOT here to see it. even if he faked his death and is out living his best retirement life somewhere, that man is NOT scrolling on tiktok??? some cognitive awareness would go a long way lol

[ghost-bxrd]

Hey I’m not trying to be rude but I noticed you mentioned w*ndigo as some thing you wanted to write in the future? The Algonquian and other tribes are very clear that their culture is closed and people aren’t supposed to say, write, or even think that word. I’m not trying to call you out or shame you, a lot of people don’t know since it’s been appropriated so much in media. While people outside of these tribes just see them as something on the same line as vampires or mermaids, it’s really a much bigger deal than that. One of the strongest responses from a member I’ve seen was something like “I wish we’d never let them learn that word.” This is a highly controversial topic that causes a great deal of pain to many members of the community, and even seeing or hearing the word can be deeply triggering. If you do want to write about similar creatures, Crypt Tv created a similar creature called the Mordeo and their horror shorts are on YouTube

Hi, I know this is out of genuine concern, but I also want to emphasize that this is a controversial topic.

I have done some research on this, and there are equally as many people saying it’s okay to say/write/read about it, as there have been people abolishing its use.

Fact is, this creature is featuring in quite a number of modern media to date. Most notably the Supernatural fandom and the Until Dawn fandom (that I know off the top of my head at the moment). Not to mention numerous songs. Or the very real, psychological phenomena named after it. Though obviously we could argue about the accuracy of its depiction in relation to the original lore.

It is a folklore, a fascinating one, that I take to be mostly about human greed, selfishness, and circumstance. (A lot of times now mixed with the modern depiction of antlers/rotten deer with too sharp teeth.) People know about it. People will invariably find it fascinating. People will write/talk/sing about it. It’s human nature.

Personally, I think it becomes a problem the moment you try to pass it off as something of your own creation rather than trying to encourage people to learn the original folklore. So even if I do end up using the broad inspiration and go with calling it a Mordeo instead, the core of it will always remain with the folklore of the Wendigo. And I will always point back to it, because knowledge of the original version is better than running around thinking that my abstract version is the right one.

But like with all things online, I cannot stress enough that you curate your own experience and can decide on what to see and what not to. If this is something you absolutely do not agree with, please feel free to block me or otherwise filter my content.

[withacapitalp]

How come "books are books, shows are shows, do whatever you want w characters" doesn't apply to B*lly? Not trying to start drama, just genuinely want to understand. Is it because he's a bad guy I can't reshape him into something I'd like and ignore what's "canon?"

Oh boy Nonnie okay I'll try to be really clear but it probably won't come out super legible. I'm putting it under a read more because I don't wanna clog up my dash w a long explanation (which knowing me it's going to end up being) I also want to say that all of this is MY opinion. I'm no one's ultimate judge, I'm just a guy on the internet who writes stories.

All that to say, this is why I think that fundamentally the idea that Eddie's sexuality and Billy's racism can be manipulated in fandom on the same level is really flawed.

Overall I think that the point of fan fiction is personal enjoyment. Ultimately you're creating something with yourself as the audience in mind. If not, then I don't really get it. So, for you, maybe it can mean that. Do I personally agree? No, but I can't stop anyone from creating something and putting it online. That's the whole point of ao3, no bars, no barriers. When you start putting that kind of wall in place, a slippery slope starts to form, so even if I would never personally partake in some forms of fanfic, I get why it's important to have a place where any kind of fic can exist. Back button exists for a reason, block button exists for a reason, curate your own online experience.

I'm not gonna be the person who says like if you like Billy you're a garbage person, because like that just isn't true? The two aren't automatically associated. Do I think that people who want to erase that part of Billy should maybe examine that urge? Yeah, but I think we all need to look inside and see where systematic racism might make us think things are more acceptable than they should be. I also can't understand people who want to give Vecna a redemption arc, or the people who think Sn*pe was just misunderstood. Regardless, we're all works in progress, and 90% of people to me are capable of learning more and growing and seeing where they might be working with a bias. I know I definitely have my own too.

I personally just will not give him redemption of any form or reshape him, because to do so seems to be disrespectful from my point of view to real life people. I'm not a person of color, Billy's racism is at the forefront of his character, so for me to reshape that and erase it in a fanfic feels like I would be ignoring a serious thing and pretending like that never happened, when it exists in our society in a major way. There isn't a point where Billy's racism ever gets resolved. In fact, the whole thing gets dropped completely in s3 which seems like a really terrible oversight by the Duffers. It's used as a plot point when it was convenient, which is messy and wrong.

But All of that is just background to your real question here which I believe is this-

Why is it okay to change a character's sexuality, but not their bigotry?

For me, I don't really like to equate the two? I think that the idea that someone's sexuality is a 'flaw' that needs to be reshaped is kinda problematic, and we also don't actually know Eddie's sexuality. Everyone can say what they think till the cows come home, but at no point did we get 'Eddie is confirmed gay, straight, bi, etc. etc.' EVERY single interpretation of Eddie's sexuality is someone shaping canon as they see fit right now.

With Billy he is confirmed racist. He is 100% undoubtedly a racist. Not even someone who used to be racist who learned and repented. He was always racist and tried to commit a hate crime against Lucas (I would argue that he did, because holding a twelve year old up against a wall and threatening to kill them because they're black and they dared to want to get to know your sister feels like a hate crime to me) The only reason he didn't seriously hurt Lucas was the fact that Steve stepped in. That's it. He was going to assault a child for his race.

To compare ignoring that to playing with a character's sexuality feels....mm I just strongly don't agree. I don't exactly have words to explain, but I really don't.

I think there are things you can change about characters easily. You can change their sexualities, their ages, their genders, their backstories, but to fundamentally erase something like that just doesn't line up for me.

No call out here Nonnie, I appreciate that you wanted to ask and be open, but this is my question for people who want to change Billy that way- What is it about Billy that is so compelling that it feels necessary to change that part of him? Why is Billy the character you *need* to write for?

Jonathan is a fantastic big brother who has a ton of issues and was abused by his father. If you're having the hankering to try and examine a flawed big brother, he's right there.

Eddie is an outcast (and strongly implied that he comes from an abusive home) and if you're looking to try and write about that, he's right there.

Steve is the character that has actually GONE through the redemption people always try to give Billy. He said slurs and did bad things, and almost immediately went to make amends for them when he was able to acknowledge he did the wrong thing.

Billy never even apologized. He hadn't changed by the time he died, and no I don't think sacrificing himself was some major change. I think that a villain can be tragic without needing to retroactively make them a better person. Billy is a flawed and broken person. Yes that probably relates mostly to the way he was raised and the fact that his family was violent, but that doesn't excuse it. The Byers have an abusive home, and at no point does Jonathan act the way Billy does. I think they're really good foils to each other on what can happen with a big brother.

Anyways this was a really really long answer nonnie, but I hope I got it across why I really disagree with that stance. If anyone was offended or upset, know that wasn't my intenion, and feel free to let me know.

[megaderping]

Late night SALT activated...

Disclaimer: This post is mainly about really aggressive/hostile fans. Disliking stuff is totally valid and curating one’s online experience is important, but... I’m very strongly convinced that the majority of people who vehemently hate Goro Akechi or Shuake to a really hostile degree either haven’t played Royal, haven’t moved on from base game, haven’t maxed his confidant, or really lack reading comprehension. ‘cause disliking a ship or a character? Super valid! Everyone has their preferences and comfort zones. I would never shame someone who genuinely just... doesn’t vibe with it, finds it uncomfortable, and wishes to avoid content or posts w/ the character or pairing. I also completely understand the frustration of wanting Goro content that isn’t ship-focused, since sometimes fandoms can make a pairing consume a character in fanworks (though I’d argue you can have the pair and still give him agency outside of it, at the end of the day, there will always be people who just don’t want it). But when I see factually incorrect arguments like, “Joker and Akechi hate each other,” I just go... “Did we play the same game?” The game where Joker’s greatest wish was to see Akechi again. The game where Morgana outright states that Akechi doesn’t really hate Joker and Akechi himself laments that they didn’t meet years earlier, and if they had, how they could’ve been friends. A game where it’s made very clear that despite the stupidity of going with the revenge plan with Shido and the lives taken along the way, there was still a disgusting power imbalance with Shido, a grown man in politics, effectively molding a broken teenager into being a hitman... And even the betrayal toward the PT- I feel like Akechi’s offer to have Joker join him was genuine as a sort of last ditch effort to get him out of that situation. The SIU director notes how the plan is way too callous even for Akechi, and after it happens, Akechi tries to downplay the dangers of the PT to Shido, suggesting a part of him, even if only a small one, does feel some remorse.

There’s this messy complexity to Akechi and his relationship with Joker and the PT... and people try to strip it of all of its complexities to make it a bland, black and white matter, and it sucks. It feels like those kinds of people want to turn Akechi into a hatesink when Shido is literally right there. And Kamoshida, and Okumura, and many other awful adults in P5. It’s weird how little flak they get by comparison? And I’m biased- Akechi was a character I developed an attachment to as I reached third sem and his character just came together for me. But it’s so freaking annoying to try and search up art of the character or ship on sites like twitter only to find the worst takes possible. Folks gotta separate their personal feelings from the feelings of the characters. The actual canon interactions and relationships are infinitely more compelling than “Joker/the Phantom Thieves all hate Akechi.” I much prefer what the game presents us- with characters like Haru and Futaba not forgiving him, but still sympathizing with his situation and (perhaps reluctantly) being willing to work with him when it’s absolutely necessary. The friction is just so compelling, because even if he’s a tragic person, his actions still robbed them of loved ones. ...but also, President Okumura requested many shutdowns himself and was an awful person, which also adds to the messy complexity for poor Haru.

Anyway, this is just a late night ramble because I went to find fanart and found annoying tweets. Argh.

[stardewpoesie]

I want to fight Kishimoto for a number of reasons, but he really did his best work with Sasuke. I feel like his story is the most interesting to follow in the series, and he kind of acts like an audience surrogate. Because he, like Naruto, has been systematically and routinely let down and exploited by the village. But Sasuke expresses actual, explicit anger for this. While Naruto never really reaches that point

Which make sense, in a way, because Naruto had always wanted acceptance and recognition. His way at "getting back" at the village is by making them see him and acknowledge him for the person he is and not the "monster" inside him. But Sasuke already had that acknowledgement, he already had the love(and pity) of the Village. His anger at the village isn't from being ignored or living in poverty, it's that the village directly facilitated the death of his clan.

And honestly, not to make this a matter of race, but I feel like people of color can empathize a lot easier with Sasuke's story than they can Naruto's. Because Naruto shows frustration but never anger at his situation. He remembers the Third Hokage as a kind, wise leader of the clan. While we see him as an adult who failed this child in literally every way.

Sasuke, on the other hand, is so heartbroken and so angry and so vocal about it. He's what we feel Naruto should be feeling. The village is deeply flawed, something they both saw, but their idea of fixing it is what separates them.

Idk, I love Sasuke so much, I was always on his side.

First of all I'm so sorry It took so long for my reply :( I wanted to respond to it thoroughly, but then life also got in the way ;;

I love your analysis about sasuke's characterisation and his anger and how it juxtaposes Naruto's own behavior and his response to the treatment he'd received. You are right; Naruto had felt anger and hatred towards the village when he was a child, but it was through learning to bond with people that he realized he wanted people's acknowledgment. For many set of reasons, Naruto's response puts me off as a reader and a person because, while I understand he's a child and that it's normal he seeks validation and acceptance through wanting to prove himself, I don't like it as much. Because it pushes this idea that you have to conform to society in order to be "accepted".

And Sasuke, as you very well phrased, actually expresses his anger against the oppression he and his people faced. In my opinion, i would even argue that Sasuke was more rational about his response than many would have (I know I wouldn't have had the same grace he did). Even after the racist remarks from the second Hokage later on in the manga, he showed more maturity than in the way he viewed the justice he wanted to get -not for himself, but for his clan and to right this world.

And yes! I agree so much with the race statement. I've noticed this a lot online. Most white people get this immediate reaction of recoil when Sasuke had intended to "destroy Konoha", when that is actually the most logical reaction -not only as a human, but also narratively! I say most because it's generally speaking, and the global north is known for their privilege in comparison to people living in third world countries. It's honestly a shame that many people refuse to understand the masterful writing behind Sasuke's character, despite some minimal shortcomings that can be discussed when people are actually in agreement of his well-written character. He represents a lot of oppressed people of color who are failed and demonized by systemically by fascist empires and who experience racism; and also as a character his absolute refusal of *backing down* on what is his right to bring justice to his people resonates with many minorities.

Naruto represents his counterpart, so he "thematically" has to be more "positive" in a simplified sense of the word for the reader. I partly don't agree with that aspect of Naruto's character development, but it makes sense with his background. What I get from it is that Kishimoto walked himself into a corner with that, and shounen jump and his editors are homophobes who had a fair involvement in making Naruto's general ending what it was. I don't know if I'm phrasing my thoughts well, but I hope it made sense?

Gosh, yes!! Thank you for this great ask. Sasuke really means the world to me too :') and i believe people who are on his side will always be on the right side of history haha

[ineveryspaceandtime]

it's 2.5 hours to 2024, so here's a fun lil game to end the year, with a template i found on ig!

tagging: @a-reality-dream @mrsnarl @uhbasicallyjustmilex @subtle-as-an-earthquake @shineswithyou @depressedraisin @haemoglobinheights @daddy-long-legssss @ballad-of-what-could-have-been (if you're not tagged but would like to do it too, please do so! 💖)

i don't journal as much as i'd like to (new resolution perhaps?), so i'm taking this opportunity to reflect on some of the things i've checked off on this list below the cut!

tried new foods / travelled to a new place / went to the beach / went to the mountain / watched the sunrise / watched the sunset / dyed your hair

everything above i did when i travelled to Bali! we had a LOT of good food (ayam betutu my beloved <3), including a seafood dinner on a beach during sunset; and caught the sunrise from one of the higher points in Mount Batur. but the absolute best part of that trip was that i was with my sister, and though in all honesty i was terrified we'd end up arguing (because the third member of our party cancelled, and in my head i saw him as a buffer between my sister & me), we didn't—we had a peaceful time and it was just. pure fun 💕

made new friends / laughed a lot

this one is a little bit of a surprise, because i'm an introvert, but this year in my efforts to Be Brave and Ask Questions, i've approached one particular person (who isn't from my department) a number of times, and over the year we've shared a lot of laughter & good times. unfortunately this year was her last at our workplace, but she left me a lovely little note, which i will cherish forever, i'm not even exaggerating 🥺💗

finished a book

i finished 11 books this year (out of the 32 i'd hoped to have read. sobs), but i'm checking this one off the list because of one highly enjoyable experience of devouring a book in 2.5 hours while lazing in the pool on a unicorn floatie. (was i thinking about miles and his floaties the entire time? yes, yes i was)

went to a concert

i went to three this year! the one that's most special was the strokes, because 1) i'm a baby fan, and 2) i went during the busiest work week of the year. (i completed all my work ahead of time so i could fully enjoy myself!) the crowd was amazing, the vibes were immaculate, and i had the best time, even though i was vibing so hard i ended up spilling my drink down my own leg. it's also the concert where julian imitated alex. lol

gained weight

i'm the heaviest i've ever been, and i've accepted it as part of growing older (goodbye metabolism, you were so good to me). on the bright side, i think i might also be the fittest i've ever been!

danced

dancing w my favourite people before a concert, and seeing another initially subdued group noticing us & then letting loose was one of the top 5 experiences of the year for me tbh

made a big decision

i was asked sometime in october whether i'd like to join one of the key committees next year, and i told my boss that i'd like to take on the challenge, bc it was something i knew i would enjoy doing. even though it didn't work out in the end (because a new KP has just joined us, and her credentials are far better suited to the role), i'm glad i didn't immediately reject the offer, just because it would have meant more (and more difficult) work.

grieved

strangely, something i'm finding more difficult than grieving the people i've lost is grieving the life i might have had, even though the decision i made was one i knew to be right.

learned new skills

i had an idea to streamline some of our work processes, and i figured out how to do it all on my own. i love you online tutorials <3

if you've stuck around this far, gosh. why. also, love you <3

[old-stoneface]

ive been seeing people claim that different characters are astarion's foil and i dont know why some people have yet to realize that all of the main six companions in bg3 are similar in so many very meaningful ways . you can ostensibly argue (albeit with varying strength and success) that any one of the characters in that party can act as a foil to another. also, im not really sure if most people know what a character foil is......maybe we need to reintroduce the phrase "character parallel" to the online character analysis layman's vocabulary. a "foil" is a character that has traits that contrast the protagonist or simply another character in the story, but it does not stop there. they dont have to be strict opposites. sometimes its just a matter of two characters having traits that accentuate or bring attention to each other's aforementioned traits.

a really good example of this is horatio and hamlet from hamlet, where hamlet is ruled by his emotions and horatio is ruled by rational thinking, a theme repeatedly mentioned throughout the play in the sense that horatio will ask hamlet to be more calculating, and hamlet will implore horatio to be more emotional. an example of a parallel in the same play would be hamlet and laertes (ophelia's brother), where in the end, due to their combined familial losses and the tragedy that befalls them, they are both corrupted by their volatile emotions/madness turning inward and then coming under the influence of other figures in their lives. theres a lot more going on in that play obviously but these are basic good examples of the ideas of foils and parallels.

in the case of astarion and wyll, their motivations and personalities are very good foil material, seeing as right away there is a distinct difference in their opinions on heroism, something that very much defines both of them. astarion is, when glanced over as a whole, a villain, while wyll is clearly a hero, immediately creating a dichotomy tantalizing to both the audience and the characters themselves as seen in their party interactions. with astarion and gale, we see more a foil-ness of their experience with relationships and personalities. gale is not a hero, and astarion's general villainity means nothing to him. they do not clash. its more about how they act in relationship to the player that causes interest between the two of them, how astarion is clearly uninterested in genuine emotions and wants to be manipulative, whereas gale is overly sincere and begs for attention rather desperately. however, when it comes to pointing out parallels that further promote and intrigue the dynamic of foils...we have the constant theme of being under someone else's control in this game and being forced by obligation to follow these rules imposed by someone else. astarion and cazador, wyll and mizora (and his father, in some ways), gale and mystra, shadowheart and shar, lae'zel and vlakiith (and githyanki tradition as a whole), karlach and literally every authority figure that wormed their way into her life but in particular - zariel. as i play more of the game and learn more about each character, im sure ill discover even more stuff that makes various characters into parallels or foils. i know theres stuff w halsin that will be interesting to me.

thats what i mean by there are traits in every character in the main party that both compliment and clash. and this is also a reminder that foils and parallels do not have to be romantic, but they can be. so like..idk. i dont really have a conclusion here. i just wanted to talk about this lmao

[nicorobinmylifesaver]

Then And Now: Who Communicated Better?

Matthew Camarao | Katelynn May Hitt 11 - HUMSS R&W PETA

"Social media made y'all way too comfortable with disrespecting people and not getting punched in the face for it." -Mike Tyson, former professional boxer 

The quote is talking about the current generation disrespecting people online in social media platforms…And Mike Tyson wanting to drive his fist into their faces. With all of this negativity tied to social media, it begs the question, is the current generation more impolite than the past generation, in terms of conversation and communication?  There are five factors that determine the answer to that question, and these are Technology, Different Norms, Generational Differences, Subjectivity, and Respectful Communication.

Firstly, technology has held this generation’s hand in growing up, with some GenZ teens and young adults claiming they have been “raised by the internet”, a term used for individuals who have spent a large majority of their childhood, if not their lives, being online. As such, this results in today’s generation being more keen on using text and being informal, compared to the past generation who valued in-person conversation, or used concisely-written letters. Some argue that social media appears more impolite because of the informality of their messages, especially with the use of abbreviations and emojis. Who wouldn’t want to be replied with “Uncle Mark died 😭😭😭🙏”.

Secondly, different norms of what is considered “polite” changes over time, what was considered polite and normal back then could be frowned upon by the current generation. For example, the past generations are very religion-oriented as their basis for what is morally right or wrong. Homophobia back in the day is now a big NO in this generation. Technology and the internet are the most prevalent factors in deciding politeness nowadays, because on the bright side, the internet allowed for the expression of different views and beliefs, making today’s generation accepting, progressive, and in online terms, “woke”. On the other hand, some claim that society has been too accepting of what is claimed to be “outright degeneracy” online, such as the large amount of pronouns and neopronouns people choose to identify as thanks to their freedom of speech. You can have “was/were” or something absurd like “were/wolf” as your pronouns and you would be accepted by similar, like-minded individuals.

Thirdly, generational differences, or specifically, how each generation acted, is a key factor. With past generations being more social, and having more etiquette and formality when it comes to their words. On the other hand, teenagers who are chronically online can experience behavioral changes such as being irritable, impatient, and awkward, where they can’t put their thoughts into words properly, or are unaware of social norms outside the internet. They can also be more impulsive and rude after being used to the safety of anonymity and their screen. 

Fourthly, subjectivity. Not everyone has the same definition of what is rude and what isn’t. But thanks to the internet, preferences, beliefs, and viewpoints can be shared online, allowing for large audiences to view these perspectives and be informed, something the past generation didn’t have. 

Lastly, respective communication is still prevalent even in this generation. There are still teens and young adults capable of oral discourse and polite conversation. Being generalized with the entire generation can be misleading and unfair, especially when the current generation has a lot of bad apples relating to their behavior online and in person. 

[astaroth1357]

request: an MC thats very good w playing games or like,,, is proficiently skilled in all game categories or smrhn

alsp hi xander i love ur writing

and can i giv u a kith? if so: mwah 😚

Well I hate to tell ya, sweetie, but I’m not Xander. I’m Jazzy. Hello! I can see why you’d want something written by Xander, though. He’s mad talented (better at this than I am quite frankly) and he’s on the list of people I wish I could write as well as. I guess we can both take a moment to be sad that I’m not Xander… *sigh*... to be Xander… 😔

Oh well, I am who I am and I don’t begrudge that fact. Meanwhile, I’ve wanted to do more shout-outs so everybody go read @sevendeadlymorons! If you’re not… I mean… why not? He’s more than worth your time. In the meantime, I hope I can entertain you despite my not-Xanderness.

Brothers React to an MC Who’s Good at Games and Stuff 

Lucifer

Honestly couldn’t care less about the MC’s game proficiency in most cases. So they’re good at games? Good for them, he’s sure they’re happy.

But when they’re playing against him on the other hand…

Well, Lucifer may or may not be skilled at whatever game you set him on (he’s a very quick learner so never underestimate him), but he’s whole new levels of competitive when he wants to be. ESPECIALLY if he already thinks he’s hot shit at something.

Video games? Not his forte. Table top games? One word for you: Chess.

Lucifer believes that he can and will whip pretty much anyone’s ass in chess. That includes Satan, Solomon, Levi, and even Diavolo. He is at grandmaster level.

So imagine his shock, no, his disdain to have lost a game of chess to the MC… The moment they said "Checkmate" he stared at the board in front of them for a solid five minutes trying to work out where he went wrong…

And he wasn’t having that.

He and the MC now have regular chess matches in which he wins some and loses some so the tally stays pretty evenly tied. Really it’s all good fun... (but if they think he’s going to let them go home when he’s on a losing count, they’re Dead. Wrong. He’ll drag them back to down just to play chess with him until the score is right again. He DOES NOT lose, you hear? 🤨).

Mammon

Guess who’s found his gambling buddy?? 

No, really. He and the MC can make a KILLING at a Poker or Blackjack table! He’s never seen anyone better at poker than they are!! They have nerves of steel and give nothing away, so he’s lost more than a few hands to them before...

Even past the casinos, they’re perfect for making bets on! He once arranged a Devil Cart competition between the MC and Levi and took bets around RAD for who’d win...

Naturally, everybody assumed the Devildom’s resident Super-Otaku would win hands down, but the MC had this insane last minute save with a blue shell and pulled ahead in the last lap!!

He was like, the only person that bet on the MC and he got soooo much money that MC found HIM crying and hugging a bag of Grimm after the match…

Any time they win a game that gets him money, he’ll treat them like royalty for the next week. Man knows not to bite the hand that feeds him!... and creditors at bay... 😬

It may get slightly annoying that Mammon won't stop telling them about gaming competitions where they can get him more prize money, but hey, at least he's supportive, I guess.

Leviathan

Oh they are either his best friend or mortal enemy… Sometimes both in the same day.

Our boy hates losing, can't stand it any better than Lucifer, you KNOW the second he knows there's someone out there who even has a chance of beating him, he gets serious. This is not a "friendly rivalry," MC.

When they’re playing any game against each other, he'll call them by their gamertag/online persona to keep himself focused (yes, even if they’re playing Monopoly). They can't be his MC right now, they gotta be the person he's going to beat...

He's NOT opposed to dirty tactics to win, either. Saying things that will get them mad or flustered mid-match? Check. Using his tail to distract or tease them? Check. Just being a general nuisance/annoyance in game for the hell of it? Guilty as charged!

He's both a sore winner AND a sore loser, so unfortunately MC, you really can't win here... He'll be obnoxious regardless of the outcome.

However… when they’re on the same team, it's really something special. They don't just destroy the competition, they bulldoze over them like an armored tank barreling through rush hour traffic!

These two are legends in the online gaming community and have even started a streaming channel on the side. Sometimes your worst enemies also make the best allies... Who knew? 🤷‍♀️

Satan

Is surprisingly impressed by their gaming prowess. Are they just supremely skilled or incredibly lucky, you think…?

That being said, he's not the biggest gaming man on the planet so he's not too competitive with them one way or the other.

When Satan plays a video game, he usually goes for story-based, single-person experiences anyway so it's not like he could compete with them even if he wanted to.

That being said, they do share an informal challenge of sorts when it comes to puzzle/detective games (a not so guilty pleasure of his). He likes to try and beat the levels first, so when they start playing a new one they'll both compare time spent and scores.

He even enjoys playing those Devildom-style AR murder mystery games with them! It’s pretty cute to watch Satan get into it, he dips into his inner Levi and cosplays as some of his favorite TV drama detectives for the occasion and insists they dress as his co-star (best just go along with him. It’s not a bad time, even if they have to carry around an old tobacco pipe for a few hours).

Asmodeus

Good at games? That sounds dangerously like they're another Levi… 🙄 What about party games? Oh oh, or drinking games??

Actually scratch that. How about ANY game while drunk? That sounds pretty fun doesn’t it??

Like Drunk Truth or Dare!! Oh that's a favorite of his… 🤭

To be fair to the MC, the booze does diminish their skills somewhat (because that's kind of what it does in general) but not by all that much… It's pretty impressive.

He once challenged them to a game of Drunk Twister figuring that they'd be too unsteady to actually win for once, but no. If anything, the alcohol must have numbed the stretching pains because they bent over him like a pretzel!

Not that he was complaining or anything… 😏

He likes to take the MC to parties where he knows a game or two will be played just to show off to the crowd and brag that they’re HIS lovely, talented human! You go, MC, beat that competition to a pulp! 😌

Beelzebub

Sports count as games too, right? Well, they aren't half bad at those either.

Beel found it surprising that he found a human who could actually keep up with him. His brothers rarely want to play practice games with him anyway so it’s pretty exciting to have a sports partner at home!

He likes to ask the MC to help him train with practice matches or to go over certain moves or maneuvers he’s having trouble with. It’s not uncommon for the brothers to come home and find the two of them tossing a ball around in the front yard or something.

And the both of them on the same team? Forget it. It takes the dream team of Lucifer and Mammon (who aren’t just arguing with each other for once) to even come close to a challenge for them.

He also enjoys playing the occasional video game with them, though he treats it a lot like playing with Levi and just assumes he’ll never win unless he gets lucky - which does happen from time to time.

He doesn’t mind losing that much as long as he’s having fun, and if nothing else he can always win against them in an eating contest… He’s got those on lockdown. Come at’em MC, he’ll pack away an entire fridge before you’re done with your first plate. Try him.

Belphegor

So Belphie enjoys a good game or two - video-based or otherwise - it comes with the lazy-bastard territory. He may not be as skilled as Levi, but he can hold his own in some genres.

But he’s given up on beating the MC looong ago.

Do you know how much practice it would take? How many hours that he would have to use?? The hours where he could be napping instead???  Yeah, no thanks. They can continue to be the reigning Super Smash Devils champion for all he cares.

Buuuut even he has to admit, it’s pretty relaxing to watch the MC play something in the background... There’s a certain sort of satisfaction to watching someone who’s good at a game just play it straight through.

If they’re set up in Levi’s room or the Common area then Belphie may come over, set his pillow up on the floor, and watch them play. He may even throw in a comment or two like, “You missed a health pack,” or “Better save now,” but other than that he likes to just let them do their thing.

The MC has had many an all-nighter with Belphie spectating until about 4am or so. Then he’s dead to the world and they have to work out how to get his not-exactly-light demon ass onto a couch…

Or they can just leave him faceplanted and snoring on the floor. Up to them, really cause he did it to himself. 🤷‍♀️

[tianshiisdead]

Re: your post about cultural appropriation, I have a few things I want to ask/get your take on? Firstly, "the people who are uncomfortable shouldn’t be ignored" I understand this and agree, and at the same time I can't help but think, doesn't that kinda basically mean "Don't do it or you're an asshole" in the end? Because there will always be people uncomfortable with it, especially in the age of the internet where even private gatherings can have pictures posted publicly, etc? Secondly, even if you're invited by Chinese people (in some cases FAMILY members) to wear it in a specific situation, if others know about it and take issue, you'll still be criticized as a disrespectful colonizer (if you're from or look like you're from NA/UK, but sometimes even when you're not), and you can't even say "This was shared with me/I was invited to" because that comes off as a "My Chinese friend" kinda argument. Also in conversations I've had w mainlanders, many seem to feel like they're not allowed to have a say about their own culture in these conversations in international circles, bc many diaspora are trying to make rules about it, and shut them down w 'you don't understand bc you're not affected by racism' (which is not at ALL true, even tho its different) and even tho they dont dismiss the pain of the diaspora experience, they feel very frustrated by diaspora trying to claim authority over their culture. (Which is made worse by many diaspora not even understanding or respecting China themselves) (sidenote this is an experience that seems to be shared by MANY mainland/diaspora relationships, not just China) And I just wonder if this is possibly another instance of a very common thing online these days, where people feel they have to turn their personal feelings about something into a strict idea of morality by which they expect everyone to follow, else they be labeled racist. But just because their feelings and experiences are important and valid does not mean they are universal. So they're probably not a good basis to be making moral judgements by. Idk if I'm making any sense at this point. It's a complicated topic I've had a lot of thoughts about that I kinda wanted to share and talk about so that I can develop my understanding of it, but it's hard. I just wish we could have more civil conversations about it. I understand it's sensitive but I don't think people being hostile about it is going to help anyone, and it's very disheartening. Because shutting down conversation and arguing and harassing and gatekeeping is only creating more division. It's the very opposite of cultivating understanding and unity. And I do think the latter is the only way meaningful progress can really be made.

Hi! This is a pretty complicated issue, I'll try to answer one by one but I might ramble a little.

First, to clarify, I originally made my post because I follow a few prominent diaspora hanfu fashion blogs/channels/tiktoks and some of them have drawn pretty clear lines on what they consider acceptable VS appropriation, yet they get constant non asian people in the comments insulting them and saying things like 'well I think it's totally okay to wear hanfu whenever stop gatekeeping', and that is never okay. To go into an asian person's space where they share parts of their culture and talk over them on what they can or can't do right in that space is incredibly rude, and it's frustrating to see so many people ignoring diaspora voices or wielding 'I heard this from a mainlander' to discredit what a diaspora says. We are no less 'asian' than mainlanders. I've seen too many situations where these creators repeatedly make their stance clear but still get people complaining in their comments and such - it's always preferable to block and move on if you disagree rather than harass someone who's made it clear they don't care to have this conversation (which they are not obligated to have). In general, it costs nothing to not harass marginalized people about what you're allowed or not allowed to do regarding their culture when they've made their stance and frustrations clear.

This got pretty long (sorry) so my answer is under the read more

Disclaimer: everything I say is my opinion formed from my experiences, which doesn't invalidate any other person's feelings on appropriation of their culture. It's a complicated issue and people are allowed to have strong feelings about it. Other people might be stricter or less strict and that's okay, no one can solve the issue with a single post and no one should make themselves the single spokesperson of an issue that affects so many people. This is just my take on it.

First question! In my opinion, it's a situation where 'people's discomfort should be listened to if they voice it' not 'never do anything ever for fear of being seen by someone who would be uncomfortable'. There are obviously plenty of situations where a non Chinese person might be invited to wear hanfu, or a non Chinese person might do research and end up concluding their hanfu/cosplay/whatever is respectful and okay. I'm not here to say you shouldn't just in case someone in the world would be offended, however, you still have to be aware you're a guest partaking in someone else's culture, so if you choose to post it on social media, you should be prepared for potential criticism, keep an open mind, and not become defensive when you get it. That is to say, harassing is never okay, and if there is harassing going on I don't condone that, however a lot of the times (in my experience) it's not harassing, just valid complaints brought up in a not incredibly gentle way, and that shouldn't be discounted as bullying. Messing up (unintentionally, after doing research) doesn't make someone an asshole, but if someone decides to post and face a lot of criticism and they choose to ignore it or lash out against the people criticizing them, that does. In my personal experience, I've for example seen a lot of MDZS cosplay that are generally met with very little pushback, and there's a writer I like who's 100% white and lives in China and writes short and distinctively Chinese fiction, and he has a moderately decent audience and gets pretty much no criticism even from diaspora because he's careful to be respectful. This isn't a failsafe and I'm sure no matter what someone out there will be uncomfortable, but there are plenty of situations where non-Chinese people interact with the culture and wear the culture and get little to no pushback. I don't like the implication that the diaspora community is needlessly volatile and hostile - because from my experience most of it really isn't. And, to be completely honest although the internet and videos have made things less private, very few people end up getting enough attention (especially unintentionally) that would result in a great deal of pushback unless they're being Distinctly Offensive. I've seen quite a few douyin with foreigners in hanfu and they're just like any other hanfu video and they rarely gain that level of traction because most people aren't looking to get upset over things that don't genuinely bother them. I do think it's a situation where you have to make your own judgments, but I stand by that if for whatever reason you interact with Chinese people who make their discomfort clear, their discomfort should be taken seriously and listened to.

Second question. Um, this sounds kind of specific? This might be the case sometimes idk, I've personally never seen this happen (not to say it hasn't just that I haven't seen it), but in that case if you're wearing it in a specific (respectful) situation and you were invited (especially by family) then it's not at all a "My Chinese friend" argument I think. "My Chinese friend" is a bad argument because it's vague and tokenizing and used to talk over other Chinese people, but if you were invited to wear it then that's way more direct, so I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing to establish. However, like you mention later, Chinese people are not a monolith and many don't have great connections with their culture, or see no issue with racism, or have internalized self-hatred etc. that would cause them to enable non-Chinese people in doing offensive things. I really do think this is a case-by-case basis, I can't make any sweeping judgments. Sometimes it's the Chinese family/friend who invited who is in the wrong.

Third question kind of (the part about mainlanders having a say etc.) I do think that again it's a case-by-case basis! In the conversation between a diaspora and a mainlander, respect should be given to both sides (and diaspora who don't understand as much should listen to the mainlander about things the mainlander understands better) however, in my original post, I was more referring to non-Chinese people using what mainlanders say to shut down diaspora. Again, the issue is not that mainlanders shouldn't have a say, it's that their words are used by non-Chinese to discredit diaspora voicing their concerns. I honestly haven't seen that much mainlander-diaspora communication online for obvious reasons but that would be a completely different topic. I do think that it's important to remember even mainlanders aren't monoliths or infallible, and sometimes they can discredit diaspora opinions on topics diaspora have more experience on just because they don't have the same experience. Although people in China certainly face racism and oppression in the global framework of north VS south, and many parts of China have remnants of colonization and imperialism which mean white westerner travelers and expats get better treatment than even the locals or ABC, it's also true that they don't usually face the day to day constant racism diaspora face, which is often what informs discussions on why foreigners wearing hanfu might be considered offensive.

(This part will be about diaspora talking over mainlanders, intracommunity politics, self-hatred, etc. These are my own opinions as a Chinese diaspora and it's a sensitive issue, plus people who are not members of the community please Do Not Make Judgements or try and get involved. Again, this is an intracommunity issue, not an open invitation for non-Chinese people to criticize Chinese people on their Chineseness.) The same goes in the other direction, like you mentioned, a lot of diaspora can also talk over mainlanders or claim authority when they don't have it. There's also a lot of issues with diaspora who hate and look down on themselves and their culture through no fault of their own, it's taught by the society they grow up in, but then they never unlearn that hatred and disdain, and the remnants of that will inform how they treat the people and culture even if they try and advocate themselves as a spokesperson. Obviously, I'm not a huge fan and I think it can be super harmful. It's okay to grow up and realize the culture you rejected is something beautiful, it's okay to slowly rediscover it, but one should always keep in mind that they are rediscovering it, they lack a lot of knowledge because knowing about culture is not innate, and to be open to learn and not yell too loudly about things they don't understand. Culture is so vast, no one person can claim they understand fully and should be taken as the single spokesperson. This disdain and internalized racism show up in diaspora, but also in mainlanders to some extent, because we all live in a post-colonial world with a clear racial hierarchy. That is to say, although it's not useful or reasonable to categorize mainland Han Chinese as oppressed POC, especially when they are the privileged majority within mainland, they nonetheless also face white supremacy that is woven into the culture post-colonization and imperialism (white people. are not at all oppressed. in China. :/)

I also think that in the specific situation of cultural appropriation, personal feelings kind of do matter. It's not a strictly moral thing, messing up doesn't mean moral failure and neither does getting offended or whatever, and I also don't think the discussion around cultural appropriation through wearing hanfu will ever be 'universal' because everyone has such different experiences. In a perfect world without a recent history of colonization and imperialism and western dominance, this wouldn't be nearly as big of an issue. The point is that it's not universal, you can only try your best to be respectful but understand there are limits and that if you post for a lot of people to see a lot of people will have different thoughts, and to try and listen to those thoughts the best you can. None of this is a moral issue, just one facet of a larger societal one informed by history and power dynamics, and no one person is responsible for any of it, but it's important to be educated and sensitive.

But yeah! It's definitely a complicated issue, your ask made sense don't worry lol I'm sorry I couldn't give that many definitive answers and so much of it came down to 'depends on the situation' and 'it can vary from person to person'. Like with all these sorts of issues, it can be intensely personal to people because this sort of racism Is very personal. for lack of better words. it's not a concrete thing, the reason it's harmful at all is that it can hurt people, just because of the context of racism and such, and that means it will vary from person to person. Sorry idk if that made any sense but kjlfdhg I think harassment and dogpiling and rudeness is never okay, but a clear line should be drawn between harassment and a Great Deal of People voicing their criticism. I agree that there should be civil conversations about it, but tbh... I don't think any progress will be made regarding this Because it's such a complicated issue with so many diverse voices and experiences that should be accounted for and not asked to conform, it's not at all a solidly moral issue. There's no rulebook for it! All cultures are different too, I can only speak on my thoughts on hanfu and qipao and such, however, other garments from other cultures may have different purposes or ideas behind them and that's not something for me to comment on, I can only listen and respect. I think the only way progress can be made, is for society to progress regarding racism and such built into the system, and the post-colonial state of the world. Foreigners in hanfu and appropriation stuff, this is all just manifestations of the greater systemic issues, and it can only be solved through the solving of the greater systemic issues.

Thank you for the ask! i enjoy talking about these things :3

[the-and-sign-anon]

Help From The Vet

Guardian Angel: Chapter Six

Teen Wolf x Stilinski! Reader

Word count: 1,519

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

You tried looking up what you could about the necklace you’d found and the dreams you had, but there wasn’t much. Your situation was bizarre and uncommon. No one online had any experience. So you turned to someone your brother had mentioned knew more about the supernatural than any of you. 

“Good morning, Miss Stilinski. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You smiled nervously at the kind veterinarian.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I have some questions I’m hoping you can help me answer. They’re sort of… sensitive.”

Deaton nodded knowingly and beckoned you to the back room. You slipped past the gate and sat on a stool at the table as Deaton set aside a few tools and looked at you expectantly. 

“Scott and Stiles said you know things about the supernatural.”

“I do.”

“Do you know how to tell if something is supernatural even if it looks normal?”

“What might you be referring to?”

You pulled the necklace off and held it out to him. 

“It sort of glows. Even in the sunlight.”

“That could be from a chemical reaction or a special paint.”

“I also found it in the woods. In my sleep.”

Deaton studied you for a moment before taking a seat himself and setting the necklace between you. 

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

You spent nearly an hour answering his questions and providing as much detail as you could remember. You’d had the dreams for several years. The only person you ever mentioned them to was your dad, but he told you people had odd recurring dreams all the time, so you ignored it for a while. 

“Was this morning the first time you’ve woken up in the forest?”

You heard a dog in one of the kennels barking, but Deaton gestured for you to answer.

“Kind of.” At his questioning look, you elaborated. “I go for walks a lot. When I do, I sort of go on autopilot. Every single time, when I snap out of it, I’m in the Beacon Hills reserve in the same area. I’ve even sleep walked before, but I never made it to the tree. Today was the first time I can remember seeing it in person.”

“Interesting.”

Deaton got up and moved to one of the kennels, trying to calm the yapping dog as he thought. You followed, and the barking stopped when you got within three feet of the dog. Deaton looked to you, then motioned for you to move further away. You complied and the barking started up again. 

“Come closer again.”

You did. The room went quiet.

“Very interesting.”

“Deaton, what does that mean? Should I be worried about… whatever is wrong with me?”

“I don’t think anything is wrong with you, but I’ll need some time to figure this out. Is it alright if I keep the necklace for now? I’ll keep it safe.”

A part of you almost said no. That necklace, for whatever reason, had called to you. It had waited for you in a tree for who knows how long and now that you’d found it, you didn’t want to part with it. 

“Yeah, of course. You’ll call me when you have something?”

“Absolutely. Now I suggest you go rest. You look exhausted.”

You nodded. You got that a lot. So while Stiles and the others went to school and argued over how to deal with whatever new violent creature was plaguing the town, you went back home, curled up under the covers, and passed out for the rest of the day. 

Stiles woke you up late that evening to talk. He was worried about Lydia, who’d started screaming and pounding on the ice at the rink they’d gone to with Scott and Allison. 

“I don’t know what’s going on with her. I want to help, but I don’t even know where to start.”

“I get it. Worrying about friends is hard, especially when you can’t figure out how to help.”

“Was that how you felt with Derek? After the fire?”

You were sitting on the couch together with ice cream and blankets. 

“Yeah. He wasn’t around for long after. I visited Peter sometimes; not that I thought he could hear me or anything. It just felt like the right thing to do. When Derek and Laura left, I didn’t know how to get in touch with him. I wasn’t sure he wanted me to.”

“Well, he was dumb to lose touch with you. You’re awesome.”

“You’re my little brother. Of course you’d say that.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

You rolled your eyes fondly at him and he smiled brightly back at you. 

“Okay. Enough about Lydia. What’s been going on with you? You seem tired and dad said you were out early this morning.”

“Nothing to worry about, Sty. I just went for an early walk. I’ve spent the rest of the day right here, catching up on sleep.”

You and Stiles were both prone to worrying. It had been that way since you were little. And when one of you started, you tended to pull the other into the spiral unless they pulled you out of it first.

“I promise I’m okay.”

He nodded. You weren’t sure how much he really believed you, but he let it go for now and went to bed. You didn’t hear much from him the following day, but you ended up at the ice rink the next night. Boyd was there with Derek, Isaac, Erica, and Scott. You weren’t in the mood for whatever power play they were making. So you stalked across the ice in your sweatpants and hoodie with a scowl on your face. 

“Isaac?”

“Well, I’m a little bummed about being a fugitive... but, other than that, I’m great.”

“Boys. Erica. What stupid cat fight do I have to pull apart this time?”

All five wolves whirled around to face you with varying expressions of surprise. 

“Y/N, go back to bed. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Hale. You and I both know that’s not how this works.”

Erica looked the most annoyed with your arrival. Isaac looked conflicted; like he was torn between staying at his alpha’s side and running to you. Derek wanted to say something to stay in charge in front of his pack, but he knew you had your own ways of making him regret it if he did.

“Scott. Go home. In fact, all of the minors here should be fast asleep in their own beds. Derek and I need to have a conversation.”

A conversation with you looked like the last thing Derek was in the mood for. He knew as well as Scott did that you were furious. The other teens weren’t nearly familiar enough with you to know better, as evidenced by how they bared their teeth and flashed their claws at you. To your credit, you didn’t back down. You didn’t even acknowledge them, opting instead to have a stare down with Derek. 

“Fine. Isaac, Erica, go. Boyd too.”

Scott trailed after them on the way out. He tried to give you an apologetic look, but you weren’t having it. 

“Go make sure Stiles gets home safe. I don’t need any more problems tonight.”

Once he was gone, it was just you and Derek.

“You-”

“Don’t. Not until we’re off the stupid ice. It’s freezing in here.”

You led the way to your car in the now empty lot and sat in the driver’s seat while Derek pouted in shotgun. 

“I don’t want to hear any excuses or speeches about power. You need to understand that those are kids you’re turning. No matter what they’re capable of, no matter how ready they think they are. They’re kids. They need an alpha who will look after them. Not a trainer who treats them like guard dogs.”

“I know-”

“I don’t think you do. You remember what it was like in high school. You remember Paige and what it felt like to lose her. These kids cannot go through what you have. I won’t let you sacrifice them for power or a fight against some threat we don’t understand yet. Swear to me that if it comes down to power or their lives, you’ll choose them.”

Derek turned to you with a world of determination in his eyes when he answered. 

“They’re my pack, my responsibility. I will do whatever it takes to keep them safe.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You dropped Derek off, giving him a tight hug before he got out of the car. Stiles demanded to be filled in on what had happened, so you told him as you went back to your room. 

“You know you’re the coolest, right?”

“I’m vengeful, if anything.”

“You have an alpha scared of you. Awesome.”

You snickered and closed your door behind you. All you could do right now was prevent a war between overly aggressive werewolves and wait to see what bizarre issues you yourself had. What a wonderful life.

Next Chapter

[xhxhxhx]

I keep returning to Renata Adler’s introduction to Canaries in the Mineshaft (2001), a moving and revealing piece on how the New York Times works. I’ve sent excerpts to a few people, but it’s worth reading in full. 

It’s not online anywhere, so I’m posting it here, with Adler’s 12,500 words on the New York Times and what it can do to the people it covers:

Along with every other viewer of television during Operation Desert Storm, the Gulf War of 1991, I believed that I saw, time after time, American Patriot missiles knocking Iraqi Scuds out of the sky. Every major television reporter obviously shared this belief, along with a certainty that these Patriots were offering protection to the population of Israel—which the Desert Storm alliance, for political reasons, had kept from active participation in the war. Commentators actually cheered, with exclamations like “Bull’s-eye! No more Scud!” at each such interception by a Patriot of a Scud. Weeks earlier, I had read newspaper accounts of testimony before a committee of the Congress by a tearful young woman who claimed to have witnessed Iraqi soldiers enter Kuwaiti hospitals, take babies out of their incubators, hurl the newborns to the floor, and steal the incubators. I believed this, too.

Only much later did I learn that not a single Patriot effectively hit a single Scud. The scenes on television were in fact repetitions of images from one film, made by the Pentagon in order to persuade Congress to allocate more money to the Patriot, an almost thirty-year-old weapon designed, in any case, not to destroy missiles but to intercept airplanes. In his exuberance, a high military official announced that Patriots had even managed to destroy “eighty-one Scud launchers”—interesting not only because the total number of Scud launchers previously ascribed to Iraq was fifty, but also because there is and was no such thing as a “Scud launcher.” The vehicles in question were old trucks, which had broken down.

What was at issue, in other words, was not even pro-American propaganda, which could be justified in time of war. It was domestic advertising for a product—not just harmlessly deceptive advertising, either. The Patriots, as it turned out, did more damage to the allied forces, and to Israel, than if they had not been used at all. The weeping young woman who had testified about the incubator thefts turned out to be the fifteen-year-old daughter of the Kuwaiti ambassador to Washington; she had not, obviously, witnessed any such event. Whatever else the Iraqi invaders and occupiers may have done, this particular incident was a fabrication—invented by an American public relations firm in the employ of the Kuwaiti government.

During Operation Desert Storm itself, the American press corps, as it also turns out, accepted an arrangement with the U.S. military, whereby only a “pool” of journalists would be permitted to cover the war directly. That pool went wherever the American military press officer chose to take it. Nowhere near the front, if there was a front. Somehow, the pool and its military press guides often got lost. When other reporters, trying to get independent information, set out on their own, members of the pool actually berated them for jeopardizing the entire news-gathering arrangement.

It would have been difficult to learn all this, or any of it, from the press. I learned it from a very carefully researched and documented book, Second Front: Censorship and Propaganda in the Gulf War, by John R. MacArthur. The book, published in 1992, was well enough reviewed. But it was neither prominently reviewed nor treated as “news” or even information. A review, after all, is regarded only as a cultural and not a real—least of all a journalistic—event. It was not surprising that the Pentagon, after its experience in Vietnam, should want to keep the press at the greatest possible distance from any war. It was not surprising, either, that reporters, having after all not that much choice, should submit so readily to being confined to a pool, or even that reporters in that pool should resent any competitor who tried to work outside it. This is the position of a favored collaborator in any bureaucratic and coercive enterprise.

What was, if not surprising, a disturbing matter, and a symptom of what was to come, was this: The press did not report the utter failure of the Patriot, nor did it report the degree to which the press itself, and then its audience and readership, had been misled. This is not to suggest that the press, out of patriotism or for any other reason, printed propaganda to serve the purposes of the government—or even that it would be unworthy to do so. But millions of Americans surely still believe that Patriots destroyed the Scuds, and in the process saved, or at least defended, Israel. There seemed, in this instance, no reason why the press, any more than any person or other institution, should be eager to report failures of its own.

Almost all the pieces in this book have to do, in one way or another, with what I regard as misrepresentation, coercion, and abuse of public process, and, to a degree, the journalist’s role in it. At the time of the Vietnam War, it could be argued that the press had become too reflexively adversarial and skeptical of the policies of government. Now I believe the reverse is true. All bureaucracies have certain interests in common: self-perpetuation, ritual, dogma, a reluctance to take responsibility for their actions, a determination to eradicate dissent, a commitment to a notion of infallibility. As I write this, the Supreme Court has, in spite of eloquent and highly principled dissents, so far and so cynically exceeded any conceivable exercise of its constitutional powers as to choose, by one vote, its own preferred candidate for President. Some reporters, notably Linda Greenhouse of the New York Times, have written intelligently and admirably about this. For the most part, however, the press itself has become a bureaucracy, quasi-governmental, and, far from calling attention to the collapse of public process, in particular to prosecutorial abuses, it has become an instrument of intimidation, an instrumentality even of the police function of the state.

Let us begin by acknowledging that, in our public life, this has been a period of unaccountable bitterness and absurdity. To begin with the attempts to impeach President Clinton. There is no question that the two sets of allegations, regarding Paula Jones and regarding Whitewater, with which the process began could not, as a matter of fact or law or for any other reason, constitute grounds for impeachment. Whatever they were, they preceded his presidency, and no President can be impeached for his prior acts. That was that. Then the Supreme Court, in what was certainly one of the silliest decisions in its history, ruled that the civil lawsuit by Paula Jones could proceed without delay because, in spite of the acknowledged importance of the President’s office, it appeared “highly unlikely to occupy any substantial amount of his time.” In 1994 a Special Prosecutor (for some reason, this office is still called the Independent Counsel) was appointed to investigate Whitewater—a press-generated inquiry, which could not possibly be material for a Special Prosecutor, no matter how defined, since it had nothing whatever to do with presidential conduct. Nonetheless, the first Special Prosecutor, Robert Fiske, investigated and found nothing. A three-judge panel, appointed, under the Independent Counsel statute, by Chief Justice William Rehnquist, fired Fiske. As head of the three-judge panel, Rehnquist had passed over several more senior judges, to choose Judge David Bryan Sentelle.

Judge Sentelle consulted at lunch with two ultra-right-wing senators from his own home state of North Carolina: Lauch Faircloth, who was convinced, among other things, that Vincent Foster, a White House counsel, had been murdered; and Jesse Helms, whose beliefs and powers would not be described by anyone as moderate. Judge Sentelle appointed as Fiske’s successor Kenneth W. Starr. North Carolina is, of course, a tobacco-growing state. Kenneth Starr had been, and remained virtually throughout his tenure as Special Prosecutor, a major, and very highly paid, attorney for the tobacco companies. He had also once drafted a pro bono amicus brief on behalf of Paula Jones.

The Office of Special Prosecutor—true conservatives said this from the first—had always been a constitutional abomination. To begin with, it impermissibly straddled the three branches of government. If President Nixon had not been in dire straits, he would never have permitted such an office, in the person of Archibald Cox, to exist. If President Clinton had not been sure of his innocence and—far more dangerously—overly certain of his charm, he would never have consented to such an appointment.

The press, however, loves Special Prosecutors. They can generate stories for each other. That something did not happen is not a story. That something does not matter is not a story. That an anecdote or an accusation is unfounded is not a story. There is this further commonality of interest. Leaks, anonymous sources, informers, agents, rumormongers, appear to offer stories—and possibilities for offers, pressures, threats, rewards. The journalist’s exchange of an attractive portrayal for a good story. There we are. The reporter and the prosecutor (the Special Prosecutor, that is; not as often the genuine prosecutor) are in each other’s pockets.

Starr did not find anything, either. Certainly no crime. He sent his staff to Little Rock, generated enormous legal expenses for people interviewed there, threw one unobliging witness (Susan McDougal) into jail for well over a year, indicted others (Webster Hubbell, for example) for offenses unrelated to the Clintons, convicted and jailed witnesses in hopes of getting testimony damaging to President Clinton, tried, after the release of those witnesses, to jail them again to get such testimony. Still no crime. So his people tried to generate one. This is not unusual behavior on the part of prosecutors going after hardened criminals: stings, indictments of racketeers and murderers for income tax offenses. But here was something new. Starr’s staff, for a time, counted heavily on sexual embarrassment: philandering, Monica Lewinsky. They even had a source, Linda Tripp. Ms. Tripp had testified for Special Prosecutor Fiske and later for Starr. She had testified in response to questions from her sympathetic interlocutor Senator Lauch Faircloth before Senator D’Amato’s Whitewater Committee. She had testified to agents of the FBI right in the Special Prosecutor’s office at least as early as April 12, 1994. An ultra-right-wing Republican herself, she not only believed White House Counsel Vincent Foster was murdered, she claimed to fear for her own life. She somehow had on the wall above her desk at the Pentagon, where her desk adjoined Monica Lewinsky’s, huge posters of President Clinton—which, perhaps not utterly surprisingly, drew Ms. Lewinsky’s attention. Somehow, in the fall of 1996 Ms. Tripp found herself eliciting, and taping, confidences from Ms. Lewinsky. In January of 1997, Ms. Tripp—who by her own account had previously abetted another White House volunteer, Kathleen Willey, in making sexual overtures to President Clinton—counseled Ms. Lewinsky to try again to visit President Clinton. By the end of February 1997, Ms. Lewinsky, who had not seen the President in more than eleven months, managed to arrange such a visit. Somehow, that visit was the only one in which she persuaded the President to ejaculate. Somehow, adept as Ms. Lewinsky claimed to be at fellatio, semen found its way onto her dress. Somehow, Ms. Tripp persuaded Ms. Lewinsky, who perhaps did not require much persuasion, to save that dress. Somehow, the Special Prosecutor got the dress. And somehow (absurdity of absurdities), there was the spectacle of the Special Prosecutor’s agents taking blood from the President to match the DNA on a dress.

Now, whatever other mistakes President Clinton may have made, in this or any other matter, he, too, had made utterly absurd mistakes of constitutional proportions. He had no obligation at all to go before the grand jury. It was a violation of the separation of powers and a mistake. Once again, he may have overestimated his charm. Charm gets you nowhere with prosecutors’ questions, answered before a grand jury under oath. And of course, Mr. Starr had managed to arrange questions—illegally, disingenuously, at the absolute last minute—which were calculated to make the President testify falsely at his deposition in the case of Paula Jones. Whether or not the President did testify falsely, the notion that “perjury” or even “obstruction of justice” in such a case could rise to the level of “Treason, Bribery or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors,” the sole constitutional grounds for impeachment, had no basis in history or in law.

One need not dwell on every aspect of the matter to realize this much: As sanctimonious as lawyers, congressmen, and even judges may be, most legal cases are simply not decided on arcane legal grounds. Most turn on conflicting evidence, conflicting testimony. And this conflict cannot, surely, in every case or even in most cases, be ascribed either to Rashomon phenomena or to memory lapses. In most cases—there is no other way to put it—one litigant or the other, and usually both, are lying. If this were to be treated as “perjury” or “obstruction of justice,” then, alas, most losers in litigation would be subject to indictment. Anyone who has studied grounds for impeachment at all knows that “high Crimes and Misdemeanors” refers, in any event, only to crimes committed in the President’s official capacity and in the actual conduct of his office.

And now the press. Perhaps the most curious phenomenon in the recent affinity of the press with prosecutors has been a reversal, an inversion so acute that it passes any question of “blaming the victim.” It actually consists in casting persecutors as victims, and vilifying victims as persecutors. The New York Times is not alone in this, but it has been, until recently, the most respected of newspapers, and it has been, of late, the prime offender. A series of recent events there gives an indication of what is at stake.

In a retreat in Tarrytown, in mid-September, Joseph Lelyveld—in his time a distinguished reporter, now executive editor of the Times—gave a speech to eighty assembled Times newsroom editors, plus two editors of other publications, The New Yorker and Newsday. The ostensible subject of the retreat was “Competition.” Mr. Lelyveld’s purpose, he said, was to point out “imperfections in what I proudly believe to be the best New York Times ever—the best written, most consistent, and ambitious newspaper Times readers have ever had.” This was, in itself, an extraordinary assertion. It might have been just a mollifying tribute, a prelude to criticism of some kind. And so it was.

“I’m just driven by all the big stuff we’ve accomplished in recent years—our strong enterprise reporting, our competitive edge, our successful recruiting, our multimedia forays, our sheer ambition,” Lelyveld went on, “to worry” about “the small stuff,” particularly “the really big small stuff.” “I especially want to talk to you,” he said, “about corrections, and in particular, the malignancy of misspelled names, which, if you haven’t noticed, has become one of the great themes of our Corrections column.”

He might have been joking, but he wasn’t. “Did you know we’ve misspelled Katharine Graham’s name fourteen times? Or that we've misspelled the Madeleine in Madeleine Albright forty-nine times—even while running three corrections on each? … So far this year … there have been a hundred and ninety-eight corrections for misspelled given names and surnames, the overwhelming majority easily checkable on the Internet. … I want to argue that our commitment to being excellent and reliable in these matters is as vital to the impression we leave on readers, and the service we perform for them, as the brilliant things we accomplish most days on our front page and on our section-front displays.”

Lelyveld recalled the time, thirty years ago, when he had first come to the newspaper (a better paper, as it happens, an incomparably better paper, under his predecessors, whom present members of the staff tend to demonize). “Just about everything else we do today, it seems to me, we do better than they did then.” But, in view of “the brilliant things we accomplish most days” (”We don’t just claim to be a team. We don’t just aspire to be a team. Finally, I think we can say, we function as a team. We are a team”), he did want to talk about what he regarded as a matter of some importance: “Finally … there’s the matter of corrections (I almost said the ‘festering matter’ of corrections). As I see it, this is really big small stuff.”

A recent correction about a photo confusing monarch and queen butterflies, he said, might seem amusing—”amusing if you don’t much mind the fact that scores of lepidopterists are now likely to mistrust us on areas outside their specialty.”

And that, alas, turned out to be the point. This parody, this misplaced punctiliousness, was meant to reassure readers—lepidopterists, whomever—that whatever else appeared in the newspaper could be trusted and was true. Correction of “malignant” misspellings, of “given names and surnames,” middle initials, captions, headlines, the “overwhelming majority” of which, as Lelyveld put it, would have been “easily checkable on the Internet” was the Times’ substitute for conscience, and the basis of its assurance to readers that in every other respect it was an accurate paper, better than it had ever been, more worthy of their trust. Stendhal, for instance, had recently been misspelled, misidentified, and given a first name: Robert. “A visit to Amazon.com, just a couple of clicks away, could have cleared up the confusion.” Maybe so.

The trivial, as it happens often truly comic, corrections, persist, in quantity. The deep and consequential errors, inevitable in any enterprise, particularly those with deadlines, go unacknowledged. By this pedantic travesty of good faith, which is, in fact, a classic method of deception, the Times conceals not just every important error it makes but that it makes errors at all. It wants that poor trusting lepidopterist to think that, with the exception of this little lapse (now corrected), the paper is conscientious and infallible.

There exists, to this end, a wonderful set of locutions, euphemisms, conventions, codes, and explanations: “misspelled,” “misstated,” “referred imprecisely,” “referred incorrectly,” and recently—in some ways most mystifyingly—”paraphrase.”

On September 19, 2000, “An article on September 17 about a program of intellectual seminars organized by Mayor Jerry Brown of Oakland, California, referred imprecisely to some criticisms of the series. The terms ‘Jerrification’ and ‘pointy-headed table talk’ were the article’s paraphrase of local critics, not the words of Willa White, president of the Jack London Association.”

On October 5, 2000, “A news analysis yesterday about the performances of Vice President Al Gore and Gov. George W. Bush of Texas in their first debate referred imprecisely in some copies to a criticism of the candidates. The observation that they ‘took too much time niggling over details’ was a paraphrase of comments by former Mayor Pete Flaherty of Pittsburgh, not a quotation.”

On November 9, 2000, “An article on Sunday about the campaign for the Senate in Missouri said the Governor had ‘wondered’ about the decision of the late candidate’s wife to run for the Senate. But he did not use the words ‘I’m bothered somewhat by the idea of voting for a dead person’s wife, simply because she is a widow.’ That was a paraphrase of Mr. Wilson’s views and should not have appeared in quotation marks.”

On December 16, 2000, “Because of an editing error, an article yesterday referred erroneously to a comment by a board member,” about a recount. “‘A man has to do what a man has to do’ was a paraphrase of Mr. Torre’s views and should not have appeared in quotation marks.”

Apart from the obvious questions—What is the Times’ idea of “paraphrase"? What were the actual words being paraphrased? What can “Jerrification,” “pointy-headed table talk,” “niggling,” and even “A man has to do what a man has to do” possibly be paraphrases of—what purpose is served by these corrections? Is the implication that all other words, in the Times, attributed in quotation marks to speakers are accurate, verbatim quotations? I’m afraid the implication is inescapably that. That such an implication is preposterous is revealed by the very nature of these corrections. There is no quotation of which “Jerrification” and the rest can possibly be a paraphrase. Nor can the reporter have simply misheard anything that was actually said, nor can the result be characterized as having “referred imprecisely” or “referred erroneously,” let alone be the result of “an editing error.”

It cannot be. What is at issue in these miniscule corrections is the Times’ notion of what matters, its professionalism, its good faith, even its perception of what constitute accuracy and the truth. The overriding value is, after all, to allay the mistrust of readers, lepidopterists, colleagues. Within the newspaper, this sense of itself—trust us, the only errors we make are essentially typos, and we correct them; we never even misquote, we paraphrase—appears even in its columns.

In a column published in the Times on July 20, 2000, Martin Arnold of the Arts/Culture desk, for example, wrote unhesitatingly that, compared with book publishing, “Journalism has a more rigorous standard: What is printed is believed to be true, not merely unsuspected of being false. The first rule of journalism,” he wrote, “is don’t invent.”

“Except in the most scholarly work,” Mr. Arnold went on, “no such absolutes apply to book publishing. … A book writer is … not subject to the same discipline as a news reporter, for instance, who is an employee and whose integrity is a condition of his employment … a newspaper … is a brand name, and the reader knows exactly what to expect from the brand.” If book publishers, Mr. Arnold concluded, “seem lethargic” about “whether a book is right or wrong, it maybe [sic] because readers will cut books slack they don’t give their favorite newspaper.”

In this wonderful piece of self-regarding fatuity, Mr. Arnold has expressed the essence of the “team’s” view of its claim: The Times requires no “slack.” It readily makes its own corrections:

The Making Books column yesterday misspelled the name of the television host. … She is Oprah Winfrey, not Opra.

An article about Oprah Winfrey’s interview with Al Gore used a misspelled name and a non-existent name for the author of The Red and the Black. . . . The pen name is Stendhal, not Stendahl; Robert is not part of it.

The Advertising column in Business on Friday misspelled the surname of a singer and actress. … She is Lena Horne, not Horn.

An article about an accident in which a brick fell from a construction site atop the YMCA building on West 63rd Street, slightly injuring a woman, included an erroneous address from the police for the building near which she was standing. It was 25 Central Park West. (There is no No. 35). Because of an editing error, the Making Books column on Thursday … misstated the name of the publisher of a thriller by Tom Clancy. It is G. P. Putnam, not G. F.

An article on Monday about charges that Kathleen Hagen murdered her parents, Idella and James Hagen, at their home in Chatham Township, N.J., misspelled the street where they lived. It is Fairmount Avenue, not Fairmont.

And so on. Endlessly.

What is the reasoning, the intelligence, behind this daily travesty of concern for what is truthful? Mr. Arnold has the cant just about right. “Don’t invent.” (Pointy-headed table talk? Jerrification? Niggling? Paraphrase?) “Discipline”? “Integrity”? “Rigorous standard”? Not in a long time. “A newspaper is a brand name, and the reader knows exactly what to expect from the brand.” Well, there is the problem. Part of it is the delusion of punctilio. But there is something more. Every acknowledgment of an inconsequential error (and they are never identified as reporting errors, only errors of “editing,” or “production,” or “transmission,” and so forth), in the absence of acknowledgment of any major error, creates at best a newspaper that is closed to genuine inquiry. It declines responsibility for real errors, and creates as well an affinity for all orthodoxies. And when there is a subject genuinely suited to its professional skills and obligations, it abdicates. It almost reflexively shuns responsibility and delegates it to another institution.

Within a few weeks of its small retreat at Tarrytown, the Times, on two separate occasions, so seriously failed in its fundamental journalistic obligations as to call into question not just its judgment and good faith but whether it is still a newspaper at all. The first occasion returns in a way to the subject with which this introduction began: a pool.

On election night, television, it was generally acknowledged, had made an enormous error by delegating to a single consortium, the Voter News Service, the responsibility for both voter exit polls and calling the election results. The very existence of such a consortium of broadcasters raised questions in anti-trust, and VNS called its results wrongly, but that was not the point. The point was that the value of a free press in our society was always held to lie in competition. By a healthy competition among reporters, from media of every political point of view, the public would have access to reliable information, and a real basis on which to choose. A single monolithic, unitary voice, on the other hand, is anathema to any democratic society. It becomes the voice of every oppressive or totalitarian system of government.

The Times duly reported, and in its own way deplored, the results of the VNS debacle. Then, along with colleagues in the press (the Washington Post, CNN, the Wall Street Journal, ABC, AP, the Tribune Company), it promptly emulated it. This new consortium hired an organization called the National Opinion Research Center to undertake, on its behalf, a manual recount of Florida ballots for the presidential election. The Miami Herald, which had already been counting the votes for several weeks, was apparently the only publication to exercise its function as an independent newspaper. It refused to join the consortium. It had already hired an excellent accounting firm, BDO Seidman, to assist its examination of the ballots. NORC, by contrast, was not even an auditing firm but a survey group, much of whose work is for government projects.

The Times justified its (there seems no other word for it) hiding, along with seven collegial bureaucracies, behind a single entity, NORC, on economic grounds. Proceeding independently, it said, would have cost between $500,000 and $1 million. The Times, it may be noted, had put fifteen of its reporters to work for a solid year on a series called “Living Race in America.” If it had devoted just some of those resources and that cost to a genuine, even historic, issue of fact, it would have exercised its independent competitive function in a free society and produced something of value. There seems no question that is what the Times under any previous publisher or editors would have done.

In refusing to join the consortium, the Miami Herald said the recount was taking place, after all, “in our own back yard.” It was, of course, America’s backyard, and hardly any other members of the press could be troubled with their own resources and staff to enter it.

The second failure of judgment and good faith was in some ways more egregious. In late September of 2000 there was the Times’ appraisal of its coverage (more accurately, the Times’ response to other people’s reaction to its coverage) of the case of Wen Ho Lee.

For some days, there had been rumors that the Times was going to address in some way its coverage of the case of Wen Ho Lee, a sixty- year-old nuclear scientist at Los Alamos who had been held, shackled and without bail, in solitary confinement, for nine months—on the basis, in part, of testimony, which an FBI agent had since admitted to be false, that Lee had passed American nuclear secrets to China; and testimony, also false, that he had flunked a lie detector test about the matter; and testimony, false and in some ways most egregious, that granting him bail would constitute a “grave threat” to “hundreds of millions of lives” and the “nuclear balance” of the world. As part of a plea bargain, in which Lee acknowledged a minor offense, the government, on September 14, 2000, withdrew fifty-eight of its fifty-nine original charges. The Federal District Judge, James A. Parker, a Reagan appointee, apologized to Lee for the prosecutorial conduct of the government.

The Times had broken the story of the alleged espionage on March 6 of 1999, and pursued it both editorially and in its news columns for seventeen months. A correction, perhaps even an apology, was expected to appear in the Week in Review section, on Sunday, September 24, 2000. Two Times reporters flew up from Washington to register objections. The piece, whatever it had been originally, was edited and postponed until the following Tuesday. (The Sunday Times has nearly twice the readership of the daily paper.) Readers of the Week in Review section of Sunday, September 24, 1999, however, did find a correction. It was this:

An Ideas & Trends article last Sunday about a trend toward increasing size of women’s breasts referred incorrectly to the actress Demi Moore. She underwent breast augmentation surgery, but has not had the implants removed.

In the meantime, however, on Friday, September 22, 2000, there appeared an op-ed piece, “No One Won the Whitewater Case,” by James B. Stewart, in which the paper’s affinity with prosecution—in particular the Special Prosecutor—and the writer’s solidarity with the Times reporters most attuned to leaks from government accusers found almost bizarre expression. Stewart, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and the author of Blood Sport, wrote of Washington, during the Clinton administration, as a “culture of mutual political destruction.” In what sense the “destruction” could be deemed “mutual” was not entirely clear. Mr. Stewart praised an article about Whitewater, on March 8, 1992, written by Jeff Gerth (one of the original writers of the Wen Ho Lee pieces) as “a model of investigative reporting.” He wrote of “rabid Clinton haters” who believed that Vincent Foster was “murdered, preferably by Hillary Clinton herself”; he added, however, the Clintons “continued to stonewall,” providing “ample fodder for those opposed to the President.”

“The Independent Counsel’s mission,” he wrote, “was to get to the bottom of the morass.” No, it wasn’t. What morass? Then came this formulation:

Kenneth Starr and his top deputies were not instinctive politicians, and they became caught up in a political war for which they were woefully unprepared and ill-suited. The White House and its allies relentlessly attacked the Independent Counsel for what they thought were both illegal and unprincipled tactics, like intimidating witnesses and leaking to the press. Mr. Starr has been vindicated in the courts in nearly every instance, and he and his allies were maligned to a degree that will someday be seen as grossly unfair.

One’s heart of course goes out to these people incarcerating Susan McDougal; illegally detaining and threatening Monica Lewinsky; threatening a witness who refused to lie for them, by implying that her adoption of a small child was illegal; misleading the courts, the grand jury, the press, the witnesses about their actions. Persecuted victims, these prosecutors—”caught up,” “woefully unprepared,” “relentlessly attacked,” “maligned.”

The investigation unfolded with inexorable logic that made sense at every turn, yet lost all sight of the public purpose it was meant to serve. Mr. Starr’s failure was not one of logic or law but of simple common sense.

Quite apart from whatever he means by “public purpose,” what could Mr. Stewart possibly mean by “common sense”?

From early on, it should have been apparent that a criminal case could never be made against the Clintons. Who would testify against them?

Who indeed? Countless people, as the Times checkers, if it had any, might have told him—alleging rape, murder, threats, blackmail, drug abuse, bribery, and abductions of pet cats.

“The investigation does not clear the Clintons in all respects,” Mr. Stewart wrote, as though clearing people, especially in all respects, were the purpose of prosecutions. “The Independent Counsel law is already a casualty of Whitewater and its excesses.” What? What can this possibly mean? What “it,” for example, precedes “its excesses”? Whitewater’s excesses?

But as long as a culture of mutual political destruction reigns in Washington, the need for some independent resolution of charges against top officials, especially the President, will not go away. [A reigning culture of mutual destruction evidently needs another Special Prosecutor, to make charges go away.] After all, we did get something for our nearly $60 million. The charges against the Clintons were credibly resolved.

An extraordinary piece, certainly. Four days later, on Tuesday, September 26, 2000, the Times ran its long-awaited assessment, “From the Editors.” It was entitled “The Times and Wen Ho Lee.”

Certainly, the paper had never before published anything like this assessment. A break with tradition, however, is not an apology. What the Times did was to apportion blame elsewhere, endorse its own work, and cast itself as essentially a victim, having “attracted criticism” from three categories of persons: “competing journalists,” “media critics,” and “defenders of Dr. Lee.” Though there may, in hindsight, have been “flaws”—for example, a few other lines of investigation the Times might have pursued, “to humanize” Dr. Lee—the editors seemed basically to think they had produced what Mr. Stewart, in his op-ed piece, might have characterized as “a model of investigative reporting.” Other journalists interpreted this piece one way and another, but to a reader of ordinary intelligence and understanding there was no contrition in it. That evidently left the Times, however, with a variant of what might be called the underlying corrections problem: the lepidopterist and his trust. “Accusations leveled at this newspaper,” the editors wrote, “may have left many readers with questions about our coverage. That confusion—and the stakes involved, a man’s liberty and reputation—convince us that a public accounting is warranted.” The readers’ “confusion” is the issue. The “stakes,” in dashes, are an afterthought.

“On the whole,” the public accounting said, “we remain proud of work that brought into the open a major national security problem. Our review found careful reporting that included extensive cross-checking and vetting of multiple sources, despite enormous obstacles of official secrecy and government efforts to identify the Times’ sources.”

And right there is the nub of it, one nub of it anyway: the “efforts to identify the Times’ sources.” Because in this case, the sources were precisely governmental—the FBI, for example, in its attempt to intimidate Wen Ho Lee. The rest of the piece, with a few unconvincing afterthoughts about what the paper might have done differently, is self-serving and even overtly deceptive. “The Times stories—echoed and often oversimplified by politicians and other news organizations—touched off a fierce public debate”; “Now the Times neither imagined the security breach nor initiated the prosecution of Wen Ho Lee”; “That concern had previously been reported in the Wall Street Journal, but without the details provided by the Times in a painstaking narrative”; “Nothing in this experience undermines our faith in any of our reporters, who remained persistent and fair-minded in their news-gathering in the face of some fierce attacks.”

And there it is again: Wen Ho Lee in jail, alone, shackled, without bail—and yet it is the Times that is subject to “accusations,” Times reporters who were subjected to those “fierce attacks.”

The editors did express a reservation about their “tone.” “In place of a tone of journalistic detachment,” they wrote, they had perhaps echoed the alarmism of their sources. Anyone who has read the Times in recent years—let alone been a subject of its pieces—knows that “a tone of journalistic detachment” in the paper is almost entirely a thing of the past. What is so remarkable, however, is not only how completely the Times identifies with the prosecution, but also how clearly the inversion of hunter and prey has taken hold. The injustice, the editors clearly feel, has been done not to Dr. Lee (although they say at one point that they may not have given him, imagine, “the full benefit of the doubt”) but to the reporters, and the editors, and the institution itself.

Two days later, the editorial section checked in, with “An Overview: The Wen Ho Lee Case.” Some of it, oddly enough, was another attack on Wen Ho Lee, whose activities it described as “suspicious and ultimately illegal,” “beyond reasonable dispute.” It described the director of the FBI, Louis Freeh, and Attorney General Janet Reno as being under “sharp attack.” The editorial was not free of self-justification; it was not open about its own contribution to the damage; it did seem concerned with “racial profiling”—a frequent preoccupation of the editorial page, in any case. The oddest sentences were these: “Moreover, transfer of technology to China and nuclear weapons security had been constant government concerns throughout this period. To withhold this information from readers is an unthinkable violation of the fundamental contract between a newspaper and its audience.” It had previously used a similar construction, for the prosecutors: “For the F.B.I. … not to react to Dr. Lee’s [conduct] would have been a dereliction of duty.” But the question was not whether the FBI should react (or not) but how, within our system, legally, ethically, constitutionally, to do so. And no one was asking the Times to “withhold information” about “government concerns,” least of all regarding alleged “transfer of technology to China” or “nuclear weapons security.” If the Times were asked to do anything in this matter, it might be to refrain from passing on, and repeating, and scolding, and generally presenting as “investigative reporting” what were in fact malign and exceedingly improper allegations, by “anonymous sources” with prosecutorial agendas, against virtually defenseless individuals.

There was—perhaps this goes without saying—no apology whatever to Wen Ho Lee. “The unthinkable violation of the fundamental contract between a newspaper and its audience” did not, obviously, extend to him. Lelyveld, too, had referred to a Corrections policy “to make our contract with readers more enforceable.” What “contract”? To rectify malignant misspelling of names? This concern, too, was not with facts, or substance, or subject, but to sustain, without earning or reciprocating, the trust of “readers.” The basis of “trust” was evidently quite tenuous. What had increased, perhaps in its stead, was this sense of being misunderstood, unfairly maligned, along with those other victims: FBI agents, informers, and all manner of prosecutors. No sympathy, no apology, certainly, for the man whom many, including in the end the judge, considered a victim—not least a victim of the Times.

That Times editors are by no means incapable of apology became clear on September 28, 2000, the same day as the editorial Overview. On that day, Bill Keller, the managing editor of the Times, posted a “Memorandum to the Staff,” which he sent as well to “media critics,” and which he said all staff members were “free to share outside the paper.”

It was an apology, and it was abject. “When we published our appraisal of our Wen Ho Lee coverage,” it said, “we anticipated that some people would misread it, and we figured that misreading was beyond our control. But one misreading is so agonizing to me that it requires a follow-up.”

“Through most of its many drafts,” Keller continued, the message had contained the words “of us” in a place where any reader of ordinary intelligence and understanding, one would have thought, would have known what was meant, since the words “to us” appear later in the same sentence. “Somewhere in the multiple scrubbings of this document,” however,

the words “of us” got lost. And that has led some people on the staff to a notion that never occurred to me—that the note meant to single out Steve Engelberg, who managed this coverage so masterfully, as the scapegoat for the shortcomings we acknowledged.

My reaction the first time I heard this theory was to laugh it off as preposterous. Joe and I tried to make clear in meetings with staff … that the paragraph referred to ourselves. … In the very specific sense that we laid our hands on these articles, and we overlooked some opportunities in our own direction of the coverage. We went to some lengths to assure that no one would take our message as a repudiation of our reporters, but I'm heartsick to discover that we failed to make the same clear point about one of the finest editors I know. Let the record show that we stand behind Steve and the other editors who played roles in developing this coverage. Coverage, as the message to readers said, of which we remain proud.

Bureaucracy at its purest. Reporters, editors, “masterfully directed” coverage, at worst some “opportunities” “overlooked.” The buck stops nowhere. “We remain proud” of the coverage in question, only “agonized” and “heartsick” at having been understood to fail to exonerate a member of this staff. The only man characterized as “the scapegoat” in the whole matter is—this is hardly worth remarking—one of the directors of the coverage, some might say the hounding, of Wen Ho Lee.

Something is obviously wrong here. Howell Raines, the editor of the editorial page (and the writer of the Overview) was, like Joe Lelyveld, a distinguished reporter. Editing and reporting are, of course, by no means the same. But one difficulty, perhaps with Keller as well, is that in an editing hierarchy, unqualified loyalty to staff, along with many other manifestations of the wish to be liked, can become a failing—intellectual, professional, moral. It may be that the editors’ wish for popularity with the staff has caused the perceptible and perhaps irreversible decline in the paper. There is, I think, something more profoundly wrong—not just the contrast between its utter solidarity, its self-regard, its sense of victimization and tender sympathy with its own, and its unconsciousness of its own weight as an institution, in the stories it claims to cover. Something else, perhaps more important, two developments actually—the emergence of the print reporter as celebrity and the proliferation of the anonymous source. There is an indication of where this has led us even in the Times editors’ own listing, among the “enormous obstacles” its reporters faced, of “government efforts to identify the Times’ sources.” The “sources” in question were, of course, precisely governmental. The Times should never have relied upon them, not just because they were, as they turned out to be, false, but because they were prosecutorial-—and they were turning the Times into their instrument.

In an earlier day, the Times would have had a safeguard against its own misreporting, including its “accounting” and its Overview of its coverage of the case of Wen Ho Lee. The paper used to publish in its pages long, unedited transcripts of important documents. The transcript of the FBI’s interrogation of Dr. Lee—on March 7, 1999, the day after the first of the Times articles appeared—exists. It runs to thirty-seven pages. Three agents have summoned Dr. Lee to their offices in “a cleared building facility.” They have refused him not only the presence of anybody known to him but permission to have lunch. They keep talking ominously of a “package” they have, and telephone calls they have been making about it to Washington. The contents of the package includes yesterday’s New York Times. They allude to it more than fifty times:

“You read that and it’s on the next page as well, Wen Ho. And let me call Washington real quick while you read that.”

“The important part is that, uh, basically that is indicating that there is a person at the laboratory that’s committed espionage and that points to you.”

“You, you read it. It’s not good, Wen Ho.”

“You know, this is, this is a big problem, but uh-mm, I think you need to read this article. Take a couple of minutes and, and read this article because there’s some things that have been raised by Washington that we’ve got to get resolved.”

And they resume:

“It might not even be a classified issue. … but Washington right now is under the impression that you’re a spy. And this newspaper article is, is doing everything except for coming out with your name … everything points to you. People in the community and people at the laboratory tomorrow are going to know. That this article is referring to you. …”

The agents tell him he is going to be fired (he is fired two days later), that his wages will be garnished, that he will lose his retirement, his clearance, his chance for other employment, his friends, his freedom. The only thing they mention more frequently than the article in the Times is his polygraph, and every mention of it is something they know to be false: that he “failed” it. They tell him this lie more than thirty times. Sometimes they mention it in conjunction with the Times article:

“You know, Wen Ho, this, it’s bad. I mean look at this newspaper article! I mean, ‘China Stole Secrets for Bombs.’ It all but says your name in here. The polygraph reports all say you’re failing … Pretty soon you’re going to have reporters knocking on your door.”

Then they get to the Rosenbergs:

“The Rosenbergs are the only people that never cooperated with the federal government in an espionage case. You know what happened to them? They electrocuted them, Wen Ho.”

“You know Aldrich Ames? He’s going to rot in jail! … He’s going to spend his dying days in jail.”

“Okay? Do you want to go down in history? Whether you’re professing your innocence like the Rosenbergs to the day they take you to the electric chair…”

Dr. Lee pleads with them, several times, not to interrupt him when he is trying to answer a question: “You want me, you want to listen two minutes from my explanation?” Not a chance:

“No, you stop a minute, Wen Ho. … Compared to what’s going to happen to you with this newspaper article…”

“The Rosenbergs are dead.”

“This is what’s going to do you more damage than anything. … Do you think the press prints everything that’s true? Do you think that everything that’s in this article is true? … The press doesn’t care.”

Now, it may be that the editors of the Times do not find this newsworthy, or that they believe their readers would have no interest in the fact that the FBI conducts its interrogations in this way. The Times might also, fairly, claim that it has no responsibility for the uses to which its front-page articles may be put, by the FBI or any other agency of government. Except for this. In both the editorial Overview and the “Note from the Editors,” as in Mr. Stewart’s op-ed piece, the Times’ sympathies are clearly with the forces of prosecution and the FBI. “Dr. Lee had already taken a lie detector test,” the editors write, for example, in their assessment, and “F.B.I. investigators believed that it showed deception when he was asked whether he had leaked secrets.”

In the days when the Times still published transcripts, the reader could have judged for himself. Nothing could be clearer than that the FBI investigators believed nothing of the kind. As they knew, Dr. Lee had, on the contrary, passed his polygraph—which is why, in his interrogation, they try so obsessively to convince him that he failed it. Even the editorial Overview, shorter and perhaps for that reason less misleading, shows where the Times’ sense of who is victimized resides. After two paragraphs of describing various activities of Dr. Lee’s as “improper and illegal,” “beyond reasonable dispute,” it describes, of all people, Louis Freeh, the director of the FBI (and Janet Reno, the attorney general) as being “under sharp attack.” Freeh was FBI director when agents of the Bureau, illegally detaining Monica Lewinsky, were conducting “investigations” of the same sort for the Office of the Independent Counsel. Freeh was also advocating, not just in government but directly to the press, more Special Prosecutors for more matters of all kinds.

But enough. The Times feels a responsibility to correct misimpressions it may have generated in readers—how names are spelled, what middle initials are, who is standing miscaptioned on which side of a photograph, which butterfly is which—is satisfied, in an important way, in its corrections. For the rest, it has looked at its coverage and found it good. The underlying fact, however, is this: For years readers have looked in the Times for what was once its unsurpassed strength: the uninflected coverage of the news. You can look and look, now, and you will not find it there. Some politically correct series and group therapy reflections on race relations perhaps. These appear harmless. They may even win prizes. Fifteen reporters working for one year might, perhaps, have been more usefully employed on some genuine issue of fact. More egregious, however, and in some ways more malign, was an article that appeared, on November 5, 2000, in the Sunday Times Magazine.

The piece was a cover story about Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan. Everyone makes mistakes. This piece, blandly certain of its intelligence, actually consisted of them. Everything was wrong. At the most trivial level, the piece said Moynihan had held no hearings about President Clinton’s health plan and no meetings with him to discuss welfare. (In fact, the senator had held twenty-nine such hearings in committee and many such discussions with the President.) At the level of theory, it misapprehended the history, content, purpose, and fate of Moynihan’s proposal for a guaranteed annual income. It would require a book to set right what was wrong in the piece—and in fact, such a book existed, at least about the guaranteed annual income. But what was, in a way, most remarkable about what the New York Times has become appeared, once again, in the way it treated its own coverage.

The Sunday Magazine’s editors limited themselves to a little self- congratulatory note. The article, they reported, had “prompted a storm of protest.” “But many said that we got it right, and that our writer said what had long seemed to be unspeakable.” (”Unspeakable” may not be what they mean. Perhaps it was a paraphrase.) They published just one letter, which praised the piece as “incisive.”

The Corrections column, however, when it came, was a gem. “An article in the Times Magazine last Sunday about the legacy of Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan,” it began, “misidentified a former senator who was an expert on military affairs. He was Richard Russell, not Russell Long.”

The “article also,” the correction went on, had “referred imprecisely” (a fine way to put it) to the senator’s committee hearings on President Clinton’s health care. (Not a word about welfare.) But the Corrections column saved for last what the Times evidently regarded as most important. “The article also overstated [another fine word] Senator Moynihan’s English leanings while he attended the London School of Economics. Bowler, yes. Umbrella, yes. Monocle, no.”

No “malignant” misspellings here. But nothing a reader can trust any longer, either. Certainly no reliable, uninflected coverage of anything, least of all the news. The enterprise, whatever else it is, has almost ceased altogether to be a newspaper. It is still a habit. People glance at it and, on Sundays, complain about its weight. For news they must look elsewhere. What can have happened here?

“The turning point at the paper,” I once wrote, in a piece of fiction, “was the introduction of the byline.” I still believe that to be true. I simply had no idea how radical the consequences of that turning point were going to be. Until the early seventies, it was a mark of professionalism in reporters for newspapers, wire services, newsmagazines, to have their pieces speak, as it were, for themselves, with all the credibility and authority of the publication in which they anonymously appeared. Reviews, essays, regular columns were of course signed. They were expressions of opinion, as distinct from reporting, and readers had to know and evaluate whose opinion it was. But when a reader said of a piece of information, “The Times says,” or “The Wall Street Journal says,” he was relying on the credibility of the institution. With occasional exceptions— correspondents, syndicated columnists, or sportswriters whose names were household words, or in attributing a scoop of extraordinary historical importance—the reporter’s byline would have seemed intrusive and unprofessional.

In television reporting, of course, every element of the situation was different. It would be absurd to say “CBS (or ABC, NBC, or even CNN) says” or even “I saw it on” one network or another. It had to be Walter Cronkite, later Dan Rather, Diane Sawyer, Tom Brokaw, Peter Jennings—not just because no television network or station had the authority of any favorite and trusted publication, but because seeing and hearing the person who conveyed the news (impossible, obviously, with the printed byline) was precisely the basis, for television viewers, of trust.

Once television reporters became celebrities, it was perhaps inevitable that print reporters would want at least their names known; and there were, especially at first, stories one did well to read on the basis of a trusted byline. There still existed what Mary McCarthy, in another context, called “the last of the tall timber.” But the tall timber in journalism is largely gone—replaced, as in many fields, by the phenomenon of celebrity. And gradually, in print journalism, the celebrity of the reporter began to overtake and then to undermine the reliability of pieces. Readers still say, “The Times says,” or “I read it in the Post” (so far as I can tell, except in the special case of gossip columns, readers hardly ever mention, or even notice, bylines), but trust in even once favorite newspapers has almost vanished. One is left with this oddly convoluted paradox: As survey after survey confirms, people generally despise journalists; yet they cite, as a source of information, newspapers. And though they have come, with good reason, to distrust newspapers as a whole, they still tend to believe each individual story as they read it. We all do. Though I may know a piece to be downright false, internally contradictory, in some profound and obvious way corrupted, I still, for a moment anyway, believe it. Believe the most obviously manufactured quotes, the slant, the spin, the prose, the argument with no capacity even to frame an issue and no underlying sense of what follows from what.

At the same time, a development in criticism, perhaps especially movie criticism, affected print journalism of every kind. It used to be that the celebrities featured on billboards and foremost in public consciousness were the movie stars themselves. For a while, it became auteurs, directors. Then, bizarrely but for a period of many years, it became critics, who starred in the discussion of movies. That period seems, fortunately, to have passed. But somehow, the journalist’s byline, influenced perhaps by the critic’s, began to bring with it a blurring of genres: reporting, essay, memoir, personal statement, anecdote, judgmental or critical review. Most of all, critical review—which is why government officials and citizens alike treat reporters in the same way artists regard most critics—with mixed fear and dismay. It is also why the subjects of news stories read each “news” piece as if it were a review on opening night.

There is no longer even a vestige or pretense, on the part of the print journalist, of any professional commitment to uninflected coverage of the news. The ambition is rather, under their bylines, to express themselves, their writing styles. Days pass without a single piece of what used to be called “hard news.” The celebrityhood, or even the aspiration to celebrity, of print reporters, not just in print but also on talk shows, has been perhaps the single most damaging development in the history of print journalism.

The second, less obvious, cause of decline in the very notion of reliable information was the proliferation of the “anonymous source”—especially as embodied, or rather disembodied, in Deep Throat. Many people have speculated about the “identity” of this phantom. Others have shown, more or less conclusively, that at least as described in All the President’s Men, by Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, he did not, in fact could not, exist. Initially introduced as a narrative device, to hold together book and movie, this improbable creature was obviously both a composite, which Woodward, the only one who claims to have known and have consulted him, denies, and an utter fiction, which is denied by both Woodward and Bernstein—the better writer, who had, from the start, a “friend,” whose information in almost every significant respect coincides with, and even predates, Deep Throat’s. But the influence of this combination, the celebrity reporter and the chimera to whom the reporter alone has access, has been incalculable.

The implausibility of the saga of Deep Throat has been frequently pointed out. Virtually every element of the story—the all-night séances in garages; the signals conveyed by moved flowerpots on windowsills and drawings of clocks in newspapers; the notes left by prearrangement on ledges and pipes in those garages; the unidiomatic and essentially uninformative speech—has been demolished. Apart from its inherent impractibilities, for a man requiring secrecy and fearing for his life and the reporter’s, the strategy seems less like tradecraft than a series of attention- getting mechanisms. This is by no means to deny that Woodward and Bernstein had “sources,” some but far from all of whom preferred to remain anonymous. From the evidence in the book they include at least Fred Buzhardt, Hugh Sloan, John Sears, Mark Felt and other FBI agents, Leonard Garment, and, perhaps above all, the ubiquitous and not infrequently treacherous Alexander Haig. None of these qualify as Deep Throat, nor does anyone, as depicted in the movie or book. Woodward’s new rationale is this: the secret of the phantom’s name must be kept until the phantom himself reveals it—or else dies. Woodward is prepared, however, to disqualify candidates whom others—most recently Leonard Garment, in an entire book devoted to such speculation—may suggest, by telling, instance by instance, who Deep Throat is not. A long list, obviously, which embraces everyone.

It is no wonder that Woodward, having risked the logic of this, would risk as well an account of a mythical visit to the hospital bedside of former CIA Director William Casey, who was dying and who, according to doctors, had lost all power of speech. Casey’s hospital room was closely guarded against visits from all but his immediate family. Woodward claims to have entered the hospital room, asked Casey a question, observed him “nod,” and quotes him as saying, “I believed.”

There is more. Woodward now claims that the “anonymous source” for another book, The Brethren, was Justice Potter Stewart. Justice Stewart, perhaps needless to say, is dead. He was a highly respected and distinguished Justice. But that does not satisfactorily resolve the matter, because Justice Stewart can and does bear a sort of witness here. He wrote some important opinions. Some of the opinions most seriously misunderstood, misrepresented, and even misquoted in The Brethren are Potter Stewart’s. And nothing could be more obvious from the book than the fact that, apart from the clerks, Woodward’s primary source was in fact Justice Rehnquist.

The ramifications of this cult of the anonymous source—particularly as Deep Throat, this oracle to whom only a single priest, or acolyte, has access, have been, for journalism, enormous. No need any longer to publish long transcripts. Why bother? No need even to read them, or anything—public documents, the novels of Robert Stendahl. Two clicks to Amazon.com will give you spellings. And an “anonymous source” will either provide you with “information” or provide what your editors will accept as “cross-checking” for what you have already said. The celebrity reporter has created, beginning with Deep Throat, what one would have thought a journalistic oxymoron: a celebrity anonymous source. More than that: a celebrity anonymous source who does not even exist. As late as page 207 of Leonard Garment’s book, In Search of Deep Throat, Mr. Garment actually writes:

I was doggedly confident that Woodward, Bernstein, and, above all, their editor … would not have put themselves out on a long limb for a gimmick that would eventually be revealed and denounced as a journalistic fraud of historic proportions.

Not a gimmick. A device. When Woodward produced the noumenal encounter between the anonymous source and the celebrity reporter, it turns out, a religion was born, which has grown to affect not just journalism but the entire culture. In print journalism, you can usually tell, when such a source exists at all, who it is: the person most kindly treated in the story. And the religion, with all its corollaries, dogmas, and implications, has made of reporters not fallible individuals competing for facts and stories in the real world but fellow members of the cult. Whomever or whatever they go after—Wen Ho Lee, Whitewater, or “scandals” that did not pan out—or whomever they equally baselessly support— Independent Counsel Kenneth Starr, Chairman Henry Hyde of the House Judiciary Committee, and FBI Director Louis Freeh—they tend to support dogmatically, and as one. Best of all, they like to consult and to write approvingly of one another and even, if need be, themselves. Administrations come and go. Quasi-governmental bureaucracies, with their hierarchies and often interlocking cults and interests, persist.

The convergence of the anonymous source with the celebrity reporter now has ramifications that could not have been foreseen. A certain journalistic laziness was perhaps predictable—phoning around as a form of “legwork,” attributing information to “sources,” in quotes, which no one was equipped either to verify or to deny. But the serious result, which no one could have foreseen, is this: The whole purpose of the “anonymous source” has been precisely reversed. The reason there exists a First Amendment protection for journalists’ confidential sources has always been to permit citizens—the weak, the vulnerable, the isolated—to be heard publicly, without fear of retaliation by the strong—by their employer, for example, or by the forces of government. The whistleblower or the innocent accused were to be protected. Instead, almost every “anonymous source” in the press, in recent years, has been an official of some kind, or a person in the course of a vendetta speaking from a position of power.

More disturbing, in spite of what has been at least since Vietnam an almost instinctive press hostility to the elected government (an adversarial position that can be healthy in a free society), the press now has an unmistakeable affinity with official accusers, in particular the Special Prosecutors and the FBI. And when those powerful institutions are allowed to “leak”—that is, become the press’s “anonymous sources”— the press becomes not an adversary but an instrument of all that is most secret and coercive—in attacks, not infrequently, with an elected administration but also with truly nameless individuals, those who have neither power nor celebrity of any kind, and who have no means of access, least of all as “anonymous sources,” to the press.

The press, in these matters, has become far more unified. There may be competition among those who will get the first interview of some celebrity or other, or first access to a treasured “anonymous source.” But it is the same celebrities and the same sources that journalists pursue, not excluding interviews with one another. Even among the apparently most irate and shouting television personalities whom Calvin Trillin has so memorably characterized as “Sabbath gasbags,” there is a sameness. Political views are permitted, routinely, along a spectrum from left to right; but the views of each participant, on virtually any subject, can be predicted from week to week.

The worst, however, is the mystique of the “sources.” Citizens of a democracy require reliable information. How can they check “sources”? What possible basis is there for relying on them? The word of the celebrity reporter who cannot bring himself to name them? What sort of reliability, what sort of information, what sort of journalism is this? Especially since there seems to be, among “investigative reporters” and the institutions that support them, a stubborn loyalty to and solidarity with sources—even when a source (as in the recent case of Charles Bakaly of the Special Prosecutor’s office) admits that he is the previously “anonymous source” in question, or, more puzzlingly, when the “source” has demonstrably deceived the reporter himself. In what may be a journalistic variant of the Stockholm syndrome (whereby hostages become extremely loyal to their captors), journalists and their editors defend and protect the anonymity, and even the reliability, of their sources, even when they have been most seriously misled. A sacred covenant, apparently. But what of the trust and “contract” with the reader? Forgotten, secular, a matter of spelling and perhaps the small stuff. There, for instance, is the Times, in its “assessment,” trying to establish the basis for a now utterly discredited story as “cross-checking sources” and resisting “obstacles” posed by other people’s having tried to “identify our sources.” Would this not have been the occasion to name at least the sources who deliberately misled them? Are the identities of self-serving liars, and particularly liars of this sort, who use the newspaper story as a weapon of intimidation, to be protected? Four months later, in February of 2001, the Times again reappraised its coverage of Wen Ho Lee. The pieces somehow, under a lot of cosmic obfuscation, seemed to have missed their underlying points: (1) that there was no evidence of spying by anyone at Los Alamos; (2) that there was no evidence of any spying by Wen Ho Lee. The suspicion of him rested largely on two incidents: that he had once telephoned a man under suspicion of something undefined and offered to help him, and that he had once entered, uninvited, a meeting at Los Alamos, and hugged a major Chinese scientist there. Typical spy behavior: a phone call and a hug.

If so, then you are speaking inescapably of the instruments of a police state, with secret informers, and the press just one in a set of interlocking and secretive bureaucracies. The alternative, it seems to me, is to proceed in a more diligent way, one by one, in the press, on the street, in the academy, to look for information and try to draw reasonable inferences from it. A combination of research and thinking and consulting, if need be, a genuine source—that is, someone who has information and is willing to impart it. No professional ideologies that paradoxically combine political correctness with self-serving orthodoxies and an affinity for prosecutors. No faith in Delphic utterances from unidentified persons. In spite of what might have affected generations of aspiring reporters, no one is going to contrive an absurd set of signals for you, meet you secretly and regularly and undetected by others in a garage by night and tell you anything worth knowing.

Pools, informers, leaks from prosecutors, celebrity reporters with anonymous sources—all of these are forms simultaneously of consolidation and of hiding, facets of what the enterprise has become. Consider the celebrity reporter, the particular powers of celebrity in a celebrity culture, especially when his nominal profession, after all, is the purveying of information, the dissemination of what the society will know about itself. Consider the prosecutorial affinity, which is both easy and immensely destructive. Wen Ho Lee, as it turned out, had nearly miraculous access, in the end, to good, pro bono lawyers. Most noncelebrity citizens simply have no such access—either to lawyers or to the press. They are not just truly anonymous. They are plain unheard.

Consider as well the use of pools. Not the imposed pools of the military, but voluntary, self-satisfied, bonded bureaucracies and consortiums. To use saving money as an excuse for not having the independence, the interest, the curiosity and inclination to go out there and see for yourself—it is simply not reconcilable with any notion of the working journalist. Under the First Amendment, the press enjoys special protections so that the public will hear from many competing individual and institutional voices, and so that debate, as Harry Kalven put it, can be “free, robust, and wide open.” Journalism has to be competitive or it is nothing. Television's mistake in using its consortium was understandable and should have been instructive. But television that night was in the business of prediction. In Florida, where something already existing is in dispute—in a state with sunshine laws specifically making facts available for public information—to send a surrogate institution is indefensible. For one thing, it virtually guarantees that the sunshine laws will atrophy. For another, it guarantees that the public will never know what the real count was. In lieu of NORC, it would have been better to send in, if not professional auditors, a group of diligent fourth-grade children who can count.

All monopolists collaborating in restraint of trade say they are cooperating to save everybody money. In this case, another unmistakeable and crucial motive has been to hide. That hiding reflects fear. Fear of being alone, fear of being out of step with the prevailing view. Fear even of being right when everyone else is wrong. So hide yourself in an orthodoxy and a group. Let no independent reporters and, lord help us, no independent newspaper in there. Try to co-opt the Miami Herald. Let the sociologists from NORC handle it. The administration, the government, will not be offended. At least not with us.

Oddly enough, even the policy of Corrections is a form simultaneously of consolidation of power and of hiding. The orthodoxy is: We are so scrupulous we correct even the smallest thing. Therefore, you can trust us as you would Mao, the Scripture, the Politburo. It is a form of Fundamentalism, it protects the ideology. Nothing more clearly exposed the essence of that Corrections policy than the Editors’ Note about Wen Ho Lee. They misrepresented what they had actually said. They defended, in glowing terms, what they did say. They gave themselves credit for “calling attention to the problem.” Much like those charities a few years ago when the child, who had been photographed so movingly and had corresponded so faithfully with its “adopted” parents, who sent ten dollars a month, turned out to have been long dead or not even to exist. The charities, too, said, “We were just calling attention to the problem.” If you do a textual analysis of what the Times did say, over a period of many months, and how its “accounting” or “assessment” now describes it, you have not just disinformation but an indication of what much of journalism has become. We were first, but we blame it on the Wall Street Journal, which was earlier, and on the misrepresentations of others, who came later. On the whole, we are proud. And the only one to whom we genuinely owe an apology is one of our staff, the editor of the series in question, “the scapegoat,” whom we must now praise in the most extravagant terms. And about whom we are abject, agonized, heartsick.

I know nothing about the editor in question. I did read, months ago, his irate and patronizing response, defending those very articles, to someone who had ventured, in Brill’s Content, to criticize them. There is, in general, in newspapers at least, almost no reliable, uninflected coverage of the news. No celebrity journalists seem even to aspire to it. There is opinion, a verdict, an assumption of the role—how to put it?—of critic to the day’s events. A verdict. We do not need a verdict. We need an account.

That is where the absence of those once long, verbatim transcripts is of great importance. The transcripts permitted none of that judging or tilting or hiding. They were straightforward. They were something that television, for example, with its scheduling and time constraints, could not do. Nor could tabloids.

Consolidating with others and going secret. From the anonymous source, to the prosecutor’s office, to the consortium, all are just steps. And correcting—either typos, or misspellings, or things everyone knows already or that matter to no one, or that correct themselves on a daily basis—is just the mask, the surface of the decay. One more indication of moral and factual authority—and, in consequence, another source of power. It may be, it is virtually certain, that newspapers, to regain their honor, will have to relinquish something of their power and think again.

The whole constitutional system had been, for some time, under attack by all three branches of government. There has been the behavior of the executive, as embodied not just by the President in his understanding of his office, but, paradoxically, by the Independent Counsel in his prosecutions. There has been the behavior of the legislature, in its lascivious travesty of the impeachment process. There has been the conduct of the Supreme Court, intruding on the province of the executive, the legislative, the states, and finally on the rights of every citizen. By making its decision in Gore v. Bush, explicitly, unique—to be regarded as having no precedent and setting none—it undermined the whole basis of Anglo Saxon law, which is grounded in the notion that the decisions derive their validity from being built upon, and in turn relied upon, as precedents.

The Supreme Court, in its power of judicial review, is regarded as nearly sacred within the system and beyond appeal—with one exception: the press. Judicial review is trumped by press review. The Justices are highly aware of this. Judges who claimed to be conservatives, even as they struck most radically at the Constitution, the balance of powers, federalism, the fundamental understandings of the society, played to journalists. Virtually the only decisions of this Court upholding freedoms, under the First Amendment, for example, have been decisions in favor of the press. The press seems less aware of this—still describing the most radical judges, obligingly, as “conservatives.” Somehow, comfortable and serene as the system still seems to be, and as though political life were still in some sense normal, the whole question of legitimacy seemed to rest on so few public officials—until recently Senator Moynihan, for example, and now Justices Stevens, Ginsburg, Souter, Breyer. There is always the possibility that there will be heroes, or that the system is self-correcting. But it will not do for the press, with very few exceptions, simply to join all other bureaucracies, to correct spellings or give us their impressions about race (there are still “tensions”) while, in the ultimate abdication, they miss the factual. Independent journalists have obligations of their own.

-2001