#more broadly no one owes you pictures of their dead ever

[sweetsynth]

I keep seeing people asking for “proof” of the slaughter in Israel. So a general reminder, you are not owed images of the brutality of war. You are not owed pictures of bodies of those whose families might not even know they are dead. You are not owed suffering.

In this case, different cultures have different death practices. Jews believe in a dignified death, and while modern practices vary across communities, the Talmud forbids gazing at the face of the dead.

Therefor, it is culturally abhorrent for you to request that the Jewish people exploit their dead just for you to express minimum empathy.

[clareguilty]

A Life Worth Living

Read it here on the AO3

Charles/Arthur/Reader (Reader has a vagina?? I don’t know how to tag gender) Rating: Explicit | No Warnings Word Count: ~2600

Arthur had always complained about the house being so close to the road. 'Too many people. Too many eyes.' He always grumbled. It had never bothered you, but today you were thankful.

A familiar white flanked Appaloosa was making her way towards the front gates.

"Charles!" you exclaimed, dropping your watering pail and flying down the path to meet him. He grinned broadly as you threw open the gate, sliding out of the saddle to pull you into his arms. Your laughter rang out across the hill, and you shrieked as he lifted you high in the air and spun you.

"Oh, Charles," you kissed him a hundred times. "How is the tribe?" He had been gone for over a month, helping the Waipiti negotiate with the government up in Canada. It was a long journey, but you understood the necessity.

"Everyone is getting settled. Eagle Flies and Rains Fall send their regards." He held your hand as you turned to walk towards the house.

"I hope the boy has cooled off some. His recklessness nearly got all of us killed." You shook your head.

"He carries that burden with him every day." Charles squeezed your hand, shrugging off the memories.

Arthur emerged from around the back of the house. He must have heard your yells. His stance was defensive, afraid. Even from 40 yards away you could see the tension in his shoulders -- and the way it melted away the second he saw Charles. You waved to him excitedly. "Look who's home!"

Arthur and Charles embraced, speaking low to each other as they stood in the soft grass. You let them have a moment, retrieving your water pail from earlier and pouring it over the soil under your lavender plants. Taima wandered over to where Buell and Peanut were lazing in the shade -- glad to be home, you were sure.

The men were exactly where you had left them, foreheads pressed together, whispering quickly. Charles' hand was running through Arthur's hair, you knew the touch was a comfort for the both of them.

Clicking your tongue, you called Taima over to remove her tack and lead her to the stable. She took some sugar cubes from your palm and obediently followed behind you. The boldest of the chickens, precocious and noisy things, darted around at your feet, somehow avoiding being trampled by the horse's hooves.

You finished cleaning everything up and headed inside. Charles and Arthur were at the kitchen table, two cups of coffee and two bottles of beer between them. Arthur threw his hands around your waist as you passed and pulled you into his lap. "He's come back to us," his beard tickled your neck as he nuzzled you. You rolled your eyes and smiled fondly.

"In case you haven't noticed, we've gone mad without you." You reached out to cover Charles' hand with your own.

"I saw the lumber. You planning on building something new?" God, how you had missed the low rumble of his voice.

"Arthur wants to build a barn," your voice held a fond tone of disbelief. He had ordered a wagon of planks a week back, the delivery men baffled at making the third trip to the house this season. It had been less than a month since Arthur had finished his last project.

"It ain't a barn. It's a shed," he corrected you. 

You looked pointedly at Charles. This was an ongoing game among you. Arthur couldn't sit still, couldn't relax. It had started with the chicken coop, then it was the fence for the garden. A bench for the garden. A new trough. Now, it was the shed.

"A shed would be practical," Charles mused. His eyes shined as he watched the two of you.

"Don't encourage him," you hissed. "Next he'll be trying to add on to the house."

Both men raised an eyebrow in consideration. You huffed and pulled yourself free from Arthur's lap. They were hopeless. The both of them. 

"I was just in town last week for supplies, Charles. Do you want me to make a pie? I got cherry and apple." You glanced through the cupboards. You had to start cooking for three again. There would be plenty of food between hunting and the garden, but you would probably want to make another trip into town soon anyways.

"Apple sounds delicious," he sidled up behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle. "I want to help bake." You leaned back against him. He smelled like the forests and the cool winds of the North. It was unfamiliar but pleasant. In just a few days he would have the same tobacco and leather smell as always. Dark earth and fresh herbs and mountain streams.

"Have you heard from Sadie?" you asked. Her last letter had been weeks ago. Apparently, she was taking up bounty hunting. You weren't worried about her -- she could take care of herself -- but you and Arthur both had hoped to hear from her again by now.

"Nothing recent." Charles shook his head. "We may have to go track her down if she doesn't write soon." You all pictured Sadie, bloodstained and drunk, brawling her way through bar after bar.

"Maybe the Marstons have heard from her," Arthur offered. "Wouldn't surprise me if she headed out west."

You nodded. Sadie wasn't a permanent part of your little family. You knew she had left those days behind her. She had traded places with Arthur. He had settled down; he had a house and a farm. Sadie had taken up the same wildness that had fueled his youth. Still, it had been too long since she had stayed at the house. You wanted her home, at least for a little while.

-

The best purchase you had ever made for the house, despite all of Arthur's complaining, was a fancy sofa like the ones in those parlors in Saint Denis. It was just barely large enough for the three of you, but you usually settled in on Arthur's or Charles' lap anyways. Tonight, Arthur sat by the lamp, charcoal scraping across the page of his journal. You and Charles were taking turns braiding each other's hair. You kept getting distracted, overwhelmed by the urge to smother Charles in a downpour of gentle kisses, or to run your hands over his arms and chest and back. He had been away for so long. You needed to know he was really there.

Charles wasn't much better. He would occasionally crush you to his chest, holding you tightly and burying his face in your neck. You understood. It was the exact same feeling you had felt when Arthur returned from Guarma, when Charles had carried him off the Three Sisters. 

Both of you turned your affections to Arthur at some point, forcing him to set his journal aside and let himself be held. He was the only one with enough sense to suggest moving to the bed where you would have more room.

Arthur fell back on the bed, you sprawled on top of him. Charles laid down beside you, trailing his thumb over the scar on Arthur's chin.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” you asked, already shushing Arthur before he could protest.

“Gorgeous,” Charles agreed.

“So strong, so good for us,” you continued.

“We owe you everything.”

Arthur pushed you off of his chest and into Charles’ arms, rolling over to hide his face in his elbows. You could see the red at the tips of his ears.

“And you,” you kissed Charles on the nose, “handsome and knowledgeable and sweet as a peach.”

This time it was Charles’ turn to flush. You continued, “We did nothing to deserve you, but I’m not letting anything take you away from us.” You nestled against him, tracing over the tendons in his hands with light touches.

Arthur was watching you and Charles with the gentlest admiration. “And what about you?” he asked.

“You saved us,” Charles reminded you. “You convinced us that this life was worth living. I don’t even want to think of where we would be if you hadn’t come to us.”

“I’d be dead for sure,” Arthur took your hand, pressing his lips to the inside of your wrist. “Give yourself credit, sweetheart.”

“I love you,” your voice broke. 

“And we love you,” Charles brushed his thumb over your cheek.

You fell asleep like that, curled against each other. A long-overdue rest for the three of you.

-

You blinked awake long before the sun began to peek through the curtains. Charles and Arthur were leaning over you, kissing deeply. A low moan escaped Charles between them. You shifted carefully, still blinking away sleep and trying to disentangle yourself from your lovers.

"Sorry for waking you," Charles whispered just as Arthur said "Sorry for not waking you." You yawned and grabbed Charles' hand, pressing a kiss to his scarred knuckles.

"You sure you don't need more sleep?" you asked. If Arthur had his way, Charles would be up until dawn, and then the both of them would insist on starting on the work for the day.

"I'll sleep in the afternoon if I need it," he pulled you in for a kiss of your own. Your concern for him always made his heart ache so pleasantly. You cared for him. More than anyone he had known before.

Arthur was already stepping out of his union suit, trying to pull Charles free from his clothes as well. "He's been missing you," you murmured against Charles' skin. "You should have heard the things he's been saying. How badly he wants to fuck you, how badly he wants to ride you. It's like I do nothing for him." You rolled your eyes. You weren't actually jealous. You had missed Charles just as badly. 

Arthur lightly swatted at your thigh, eyes twinkling in the low light.

Charles was flushed and panting, already overwhelmed. An entire month away from you -- you wondered how long he would last. "Did you think of us?" you asked. "When you touched yourself?" You ran your hands over his thighs.

Charles nodded, chest heaving. Arthur settled in on his other side, running his hands over dark, smooth skin. "Did you fuck yourself?" you asked, "Stretch yourself open? Pretend it was Arthur's cock?"

He moaned and bit down on his lower lip, hips rolling even though you hadn't touched him. "Damn," Arthur breathed, watching the effect your words had, he was nearly as worked up as Charles.

"What do you need, Charles?" Arthur asked, gently brushing his hair out of his face.

"You," Charles sighed, "inside." Arthur groaned at the mere thought, grabbing a tin of salve and settling between Charles' huge thighs. You pulled his head into your lap, carding your fingers through his hair and pressing your lips to his hairline, his forehead, his nose. 

"We love you," you whispered. "We love you, and we want to make you feel good. You're ours."

Charles let out a stuttered breath and you glanced up to see Arthur working two fingers inside of him.

"Arthur's gonna give you what you need," you promised. "He'll fill you up as many times as you want."

Arthur sucked a bruise into the inside of Charles' thigh, crooking his fingers to pull a moan out of him. "You're so good for me," he praised. "There's so much I want, but we've got plenty of time. What do you say next time you fuck our darling?"

Your stomach flipped and you whined a bit. God, you had missed Charles. You wanted to feel him. "I'd like that." You trailed your lips over his ear. "We could start off slow, make up for lost time, but then I'd let you be rough if you wanted. Oh, Charles. I'm wet just thinking about it."

Arthur watched you and Charles, hanging on to your every word. He pressed a third finger inside and both of you watched Charles as he took it. He was so beautiful, brows furrowed, eyes closed, mouth falling open. 

"That's it," you kissed him. "Arthur, tell him what else you want."

"I want to ride you -- need to feel you inside me. Need to be fucked by you." Arthur groaned, one hand around his cock. "Wanna fuck our darling. Both of us. However they want us."

Your head spun at the thought. "Arthur," you moaned.

"That's it sweetheart. You gonna take us both?"

You nodded. This was for Charles, you knew that, but you were so worked up you felt like you could catch fire. Hips twitching, drawers soaked. It was taking everything you had not to take Charles right there.

"Arthur-" Charles cried out. "I'm so- ah, I'm gonna-"

You soothed him. Gentle fingers over his tense muscles. "You close?" you asked teasingly.

Charles nodded, clearly trying to fight the pleasure that was building inside of him.

You glanced at Arthur before speaking again. "If you come now, would you still be able to let Arthur fuck you?" You didn't want to hurt Charles, but you knew he had the stamina. He and Arthur were forces to be reckoned with, and you often wound up exhausted and sore. "We'll only do what you want."

"Arthur," Charles begged, "please. I can take it."

"You'll tell us if it's too much?" You placed a hand on his cheek, searching his eyes.

"I promise." He took a steadying breath.

Arthur couldn't hold back any longer, he pressed into Charles, a low growl escaping him as he finally found the relief he was longing for. Charles shuddered and whined, fingers digging into Arthur's arms. His cock twitched against his stomach. You ran your hands over his chest,  dragging your thumbs over his nipples. His breath hitched, the muscles in his stomach pulling taut.

Charles came as Arthur shifted, his cock spilling over his stomach untouched. You watched in rapt fascination. The motion of Arthur's hips drew out his pleasure. Still, Charles pleaded for Arthur to fuck him.

Arthur grit his teeth and began a steady pace with his hips. You leaned over to kiss him, feeling his gasps of pleasure against your lips. “I’m going to eat you out after I fuck him.”

You moaned and kissed him again. Arthur was so caring, so attentive. You wanted to give him everything.

Charles was already lost in a hazy realm of pleasure you knew all too well. It was easy to slip away with two partners doting on you. Hopefully Arthur would leave you in good enough shape to take care of him.

He didn’t. He spilled inside of Charles, kissing him and coaxing him through the no doubt burning pleasure of a second orgasm. You were on your back in a moment, skirt pushed up and legs thrown over Arthur’s shoulder as he dragged his tongue over your clit. You were soaked already, and he moaned as he realized how much you were affected by the sight of him and Charles together.

He didn’t stop until you were shaking and supple, hardly able to move except to curl around Charles. You expected Arthur to collapse into bed with you, but he still retrieved the pitcher and washed Charles gently. It took far too much convincing to get him to return to bed with you rather than head out and check on the animals.

“You work too damn much,” you kissed him, tasting yourself on his lips. “Laze around with me and Charles more often.”

“Maybe,” he brushed Charles’ hair back before drifting back to sleep, just as the first rays of dawn began to break through the curtains.

Part Two

[the-entertaining-spacemans-club]

Insulting Romance

A/N: Let’s kick this blog revival off with a holiday appropriate shitfic eh? It’s an old one from the depths of my google doc hell, and it’s involving a mixed up ship mess from a very old dead multi-fandom roleplay forum.  Characters involved: Dean (SPN Canon), Sam (SPN Canon), Maebh (SPN OC), Deadpool (Marvel Canon), Fives (Star Wars Canon), SD-630 (Star Wars OC). Warnings: none, there’s mild threats of bodily harm and sexual jokes but nothing actually happens.

“Hey, you ready to go yet? Sam is freaking out being alone with Maebh.” His voice echoed up the stairs with mild annoyance etching his words.

“I don't get it, isn't this weird earth holiday all about couples? Shouldn't he not want you there? Why am I being dragged along?” Her questions barely preceded her down the stairs as she asked them in rapid succession.

“It is, it’s a dumb ‘earth holiday’ but Sam likes her and I'm just in it for the free lunch and to keep him from being… Well, Sammy.” Shrugging he leaned against the lobby wall and occupied himself with his obsolete car keys oblivious to being watched from the stairwell.

“Doesn't explain why I'm going… I don't want to be stuck in some pink plastered café surrounded by grotesque displays of adoration and happy couples.” She made a fake puking sound as she came into view to emphasize her point.

“You jealous? That's cute coming from little miss ‘let me introduce your face to my fist’. C’mon, we’ll cash in on a free lunch, make fun of all the happy couples, and then go drown our loneliness at the bar. It’ll be fun.” Alerted by the proximity of her voice he looked up in time to provide a lop sided convincing grin before ducking to avoid the boot thrown at his face.

“I'm not jealous!” Closing the distance between them she grabbed her boot and stepped back to sit on the steps to put it back on. “I just like to keep my food in my stomach where it belongs. Republic Clones and Jedi are bad enough on their own, Republic Clones and Jedi in love, out in public, on a romantic holiday? Throw me to a sarlacc please.” She couldn’t have rolled her eyes any harder as she let her thoughts stray to the blonde Jedi that had stepped in and shoved her out of the picture with a certain clone captain that she had since been avoiding.

“Uh huh… Either way, let’s go, I'm starving.” With that he opened the door and stepped out of the apartment complex into the sunny streets of the island's main town.

“Still never answered me. Don't you have any other friends you could drag along to this torture?” Catching up to him she nudged him playfully.

“None that are single, and I'm sure Jett would just love if I invited Teal along.” Rolling his eyes and dragging out Jett’s name unfavorably he continued, “Which leaves Maebh, who’s already there, and, oh look, you. So can you lighten up just a little and have fun for a change? Or are you programmed to not have fun?” 

“I'm a stormtrooper not a droid, I am perfectly capable of having fun.” With an almost growl like reply she nearly shoved him into a wall as they walked.

“Right, prove it then short stack.” Stopping at a door covered in hearts he grinned and opened it to a cacophony of slow soulful music, giggling chatter, and a familiar red masked mercenary singing along to Frank Sinatra’s The Way You Look Tonight. 

“Damn, Wade outdid himself this time…” Ignoring the jab at her height, or lack there of standing next to the 6’ giant beside her, she scanned the crowded diner until she spotted the date they were crashing. “Look, there’s Sam and Maebh, so glad they took the corner booth, no one has to see me here with you on this puke worthy holiday.” 

“See you with me? I’m the embarrassing one? Didn’t you wreck your chances with a certain clone by being the embarrassing one?” Swaggering along beside her he nodded and grinned at each person that looked up at the pair of them with expressions of confusion or shock. 

“I did not! He was a pushover and that saber wielding witch used her damn dirty jedi mind tricks on him I know it.” She hissed as she slid into the booth seat opposite Sam and Maebh before narrowing her eyes at him for additional confirmation that he was being an idiot in her opinion. “You really know how to treat a lady don’t you?”

“A lady? Where?” He slid into the booth seat and immediately doubled over to rub his shin under the table. “Dude, ow.” His previous grin was replaced by a look of shocked indignation as he glared at his brother sitting across from, ignoring the muffled chuckling coming from both women at the table.

“That's not a very clever pick up line, no wonder you're single.” The blonde managed between her stifled laughs.

“I'm single. You're single. Coincidence? I think not.” he leaned over closer to her smiling broadly with a wink.

“Ok, if you are going to start that right now, you two are going to have to find your own table.” Sam coughed drawing their attention back to the collective group.

“Hey, you asked me to be here, I wasn't going to suffer alone. Besides, I figured maybe you could tell me, you ever danced with her?” His usual cocky grin secured in place as he asked.

“No… Why?” Sam, as well as Maebh and SD, stared at him with mixed looks of confusion and worry.

“I just figured someone that’s hot as hell, had to have danced with the devil a time or two.” The trio of groans were accompanied by howling laughter from the next table over, garnering their attention to see who was listening in on their conversation.

“Oi, Fives, unless you want to eat blaster bolts and leave your date with the check, act like this entire table doesn’t exist. Got it?” SD glared between Sam and Maebh at the clone trooper sitting behind them.

“Don't be like that SD, I'm sure your date wouldn't enjoy you taking time away from him to kick my ass today. I think it’s kinda sweet you found someone to share this earth holiday with.” Fives smiled while draping his arm over his own dates shoulder smirking back at her.

“My date?!” the rest of his words fell on deaf ears as her eye twitched in aggravation. “Move your ass Dean, I'm going to make him eat those words.” 

“Ouch, shot down by the droid captain herself. Knew you didn't have a heart SD.” With a wink he turned back to his table and continued to focus on his date.

“I really hope you got health insurance Fives, cause you're going to need an entire hospital to help you when I'm done with you!” Trying to physically push Dean out of the way she was determined to at the very least punch the clone in the face a few times if not outright stab him.

“Hey, if you were a droid, at least you'd be a HOT-obot. Can I just call you Optimus Fine?” Wiggling his eyebrows in a jesting manner he tried to defuse the situation before SD really did get up to start a fight with Fives.

“Wow Dean, and I thought we would be the ‘gross cute couple’ present. That was just, wow man.” Sam shook his head as Deadpool sauntered over with a tray of drinks in hand to take their order.

“So what can I get the barbershop quartet of murder and mayhem today?” Setting down the tray, he handed a beer to Dean, a glass of water to Sam, and a soda to either SD and Maebh. Tucking the now empty tray under his arm he smoothed out his apron. It was a baby pink thing with red hearts printed across that worked better than Dean's latest pick up line as both women at the table started laughing, even Sam and Dean couldn't help but chuckle.

“We all know you don't do menus, so what's the special today?” Maebh asked after composing herself.

“I'm glad you asked! Today we've got every assortment of pasta you could imagine, I highly recommend the spaghetti to share,” even with his hood on, his eyebrows raising suggestively did not go unnoticed, “as well as all the usual dishes. I focused more on the desserts than the entrees. Sundaes, giant brownies, cheesecakes, basically anything you can imagine is being whipped up!” 

“I don't know what ‘the usual dishes’ are… I'm assuming Earth food?” SD asked with one brow quirked displaying her obvious confusion at everything being said.

“Do you have Alfredo in that ‘every assortment’ of pastas? Been awhile since I had a good Alfredo. You'd probably like it SD, it’s just noodles and sauce.” Maebh gave her order and offered her suggestion to SD.

“Actually that sounds pretty good, make that two please.” Sam chimed in before Deadpool had a chance to answer. Without bothering to verbally confirm their order, he pulled a notepad from his apron pocket and jotted down before looking at Dean and SD.

“I don't even know what pasta is in the first place…”

“You wouldn't like Alfredo, it’s basically vegetarian. You’ll want something with red sauce, more meat.” Dean interjected knowing that someone with a love for carnage like the captain sitting beside him would not be a fan of anything even remotely vegetarian. 

“So the spaghetti to share for the killer couple, got it!” Deadpool didn't give them time to reject his choice for them before he skirted away from their table shouting towards the kitchen “I NEED TWO GREENS PEACE PLATES AND ONE LADY AND THE TRAMP!” 

“Oh hell, he better bring that out on separate plates I swear.” Dean sighed as he took a drink of his beer, grateful the mercenary always magically knew what everyone wanted to drink at least.

“Don't count on it.” Sam chuckled from his side of the table.

“While we're waiting, I got another question for you.” The second the words were out of Dean's mouth Maebh hung her head knowing no good was going to come from his statement.

“Uh, what?” Already not looking forward to whatever stupid thing he was about to say.

“Is that a mirror in your pocket?” With one brow raised and his shit eating grin back in place he waited for her answer.

“No?” Looking down at her pants oblivious to the punch line she wondered why he would have asked that.

“Because I can practically see myself in them.” His other brow raised as he mimicked Deadpool earlier suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

“You'd have better luck seducing her blaster man!” Fives chimed in between laughs.

“Both of you can shut your mouths right now!” She hissed as it dawned on her what he said. “I only came along because you sounded so pathetic and desperate when you asked. This isn't a date, we are not involved romantically or casually, cut it out Dean.” 

“Oh come on, lighten up!” Playfully nudging her shoulder trying to get her out of the sour mood she was in he added, “I just like to stay on top of things. Want to be one of them?” 

“You're going to get stabbed-” Sam started up before Maebh interjected.

“Or shot.”

“Yes, or shot, and ruin the day for everyone here. I'm sorry he's like this SD. He's never had a woman actually say yes to spending Valentine's Day with him and it's clearly gotten to his head.” Sam explained trying to justify his brother's behavior and lower the tension. 

“How sad, makes sense though.” She didn't elaborate and even looked out the window when she caught the confused look on Dean's face.

“How the hell?” He asked looking from SD to Sam and Maebh completely bewildered.

“Because on a scale from one to ten, you're a one, and I'm the nine you need.” A slight smirk crept across her face as she refrained from looking back at him in a poor attempt to keep from laughing. Maebh cracked up though at her retaliation and in turn she couldn't help but start laughing as well.

“Oh! The stormtrooper thinks she's got jokes! That's pretty cute coming from someone who must've sat in a pile of sugar.” He almost started laughing when she scooted over in the seat to see if he was being serious or not. “Because you've got a pretty sweet ass.” 

“Tell me something I didn't know Darth Obvious.” With an amused snort she picked up her soda before noticing Deadpool coming back towards them with a tray of food. “Oh good, at least if your mouth is full you can't make anymore dumb jokes.”

“I got something that could fill your mouth.” He muttered quietly as he watched her start choking on her drink. 

“What the kark!” Having nearly snorted out her drink through her nose she had to take a moment to get her breath back as Deadpool set out their plates.

“Alfredo for you, Alfredo for you, and please wait until you're back at your own place before you start choking on things that are hard to swallow SD, my other patrons don't need to see that.” Setting down their large shared plate of spaghetti he made a quick exit away from their table to go check on other lunch dates before SD could retaliate amidst the rest of their table laughing heartily. 

Still coughing on her drink she could only glare at him as he walked off before she could reply or at least throw a knife at him. She knew it wouldn't have done any real damage to him, but it would have made her feel better that even he had gotten a jab in at her expense. 

“Hey, calm down, you'll want to save your energy for tonight after all.” Dean grinned as Sam and Maebh groaned. 

“Can you at least keep it clean so I can keep my food down?” Sam pleaded as he took a bite of his food and mumbled about how good it was, to which Maebh mumbled back around a bite herself. 

“I make no promises, it's hard to keep it clean when you've got a health hazard sitting next to you.” 

“Hey Dean?” The almost innocent nature of her question was concerning all on its own.

“Yeah?” Watching her nervously he had a nagging thought in the back of his mind to get out of the way but he stayed sitting anyways.

“You dropped something.” Looking past him at the floor beside their booth she kept up the casual tone and calm façade.

“What?” Following her gaze he didn't see anything and became confused. “No I didn't?”

“Yeah, you did…” taking advantage of him leaning towards the floor, she shoved him out of the seat before adding “your standards.” While he flailed futility to try and keep himself from falling, she took a bite of the weird mess of food sitting before her and grinned. “At least your taste in food isn't terrible.”

“You just called yourself low standard, you know that right?” He asked as he got back into his seat.

“I never said mine were great either.” She muttered as they continued to eat their meals with minimal conversation. 

When their plates were mostly empty, and after a short battle for the last meatball, Deadpool came back around with drink refills. “And what can I get you all to satisfy your sweet tooth? Brownies? Ice cream? Both? Cake? Pie? -”

Almost simultaneously SD and Dean's faces lit up at the mention of pie as they perked up and asked “Pie?” Gaining them a chuckle from Sam and Maebh who both knew Dean loved pie more than any other food except maybe burgers. Looking from Deadpool to one another skeptically they spoke up at the same time again.

“You actually know what pie is?!”

“Pie is an Earth food?!”

“If I hadn't already met God, I'd think he was real now. A woman after my own heart.” He wiped away a fake tear as Deadpool took the moment to throw a handful of candy hearts in the air above them bringing both out of their shock to glare up at him in annoyance as the hard candies pelted them mercilessly. 

“What the kark Deadpool! What are these things?” SD hissed as she picked one up and saw that it had words on it. “Cutie Pie? Is this some kind of joke?” 

“The only joke here is that you might have actually found someone SD.” Fives piped up after being silent for too long. “Ouch! Those things hurt!” He ducked down before she could throw another one at the back of his head.

“So I think it's obvious they want pie, but can we get a Sunday please?” Maebh interjected before SD and Fives started up again.

“Of course! All the toppings?” He asked, looking at Sam and Maebh ignoring SD and Dean shaking candy hearts out of their shirts.

“Yeah? Sam?” She asked not sure if he had any allergies she should be considerate of.

“Anything you want, I'm not a big dessert person anyways.” Seeing the slightly dejected look at his words he quickly added “I'll still have a few bites though.” 

“HEY SLADE I NEED A BANANA BOAT AND A COUPLE SLICES OF YOUR GRANDMA'S BLUE RIBBON!” He shouted as he started down the row of booths to take other dessert orders and shower more unknowing patrons with hard sugary treats.

“Seriously though, what are these things?” SD asked the rest of the table as she picked a few more up to read them. Pulling a disgusted face at one that read 'soul mates’ before flicking it away from her.

“They're candy with silly messages printed on them,” Maebh answered as she picked a few up to read as well. “Though there's some X-rated ones mixed in… not surprising coming from Deadpool though.” 

“Hey, SD…” Dean held out a heart that clearly Deadpool had somehow managed to make and mix into the regular cutesy ones that read ‘nice ass’. 

With a grin she picked through the ones on the table and held one up in reply 'eat me’. Of course she had meant it in a 'go fuck yourself’ kind if way not knowing it was intentionally one of the dirty ones mixed in.

“If you insist, we'll need that pie to go though.” Leaning closer to her he held out another ‘lets bang!’.

“I may not have a heart, but know a few other ways to get blood pumping.” She grinned as she spoke up enough for Fives to hear. The resounding sputtering of a drink was all the response she needed to start laughing her ass off. For additional effect, added for Sam and Maebh's benefit, while pushing Dean out of the booth she tacked on a “Sorry to have to bail on you guys early, but I can think of better places to enjoy a slice of pie among other things.”

“Wait, seriously?” Stunned by what was going on he didn't really have the mental capacity to object or question her as she flagged down Deadpool and dragged him along. 

“What just happened?” Maebh asked Sam, equally confused.

“Dean just met his match is what just happened.” He chuckled as he leaned back into the booth seat to relax.

[godtierwallflower]

Sleepy ramble, need these thoughts out in the world so I can sleep please: Kakashi dies specifically for Choji and generally for the village, Gai (almost) dies specifically for Lee and Kakashi and generally for the world. They have both probably thought alot about when and who for they would die. Also they both have issues really connecting with people (maybe connected, sorta, sleep please, Kakagai) Overall thoughts?

Well, sweet dreams then!

tldr; Yes, Kakashi and Gai both grew up with the intention of eventually dying for someone. They’ve both probably thought a lot about when they were going to die. In Kakashi’s case, he thought most about the people on the other side, while in Gai’s case, he thought most about the people who would stay alive by his sacrifice, although they each respectively thought about the other issue too.

As you wish, some Kakashi and Gai and kakagai meta under the cut! With pictures!

Kakashi adopted the mindset after he repeatedly lost his loved ones and became disillusioned with himself and the job. 

As Gai, Kurenai, and Asuma pointed out, when Kakashi was in ANBU, he acted like he was in a hurry to die. When he did die for Choji, you could tell there was definitely a great relief to getting to die and imagining his loved ones. When he sees Minato, Obito, and Rin smiling and greeting him on the other side, we know that was all in his imagination (because Obito isn’t dead), but when he sees his father in purgatory, he’s mostly ready to accept that this is his time. Kakashi, maybe subconsciously, seems to find people easy to love/admit to himself that he loves when he’s already lost them. 

When Sasuke specifically threatens to kill Kakashi’s loved one(s), for example…

He wasn’t entirely open about this, of course. He was trying, in good faith, to convince Sasuke that giving up the ghost and focus on what he had instead of what he lost. And admittedly, it does make Sasuke remember that Sakura and Naruto are both precious to him, and Kakashi is doing this as the only adult in this series to genuinely try to connect with and help Sasuke without the intention of using him. If Sasuke didn’t have people specifically trying to force him to relapse on his unhealthier mindsets, this might have actually worked. With that in mind, it would have been useless for Kakashi to give a more honest answer of “Okay, their names are Gai and Yamato, but at your level right now they’ll probably kick your butt.”

But the point remains that this is one of Kakashi’s most well-known quotes.

There are a lot of ways to read it, but taken at face value, this is Kakashi saying the people he loves most are the people who have died, and that his new companions are a consolation to that pain. And there is some truth in that. Kakashi deifies the late Obito and visits his grave so much that it makes him late for prior engagements he has with the living, and he carries the weight of his father’s death for quite a while. Chronologically, he’s known Gai about as long as he’s known Obito and Rin, but Gai and Yamato still go in the same category of new companions who he hasn’t lost [yet]. You could even say that he loves Obito and Rin more in death than he did in life (although Minato and Sakumo he already loved quite a bit).

It takes him a long while to admit that he loves the kids on his team. He doesn’t say it until after he’s reconciled with Obito.

But he is still willing to give his all and his life for the village and especially its kids, which is why it means so much that he died for Choji specifically and the village broadly, who he hadn’t been shown interacting with a lot up to that point. Kakashi is bad at forming mutual connections, and is even adverse to it, but he is surprisingly quick to care about people enough to put his life on the line. It doesn’t interfere with his professionalism, but he certainly does have a lot of close calls and hospital visits throughout the series. 

This? Doesn’t happen. We know it’s all in Kakashi’s head, because Obito is… not there. This is a visual representation of Kakashi being sad because he couldn’t have that sweet release of death, to put it bluntly.

It comes down to the fact that, until he meets Obito again, he feels like the people he’s most able to love and miss are the people who are already dead. After he’s faced his demons, reconciled with Obito and the idea of letting him down via Rin, and even worked under Minato again, Kakashi is able to stop living his life feeling like he owed his lost ones a meaningful death. He lives and becomes Hokages because he wants to be there for the people he loves, and in Kakashi Hiden, he mentally lists off those living people he loves and it fuels him as motivation to finally accept the position of Hokage. He still carries the lessons he learned, as we can see when he warns Houki of the dangers of not trying to use teamwork and connect with his team while he still had time, but Kakashi’s words can finally ring true in the New Era. “No time like the present.” 

Gai has lived his life with the ideal that a life given for someone you love is a noble thing, and on some level, he’s also missed his dad as well. 

He sees his dad as a man worth emulating, and that final act of love and sacrifice is something he always planned to follow up on. But this likely isn’t driven by a desire to simply see his father again on the other side. Rather, it’s another way for Gai to keep his father’s teaching alive and honor a long-standing self-rule. 

Gai is actually a very private person. His purposely positive and silly front is largely that, a front, and that’s pretty clear throughout the series, but especially in comparison to his younger, more pessimistic self. 

He’s very caring and protective, but it’s not clear who he’s actually opened up to. He hides his weaknesses and doubts from Lee and his team for sure, because he wants to be their inspiration and not put any of his own hangups on the kids he’s raising.

And he’s not in a hurry to die. He’s been noted throughout the series to have a incredible level of endurance and stamina, to the point where he’s got the highest pain tolerance out of anyone in the series, and he’s able to brush off or heal from relatively major injuries. He takes good care of himself. Gai is actually very conservative about using the eight gates.

In all his fights with Kisame, for example, he started out in his base form, assessed the level of his opponent, and then, once he figured it out, opened enough gates to quickly and one-sidedly end the fight.

Gai wants to live. He’s open about the fact that he loves his team from the very first day they’re assigned to him, he’s open about the fact that he loves and cares about Kakashi for a long, long time, he’s open about caring about the kids and the village in general.

But he’s not open about his thoughts and worries, and part of the reason he acts so goofy and openly doesn’t care what others say about him behind his back or to his face is because it’s partially a way to keep others at arm’s length, too. Gai knows for a long time that he’s planning on going out in a blaze of glory, after all.

Gai ultimately opens the gates for two of the people he loves most in the world, Kakashi and Lee, as well as for the future of all of Konoha. And he doesn’t hesitate. As soon as it’s clear that that’s his only viable option, he announces his intent to the others and then ignores their arguments for why he shouldn’t.

In regards to kakagai, this is something they both know about each other and have frequently argued about, and they’re both well aware that they’re hypocrites for criticizing it in each other.

Kakashi and Gai are outright passive-aggressive at each other about this, in front of their students. It’s well-established that they’ve had this sort of back-and-forth of “I don’t want you to die.” “I’ll die if I want to, screw you.” for a long time now, and Kakashi is openly disdainful of Gai using the gates at all. Not enough to actually interfere with each other’s tasks or fights, of course. Just enough to be passive-aggressive about it from time to time.

As of the New Era, or even just post-war in general, they’ve mellowed out in regards to this. Gai, because he’s already opened the 8th gate in what he thought was his final sacrifice and probably can’t do it again, and Kakashi, because he knows his loved ones beyond the grave don’t hate him and don’t want him to hurry up and die.

It’s part of why post-war, Kakashi and Gai are closer and happier together than ever before.

[mosylufanfic]

Killervibe + 28. “You can’t just say that and expect me to go along with it.”

Today‘s NaNo prompt has some of my favorite things - fake dating, college AU, Dante being a dick … not that I like Dante being a dick but I do like characters other than Cisco recognizing it. (I know he’s dead and Cisco’s very sad, but honestly, he was a whole bag of dicks to his brother. A whole lot.) Enjoy!

ETA: Tweaking a line that occurred me after I posted, of course.

Mosylu, what are you on about

Do It for the ‘Gram

The moment she saw him with all his stuff spread out over a table in the time-honored saving-a-space tradition, Caitlin felt her mood lift. Just who she’d been hoping to see. She’d sent him a text, but her phone had been acting up lately and she was afraid it hadn’t gone through.

She wove her way through the tables and dropped her bag into a free chair. “Cisco! Hi!”

His head came up. But instead of the ten-thousand watt grin that he usually flashed when they spotted each other around campus for the first - or second or third - time in a day, his face went strangely slack.

“Caitlin,” he said in a high pitched voice. “I thought - weren’t you going home this weekend?”

“I was,” she said. “Something came up and my mom had to leave town, so it didn’t really seem like it was worth it to go home for her birthday.” She shrugged, trying to look casual.

“Wow, that really sucks. I’m so sorry. Um - ” His eyes darted around. “So, see you later?”

She frowned at him. “No, I came here to eat, and I figured we could eat together. Did your brother get here yet? We could all have dinner.” He hadn’t been exactly looking forward to his brother’s visit, she knew. Maybe she could be a buffer.

“No!” he yelped. “I mean. Um. Yeah, he’s here, but we’re just gonna grab and go, like, explore the campus, so if you wanna sit down to eat like you do - ”

“If you’re going to grab and go, why are you saving a table?”

He looked flagrantly guilty.

“Cisco,” she said.

He leaned forward. “Okay, no offense, you’re my best friend and I love you, but please just go - somewhere else right now?”

Hurt rose up in her. “Why do you want to get rid of me?” Something caught her eye. “And why is there a guy by the Taco Bell waving at us and smirking?”

Cisco turned around to look back at the good-looking guy standing in the burrito line. He grinned broadly, waved back, and turned, his face falling into lines of horror again.

“Francisco Ramon, I deserve to know what’s going on.”

“Don’t hate me.”

“Getting close to too late for that,” she sniped, although she could never, ever hate him. She could be pretty mad at him for awhile, though.

He muttered, “Okay, first of all, that guy’s my brother. And second, he kind of thinksyou'remygirlfriend.”

“What?”

He clapped his hands, face bright. “Okay, good talk, see you Monday?”

“No!” she said. “Cisco! You can’t just say that and expect me to go along with it.”

He lifted a finger. “Point of order, I’ve been actively trying to remove you from the situation where you’ll have to go along with it.”

“If anything, that’s worse. I’m supposed to walk off and know you’re making up stories about me being your girlfriend behind my back? How long has this been going on?”

“Oh my god, I didn’t make up stories!”

“Are you saying we’ve been dating without my knowledge?”

“Look, this is how it happened, okay? I put up some pics on Instagram last month, and I just called you ‘my friend,’ I promise. My brother was the one who commented about my, um, hot new girlfriend.”

“And you agreed with him?”

“Not exactly, I just never … corrected him.” His words trailed off into a mutter. He looked shamefaced. “I’m sorry. I know it was wrong. I’m really sorry.”

She gave him a narrow gaze. “Let me see your phone.”

He unlocked it and handed it over. She didn’t have Instagram, so while she knew he’d put up some pictures with her in them, she’d never seen the pictures or the comments. She scrolled through his picture stream.

He was telling the truth about his part of the conversation, at least. His brother’s comments were all along the lines of “damn, your new gf is a hottie” and “nice work little bro” and “can’t believe you bagged that.” She made a face and handed the phone back.

He took it meekly. “And I swear to you, I was going to tell him we broke up. As soon as he got back with the food. Seriously. Actually, that was why he wasn’t going to meet you, because you went home for the weekend to get some space after our breakup.”

“Except I’m not home, I’m here,” she said. “Sitting at your table, for the past ten minutes. And he’s seen both of us.”

He drew on the surface of the table with his finger. “Maybe we were really amicable?”

Caitlin rejected that possibility out of hand. If she ever dated him and then broke up with him, there was no way she could be amicable enough to eat a friendly dinner together just a few days later.

“Look,” he said. “If you want, I’ll tell him everything. Or you can tell him everything. Really let me have it.”

She thought of the things he’d let slip, here and there, about his brother. About the teasing, about the constant one-upmanship, about how every accomplishment Cisco had ever achieved was eclipsed somehow by Dante’s genius.

She thought of the comments on the pictures. “Nice job, good work.” Okay, they were gross - bagged that, like she was an elk - but at the same time, they were about the nicest thing that Dante had ever said to him. She knew what it felt like to yearn for approval from someone you loved, to have it so close you could almost taste it, to see it disappear in a wisp of smoke.

“And how long will he hold that over your head?” she asked. “If he learns the truth.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Come on. This is the same guy who still brings out the pictures from when you were four years old and thought it was comic genius to run around with your Spiderman Underoos on your head.”

“Kinda ruined Spidey for me, honestly,” he said. “Yeah, he’d bring it up forever. But I deserve it.”

“Yes and no,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Yes, it was wrong, which you’ve apologized for. But you don’t deserve the way he would treat you if he found out.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “How demonstrative am I? As a girlfriend.”

"What do you mean?”

“I mean, does he think I cuddle and smooch all the time? Or do I just sometimes hold your hand?”

“I - uh - we - we never talked about that. Caitlin, what - ”

“I’m going to have to do some of that, so it’s believable.”

“What are you saying?”

She poked her finger at him. “For the next two days, I’ll be your pretend girlfriend in front of your brother.”

His mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious.”

“On the condition that as soon as he goes home, you tell him we broke up.”

“Yes,” he said very fast. “Yes! Monday. Tuesday at the latest.”

“You swear?”

“By everything I hold dear.”

She reached across the table to link her hand with his. “Okay,” she said.

He stared at her wide-eyed, his mouth a little open. She felt herself blushing. This was the weirdest thing she’d ever done, and he hadn’t even asked her to.

“So!” a big voice said. “You must be Caitlin.”

It as the voice of a person accustomed to everyone looking at him, everyone smiling at him, everyone waiting for his next word. It told her a lot about Cisco, about where he’d learned to slip jokes and quips into the conversation as fast as a knife in the ribs.

She looked up. He was very good looking, and to judge from the way he carried his shoulders and his head, he’d always known it. “And you must be Dante,” she said, a little bit more coolly than a girl meeting her boyfriend’s older brother strictly should. “I’ve heard … a lot about you.”

Was that a flicker in his big, toothy smile? A hint of uncertainty that someone might not immediately adore him?

She turned to Cisco. “I’m going to get my food, honey. I’ll be back.”

“Can’t wait,” he mumbled, still a step or two behind.

She got up and circled around the table to lean down and give him a loving, girlfriendly kiss on the cheek.

“You’re an angel,” he muttered to her behind the curtain of her hair.

“You owe me,” she breathed, and straightening up, headed for the food court.

FINIS

[ratherhavetheblues]

ABBAS KIAROSTAMI’S TEN “Alright…”

© 2017 by James Clark

   Ten (2002) begins with a mother and her pre-adolescent son moving along the streets of Tehran in her car. Although a vicious, lacerating dispute takes place, which has an effect similar to stunning seasickness, we should, for the sake of the lucidity to be found in that stifling cabin cruiser (always seen from the inside) and the subsequent episodes of patrolling those roads, stand back, for a bit, from the opening emotional blood-letting and let ourselves be delighted by Corky, the LA cabby, and her fare, Victoria, the Hollywood talent scout, in the first episode of Jim Jarmusch’s Night on Earth (1991). The foul-mouth boy is a sort of talent scout, scouting the prospect of inducing his open-road mother to play the part of a stay-at-home-mom in a story made to garner acclaim from those demanding dutiful piety. The philosophical driver, like Corky, runs over the crock that rigid matrimony (like rigid fame) constitutes; and she lives to drive another day, and many other days.

    Whereas Victoria sees Corky’s point and wishes her well on her rocky road, Amin, the Tehran passenger—like the Idi Amin—discloses a vein of resentment toward interpersonal complication which, though aberrant, is also intrinsic. As such, Ten comprises a multi-faceted dialogue on the subject which could be termed, “How far do you want to investigate the phenomenon of love?” The first episode, labelled “10,” as affixed to the driver’s other drives which the film provides over a quite short period counting down to “1,” could be seen as a vividly dramatic study of the fallout of a divorce. (We learn, from the two major battles along that kinetic way, that the divorce occurred seven years ago, she has remarried, but her first husband—whom we see on several occasions, but always in a white jeep [evoking a UN bureaucratic Peace-Keeper, devoutly rule-driven, obsessed with an antiquated utopian end of strife]—an avid porn connoisseur, is less than able to contribute to putting together a serious support for his son; but that he has, in occasional contacts, become a factor nevertheless in inculcating Amin to a dogmatic primitiveness [linked to unpaid “activist” causes] which the driver had overcome. During the verbal brawl, she insists. “You’re like your father. He shut me away, destroyed me. He wanted me only for himself.” [At which point the clever primitive gives her a dagger-like sideways glance and commands, “Not so loud! Not so loud or I won’t listen to you…”] The skirmish turns to her demand, “I’ll say what I have to say” and his “I don’t want to listen” and cupping his ears.) However, as we look closely at the negotiations in the sanctuary of her smoothly-running vehicle, we realize that though Amin, true to his name, is a vicious, implacable thug, his mother (never named and thereby approximating an anonymity at the heart of her actions) is caught up in making an effort, an effort which has been repeated many times, to enlighten her son about the paradox of caring for a flesh-and-blood loved-one while belonging to something more. Episode 10, therefore, shows her (penultimate) folly in supposing a creature of Amin’s age and pathology would ever attain to anything resembling effective reflection.

   The driver, as we first encounter her new bid for mutual understanding in a deadened history, repeats the parable of a friend’s parents dragging themselves into hate and enfeeblement when a divorce would have given them a new lease on life. “I’m talking to you, let me finish. When I talk, you raise your voice…”/ ‘So what?” (Amin’s brush-offs are supplemented by arrogant, menacing and insulting visages and bodily attitudes, including an often seen rippling touch to his mouth as he heckles a deadly enemy.) “It’s impolite. Let me finish and you’ll understand” [the cosmic, not domestic situation]. You listen to everyone but you  refuse to listen to your own mother.”/ “Because you’re going to lecture me again. You always have to talk…” As we shall soon discover from the following encounters, the lady does bring to us an absorbing skill in silence and reticence. Accordingly, her next step in that trap she hasn’t fully figured out is to promise only two more sentences (“and I’ll shut up… never speak again…”). “I feel fulfilled now, like a flowing river. I was a stagnant pond. My brain was devastated.” The hardened midget (with a trace of a black moustache) shoots out, “That makes three sentences, and they’re all rubbish! I’ll never listen to you again!” The pact of silence now in shreds, there obtains a rapid-fire exchange, going nowhere. Picking up her dynamic priority as challenging Neanderthal stasis and old-time-family style, he sneers, “You only thought of yourself.” She fires back, “If you love yourself, you love someone else…” / “Enough! You talk too much!” the anointed thought-controller megaphones. She accurately posits, “You want me for yourself.” He declares, “I don’t want you to be mine! You screwed up… You stupid cow!” Once again, concluding much more than a family conflict, she drops him off at the swimming pool by saying, “A man who doesn’t love himself loves no one.” (Before that, she has broadcast to us, not him, “No one belongs to anyone. Not even you… You’re my child but you’re not mine. You belong to this world. We try to live here.” He cannily reconfigures the big picture to retail a comfortable little picture. “I have to grow up to attain an age that will allow me to belong to myself… You left. You crossed to the other side…”)

    As he leaves the ride, with the expected, “You stupid idiot… I’ve never seen anyone so stupid…” his domain—he on camera the whole passage—we see her for the first time emerging from the fringes, a figure of physical attractiveness, gentleness, deftness and confidence. Those gifts are on fascinating display for the remainder of the film. Although the outset might suggest she’s just a parent ferrying her child, we come to realize that the car and its motions are her real home, only incidentally playing host to a relative in the process of being a stupid idiot she used to know. With Amin snarling about the stepfather who does a lot more than the imam he calls dad, she quietly maintains, “But in any case he’s my friend and a good [though sometime] companion.” Make no mistake, though her sensibility is tolerant, generous, witty and incisive, she is an ultimate loner. Cutting from the one you’d hope would drown, she’s calmly in cruising mode (Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin [2013] probably owing something to it). But once again a relative, her sister, is on camera first. This latter passenger, though not flashing murderous glances, is disconcertingly anxious and depressed—pulling at her cheeks, fidgeting with a paper fan and casting crisis-level eyes to the streets as if she were riding in a tumbril. She’s in grey and black all round, making a sharp contrast to her driver-sister’s decorative scarlet robe and creamy-toned scarf, not to mention (as in the previous episode) chic Ray-Bans. The protagonist enters the car with a large bag of fruit, not exactly a bacchanal but putting us on notice that, as with Kiarostami, the Ayatollahs could be largely ignored and circumvented. The gloomy one pronounces, “6000 Tomas wasted…” But after a spate with Amin, the protagonist has come to a party mode no one’s going to spoil. Rather than trying to lighten up her sister, she, in the first of many gracious inventions in face of bad behavior, appeals to her theological, breaking-bread leanings. “It’s for the guests” [soon we learn that the home-alone friend is having a 39th birthday party]. The ascetic arm of the family sniffs, “I give classes every day. I have a job…” [in connection to which her young child has to be brought to the workplace]. (During a later incident with Amin, we hear that the protagonist needs a lot of time for her photography and painting. Kiarostami was a photographer and painter of some renown and cash-flow. The upshot of our free-spirit’s convening such difficult transactions is an assurance that when she gets down to her métiers sparks will fly.) The protagonist’s job being something seen by the stodgy wing of her family as a pseudo-occupation, the contrarian ne plus ultra proceeds to offer up a sensibility, while cruising those streets night and day, to bring up to speed the superior products of her investigative craft. Now, if not a laughing matter, at least a broadly smiling matter, she quips, “He won’t accuse you of abandoning him at playschool.” On a roll and rolling her funereal sister for what might pop out, she moots, “Today, children accuse parents of all kinds of things…” The leaden one states the obvious, “They’re wrong to. I mean parents can’t kill themselves…” The driver hits two notes at once by calling out, “Ah, is this a dead end?” The practical one informs, “A day-nursery isn’t always a good thing…But for age 3, especially for an only child, it’s ideal…” More tiny news for the bemused: “You know what’s wrong with Amin, sis? Amin convinces himself he’s unhappy…” She, having already seen the end-game, despite the need to marvel that sanity is beyond most earthlings, hears from the worrier, “Leave him be, let him go to his father’s to get to know him better. Don’t fool yourself…” Cueing up, where this countdown will lead, the driver seems to be at a (temporary?) loss with the devastation which her career entails. “I don’t know…” Then the perceived expert ushers the crisis along. “You grow fond of what you love.”/ “That’s right. I can’t deny it” [and she can’t deny that this is a tough terrain to cover]. Therefore, we’ve had a taste of something better than birthday cake, namely, a sort of Socratic dialogue; but unlike Socrates/ Plato the stakes are truly problematic, giving rise to endless inquiries and adjustments. The driver’s statement, “I’m waiting for him to realize that,” is sheer dark comedy. On the heels of that impasse, we receive the more farcical exit as she turns back to the traffic in the street and the traffic in the universe. “Look at that guy! What an idiot!”

   Down to story 8, she initially appears to us at ease in being silent and mobile and going along the prayer zone in a gown with a darker, black and gold design. (In the previous episodes she was wearing shades; in the rendezvous with Amin, a dark-red gown; in the soon-to-come being rid of him, a much brighter red gown and jade rings.) She stops to give a ride to an elderly woman, bent over and laboring, but with a resolve in her bearing which galvanizes our protagonist. “I’ll be like her one day,’ she says to herself with a cheery tone. She asks the lady, “Is this a dead-end?” And she’s shown in a roundabout way the path to the mausoleum/ prayer-room leaving open how beyond a dead-end this is. On first being seated, the passenger intones, “May God protect you,” the first of a stream of pious declarations. The driver affords this licence a patient and encouraging cordiality, seeking to find there a magical boost. “May He save us from all our worries…” follows quickly. Our guide for the duration is taken up with driving, not heart-to-heart troubles. “I’m lost. I don’t know this way…” Keeping a light tone, the ancient rattles off, “Well don’t go down here, it leads nowhere!” Now on the straight and narrow, the passenger delineates details of her, if not exuberant, prolific strivings. “I go in the morning, mid-day and sunset… I pray for the boys and girls… I pray for old ladies and men…” We know by now that Amin’s mother has large misgivings about such heavy zeal; and this episode wonderfully sets in relief the taste for gentle irony with which she hits the road. “You only go there to pray?”/ “I pray there and elsewhere.”/ “Are your wishes granted?”/ “God alone grants wishes. My prayers don’t need that [that is to say, the bid for union suffices beyond being rescued from death]. My husband is dead. My 12-year-old son, too… That’s why I pray [offsetting the calculus of loss]. I also sold my home to go to a pilgrimage in Syria…”

   From a secular perspective, inattentive to the zealot’s heretical grace, she’s lost; and our protagonist is in the forefront of secularity. Nevertheless, our poised talent scout accentuates the possibility of calculative cowardice being shattered by the sheer visceral flare-ups of the ancient’s recognition that an elusive balance is worth going for broke. “I’ve known great misfortune. But I gave everything I owned.” The eccentric mom praises the stranger’s “pretty rosary” and endures the loopiness of the banal brio she’s hearing. She can’t, however, be indifferent to features of the saga like a daughter’s stomach tumor and being afraid of the upcoming operation. She can see the desperate egotism in factors like, “I swear on the Imam Reza, I gave away the mattresses…” and yet the very hopelessness of this distemper (like the poison of her own son) touches her as endlessly significant. She enthuses with her guest, “Very good! The fewer ties you have the better you live.” The simple soul offers to car-sit while the sort of soulmate goes to pray. “No thank you. I have a lot to do…” is the way their paths diverge forever.

   Step 7, on the way to a blast-off of sorts, finds her at the wheel, beaming with the irony that, while cruising late at night on a hooker trail, she was mistaken for a John and invaded by a cynical entity; but, once again, a slice of something she wants to grasp. The poor vision of the “night worker” (in the parlance of The Wind Will Carry Us) traces straight to Corky’s Paris colleague in part 3 of Night on Earth, who, after losing his temper and throwing out a couple of delusional drunks in the night, gets hailed by a blind and Amin-like vicious, arrogant fare. “Stop here, I’m getting out,” the embarrassed pro demands. The driver, not surprisingly, answers, “I’m interested in talking with you…” In a sleepy voice, the reluctant conversationalist replies, once again (bringing to mind the blinded French stone wall), “Stop here, I’m getting out!” But when our protagonist takes special interest in being mistaken for a man, the night person gives out some inkling that she’s not totally benighted. She gleefully shrieks with the pitfall, again demands the ride end and the near-cabby promises, “A bit further on” [hoping that the cradle-dynamics of the drive and the volcano of that scream will produce some seismic information]. “I saw you come out of that Mercedes…” she hopefully cues some pop. First, the passenger draws the wall, “I’m going nowhere…Let me off!” But our guide is an ardent provocateur and hits pay dirt of sorts with, “Why do you do this?” After Amin-like bluster— “Give me a break… You want to lecture me?”—the wild card can’t resist declaiming, “An honest job, a decent job!” More squeals ensue. Then she feels a little needle: “It’s interesting… a girl like you [with aspirations I want to hear about]. Pretend that you’re a man…” She quickly insists, “I’m not working in that field yet!” Having seen a glimpse of her bourgeois self-justification, the protagonist persists, “No, really… What’s the reason you do this?” This elicits the hooker’s being hooked on two incompatible motives—the volatility of which perhaps leading somewhere for her own, far more comprehensive, study; and even more to the point, her ongoing bounce against the carnality of everyone she meets (a hooker’s body-contact being a dash of physicality with much on the ball). “Sex, Love, Sex” the captive blurts out. “That’s all life is?” the traveller, setting the horizon to be engaged, moots. “It’s a trade, it’s my job. And I like it [moreover]. What’s this ‘interesting?’” She goes on, from that confrontational stance, to assure the driver, “I’m not going to cry… It’s life or it’s destiny” [brutal zoology or subversive mysticism]. The driver assures her she’s not going to lecture. “I’m interested in your experience, what you feel, your sensations…” “What sensations?” she replies with some anger. “Don’t you think about sin and guilt” is the night-shift’s way of discerning how wild is the wild one (who, by then, has taken off her shoes to ease the pain of walking in shoes not made for walking). Though the passenger insists, “That was a stupid thing to say… Why don’t you try it yourself?” she shifts, by way of finding out that the near-cabby is married, into a screed about all men being traitors. “He says, ‘I love you,’ doesn’t he?” Her clients often say that when their wife calls, duped that he’s at the other office. This is where the flight hits real turbulence, the driver not apt to be greatly preoccupied with the low-key ways of her “friend and good companion.” The shoeless and rather clueless street walker even dovetails with Amin and that totally blind angry rider in Night on Earth: “You’re an idiot and I’m smart.” She purports to have no affection for any of her clients, nor anyone else. There is one more step to take and the protagonist takes it when inferring that her rough trade in the days before wholesaling touched her indelibly. “To wake up thinking about him! We were engaged. I was a fool.” The night may not have yielded any new talent; it did spotlight her close to frightening disinterestedness.

   Corky was induced, by the talent-scout, to admit she’d love to have children, that she has an ardent dream centered upon domesticity.  But her certainty about the perfidy of the male talent pool left us seeing her as a free spirit somewhat by default. The protagonist of our tale here clearly puts freedom first and evinces a highly eccentric but potentially fertile way of extending her powers, including interpersonal powers. The remainder of the snippet given to us largely pertains to ditching the monster from her craft. Accordingly, it sustains the sense of coping more effectively (which is far from coping more easily) in face of the impasses every ride must endure. Therefore, to deploy the motif of the protagonist’s vibrancy in a sharp light we’ll dip into the number four junket, where, in an atmosphere of very spare light, a woman relentlessly laments a man’s leaving her, with the kind of addictive melancholy seen in the last (Helsinki) phase of Night on Earth, where a taxi driver vies with his customers to be the saddest person on earth. Just as the error of the hooker’s drawing a blank with a badly recognized woman, the welcome of a dead loss might seem one of those bad days; but our guide of things mysterious proves to be a versatile and agile discoverer of what she needs to press forward the big picture. Knowing from the top there’ll be no sparkle in this outing, the driver runs past the veil of tears that structure of equiprimordial connection and aloneness. “You’re weak, very weak,” is her bid to snap her into some semblance of adult responsiveness. (She bemusingly adopts Amin’s phrases, “Give it a rest, so we can eat in peace” [giving us to understand that the passenger is not a one-off but a long-term piece of work].) The protagonist in a tight spot realizes she has misplayed this engagement and strikes a far more primordial, disinterested note. “We women are unhappy. We don’t love ourselves… You can’t sum it up in just one person. Life is so vast. Why depend on just one person?” “Why not?” the weak one blubbers—Jarmusch’s “jerking off” very much in play, with its hopeless cases and vast wastelands. Even here there is a moment of dark mirth: “Why not [the dead weight argues] be different?” [as if hopeless losers are few and far between]. The talent scout’s parting declaration, “You can’t live without losing. We come into the world for that” [dodging black holes like her], is entirely addressed to herself and her being on the spot to deal mercilessly with the poisonous while being warmly on the trail for hearts with some gold.

   Another friend turns up, by day, this time—in hurdles 6 and 2—and our protagonist, unlike her keeping her distance from the theology of the old lady, dresses to seem ready to coincide with the pious passenger from her own generation. Perhaps struck briefly again by the pathos of that elder’s personal best, she opens the conversation with, “You come to the mausoleum, too?” After rather self-consciously tossing back-and-forth the vagaries of religious garb, the ascetic (in vast contrast to the divorcer of Amin with her chic upbeat and intrinsic warmth), strained, though gentle friend, of quite recent vintage, asserts that her pattern is once or twice a week. “I’m used to it…” Holding to irony as if a vitamin pill, the driver, only apparently onside, avers. “It hasn’t become a habit with me…” Then, being very devious by necessity, there is, “I never imagined I’d come to a mausoleum to pray.” The questioner discovers that though the promising friend (more promising than now) at first did not subscribe she does now, “to a certain extent… Actually, it soothes me.” At this, the driver gives her a wan smile and quips, “Anyhow, I haven’t found peace of mind, yet [neither, of course, in immortality, nor in a largesse in becoming extinct]. One day, maybe, who knows?” Showing very well that words can produce more assurance of being on the same page than they really mean, the religionist maintains, “I’ve been coming here for ages and I still haven’t had anything.” “Perhaps it’s a big wish… Too big…” is the secular learner’s way of getting on an open road where they can get down to business. This cut-off, however, immediately ends in a ditch. “It’s not a very big wish…” This is so because for the seeming or hope-to-be adventurer, all she was serious about was her on-again/ off-again marriage engagement. “I come here to pray to make it come true… I think he’s full of contradictions.” In one of those deft touches of street navigation landing in the face of a lousy navigator in a much wider sense, the driver shouts out, “How can I get by if you just stand there?” After a pause where the passengers of a wayward vehicle make rude gestures, she adds (to the jerks outside and the jerk inside), “And you think it’s funny? What an idiot!” Right about here, our guide has to be digging down to put natural motion into the “just stand there.” She takes up with her friend, notwithstanding, the “contradictions,” (and potential syntheses) of the case. The eligible one moots the factor of “fate” in all this. Taking another run at the stand-still, the driver takes liberties with the facts in claiming that she tells her son about fate, “come what may…” (yet she’s a paragon of radical resolve, too vigorous for her surround). “He says he doesn’t understand fate [a phenomenon with a purchase on freedom]. He just can’t accept it” [he truly doesn’t accept freedom per se]. “What’s his problem?” the dutiful domestic asks, no doubt providing a stiff shot of dark mirth. She improvises on that theme of absurdity. “He has no particular problem. Or maybe he does….” In this vein of tough roiling, she sketches out the bare bones of the count-down. “I divorced. One day he no longer wanted to live with me. And he left. He tells me I’m a bad mother. Mainly he couldn’t stand the atmosphere at home anymore” [the essences of “atmosphere” being a remarkable imbroglio for a film to tackle]. She covers this nightmare with the albatross of piety to see if richly-held disaster can disperse a bottleneck. “The first time I came to the mausoleum that feeling all but faded away. For now, all I do is pray.” Like her plodding sister, the new (and equally disappointing) half-wit, leaves her with what she considers to be deeply valuable reorientation. “I used to say, ‘You pray to force God to give you things.’” “That’s interesting,” the very alone convenor of talent offers. “Don’t mention it,” the problem solver replies as she leaves the car. There is a quick cut to the next bid. What would have been her response to this dullness? In the subsequent plunge down to stage 2, the patient sentimentalist must now trouble shoot the situation of having been unequivocally abandoned for another woman. “He said it wouldn’t work.” She has shaved her hair in a gesture of being done with the mad passion and creativity which she couldn’t embrace; but also, now looking more unusual, reaching for a strangeness which could be right for her, if she were not so constitutionally drab. “I told him, “You’ll regret it some day…” [sounding quite Helsinki]. “Am I hideous?” she asks. “No, it suits you,” the driver insists (regarding her nun-like presence), being both loving and cruel. “I think I’ll soon get over it,” the teary survivor declares; and with that the research and the friendship is pretty much toast. She puts out there, for old-times sake, “That’s hard, isn’t it?” / “Yes, it’s hard… The hardest part for me is admitting that it’s hard [that putting together an enriching life is not the way she had been induced to suppose]. I’m ashamed of saying that it’s hard [her dependencies now in painful doubt]. Because I thought everything I liked would happen…” “I understand,” the road warrior assures. She smiles warmly and reports, more to herself, “You lose at times, unfortunately…”

   With a world heavily laced with the likes of Amin and his inspirations, dead-ends (farcical, appalling and hostile), “losses,” are the name of the game. The latter stages (5 and 1) where she finalizes the raging malignancy is more a tip-off of small mercies in a big picture than a family’s big deal in a little picture. So, when she greets Amin en route to “grandmother’s” day-care, she savors the irony of her ever being “weak” like the clinging vine of stage #4. “I don’t get a kiss?”/ “I don’t want to…” (She had played the same hand pretending to want to keep him for the evening, being denied by the UN dad and then, after realizing he could put his porn-dish and whatever else into play, being caught up with and told, “You can have him.”) This allows her to toy with what was once trouble. “Are you pleased to be staying with me tonight?” The reflexive “No” would roll off like rain on a duck. He commands, “When you come to pick me up from grandma’s don’t forget the tape of Hercules…” More cheeky marauding on his part follows, and her body language is a picture of aplomb. He brags about his new course of computing in school (for the new Hercules) and she, claiming to know a short-cut, annoys him in face of some of the improv she excels in. In retaliation, he mentions the sacred father’s “Satellite’ and the “very sexy scenes” in fact far more a laughing matter than a crying matter. She stops at the counsellor’s office and comes back with the predictable all-clear that the boy will be better off in the land of Hercules. She recites, “He’s a man. He has to grow up with a man” [a dutifully religious maniac as dictated by the regime]. “Man,” to Amin, being kicking ass, he rolls out a self-serving spiel of: pushing her to show fifth-gear macho; then he moots that the woman his father might eventually marry will be “better than you… She won’t be out all the time…” [“I get the message,” she pleasantly toys]; and brings up an old grievance, that she, the servant, was late for a pick-up. She pretends to be flustered and defensive. “I needed water for the battery” [the right fluidity]. His rant about, “She’ll do the dishes, cook good meals” [her response, “It’s good that life can be summed up [computed] in the stomach”], carries the phraseology of the dogmatist dad about to be history— “The problem is taking on responsibility at home.” She would love to be able to say, “I have more important things to do. A maid can do the housework;” and she does say that. Her “short cut,” instinctive ways getting on his nerves again, culminates with answering his tantrum and recriminations with a simple, “I was busy…” He snarls on reaching the drop-off, “Get lost! You’re lying!” And she calmly replies, “I’m a selfish person…” The very brief 1-spot, the last of the communiques to the man in white, the last of the demands, comprises, “Take me to grandma’s” and her kiss-off, a poised, “Alright,” poised for lots more trouble and windfalls. But now freed of some baggage she didn’t need at all.