#shame it can’t come in pre mixed or so and in small portions

[miss-floral-thief]

lol I wonder if borax powder is cheap at the dollar store

[barbatos-devotee]

Fight For You

Genshin x Reader

Character: Xiao

Gender: Female

A/N: Sorry I didn’t get this out sooner! I’ve been writing and drawing some other things because I didn’t entirely know how I was gonna wrote this one lmao.. but now I do! Enjoy!

You were an adventurer, popular in the guild for your strength and your personality. You were no five-star, but you had enough confidence in your skills and ability that you got practically every job you’d ever done handled with ease. Hilichurls with a Mitachurl leader? No biggie. The group of Fatui barring entrance to Guili Plains? No sweat. A group of bandits trying to steal treasure from the scholars? Why, you could beat them with your eyes closed. You and your Pyro Vision were a threat to anyone who’d encountered you, and the giant claymore you carried on your back made sure no one with ill intent bothered you. Not to mention, you were sort of dating the adeptus that resided in Wangshu Inn, so that gave you a sort of invincibility as well. Your strength was second only to the Traveller, and you were very proud of your ability to handle anything.

Well, that was until you got a certain commission.

The job was to take out a Lawrachurl hanging out by some ruins. The difficulty was a little higher for you, you had to admit. Usually a party would go with you to handle the giant, geo-attuned things, but you’d decided to go on your own, confident in your ability to beat it. It had been a piece of cake so far, the shield was down and you were certain that the thing’s health was on its last legs. And just as you got in your final hit, the one that turned it to dust, something you weren’t expecting surprised you. And launched you across the ruins, really. You cried out in pain as you hit the stone wall, realizing you’d been hit by a rocket. Your (e/c) eyes turned to look at what had attacked you, and they subsequently widened when you spotted a Ruin Hunter climbing out from the rubble. The Lawrachurl’s attacks had unearthed and awoken it.

Well, shit. You weren’t too good at fighting Ruin Guards, Ruin Hunters, or even Ruin Graders! The things were far too dangerous, and it took you a whole party of strong vision users to even bring it down. And you were, at the moment, alone. Struggling to your feet, holding your side in pain, you just barely had enough time to leap out of the way of the mechanical monstrosity as it lunched for you, it’s bladed arm impaling the wall where you once stood. You clenched your teeth, glaring at the thing. Flames crackled around your form as you readied your claymore, but your balance was slightly off due to the wound on your side. But that didn’t matter, you had to take this thing down. You gave a battle cry as you rushed towards it, smacking it with your weapon as it had converted into it’s vulnerable form. You know, the one where it rained bombs on you from the sky from a safe distance? Yeah, that one. It stuttered and went down, and you proceeded to smack it with as much force and flame as you could muster. You stood back as it rose back up, and you fled to the side as it tried lunging for you again. You weren’t quick enough, however, and it’s blade slashed your side.

Hm.. maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. You clenched your sides, both injured now, and fought back tears of pain as you remembered what Xiao had told you. “There’s no shame in running.” That’s really good advice, you reasoned, you were going to follow it. And so, you ran. The Ruin Hunter followed and attacked you for a few miles, before you could finally hide from it’s sight and lose it. Shuddering from your position inside of a small ruin, you sighed, and looked down at your body. You should try and fix this before you continued, or else you’d bleed out in the plains.

Xiao sat on the balcony of Wangshu Inn, looking out over the land as he usually did. His eyes scanned the ground as he watched citizens, Millieth and merchants wandering around, all interacting with each other. He looked for your form amongst them, wondering if you would be visiting today. You usually did, you always made time to see him, no matter how long it took you to do your commissions. You’d even arrive in the middle of the night sometimes, so waiting was nothing new to him, but today.. you said you’d be done with your work early. What was taking you so long? And Xiao couldn’t help but have this dreadful feeling in his gut, like something was wrong.. His golden eyes flicked to the side at the sight of movement, and then they widened. There; on the ground, stumbling in from the plains, walked your bruised and bloodied body. Your clothes were ripped, and you were missing a large portion of your pants fabric, which had been torn off and tied around your torso as makeshift bandages. The people around you were panicked, worrying for you as they tried to get you help. You just gave a tired smile, as though it was no big deal. Somehow, that hurt Xiao the most. He jumped down from his spot on the balcony, pushing someone aside as he reached out to catch your falling form.

“(Y/n)?! What happened?! Why are you so hurt? Who did this-?!” Xiao cried, his eyes filled with fear and worry as he picked you up bridal style and rushed you towards the Inn. You gave a weak chuckle, shrugging your shoulders.

“That Ruin Hunter wasn’t playing around. It scraped me up a bit. Then some hilichurls decided to hit me on my way back. Kinda sucked not gonna lie.” Xiao glared at you, astonished that you could joke at a time like this. You were taken to a doctor to help stabilize you and give you some pre-medication help, but they couldn’t do much. It took a while to bring you to Liyue, where you were then given to QiQi to help with your healing. As you rested in the bed, Xiao sat next to you, having been with you the entire time, absolutely refusing to let you go.

“You idiot.. why would you go in there by yourself..? You could have died... stupid.” Xiao pressed his hands to his eyes, wiping away the tears that began to form in them. “You’re only mortal. If you die, what- what will I do without you?” A hand came up to meet his face, and Xiao looked down, his eyes wide. You were smiling at him, your (e/c) eyes sparkling with affection.

“It’s okay Xiao. I’m going to be okay. But you’re right, it was a bit too much for me.”

“Of course it was! You should have taken a party, or.. or you could have asked me for help! You know I would have come with you, I’d be willing to fight for you!” Xiao exclaimed, his face a mix of anger and sadness. The tears he tried to hold back before began falling down his cheeks, and he angrily wiped at them.

“I know.. I know. But you’re meant to protect Liyue. What if something happened if you’d left with me? I couldn’t pull you away from your duty for that.” You explained, using your thumb to wipe away your boyfriend’s tears. He guided your hand back down to the bed, not wanting you to hurt yourself, but not letting go.

“What good is it to protect Liyue, if I can’t even protect you? You can be more selfish with me, especially when it comes to dangerous things like this...” Xiao leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, the both of you closing your eyes in tearful content. “I would be devastated if I lost you.. please, be more careful.” You nodded, pressing a kiss to the adeptus’ cheek.

“I will. I promise. I love you, Xiao.”

“I love you too, (Y/N).”

The two of you sat in content silence, just enjoying each other’s presence. Adventuring will come at a later time, it’d take a while for you to get better, but at least now you knew. No matter what, Xiao would always be there to fight for you. To love you and just be there for you.

And that was all you needed.

[shorkbrian]

Hay Ride

Head mtea no thots just Dabi and a haunted hay ride like in “I Am Number Four”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dabi knows he can slip in with the rest of the actors - everyone thinks his ugly, crusted scars are just crazy good FX makeup. 

Dabi knows pretty, dumb little things like you come to things like these. You like the fear, like the thrill and the rush of being scared. Of course, everyone signed a waiver before hopping up on the trailer with hay bales arranged as seats along the edges. You knew you were consenting to being scared, to being terrified out of your mind by horrifying creatures, by lunatics with chainsaws, by mutilated men and women. But you expected there to be limits, you knew that ultimately you were safe.

Dabi knows that the trailer would get pulled behind the farmer’s junky old truck while an employee told spooky stories to the crowd of eager, stupid college kids that paid for this type of crappy experience. Then the truck would “somehow” break down and everyone would have to walk back to the parking lot. That’s when all the scarers were supposed to come out, grab at limbs and pretend to be hungry for blood, for pain and tears.

Dabi wasn’t going to be pretending, he was going to be hunting.

Your group of friends wouldn’t notice you getting grabbed and promptly hauled off amid the chaos, away from everyone else. 

Your screams would blend in with everyone else’s as he dragged you further and further away from safety.

He can tell you still think this is somehow part of the “experience” that you had paid for, your struggling half-hearted and screams weak. The screaming is annoying him more than he thought it would. It’s not until he slams you up against a tree, slaps you full across the face do you pause, looking up at the lean, scarred man with tears in your eyes from the sting of his hand. 

The two of you just look at each other for a moment, Dabi sizing up his catch of the night, you wiggling and trying to remember the safe word you were supposed to tell the actors in case you got overwhelmed or something happened and you needed them to stop.

When the word slowly slipped through your mind, you grabbed at it, clutching it to the forefront of your mind so you could spit it out, wanting the man above you to stop pressing against you so tightly. Dabi had heard that word, had heard the mandatory speech given to all the actors before they were set loose.

Thing is, he had no plans of stopping.

You realized this as his hand came to rip at your shirt, to pull at your jeans. Dabi relished in the way he could feel the exact second you realized he wasn’t like the rest of the actors, wiggling violently in his hold, screaming yourself hoarse, this time for real.  He couldn’t help but chuckle at the way you panicked. Once again, he quickly got tired of the screaming, roughly stripping you of your shirt despite your efforts to keep it on. He wadded it up a bit, stuffed a section into your mouth, pressed it deep, smiled at you. Felt his scars stretch painfully as he did so, watched as your eyes widened in fear at the display. Makeup doesn’t move like that.

Dabi almost laughed as he yanked down your pants, revealing the lacy black underwear you were wearing. Maybe you had a boyfriend - were you planning to get frisky with him after the two of you went on the scare ride? Too bad for your boyfriend. But you shouldn’t worry, you’ll still get a nice cock.

And Dabi doesn’t let you worry, quickly taking his cock out, barely shoving his own pants far down enough to let it spring free.  You were pushing at him, hitting his chest, trying to scratch at his face, but Dabi had done this enough times, it’s laughably easy to ignore you. He just slides the crotch of your panties to the side, lines himself up to your mostly-dry entrance, and begins pushing inside. 

You’re sobbing behind the makeshift gag, body frozen in fear, tense and far too tight for Dabi to push inside. He hisses, wrapping an arm around your upper body and crushing you against him, taking his other hand and lifting up your thigh, wrapping your leg around his waist so he can get a better angle.

He tells you to relax, or else it’ll hurt. He doesn’t really care either way, but you might, so he’s being nice enough to offer that tip. Dabi can tell you try to follow his advice, bear down on his cock as it slides further inside you. But you aren’t wet enough, and you’re so fucking tight, it barely makes a difference.

Dabi’s impatient now, been thinking about getting his cock in a hot little body since the night started. So he doesn’t relent in his slow, continual progress, pushing deeper and deeper and deeper until he can’t push any further inside. 

And it’s nice. There’s the slightest bite of chill in the air, enough to make goosebumps rise up on the un-scarred portions of his skin. But his cock is nice and warm inside your pussy, especially now that you’re starting to get wet, drooling slick around his cock, mixing with the small amount of pre that smeared against your walls as he pushed inside. So Dabi just sits there for a second, lets his forehead rest against yours, just breathes, listens to your pathetic little muffled hiccups as you sob and cry.

When he can’t take it anymore, that’s when he draws his hips back, groans at how tightly your pussy clutches at him, begging him to stay put, trying to suck him back in as he pulls out. His pace starts slow at first, obsessed with the dragging feel of your pussy trying to grip his cock and hold onto it. His hips start to slap against yours quicker, the pace increasing naturally, and before he knows it, the slow, rocking pace has evolved into something fast, jarring. 

The pace is pushing you back into the tree, only barely separated from it by Dabi’s arm.  The bark roughly scratches against his arm, and he figures it’s probably scraping against the back of your thigh and some of your back, but the man can’t really find it in himself to care. He’s too busy trying to fuck more sounds out of you; little whimpers and gasps, those sniffly moans that you try to disguise with a sob. He likes those sounds, muffled as they are behind the makeshift gag.

It’s not long before Dabi feels himself getting close, adrenaline from subduing his catch still thrumming loud in his veins. It takes a particularly hard thrust, where his hips catch on yours just right and he hits your sweet spot, immediately making you tighten like a vice around him. It tips him over, humping into you quickly as hot cum spills out of him, staining your insides. The way you burst into tears again makes him wish his refractory period were shorter.

Dabi pulls out slowly, can barely even see his cum start to drip onto your thighs because it’s so dark. But he knows that’s what’s happening, and he feels his skin protest as his lips curl up into a cruel smirk. You’re cute like that, all pathetic and broken. He pulls your panties back into place, pulls your pants back. He knows it probably feels disgusting, having his cum slick against your pussy, wetting the fabric of your jeans. But he likes the humiliation it brings you.

He tucks his dick away, takes the shirt out of your mouth, lets you sob into his shoulder, weepy, messy heaves that leave his own shirt slightly damp from your tears and snot. Somehow, he likes this part the most - when the girls he’s just violated can do nothing else but turn to him for comfort, completely shattered from the assault. They’ll hate themselves for it later - seeking comfort from their rapist. But in the moment, they’re usually too stressed and out of it to do anything but slump against him as he holds them.

There’s something different about you though. You’re crying, clutching at his shirt, but you’re rubbing your thighs together with no shame, as if you’re upset at the fact that he didn’t make you cum, more than the fact that he had raped you. Dabi usually didn’t extend this kindness, but he reached for your jeans again, fully intending to stick his hand down them and play with your little clit until you screamed.

The way you jerked away from his hand, backpedaling so fast you fell flat on your butt showed you were terrified of him, of his touch. It made Dabi hungry again.

He followed you down onto the ground, easily batted your hands away and shoved his own down your jeans, into your panties, up against your soft skin. The way you jolted when he rubbed against a spot let him know he had found your clit, the way you were begging with him to leave you alone making his cock chub up. God, it was hot to watch you writhe on his hand like a bitch in heat while you wailed for him to stop.

Dabi played you like a fiddle, flicked and rubbed at your clit until you were shaking, still begging for him to go away, to leave, to stop, please. And then you couldn’t beg anymore, head thrown back as his fingers brought you to orgasm.

And oh, was that a sight. It made Dabi want to eat you up,  his cock completely hard again now. A split second decision was made - Dabi was going to take you home with him. 

As he gathered your exhausted figure up in his arms, Dabi smiled to himself. Maybe he could share you  - after all, he knew he wasn’t the only one in the family who liked to feed off of fear.  

[fox-guardian]

Okay so about the post where they miss Jekyll and you clarified that Jekyll isn't gone-gone, just is currently Hyde, but then mentioned that they know any sip of hj7 could be the last... might.. mightn't we.. get some a n g s t... of The Last Sip and when the gents all realized it's The Last Sip?

((Slight blood and what I think still counts as body horror warning.))

Lanyon and Utterson waited patiently in the former’s laboratory, which he had fashioned over the years into a nice little area perfect for taking care of one specific little problem. A knocking on the window announced said problem’s arrival. 

Lanyon stood up with a huff and opened the window.

“‘Ello,” said Hyde, peeking in, “Sorry to have kept you all waiting, I got… held up a bit at the pub.“ 

"You need not explain, Edward,” replied Utterson, “Your bruised cheek and swollen lip say everything.”

Hyde chuckled as he climbed inside. As per the routine, Hyde would go out every other night to let himself go, and then return to the safety of Lanyon’s lab to change back. He freshened himself up and changed into Jekyll’s clothes, which still smelled of his cologne, and Lanyon handed him a vial of that glowing green formula, the same specific recipe that had been so reliable for several months now.

That formula had always worked well. Very few side effects, the transformations were less painful and random transformations were less frequent, and he always changed back just fine. He swished it around in his hand, watching the little bubbles sparkle. Then, sitting down in a chair for comfort and minimal chance of injury, he took it all down in one gulp. He set the glass aside, and waited.

And waited. 

And …waited.

“That’s… taking a bit long, isn’t it?” asked Utterson, attempting but failing to hide his concern.

“What did you eat?” asked Lanyon, “What you ate could’ve affected the… effects.” He was less articulate than he usually was when it came to medicine, likely due to just a little panicking.

“Nothing I haven’t had before. I hardly ate anything – hardly drank anything!” Hyde was the worst at hiding his fear. He was never good at keeping his feelings inside.

“Now, now,” started Utterson, “I’m sure it’s just taking a bit longer than usual and will… surely start working very soon.”

And so they waited a bit more. Lanyon shifted where he stood, Utterson drummed his fingers on his lap, and Hyde bounced his leg. 

“Wait,” he said, “I think I feel something…" 

Utterson sighed in relief. Lanyon, being a scientist, began questioning him "W-What is it? What do you feel?”

“Uhhh…” Hyde skimmed his mind for the right word, sweeping his hand for emphasis, “I-I feel… something…”

“SPIT IT OUT, MAN!!” shouted Lanyon.

“GIVE ME A SECOND!!” Hyde shouted back.

They waited with baited breath, they’d never been excited to see a transformation before. Utterson sat on the edge of his seat, Lanyon leaned towards Hyde, all were waiting and hoping, but terrified that no payoff would come.

Hyde held up a finger, he shifted a bit… and loudly burped out a puff of green fumes.

Lanyon grimaced at him, “That wasn’t funny, Edward.”

Hyde threw up his arms and glared at him, “I’m not trying to be funny! I’d never joke about this!” He stood up and went for another pre-portioned vial of formula, “I just need a little more, I think-”

“Is that safe?” Utterson cut in, standing up.

“Probably not,” answered Lanyon, lifting the vials out of Hyde’s limited reach, “especially not so soon. We have to wait for something to happen.”

“For what?!” Hyde yelled, jumping up to reach the vials.

“Something more than a burp!” he snapped back, pushing him away.

Utterson sat back down, trying to compose himself. It was fine, everything was fine. Just a small hiccup, he can have a different vial soon, everything will be fine. He’ll change back into Jekyll and… Oh what he wouldn’t give to see Jekyll again. It hadn’t even been a day, but when your dearest friend literally doesn’t exist for a few hours, it makes you miss them a little more than you would normally. He looked at Hyde, still hopping up to grab a vial from Lanyon. He was wearing Jekyll’s clothes, the white didn’t really suit him, or maybe it was the way it all hung from his frame. It was so wrong, so very deeply wrong. This may be the closest to Jekyll he may ever be again.

Utterson tried to push that thought from his mind, but the longer he looked at Hyde, still unchanging, still Hyde, still not Jekyll… it made him feel sick. 

Hyde stopped jumping, he let out a soft gasp, “I think…”

Lanyon started to interrupt him, “If this is another burp I will-”

Hyde doubled over in pain, clutching his stomach. Utterson and Lanyon felt only a little bit shameful for being excited about that. Hyde fell over, his veins bulging and turning black as his mouth began filling with green foam – all of this being perfectly normal, nothing strange yet. Blood started leaking from his eyes, nose, ears, mouth – also perfectly normal, nothing to worry about. He coughed, groaned, shook and moaned, his hair started to stick to his now sweat-soaked skin… and then it stopped. The black in his veins faded and the sickening purple returned to his skin. He held out his hairy, clawed hand for a handkerchief, and Lanyon handed him one. He wiped his face and… nothing… nothing had changed at all. There was no bone crunching, no blacking out, no gargling, no actual transforming. It hadn’t worked.

“What…” Utterson stared at him in shock.

“No, no, no,” Lanyon said, his booming voice tense, “you’re supposed to be tall, and old, and less weird looking-”

“Hey!” Hyde snapped, glaring up at him.

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS RIGHT NOW, YOUNG MAN!!”

“WELL, MAYBE IF YOU COULD MIX THE FORMULA PROPERLY THIS WOULDN’T BE HAPPENING!!”

“Let’s not go bLAMING EACH OTHER, NOW” Utterson cut in, startling the others with his sudden yelling. He took a deep breath, “My apologies… Edward, if it would make you feel better, why don’t you mix a fresh vial, hm? To make sure you don’t miss anything.”

Lanyon scoffed, “I am perfectly capable of mixing chemicals, Utterso-”

“This is not aBOUT YOU, HASTIE!!” He shouted back, far angrier than the others had seen him in years.

Lanyon looked down in shame.

“… I’m sorry, Lanyon…” Utterson said, “I’m just… a bit distressed at the moment.”

…Hyde took his supplies and started mixing a new batch for himself. He poured himself a proper potion with precision, and drank it down.

They waited.

And waited.

And it happened again. They didn’t have to wait as long, but the result was the same as before. No transformation, just a lot of pain. No limbs stretching out, no organs rearranging, no hair falling out, no Jekyll. 

Hyde lay on the floor in his own sweat, staring up at the ceiling, chest heaving as he recovered from his non-transformation. “Why isn’t this working…?” He asked, but it didn’t seem to be directed at anyone in particular.

Utterson’s blue eyes grew wide and misty as they darted around the room trying to find something to fix this, but he saw nothing that he could make sense of. Lanyon surveyed the materials on his tables but could only think of trying again, though that could prove deadly if done too many times. Hyde finally sat up, joining them in looking for something, a solution, an instant fix, a sign from god, anything at all… but none could find anything they hadn’t tried before. 

Hyde began stumbling about the room, picking up glass after glass, box after box, turning them around and pushing them aside. He had gone around the room almost three times before the others noticed his eyes had starting welling up. 

“There has to be… has to be something… please… this can’t be… can’t be true… must be something here…” he whimpered. They had never heard him sound so helpless before. For a moment, the gravelliness was gone and he almost sounded like Jekyll again. 

When that thought struck Utterson he let out a sob and buried his face in his hands. He could see nothing but his eyelids but he could hear Hyde growing more frantic, pushing things off of tables and punching walls only to recoil in a fit of frustration and anger. In some sad way, it reminded him of Jekyll, and that only made Utterson cry harder. He remembered when Jekyll started deteriorating while working on his formula, maybe if he’d done more to help this wouldn’t have happened. He thought about those times Jekyll would disappear for days on end and wondered if he should’ve checked on him then, if maybe that would’ve done something. He remembered when Jekyll would change part of himself suddenly after behaving oddly in the days prior, perhaps that was a sign of darker days to come. He thought back to how strange he had been in his youth, how wild he’d be, how free he always seemed, he wished he could’ve brought those feelings back to his dear friend. He remembered in perfect detail the day they met, perhaps if Jekyll had never greeted him so kindly and smiled so sweetly… perhaps it would’ve spared Utterson all this pain.

Lanyon sunk down to the floor, his face pale and eyes staring deeply into nothing. He thought about the past few years, how Jekyll had almost killed him after revealing himself to be Edward Hyde, and how Utterson had brought them together again. He thought about the awful experiments he performed, the successes, the failures, the hugs, the hatred, everything that had gone right and everything that had gone wrong. He thought of his university days, of how he met Jekyll in the first place. He thought of how strange he had been back then, but how brilliant. He thought of the games they’d play, of the secrets they’d share, the bear hugs, the handshakes, the jokes, the gossip, everything that would never again be possible. Not after this, never again.

They wondered if death would’ve been easier to deal with, but knowing that Jekyll was still there somehow, trapped inside the body of this twisted, murderous version of himself, completely erased from physical existence, never to be laid peacefully to rest…

Utterson slid out of his chair and fell into a sobbing heap. Lanyon’s face ran with tears as he let out an enormous scream. Hyde stumbled over the mess he’d made and fell, wailing and crying out in desperation and terror. 

“Please!!” He cried out, choking on his tears, “I want to be Jekyll again!!” He fell over, sobbing until he was too exhausted to move.

“I want to be Henry again…”

[arrowsbane]

Chase the Sky (Into the Ocean)

Rating: T

Wordcount: 2409

Prompt: Prompt 3: Witches and Wizards (non-Harry Potter) for @sumigakure

Notes: AU. Took the concept of non-HP Witch/Wizards and ran with the idea of magic being innate and fueled by nature/mixing humans with myths. 

Also for @satire-please​, because they love Iruka as much as I do, and Otters are cute. <3

Summary: Umino Iruka is born with salt in his veins and the sound of the ocean in his heart. The current drags him down, it does not let him go. Because what belongs to the sea, must return to the sea. The breathing underwater is new though. [FFN | AO3]

Umino Iruka is born with salt in his veins and the sound of the ocean in his heart. 

He grows up in a landlocked country, in a dry forested village where the only water to be found is in rivers and lakes. There is no salty tang on the evening air, there is no push and pull of the tide. The water is still and lifeless.

He fights for a village that was cousin to his homeland and wields flame and earth as his teachers insist; but still his heritage pulls through, and he holds his head high when the chakra paper his Jonin-sensei hands him turns into a sodden pulp. He may live amongst fire and leaves, but he is of sea and sky and the endless reach of the horizon. There is no shame in this.

He makes genin, and he thinks his parents would have been proud. So he pushes harder. The memory of his mother’s smile and his father's’ laughter at his back. He makes chunin, and winds up teaching academy students. He doesn’t care what Mizuki says (and there’s jealousy in his old friend’s voice), or the teasing he gets from Izumo and Kotetsu – as far as he cares, corralling a herd of baby ninja is a serious job, and it’s one he’s proud to do.

Hell, he can catch Naruto. Considering how the boy can outwit ANBU on his good days, that’s certainly something to brag about over drinks down at the bar on a Friday night. Okay, so it might have something to do with how he stole one of the boys’ shirts once and regularly bribes his summons with anchovies, but nobody needs to know that.

Water twists and bends to his will, always the push and pull. The muscles in his legs snap taut, his arms raising up so he’s stood in a basic stance. It’s his last resort, it’s what most people think happens when you combine the Nara bloodline with the insanely strong water-nature.

They’re wrong. It’s got nothing to do with the Nara, and everything to do with why the Umino clan was to Uzushio, as the Uchiha are to Konoha.

The current drags him down, down, down. Away from the enemy, away from death. Away from fire and lightning, away from the cold steel and the bite of a katana. He tastes salt in his mouth and kicks furiously at the riptide. It does not let him go.

Because what belongs to the sea, must return to the sea.

The breathing underwater is new though.

One week previously…

Iruka rolls out of bed just as the sun peeks over the horizon. He’s always been a ridiculously early riser, something that his summons are most certainly not. There’s a stubborn whine coming from inside the cover of a stolen pillow, and Iruka smirks.

“Sango.” He says, eyeing the oddly-shaped piece of bedding, “Up.”

“Go ‘way,” comes a petulant female voice. Iruka rolls his eyes, picking up a fresh change of clothes and heading into the bathroom to clean his teeth, ignoring the chirping whines that echo from the bedroom.

The old showerhead shudders as he turns the water on, and then hot water sprays from the nozzle, drenching him. After a few minutes, his trained hearing detects a scuffle coming from outside of the room, and then a thud of something distinctly not wood hitting the floor. There’s the familiar clicking of claws on tile, and a streak of brown as Sango happily dives into the shower, twisting herself around his ankles. It’s only habit that keeps him from tripping over her.

“I thought you were still sleeping?” He teases the she-otter, and receives a grumble in reply as she pushes against his ankle.

“Can we have tuna for breakfast?” Sango asks, ignoring his jab over her laziness.

“You had tuna for dinner,” He grumbles, rinsing the last of the scent-less conditioner from his hair, and reaching blindly for the towel before turning off the shower. Sango grumbles again over the loss of the water.

“So?”

“So not everybody lives on fish.” Iruka reminds her, thinking about his lesson plans for the day.

“Heathens,” is her simplistic reply. In Sango’s mind, anybody who dislikes seafood is an enemy and not to be trusted. It’s rather common for her clan. Iruka ignores her, squeezing the water from his hair with the towel.

“So can we?” The only response she gets is a towel dropped on her head.

He winds up cooking omelet and grilled salmon. The kettle whistles sharply, and he pours a cupful of hot water, mixing in the matcha powder to make green tea. Paper rustles as Sango emerges from where she was rooting around in the empty salmon container – because even though he’s given her an otter-sized portion, she still wants to be thorough. She’s got a silver scale stuck to her nose and he’s not going to be the one to tell her.

Grade books, check. Lesson plans, check. Bento? Headband in place? Check and check. Insane otter companion? Wait…

“Sango, what are you doing in my bag?” The sow smiles cheerfully up at him.

“What does it look like?” She says, “I’m coming with you.”

Iruka sighs heavily, and gives her a look. No, just no.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” She declares imperiously, and for a second Iruka can see her mother’s temperament shining through. It really isn’t worth it. There’s a reason otter’s have a similar reputation to the kitsune.

He sighs, and hauls the bag onto his shoulder – otter and all – before locking the window behind him, and leaping onto the roof of the neighboring building. Tiny otter squeals of delight come from the satchel, and he can’t help but smile at Sango’s childishness.

He lands on the roof of the academy, sliding down the side of the building using very precise chakra control and unlocks the classroom window from the outside.

Doors are for civilians.

And boring people.

“Do not,” Iruka tells her firmly, as he sets the bag down on the floor, “terrorize my students.”

“Not even a little bit?” And goddamn, she’s not a dog, how is she pulling off the puppy-dog face. He sighs (a common occurrence for him), and rubs at his face.

“Nothing I can be blamed for,” he concedes, checking the desk and surrounding area for traps, just in case a certain orange-loving pre-teen had visited in the night. Satisfied that everything is safe, or at the very least not going to leave him covered in itching powder, Iruka opens the classroom door for the day and settles into his morning routine.

While Sango entertains herself by inspecting his students as they walk through the door – The responses varying between: “I didn’t know you had summons Iruka-sensei?” and “Holy crap. A talking otter!” That kid was practically asking to be bitten, -  he unpacks his bag for the day, shuffling through the papers to find the homework he’ll be handing back. Absently, he opens a drawer to put his bento away, and then reconsiders. Iruka unscrews the cap of his ink, and dips the tip of his brush in it, painting a careful preservation seal across the top of the bento. Naruto can be vicious when he’s bored, and Iruka never wants to end up with a mouthful of mealworms ever again.

It’d taken him a while, but eventually he’d managed to recreate the seal his mother used to ink onto the family bentos to keep the food fresh and pristine.

(Even now, painting the circle of kanji reminds him of his mother’s smile, and the way his father used to ruffle his hair on the way out the door in the morning.

And okay, so the first dozen tries at recreating the seal on his lunchbox had failed; including one spectacular explosion that had led to there being fragments of sushi all over the kitchen. He’d had to summon an entire romp of Otters to sniff out the tiny pieces, so his apartment wouldn’t end up stinking of rotten fish.  The downside was that the little pests had declared rice and nori to be acceptable, and frequently demand sushi whenever he called on them.

If they weren’t family…

Well, that’s the whole reason he wound up contracting them anyway, isn’t it?)

After his parents died, Iruka had almost drowned in the loneliness that came from living in a house empty of everything but memories. The room his parents had slept in was untouched, the door still flung open from where his mother had quickly rushed out to grab her battlegear.

A year later, and the only reason he’d even gone in there was because he’d torn a shirt, and needed the repair kit that lived in the nightstand on the right side of the bed. He hadn’t meant to, but his fingers had brushed over the slim scroll that sat next to the kit – trimmed with a delicate blue border of waves, in which otters happily frolicked. The same scroll that Ikkaku had fashioned to teach him how to summon only days before the Kyuubi had ruined everything. Tears well up, and he pulls the scroll from the drawer and cradles it to his chest.

Iruka’s tiny trembling hands break the wax seal and unwind the vellum, to reveal the summoning kanji. Even though it’s marked for Tadahiro, his father’s companion, Iruka knows that with his small reserves he’ll probably end up with one of the male otter’s pups.

It’d be worth it though. For even a tiny piece of what used to be.

He lays the scroll flat on the floor, bites his thumb and channels a spike of chakra into the seal. Smoke poofs into being, clearing to reveal a familiar face. Dark eyes blink up at him from a furry face, and paper rustles as a tail thumps in greeting.

“Hey Sango,” Iruka says, smiling sadly, recognizing the otter as his childhood playmate. The adolescent sow shuffles forwards, and clambers into his lap, pressing her snout into the crook of his neck.

“Iru-chan.” Iruka tastes salt on his lips, and he realizes he’s crying.

But for the first time in a year, they’re happy tears.

The call for the mission comes as he’s finishing up for the week at the Academy, and so Iruka heads on home to swap out his teaching bag with his go-bag. Sango isn’t too happy about being dismissed to the summoning realm, but she knows the drill as well as him.

Within an hour, he’s got his assignment and is sprinting out of the village gates.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s heading straight into a trap.

C-ranks. Why is it always C-ranks? Iruka wonders, dodging the blow of a katana. 

Turns out, there’s more than a few ex-kiri nin with a grudge to bear, and Iruka’s the poor sap who got the wrong end of the stick.

He dodges the explosive tags, and the shuriken, but he doesn’t dodge the blow to the gut and skids back ever-closer to the cliff-edge. There’s a shout from his right, and then all Iruka knows is bright light and too-much-sound, and he’s falling, falling, falling.

Iruka hits the water in a painful crash, and it knocks the breath from his lungs. Somewhere above, he imagines he hears a crow of victory before the laws of physics take over and he sinks beneath the waves.

The current drags him down, down, down. Away from the enemy, away from death. Away from fire and lightning, away from the cold steel and the bite of a katana. He tastes salt in his mouth and kicks furiously at the riptide. It does not let him go.

Because what belongs to the sea, must return to the sea.

The breathing underwater is new though.

Iruka wakes up to the strange sensation of being weightless, his eyes open to see the dazzling effect that sunlight creates when it passes through water. The reef could never have been so beautiful until now.

The reef.

He flails and panics, desperately holding his breath and why is he not drowning before reality sinks in and Iruka accepts that strange is relative in the world of very obvious ninja. The Uchiha breathe fire with an ease that makes the stories of them being descended from a dragon seem possible, the Shodaime talked to trees, the Niidaime and Yondaime could both teleport. 

There’s whispers that magic was known, not just known, but used and channeled into great feats of ingenuity in Uzushiogakure before it was destroyed - that magic augmented the Uzumaki seals beyond anything an ordinary human could do. In retrospect, breathing underwater, while extremely handy, is not such a big thing.

A shoal of tiny orange and white fish swim across his field of vision, and Iruka blinks, watching the reef come to life around him. It’s like a kaleidoscope of color as fish of all kinds surf the currents.

A nudge at his forearm has him looking down to see a pufferfish cozying up to his side. Tentatively, Iruka opens his fist and lifts his palm to the fish, rubbing his fingers across the soft spines. The small spiny fish releases a string of bubbles, and he gets the distinct feeling that it is happy.

Iruka returns home to Konoha, with a new skillset under his belt, and spends his evenings with a raft of Otters in the hotsprings. Chitters and squeals of delight about, as his non-human family realize that now he can play even more game with them.

Iruka finds himself taking more missions to water country than anywhere else, the knowledge that he is safe below the Ocean’s surface kept a sure secret. It’s his secret. His, and only his.

It’s another three months or so before the reason clicks into place inside his head. Iruka wants nothing more than to smack his head repeatedly against the old wooden desk. Because of course, that’s it. What’s in a name? Apparently everything, goddammit.

Umino.

Of the Sea.

The first Umino was bound to the Ocean by blood and by magic.

That’s why the water-affinity is so strong, that’s why the sea has been calling to him since before he could remember. It’s why he can breathe under water, why he learnt to swim before he could walk – and Iruka vaguely remembers his father sitting in an overlarge bathtub with him, a hand under his infant belly while his mother watched curiously.

It makes sense.

It feels right.

Konoha is his home, is the fire in his soul and the strength in his bones; but the Ocean is the salt in his veins and its current is the beat of his heart.

Two worlds. Both are his.

There’s old magic in nature, and there’s magic in the clans. Name aside, who would ever expect a ninja from fire country to be so strongly tied to the sea?

‘Yeah’, Iruka thinks, stroking a hand over Sango’s fur that night, ‘I can work with that.’

Possibly TBC… who knows.

[mrmichaelchadler]

Cannes 2018: 3 Faces, Happy as Lazzaro

It’s an early Sunday morning in Cannes, and the town exudes a rare aura of calm. If luck holds, it may last until midday before the normal noise and craziness kicks in. The quiet of the streets on the way to the Festival Palais at 7:45 am on this cool overcast day is reminiscent of the decades-ago time when Provence shut up shop all day on Sunday. It’s the perfect time for a good story, and Iranian director Jafar Panahi (“This Is Not a Film,” “The Circle”) delivers, with his competition entry, “3 Faces.”  

Panahi is banned from attending the festival by the Iranian government. While living under a modified form of house arrest, owing to his 2010 sentencing on a charge of propaganda, and forbidden from engaging in any filmmaking activity for twenty years, he has succeeded through subterfuge and a variety of ruses, to make films. “3 Faces” is his fourth feature since 2011. The film is a sly fictional commentary on life in Iran, hope, the country’s cinema legacy, and the continuity of history, disguised with folksy infusions of humor as a shaggy dog story.

“3 Faces” opens with a cell phone video that is in effect a suicide note from a student, Marziyeh (Marziyeh Rezaei), to Behnaz (Behnaz Jafari), a famous film and TV actress whom she knows only by reputation. The young woman wails out her despair at being forbidden by her family to pursue her dream of attending the drama academy in Tehran, and will end by apparently hanging herself. Distraught, Behnaz, who is immediately seen as something of a diva and drama queen, goes AWOL from her current production and gets her friend Panahi (playing himself), who agrees that the video looks authentic and unedited, to drive her to Marziyeh’s remote rural home to investigate.

The film’s leisurely pace belies the running number of references and tributes that Panahi weaves into the plot, starting with the film’s road movie form, which moves out over winding mountain roads reminiscent of the trademark visual of Panahi’s mentor and friend, the late Abbas Kiarostami. For a start, Behnaz and Panahi plan to arrive at Marziyeh’s village and discreetly search for a fresh grave in the cemetery, figuring that the villagers will not gossip the shameful news of a recent suicide to strangers.  

That this is not to end as a tragic journey is signaled by the proliferation of drily humorous encounters with locals. There is indeed a fresh grave in the cemetery, and it is fitted out with camping gear and inhabited by an elderly woman who has decided that she might as well take up residence early.  

A meeting with the owner of a sick bull blocking the single-track mountain road results in the film’s most comic incident. Making sure that Behnaz is out of earshot for a story he considers too racy for delicate female ears, the old man confides in Panahi that this is not just any bull, but a legendary stud. Regaling him with tales of the animal’s prowess, he says, referring to the lucky cows, “One sight of him and they moo with desire,” (which has to be this year’s best film line). Assorted journalists were already repeating it to each other on the way out of today’s screening.

As the search for Marziyeh moves toward a satisfactory resolution, Panahi obliquely comments on the state of his nation in a number of humorous and ironic ways. When the two travelers first drive into the center of the village they are greeted by a crowd of residents, who mistake them for representatives of utility companies come in answer to their complaints about poor service. Realizing that it’s only a TV star and a film director, they turn their backs in irritation and head home.

Taking an evening walk, Behnaz is entrusted with a special message for the handsome hero a local man hopes to petition to be his son’s godfather. Expectantly he holds up an old battered film poster picturing the pre-Revolution Iranian mega-star Behrouz Vossoughi [who has lived in quiet exile in the U.S. since 1979]. “The gentleman is abroad,” informs bemused Behnaz, as the insistent father presses a little package and a note into her hand.

Actress, dancer and poet Sharzad, another pre-Revolution star, who was castigated as immoral and declared mad, is present in the storyline as the reclusive village woman with whom Marziyeh takes refuge, but she remains unseen. Panahi includes a lovely shot of her small home in the distance at dusk, with three dancing women silhouetted against the brightly lit windows.

As this contemporary fable comes to a conclusion, Panahi holds a shot on the rough ribbon of unpaved switchback road, its own kind of infinity symbol. Far in the distance, several truckloads of heifers are seen barreling toward the village for their assignation with the famous bull.   

“Happy as Lazzaro,” by Italian director Alice Rohrwacher (“The Wonders,” “Corpo Celeste”), premiered today, the second of the three films by women featured in the competition. This film is also a fable with a social critique angle, and with a touch of magic realism. Visually, Rorhwacher references influences like Pasolini and the Taviani brothers, and thematically she adapts what is recognizable as portions of the legend of the taming of the wolves by St. Frances. 

The tiny and very remote Italian village of Inviolata is populated only by a few impoverished farm families, sharecroppers to the Marquise de Luna, who lives in luxury in the stone villa on a cliff high above the estate’s tobacco fields. If it weren’t for the electric lights and other contemporary signs, these folks would appear to be serfs from another age. Due to a flood long in the past, their farm is cut off from the outside world.  

Every now and then the marquise sends her husband down to to collect the crops and calculate the value against the paltry supplies he delivers. The farmers are always found wanting, and their debt to the estate mounts. In the center of this life is the Lazzaro (first-time actor Adriano Tardiolo), an angelic-looking youth, orphaned except for his ancient, wizened grandmother, and thought by all to be simpleminded. With wide liquid eyes and an open, honest face, he’s a hard worker, never complains, rarely talks, and does anything asked of him. 

And so it is that Tancredi (first-time actor Tommaso Ragno), the spoiled son of the marquise, runs away from home, but only as far as a niche in the cliff, and makes Lazzaro his vassal, required to serve him and kneel before him. Lazzaro does it all willingly, pledging his allegiance to this effete brat, who leads him on by suggesting that they may be half-brothers.  

Tancredi’s game is to send a ransom note to his mother, but the scheme backfires, bringing in police by helicopter. Shocked to discover a colony of people who can’t read, have no school, are paid no wages, and don’t know that sharecropping is illegal, the police load the residents onto buses and take them off.

The film has so far put an emphasis on the processes and lush landscapes of rural life, a particularly evocative feature of Rohrwacher’s earlier film “The Wonders.” The narrative becomes muddled here when she introduces the wolf theme and departs from reality with implied supernatural connections, which become manifest after Lazzaro takes a deathly plunge off the side of the mountain but is revived some unspecified time later by a wolf.

According the legend of St. Francis, he tames a wild wolf by promising the fierce animal that he will receive food every day so long as he agrees to never harm humankind again. When Lazzaro awakens, he is no longer the mere simpleton of the past, but conspicuously a holy fool with an unchanged youthful appearance even though it will soon become clear that many years have passed. Making his way to the city, he encounters several former friends from Inviolata, who take him in. In their years of freedom from the servitude of sharecropping, they have grown middle-aged or old, and live a squatters’ life as looters and petty thieves.

Lazzaro finds Tancredi too, and is no less starry-eyed about paying homage to the now-old grifter with hair in a long white ponytail. In a parable-like incident, Tancredi’s still-arrogant but broke family is fed fine pastries out of pity, by Lazzaro and his companions, although they have nothing themselves. A parallel in which the rich are the wolves and Lazzaro is St. Francis only goes so far as the meaning of this whole tale becomes increasingly difficult to decipher. Lazzaro and friends are also symbolically turned away by the church but are followed down the road by what is implied to be an otherworldly spirit.   

The mix of socially relevant plot elements, religious symbolism, and cryptic fantasy is almost too much for one film to bear. 

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