#so many subtle details are overlooked... and yet here everything is *it's�� a paper must be truth and THE truth *

[lairofsentinel]

I love how this post forgets entirely that a lot of ppl are against GMO because they are deeply related to modifying food in order to resist certain pesticides that then end up in our food. It’s not because “contains genes”, it’s because contains non-biodegradable substances that pollute our lands and, by now, our clouds and rain. It’s about the chemicals that have tons and tons of studies showing they increase the development of allergies in the population, cause unusual hormone alterations, and even affect fetus in pregnant ppl. In the towns around the fields where they are spread, you have 3 times more cancer cases than the national mean, specially in kids. So, no, it’s not “mere genes”. It’s a lot more and deeper, related to sustainability and public health, which is also science that corporations ignore completely. What I found so curious is that most ppl from first world countries does not know that the majority of the GMO is not related to “make crops flood resistant”, but resistant to pesticides. Monsanto loves spreading that concept that GMO is just used to make “food have more vit A”. And ppl just repeat. Countries where we truly endure the use of GMO in our lands, we know exactly that GMO means.

GMO has existed forever, natives such as the incas practised it, it’s not “new”, it’s not “modern science”. Mexicas developed a hundred corn types over centuries with this technique. Again, it’s not new. Now we can accelerate the genetic modifications and be more accurate with the modern techniques, but it’s mostly to make them resistant to pesticides. Why do you think Monsanto was bought by Bayer years ago? The same corporation that sells you pesticides, that are, most of the time, non-controlled in their manipulations, is the same one that sells you food and then medicines because the illnesses related to the constant ingest of these [non-regulated] pesticides. And this is one of the many negatives effects. Another one that happens with GMO [even though nobody in this fucking place wants to acknowledge it] is the mono-cultive practices [non-rotation of the crops] that destroy the health of the soil, and if you don’t have a soil with rich minerals, the plants you put to grow there won’t develop properly or will be poor in minerals and vits. So, we have poorer food and erosion. Because, yes... GMO used in this way causes it. A big problem that, again, nobody speaking about GMO seems to know. We are not speaking about the erosion of the soils and how these practices are destroying entire countries’ biodiversity. 

Another great danger that specialists have been repeating over and over is that GMO usually forces similar modifications in different crops so different plants can resist the same pesticides that are sold in a big “bio-package”. This causes that weed and some plagues became resistant or stronger to this pesticide, so every few years we need higher doses or stronger pesticides that end up in our food and in our body [because so far, a lot of them are not biodegradable]. All the problems listed above become more concentrated. 

The other important danger is that it may happen a plague or a fungus that may be particularly prone to develop, associated with a similar modification that was used on different crops. This can endanger a lot of different crops with one single plague, causing potential destruction of big quantities of different kinds of food [this is also a very old concern known by natives since centuries ago, reason why they always tried to use rudimentary GMO techniques to favour a diversification of the crops, not the other way around like corporations do now]. So far we know, scientists have talked about this a lot, but one thing is a scientist talking about this issue, and another is a food-monopolised-corporation doing it, especially when corporations see more profit by just reducing the diversification in our food [less different bio-packages to develop]. 

And we can continue with the silly argument that “corporations are different to the GMO technique”, and even though that’s true “technically”, the reality shows otherwise. We live in a world where GMO has been monopolised. Hell, food industry is already monopolised, so don’t be so naive to think that we still can keep things separated. 

“Mere genes”. I would love so much this place to learn the topic properly before dismissing entire populations in this way. GMO, as it’s now, controlled and monopolised by corporations, is a big no-no. And dismissing the entire population whose children have 3 times more cancer cases than the national mean [northern provinces of Argentina, for example] because these pesticides, annoys me a lot. Never ever I've seen an integral post of GMO in this place. The topic is a looot more complex than the religious adoration of science or feeling superior because “I know science” or “I _believe_ in science”. Not all science is good, not all science is well tested before being used, corporation science is always a big question mark in many, many contexts, and science is always founded and moved by interests [unfortunately, more and more corporate interests by now]. Science is good, but don’t turn it into the new religion. It has limits and flaws, and it’s dirty to the neck with interests that few want to acknowledge. 

Funny how that works

[kaetastic]

Sway With Me

pairing: Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x F!Reader

summary: There’s nothing else refreshing and relieving to the ageing heart of former-pilot, Frankie Morales, than going back home from a small errand.

warning: slight angst because why not, just overall happiness, joy, fluff, smiles, faint swaying, spoiler free lol

word count: 1.2k+

note: i was just randomly making this and find it fitting for a fluffy writing for frankie because he deserves the world. i was listening to ‘sway with me’ by saweetie, GALXARA, but the song title just felt so fluffy so lol here it is. i wanted to make this descriptive, but lately, i haven’t been in that zone which is unfortunate so please, accept this mess

Infuriated murmuring from the fridge hummed in a low, cool tone as if it had been grumbling about the transforming morning that couldn’t help but be indecisive as it fused from scorching heat to sombre, gloomy clouds. The gentle beats to the crackling sizzles of the pan created a gentle, faint drumming, conversing with the fridge while actual music lingered in the background, voice softer than the other devices. Etta James’ silky voice swam through the air, smearing a curtain of glittering stars. Despite the sky hinting the tantrum it threw to demand something before it would inch to pour gallons worth of water, the radio had functioned perfectly. It better have worked without a fault, or else Y/N would’ve had never started with breakfast. There must be a youtube tutorial or something, one of the excuses she used after she noticed the hinge on a window she happened to stumble upon coated with rust. 

Only inside the fridge had been cool, its walls had been plates of ice, a glacier if you must, for the food that had kept hostage. The outer temperature was no different from that of the fire heating the pan. Greased decently without an inch forgotten or brushed over, the surface of the flat pan had been patted with thick layers of butter. No curve had been forgotten from the spread of fat.

Emptied out eggshells had been abandoned on the metal lawn of the sink once its contents had been poured out into a bowl before other savoury bits were tossed in. Its sharp edges curved inside, the weakened walls of the sword as barriers had diffused into forgotten trash; even though the trash can was just a swat of a hand away. There seemed to be eager, insisting wind that relentlessly attempted to seep through the cracks of the window. Although, all of the windows available in the kitchen had been shut, tightly sealed, rather from anger, once Y/N realized the counters she had gingerly cleaned had been dusted over with a layer of green bits from the outside air. 

If one was to step inside the house, they would drown themselves in the warmth that radiated in the air. The walls of the house evoke the cosiness that had been deeply buried, no matter how many metres of dirt they had between the warmth and the surface. It was like magic, magic that could not be described. It was magic that couldn’t be bought for it all started with the love of two people. 

Peeling wallpapers, creaking stairs, and titled pictures from its frame, the littlest thing built up something they called home. Others won’t be able to spot the subtle moments, but Y/N had stumbled upon them occasionally. It was almost a routine for her to be greeted by overlooked parts that made the building, home.

The whisked eggs had overwhelmed the once furious pan, it coated the surface in a smear, the visible layer was the warm yellow. Don’t let looks deceive you. The contents poured in the pan were soon being shoved left to the right, body slamming against the walls. Y/N flicked her spatula against the pan in hopes of not getting any more burnt bits for her to pick through later. Her toes that had been surrounded by the barriers of her shoes tapped against the ground, head-smashing to the beat of the faint music. It had put her in such a tranquil headspace, she nearly forgot about the other side dishes to the starting meal of the day. A light hum vibrated through her throat while she turned her body to face the fried wedges. Fingers grasped around the handle of the pan, she hovers the object over the flame before tossing the potatoes in the air. 

A slight crisp smeared against the edges of the wedges, adding a satisfying crunch when knuckle-wincing teeth would pierce into it. Satisfied with the results, she spun around, the hot pan in her grip, to spread out a reasonable amount on one plate before dividing it amongst the rest, three plates had only been missing of eggs. 

Y/N faced the stove once again, she threw the pan on its previous position. Cleaning can be done later. A familiar screeching of tires trickled into the house before hushing of an exasperated exhaust growled. Then, silence. The door creaked, the noise would’ve sent her head to throw over her shoulders, not this time. All she felt was relief for he was safe. Y/N didn’t bother pulling her head away from the pans, she wouldn’t want to start the day off with a fire in the kitchen. The noise of a wad of paper smacked onto the tiled counter rivalled against the other boisterous yet calming noise of the kitchen; before a pair of warm arms slithered around her, the same pair of arms she would snuggle into for warmth that she couldn’t find elsewhere. No words were exchanged as their bodies swayed to the faint music. 

Not choreographed, nor planned, the two fell into a rhythm, one in sync with the other without a beat passed by. Laying her spatula to rest on the wall of the pan while the last piece of the meal sizzled on their pans, Y/N’s fingers trailed from his slumped shoulders to the side of his head, her digits were soon dug into the gentle locks of his dark hair. The subtle detail of her lover without his infamous cap had caused the corners of her lips to curl down. There were only rare moments when Frankie would walk around without his well-loved collection of caps. 

Frankie didn’t say anything as he brushed his hooked nose into the neck, breathing in the lavender shampoo he would massage into her hair whenever they had the luxury to bathe together. With the kids, those times had been cut short, making the precious moments rare.

“You’re not eating?” Frankie inquired, his mumbling lips kissing light brushes against her bare neck. 

A sigh fell from her lips as she caressed his calloused fingers, “Already had my breakfast, munched on some toast,” He hummed, digging himself closer to her body as if her warmth had been a blanket he couldn’t pull away from. Seconds passed as they gently swayed in gingerly movements as if they had feared spinning the moment too fast. “You doin’ alright?”

“Yeah, just thought of something.” Although she could feel the formed curve of his lips against her skin, she knew it had been feigned. Unfortunately, Y/N didn’t have the time to ask him as a boisterous slamming of marching feet down the stairs creaked throughout the house, quite noisily, she almost had to compose herself in concern if one of them would meet the ground with a splat.

“I got myself through my pants, mom!” 

“Hey! I helped you!” 

“You just helped me find them!” 

Frankie pulled himself away, his eyes watching her ardent fingers readying the scrambled eggs, “Settle down, eat fast but not too fast,” Y/N pointed out while she nudged the eggs onto the plates. “Wouldn’t want it to go down the wrong pipe, okay?”

The response was humming and an incoherent ‘alright’. The corners of Frankie’s lips curled up at the sight of his two babies, everything would be alright.

[whisker-biscuit]

Harley Quinn is Not A Good Role Model: Chapter 4

Rated T-M for language and graphic descriptions of violence

Pairing: Dr. Flug/Black Hat

Summary: Dr. Flug Slys is a successful psychiatrist working at one of the world’s most respected mental institutes for the criminally insane. But this new patient is unlike anything he’s ever encountered. Flug is determined to help him, nonetheless.

Black Hat has other ideas.

Note: All Black Hat POVs are in first person

Chapter 4: Naming Conventions

Before we continue, I suppose I should make a few matters quite clear.

First, I am not, as you humans say, beyond this world. My body is very much physical, for all of its horrific capabilities. I require sustenance as any other, although the frequency and form of it differs greatly from most current life on this miserable mass we call a planet. I also have the potential, hypothetically, to experience pain in its most basic, physical manner.

I have yet to encounter something able to do so.

Secondly, I have a biological drive, so to speak, in the same way all living creatures do. But unlike the pathetic urges felt by these creatures to survive and reproduce and further the existence of their species, mine is the unconditional opposite. I live to destroy, to halt the process of life and its advancement. These inclinations are most strongly felt during the potential removal of a soul – a being, if you will – from the corporeal world, but that does not mean I am unfulfilled in the more subtle eradications of the every day. Far from it; I relish the inconsequential inconveniences, the negligible nuisances, the eventual ends of equanimity that develop only from the consistent and repetitive breakdown of the emotional and mental states. One does not have to lose their head to, well, lose their head.

Third and last of all, I am not above admitting my faults. I will not deny to being prideful, or confident, or even arrogant. The accusations of those concepts mean nothing to me. But to be unwilling to recognize a mistake, or refuse to believe one can be made, is a dangerous and frankly foolish mindset. How does one expect to prove themselves the best, if they cannot seize their moments of weakness, however few, and use them as stepping stones to an even higher level of awareness and efficiency towards their claim? The thought baffles me.

That is not to say I allow my enemies or allies to recognize them, or admit to them there are indeed mistakes that I can make. Quite the contrary – one must always display a certain poise in the presence of others that does not betray any hint of fault, as failing to do so often leads to insubordination, mutiny, and challenge on all sides. A lapse in judgement is fine, so long as it is known to only yourself.

And so, of course, we reach my current predicament. I had one rare moment of weakness, and it was such an unfortunate occurrence as to happen in a situation where many significant details were at stake – the disruption of human lives, the destruction of human lives, and myself. Needless to say, my error cost me dearly, and I soon found myself captive at the hands of the detestable Inspector Marcus Daniels and his deplorable team from that blundering group known as Interpol. It was not my first time in incarceration, but it was the first instance in which I was actually treated as a more viable threat than most convicted individuals. Imagine my surprise and disbelief when I was finally released from my, transport, to find I had been dropped rather unceremoniously at a criminal mental hospital, of all things.

To say I was insulted would be an understatement.

Even more humiliating was the presence of who was supposedly my psychiatrist. A thin, clumsy, stuttering excuse of a human who hid his face under a paper bag and was so woefully unprepared for the task appointed to him. His boldness surprised me, near the end of our first meeting, but that was quelled easily with the threat of bodily harm. Humans are so breakable, really. I should have snapped his neck and been done with it.

But in the high brought on by my inclination, I forgot myself and my situation and erred yet again. I attempted to change the shape of my jaw, for easier access to wrap around the beautiful, beating veins of the throat and tear it open in the most visceral, painful way. But I was thwarted as soon as I tried.

That damned collar.

So here I was, confined in a high security room reserved for the most mentally unstable and unable to do anything about it. You could imagine my frustration, perhaps, in those first few hours after I was wrestled away from the pitiful doctor and left alone to do nothing but dwell on my newfound situation.

Of course, one does not create a means of escape without first knowing every variable, so I spent much of that isolation observing every inch of my outfit, my cell, and the door. I counted every buckle keeping me restrained – six – as well as every bolt covering the only way in and out – forty-five. No windows, no manipulated patchwork in the floor or wall or ceiling, and no immediately obvious form of liberation. Everything was a lovely shade of light blue, intended for its calming effects I’m sure. Even the blasted toilet seat was the same color. It too would be unhelpful to my predicament – nothing more than a basic hole in the ground with a foot pedal for flushing.

My mortification turned to fury rather quickly.

Unfortunately, the bloody padding was thick and smooth enough that my teeth – currently my only way of expressing my ability – could not puncture in any place I attempted. Ironically, it was not my physical strength but my…release of emotion that garnered attention.

I had admittedly overlooked the possibility of the presence of other inmates.

A few responded immediately to my outburst of anger, loud in their screaming and thumping. Whether they were declaring their presence, asserting their own dominance, or were simply emboldened by my actions I cannot say. Regardless, it was enough to startle me out of my emotions and instead pay attention to the direction and distance these sounds occurred in relation to my quarters. At least three voices, maybe more, all coming beyond the right side of the wall when I faced my cell door. Whereas I had stopped my actions quite suddenly, it took nearly five minutes for most of the others to calm themselves.

Fascinating.

Moderately satisfied with my conclusions – or as much as I could be in the present situation – I settled down on the raised cushioning that no doubt was meant to resemble a mattress. One side was raised in the imitation of a pillow, but no blanket or detachable items were available. It struck me as odd until I remembered a personal assassination of a high-ranking nobody in which I tied him with his own comforter and proceeded to suffocate him with his pillow.

Unlike the fools at Interpol or that idiot doctor, there was a semblance of competence here, at least.

My surprise the next morning was apparent even to the densest of people when I was visited by the same psychiatrist who had pressed my patience just the previous afternoon. He was not alone this time, obviously having learned his lesson; another man in a white coat arrived at his side, along with one of the guards who had so rudely assaulted my person. They stood shoulder to shoulder like a meager mimicry of force, and I could not help the expression of amusement from outweighing my irritation.

“Back again already, are we? I didn’t take you to be that imbecilic.” I took the time to incline myself against the far wall in the perception of laziness. Nonchalance is often greatly underestimated.

“Ah, I, I did say we have to w-work out a schedule while y-you’re here,” Dr. Slys resembled a skittish antelope, rather remarkably well. “Since yesterday, uh, since we d-didn’t get to finish our, your orientation, I thought it would b-be best to try again as soon as possible. I’ve, brought another psychiatrist if, if you’d be more comfortable with someone else.”

This particular individual puffed his chest up most pathetically at the declaration of his presence. “That’s right, Doctor, and I’m here to let you know that we won’t tolerate any breach of protocol or improper behavior from our patients.” He was reckless enough to glare at me. Fool.

In response to the feeble display at superiority I allowed myself a chuckle. “So it would seem. And what shall I call you?” He was considerably larger than Dr. Slys; at least six feet if I had accurately estimated the height of the security guard, to whom he rivalled in elevation. Nothing outstanding about his features, except perhaps the dainty silver watch along his wrist.

“I am Dr. Bautista, but you can address me as either sir or doctor.” The newest intrusion held up a clipboard in a parody of importance and clicked his pen most unprofessionally. “According to our records, you have no known history of substance abuse. Is that correct?”

His words had long stopped holding my attention, and I deemed the watch to be more significant. Not knowing the time and date can be so cumbersome. My gaze stayed fixed on the polished silver metal, waiting for the angle in which I could read it properly. The watch’s owner did not have the intelligence to realize this, as he cleared his throat in obvious frustration.

“I asked you a question, Patient 513.”

“So you did,” was my soft reply. Patient 513. How interesting, that they had already assigned me a number. No doubt an attempt to disassociate me from my former life. At yet another sound of aggravation, I flicked in the direction of the nuisance’s face. He had stepped closer, just past the human line of defense.

“Yes I did, and I expect you to answer it.” I studied the movements of his hands, waiting for the clock face to be visible. “And I also expect you to make eye contact in a conversation. Honestly, can you believe this?” The miscreant turned to his colleague, no doubt trying for sympathy.

He got none. Instead of catering to the ego of his fellow, Dr. Slys surprised the psychiatrist, and myself, when he looked directly at me and said very sincerely, “It’s 9:47 am, on a Wednesday.”

I had already written off Dr. Bautista as useless and of no interest to me. Yesterday, I thought I had come to the same conclusion about Dr. Slys. But now he tiptoed closer, and despite the limp I saw in his gate – my doing I was certain – he did not appear bothered by the decrease in our distance. He offered his gloved hands to me, palms up.

“That’s what y-you were wondering, wasn’t it? That’s why you were, um. You wanted t-to know the time.”

To see a human again who I had attacked less than a day before was unusual. To see him willing to visit me in my own territory, backup or no, was abnormal. For him to be observant enough to recognize what I wanted, and to give it to me without negotiation in his favor, well. It was rare to the point that I found I could not ignore it.

“If I say yes, Dr. Slys, what would that matter?” I could feel the edges of my mouth part fractionally, poised to expose my only current weapon. Regardless of subject, it was dangerous for anyone to feel they had power over me. Dangerous for me, of course, but even more so for them.

“Ah, well, I j-just thought, you might want to know, since you…” His goggles fluttered briefly in the direction of his colleague’s watch, but he did not reveal me. Smart creature. “Well, I know I like kn-knowing the date, and the t-time. It’s…easier. Everyday.”

“Is that so.” I could find no lie in his expression, despite the headwear. This was the second time he had been so earnestly truthful, and the second time it had caught my attention, for what reasons I could not say. I would have to be careful with this one.

At his eager nod, a good-natured smile stretched along my visage. “Well, Doctor, I suppose I should thank you. You may ask five questions, and I will answer them.” Both psychiatrists were visibly astonished by my change in attitude, and my smile spread further. Two could play this game of catching the other unawares.

Of course, the idiot Dr. Bautista attempted to open his mouth, but I stopped that behavior short with a hiss. “Dr. Slys may ask me five questions, and I will answer them.” He looked affronted, but had enough self-preservation to let his colleague take his place.

“Okay, um, okay.” He fretted with the serrated edges of his paper bag; a bizarre motion I had witnessed before. “I g-guess, we’ll start with what we asked earlier. Do you have any history of substance abuse, or currently using? Our records have no indications of anything.”

“No, I do not. Nasty, uncontrollable things.” I was not lying. Drugs of all forms – except alcohol, perhaps – were useful tools of destruction but entirely unpredictable in combination with my biology. One methamphetamine mixture could have no effect beyond an itch along my feet while another could leave me in the closest I’d ever experience to a seizure. There was no way of knowing which black market substances were pleasurable, painful, or nullified without personal experimentation, and I did not have enough interest in the subject to waste my time.

“Well that’s g-good,” Dr. Slys scribbled along with his fellow psychiatrist and looked me in the eye. “Next q-question. Are there any allergies we should be aware of? Food, medical, latex, etc.?”

“I have no such weaknesses, Doctor.” To even insinuate that human issue was insulting.

“Okay, um. Third question. Are there any actions you feel would be detrimental to your psyche? Some patients have a history of physical, emotional, or sexual abuse that can accidently be brought to memory in a, situation, such as restraining involving human contact or the sound of raised voices. We cannot comply with all requests, but if there is anything you think is noteworthy, we will take it in consideration. If you have a preference for the gender of your psychiatrist or physician, we can do that.”

“I do believe you offend me, Dr. Slys, to assume I am so easily triggered by petty things like those.” I had noticed that as my supposed doctor continued his query, he appeared more relaxed and confident in his posture. The stuttering had also vanished. Fascinating. “But to fully answer your question, I do not have many, requests. However, I must ask that your security keeps their hands to themselves. It was rather irritating yesterday.”

“Well, we can try our best to accommodate you, but I’m afraid that would depend on your behavior around others.” Dr. Slys moved on the weight of his heels and winced, clearly still injured. I offered him a cruel twist of lips. “Okay, so that’s about it for the preliminary. Now about your schedule, I was – we were thinking that the best option would be to start with a bi-weekly counseling session in your room, with me and possibly Dr. Bautista depending on…conduct. I would also suggest a three-hour period of recreational activity every day, and we can work out the activities at the beginning of each day. Perhaps after a full evaluation of mental and physical stability, we can include group therapy and/or outdoor privileges as well. Would you agree with this tentative schedule plan? Your first counseling session would be with me tomorrow at 11 am.”

I pretended to consider it, to assume as they did that I would be actually be imprisoned any longer than a week. “Yes, I suppose that is a plausible arrangement. How long would you estimate my sessions with you to last?” I tilted my head, amusement broadcasted freely.

“Roughly about an hour and a half, give or take.” To my surprise and admitted delight, he looked at me with narrow, calculating eyes and continued, “And I expect we’ll be having them for a long time, Mr. Black Hat. You shouldn’t underestimate our facility.”

I should have been incensed by his calling out of the real meaning of my question, but frankly I found it interesting. Here was a human who understood at least the basic rules of how I played. That he had willingly defied my orders the day before and was now matching my serve with a fair enough return was not as bothersome as I had earlier considered.

“Very well, Doctor. You may ask your final question.” I crossed my legs on the imitation mattress, nearly finished with our conversation, lovely as it was. But what he asked next caught me off guard.

“In your case file, it mentioned you had named flying as your favorite mode of transportation. Why is that?”

I could not help the bemused twitch of my eyebrows nor the brief, startled blink that passed my face. Dr. Slys waited patiently for me to recover, and the colleague at his side appeared just as rightly confused.

There was no gain or loss to be had by answering this, so I settled with a shrug and laid back, studying the unusual human. “Flying is statistically the safest method of travel.” He looked at me, and I looked at him. My mouth parted. “At least until it hits the ground.”

His gloved hands tightened on his clipboard in what I assumed was anxiety. Imagine my surprise when he let out a solitary laugh, not much more than a breach of air past his lips. It stopped just as suddenly as it started, and the doctor seemed shocked at his own action.

“Is something funny, Dr. Slys? I didn’t know humans could find a plane crash humorous.”

My psychiatrist was nervous now, and fretted yet again with that silly headwear, but still he responded despite the abrupt suspicion placed on his shoulders.

“I j-just thought it was a coincidence, a-a bit of a funny connection.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Unfortunately, my doctor has already shown to be more observant than he looks, because he shut his mouth promptly – I could even hear the click of teeth – and returned to his notes in an attempt to protect himself. His colleague was not so perceptive, however, and gave up the doctor’s secret.

“Hey, doesn’t your name mean a plane wreck? Like in German or something?”

Dr. Slys squeaked most unbecomingly, but it was too late. As someone who prides myself on my knowledge of social etiquette and culture, I knew most languages thoroughly, and those of Indo-European roots were no exception.

“A flugzeugabsturz?” I gave my psychiatrist a lengthy once-over, considering him. “No, your last name is Slys. But you pronounced it as the English adoption. So how…?” As I calculated, Dr. Slys’ body language grew more nervous, apprehensive even. “Perhaps not German, then.” The answer came to me just as my doctor appeared ready to flee, and I smiled.

“Icelandic, I do believe.” My delight heightened at the stiffness setting in his legs. “Plane crash. Flugslys. Dr. Flug Slys.” I practically purred the word. “Do tell me, since you pronounce your last name so hideously, does your first name follow its Icelandic rule, or is it more barbaric? Floooog.” My psychiatrist shuffled backwards to the door. “Fl-ugh.”

That was it. That was how he introduced himself. I watched, twitching grin wrapping my face as Dr. Flug Slys grabbed his oblivious colleague and the forgotten guard and hauled them out. There is a lot of power in names, you see, and he seemed to know it as much as I did. The two doctors stood just outside my cell and whispered hushed nothings while I laughed longer and louder than I had since my capture.

“It truly is a pleasure, Flug Slys!” I raised my voice, standing and gliding to the center of the room. I could see the top half of brown paper through my window. “I look forward, to our first real session tomorrow. You are a fun one indeed, Dr. Flug.”

Every use of his name sent my psychiatrist into a flinch until he disappeared from my sight and I heard his retreating, feathery footsteps leave the hall. The mirth from the encounter left me in a much better mood than I had expected while confined here. Perhaps I would not be so short of entertainment.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough, in my honest and humble opinion.

[kuriquinn]

Prompt/Request: Sasuke’s おめでとう

Anonymous said:

im so excited that you're taking requests because I love everything that you write!!!😇 could you maybe write the recent ss moment with the hawk and what sasuke was thinking

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Somehow, it’s right that she be the one to convey his congratulations to Naruto. She is the warmest, most genuine person he knows, and if anyone can best convey his feelings about Naruto’s nuptials to the loudmouth, it’s the woman who probably knows him the best in the world.

Rating: K

Warning: Spoilers for pretty much everything up to Chapter 699.

Canon-Compliance: As close to canon as fanfiction can possibly be. With a few personal additions :P Takes place during the Blank Period.

AN: Originally, this was just meant to be a quick drabble in response to a prompt and meant to honour of the last episode of Naruto Shippuden. But then my brain decided to put some more details in, and we got this little one-shot. Enjoy.

Not attending Naruto’s wedding is one of the hardest decisions Sasuke has had to make since the end of the War.

It’s a mark of how much he has changed in his years of wandering that he not only recognises this fact, but also continues to feel conflicted about it long after he’s made the choice. In the past, he made decisions and simply moved on—what has been done cannot be changed, after all—but for once, his personal feelings have a place in his rationalizations.

That’s also new.

Sasuke has never wanted material or arbitrary things. His desires have always been firmly rooted in goals: aiming to surpass his brother and to be acknowledged by his father, to avenge and restore his clan, to destroy the village that destroyed his family…

Not until he left his home the second time with a barely deserved pardon did he have a chance to experience the world outside of his own ambitions.

He learned to appreciate a warm bed and sleeping long past sun up. The satisfaction of playing with a stray cat or eating food for pleasure instead of only sustenance (he apparently has a weakness for bitter, dark chocolate that he never even realised).

And for the first time since he can remember he wants things.

He wants to read a book for leisure, and not because it might hold some long lost clan secret or technique. He wants to travel to as many places as he can and see if the sunset looks different in Iwa than it does in Konoha. He wants to climb a mountain just to breathe the crisp air, instead of seeing it as a stepping stone to some broader goal.

He wants to go to his friend’s wedding.

Naruto is in many ways his brother, through time and through shared experience, and the only close friend he will ever have.  (He doesn’t see Kakashi as this; to him, the older man will always be the mentor, the surrogate parent where he had none. And Sakura…she’s something else entirely, in a category he is only just starting to understand). He owes it to the blond idiot to be there, especially after everything that has happened between them.

And yet…

He knows he can’t.

The thing about redemption is that there’s no concrete way of determining when it has been earned. And shrugging off his cares to celebrate Naruto’s good fortune feels too much like a reward. Whatever else he remains ignorant of, Sasuke knows that he is not yet worthy of that.

It doesn’t help that Kakashi has not been subtle in his suggestions that he return for the event. He’s all-but formally requested it in letters and coded messages, alluding to how much his presence would mean to the groom and the bride. Hell, the fool actually created an official mission for all Konoha shinobi to find wedding gifts, which Sasuke patently ignored.

The greatest gift Sasuke can give to Naruto and Hinata is his absence.

He knows if he were to show up, unexpected or not, the occasion would immediately be overshadowed by his return. Whispers, distrustful stares and awkward conversation; his teammates creating a protective wall around him to counter the village’s collective wariness—

Sasuke cares too much about Naruto, and has enough respect for Hinata, to do something so disrespectful.

Decision or not, however, it is no coincidence that as the cherry blossoms begin to bloom, Sasuke finds himself travelling in the environs of Konoha. Or that on the actual day, he remembers that there is a cliff overlooking the valley which offers the perfect vantage point of the entire village.

It’s the closest he has come to setting foot in Konoha since that business with the moon.

That’s not to say he hasn’t been tempted before; no one will ever know how often or how close he has come since leaving. Perhaps Naruto suspects, if only because he can’t help but sense Sasuke’s chakra wherever he is. And maybe Sakura, too, because she’s always had oddly accurate intuition about his presence, going back to their genin days.

He only ever contacts anyone inside as a last resort. Usually it’s requests for intel from Kakashi, sometimes a note for Naruto about information he has learned about Kaguya or questions to Sakura about poison remedies. If required, he will send messages via Sai’s ink scrolls, or summon one of Garuda’s underlings to do so.

Or to deliver small packages, such as a certain nondescript white box meant to be tucked into the branches of a tiny tomato tree in the ruined Uchiha district.

But Sasuke has always kept himself from walking through those giant doors.

He does the same today, albeit with some difficulty.

It’s no trouble to find the tree-ringed grove where the reception is to take place, and with eyes like his, he can make out the tiniest detail with ease.

Naruto and his bride-to-be have not arrived yet—Sasuke doesn’t know if they intend to marry before or after the reception—but from the steady thrum of Naruto and Kurama’s chakra in the vicinity of the Hyūga compound, he knows it doesn’t matter. All is well, Naruto is happy and safe, and that’s really all Sasuke needed to make sure of while he was here.

It doesn’t stop him from searching out the rest of his comrades.

Sai, who even though they did not start out on the same team has earned Sasuke’s respect in the past two years as his most direct liaison to the village, holds hands with Ino Yamanaka. Despite their cold first meeting, Sasuke has become grateful for the former Root operative for being there to protect his teammates when he wasn’t. Given what he knows about the other man’s history, he’s glad that he, too, was offered his own chance at redemption. And Ino is a good, strong woman, despite the irritating tendencies Sasuke remembers about her. He hopes they’ll be happy.

(And that’s another new thing. Caring about other people’s happiness.)

Across the reception area, Kakashi is scrambling out of his official white robes, trying to straighten his suit while handing them off to a harried looking Shizune. Then he makes a sudden beeline for the table with the wedding cake, just in time to snatch two identical white-haired toddlers away from it. Behind him, Manako Inuzuka appears, heavily pregnant and laughing unapologetically at the Hokage’s aggrieved expression.

Sasuke’s eyes widen in amazement.

As genin, Sakura once confided a vague suspicion about their sensei and the village’s demolitionist, but he never paid much attention to it. Even if he had, this outcome would still be surprising to him.

Kakashi deserves happiness as much as Naruto and Sai.

Speaking of Sakura…

There’s no point to searching her out, because she might as well be a beacon in his peripheral vision. The embodiment of spring in a dress that matches her hair, she hurries around the cherry-blossom lined grove, directing people to the gift table and helping Tenten wrangle Gai and Lee into their seats with only minimal damage to human or furniture. He watches her lecture them—that’s what she has to be doing, judging by the finger-wagging and penitent expressions of the two taijutsu masters—and Sasuke can’t help smirking.

She was always bossy.

He imagines that she has made it her personal mission to ensure today goes off without a hitch, and woe betide anyone who tries to challenge her. There are no safer hands to leave that task in, he knows.

Watching all of this, the people precious to him and the village he came from, he feels a distant, long-forgotten tug in his heart. For the first time in his travels, he wants nothing more than to return to his home and his people.

But he can’t.

He hasn’t yet earned the right to be here, and there are still those individuals roaming the world that want to get to him. Enemies who might seek him out here, and if they realised his presence, might go after the people he wants to protect.

(It doesn’t matter that all of those people are formidable warriors, he knows better than to tempt fate.)

Sasuke’s brother fought and died to protect this village, the peace and happiness of all the inhabitants; Sasuke must now do the same.

And so he doesn’t stay.

Instead, he digs out a crumpled piece of paper and jots down a quick congratulatory note—because he did come all this way, he might as well mark the occasion somehow—and summons a hawk to deliver it.

As he is tying the paper to the bird’s leg, he opens his mouth to direct it to Naruto.

Then he pauses.

His eyes are drawn back to Sakura.

She is no longer a whirling dynamo of energy, but a portrait of utter serenity lingering on the sidelines. As she watches the other guests enjoying themselves, the light spring breeze teases at her hair, and she stares off into the distance at something he can’t see. There is a wistful curve to her mouth, the barest traces of pink across her cheekbones.

Sasuke is struck, for the first time, with the realisation that Sakura Haruno is beautiful.

He’s not quite sure what to do with that epiphany.                                                                       

He has always had a vague consciousness of her being pretty, but that was ancillary to her personality. Childhood memories remind him of a clingy, too-loud, too-emotional girl who seemed to have made it her mission to drive him insane. Years later, those features gave way to determination and sadness, and through it all she was so annoying.

Looking at her now, he sees her without context, without him nearby to affect her demeanour, and with no dark purpose hanging over their heads.

She is still sad, and he doesn’t have to be a genius to know what (or who) she’s thinking of, but there’s a calmness to her. Among a sea of families and couples, she is alone and yet all he can see is a stalwart strength. It’s a state that he is infinitely curious about and jealous of.

Another reawakened sensation. He hasn’t felt envious of Sakura since she learned to walk up trees before he did.

A small sting of pain flares through him, and Sasuke jumps as the hawk snaps at his fingers. It shoots him an impatient glare to remind him of the task he has become distracted from.

“Take this to Sakura,” he finds himself saying and releases it into the air.

Somehow, it’s right that she be the one to convey his congratulations to Naruto. She is the warmest, most genuine person he knows, and if anyone can best convey his feelings about Naruto’s nuptials to the loudmouth, it’s the woman who probably knows him the best in the world.

There are other reasons, of course, but none he is quite ready to examine just yet.

He sticks around long enough to watch the hawk find its way to her. She is still standing alone, still peaceful but any trace of a smile has disappeared, and she holds herself almost protectively, with her elbows drawn inward. The posture is too reminiscent of the uncertain girl he left on a cold bench so long ago, and so when Sakura’s attention is drawn by the hawk’s cry, Sasuke is relieved.

He watches as she automatically reaches out for the hawk and takes the message, carefully unwrapping it with an expression of curiosity and studying the single character there.

As her cheeks darken and her smile returns, Sasuke turns to leave.

He’s not ready yet.

But one day, he will be.

W終わり

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome, but if you feel like keeping me caffeinated out of the goodness of your heart, it certainly would be appreciated! I’m also starting to post original works to my patreon.

I’m only able to keep writing as I do thanks to the support of readers like you, so every bit helps!

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