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somesecretpie · 17 days

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Weather Woman (Short Story)

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. An eyewitness, Ms. Self, said the weather was to blame but Susan knew it was anything but that. This was homicide. Divine intervention.

“My poor poor little pansies,” she said, peering over their wilted corpses. It had officially been a whole year since Susan’s county had any rainfall. Several months ago, the town began issuing fines to anyone who dared to water their lawn. Susan did not find this to be much of an issue—she continued to keep her garden green as suburbia withered and died around her, until she ran into a small problem.

Susan ran out of money.

From all the fines she was paying.

She reentered her home, morning paper in one hand, and her weekly subscription to “Martha Stewart Living” in the other. Her house was a wondrous temple of correct furniture and appropriate color palettes, bowls of plastic fruit at the center of each faux-mahogany table. Photographs of a happy family arranged in a symmetrical pattern (Not her own, though; they were stock images.) She would have absolute perfection, were it not for that scorched eyesore that marked her entryway garden.

Susan poured her morning coffee, popped a bagel in the toaster, and turned on the weather channel for her district. That was the only thing she watched now: The weather. Mr. John Sunday in front of his green screen, with his little yellow bowtie, and his eyes the color of the unchanging sky. He looked quite unremarkable for a man that disseminated such important information to the public, but looks can be deceiving. One does not look at a perfect egg and see themselves contracting salmonella.

“Please, John, some rain for my pansies,” Susan whispered into her morning coffee. She turned up the volume and his pleasant voice filled the living room.

“Good morning, Marin County! It’s gonna be nothing but blue skies this week. Perfect weather for going on a nice long walk. And enjoying all that mother nature has to offer—“

Susan threw her bagel at the television in a fit of anger. Then promptly cleaned it off the floor and swept it into the wastebin.

What did she do to deserve these never-ending blue skies? I’m a nice woman, aren’t I? she lamented. Don’t I deserve purple pansies? Don’t I deserve a little rain?

There was something malicious and secret behind John’s blue eyes. Something he knew that she did not. She could not bear to look at them!

She shut off the TV.

Her heart beat madly in her chest. What ever would Susan do? Refill her bed of flowers with desert cacti and succulents? No, wrong color palette. Take out a loan to continue watering her plants? Now that would be ridiculous…

The weather was to blame—but Susan had a poor understanding of it. What went on up there in the sky? Who, exactly, could she send a strongly worded email to?

That same morning, Susan Kelvin decided she would take out a loan after all, but not to water her plants. Instead, she would go back to her local community college to study meteorology. She was quite sure that most of her coursework was merely propaganda from Big Weather, but she needed that associate's degree so she could learn that secret that lurked behind the eyes of Mr. John Sunday. So she could join his ranks. So she could become a Weather Woman.

Susan applied to the local television network with high hopes. The fate of her future rested on their acceptance. She snuggled into bed that same night of her application and dreamed of fresh purple pansies dotting the corners of her deep green lawn. But...something was terribly wrong!

Susan gasped for breath and opened her eyes. Strong hands grasped her arms, the fabric of a bag over her face—she was being kidnapped! Oh this is going to work horribly with my schedule! thought Susan. She began to protest but a harsh voice shushed her to silence. She was shoved into a car.

After an hour or so of stumbling around, the bag was lifted, and Susan blinked rapidly. She was in a musty room lit by candles. Deactivated cameras hung on racks against the wall, and a circle of sharply dressed bodies surrounded her, their shadows bending and stretching in the flickering light.

“Welcome,” someone said. “You have been called before our chapter because of your personal obsession with the weather. And from our understanding, your qualifications may permit that obsession to become...something more.”

Susan struggled to get her bearings. In front of her was, if she was not mistaken, sliced tofu arranged into an occult symbol.

“Your name is Susan Kelvin and you have a degree in meteorology from Marin County Community College, is this correct?”

“Yes,” Susan confirmed.

“You live alone, your parents are deceased, and you have no friends or loved ones. Is this also correct?”

“Who are you people?”

Susan then noticed that she recognized the woman sitting on her left—it was Ms. Rivers from channel eight. A proper weatherwoman, straightened and carefully sculpted black hair, with a stormy gray pantsuit that tastefully contrasted against her dark complexion. And to her right was that weatherman from channel seven what’s-his-face (his appearance was not noteworthy). And at the very front, at the head of the body of bodies, the man who had been speaking to her was none other than Mr. John Sunday in his yellow bow tie.

“What interest do you have in becoming a Weather Woman, Ms. Susan Kelvin?”

“I…um…”

They waited patiently for her answer. It suddenly occurred to Susan that this was probably a job interview. She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her.

“I believe I could bring a lot of value and a unique perspective to the weather conversation,” Susan said. “It has affected me personally…My district hasn’t had any rain in over a month.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “That must be terrible for you.”

“What are you apologizing for? You can’t control the weather.”

John Sunday leaned forward, and his blue eyes flashed a deep dark red. “Oh but we can.”

“Can what?”

“We control the weather, Susan.”

Susan narrowed her eyes. “That is completely absurd. You’re all a bunch of wierdo people who kidnapped me and I’m...I’m going to tell the authorities!”

“No one will believe you,” whispered Rivers.

Susan glared at everyone, but the weather people held still, not a trace of doubt of their ability. But surely the truth about the weather would not be so…uncomplicated. Surely the unseen forces that murdered her flowers would not have human faces.

“I don’t believe you,” Susan said plainly. “But I do need this job so that I can pay off my student loans–”

“The forecasters bear a burden.” John ignored her question. The speech was likely rehearsed. “To be a forecaster is self-sacrifice! To be a forecaster is to be a champion of the greater good! Does that describe you, Susan Kelvin?”

She hesitated.

Champion is rather vague. It can have multiple meanings.

She thought of her beautifully decorated house.

Oh, but I am certainly good.

She thought of her neighbors and their inferior sense of style.

And I am certainly greater!

Slowly, Susan nodded her head.

The weather people muttered amongst themselves enthusiastically, like children, until silenced by John.

“Excellent,” he said. “Very good. Then, on behalf of the California chapter of forecasters, the masters of the weather, we welcome you. Thank you, Great Mother.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” the weatherpeople said in tandem.

Someone clapped twice, and the overhead lamps blasted light everywhere.

“You’ll be shadowing Rivers tomorrow at eight. Look sharp,” John said dramatically, but without the candlelight defining his cheekbones, it was quite hard to take him seriously.

The next day, Susan arrived at exactly eight o’ clock, wearing her best suit, and hair pulled back in a tight bun. She found Rivers, on set, eating conservatively from a bag of soynuts.

“Oh hey! It’s you,” the weatherwoman said. “Sorry about all that cult stuff. John can be so dramatic.”

Susan smiled in relief, but quickly hid it away. “That is an understatement,” she muttered. “Will there be any more kidnappings?”

“Only for your monthly status report,” she said, “But give me your number and I can text you before it happens.”

Susan did so hesitantly, and kept staring at her phone after the fact. She had one whole contact now. How quaint.

That day, Susan was supposed to examine the cue cards, inspect the camera crews, and stare intently at the weatherwoman, noting every minute thing she did. Rivers delivered her forecast with a smile. Blue skies again.

“That’s disappointing,” Susan said to her over lunch. “I was hoping for some rain in my district.”

“John already has the weather planned out for the next few weeks,” Rivers said stiffly. “So sorry.”

Susan did not laugh. “This again? Tell me you do not believe this “controlling the weather” nonsense! You are not wizards!”

“Did you not see our occult symbols?”

Susan swatted at the air. “Meaningless shapes.”

“And what about John’s flashing red eyes?”

Susan’s voice lowered to a whisper, “Now, I don’t know about that…But he should see a medical professional.”

Rivers rolled her eyes and left to prepare for her evening forecast. When it was done and there were no more cue cards to read from, she very quickly told the audience, in a joking manner, that there would be isolated showers over their recording studio from exactly five fifty PM to five fifty one PM. She then strut off the stage with a smirk.

“Well, that’s an oddly specific forecast—“

The weather woman grabbed her by the wrist and led her all the way to the back-door exit with the recycling and the parking lot.

“Check your phone,” Rivers said.

Susan did not see why she should, there would be no messages. This was because she only had one contact, you see. But as she held her phone in her hand, a large raindrop splattered on the screen. Then another. And now rain was pouring from the sky, dripping down her hair and suit. Susan’s jaw dropped. She had not felt rain in so long. It was five-fifty. And by five fifty-one, the clouds departed as if swept away by a large broom. The sunlight stung her face.

Rivers smiled at her.

So they really did control the weather.

This revelation posed a great many questions. Like, why did the public not know about this? And why did the weathercasters have these powers? And why had Susan studied for two years to become a meteorologist when she could just pulled forecasts out of her asshole? Susan frowned. Now that she thought about it, it was rather odd that her meterology courses mostly consisted of specifications for ritual sacrifice and obedience lessons. Susan had simply thought it was “one of those things” about academia.

“Well, Rivers…”

“Yes, Susan?”

“I suppose this whole “forecasting” thing is...it’s fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun doesn’t do it justice!” Rivers said, through a handful of soynuts. “Just knowing how much power there is behind your every word. So long the camera is rolling, there is nothing stopping you from doing anything you damn well please!” Rivers laughed heartily, but kept her eyes trained on Susan. “Except your conscience, of course!”

“Oh, yes,” Susan said. “Ha ha!”

Fun doesn’t do it justice…It had been a while since Susan Kelvin had fun. She tried to remember when that was.

Oh, yes, of course!

It had been two weeks ago. Susan had just gotten home from work after a rough day, shoulders drooping, hair ruffled, when she looked down on her front porch and saw a beetle. The bug was turned on its back, legs flailing weakly in the air. There was nothing nearby for grasping, nothing but hot sunburned concrete. This bug had no way of righting itself yet it struggled still. Susan sat down and watched this bug. She watched it until it stopped moving. Until it returned to its natural state. Nonexistence. That had been fun, Susan remembered fondly. I am eager to have fun again.

After two days of shadowing Rivers, Susan was given her own partition of airtime over her district and a weekly forecast by her fellow weatherpeople. She delivered the forecast exactly as instructed. Blue skies.

“Pretty good for a first-time,” Rivers said. “Although, you were a bit stiff. Trying showing more emotion, more body language, you know?” She placed her fingers on her own cheekbones, pressing them upward. “Remember to smile.”

Susan didn’t know why she hadn’t. Perhaps she wasn’t having fun yet. She spent the rest of that evening practicing smiling in the mirror. She read Martha Stewart, baked a five-cheese lasagna exactly per the instructions, and smiled upon removing it from the oven like Martha Stewart did in the picture. She smiled until she did it without thinking, baring her teeth even in bed, as she dreamed of purple pansies.

The next day, she delivered her forecast so well that even John himself gave her a flamboyant “Well done!” And Susan smiled at them as they congratulated her—but still she was not having fun.

All this power and I never get to do anything worthwhile. Susan sighed. I could fix my front lawn if only John would let me.

Later at the meeting, Susan tried to articulate her feelings.

“We could be doing so much more, John. We could be helping the needy, like those poor people of Marin County who’s front lawns have been destroyed by the California heat!”

The weather people muttered undecidedly. Susan recognized her experiences were not universal, and acted accordingly, “Or what about people affected by hurricanes! Or wildfires, droughts, what about them, John! All those poor people we could help with our power—“

“Our power is a gift, you fool!” John snapped.

Susan raised an eyebrow. “A gift?”

“From Zietzebala,” said Rivers. “Our Great Mother Earth. She has gifted us with this forecasting power in exchange for our obedience as well as a few…sacrifices.”

“Ah.” Susan looked down. “And I suppose they have to be virgins too, don’t they. I’m still friends on facebook with a lot of men I went to highschool with who are probably–”

“No! Dammit, no! I meant, like, recycle. Plant a tree!” John looked exasperated. “Sometimes we sacrifice a tofurky, but we’ve never really gone farther than that.”

“Maybe we should,” muttered Rivers.

John turned sharply to look at her. “Don’t think I don’t know about that little stunt you pulled yesterday,” he said with a voice like acid. “Isolated showers? Over our studio? You know how important the schedule is–”

“I’m sorry.” Rivers said. She did not appear sorry. “It will not happen again.”

“It had better not.”

John left the room in a huff.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Susan asked “What did you mean by that?”

Rivers sighed. “I know what you mean about wanting to help. About all the good we could do. Climate change has already killed millions…and the death toll will continue to rise.”

Susan thought of her dead flowers and trembled.

“Don’t feel bad, Rivers,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

“No but it is literally our fault we control the weather Susan.“

“Oh right.”

Susan had forgotten.

Rivers began crushing the snacks in her hand. “The horrible thing is–I could fix it all. I have an incredibly detailed plan to fix the environment that, when I placed it on the alter to Zietzebala, turned into a swarm of doves! So I know she approves!”

Rivers glared. “But her pact is with John. And John has a bad heart.”

Susan nodded. “Truly a wicked man.”

“No, he literally has a bad heart. Arrhythmia.” Rivers hit twice against her chest. “I’m next in line for leadership if ever something terrible happens to him, just so you know.” She looked askance, placing her hand on Susan’s. “Do with that information what you will, Susan.”

Several things flashed through her mind at once. She saw Rivers dressed in the fanciful robes of climate cult leader. Rivers telling her how beautiful her lawn was. River’s soft, well-manicured hands holding hers, not just now, but over and over again in the future. Rivers could be more than her singular phone contact. Susan’s cheeks grew hot and she withdrew.

“Susan?”

She collected herself, pouring another class of ceremonial non-alcoholic wine. She raised it in a toast. “Here’s to hoping John drops dead!”

Rivers laughed, “Oh Susan, you’re so funny.”

Ms. Susan Kelvin squeezed her incredibly soft hand. “And when you’re head forecaster, you’ll give my district some water, won’t you? Because we are…coworkers?”

Ms. Rivers seemed confused for a half-second, then replied. “Of course! We will help everyone, which includes you!”

“But not me specifically?”

“Not you specifically, no.”

“Oh.”

Susan looked away.

Rivers offered her a soynut, but Susan refused it.

***

Next morning, Susan awoke with a start. She had a good feeling about today, that good feeling had apparently kicked her out of bed at an hour earlier than usual. What to do with the spare time?

She clapped her hands together. I know! I will go out for breakfast!

So Susan drove her little car down to her neighborhood Denny’s, avoiding all the dead beetles in the parking lot with her new high heels. She squeezed herself into a cozy booth. A nice table all to herself.

A waitress approached.

“Brown toast, and two eggs please.”

“Will that be sunny-side up, ma’am?”

“No no,” Susan turned from the window. Blue skies. With a twinge of bitterness she clarified, “I like my eggs over easy.”

“Sure thing!” The waitress jotted it down. “Sorry for assuming, most people like ‘em sunny—.”

“Well I like them over easy,” Susan said with a smile.

Susan tapped her heel as she waited, sipping some lemon water. A tingling feeling ran up her leg, like a bug was crawling. She quickly ran her hand up and down her smooth leg, but it was nothing. Nothing.

Moments later a steaming hot plate arrived. The toast was cut into triangles (the only adequate shape), but the eggs. Oh, the eggs. They were sunny. Side. UP.

Susan stormed out of the establishment without paying, and sped to her job, positively seething.

She did her broadcast as normal, except for one teensy addition as follows:

“Lastly, you’ll be seeing a horrific category five hurricane over in Marin county with wind speeds of about one hundred twenty miles an hour. It will be localized entirely within this area.” Susan pointed with her pointing stick to the map, on which she’d drawn a red circle around that one particular Denny’s.” Susan smiled. “That will be all!”

They cut to commercial break.

No one approached Susan for a full five minutes. Then John appeared, apparently having powerwalked from the adjoining broadcast room.

“Susan, what the hell–”

“It was a joke!”

John looked flabbergasted.

Susan made a silly face.

“A…joke?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Susan…you need to be really fucking careful with “jokes” when you’re on camera…You’re not in training anymore. Everything you say will happen no matter how ridiculous.”

Susan smiled slightly. That was exactly what she hoped.

John put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Look here, when the commercial ends, you are going to tell everyone that was a “joke”. You are going to tell everyone that there will be no category five hurricane at that particular Denny’s. Okay?”

“Okay, John.”

He backed away as the camera man counted down. Susan straightened her collar.

“Good evening, Citizens of Marin county. I have something to tell you all about that Category Five hurricane I mentioned earlier.”

Susan thought about reversing her decision. But why should she? That Denny’s had tried to poison her. She was doing God’s work.

She cleared her throat. “That hurricane is going to have hail. So so much hail.” John was pulling at his hair.

“And that’s not all. Susan looked directly at the camera, “Mr. John Sunday is going to die at exactly six forty-seven PM, and nothing that anyone does, not any doctor, not any ambulance, not any priest will be able to stop it.”

John Sunday ran onto the set, jumping over the rolling chairs and camera crew, reaching for her microphone.

“And the power to this station will go off NOW.”

Darkness fell. Susan tried to run, but John tackled her to the ground. He pulled the microphone from her face and shouted into it, “No! No that will not happen, actually, that will not happen. Susan is wrong!”

But the cameras were not running.

“You’re too late, John.”

John clutched his face.

“What time is it?”

It was six forty-six.

There was terror in his eyes, “That wasn’t even weather related!” he stammered. “You will be fired for this!”

“Who is going to fire me, John?”

John took out his cellphone with a shaking hand and dialed 911. Susan heard it ringing, a steady pulse in his hand. But what John really needed was a steady pulse in his heart. He fell over in agony, and Susan bent over his writhing body. She watched until it stopped. Until it returned to it’s natural state. Nonexistence. Now she was having fun. Susan took his yellow bow tie (it was a clip-on.)

She ran through the crowd of concerned onlookers, off to her car to beat the rush-hour traffic. She heard sirens in the distance, a wailing chorus. Approaching. She clutched the wheel until her knuckles turned white.

Susan saw the siren was that of an ambulance and sighed. Pity that it wouldn’t help anything. What was done was done.

That night, Susan made tea before sleeping, listening to the soft rain against her window as it cooled, with one of Martha Stewart's Living magazines resting on her lap. It was all very calming. She tucked herself into bed at exactly nine-thirty, as she did every night, and slept as she had always slept.

But in her dreams, something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong.

Susan always dreamed about being in her house, but now she was on a pedestal. On all sides of her, a dark abyss stretched down into infinity.

Instead of her carpet, the ground was teeming with worms.

Instead of the whistling of her teakettle, she heard an ominous wind, delivering muffled shrieks and cries.

Susan tapped her foot on the wormy ground. Well, this is boring! she thought.

But no sooner did her mind form that thought than the wind began to pick up.

Howling now.

And from the sky of inclement weather came a flash of blinding lightning. Susan opened her eyes and who should stand before her but...

“Martha Stewart!” Susan struggled to speak. “I am your biggest fan, I’ve—I’ve read every issue of your magazine, I read your blog—I try so hard to be just like you!”

The woman answered in a booming voice that was far too deep, “But you are not like me, Susan. You are a hollow vessel. You are a parody of human being.”

“You’re not...really Martha Stewart, are you?”

The woman bared her teeth. “I’m afraid not. I am merely taking a form that you can understand.”

Susan had a feeling she knew who it was. “Are you... Great Mother?”

“The one and only!” Zietzebala winked.

Susan looked her up and down. That dress was actually quite unfashionable now that she really looked at it. In hindsight it was obvious this was not Martha Stewart. Susan sighed soberly. Yes, not even a literal goddess can replicate such perfection.

Susan spoke to her in her usual condescending manner. “Why have you come to me like this...in a dream?”

“Isn’t it obvious why I’m here?” Not-Martha-Stewart said softly. “John Sunday is dead.”

Susan began to sweat. She adjusted her bow tie—no that was John’s bow tie, now she had drawn attention to it!

With the intention of discreteness, and complete failure of that which was intended, Susan removed the article and hurled it into the abyss. Not even a full second later, the bow tie had reappeared.

Again, Susan tossed it.

Again, it reappeared.

Again, she tossed it.

Bow tie back again!

Again, she tossed it—

“This is who you are now, Susan!” shouted Zietzebala. Crackling thunder leapt from her perfect face-framing bob-cut of yellow hair. “This is your burden.”

But the yellow of the bow tie didn’t even go with the current color palette of her outfit! Susan stood helplessly, in her persistently unfashionable clothing, staring into the eyes of this unearthly creature. And for the first time in her perfect life, Susan feared for her immortal soul.

“Great Mother, I am so sorry,” she said tearfully, “But you must let me explain myself! He was preventing me from doing my job as a forecaster, so I had to kill him. I had to!”

Not-Martha-Stewart's eyes flashed red. “Don’t take all the credit, my child. I killed him. You merely allowed me to.”

Susan stopped pretending to look upset. “Oh. So we are on the same page?”

“Not exactly.”

The Great Mother began to circle her, her high heels striking the writhing ground. “John is dead because he thought he could worship two gods at once.”

“He cheated on you?”

“With money.” Zietzebala shook her head. “John was too soft, much like the tofu he insists on sending me…He was unwilling to make the sacrifices I demand. But are you?”

The goddess was getting too close for comfort.

“That…depends…what they are?”

“I want blood, Susan.”

She had figured.

“Rivers has a two hundred page plan on how to save the environment. You are instrumental to that plan, Susan Kelvin. Because you are unlike any human I have ever known.” Her eyes glimmered like starlight. “You are…completely empty.”

Susan frowned. She felt strange. She felt used.

“I must go now–”

“Wait,” Susan stopped her. “While you’re here, can I ask you some questions about the nature of the universe? I’ve had a sudden stroke of curiosity.”

Zietzebala sighed. “Ok. I’ll give you three.”

“Objectively speaking, is the “Farmhouse style” or “Riverside cottage” style superior for a home kitchen?”

“That depends on the context, Susan.”

“Why are all the flowers in the magazines prettier than mine?”

“Because of the drought, Susan.”

She paused. Her last question…What shall it be?

After putting some thought into it, Susan decided to ask, “Is there life after death?”

Zietzebala smirked playfully. “Oh, I think you already know the answer.”

“Do I?”

“Haven't you ever thought there was a bug on your leg, and upon looking, found there was no bug?”

Susan squinted. “What of it?”

The Goddess leaned in closely. “Ghost bugs.”

Susan shuddered, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Susan grabbed onto the front of the goddess’s coat.

“Wait, I have one more question.”

“I said I’d give you three.”

“Please, just one more!” Susan demanded. “Are there other gods?”

“You already know the answer.”

Susan scoffed. “I’m…not sure that I do!”

Zietzebala turned from her, staring into the abyss. “It is time for you to wake up, Susan. Remember all that I have told you. Collaborate with Rivers. Eliminate everyone she tells you to.”

“What?”

“Be the good that Martha Stewart wants you to be–or there will be consequences!”

With that, she clapped twice and disappeared in a puff of smoke that smelled like cedar and pumpkin-scented candles.

Susan sat up from her bed abruptly and jerked her head to the side. Six o’ clock. I must get ready for work!

Susan hurriedly bread her hands, popped her soap in the toaster, ironed the carpet, and tore down Main Street. In her urgency, she went two miles above the speed limit.

Seeds of doubts sprouted worries in her mind. Do I really have what it takes to be an eco-terrorist? Susan fancied herself the very image of perfection. Was she not? She who kept her lawn so neatly trimmed? Who’s china was so neatly kept? Susan breathed rapidly. She who ravaged a Denny’s…

Destruction.

Peace.

Order.

Susan whirled into the parking lot of the recording studio, blew past everyone without a word, avoiding inquisitive eyes, avoiding accusatory fingers, planting her ass firmly in her little red rolling chair. She took a deep breath. Be the good…that Martha Stewart wants you to be.

Rivers ran up on stage, grabbed Susan’s face and kissed her passionately. Susan stumbled backwards, bracing herself against the desk. This was NOT an appropriate workplace activity. But Susan could not help herself. She returned the expression, kissing Rivers hungrily, barely noticing the notecards that had been pressed into her hand.

“We’re on in five!”

Rivers pulled away and Susan gasped for breath. “Read these exactly as they are written Susan,” Rivers said.

Susan dared not look down at the paper in her hand. What horrible dreadful things would be written on them?

Television static buzzed in her head. Someone was counting down.

The cameras trained on her.

“Now we will go live to Susan Kelvin with the weather!” The news reporter eyed Susan from her screen. “And I see you are wearing John Sunday’s signature yellow bow tie.”

Susan leaned forward slowly.

“That I am, Fiona. I have worn it to pay my respects—God rest his soul.”

“It’s kind of weird that you were able to forecast his death in such perfect detail.”

Susan paused.

“Yes well…he had a heart condition. So it was only a matter of time really.

“Of course.”

Susan exhaled deeply, and looked down.

Written on the notecards were not the names of oil barons to kill. Not golf courses to destroy. Not death, not destruction. Written on the card was simply the words “rain for everyone”

The television static grew purple.

Rain for everyone.

It was insulting.

“...Susan?”

Her eyes met Rivers. She was grinning ear to ear.

Rain for everyone.

Susan’s whole body shook as she began to deliver her forecast, “A cloud… will appear.”

The room melted away, only Rivers remained.

“Right over my house. A cloud will appear and it will rain. And it will never stop raining.”

Rivers smile twisted into a look of abject horror.

“And my pansies will respond to the rain. They will be the brightest purple. They will be the envy of all you disgusting animals.” Susan hadn’t noticed but she was screaming every word.

The ground beneath the recording studio quaked from thunder. The contract had been broken, wrath was eminent.

“I AM NOT EMPTY! I AM FULL OF PANSIES! I AM FULL OF RAIN.”

Flowers began sprouting from Susan’s ears, nose and eyes. Water poured from her mouth onto the floor. Choking on rain, Susan finished her forecast.

“And that…just about…wraps it up. Ba–ck…to you!”

A bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens, miraculously cutting through the walls of the recording studio, striking Susan. She fell from the stage. Shortly after, more bolts came and the recording studio violently burst into flames.

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. Eyewitnesses said that the weather was to blame but Ms. Rivers knew that it was anything but that. Homicide. Divine intervention.

Rivers stood alone in the parking lot, charred bow tie in one hand, and in the other, a flash drive full of files full of lies for the goddess of earth. The only god. “Damn you.” Her fingers closed around the yellow cloth.

Rain fell in sheets from the sky above Susan Kelvin's house, with no sign of stopping. Her pansy grew taller than cornstalks, stretching upwards, garishly purple. But Susan would never see them. Susan Kelvin was gone.

Though, some say that on hot summer days when the sky is endless blue, at the back of your neighborhood Denny’s, you can feel her.

Crawling on your leg.

#This is my first short story I've posted to Tumblr!#It's like that one episode of the Fairly Oddparents but if it was more gay and political #It has lesbians and Denny's in it but I swear that was an accident I am not pandering #hope you like it #short story #short fiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing #weather woman

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jokeroutsubs · 3 months

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[ENG translation] Joker Out, the kings of charisma, conquer Europe: "What's happening is incredible!"

Interview with Bojan and Jure. The original article was written by Alma Rahne for Metropolitan, it was published on 29.12.2023. English translation by @varianestoroff, proof read by a member of JokerOutSubs.

Photo: Dean Grainger

Travel to the other side of the world, learn Slovene and queue for the concert from 7 am. The fans are willing to do all this for them. If 2023 was a year of overachievement for Joker Out, get ready for the new wave coming in 2024.

It's been a very successful year for the boys, if not the best year yet. With their Eurovision performance, watched by around 200 million people worldwide, their musical fairytale has begun.

Although they ended up in 21st place, undeserved according to many, they put their joker* to good use. But they have left their mark on Europe, as Eurovision fans voted them kings of charisma just a few days ago.

*The Joker is a playing card found in most modern French-suited card decks, as an addition to the standard four suits. It often acts as a wild card (a card that may be used to represent another card or cards). Here, the journalist creates a pun based on the value of the card and the name of the band.

In life, as with cards, sometimes you have to take risks to win. And Joker Out are definitely the winners, having achieved more out of their 3-minute Eurovision performance than they might have dared to dream of in the first place.

A few days ago, the boys successfully ended their first European tour, where their fans sang out loud in Slovene and started learning the language because of them. It sounds unbelievable, but that's what they achieved this year. Every time we meet - whether for interviews, backstage at gigs or on the street - I notice that despite all their achievements over the last year, they are down to Earth and true to themselves and really enjoy what they do.

Photo: Instagram/Joker Out/Mark Pirc/Vita Orehek

I would dare to say that they are currently the only band in Slovenia that proves that they can break boundaries and impress abroad with their authenticity, perseverance and singing in Slovene. With his consent, I'm going to borrow the words of the fellow journalist Gašper Završnik, a correspondent of Delo in Madrid, who was also at their December concert. He described his impressions and their performance by saying, "Joker Out are to Slovene what the Cervantes Institute* is to Spanish." He later told me that he could not remember such euphoria about a foreign band in Spain.

*The Cervantes Institute is a public cultural institution created with the aim of promoting and teaching the Spanish language and disseminating Spanish and Hispanic culture.

With New Year just around the corner, it's only right to look back and see first-hand how Bojan Cvjetićanin and Jure Maček, members of Joker Out, spent 2023. Before they and the other members Kris Guštin, Jan Peteh and Nace Jordan perform in front of the Slovenian audience for the last time this year on Saturday the 30th of December at Kongresni trg, in this interview they revealed their plans for 2024, talked about life on tour and gave details of their new upcoming single.

How would you describe the year behind you?

Jure: We collected a lot of miles by buying so many plane tickets. We had lots of flights, Bojan would say it was very turbulent. But for me it was quite a hard year.

Bojan: I would say a perfect year. We really seized it to the fullest. I think we have milked 2023 dry. We have done everything, we have really put everything we have in us. We have given every last inch of ourselves, but we have also taken everything we could.

Photo: Vita Orehek

Since you devoted yourselves especially to music and your career, was there any field in which you weren't the best?

Bojan: My garden bed fell apart.

Jure: I don't have a girlfriend.

Bojan: Neither do I. (laughs) We don't have a girlfriend, we don't have money...

Jure: We see our family more rarely.

Bojan: See, a great year. (laughs)

Jure Maček, photo by Mediaspeed/Sandi Fišer

Bojan, you mentioned that your biggest goal was to perform at the Sziget festival, which you will do next year. What's next, will you set a new goal?

I told myself that I didn't want new goals to determine success. Let's say, we always had in the back of our minds that this is something that happens and means success. We always saw Sziget as, "You really succeed when you perform on the main stage at Sziget." For us (Jokers) it's the most legendary festival in Europe. And once we conquer that, as far as I'm concerned, there are no more goals that determine success. For me, it's all a plus after that and I want us to make new music, have a good time and enjoy it. Like we are now, with the new single. Every time we record a new song we're going to be happy, listen to it, play it a thousand times and call each other to say how good it is. That's all I want.

Have you ever been to Sziget?

Jure: No, never.

Bojan: Unfortunately not, I had everything ready to go twice. Once I got sick, and the other time we had a concert the day before.

Jan Peteh, photo by Mediaspeed/Borut Cvetko

What do you do when a Joker Out concert coincides with something else you've been wanting to visit or see for a while? Career probably has priority... Is there a bitter aftertaste that night at the concert?

Bojan: Let's not lie to ourselves. It depends on the gig. If it's something that you would love to miss, but you have to do it because it's the whole band's business, not your own, then you might go on stage with a bitter aftertaste.

Jure: We just had a concert in Celje and at the same time my former band Čedahuči had a concert in Kino Šiška. I really wanted to go, but it didn't work out.

Bojan: It really hurts then, but what can you do, that's just the way it is. But it was a great concert in Celje. I got sick, I was on stage with a fever. I would have liked to lie at home, but in the end the concert healed me. I sweated there, I excercised a little and I changed my mindset. I woke up the next day 200 times better.

You've just finished recording a new single. What can you reveal?

Jure: We can say that it is a ballad.I think I can feel it the most out of the all songs so far.

Bojan: I would say it's the most different so far. Maybe as a songwriter I put myself out there most directly, it's quite a therapeutic song.

Where did the inspiration come from?

Bojan: At the end of July, things started happening and inspired me to write this song. The lyrics didn't take long to develop. I wrote the main part when we were in the studio recording the English single 'Sunny Side of London'. That's when this 'jam' happened, which we took as the basis for the song. I had already written the lyrics for the verses and the chorus... I can reveal that the song will be in English (smiles).

Bojan Cvjetićanin, photo by Profimedia

How do you approach songwriting? With the aim of making it a hit?

Jure: No, we all just have to feel the song. That's the most important thing.

Bojan: I think the release of the upcoming single is very brave for a band in our position. Because it's quite possible that it won't be a hit at all. The song is really different... but if people feel the song the way we did, it could be our biggest hit. We really didn't play the 'certainty card'.

Have you ever thought about writing a song using ChatGPT*?

Bojan: No, but we have tested how it works.

*ChatGPT is a chatbot based on artificial intelligence and machine learning, developed by OpenAI and specialised in conversation with a human user.

Fans bring different banners to your concerts, which they make themselves. Is there a sign that you remember the most?

Jure: I'm the furthest away from the audience and I see the least of them (laughs). I don't remember any in particular at the moment. But I have to say that they are really original.

Bojan: They're really sick, because they're so indecent (laughs). I often times couldn't stop myself from laughing in the middle of singing, thinking, 'who thought of that?' But it's really sick, because they hold it up for an hour and wait for me to read it.

Jure: And the people behind them are shouting at them and asking them to move it, because it's blocking their view of the stage (laughs).

Bojan: I think the one that got my attention the most was in Rijeka: "Bojan, why did you invite so many people to our date?" They can be really creative.

Nace Jordan, photo by Profimedia

A fellow journalist from Delo attended your concert in Madrid at the beginning of December and wrote on social media: Joker Out is to Slovene what the Cervantes Institute is to Spanish. Those of us who are involved, connected with Spanish, know that this is a great compliment. Any comment?

Bojan: I saw what he wrote, and as I am also a bit involved with Spanish (smiles), I was very honoured that it came out of his mouth. The concert in Madrid was really excellent. It was an explosion of energy that can only happen by accident, and I am glad that he was at that concert. In fact, what is happening is incredible. We go around Europe and people sing in Slovene for an hour and a half. That is probably something that has never happened before. They are learning phrases in Slovene so that they can say them to us. They bring us textbooks and dictionaries to sign.

Do you feel that you have such a big influence on your fans? Did you ever imagine that your fans would learn Slovene because of you?

Jure: That's so weird. It's like being in a bubble all the time.

Bojan: We are not personifying these people. On stage, we are ourselves, but still an acquaintance. There I am Bojan Cvjetićanin for them, but for myself I am Bojč. I am Bojč when none of the band members take me seriously. Or when they flip me off if I say something stupid. (smiles) When I get home, though, I'm the same Bojč that I was when I was 10 years old. I don't think you can understand that, which is fine. Thank God... I'm still myself on stage, just in a different role.

What is the hardest part of touring?

Jure: Just the journey, the means of transportation - planes.

Bojan: Getting sick.

What is a typical day like for you when you are on tour?

Jure: After the concert we go straight to the hotel, shower and sleep as soon as possible. Around 2am we fall asleep, and between 4am and 5am we're awake because we have a flight to catch. We have to be at the airport at 7, we have a flight at 8 and we are in the next city, the next country, by 11. Then we go to the concert venue, we get there between 1 and 2 pm. From 2 to 4 we are free, then we go to the hotel to rest a little. Our technicians have it worse, because they start preparing the stage, the sound system. Between 4 and 5 there is the sound check, dinner at 6 and the concert at 8. And the next day we repeat it again. (Smiles)

What about on the tour bus?

Jure: You have your own home on the bus. The day looks similar, except that we shower after the concert backstage and get on the bus when we want, fall asleep and wake up when we want. That is the main difference. Because you're driving overnight and you usually get to the next town at 10 o'clock, wake up, look out the window and you're somewhere else.

Bojan: Usually the tour bus is parked outside the concert venue.

Are your most passionate fans waiting for you outside the bus?

Bojan: That too. Last time I woke up at seven to go to the toilet and look out the window. We had just come from Wroclaw to Poznan and there were 50 people outside and I was still dizzy (laughs).

Jure: It's much easier to travel by bus. When I came back from Poland after a 10-day tour in a tour bus, I joked that I came back so fresh that I could come home at 10 o'clock and say, "Mother, what can I do today?"(Smiles).

Kris Guštin, photo by Profimedia

In your experience, what contributes more to success: talent or hard work?

Bojan: Neither. But many people have gone very far with hard work, even if they didn't have much talent. I would say that hard work is important and surrounding yourself with people who have talent and want the best for you. If you don't have talent yourself.

With the New Year, you are going abroad. What is the main purpose, what will you be doing?

Jure: We're moving to London for two months at the beginning of January. We've rented a house and a garage there, where we'll work and rehearse the new songs. Then in March we go on a European tour for a month. We'll be home for the holidays and then we're going back to England. In mid-April we're going to Germany for a month in the studio and we hope to record the album by mid-May. And then the festival season, the album release and everything that follows.

Bojan: Then soon Merry Christmas and Happy New Year (laughs).

Photo by Vita Orehek

#joker out #bojan cvjetićanin #jure maček

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moremousewrites · 27 days

Text

Tempest

Pairing: Minthara/Tav (femme drow)

Summary: You and Minthara relate to your utter distaste for the weather of Faerun's surface. While you've had some time to acclimate, Minthara suggests another solution. You're not really in a place to judge, but you can convince her to stay the night at least

Tags: kissing, smut, fluff, cuddling after sex, pet names (my divinity),fingering, oral sex, grinding, nipple play, slavery mention

Note: I'm sorry i keep making fics about my ocs and putting them in 2nd person lmao. This is hardly a reader insert but old habits die hard im afraid. Anyway brackets is drowish, quotes is common. Enjoy!

A Heavy thunderstorm in rivington forced the adventuring party to set up camp for the night. You were settling in when a very flustered, very wet Minthara burst into your tent.

“Does this miserable weather never cease?” She kicked off her muddy shoes in your tent and started peeling off her wet nightclothes. How considerate.

You didn't bother averting your eyes, she'd find it pointless as well. You had not laid together yet, but your relationship was very close. She had healed your unclothed body before and you had bathed with her a few times now. She made it a ritual after confessing to you, washing your hair.

“It's only rain, Minthara” you opened your bedroll to her and she climbed in beside you, her face a breath away from yours.

“I do not mean this weather. I mean all surface weather. The unruly sun, smothered by this deluge. And the biting cold that greets you if you're not so bloated by nightfall. You know of what I speak. Do you not agree that the temperament of Menzoberranzan is much more suitable for life?” she ranted. It was almost funny how serious she was about this but you could sympathize with her difficulty assimilating to the climate. A few decades ago you saw sunlight for the first time and you were equally miserable.

“It is one of the few things I miss about the Underdark” you switched to high drowic, just in case your companions were listening. [I won't pretend to understand why the surface dwellers tolerate conditions here as they do, but I know it is not my place to impart my views on other cultures] you explained, wrapping your arm around her. She was shivering.

[It is indeed your place to do just that] she stated, bluntly. Ah, the source of your disagreements. [You're a powerful, influential heiress of a noble house, Tav. And how I see it, you'd be doing the surface a favour by enslaving it and disseminating them within the Underdark] she shoved her freezing hands up your nightshirt and you jolted at their temperature.

[I'm not enslaving Faerun. And I can't go back to Menzoberranzan. There's a reason I left] you took off your shirt and Minthara pressed herself against you.

Minthara warmed in your embrace. [Your mother? That's simple we will kill her with the aid of your liberated army] she kissed your neck, placing her hands on your chest.

She was so severe you couldn't believe her sometimes. Then again, you had been just like her. Sometimes, you forgot how vicious you really were. Dreams of total global enslavement and matricide were commonplace. You have had those exact ambitions before.

[Minthara…] you moaned at her touch.

She placed a hand at your mouth. [Be quiet. I need silence to plan our world domination] she got up to straddle your hips.You dared not utter a word. [We will conquer the surface together. Then we will conscript the strongest fighters to slay your mother's house] she rolled her hips into yours. The idea of dethroning your tyrant mother was enticing. Minthara's body on your clothed cunt was even moreso.

She pulled your bra off of you, marveling in your beauty. [Then I shall claim my place as the head of house Baenre and our joined forces will be unstoppable. All will bow to our devastating power] she cupped your breasts, massaging them, rolling your nipples between her fingers. She was awaiting your response.

You thought it was fitting she believed it to be easier to enslave all of the surface of Faerun than vanquish a portion of the Underdark. Fitting but ridiculous. This was dirty talk for her. And you apparently, since you were dripping at the thought.

[Yes, my Queen] you consented. She leaned in and kissed you with a searing passion. Your hands flew to her body but she tore away from the kiss.

[Yes, I will be your queen. Kneel before me and swear your fealty] she leaned back, spreading her legs for you.

You got on your knees, you slid your hands up her thighs slowly. [I, Tav, do swear by no gods- only unto your name, that I will be faithful and serve you, Minthara, as my true queen] every word, you inched your hands closer to her core. You could smell her desire for you.

She was so flustered by your performance, she couldn't even respond properly. [Please, Tav] she humbly begged.

[What is it my queen asks of me?] You dipped lower, kissing down her chest, lower and lower. Not low enough.

[I ask you to lick me] she panted out. You were very grateful for the thunderstorm. Even in high drow, the way she begged you to lick her cunt was so lustful you could have known it in any language. Your companions certainly would have overheard had the storm not muffled her. You did your queen's bidding and licked her. First, through her smallclothes to tease. She was aching so much that it would not have made a difference. You lapped at her through the cloth and she ground herself on your tongue.

Before she could finish, you pulled her panties to the side, licking a stripe up her cunt and taking her swollen clit into your mouth. She moaned deeply as she came, chest heaving and a thin sheen of sweat covering her body. You needed more.

You placed one finger at her entrance, gathering her moisture on your finger. She flinched at first, unprepared for the sensation, then welcomed it greedily as you sunk a knuckle in. Then the other, and the second finger. You pumped them in and out of her slowly, pressing into the spot you knew she'd love all too well. You were devoted to serving your queen.

“Tav, you were taught love magic in your youth, surely” Minthara was gripping the sheets in ecstasy. She was trying desperately to hold out. Even slipping back to common tongue to distract herself.

You continued your efforts and leaned forward to take her nipple in your mouth. Minthara squirmed under your touch but still, held strong. You pushed your free hand on her lower belly, causing her to gasp. Still, it wasn't enough. But you swore fealty and it was an oath you would not break. You wrapped your lips around her clit and tongued at her while you fucked her with your fingers. She screamed your name as you came. The thunderstorm couldn't hide that, though you didn't really care.

Exhausted, Minthara cuddled into your arms. You guided her back into the bedroll. “Give me a moment and I will take care of you, my divinity” she nuzzled into your neck.

You noticed her hair was still up. It would get tangled in her sleep. “No, my queen. Rest. It would honour me” you pulled the tie from her hair and it spilled over her shoulder and onto the pillow. You ran your fingers through it. She didn't protest, your touch had proven effective. She was snoring lightly in seconds.

You took in her beauty. She was worthy of being your queen- your goddess, even. Faerun would never stand a chance. The two of you would be malevolent rulers, treacherous and perfect. Lucky for Faerun it would never know. You both were only faithful to each other, the world would never have you.

#bg3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #minthara baenre #minthara/reader #minthara/tav #minthara x oc #minthara #baldurs gate fanfiction

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young-royals-confessions · 8 months

Note

Alexander needs fanart. He needs fanart. 🎶Where in the world is the Alexander fanart? 🎶 (Carmen Sandiego tune). I've seen a couple Felice, one or two Sara, one Henry and a Walter. There are a tiny handful of August. I saw one one time that was Ayub and Rosh. One time I saw one I was *positive* was Alexander but no, somehow it was Wille. For that matter where the heck are Nils and Vincent and why don't I have the skills to make any of this myself? 99% of fanart is Wille and Simon and I *loooooooooooove* it. Everyone is so darn talented 😮‍💨 I scroll the fanart blog to look at all the pretty pictures and other kinds of art like how are you people *this* good??? There was this one where it was an oil (acrylic? I can't remember) painting of the scene (the scene) in episode 4 and I'm like???? Foaming at the mouth with rabies it's so good.

I wanna see Alexander and co and how you guys see them too! Alexander this dumb mofo who somehow got roped into shit he has no concept of the scope of. This dumbass "oh Wille you're such a good person" "now I'm gonna take the fall for disseminating underage sex video of the future king" MFer. Give that absolute dummy of a kid some beautiful art please. (Also once again wishing on a genie to make me an amazing traditional or digital artist so I can fulfill my young royals dreams!!!)

I love these dumb teen characters so much. 😭😭😭 (turning my unhingedness and over use of parentheses off now)

💜

#alexander bragé #yr fanart

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utilitycaster · 9 months

Note

I know you tend to know a lot of the CR lore and I feel like I've missed something. I've seen a lot of people in the chat of the last episode talking about how the gods of Exandria need prayer and their followers to live and that they're just using their followers and I'm a bit confused because in the history of Exandria video the gods already had their powers when they came to Exandria.

Yeah I think it's been kept very ambiguous in canon and people have extrapolated or overlaid ideas of deities from other works or traditions.

The biggest canon source I think we have on the relationship of deities to their followers' worship is that after Vecna's ascension, Ioun says that he will need more worshippers to "disseminate his power and claim his domains". However, even that is pretty ambiguous, since Vecna is a new deity who was born mortal - essentially, an evil counterpart to the Raven Queen. It's unclear if this is only true of Vecna (and any hypothetical new god) or only true for something like the expansion of one's domains. Otherwise, I at least think - I could be wrong - that the cast has sometimes acted as though the gods rely on the worship of their followers, but Matt is usually noncommittal or "kind of, but it's complicated" in response.

My understanding, and this does involve some personal interpretation, is that the gods are not like Tinkerbell. They do not need you to clap if you believe in them lest they die. They exist, and have powers, regardless of whether they are worshiped. A good case in point is that between the Schism and the start of the Calamity, the Betrayers were completely sealed away with no access to followers, and survived and rapidly began fucking with the world as soon as they were unleashed. This is further backed up with the fact that the gods have frequently and repeatedly ceded ground to mortals - they granted them arcane magic, and when mortals used this to begin to distance themselves from the gods, the gods permitted it. This is also backed up by Sarenrae remaining perfectly capable of full power despite her worship having been vastly diminished post-Calamity until Pike began signficantly reviving her worship.

However, I think it is fair to say that the gods are drastically limited in what they can do on the Material Plane while they themselves are not on the Material Plane. They primarily need to work through their followers. They can send visions and dreams, and grant powers, but they can't simply step in and fix everything with a snap of their fingers. And so, having more followers and worshipers on the material plane means that their capacity to do enact meaningful change in the world is increased.

For what it's worth I've also, as a person with complex feelings about the existence of god but who through reflection and adjustment that is, frankly, ongoing (which I think is normal and appropriate) does have a religious practice, never found any logic in the idea that the gods are simply using their followers. Like, I might be lighting candles on Friday night to the benefit of literally no one, and anything I feel from it is, effectively, a placebo, or something entirely human-made. So why would it be different if some entity who has never spoken to me nor made their existence definitively clear gains power from it? Now consider the world in which I am a cleric. In that case, I am clearly getting something from this.

In short, the relationship between mortals in Exandria and the gods, or at least the Prime Deities, has always to me seemed symbiotic. I think that the idea people get nothing from the act of worship in and of itself is a very limited and small-minded one in the first place, and so while I reject the idea that the gods are reliant on people for sustenance - though they are reliant for a certain degree of agency within the world - the premise that the gods are using their followers with the followers deriving nothing from it is already false and the entire argument dissolves.

#answered #Anonymous #critical role #critical role spoilers

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jae-bummer · 1 year

Text

Seek Me Out

Request: I was wondering if you could have mingyu from seventeen comfort and hug a crying carat after her rude boyfriend shows up at a fan event and yells at her in front of everyone? This is inspired by a dream I had the other night.

Pairing: Seventeen Mingyu x Reader

Genre: Angst

"He just doesn't get it," you grumbled, pulling your knees to your chest. "I don't know if any guy ever will."

Sighing, you leaned against your best friend sitting on the ground beside you. The two of you had gotten picked to attend a fan sign event for your favorite group and you didn't want to waste your excitement by whining all over the place.

"Some guys just don't understand that you aren't thirsting after other men," your friend sighed, resting her cheek on the top of your head. "He's insecure in himself, so he gets angry when you show attention to them. He insults their looks, but most of the time, you don't even care about that. It's their talent and their personalities that really shine."

"Right," you said quietly before leaning away and shaking your head. "But today isn't about him! "

"Today is about us!" your friend grinned. "It's about celebrating the boys!"

"The boys!" you cheered as you both dissolved into a fit of giggles. If there is one thing you knew could turn your day around, it would be finally meeting Seventeen.

As if they had sensed your redirection of the conversation, the crowd around you kicked up into a frantic round of applause. You immediately rose to your feet with the rest of the fans and began clapping as well. On a small stage to the front of the room, the Seventeen members had begun filing in one by one. They each took a seat behind a long white table, ready to start the fan sign. With so many members smiling and looking genuinely happy to be there, you couldn't help it as the smile started to spread to your face too. It really was going to be a good day after all.

"Y/N!" you heard faintly above the clapping as it began to disseminate.

Furrowing your brows, you tried to focus on where the sound was coming from but froze as everyone began to take their seats again. It cleared your line of sight enough to where you could see your boyfriend charging through the rows of fans.

"Y/N!" he shouted again, the anger plain on his face.

Like a startled animal, you couldn't move. You couldn't even think of a single word that would stop him from launching this embarrassing rampage. Being a subconscious glutton for punishment, you found yourself glancing over to the stage to gauge everyone's reactions. The members of Seventeen that didn't look confused, looked horrified instead.

This gave you the spark of confidence you needed to move forward, meeting your boyfriend in the middle. Grabbing his elbows, you pushed him to the side of the room where you could hopefully have whatever discussion he was aiming for in private.

"What are you doing?" you hissed between your teeth. You attempted to keep a placid smile on your face as you felt the heat of everyone's gaze.

"What am I doing?" he gasped. "What are you doing?!"

"I told you I was going to an event today..."

"Oh yeah, some event!" he shouted. "Spending more time and effort on people who don't even know you exist."

In the fuzzy corners of your hearing, you thought someone had called for security.

"Hey," you said quietly, trying your hardest to de-escalate the situation. "Can we talk about this when I get home later?"

"Oh, after you're done cheating on me?" he laughed a little too loudly. "Seriously, Y/N, slobbering after thirteen men? I thought you were better than that."

"Look loser, it's time to go," your best friend piped up as she joined the conversation, moving protectively to your side.

"I'll go when Y/N comes with me!" he yelled. "Aren't I more important than them?"

You looked over your shoulder to the Seventeen members you had grown to know on at least a parasocial level. They knew they had fans and loved them immensely. You weren't necessarily individually special, but you were a part of something that was. Without being a Carat, you wouldn't have the friends that were always there for you. You wouldn't have the support system you had fostered for years. They gave you a community and a reason to focus on something positive. They had gifted you with so much without really even knowing who you were.

You winced as you acknowledged quite a few of the boys were still watching you. A couple had even decided to get up and walk across the stage, anger now painted on their handsome features as well.

"Excuse me sir, do you have a ticket for this event?" a burly security guard asked, finally appearing on the scene.

"No, but my partner does," your boyfriend grumbled, motioning vaguely in your direction. "We were just leaving."

Grabbing you roughly by the upper arm, the whole crowd gasped in response. At this point, you could see two or three members of Seventeen now getting held back by their own security as they attempted (in vain) to deal with your boyfriend themselves.

"He was just leaving," your friend clarified with a nod, wrenching your boyfriend's hand from your arm. "Come on, Y/N."

Steering you back to your position in line, you didn't look back as your boyfriend yelled. "If you don't come with me, this is the end for us! Don't come crying to me in a few days when you miss everything we had!"

With the loud slam of a heavy door on the opposite side of the room, you knew your nightmare was at least semi-over. You grimaced as you waited for the eventual outcome of you being kicked out as well.

Luckily after a few moments, music began to filter through the room and the fan event had actually began. It seemed as if no one was concerned with you staying there, so you quietly thanked whatever Gods were watching out for you.

"Don't let him ruin it," your best friend nodded, rubbing the sides of your upper arms in an attempt to get you excited again. She reached up to wipe carefully at your cheeks, trying to dry the tears that you hadn't even realized had fallen. "We're still meeting Seventeen!"

"Yeah, and they likely think I'm an idiot now," you grumbled, crossing your arms. "Sure, they'll remember me, but as the person who started a scene at their event."

"You know what?" your friend sighed. "They probably will."

You shook your head and widened your eyes. "You agree?!"

"Of course not!" she laughed, smacking you lightly. "So stop saying it if you don't want me to."

Taking a deep sigh, you breathed it out slowly in an attempt to calm yourself. "Okay, fiiine."

The following minutes went by in a whirlwind. While you were busy mapping out every possible worse case scenario in your mind, the line moved forward closer and closer to your inevitable doom.

Eventually it was your time to begin the cycle through the members. You resolved to make the most out of each interaction.

You sat in front of S.Coups first. The conversation had been awkward, but overall pleasant. The same could be said for your interactions with both Vernon and Wonwoo following. No one seemed to have noticed you as the source of the earlier incident, or at least they were too polite to mention it.

That was until you slid into the chair placed before one of your favorite members, Kim Mingyu.

Smiling shyly as you locked eyes, he stared intensely at you before looking down at the album he was signing. Looking up again, he opened his mouth, but then closed it.

"Uh, hi!" you managed with a small wave. "I'm Y/N. I hope you've been having a good day."

It took another few seconds for Mingyu to really focus on a response. "I'm not one to tell you how to live your life," he said quietly, looking at you through his lashes. "But surely you're done with him, right?"

The forced smile slid from your face, and you began to feel the tears well up. Mingyu watched you closely, quickly realizing that what he said hadn't hit the way he was expecting.

"No, no, no," he cooed, grabbing both of your hands in his. "Please don't cry."

"I'm so sorry," you squeaked. "I didn't mean to ruin the event."

Mingyu's face dropped. In an instant, he was moving to the other side of the table. Despite the staff attempting to stop him, he swept you into his strong arms and immediately cradled your head. "Nooo, you didn't ruin anything."

"I d-did," you hiccuped. Without a thought of who was actually holding you, you buried your face into his sweater and let out a sob. Gripping into the fabric, you took a deep breath in and were surrounded by his comforting scent and warmth.

"Breathe," Mingyu whispered into your hair. "Everything is okay, I promise."

Nodding slightly, you focused on your breathing as Mingyu guided you with his own. Attempting to match his, you eventually felt your wits return to you and horror start to seep in. You were snotting all over THE Kim Mingyu.

Attempting to pull back, you were surprised when Mingyu refused. Continuing to keep his arms around you, he said quietly. "That's better. Now let me be the one to apologize."

Leaning back you looked up into his eyes. Confused, you couldn't help but ask, "Why?"

"I should have known better than to bring it up so soon after it happened," he hummed. "You probably didn't even really have time to process it before you had to come up and talk to us."

"No, I, what?" you gasped, still lost as to why this was turning into his fault.

"You said your name was Y/N, right?" he asked, finally stepping away from you. Tugging on the sleeves of his sweater, he created sweater paws, and dabbed lightly at your face. You knew he'd likely have makeup all over the pale colored fabric in a manner of seconds.

You nodded, unsure of how to salvage this conversation. You had hoped for something so much more normal and unassuming, but the memory of being in one of your favorite person's arms would stick with you for awhile.

"Well Y/N," he nodded, a small smile appearing on his lips. "I know you think you did something wrong and we'll remember you for all the wrong reasons, but I want you to know that we'll remember you for the truth. As the person who was strong enough to stand up to their bully, even when that bully was someone you cared about."

Well, so much for not crying again.

Mingyu's smile grew even larger as he dabbed at the new tears. "I hope you stay our fan, Y/N. I want you to know that I won't ever forget you. And when you have the opportunity to meet us again, you seek me out, okay? I'll always be waiting with a hug."

#kim mingyu #svt mingyu #svt #seventeen #mingyu fanfic #mingyu angst #mingyu x reader #mingyu fic #mingyu oneshot #seventeen fanfic #seventeen angst #seventeen x reader #seventeen fic #seventeen scenario #seventeen mingyu #seventeen scenarios #svt fanfic

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talokanda-forever · 9 months

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THESE THOUGHTS HAVE BEEN PERCOLATING FOR A WHILE

This is a long one. My hope is to eventually distill this into a TikTok edit, but keeping things short and sweet is not my strong suit—obviously. But I also may not ultimately have the time. 😬 I must thank @cutelatinagirl for her recent “deep dive” posts. The way you’ve formatted them helped me gather my thoughts for this one.

When viewing the attacks and accusations made against Tenoch over the past few months ONLY within the context of his vocation as an actor, it doesn’t make much sense. It is illogical for the powers that be, with virtually unlimited influence and resources, to take time to not only insult him but degrade and dehumanize him on various social media platforms. He is an actor. Tenoch himself has stated he has no political power. He does not come from an influential family with a lot of money. And I know some tend to think because someone is an actor they must be ‘rich.’ I obviously have no visibility to Tenoch’s finances, but I’m going to hazard a guess that he doesn’t have a vault filled with gold coins that he swims in from time to time like Scrooge McDuck.

However, when viewing this coordinated smear campaign in the context of Tenoch’s social activism, it should not be surprising. Unfortunately, it should have been expected. We have seen this before in the US—most notably during the civil rights movement of the 60s and 70s.

I have often mused at how the conditions Tenoch so vividly conveys about racism/classism/colorism in Mexico seem to align with where we were in the US 60+ years ago. It is evident to me that he has actually studied our civil rights movement. Unlike today’s white-supremacy-denying politicians in the US who can only quote a couple of lines of Martin Luther King’s I Have a Dream speech as evidence that he would not have agreed with the Black Lives Matter movement (GTFOH).

Revisionist historians would have us think MLK was a universally beloved figure while he was still alive. That could not be further from the truth. You’d think his assassination would be enough evidence to the contrary, but nah. So how do mischaracterizations of history such as this get a foothold? Because those in control of the narrative decide what information is shared with the masses, and what remains obscured— and they do so BY DESIGN. Sounds an awful lot like what’s happening with Tenoch.

What is not widely disseminated is that the FBI took an active role in discrediting civil rights leaders in order to silence their voices and prevent their messages from mobilizing the masses.

The screenshot below was pulled from the ACLU website at this link:

I highlighted those portions that seem to apply most to what Tenoch is experiencing. Although the breaking up marriages bit doesn’t fully apply since he’s been divorced for some time, the accusations that have been made could very well have an impact on any current or future relationships. And don’t come at me with, “Well, these tactics were used in the US years ago and has nothing to do with Mexico in 2023.” This is more about human nature. The objective of the FBI is no different than the objective of a piece of shit billionaire media mogul. RETENTION OF POWER. The goal of employing such dirty tricks to take out those who are a threat is not restricted by an artificial, man-made border. And guess what? The FBI and CIA have had a presence throughout Latin America longer than most of our parents and grandparents have been alive, so don’t think their dirty tricks weren’t passed along to those nations. They have been in practice ever since. The people in power today are the offspring of those who were in power yesterday, whether by blood or in spirit.

COINTELPRO involved not only wiretapping, but as the investigation showed, attempts to disrupt, discredit, and defame perceived political radicals. Hoover targeted few figures as relentlessly as Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. (There is a similar fixation on Tenoch) The charge, Communist influence in the civil rights movement. FBI Director, Hoover:

Below is an excerpt of a transcript found on the NPR’s website about some of the activities by COINTELPRO specific to MLK. The full transcript can be found here:

(Soundbite of 1970s report)

Mr. J. EDGAR HOOVER (Former FBI Director): The Communist Party of America is doing everything in its power to steal the minds and the souls and the hearts of our young people. (Tenoch is constantly aiming in message to youth because the power to change the future lies with them)

CHIDEYA: In August of 1963, Reverend King gathered more than a quarter of a million Americans on the Mall in Washington to champion Civil Rights.

(Soundbite of 1970s report)

Rev. MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. (Civil Rights leader): Free at last, free at last. Thank God, Almighty, we're free at last.

CHIDEYA: That march spurred Hoover to action. A little more than a month later, the FBI Director petitioned the Attorney General, then Robert F. Kennedy, to approve a wiretap on King's telephone. (High profile appearances by Tenoch are soon followed up with coordinated online attacks—see more on that below) Kennedy only agreed, according to his attorney Nicholas Katzenbach, in order to protect King.

(Soundbite of 1970s report)

Mr. NICHOLAS KATZENBACH (speaking as Robert F. Kennedy's attorney): He did not let Hoover tap King's wire. That would be used, really, as almost proof that King was being influenced by Communism. Bobby thought that if he tapped it he would find out that you were not.

CHIDEYA: And in fact, Kennedy was right. The Church Commission found that the wiretap showed that Dr. King did not support Communism. (Fabricated charges with no independently corroborated evidence) And that his two associates who may have been allied with the Communist party didn't influence King's views or his organization. (Associates (PP) are the offenders but Tenoch constantly gets pulled in by association and because of his visibility) But documents suggest that Hoover's campaign against King was as much personal as political. (Fixated on Tenoch like they’re chasing a white whale) And the rift between the two men deepened in 1964.

Although what’s going on with Tenoch shouldn’t be surprising, it doesn’t make it any less irrational. Why? Because it is rooted in FEAR of losing power. Actions rooted in fear many times don’t make sense on the surface. Those who have gained power through the covert and overt subjugation of marginalized communities must also find ways to maintain that power. Remember, those who owned plantations were outnumbered by the men and women they enslaved. But there was a SYSTEM in place that kept them terrorized, disoriented, and disorganized.

Tenoch is stirring the masses and he is doing so on an international level where Mexico’s cultural elites CANNOT CONTROL THE NARRATIVE.

As some have pointed out, like @cutelatinagirl in the Tweet below, the timing can’t be ignored. Neither can the reach of his message. Releasing statements on certain platforms only in English (MER’s response to Tenoch’s only public statement) and constantly @ing Disney speak to why they are so desperate to slander Tenoch in such a public manner. Truth and facts be damned. It doesn’t matter that they have no proof. They are willing to take the risk as long as they are successful in their primary objective of taking him down.

Also, let’s not forget about this year’s Festival Prieto. I recall comments linking Tenoch’s statements about Jesus being black with how Messiah-like he looked in the footage of him walking through the crowd to get to the stage (see the video below from a post by @luzsp9-1981 ). I tried to find the exact comment but couldn’t so I’m paraphrasing. For those of us who aren’t triggered by seeing Tenoch adored by fans—many of whom are part of marginalized communities—it was taken as a lighthearted comment. I audibly giggled. However, when someone has a fear of their power being challenged, or worse yet diminished or stripped, these same images become concerning and are no laughing matter in their eyes. And there is no question his activities and online responses are being monitored. Tenoch appeared at Festival Prieto on May 25th. MER shat her half-baked Tweet on June 9th. More than enough time to coordinate a new phase of the attack.

I know we are a generation that prides itself on being well-informed and media savvy. You can’t hoodwink and bamboozle us like our unfortunate predecessors who didn’t have a world of information at their fingertips in the form of smartphones, tablets, and wearables. No siree! However, bullshit wrapped in slick packaging, designed to look like what we perceive as credible information, is still just bullshit. We have ALL been duped at some point. It is exhausting at times to dig deeper and to NOT stifle our curiosity. But we have got to stop acting like asking questions when you don’t fully understand something is a character flaw. Or that remaining neutral when a SA accusation has been revealed BY CHOICE in a PUBLIC FORUM somehow demonstrates you are a heartless bastard/bitch who denies assaults ever happen at all. Sorry, but I’m not casting aside my critical thinking skills just so Tumblrland, Instaville, and the Twitterverse might recognize me as a caring human being for the millisecond that my post/reel/Tweet is retained by the reader.

@cutelatinagirl @cantstayawaycani @observers-journal @sarahivi @luzsp9-1981 @aolechan @oakzap425 @love-too-believe @soledadmiranda @venting402 @v4mpires0ap

#tenoch huerta #tenoch huerta mejia #jose tenoch huerta mejia

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gojonanami · 2 months

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Does the idea of househusband gojo inetrest you? 👀👀👀 yes it does omg — imagine gojo as a househusband - he’d be such a simp for his partner like — oh the envy of every person who sees him picking up their kids… I love it #sab [asks] #sab [anons] #pls send me asks about this I’m obsessed

in an alternate universe, sukuna and kenjaku are defeated and satoru is alive.

satoru has lived his whole life being a sorcerer. he lived in a vacuum of a society – almost as though he was living in a parallel universe.

and so, in this universe, the ultimate result of the merger is the following: cursed energy gets absorbed and, as such, sorcerers are eradicated.

and so, you end up using this as a way of telling satoru that he needs a break, and, as a result, he ends up becoming a househusband.

why? because why not?

you may have a job you like.

say, as a result of jujutsu, you accumulated knowledge regarding curses/mythology/psychology in various forms of media ranging mosaics to cinema, and you decided to become a professor and teach on that topic? well, now you can, and you don't have to worry about jujutsu any longer! it's a thing of the past.

or, say, your true passion was business and finance? well, now you can! now, you get to live out your dreams of being a hot boss woman in a world full of finance bros.

or maybe your dream was to become an artist, and you never had the time to properly dedicate time for it, but, guess what, now you can! and perhaps you end up making works that reference the curses that you've seen or the experiences that you felt, and you may wish to translate them via oil paint or video art or even performance art, and somehow, perhaps because it's so familiar yet unfamiliar, your work gets popular and disseminated, and even awarded? who knows?

regardless, now, the world is your oyster! nothing is holding you back.

and you want satoru to take a break.

you gently encourage him, perhaps, by first suggesting that it's a temporary arrangement.

but regardless, even in this world of jujutsu that is of the past, satoru has accumulated so many years of work due to being a special grade sorcerer that he has accumulated years of exhaustion. and what ends up being a temporary arrangement of him getting rest for his efforts turns into a semi-permanent arrangement. perhaps.

and while you worked a lot, too, you didn't work in the same way that satoru did when he was a sorcerer. although, to some, it may look like satoru mucked about, he didn't. while juggling responsibilities as a teacher, he also had to tackle and cover a huge number of missions in the whole of Japan as well as abroad. that is one mission after another after another with little to no breaks. perhaps none at all. that is not to dismiss your efforts, of course, but to contextualise them.

meanwhile, you encourage him to try out the things that he might like – be it baseball or singing or something else entirely. or maybe get back into teaching? later?

and so, this marks a foray into the world of satoru the househusband – sorcerer extraordinaire of the past, and househusband extraordinaire of the present.

what comes later? who knows! cats? dogs? children? parrots? a house with a view by the sea? a trip to see giotto & his bottega's frescoes at assisi? or a trip to the andes mountains? a couples' retreat in phuket?

regardless, you take it easy and go with the flow.

and you encourage satoru to take it easy.

did you read my mind?? I literally was thinking this — set exactly after the end of jjk omg. I love this — and he would struggle so much, after being held to such expectations and being forced to work all the time — he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. He probably would even get depressed and anxious — and then eventually he would get used to it.

And oh my god if you had kids, he would be so excited to stay home and play and take care of them— he wouldn’t even want you to work since he’s rich, but if you wanted to, he wouldn’t be opposed

#sab [asks]#sab [anons]#sab [future fics]#apparently a househusband series #I really wanna get back to my sugar daddy! nanami fic on another note #I haven’t forgotten about that

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 10 months

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2019, North Island Naval Base - Rooster

Chapter 2 Part 2 of You Are My Soulmate

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Description:

Bradley loves being able to fly and still come home every night. That's the magic, he's sure, of working at Top Gun as a part of a squadron the Navy trusts with only the most sensitive of missions. Being home, having a home to rest his head, is great. But he can't help feeling like something is missing. Then there is Tinkerbell. He can't get her out of his head. It's like they're magnets, constantly orbiting one another, inexplicably attracted to each other despite it all. It being Hangman, of course.

It all comes to a head during a routine AMDO inspection. Bradley can't figure out why he so desperately wanted to jump to Tinkerbell's rescue when even Hangman didn't look worried. She's not a damsel-in-distress and he's no knight-in-shining-armor, of course.

Disclaimers: Misogynistic speech. Mentioned Homosexual Relationships. Sex Dream. P-in-v sex. Smut.

This content presented in this story is for audiences age 18 and over only. MINORS DNI. I will not be accepting tag-list requests from Blank or Ageless Blogs for this story.

Warnings: Female!Reader

Word Count: 4136

A/N: Hey All! This is officially Rooster's perspective on the events in Chapter 2! He's a very confused man, but hopefully we can see a little bit more of his thought process here. Happy Rooster Day, Everybody!

AO3: Cross-posted Here!

My Masterlist

Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part

It’s officially summer in San Diego. Even at 5 in the morning, Bradley can already feel the heat rising. It’s going to be hellish trapped in a cockpit for hours a day. But San Diego has nothing on the desert. Once you’ve run flight patrols in 110°F heat, San Diego feels like a breezy cool spring day. The new class at Top Gun won’t think so, of course. They’ll be complaining the entire time. The sun will also make them sloppy, easier to take down. An upward climb, put the sun in their eyes, tone lock and that’s it. That’s a Mav trick, but damn is it effective.

Other than the pounding beat of his feet and the sweat prickling on his temples and dripping down his bare back, Bradley feels good, great, in fact, today. When he'd just started flying, he'd never wanted to teach. All he wanted to do was fly, fly until he became the best of the best. A decade of hard work and a considerable amount of skill later and he can say he's officially reached that goal. Taking the position at Top Gun, disseminating the knowledge he’s earned with blood, sweat, and tears? It feels like the perfect next step.

That euphoric feeling is a glowing ember in his chest as he parks the Bronco in his customary spot in the base parking lot and gets out. A few spots down he can see a gorgeous cherry red convertible. The sight of that classic car, obviously lovingly cared for and painstakingly restored is another indicator that today is going to be a great day. At least, that is, until he sees who gets out of it.

It's Tinkerbell. He can see the sun shining off of her thick glossy hair, tied back today into a braided bun. She's in uniform and has on sunglasses and is carrying the biggest cup of coffee he's ever seen. She's normal so cheery and chatty. Not today. A frown mars her pretty face and he can practically see the storm clouds over her head. Maybe she fought with Bagman? Where is he? He's always around her, which makes sense, in a way to Bradley. If Tinkerbell was his soulmate, he'd never let her out of his sight. Come to think of it, for the past few months, Bradley's never seen Hangman and Tinkerbell leave together. Not at all. They come on base separately, they go home separately and even when hanging out at the Hard Deck, there's no displays of affection. No kisses or hugs, nothing to show that they love each other.

It's a conundrum. But really, Bradley can't pretend to know what their relationship is like. Just because his mom and dad were obsessed with each other 24/7, and showed it too, doesn't mean that every soul-pairing has to be. Though he hopes that his soul knows that he's going to adore them every day, unendingly and unceasingly. The first stop he makes is into the male officer’s locker room to change into his flight suit. The rest of the guys are already in the room, and he’s sure Nat and Callie are in the ladies changing room doing the same thing.

When the Daggers walk into the hangar, they find Admirals Simpson, Bates and Mitchell all arrayed at the front of the room. Bradley lines up next to Phoenix and exchanges a questioning glance with Mav. The wink he gets back is no help. Not at all. He notes the new class lining up across the aisle in his peripheral vision. It's all quiet as the assembled twenty-four aviators await their morning briefing. The Admirals don't start, however, until one final person walks in.

It's Tinkerbell, in a mechanics jumpsuit, with a clipboard under her arm and still carrying that colossal to-go cup. The first time he sees her smile today has his mouth going dry. She's smiling and chatting with Hondo, too low to be heard, but still obviously jovial. She even winks at Mav. Bradley's so tuned to her that he barely pays attention to the briefing, snapping to attention only when Cyclone says her name. After a brief introduction, all eyes are on her.

Bradley's captivated immediately, chewing on his lips as he takes in her form. The jumpsuit she's wearing is generally baggy and not the most flattering. But on her? It takes his breath away. Tinkerbell lights up the room without even trying to. Bradley lets her sweet voice fall into the background as he watches her lips move as she introduces herself and what the inspection today involves. He’s immediately thinking of the burgundy shade her lips had been the night he met her. He has no idea how long he’s been staring when she stops talking and takes a sip of coffee. A drop of the liquid stays stuck on her bottom lip and Bradley’s fixated on the way her tongue darts out to sweep the liquid away. He can feel his pulse jump unsteadily beneath his skin and an tightening of his boxers. He’s never been so glad that the flight suits are on the baggy side. She’s listing out aviators and that’s when Bradley tunes back in fully, listening for his name. Tinkerbell doesn’t say it though, and when she dismisses the aviators, he makes a beeline for Maverick and the other admirals.

It’s a few minutes before Maverick can talk to him.

“Hey, kid. Are you worried about an AMDO inspection?” Bradley has missed this. For years, he kept himself from having this, talking to his godfather due to his own stubbornness.

“Nah, Mav. Just wanted to know if you wanted to head to the officer’s lounge and get a cup of coffee?” This is probably skirting the lines of propriety a bit, but after so long, Bradley’s not going to give up any opportunity to reclaim what he lost.

“Can’t, kid. Cyclone and Warlock want me rotating between the two hangars. It’s our AMDO Commander’s first inspection round since her promotion. It’s her first test. They want to see how she does. Frankly, so do I.” Mav’s looking out over the milling aviators.

“Maybe you and the Daggers can do the rounds as well, at least when you’re not taking part in inspections yourselves?”

“You got it, Mav.” Bradley’s quick to salute and leave, briefing the others as they walk into Hangars Three and Four and splitting up into pairs. For some reason, Bradley has ended up partnered with Bagman. As they make rounds of the hangar, Bradley can’t keep from tracking Tinkerbell. He’s unconsciously been following her all day, and when the changeover happens and he ends up in Hangar Three for his own inspection, he spends the entire time intensely aware of her presence. At least, that is, until Hawk begins pitching a fit at the AMDO in charge of the inspection on his plane.

He's not a bad kid, Hawk, that is. He's just got a traditional case of the regular aviator ailment. He's cocky, arrogant and full of himself. Bradley's seen the files. He's like Bagman used to be when they were at Top Gun, always pushing the envelope. The only difference is, while Bagman knows not to talk back to superiors, Hawk clearly hasn’t learned that lesson yet. He’s already moving before he realizes that Tinkerbell is walking right towards the yelling and will reach Hawk before he will. Hawk doesn’t even seem to care that she’s right there. Hawk’s so loud that Bradley can’t even hear what Tinkerbell says to him. Bradley moves in closer, as he keeps laying into the Lieutenant, her surname is Green, if Bradley remembers correctly.

This is some test, if it’s what the admirals were intending. Hawk’s making a scene that’s got nearly everyone in the hangar milling around. But Tinkerbell stays cool under pressure. She pulls out an air horn from her utility belt and gives it one blast. Bradley’s ears are ringing and he’s at least 3 feet away from her. Hawk was next to her when she let the horn blow.

"That is enough." Her voice is louder than he’s ever heard it. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Taylor. If you have a problem with a member of my team, you are to come find me. You DO NOT yell, scream, curse, or berate my AMDOs. Frankly, you do not have the authority to do so."

A handful of words and she’s already commanding the room.

"You have two minutes. Tell me what happened. Plain and to the point. No flowery language, no blame games, just the facts." There’s a growl in her voice now. It sends shivers down Rooster’s back, and arousal simmering through his veins. But before he can lose himself into the new grit and sex inhibiting Tinkerbell’s voice, Hawk picks up a litany again. He spits out some glossily dressed up bullshit about how Lieutenant Green has been miscrewing panels back into place. Tinkerbell stands tall, moving under the jet to examine the offending screws. Of course, just as she wheels around to let him have it, he starts up again.

"I mean, I don't even know why the Navy trusts such important tasks to women." Those words have Bradley’s hands clenching in anger. How dare he? It’s obvious he has no idea what it takes to be an AMDO. But before he can interject and dress the little idiot down himself, there’s an arm around his shoulder. It’s Hangman, jaw clenched but nodding 'No' at him regardless of his own feelings. His eyes say ‘Let Tinkerbell handle this.’

"It's not like any of you know how to even use a screwdriver properly." Hawk’s voice is oily as he gives Tinkerbell a once-over and clearly finds her lacking if the disgust in his eyes says anything. That look doesn’t affect her at all. If anything she stands up even straighter and gets a few steps closer. With a deliberate cool, she pulls out the air horn and blows a burst so loud that everything, even the ambient sounds of the wind seem to fall silent.

"Lieutenant Junior Grade Taylor, enough!" Her voice is like pure sex as she gets into Hawk’s personal space, one finger pointed at his sternum.

"Lieutenant Green's work is immaculate. While you've been ranting and raving like a lunatic over there, I've been reviewing her work. I dare say that your jet is far more aerodynamic than it was before you brought it here for the inspection."

Her chest heaves as she pauses. There’s a fire in her eyes as she glares at Hawk.

"As far as your other comments, I just have one question for you. I've seen your file. You graduated from Flight School. So that means you know everything there is to know in the NATOPS for the F/A-18. Correct?"

"Damn straight!" Bradley already knows that the kid has no idea what an AMDO does.

"Lieutenant Green knows the F-18 NATOPS, too."

He’s confused? At what? Does he not know Lieutenant Green by name?

"You know, the officer you were just calling stupid because she's a woman? She knows the NATOPS for the F-18, F-22, and F-35 forwards and backward in addition to the E-2 Hawkeye and C-130 Hercules. That's four planes in addition to what you know, correct? You clearly have no idea what an AMDO does. We don't just inspect your planes. We inspect the maintenance protocols for them. There's nobody I'd trust more to inspect a plane I'm responsible for than her."

Rather than focus on Tinkerbell, because that is a boner waiting to happen, Bradley focuses on Hawk. He’d feel bad for the kid, but there were so many warnings that it's ludicrous that Hawk hasn’t picked up on anything. His intelligence has to be exaggerated.

"Lieutenant Junior Grade, your conduct is unbecoming when speaking to a superior officer." Hawk's gawking with his mouth open like a fish while she lays into him. "Be assured, I will be speaking at length about your conduct to Admirals Simpson, Bates, and Mitchell. As for your treatment of Lieutenant Green, I'll expect a full written apology across my desk by 10 AM tomorrow. You're to report to Chief Warrant Officer Coleman for 300 push-ups while Lieutenant Green finishes up her work."

Hawk’s staring open jawed at Tinkerbell as she stands at her highest and stares him down.

"ARE WE CLEAR, LIEUTENANT JUNIOR GRADE?!" The hangar is completely silent as Tinkerbell’s voice rings through it.

"Y-yes, ma'am." Just when Bradley thinks he can breathe again, she turns her fiery gaze on everyone else standing around in the hangar.

"Alright, folks, nothing to see here! The US Navy doesn't pay us to engage in scuttlebutt! Back to work unless you want to spend all night here. I'm not all too sure our complement of Admirals would like the thoughts of us in pajamas, braiding each other's hair as we gossip about which plane is the best!”

Bradley’s chuckling despite himself. She’s such a study in contrasts, Tinkerbell. So serious and commanding in one instance but so cheery and joyful in the next. Each facet of her personality makes her more interesting. It’s going to be a delight to have her on North Island. When she’s alone or surrounded by other pilots, she’s not so bad. But of course, as soon as Hangman walks up to her, Bradley’s reminded of exactly why he can’t get close to her. She’s taken. She’s somebody else’s girl. To make matters worse, she’s Hangman’s girl. Hangman’s not the type to let another man get close to his girl.

He's careful for the rest of the time she flits about the hangar, taking time to speak to each pilot, each member of her team, and each member of the flight crew. It's not long at all before the cacophony of power tools and drills resounds through the hangar. About an hour after the scene with Hawk, Bradley looks up and sees her walk out of the hangar. He makes an excuse about running out for a cup of coffee before grabbing a water bottle and following her out as stealthily as he can.

If he's been tracking her correctly, and he has, he knows that Tinkerbell will be making her way over to Hangar Four. He nearly walks by her, in truth. She's scrunched up in the alley between the two hangar buildings. She's leaning against the dusty wall with her head in her hands. He doesn't want to startle her, so he clears his throat as obnoxiously as he can.

“Bradshaw.” Her voice is curt, so cold that if he didn't know any better he'd think an ice storm had enveloped San Diego.

He can't help how gentle his own voice is as he says her callsign. “Tinkerbell.”

Bradley's got every bit of those beautiful doe eyes looking right up at him, and it makes him lose his composure in a way that nothing else ever has.“Was that - um - Was that the first time you’ve had to give a subordinate a dressing down?”

“No.” Her half-smile nearly blinds him, even as Tinkerbell stares up at the sky. Her chuckle is a barely heard puff of breath that turns into words, “I’ve given a lot of those. This is just the first one since my promotion. Each one leaves me feeling terrible after, though. I don’t know what it’s like for men when they have to do something like what I just did, but I know one thing. Taylor’s going to be all over base calling me a bitch, or any other thing which comes to mind. If it were a man telling him the same thing, he’d probably have bitched and moaned for a little bit before ultimately accepting it.”

It's true. That's exactly what Taylor's going to do. He's going to either drag Tinkerbell in front of everyone who asks him what happened or let the rumors about her tank her reputation. Her voice is thin and breathless as she continues, “H-he’s going to be swanning around for the rest of his time at Top Gun glaring at me, and he and I are going to be the center of all of the gossip and rumors floating around because of it. I’ve heard it all before, you know? She’s fucking him, she’s trying to seduce him, etcetera, etcetera.”

As Bradley stands there, just listening as Tinkerbell confides in him, he can't help making a resolution. He resolves then and there that he'll put a stop to it. That he'll keep Taylor from destroying Tinkerbell. Maybe he'll go to Mav, Cyclone and Warlock himself? There is no way Hawk's blatant disregard for authority can stand as it is. It feels so good to just be the force of her attention.

She's a vision illuminated in gold as the late afternoon sunshine halos around her gleaming hair and drips into golden pools on her skin. When her words run out, he proffers the water bottle in his hand to her. Tinkerbell's smile at that one small gesture is enough to have every thought wiped clean from his mind. It takes an embarrassingly long time for Bradley to lead her back towards Hangar Four, trying, and probably failing to make conversation about AMDO inspections with her.

By the time he walks back to Hangar Three, a paper cup full of the Navy's finest brew in hand, Bradley's smiling from ear to ear. He’s almost too light-hearted for the rest of the day. Everytime he sees Tinkerbell out of the corner of his eye, a ridiculously giddy grin curls across his mouth. When he stops at the base gym afterwards, he plugs in his headphones and loses himself to the music. He’s jamming out so hard that he barely notices the time passing.

It’s late when he finally staggers into the locker room showers. His muscles twinge with every move he makes and the base’s trickling stream of hot water barely does the job. He throws on a pair of board shorts and a tank top and heads out the door. All he wants right now is a beer and something to eat. As luck would have it, though, just as he walks towards the Bronco, he sees Tinkerbell, scrunched down in the driver’s seat of her convertible. It looks like she’s waiting for someone? Probably Hangman, the nasty voice in his head decides to pipe in. What if he comes out and kisses her? Bradley’s not sure he can take it.

What would it be like to have her as his soul? To see that beautiful smile waiting for him in the passenger’s seat of the Bronco? To be able to kiss her until she’s breathless for him? Breathless because of him? Before he can dwell on it, he drives away, giving her a half wave. The entire time he can see the base parking lot out of the rearview mirror, he’s keeping his eyes peeled for the sight of that red car. He manages to put her out of his mind for the rest of the night, but then he dreams.

Most of his dreams are about his mom and dad and Mav. He asks them what it’s like to have a soulmate, what it means to love them, and how to be a good soulmate. Most of the time, he wakes up from those dreams feeling like he’s just been wrapped in one of his mom’s bear hugs.

Tonight, when he dreams, it starts like no other dream he’s ever had. For one, he doesn't see anybody he recognizes in the room, if it even is one. Everything is foggy and he can feel the wet slap of it against his face, arms and calves as he trudges through it. The only other place where he has felt fog like this was in San Francisco, on the one trip he remembers taking to visit his Aunt Sarah, Pop's sister, right after his mom had died.

Out of the fog an island festooned in string lights comes up. There's a car there, his Bronco, he realizes as he walks closer to it. The doors are all closed, but there are clearly people inside. The windows are fogged and as he walks closer he can hear a bitten off gasp as a hand presses up against the window, leaving a mark on the misty surface. The closer he gets, the more he hears. He can hear himself, calling someone his beautiful, gorgeous, and lovely girl. He can also hear a voice that's immediately familiar to him.

"Bradley!" Her voice is high pitched and strung out. He is instantly captivated by those breathy moans. Bradley can feel himself grow hard as he tries to see who this pretty girl is. On the other side of the car there's an open window, and Bradley can't believe who he sees. Between one breath and the other, he finds himself in the car.

It's Tinkerbell, of course it is. She's bare, every supple inch of skin on full display as she writhes in his dream-self's lap. He's got his mouth on the soft swell of her tits and his hand buried in the wet warmth at the apex of her thighs. When he blinks, he's hit with all of the sensations, of her release soaking his hand as he fucks three fingers into her, the pinching tug of her hands in his hair, the feeling of her hard nipple against his tongue.

When she cums again, her hips stuttering in their steady pace, he pulls away from her. She's smiling down at him, tenderly and sweet. When she laughs, it sounds like bells chiming in the distance, maybe wedding bells? He can't resist tugging her smiling mouth down to his own, kissing the sensual curve over and over again until her laughter has once again transformed into moans.

This time, when he trails his fingers through her wet folds, he's met with soft hands over his aching length. She's so gentle as she frees him from his boxers and trails his length through her soaked folds. She feels like sin as she carefully sinks down lower and lower. Her eyes go glassy and wet as her chest heaves and she struggles to take him to the hilt.

"B, baby I can't. You're so big and thick." Her voice is a barely audible coo. Bradley can't resist reeling her in for a kiss, feeling her soft skin pressed up against his own. She's so tight wrapped around his length, like she was made for him. He can't resist scratching at her scalp, freeing the glossy strands of her hair from her braid. She smells like citrus blossoms in bloom and tastes like berries.

Bradley's so gone for this beautiful, gorgeous thing in his arms. He can't resist telling her that as well, as she adjusts, the cool breeze peaking her nipples as they graze his pecs. There's a tattoo against her ribs, something delicate and beautiful that suits her to perfection. He can't tell what it is, a flower, maybe? Whatever it is, he wants to trail his tongue over the stark black ink, to taste every inch of her skin.

Just as he's about to coax her onto her back in the backseat so he can do just that, she's moving her hips. Each undulating swell has her rising and sinking faster and deeper until she's taking Bradley's length from tip to root every time. Her tits bounce with each movement, and he can't resist tracing a bead of sweat as it trails between the pretty globes. Her mewls as he suckles on her nipples has him ready to explode. But he doesn’t, not yet. Each thrust has Tinkerbell falling apart in his lap a bit more. Already her hips are stuttering in their steady pace and she's babbling at him.

When he thumbs at her clit, Tinkerbell cums on his length with a scream. The combination of her heat and how she looks bouncing on his dick have Bradley spilling into her within just a few thrusts after her. Bradley wakes up seconds later.

It's the dead of night. His clock blinks the time in neon green, 2:40. His skin is coated in sweat and there's a damp patch in his boxers from where he'd cum in his pants like a teenager after a wet dream. But even after he's cleaned up, he can't bring himself to go back to sleep again. Tinkerbell's face as she cums is tattooed in his brain. How is he ever going to face her again? Seeing her command a room is enough to give him blue balls. Now? It'll take superhuman control to keep his composure on base.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

Taglist:

🛩️ @roosters-girl 🛩️ @infamous-reindeer 🛩️ @caitsymichelle13 🛩️ @mattyskies 🛩️ @cosmic-psychickitty 🛩️ @mygyn 🛩️ @julesclues 🛩️ @greenbaby12 🛩️ @bubblegumbeautyqueen 🛩️ @briseisgone 🛩️ @soulmates8 🛩️ @adoringsebstan 🛩️ @meganlpie 🛩️ @daphne-turner 🛩️ @captain-fandomwriter58 🛩️ @caidi-paris 🛩️@mazzbarnes 🛩️@devylindisguise 🛩️@super-btstrash-posts 🛩️@eli2447 🛩️@chaoticassidy 🛩️ @kmc1989 🛩️

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alphacrone · 2 months

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there are a lot of issues with terms like Top and Bottom being disseminated into the casual vocabulary of young teens, but my god it must make high school productions of a midsummer night's dream so much funnier

#when i saw my friends do a performance of it in hs we laughed bc bottom got turned into an ass #the kids must be LOVING all the innuendos they can try and sneak past school admin #shakespeare tag

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sophieinwonderland · 11 months

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A Long Road Ahead And The Usefulness of the Tulpa Label

I try to be a goal-oriented person. As a long-term goal for the community, I believe we need to fight for plural acceptance. But getting there is going to be hard. We will get there, but we have to be strong, we have to be smart, and we have to be united. How quickly we can make this dream a reality will depend on our actions.

Scientific Validation

This is going to be a big point in gaining validation for all plural systems. Not just in syscourse, but from the general public. And the tulpa community is really the only non-spiritual endogenic community being studied today.

There are other very broad studies into "multiplicity" that might include endogenic systems. But these aren't specifically into endogenic systems. If the Stanford tulpa study shows neurological differences from singlet controls, this will be a huge boon for the endogenic community gaining acceptance.

I don't know for certain what the result of that study will be. It could be nothing. But right now, dismantling the narratives around tulpamancy is integral for being able to disseminate these studies and use them as evidence if they do show affirmative evidence. Because anti-endos will try to claim the science itself is offensive as a way of plugging their ears and silencing people. (I've already seen this multiple times when they're presented with studies into tulpamancy.)

And if people believe them, they'll feel uncomfortable sharing the research.

It won't matter what the science shows if nobody is out here actually sharing the science and spreading it around. It would be as good as if there were no studies to begin with.

Visibility

The tulpa community exists in this unique niche. Google "sentient imaginary friend" right now and see what you find.

All of the top results are about tulpamancy. And that's great. So many systems initially come into the tulpa and plural communities by researching imaginary companions, ourselves included. The fact that we've monopolized the concept of the sentient imaginary friend means that the tulpa community can provide a gateway to the larger endogenic and plural communities.

If a divide exists between these communities, it would severely inhibit our ability to introduce new systems to the plural community. "Thoughtform" doesn't have the same connotation. Terms like parogenic and willogenic are only going to be found after you're already searching for system communities. But the problem is that most systems don't because they don't realize that they're systems.

Obviously, the visibility for the individual system is great because it gives them words to describe their experiences and validates their headmates as real.

But it's also great for the plural community as a whole because more plurals means more normalization of plurality. Which brings me to...

Propagation

Like I've talked about before, tulpamancers have spent over a decade cultivating resources. We have the most advanced and detailed guides in the plural community for headmate creation. For prospective systems who want to create headmates, the best resources for them are tulpamancy resources. None of the alternatives offer the resources the tulpa community does, not just for headmate creation but even other plural skills like inner world immersion, imposition, switchingand partial possession.

And like with the visibility, this is not only important for the individual system but also for the community as a whole.

If someone is a prospective system, it's in the plural community's best interest to give them access to the best resources to create headmates. The more efficient the process is and the less questioning they have to do, the more likely it is they stick with the process instead of giving up.

Every prospective system who doesn't make it through headmate creation is one less plural in the world. And the more plurals there are, the more normalized plurality can become in society, and the more power the plural community will have.

Conclusion

I'm not here to tell people that they're wrong for not identifying as tulpas. That's a personal choice. But the community pivoting away from that label is not going strengthen the plural community. It will only weaken us.

Supporting the tulpa community is incredibly important to supporting the endogenic community and plural rights.

This is the strategic choice. This is the best path for the plural community on our road to acceptance.

The anti-endo and "endo-critical" community wants to divide us. They want to take away our power. They want to silence us. And they would love nothing more than for more people to be "pro-thoughtform, anti-tulpa" because they win if we're fighting amongst ourselves. They win by being able to distance endogenic systems from the science that supports us.

And know that this will only last a decade or so until a strong thoughtform community forms, and they have to make up lies to shut that community down too. It's the classic anti-endo move when they're scared.

Don't believe for a moment their promises that any labels you use won't be targeted. It's not like we haven't seen this already with anti-endos recently pretending the word "endogenic" is ableist, and pushing the repeatedly-debunked lies claiming that "system hopping" is stolen from RAMCOA survivors.

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gripes-withthesun · 9 months

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you know those people whom you meet late in life but already know their soul?

<ko-fi>

[ID/ 'My Words Speak To You' - Hritvika Lakhera

We're collecting words in little jars,/ you and I;/ reading, writing, memorising, reciting –/ somehow, I always know what to say/ to open up the dark damp caves/ where your golden thoughts reside –/ "Open, says me,"/ and we huddle around the exciting spectacle/ of revelations within our psyches./ We're passing words back and forth,/ you and I;/ reflecting, disseminating, sharing, reverberating –/ somehow, an uncanny familiarity/ to the dialogue – a dream recalled,/ like we have lived these lives/ and talked these talks/ a thousand times over in other universes./ In dreams I whisper to your soul,/ and it tells me what to write;/ In a reverie I beheld/ the songs your bones crave to hear;/ The verses we are yet to share –/ they are written under my skin/ they are written under my skin/ they are written under my skin. /end ID]

#it's here it's done!#poems #poetry #original poetry #writeblr #writblr #words #spilled ink #quotes #w #writings #queer poetry #described #soulmates #friendship #←gonna be a lot of that so i might as well get myself a tag for it #gonna make it big as a Friendship Poet 😌

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cryoculus · 1 year

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— guard dog 03 ⟢

pairing: thoma x assassin!reader

summary: having lived the life you had, you've always known your sins would catch up to you one day. what you didn't expect, however, is to find unlikely friends in the midst of it.

word count: 4.7k words

notable characters: thoma, kamisato ayaka

tags: found family, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut

warnings: nightmares, alcohol consumption, allusions to past murders

header art cr: bear_nyanM on twt

masterlist

It was safe to say that you hardly got a wink of sleep after that.

On top of the unpleasant dream that woke you up in the first place, Thoma’s words made you restless all night. What did he mean you reminded him of himself? Last you checked, you weren’t as overbearing as he was.

But on your mission to make sense of the conversation you’d unknowingly eavesdropped, the sun had eventually pittered through the windows. One by one, your fellow retainers had started waking up.

The day you’d been cleared of any ‘medical conditions’, you were given a futon and locker of your own in the attendants’ bedchambers. There, you shared the same living space as the rest of them—a fact that you’d had a tough time coming to terms with the first few nights.

You’d been so accustomed to taking shelter in caves and abandoned shrines that the thought of all these people falling asleep in your company gave you whiplash.

It’s not as if they knew, though.

Most of them didn’t have the slightest clue. That they shouldn’t trust someone who came out of nowhere just because their superiors insisted. That they shouldn’t be complacent in the company of someone who could massacre them before they could wake up.

“Oi.”

Eyes still heavy with fatigue, you turned to the woman who occupied the space to your right. You sighed. Ayame had already rolled up her futon and was impatiently tapping her foot against the tatami. From the irate look on her face, you could tell that she’d found a new reason to be mad at you today.

Well. You did drug her the first time you met her. And steal all her clothes before attempting to kill the lady of the house. The hostility was well-founded, you thought.

“You’ve been tossing and turning so much that you kept me awake,” she grumbled. “What, your conscience suddenly catching up to you?”

You laughed, smoothing down your bedhead. “Keep dreaming.”

Despite how she spoke to you when she knew no one else could hear, Ayame kept her mouth shut about the truth. You were damn sure that it took every ounce of willpower for her not to rat you out to Ayaka herself, but the poor attendant acted in confidence. Always.

Just how much did Thoma bribe her to keep quiet?

Later that morning, you made your way to the estate’s entrance in spite of your glaring sleep deprivation. It was Madarame Hyakubei who’d disseminated the retainers’ tasks for the day—meaning both Thoma and Ayaka weren’t in the premises.

Of course, you weren’t just going to let a golden opportunity like that slide.

“Mornin’, Miss Kira!”

Freezing in your tracks, you shot the guard who called your attention a wary smile. “S-Sir Hirano, good morning to you, too.”

“Are you…headed out by any chance?” He flashed you a sunny smile with traces of suspicion clearly seen beneath his guise. “Sorry to break it to you, but Master Thoma put us guards on strict orders to keep you safe inside the manor.”

Your eye twitched. The meddlesome bastard…

“Ah? But I won’t take long,” you insisted with a pout. “Just a quick herb-gathering session at Chinju Forest won’t hurt, right?”

As you tried to step around him, Hirano halted you with a large stride of his own—obscuring your path by extending the polearm in his hand.

“No can do, miss. It’ll do us no good if you’re caught out there by the representatives of the Tenryou Commission, you know?” he sighed. “And without Lady Kamisato and Master Thoma to speak on your behalf, it’ll be too easy for them to present a warrant and throw you in jail.”

…Something about the way Hirano spoke made you wonder if Thoma informed the guards of your real identity beforehand.

From what you’d gathered last night, the Commissioner seemed to be in on the whole charade, too. It would make sense for him to alert security should you pull any escape acts while he was away. Just like what you were trying to do right now.

But whether or not Hirano knew about the truth, one thing was for certain.

Everyone in the Yashiro Commission trusted Thoma—so much that you almost found it ridiculous.

Ayame was content with letting things play out, in spite of what happened to her for being in your way. Sure, she harbored a certain degree of resentment for what you tried to do, but you assumed that Thoma must have put in a good word for what he has planned if she was as agreeable to it as she was.

Then there were the guards. They were all under the Yashiro Commission, yes, but at the end of the day, every individual in the Tri-Commission reported to the Raiden Shogun herself. Yet these men decided to turn a blind eye and trusted the judgement of the chief retainer instead.

Last was…the Commissioner. Kamisato Ayato.

His fellow retainers would be easy for Thoma to convince, you were sure. Most commoners didn’t usually question what the higher-ups would order them to do—they just did it. But that wasn’t the case with Ayato.

The Commissioner knew about the attempt you’d made at her sister’s life. And he rightfully questioned Thoma’s decision to keep you captive in the estate, just like any logical head of a clan would do. If he felt like it, Ayato could even overrule the chief retainer’s orders and have you thrown in jail, where you belonged.

But you were still here.

Eventually, you gave up on trying to convince Hirano to let you outside in exchange for doing your share of the daily chores. Today, you were assigned to polish the floorboards in the pavilion, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t spend every minute of it in careful contemplation.

It’s a bit pathetic, how you let your mind get overrun by thoughts of Thoma, of all people.

He was the man who forced you into a corner. The one who forced this sudden change in lifestyle onto your plate. But you couldn’t help it.

You’ve been alone since you’d fled Yashiori Island all those years ago. Never lingering in one place for too long. Never forging bonds that lasted beyond a written contract.

You could never win people over the way Thoma so effortlessly does everyday.

Now that you thought about it, he was the perfect aide for Ayaka. The perfect guard dog. They shared the same principles, had nearly the same amount of charisma, and balanced each other out in a way you couldn’t quite put into words.

You wondered what it felt like to find a match as perfect as that.

“Ah, Miss Kira? Are you busy? Can you help me carry these to the kitchen…?”

One of the attendants called out, and you immediately snapped out of your momentary trance. You took the time to spare yourself a soft laugh before turning to her. Right. You shouldn’t think about it too much. Doing that would make you falter.

You never falter.

“Yeah! Be there in a sec.”

The next day, you were invited to accompany Ayaka to Konda Village.

Madarame Hyakubei broke the news over breakfast, and you merely nodded along as you sleepily stuffed yourself with egg-on-rice. You didn't sleep any good last night, either.

Though, when Madarame went back to his post at the reputations board, it finally hit you.

You were going outside the estate.

For the first time in two weeks.

In an instant, any semblance of drowsiness had vanished from your body. The idea made you...excited? Overjoyed? You could finally ditch this place and rearrange your plans. Archon knows that the heart of the enemy’s territory wasn’t the most conducive environment to scheme.

But of course, you couldn’t possibly have it as easy as you wanted.

“Nice weather we’re having, huh?”

Thoma was suspiciously cheerful as the three of you made the trip to Konda Village. But you couldn’t exactly file any complaints, since Ayaka didn’t seem to have any problem with his jovial nonsense.

Well. If you can’t beat them, join them.

“Milady, if I may ask, why are you heading over there yourself?” you wondered aloud. “Don’t you usually just let the other retainers take care of matters involving the public?”

Ayaka sighed, keeping her eyes forward. “Miss Kira, you know how the Yashiro Commission is in charge of the cultural and ceremonial affairs of Inazuma, yes?”

You nodded slowly.

“The people of Konda Village are one of our closest associates when it comes to the festivals held at Amakane Island,” she continued. “They coordinate with the Yashiro Commission to make sure each festival is a memorable one. And given the nature of our relationship, it’s only normal for us to…pay our respects where they are due.”

The dismal tone that accompanied her words made you scrunch your face in confusion, but before you could ask her to elaborate further—

“Lady Ayaka? Is that you?”

A girl, no older than ten years old maybe, gaped at the sight of the princess as the ball in her hands bounced idly on the ground. The next moment, she squealed in delight before running straight to Ayaka.

“You’re here,” the girl nearly sobbed. “You’re really here.”

You expected someone of Ayaka’s status to blanche a bit at the girl’s sudden gesture, but the princess crouched down so that her eyes were leveled with hers—smiling kindly.

“I promised, didn’t I, Futaba?” she sighed, smoothing down the girl's braids. “Do you happen to know where Takeru is?”

Sniffling, the girl—Futaba—pulled away. “He’s at the graveyard with Grandpa and the rest. They’ve already begun the preparations but…I wanted to wait for you.”

You didn’t have the slightest clue as to what was going on, and could only look at Thoma for some clarity. Not that the chief retainer was much help, though. He merely shot you a look that basically said: you’ll see.

Ayaka let Futaba lead the three of you to the cemetery in the outskirts of the village, where most of its citizens seemed to have gathered in numbers for the day. They were lighting incense for two gravestones in particular.

Upon your arrival, an elderly man who you recognized as the village chief greeted Ayaka with a solemn look in his eyes.

“I’m glad you could make it, Lady Kamisato,” he sighed. “Futaba refused to leave until she was sure you’d show up.”

Ayaka shook his hand sincerely. “Your village has been helping the Yashiro Commission for generations now. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Up ahead, a priestess cited a prayer in honor of the two souls who’d passed, and you wondered if they’d just recently died. But when you saw the names etched onto the surface of each headstone, you felt a crackling chill skid up the length of your spine.

You’ve only been to Konda Village once in the past. For a job assigned by an anonymous contact from Inazuma City’s underworld. You were given the names of the two men he wanted dead by morning, and you’d carried out the task not three hours since it was issued.

Konda Takuya and Sango Akihito. Those were the men you’d taken out this time last year.

Those were the names engraved on the headstones before you.

“Lady Ayaka?”

Snapping out of your stone-cold realization, you watched as Futaba emerged from the crowd with a boy in tow. This one was probably Takeru. Both of them held two bowls in each hand—offering them all to the village chief, Ayaka, Thoma, and yourself.

“It’s not much but…we learned the recipe from a doctor that traveled into the village once,” Futaba said shyly. “Lavender melon soup is said to have some soothing properties that— Big sister…?”

The young girl stared at you with both concern and disappointment when the bowl she’d given you fell to the ground, splattering its contents in the process. Your lungs seemed to tighten as you eyed the rich violet broth—that familiar, sickeningly sweet scent wafting to your nose.

Suddenly, you’re underneath the perpetual thunderstorms of Yashiori as the cold, cold rain beat against your skin once more.

You didn’t know you were shaking so badly until Ayaka put a hand on your shoulder.

“Thoma,” she spoke quietly, but you could feel the weight of her concern through her fingers alone. “Can you accompany Miss Kira for a quick walk?”

The last thing you wanted, of course, was to be left alone with the man who was probably—definitely—behind your distress in the first place.

“What are you trying to do?” you growled, yanking Thoma by his pendant once you’d gotten far enough from the cemetery. “Guilt me into giving it up? Well, I have some news for you. I’ve never turned down a job out of guilt. Not once. Not ever.”

He stared at you passively—those hauntingly green eyes devoid of their usual mirth. Thoma pressed his lips into a thin line before carding his fingers into his golden hair.

And then, he spoke your name. Your real name.

“It was a little tricky to dig up some dirt on you, you know?” The chief retainer sighed, disengaging himself from your grasp. “But of course, I have my ways. Your record is quite interesting, too. Born and raised in Higi Village. Adopted by a doctor named Suzuki Naoko. Killed said doctor in cold blood before traveling to Inazuma City to debut as a mercenary. That’s a loaded resumé for sure.”

It was no surprise that someone like him managed to glean all that in just a few weeks, though some details might have been obscured in the process. You made a reputation for yourself for being nearly untraceable; prided yourself for it, even.

And Thoma here singlehandedly trampled on all that confidence.

“What,” you began, eyes closed as you drew in a long breath, “are you trying to do?”

When you opened them again, Thoma managed a placid smile—one that emphasized the dimples on both of his cheeks. It’s the first time you noticed them, but your mind was in too much of a disarray to think about them too much.

“Reminding you.”

You grimaced. “Of what?”

Instead of just answering directly, Thoma gestured for you to sit with him at the village chief’s front porch. You hesitantly complied.

The heat of the afternoon was near sweltering. Konda Village was smack in the middle of Byakko Plain, and offered no shade whatsoever from the harsh glare of the sun. As you lamented the onset of summer, Thoma nursed his bowl of lavender soup in the silence. You wondered what he thought of the taste.

Then, you set your gaze farther into the distance.

Up ahead, the Grand Narukami Shrine stood tall above all else on the island. Wisps of mystical energy coiled itself around the mountain before disappearing straight into the cloudless sky. You could see it clearly even in broad daylight.

Back then, you never gave yourself the time nor the leisure to admire the marvels of the land like this.

“Do you know where the men of this village are, Miss Kira?”

Peeling your eyes away from the shrine, you shot Thoma a pointed look.

“Back to fake-name basis now, are we?” you observed, inching your sandals closer together. “Well, able-bodied men are usually drafted as the Raiden Shogun’s soldiers. I’m assuming it’s the same here?”

He nodded. “Those two were soldiers who were permitted a weekend off in their hometown. Konda Takuya was the village chief’s son. Takeru’s father. He was good friends with Sango Akihito, so it would make sense for their children to get along well.”

…Then that meant Akihito was Futaba’s father.

Thoma set his now empty bowl aside, stretching his long legs until his feet touched the ground. “Last year, we were contacted by the village chief about a double murder case. No one saw the culprit; it happened right under everyone’s noses, he said.” When his green-eyed gaze met yours, you nearly shivered.

“Takeru and Futaba were the ones who found them by the riverbank. Their bodies turning the water red with rot.” The blond breathed out a laugh that held no amusement. “The Tenryou Commission was the one who handled the case, and Milady and I were just there as the village chief’s friends. But still, it made me wonder…”

He braced his palm on the wooden platform, and you caught the scent of aralia trees and musk before you noticed Thoma leaning forward. Your eyes widened at the sudden close proximity—becoming all sorts of vulnerable under his gaze. You could even feel the warmth of his Pyro Vision grazing the side of your clothed leg.

Yet you hardly moved an inch.

“What was going through the killer’s head when he did this to the men who steadily provided income for Konda Village?” Thoma spoke quietly. “Did he think about what their deaths would leave behind? How much sorrow his actions could invoke into a community as small as this?”

With how close he was to you, each word that tumbled out of Thoma’s mouth made gooseflesh prickle the skin of your shoulders. But before you could snap at him to knock it off, the blond pulled away—making you heave a breath you hadn’t known you were holding.

“Probably not, right?” he sighed, lacing his fingers together on his lap.

“I’ve seen what grief does to a person. Sometimes the people left behind pick themselves up and move on. But at other times, the damage is irreparable.” A pause. “It’s a good thing the children are too young to fully comprehend their grief, and the elderly, too accustomed to be fully consumed by it.”

As if on cue, the wind picked up the next moment. You held the folds of your yukata in place as you watched the carp streamers sway in the breeze. To your side, Thoma got back to his feet, patting the dust off his clothes. The blond strands framing his face mimicked the movement of the windsocks on the chief’s front lawn.

You’re right, you wanted to tell him. I never once wondered what happens after the carnage I leave behind.

Another question hovered in your mind.

One you’ve been dying to ask since you’d overheard his conversation with Ayato.

So how could someone like you see himself in someone like me?

But…you never got the words out. All those questions swiftly burned out on your tongue until all you could taste were the ashes of uncertainty.

In the silence, Thoma turned to look at you once more.

“I hope you remember this, Miss Kira,” he resumed, voice still barely a touch above a whisper. “That actions have consequences, whether or not you’re the one who’ll be picking up the pieces in the end.”

His words sunk in like a sedative coursing through your veins—numbing out anything else aside from the desolate tone that accompanied the spiel.

You couldn't believe it. This man was lecturing you about right and wrong like you were a toddler who didn’t know otherwise. And he had the gall to comment about your roundabout methods to assassinate his charge when he orchestrated all this? Just to…what? Prove a point?

“Did you seriously think you can just convert me into a law-abiding citizen with an unsolicited speech?” you scoffed.

“Of course not,” he laughed. “I’m not as delusional as you take me to be, Miss Kira. I just hoped a little nudge would let you see things in a...different light.”

You were about to tell him you’re not the only one who’ll be seeing different lights as you balled your fists, but your nefarious intentions had been rudely interrupted.

“There you are!”

Down the main road, you could spot Ayaka and the rest of the villagers returning from the cemetery. The princess had two kids in tow, and in spite of yourself, you wondered if you’d offended Futaba by throwing that lavender melon soup into the ground.

“Miss Kira, are you alright? You seemed a bit ill earlier,” Ayaka asked once they’d arrived—fussing over you almost immediately. “Those injuries of yours… Do they still hurt? Archons, I knew I shouldn’t have invited you out so soon.”

…Invited you out? So making you come along had been Ayaka’s plan all along?

As the princess inspected your arms in earnest, you shot Thoma another incredulous look, which the chief retainer only returned with a shrug.

“I’m sorry, big sister…”

To your side, Futaba rubbed her eyes as Takeru sniffled behind her. “I thought my lavender melon soup made you sick. Maybe I should improve the recipe with Grandpa a little…”

You didn’t know what compelled you to refute her assumptions so quickly, but you did.

“Hey,” you managed dryly. “Um, that’s—that’s not it at all, buddy. I’m still recovering from a bunch of nasty injuries. In fact, I used to make the same stuff you gave us as a kid.”

That seemed to surprise her. “Really? You made lavender melon soup, too?”

“Yep. My…dad hammered the recipe into my head.” You chuckled, tapping a finger to your temple.

For the first time today, Takeru spoke out loud, despite the string of snot dribbling down his chin. “B-Big sister, can you teach us?”

Ayaka sighed as she procured a handkerchief from her pockets—dabbing it on the poor boy’s face. “I’m certain she would be willing to do that. Right, Miss Kira?”

With the flow of conversation suddenly having been directed your way, you were hyper aware of the fact that the rest of the adults had gone back to their respective homes. Only the village chief was left lingering on the property. He seemed to be busy sorting out his lavender melon supply on the foyer.

You gulped, turning to Takeru as he gazed up at you with hopeful eyes. It’s been so long since anyone has looked at you not with fear for their lives, but with a childlike expectation. Futaba wore the same expression as well, and all that you could think of at that moment was—

Stop, you thought—an indescribable feeling settling over your chest. Don’t look at me like that. I’m the one who killed your fathers. I’m the one who made your lives miserable.

If you thought about it hard enough, you could still remember. The thick, humid air that pervaded your senses as you dumped two lifeless bodies in the river uphill. The bottomless pit that dug itself in your heart all these years. You felt nothing as you left those hapless men for dead.

But right now, with their children looking at you like you were anything but a monster—

“Well, if we’re having a cooking session, we best start now, no?”

Thoma’s voice was quick to reel you from that downward spiral. You even jolted at the sound of it. All of a sudden, you didn’t have the blood of countless innocents caking your fingernails down to the beds anymore.

In your hands was a clay pot that the chief retainer had unceremoniously dropped onto your palms.

“Come on.” He snapped his fingers in front of you. “We don’t have all day.”

Ayaka nodded as she straightened herself out. “Miss Kira, I’m a bit interested in how you would cook lavender melon soup. You always seem to avoid kitchen duty whenever it comes around, so…”

“Gee, I wonder why,” you mumbled—giving Thoma the stink eye.

“Big sister, teach us. Teach us!” Takeru whined, tugging at the hem of your yukata.

You sighed, tucking the pot beneath your arm as you marched to the village chief’s well.

This didn’t change anything. You were still the culprit behind a traumatic experience for the very same kids following you around like ducklings. Doing this for them would only atone for a fraction of what you had done.

And Archons knew the blood price for your sins would have to be paid in full someday.

“So first, we need to boil a lot of water,” you instructed. “And I mean, a lot.”

(Later, as everyone sat around the well—sick to their stomachs from eating too much of the miracle soup you hadn’t made in years—you wondered.

When was the last time you ever repented for the crimes you’ve committed?)

The soft breeze grazed your cheeks as you quietly sipped on your saucer. Madarame hadn’t been kidding around when he said the deliveries from Inazuma City had a bite to them.

That, or you were just unused to holding your liquor nowadays.

It was well past midnight, and you were seated all alone in the pavilion. Of course, the ever-vigilant Kamisato guards still kept a close eye on every move you made, but were kind enough to leave you to your own devices. Besides, evening tea with Ayaka had been such a staple in these nights you spent in the estate that failure to have drinks under the moon felt like a crime.

Even if Ayaka was currently accompanying her brother to a series of week-long meetings at the Tenshukaku. Even if what you were drinking was actually savory sweet rice wine.

“That’s some good stuff you got there.”

You rolled your eyes.

“And I’m not sharing,” you announced, holding the ceramic jar to your chest as Thoma sat a few feet away. “Everyone else declined when Madarame put one of the Commissioner’s stocks up for grabs.”

He stared at you, amused. “So that means I’m not allowed to have a say in it? Because I just got back now?”

“Sometimes, I’m glad you’re as bright as you are.” You grinned sheepishly, abandoning the saucer as you took a swig straight from the jar. “How’s the princess?”

“As unintentionally charming as she always is,” he supplied. “So, what’s keeping you up at this hour? Could’ve sworn you’d be plotting your escape in bed by now.”

“Shhh.”

You leaned across the platform, stretching out your hand until your index finger was pressed against the plush give of Thoma’s lips—hiccuping in the process.

“No one’s s’posed to know that,” you half-groaned, half-slurred. “What if somebody overhears, huh? They’ll get the wrong idea and think I’m a fugitive.”

“But you are a fugitive,” Thoma reminded, grabbing your wrist with an unexpected gentleness as he pulled your finger away. “You’re Kira of the resistance. Loyal servant to Her Excellency, Sangonomiya, and temporary retainer to the Kamisato House.”

You didn’t pay attention to his attempt at being a smartass. Instead, your eyes roved to where his gloved fingers enclosed themselves around your wrist.

Thoma’s hands were much larger than yours. Fingertips more calloused, which was saying something because the years hadn’t exactly been kind to your fair maiden palms either. And above all, his skin was warm. The kind of warm you’d only ever felt a long time ago.

Snuggling under the blankets as Mother read you stories to bed. Eating dinner by the fireplace as Doctor Naoko praised your progress in learning human anatomy.

You shook off his grip.

“I’m getting a little sleepy, Master Thoma,” you sighed dramatically as you tried to stand up. “Could you take this back to the kitchen and store it somewhere? I don’t think I can…”

There’s a distant sound of something shattering against a hard surface that reached your ears. But you barely heard it over the sound of your own heartbeat. You looked up in red-faced trepidation when Thoma caught you by the waist before you could fall off the platform—breath hitching in your throat as you drank in the sight of him.

During all those little tea parties with Ayaka come evening, Thoma never once tried to step in. Something about preserving the integrity of a ladies’ chit-chat, or whatever. But from the way he’d comment on the lies you’d fed the princess the night prior, you were almost certain he’d be at least eavesdropping from a safe distance.

It’s a shame he wouldn’t join you two, really.

He looked gorgeous under the moonlight.

“Miss Kira…”

The last thing you remembered before falling into slumber were the endless emerald of his eyes—and how you didn’t quite mind getting lost in their labyrinth.

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