this was going to be his first taste of freedom — he could feel it in his bones, a better life awaited him. ( not that the life his aunt so selflessly provided wasn’t good – it was! if not slightly suffocating ) leaving with his aunt had taught him plenty of life lessons – most of all, how much jaemin wished for his own space. of course, this ‘own space’ wasn’t really his own – he did have a roommate closer to his age – it just meant no more of his aunt, hyesun, snooping around his room or nagging in his ear to get a life! ; sure, she meant well but jaemin could only take so much of her exaggerated exasperation on a daily basis.
he didn’t really have much stuff and it wasn’t like he was going to bring everything along with him to his new place – but still, he enjoyed the help of jaeyoon as they began breaking ground in his new room ; boxes lay at their feet, torn and opened and ready to be fixed in the new place. hyesun had offered to help but jaemin already knew by the tears in her eyes as he woke up that morning, on the fateful moving day, that it would take much longer if she was in their presence. there was no stopping an emotional woman like her once she got the waterworks going.
“hey –” he passes a wave of acknowledgement to the older male as he rips another box open, “thanks for helping me move, again. you know how aunt hyesun can get … i’d rather not have all that today.” any other day would have been fine, but jaemin also didn’t want to weird his new roommate out when she came back home to see a crying middle aged woman in her living room.
Gill was never one to feel the need to broadcast his likeness to the world. Amid his initial rule as Emperor, he figured all would fall in line given enough time. But now, things were much different, and he knew in situations like this, he would find himself repeating himself.
“I know much about you. It’s not too hard to learn.” He spoke calmly, arms folded across his chest. “I know you are quite a capable revolutionist of sorts. Your hatred of your bloodline. Your coup against the Mishima Zaibatsu. Your hand is as much seeped in the blood of war as mine once were.”
“However…you seem to be in search of a new time of peace, a similar trait I share. But no one mortal can achieve such feats by himself. That’s why I am here.”
He gave a very subtle bow of his torso. “My name is Gill. I sought after you to see for myself just how capable you really are.”
Gill had put in the time and the effort to find this information about him. His intentions were still unknown; many people had spoken of peace to him before, but their version of peace didn’t exactly entail freedom.
“–Once were?” Lars repeated, brows now furrowed in concern.
This man was a warrior, there was no doubt about it, but his past was shrouded in mystery. Had he been some sort of tyrant in the past? An overlord? He’d do well not to underestimate him; what ever abilities had resulted in the alteration of his appearance, he anticipated he’d experience soon enough.
“Peace means a lot of things to different people…”
Taking the man’s last statement as a challenge, Lars eased into his fighting stance, his fist clenched.
Electricity popped and crackled over his skin, “If this is a test, I’m sure I won’t disappoint.”
A gentle nod at his question.
“Indeed. My reign atop my Society was meant to lead the world to paradise, only until I realized the truth, that being the world cannot be saved by the effects of only one. It would take us all.”
Upon seeing his stance, a subtle grin reached the corner of Gill’s mouth as flames began to flake away his robe, leaving him in his near cloth less state.
“What peace truly means will be uncovered soon, but not without my guidance. Now…Lars…show me how much this world means to you!” His right hand erupted into flames, while the left began to emit ice shards and crystals.
a piece of moonstone, blue lace agate, or blue tourmaline (optional)
Any of the following incense (optional): Sandalwood, frankincense, lavender, violet, passion flower, lily, or jasmine.
Light your incense (if you choose) and cast a circle. Mix in a bowl the rose, lavender, chamomile, and rosemary. Cover in the ground orris root, while saying three times (out loud or in your head):
Bring me quiet Bring me peace Ease my dreams Nightmares cease
After everything is well covered by the orris root, store in a (preferably brown or blue) glass jar with a tight fitting lid and store in your bedside table drawer. You can add a piece of moonstone, blue lace agate, or blue tourmaline to the mix to make it more effective. When you are having trouble sleeping, take out the jar, uncap it and inhale deeply its sweet aroma. Then set it aside, leaving it open on your bedside table, turn off the lights and dream!
“I do, it’s a flexible form of divination. The cards allow me to glean information about the future, receive messages from ancestors and reveal insights about people.”
Fiona walked into the room Strange presented to her, it was considerably larger than her room back in England. She looked around a moment before turning back to Strange.
“Would you perhaps be game for a reading?”
She asked with a playful smile. She twirled her hand and a deck of cards conjured in her palm.
“I would be most interested indeed to see what they have to say about the Sorcerer Supreme himself. I think you may find my perceptions usually are not so dull or vague as a party trick.”
“Well,” Strange replied, “I’d certainly trust your reading of the cards more than I trusted the girl that read them at that party back in the day, especially after the one medical board member who she told would have a long and successful career ended up losing everything in a sexual harassment scandal four months later.”
He entered the room and took a seat across from Fiona. He wasn’t completely convinced of the accuracy of Tarot reading, but he was too curious about Fiona’s powers and knowledge to reject her offer.
➳ During the winter, go outside more! Throw it back to snowball fights, sledding, snow angels and people, etc
➳ If you collected snow water this past winter, leave it as an offering for her. If not, or if you’re in an area without, snow globes and paper snowflakes also work!
➳If you typically hunt, dedicate the act to her.
➳ Have a random winter based movie marathon in the off months
➳ Dress for the weather. This is ignored especially during the colder months, so make sure to get your coat out next season!
➳ Add cooler colors into your wardrobe, whites and light blues / yellows / etc etc. This can be as simple as nail polish, but range from accented makeup to full clothing dedications.
➳ Go all out with winter celebrations, don’t let the cold hold you back!
➳ Set up a winter oasis for her in your home using decorations you’d normally have put away; keep out your stringed lights, snow settings, etc etc
➳ Practice your aim. This can be as grand as practicing archery, or as small as using your trash as a basket, playing bags, and so on.
➳ Keep up to date with the Winter Olympics the next time they’re on.
➳ Donate your old winter clothes in her name.
➳ Exercise! I feel this is a good way to honor a goddess of the hunt - going on walks and/or runs in particular.
➳ As per usual, light a candle! Any winter, nature, or woods themed scents work perfectly for her!
joanbright bryant; thirty-two years old; therapist for the strange and unusual
“i’m not trying to defend them. it’s just- some people don’t react well to finding out that there’s a whole subset of humankind that could easily overpower the average person. they felt powerless. their entire world changed and they didn’t know how to protect us from the new reality.”
Here’s those drabbles I promised, anon! Sorry they took longer than I thought, I’ve been working on LaNEitM a lot this week so these kinda took a backseat. So here, have two cute drabbles, one sad as hell one, a badly hidden pot pun, and a couple shitty 80’s-esque cutscenes because I can’t write sex in less than 2k, lol. Anywho, enjoy!
AND PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY KEEP THOSE REQUESTS COMING FOLKS.
Three drabbles beneath the cut, original request here.
Keep Trying
(teen stan shotgunning with ford in the stan o'war- established relationship, they’re 16 here.)
“Hey, Ford, can we try somethin’?” Stan asked as Ford coughed out his hit. He took the joint from Ford’s hand, passing him the water jug they had hauled with them to the Stan’O’War that morning. It was a cool fall day in Glass Shard Beach, and Ma Pines had gone off to a Psychic convention in New Jersey, and the boy’s father was off smooshing some big banker friend of his in an attempt to pull out another loan for the pawn shop.
Finally calming down from his coughing spell, Ford choked out, “Sure, what exactly did you have in mind?” Stan squirmed on the blanket in the cabin of the small ship, searching for the right way to present his idea to his brother. He took his hit and passed the joint to Ford before beginning.
“Welll ya see I saw this thing the other day… Ya know that bar on the far side of town next to the docks? Was’it called, uh Tempert or somethin’?”
Ford coughed again, quickly handing the blunt to Stan and gulping down more water before stammering, “Tempest? Stan, what the hell were you doing over by the-the-” He stuttered to a stop before whispering out the next word, “gay bar? Pop would skin you alive if he knew you were even over there!” Stan sighed out his hit and passed back to Ford, annoyed at his twin’s overprotectiveness.
“Cool it, Sixer, I was just on a jog after boxing practice and I took a wrong turn, ok? I know I’m no poindexter like you,” He reached out to poke Ford’s forehead, “But I’m not a dumbass, alright?”
“Stan! Language!” Ford looked around furtively, as if one of their parents would materialize out of the hazy air. Stan chuckled, setting the dead roach in the ashtray and gently punching his brother’s arm, “Ford, relax, you’re gettin’ a lil bit paranoid over there. We’re in the Stan’O’War, in the hidden cove, and it’s low tide. We’re beached, no one’s gonna find us here, alright?” He grinned over at him, hoping that his off-hand air would spread to his tensed twin. Fortunately, it seemed to work, and Stan watched as Ford’s shoulders visibly dropped, his entire boy laying back onto the blanket lazily.
“You’re right Stan. I’m sorry. You know how I get.” He sighed, closing his eyes and bobbing his head to the faint music streaming from the 8 track player. Stan followed suit, deciding to let the matter go and simply enjoy this time with his brother. They lay listening to the song on the soft blanket, Stan fisting it every once in awhile to revel in the sensation of the woven cotton, imagining the slow roll of waves beneath them. When the song ended, Ford sat up suddenly, peering down at Stanley.
“Oh yeah, I’m sorry, what was it you wanted to try again?”
Stan looked away as he felt heat rising in his cheeks. He sat up, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Well, like I said, I was jogging outside Tempert-”
“Tempest.” Ford corrected. “Go on.” His eyes, while bloodshot and a little glazed, were attentive, and Stan was lost for a moment, staring into the pools of his blown pupils. He shook his head, forcing himself to look away before continuing.
“Right. Tempest. Anyway, I saw these guys smoking in the alleyway, and they called out to see if I wanted a toke. I was a little nervous, ‘course, cause I mean, other than all the hell to pay if I was seen over there, some of the guys were huge. Like, twice the size of me.” He paused, expecting Ford to cut in to reprimand his reckless behavior like he normally did, but Ford was staring on, rapt with attention. Stan cleared his throat, continuing.
“A-anyway, I just kept walkin’, and after a minute they kept talkin’ but before I lost sight of them I saw…” He trailed off, unsure for a moment how to continue. It was weird, right? Ford wouldn’t want to do that, would probably think it was ‘unsanitary’ or ‘unhygienic’. Ford blinked, taking a moment in his state to realise that his brother’s story was yet unfinished. “Keep going.” He asked, his voice dropping to a low, husky rasp that drove Stan wild. He did his best to ignore the heat pooling in his stomach as he quickly finished the story, explaining how it worked and what it was called. Ford sat back, running a hand through his hair before reaching over to grab another blunt and the zippo they had nicked from the pawn shop. He crawled back over to Stan, who gulped as Ford straddled his hips, unlit blunt hanging from his lips.
“So you’re saying you want me to take a hit, and instead of exhaling into the air, you want me to kiss you and blow the smoke into your lungs?” His eyes were lidded and Stan could see the buldge forming in his pants. Stan gulped before responding
“…Yes?” He looked into Ford’s eyes again and saw how blown his pupils had become, the dark orbs allowing only a thin ring of chocolatey-brown iris to show.
“Stanley, that is irrefutably the most fucking hot thing you have ever asked me.” Without another word, Ford flipped open the zippo and lit the new joint, inhaling as much as he could before threading his free hand into Stan’s short brown hair and pulling Stan’s face to his own.
For a moment, Stan was almost too shocked to move, tendrils of smoke leaking from their loose press of lips. Then his mind went into overdrive, and he grasped Ford’s back, fisting his shirt in his hands, inhaling as deeply as the position could allow. Ford pulled back, staring expectantly at Stan’s face. Stan grinned a bit before slowly letting out the breath, Ford’s smoke exiting his lungs in a rush.
“Fuck.” Stan cursed emphatically he finished, “Ford, jesus, that was so- so sexy, christ, where the hell did you-” But Stan never got to finish that thought, as Ford tapped out the joint safely in the ashtray before attacking his brother in a lustful ardor.
…
Stan and Ford lay naked and panting on the floor of the cabin, Stan reaching out to grab the previously forgotten joint to relight it and passed it to Ford. He took the offered light gratefully, pulling deep and exhaling slowly. They lay in silence for a beat then:
“Stan?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s keep trying new stuff.”
Stan laughed a giddy, full-bodied laugh.
“Yeah Sixer. Let’s keep trying.”
This I Can Do
(mullet!stan smoking in bed after getting fucking POUNDED by ford- previous relationship in their teens, set about a week after they meet again after the 10 year separation)
“Sta-an-ley!” Ford keened loudly as he came with a final thrust, his whole body shaking for a moment before collapsing on top of Stan. Stan hummed and stroked Ford’s back lazily as they both panted and waited for their heartbeats to return to normal, doing their best to ignore the sticky residue of Stan’s orgasam stuck between them. Ford turned his head and gently kissed Stan’s neck once before slowly pulling out and they both groaned from the loss.
Ford rolled to the side to lay on his back next to his twin with a soft smile on his face. He snaked a hand down the bed to intertwine his six fingers in Stan’s five. They laid like that for another minute or so, still panting as the sweat on their bodies slowly cooled. Stan shivered, and reluctantly released Ford’s hand to grab a fist-full of tissues from the nightstand. He handed Ford half of them while he cleaned himself up as best he could, tossing away the used tissues in the general direction of the trash can. He missed. Ah well, he’d pick them up in the morning. Or later, whenever the mood struck him.
Stan let out a slow breath, willing himself to sit up. Finally, he grabbed the comforter from the floor where it had carelessly been kicked away and tossed it over both of them, leaning over to kiss Ford deeply. Ford reacted in kind, grasping his forearm and threading his free hand through Stan’s long brown hair. Stan grinned as he pulled away, “That good, huh sixer?” Ford flustered for a moment, heat somehow rising in his wrinkled cheeks.
“This was… always has been good with you, Stan.” He looked up into Stan’s eyes nervously before turning away. Stan nearly called his bluff with a quick retort but he bit down on the words before they could leave his mouth. It was rare that Ford was genuine. He liked it. So instead he kissed him again, with less heat this time, just a gentle glide of lips and tongues. He pulled back again, placing a last chaste kiss on Ford’s lips. “Same with you, Ford.” He made sure to make eye contact, letting Ford know that the words were not in jest.
He released his brother, grabbing a pillow from the floor and tossing it against the headboard. Ignoring the blooming pain in his lower back, he pushed himself into a sitting position and opened the drawer on the nightstand, pulling out a packed bowl and a book of matches.
He lit one, cornering the bowl as he inhaled deeply. His hand drifted down to rest on the comforter as he exhaled slowly, blowing slow, fat ‘O’s in the air. He turned to Ford, holding out the pipe.
“Want a hit?” Ford stared dubiously at the paraphernalia, and after a brief internal debate, he sat up and grasped the offered bowl, lighting a match of his own and taking a long hit. He coughed as he exhaled, and Stan graciously offered him the glass of water that he always kept on his nightstand for dry mouth.
They continued smoking in relative silence, communicating only to ask, “My turn?” or “Matches?” As they neared the middle of the bowl, Ford took another long hit, coughing once and passing again to Stan. He sat back, watching his brother inhale the lit cherry slowly, his eyes drawn to the way his lips tantalizingly pursed around the mouth of the pipe, the bob of his adam’s apple as he inhaled, the drop of his bare chest as he exhaled. Stan lazily handed the pipe back, stretching to pop his back, the pain previous pain dimmed into a soft, pulsing burn. As Ford took his pull, Stan turned to watch him, uttering, “Kinda like old times, huh?”
Ford hummed as he exhaled, remembering the stolen weekends when their parents hadn’t been home back in Glass Shard. Those were some of his fondest memories of the town, entire days spent high out of their skulls, fucking like bunnies, eating like pigs, and laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.
The memories hurt less now than they had before Stan had showed up in Gravity Falls, the pain of the lost relationship somehow easier to stomach now that he sat in bed with Stan, repeating a version of those same bittersweet actions.
They finished the bowl in silence, Stan setting it off to the side after cashing it. They stared off at the opposite wall, lost in their own thoughts for quite some time before Ford cleared his throat.
“So. We, ah, can we do this again, maybe?” Ford ventured, looking off to the side again to pointedly avoid eye contact in an attempt to steal himself to the potential negative answer. Stan reached out a heavy arm, gently cupping Ford’s face and turning it toward his own.
“ ‘Course Ford. Whatever you want. ‘Cause I don’ know about you, but I missed you like crazy for the last ten years. I’m… I’m really glad you even agreed to this. I kinda thought it was a one-time thing. But, yeah. I’d like it a lot if we could just, ya know.” He leaned forward, guiding Ford’s lips to his own in a slow closed mouth kiss. “So long as you want that.”
Ford smiled a bittersweet smile.
“I’m still… I’ve still got some things to think through Stan. We’ve still got more than our fair share of baggage to work on. There’s things I’m not ready to forgive, and I know it’s more than likely you feel the same. But this?” He reached forward to place a chaste kiss against Stan’s own lips.
“This I can do.”
Never Forgotten
(stan hotboxing the lab- HERE COMES THE ANGST TRAIN TOOT TOOT, can be read as gen)
Stan had disabled the alarms in the basement pretty much the day he had moved into Ford’s house. He’d had half an Oz on him the day of The Incident, and had smoked himself cannatonic that night in the lab, staring at the broken portal and hitting dysfunctional buttons here and there in a desperate hope that something would magically bring Ford back. It hadn’t worked, of course.
So the next day when he was relatively sober, he began reading. And reading. And reading. The first four or five years in that house, every waking second not spent on making money from the Murder Hut was spent reading books about Theoretical Physics, Universal String Theory, Multidimensional Plasmatic Trans-whatever. The list went on. That time, relative to now, was probably the best. Even when his material was frustrating or seemed impossible to grasp, he still had hope that with enough effort and research that things would work out.
Then, after literal years of study and effort and re-reading Ford’s journal so many times he had memorised the thing, it clicked. He still remembers the moment sitting at the small work desk, the Journal propped up on the wall and a book on String Theory in his lap. He was doodling absently in the margins of his notebook, pausing every so often to hit a small pipe. He watched distractedly as he doodled an old singer sewing machine, of all things, just like the one his ma used to make their clothes when they were little.
Then the realisation had hit, like a mac truck with a ton of bricks.
The symbols, which had never been explained in the journals were not pointless flair or decoration. They were needles. Needles that held the distinct ability to sew together the very fabric of the universe, the all-elusive Strings that he had been reading about for years but never grasped. But as he understood, he balked at the comparative genius of his brother.
Stan always knew that Ford was smart. A genius, in every right of the word. But this? This was mind-blowing. Ford hadn’t just created this portal. He had created his own branch of science to do so. He had single-handedly discovered clumps of space-time strings in the same sense that astronomers discovered constellations of stars. The portal wasn’t just a plasma warp to a specific dimension.
It was a sewing machine that could recreate the opening to any dimension, any alternate universe so long as the tailor had the correct pattern.
And the Pattern that he needed to get Ford back was in another journal.
Stan had throw the journal across the lab that night, rage filled his heart as tears streamed down his face. He had understood! He’d cracked the damn code, he actually fucking got how it worked, and it was pointless, just fucking pointless.
So he had tried harder.
Stan had looked everywhere in the entire house twice, turning every piece of furniture, prying up floorboards, looking in every cabinet and every box, drawer, desk. Nothing. Two fucking years of searching, and he had nothing to show for it, except the pointless knowledge of how to work the portal. That he didn’t have fuel for. That he didn’t have coordinates for. It pained him in indescribable ways, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, like being stranded in the middle of the ocean without a drop of water to drink.
And he didn’t find the journal. Not even a hint or clue or mention of it anywhere, in any of Ford’s things or notes.
And he was tired. Too damn tired of all this hope.
All this effort.
All this loss.
Every day that he failed finding the journal, it was like loosing Ford all over again. Because he knew, deep down, that Ford was gone. Wherever he went, the probability of him being alive was so, so heartbreakingly low. The universe was infinite, Stan understood that now more intimately than he cared to. And with infinite possibilities came an infinite number of horrific fates his tortured mind could cook up for his twin. He could have simply warped into empty space, dying instantly. Or to a planet that didn’t have enough oxygen in its atmosphere for his body to fully function, causing him to die a slow and painful death. He could be stuck in the dead space between dimensions, fated to be the plaything of otherworldly creatures more lost and powerful than him. Or he could have discovered a universe where Stan never existed and simply chose to stay there.
Stan tried not to the think about the last option too often. It didn’t work near as much as he wished.
He grabbed two joints and headed down to the lab for the night, settling down at the desk chair with the closed notebook on one side and his own, simple spiral-bound next to it, filled with his own notes, calculations, and musings. He bowed his head a moment before spinning away from the pointless tombs, beginning an old ritual he had picked up when he ran with Rico: to give an offering to the fallen. It was common, apparently, in gangs that functioned as ‘families’. A way to mourn the lost and honor them, even after they are gone.
He lit the first joint, leaning back in the chair and staring morosely up at the ceiling.
He dropped it ceremoniously to the concrete floor after exhaling the single, deep draw, and stomped it out with his boot before turning back to the desk to light the other. He leaned back again, staring at the dead joint on the floor for a moment. What was it Rico always said after making an offering again? Oh yeah.
“For our fallen. Gone, but never forgotten.” He uttered quietly, the silent smoke rising from his joint the only witness to his mournful concession.
@jupiter-squid Hi! sorry I’m making this a seperate post, I initially wrote the answer to your ask, but tumblr ate both the ask and the answer for some reason, and i couldn’t find it in my drafts. thankfully, I’d remembered the topic and most of your url so here it is!
okay so, I have an assumption of sorts about how this works; you know how some artists are like “oh I’ll draw nature all day long but don’t ever make me draw a face” “I’m fine with drawing any one as long as they’re holding their hands somehwere that can’t be seen”? I think Jayce is definitely like that.
technical illustrations and charts? sure, draws them all day long. literally anything else? big oof.
so then I decided to take off my shipping goggles and actually check to see how it was in the show (and the complimentary ‘Jayce’s journals’)
from episode 1, some science-y stuff:
and then from episode 7, this;
to be fair jayce was probably a child when he drew this - very fun - drawing.
from his journals, the technical illustrations: (I stitched them in a single file to not hit picture limit)
very good, mostly concise and clear
normal drawing:
still very good!
and then his people:
…. that is a nice cowboy, but I would steer clear of the two other guys.
and then there are the viktor drawings that you have seen.
so yeah i definitely think it’s very endearing that he tried to draw viktor; the first time he did it was a private thing in his own journal - with the same pencil he uses for most of his charts - and the second being the painting on the mug, with materials I presume he is unfamiliar with. (now that I’m thinking of it, do you think he borrowed them from Mel? awkward.)
(can you tell I have put the shipping goggles back on? :-) )
anyway, that’s all my thoughts about it. I hope this was useful in any way!
@chidorikiller said: ❛ rough day today , i assume ? ❜ (for deidara or kidomaru? :) <3)
it’s been about three months now, one of which was dedicated to him being stuck in a coma, resting somewhere in some underground hospital room. he’d been strapped down, too, as far as he could tell. not that he could remember, but he’d heard things. the last month left spend being endlessly questioned, then tortured, then questioned again over information he either didn’t have or wouldn’t give. at some point, he was getting some sort or reprieve from the constant questioning, sometimes allowed outside his of-so familiar prison cell. sometimes — rarely — he as allowed outside the building, able to get fresh air.
today was one of those days, a ‘fresh air’ sort of day and while kidōmaru could have been enjoying his time away from needless mental torment, he spent it like he usually did: fairly irritated. it wasn’t like he was truly free ( not as if he’d ever really been free from anything anyway ), not with the few hidden and fewer not-so-hidden eyes that watched his every action, surely waiting on some move he had very little intention on making. if he wanted to leave, he’d have left by now, but there’s no reason to tell them that.
and so, kidōmaru spends his time standing underneath some tree, two sets of arms crossed while the third had hands resting on his hips. naturally, his frown is placed upon his lips as the wind blows, eyes focused on some children running some ways away. he’d rather spend his time staring off into some distance than watch as he’s approached, all but blatantly ignoring the fairly familiar kakashi as he comes. “ what’s it to you? ”
He had some idea of what the kid had gone through. Anyone who had been working for Orochimaru would have been put through rigorous questioning, likely torture of different kinds. He hated putting anyone through that, let alone a kid, but some things were done in certain ways because people decided it was what needed to be done. And while Kakashi didn’t question it, per say, he did feel some remorse and wanted to see for himself how Kidomaru was doing. Maybe – no, certainly it wasn’t his place – but he still couldn’t stop himself from investigating.
“It’s… something to me,” he answered vaguely, waving a hand in the air. His eyes scan their surroundings lazily. He can sense the ninja around watching their every move. Not that Kakashiis the one threatened by that. “Bet all your days are rough, though.”
He waited for the expected sarcastic and bitter response, and continued. “Anyway, I have a proposition for you.”
