#just in case you were wondering - yes this was born of an argument in the comment sections of a tiktok

[mqverick]

scummy man || ✮⋆˙ .

“Cause he’s a scumbag, don’t you know?

I said he’s a scumbag, don’t you know?”

────────── ★ ───────────

The moment Daniel Kaffee walked into your office with his stupid apple and his stupid, childish ‘hi’, you knew you were fucked from top to bottom. Of course, they hadn’t taken you seriously when you petitioned Division to have counsel assigned. They brought you the first idiot they came across.

You’d written a seventeen page memo to Bronsky outlining the situation, you’d pleaded your case for a half hour in his living room on a Sunday afternoon, and Division assigned a Lt. Junior Grade? They had too be kidding (or hate you).

You’d managed to scare him, at least, and that you were proud of. He seemed like the type, who was particularly full of himself, which was proven as quite the right accusation, after a few minutes of speaking with him. He was just a bunch of royal bullshit, you’d decided — fucking wanted him off the case, even though he hadn’t even started yet.

He was never going to take it seriously, judging on how loose and cool he acted. For crying out loud, Dawson and Downey were at his sake, while Daniel could not care less about them, opting to practice baseball instead, because he claimed he had a critical game coming. Was that guy serious?

“Lieutenant, would you feel very insulted if I recommended to your supervisor that he assign different counsel?” you threatened, face burning as you struggled to contain your anger at his complete indifference to the situation.

“Why would you do that?”

He had the nerve to ask. “You’re not fit to handle the defense. One second more with you and the marines will have sealed their poor fate.”

Daniel nodded, unimpressed with your tone.

“You don’t even know me. Ordinarily, it takes someone hours to discover I’m not fit to handle a defense. You’ve known me for less than ten minutes.” He walked away from you, as if your threat was a joke to him, like he didn’t believe you.

You stupidly stared at him, blood boiling as you wondered how impossibly scummy one could be.

“I do know you. Daniel Allistair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that’s what your father wanted you to do, and now you’re just treading water for the three years you’ve gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda laying low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that’s the situation, that’s fine, I won’t tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something’s gonna get missed. And I’d be damned if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre-determined the path of least resistance,” your monologue prevented you from taking a breath, confidently crossing your arms like you’d just won an argument, as Daniel took a quick sip from his Yoo-Hoo, staring intently at you. The sun was hitting his face and if you allowed it to yourself, you could’ve observed how stunningly green his eyes were.

“Wow,” he admired, very taken aback. “I’m sexually aroused, Commander. I may be picking the wrong time to ask you this, but are you seeing anyone right now? ‘Cause I think you and I would be perfect together. It’s clear that you respect me and that’s the foundation for any solid—”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You let out an angry exhale and grabbed him by the collar of his thin baseball shirt, pulling him towards you. He gasped in surprise, breath caught in his throat as you stabbed your finger into his chest as a warning.

“Listen there, Kaffee, I will have you removed from the case, so don’t go around being cute and unbothered. Mark my words, you just waisted your last chance with me.”

And with that, you threw him back to the bleachers, storming away in annoyance and over the top frustration. Never had another human being ever crawled up under your nerves so quickly, it had to be an astonishing world record.

When you walked into your office the next day just to find Daniel sitting on your chair already, you neared the dreadful experience of going into cardiac arrest. You silently wondered how he’d managed to sneak in, but decided to ignore him.

“You didn’t do it.”

His words were softly spoken, causing you to look at him, undoubtedly baffled. “I beg your pardon?”

“You didn’t do it,” he repeated with more emphasis, as if that would help you understand what he was referring to. “I thought you really wanted me out of the case, so I went to check, see if you talked to my supervisor. You didn’t.”

Oh, so he was talking about that. You played it off as something frankly unimportant, not even bothering to reply anything to him. If you turned your back around just for one second, you could’ve seen exactly how distressed he was.

Daniel got up from your chair, walking up behind you as he towered over you, hands unexpectedly nervous, seeing as they couldn’t stay still for a full minute on the waistline of his uniform trousers. You chuckled silently to yourself, nose scrunching in pride as you turned your back, looking dead into his eyes, your own ones fixed on the way his Adam’s apple moved in his neck as he gulped.

“Good job, Lieutenant. I see you took my words seriously for once. Need to keep into mind that you shit your pants way too easily, threats have you following every order you’ve been given.”

Daniel’s eyes were blown with disbelief of your manners, brows raised in offense. There was no doubt that you were prepared to make his life a living hell, had every intention to cause this case to be his first and last one, because the way it was going, he’d either rip apart his diploma or plain out kill himself. And who had the delightful opportunity to hear Daniel complain day and night? None other than Sam.

“She hates me, I don’t even know why,” he cried while pacing back and forth in his small living room, bat placed over his shoulders as he rested his hands on it, mind far away from the case. Sam sighed, sinking back into the couch. “She barely even knows me! I always do stuff wrong for her, she’s never satisfied. Little miss perfect,” he continued without a break, swinging the bat now as he ignored the board that stood in the middle of the place. Sam felt nauseous, having baring his unstoppable yapping for what felt like decades, even though it’d only been less than ten minutes.

A knock on the door pulled him out of his unlimited boredom and he got up to see who it was, ignoring the way Daniel kept going on and on. He looked over the eye on the door, almost letting out an audible groan at the fact that it was you who had knocked, meaning that your appearance would drive his friend even crazier.

“Come in,” he whispered lowly to you as he unlocked the door and let you in. You shrugged your jacket off your shoulders, noticing that Daniel hadn’t even acknowledged the fact that someone else had gotten into his house. “Damn, I’ve never seen him like this before. Normally he loses interest in a girl after a date or two…” he commented with a smirk, but you ignored him.

“You know, I wish she could’ve taken me out of the case, so that I wouldn’t have to see her face again,” Daniel admitted frustratedly, stopping dead in his tracks momentarily as he laid his eyes on you. Suddenly, hitting his head as hard as possible with his bat didn’t seem like such a terrible idea. Oh, he was fucked to the core.

A smug, proud smile spread across your lips.

“Talking about me, Lieutenant Kaffee?” you rhetorically asked, crossing your arms and puffing your chest out arrogantly as you strode confidently across the room to get to him.

Daniel pretended to turn a deaf ear to your question, head strictly observing the case’s board as he gripped on the hand of his baseball bat. He wished the earth would open up and swallow him out of existence, his brain bleeding at the pure satisfaction he’d so universally given you by admitting the very phrase that you’d been accusing him of; dropping the case, because he couldn’t take the seriousness of it. And oh, well, because he couldn’t bare another second with you breathing down his neck and constantly criticizing him without even caring enough to get to know him — not as Daniel Kaffee, but Marine Lieutenant Kaffee. You had no idea of his potential, yet you still found it in you to look down at him, underestimate and humiliate him.

Sam incredulously just existed there, not taking any stance against either one of you. He’d been friends with Daniel since ages, which cast him to be very close to his way of thinking, and he knew for an undeniable fact that his friend was building up a brick wall of denial, hatred and irony just because he wouldn’t want to face the reality of the situation that pained his mind.

Daniel was captivated by you, Sam claimed.

He silently watched the way his eyes never left your face the entire time you spent in the small apartment, while working on the case, the split second that Daniel subconsciously let his jaw slightly hang open when you determinedly explained every detail of how to teach the marines how to act in the courtroom. Of course, Daniel was going through a matter of confusion.

You stood an obstacle to his limitless confidence and that wasn’t something he particularly wanted to experience every passing day, thus why he’d convinced himself that he hated you. But that was simply not true, at least according to Sam’s observations, which always proved to be right.

“I hate her,” he’d say all the time, but even the sound of his voice gave away the fact that he didn’t. How could he, anyway? Despite the hard time you were giving him, you actually worked by his side, boosting him even more. Come on — he was going to be in a courtroom — he’d never been in one before. All because of how stubborn you were with this case. Daniel loved it.

“Nobody likes her very much,” he’d said in Cuba, shouting his statement loudly enough for all the people in the convertible to hear despite the dizzying noise of shots and fighter planes. You’d rolled your eyes, opting not to give him the chance to stupidly smirk at himself for managing to piss you off (that was exactly his only goal).

───

Predictably enough, Daniel was laying down on his couch as a baseball game faintly played in the background, preventing him from concentrating. Truth be told, his mind was blank. He’d prepared himself mentally for what was coming; they’d lose the trial, make complete fools of themselves in front of an entire courtroom. His father was shaking his head disappointedly at him, Daniel knew it. He fiddled with his bat, glancing at the remnants of the two days old pizza he’d heated up in the microwave fifteen minutes ago, lazily thrown in a piece of kitchen paper, next to a half empty bottle of Yoo-hoo. His white uniform from earlier was thrown in a pile in a corner, like a piece of garbage he was itching to get out of his house.

A sudden buzz from his bell was heard, throwing him off as he jumped a little, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he went to the door, wondering who it could be at that time, since he wasn’t even expecting anyone. Or so he thought. The moment he opened the door, you stormed inside without even waiting for him to invite you in. Daniel stood speechless for one second, then shrugged it off, simply because it was you, and your ignorance of him was unquestionable. He looked shit, he realised; dressed in a dark gray T-shirt that had small oil stains on it because of the pizza, an abstract, unbuttoned red, brown and green colored shirt thrown over it.

“I’ve really missed you. It’s been almost three hours since I last saw—” he began sarcastically, but you cut him off abruptly, while placing a stack of papers onto the living room table.

“I can already tell that you forgot we had to meet up to discuss about the case by the way you’ve shamelessly displayed your gross dinner all over the files we need to present tomorrow. Good job, like always, Kaffee.”

Daniel didn’t bother to huff or give out any reaction, at that point, he knew that you were aware of the fact that you pushed his buttons just by breathing the same direction as him. He let his bat against the arm of the couch, taking a folder into his hands and pretending to examine it.

“Is Sam not coming?” he asked without raising his eyes to look at you.

“I don’t know, he’s your buddy. Aren’t you supposed to know better than me?”

You judged his choice of childish drink with a long, disgusting glare, then buried your face into the papers as well. Dawson and Downey relied upon the three of you deeply and if proving them not guilty meant you had to spend your Friday evening in Daniel Kaffee’s apartment, then so be it. It was a lot quieter than usual and the unfamiliar emptiness had you wondering. The baseball game was still on, distracting you from thinking clearly. “I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. So do you,” you mumbled out of the blue, catching his attention in a second.

“You didn’t just come here to bother me?”

“You’re the worst lawyer I’ve ever met,” you spoke rudely, noticing Daniel’s face drop. “Why don’t you get the poor guys a new attorney, huh? You stand no chance anyway, you’re too afraid.”

“You still haven’t taken the time to get to know me, so I don’t think that you have any rights to go around telling me what to do, Commander,” the boldness of his tone matched yours as he sat on the couch, still denying the urge to look up at you, gauge your reaction to his words. He liked to ignore you, it gave him the impression that he had some sort of power over you that drove you as far mad as you did to him. Ignorance was kind.

“Think I’m going to change my mind about you the moment I hear your childhood sob story? They can all say you’re the best damn lawyer it’s ever been their pleasure to have as an attorney, and I still wouldn’t be convinced. But go on, though, I’ll humor you for tonight. Were daddy’s expectations really that high that they scare you off to do your job correctly?”

He pursed his lips, a slight furrow between his brows again as he stared pointedly at you. His heart crashed every time you went down the family path, not fully understanding how you’d figured him out so quickly and with less effort than even Jack put into his conversations with him. “Okay, then, if you really believe all that, get me replaced, I won’t stop you. Or did you already try that with no luck? Please, spare me the psycho-babble father bullshit, though, it’s your only argument and it’s getting tiring.”

“At least I have an argument.”

“Fucking congratulations! That’s just splendid!”

“Another lawyer won’t be good enough!” you accidentally admitted on your temper. Your eyes widened at the echo in the dead silence, that grew in the apartment, after what you’d just blurted out. Daniel’s eyes softened, filled with pure bewilderment, jaw going slack. His upper front teeth were visible as he stared at you stupidly enough to have your cheeks burning the brightest shade of red. You tried to find an excuse to reason yourself, but nothing could cover up the royal bullocks you’d thrown all over yourself.

He’d never let you live that moment down.

“You frighten me. I’m involved in a situation now, in which the stakes couldn’t be higher. I’m not going to take time out to give tutorials in criminal procedure to an internal affairs schoolgirl who doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing and still has the nerve to threaten my lead.”

“I just melt when you sugar-talk me, Danny.”Daniel felt a sudden rush of heat form in the back of his neck, traveling all the way up to his face at the sound of his nickname falling out of your lips. It wasn’t even a big deal — everyone called him Danny, yet the way it sounded in his ears when you uttered it out, it felt as though someone had turned up the dial on his internal embarrassment thermostat to maximum, and now he was sure he was ready to burst at any moment. The awkwardness of the moment had both of you completely mute, blankly finding random things in his house to interestingly stare at, as if they were suddenly very important. “Anyway, I think you know exactly how to win. They need you.”

A dumbstruck smile lightened up his face.

“You really think so?”

“Do you have something to drink?” you dodged the question, knowing that you’d revealed too much of your genuine feelings about him. Of course you admired him, how could you not?

“Yeah — Yeah! Something to drink, yes, just a second, let me see what’s in the fridge,” he exclaimed, inexplicably jumpy as he practically flew to the fridge. The corners of your lips turned upwards, enjoying the way he struggled to roam through the drinks and food, some things falling over in his attempt to search in the back. When he finally approached you, he was proudly holding a small bottle with a yellow Yoo-hoo tag on it.

You sighed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s chocolate milk, you’ll love it.”

What the hell, you thought, taking the drink from him as he handed it over to you with a warm smile. Your face was filled with disgust, almost hollering at the smell. When you let a few drops touch your lips, you coughed dramatically and shook your head in denial of what you’d just drank, placing the bottle back on the table.

“That’s the most foul thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Wait until you try my cooking. I usually save that card until the fourth or fifth date, though,” Daniel smirked, eyes gleaming under the bright yellow light of his living room. He looks so dumb, how is this man a navy lawyer? you questioned yourself.

“Explains why you’re single, then.”

“Maybe I’m just waiting for someone.”

“Is it Jack Ross? ‘Cause I think he likes you back, you should totally make a move,” you teased him.

“Maybe said someone is annoying me as we talk.”

“Come on, Danny, can’t take a joke?”

He didn’t say anything, just rolled his eyes and twirled his bat on the ground, while pacing around the coffee table. “Can I ask you something personal?” he asked out of the blue, causing a pit of anxiety to form into your stomach.

“I suppose you’ll ask even if I refuse.”

“Look at you, you’re finally getting to know me.”

“Shoot, Kaffee.”

“What made you become a lawyer for the Navy?”

Your expression changed, now fully confused. You wondered how he’d possibly come up with that question all of sudden — was he doing some sort of research on you, get you exposed and out of his lead case so that you wouldn’t annoy him anymore with your constant complaining? Or was it more just Daniel being… well, Daniel and randomly coming up with the most out of context questions and things to discuss about?

“They wouldn’t let me fly the planes,” you simply gave and he tsk’ed with a dramatic head shake.

“Pegged you for the one that never gave up. You are becoming less of a role model on Junior Lieutenant Kaffee now, Commander. You’re like seven of the strangest women I’ve ever met.”

“That’s rich of you to say,” you added a little too quickly and loudly for your liking, hating how you were always so eager to defend yourself in situations that didn’t ask for it. “I’m the girl guys like you hated in sixth grade.”

Daniel’s eyes softened as he hesitantly took a seat next to you. “You’re wrong,” he muttered through his lips, looking down at his entwined fingers before exhaling exhaustively. “You’re the girl guys like me pulled the pigtails of at minor interactions just because they were too afraid of letting her know how they really felt about her.”

A pause. Silence built up in the room as Daniel kept looking down on his lap, eyes closed as if he was hoping for something, as if he was scared that the moment he’d open them, you’d be gone, because he’d screwed everything up again. But you were still there when he eventually decided to look over at you, staring blankly at him with no emotion whatsoever. He despised the fact that he couldn’t read you, hated the thought of not knowing exactly what went through your mind during that moment; it caused him too much anxiety, plus, with his little experience with girls, he’d never lived anything similar. They were all so chattery and urgent to fuck him that they didn’t hold anything back… and then, there was you.

You, who Daniel didn’t know how to feel about.

And suddenly, he couldn’t stand — bare — the fact that you’d been staring at him with so much to say, all that visible through your glassy eyes, and it was killing him, causing his stomach to flip, because he was ridiculously unaware about whether he did the right thing to reveal so much with that metaphor, or if he’d just ruined every aspect of professionalism between you.

“Kaffee?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, his voice worn out, shaky as if he was about to break down right there in front of you. Your lack of response made his heart feel tight. “I’m not going to reassign Dawson and Downey to another lawyer, by the way. Neither will you ever be able to replace me, because I’m going to stick here.”

You instantly warmed up. For the first time, his confidence gave you that slight ounce of reassurance that you needed to get, put the colour back in your eyes as you grinned proudly at him, not caring about the so though Commander title you’d been given. “What made you change your mind?”

“Not you,” he replied, reciprocating the calmness and brightness of your face. “Just… don’t wear that perfume, it wrecks my concentration.”

“Really?” you asked in awe. Daniel just smiled. You noticed his Adam’s apple bob as he inhaled the courage to say something, then…

“This might be the wrong time to ask this, but would you really hate the idea of me taking y—”

“I am so sorry,” Sam interrupted, barging into Daniel’s apartment while panting, struggling to take his coat off as he put a hand over his chest. “I had to take care of my daughter, she got sick and my wife wasn’t home, I — Oh, I walked into something there, didn’t I?”

You think? Daniel mutely thought of saying to his friend, so mad inside as he glared at him with burning passion to slam the door shut into his face and returning to the conversation he was having with you less than twenty seconds ago.

“I need to go, anyway, I promised the Marines that I would visit them and help them prepare for the court. I’ll see you tomorrow, Danny. Bye, Sam,” you dismissed them, getting up from the couch and waving goodbye to the two of them as you walked outside with a small smile.

“No wait!” Daniel called, but it was already too late. “What the fuck, Sam?! You know something called knocking on the fucking door?”

Sam didn’t reply, simply because he was too busy explaining the story of why he thought he wouldn’t make it to the case preparation as he cleaned Daniel’s living room. He realised that his friend was paying no attention to him at all, only staring at the almost full Yoo-hoo bottle you’d left on the table from earlier, and that was all Sam needed to know exactly why he was being ignored. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

Daniel never replied.

───

“Hi!” he greeted you with the following day, head peaking in your office through the half closed door. He looked dumb, his oversized blue varsity jacket covering most of his palms as he held onto the door with a wide grin, eyes sparkling. You couldn’t understand his excitement.

“Hey,” the reply was dry and held back.

“I think we might actually have just enough evidence to prove Dawson and Downey innocent, all thanks to you,” he claimed happily, allowing himself fully into your office. You gave him a weird look but didn’t question anything, instead ignored him as you organized the discarded papers on your desk into folders. Daniel’s face dropped at your lack of enthusiasm for him, worry written all over his face as he quickly began fiddling again.

“That’s quite literally my job, Daniel.”

“Did I do something to offend you?” His heart was racing now, mind stuck in the loop of any words that he could’ve said to cause your so indifferent reaction. “You’re giving me the cold shoulder. I thought we moved past that.”

“It was just one conversation about the case. It’s not like we’re expected to act like friends after not bickering for a total of five minutes.” Oh. Daniel’s stomach was tied into knots, he felt as though he’d been kicked in the crotch with the worst possible amount of strength. His face was paled, eyes growing blurry as he nodded at your statement, not finding himself strong enough to say anything back to you, and instead choosing to walk out with his last pieces of remaining dignity.

He thought you might had started liking him. Even a little, he didn’t care about the numbers.

Daniel got easily emotionally influenced, though, and his performance at the court was screwed. He wouldn’t communicate with either you or Sam, interrogating the men on the stand with such frustration that the jury sighed every five seconds. You pinched the bridge of your nose and tightened your fingers into fists, crumbling a paper in front of you as Sam touched your shoulder in a way of telling you to calm down.

But how could you? You were losing the case already and it hadn’t even been a day. What is he doing? you thought, relentlessly questioning his choice of tone and movements. You had no idea how you restrained yourself from slapping him against the wall when he returned to the desk, hands shoved into his pockets as he set his jaw.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you whispered yelled at him, but he didn’t even bother to look at you. When the judge dismissed everyone, Daniel walked away as if nothing had happened. Your head was going to explode, you decided, as you followed him, high heels slamming against the floor. You’d strangle the soul out of him, who would even defend you? Sam followed silently, keeping it low-key as he whispered at you not to create any more trouble. Daniel was seemingly upset and at the back of your mind, you wondered if the reason was the fact that you’d neglected him less than an hour ago back in your office. You felt like you should’ve kept that for yourself and tell him later eventually, when the trial would be over. “Do you have any idea why he’s like this?” you turned to the other attorney.

“Why do you think?” was the only thing he left you with, his words ringing in your head as your pace quickened unnecessarily faster than expected. Your breath was coming in short, eyes stinging as you repeatedly called for Daniel’s name in the corridors without any response.

He was proving you right by all this.

All your doubts and fears about him being unable to thoroughly handle the case were bursting one by one, getting huger and huger until you’d start breaking down in a corner on his behalf. You hated Daniel Kaffee more than any other person.

“Daniel, fucking stop!” you shouted and he finally stilled. Your immediate instinct was to take a break from the intense walking, hand over your chest as you tried to regain your balance.

“Maybe you should’ve asked for them to keep me out,” was all he said before disappearing outside. He was mad, but mostly exhausted with everything, especially overwhelmed by you. He was done trying; finished with the case, finished the way you treated him — how one day you loved him and the next day you pretended he wasn’t even there, as if he didn’t exist. And he was fine with that, you didn’t want him, he could live.

But you gave him false hope, or so he thought.

“Lieutenant!” he heard you yell again, your pants mixed with the sound of your heels against the hallway floor. He decided not to turn around, didn’t want to hear anything that you had to say. “Lieutenant Kaffee!” And suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks, letting out a breath as he slammed his arms against his sides in defeat.

“What? What do you want from me?” he asked with frustration, voice raspy and shaky as he firmly loosened the black tie that felt like it was cutting the air out of his lungs, suit all messed up and wrinkly from fighting it off his body. He felt heavy, bothered, didn’t want to exist anymore.

“What do you mean what?” you asked with fragility, and it was the first time he’d ever heard you speak a sentence so softly and fearfully.

“I mean what is it?”

“I wanted to say that you did quite well in there, even though it was your first time and that—”

“Please — don’t even — don’t even start…” he cut you off mid-word, eyes squinting close as he tried not to look at you, afraid that just one glance at your face would be enough for him to bend.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re giving me mixed signals!” he abruptly bursted, making you jump a little. You’d never heard him raise his voice like that before, despite the fact that you’d been into countless bickers before with him. No, there was something different this time, something more into it.

“What?”

“You’re — you’re confusing the shit out of me! One day you fucking hate me and the other you get so nice with me that it almost makes me believe that maybe, just maybe, I could have a chance with you… Start things over. And then you go back to day one — and no one has ever… I feel like one day I’m saving you from a burning building and the next I’m throwing you to the sharks, this — this is exactly how it is with us and it’s all your fucking fault! I’ve tried so hard with you, to make myself worthy, to catch your attention, to make you realise that I don’t think I’ve never admired a person more than you in my life before… and you keep throwing everything away! And I’m fine with that, but for the name of love, stop giving me hope that one day maybe you’ll actually start liking me.”

His monologue left you speechless, every word, every breath engraved and buzzing into your troubled brain as he walked away, this time without being stopped by anyone. Daniel felt like rubbish. On one hand, he felt relieved for letting the thoughts that had been eating him alive out, but on the other he felt even heavier. He knew he’d risked so much for speaking up, but the final straw had been put into his overfilled glass.

For a short moment, he considered turning back.

Perhaps you’d have something to say to him, but that was exactly what he dreaded. The more he’d spend looking at you, waiting for an answer or even the slightest reaction, the more he’d want to listen to what you’d have to say to him, and that was cautionary for his condition. Obviously, he’d fallen for you along the line. You’d screwed him over so deeply that he didn’t know where to grasp at to save himself from losing the grip he had by the end of the cliff. No, he decided, if you wanted him half as bad as he wanted you, you’d go after him, search for him, ask people, show that you cared, even if the amount wasn’t a great deal.

It was insignificant to him, if you cared about him as much as he did for you, he just wanted you to care. Even as a companion, or a respected fellow attorney. You didn’t follow him, though, and the sad part was that he wasn’t even surprised. Of course you had nothing to say to him, you’d made that very clear by wanting him so badly off the case that you were prepared to move the sky and earth just to earn the satisfaction of watching him be defeated. And if you so utterly needed him uninvolved, why did you give him motivation not to quit? Why did you keep pushing him?

Every ounce of feeling that he had for you was a big, unanswered why that tortured him inside.

Daniel wished he could erase from your memory what he’d just confessed. Make you forget all about it, have you look at him with the same hateful eye that you always did. Because now, you’d look at him with pity, scared of what to say to him (he’d revealed way too much and he was only just realising it) — gosh, he’d ruined it. He was so exhausted, both mentally and physically.

Ethic violations were involved in the mess, as well, because of course they would be. A sexual relationship with a fellow counsel in the middle of a trial? What was he thinking? As if you even wanted him breathing near you in the first place.

───

It had only been three, going to four hours, ever since Daniel got his heart crashed, made a fool of himself not only in the courtroom, but also in front of you. For him, it felt like days, even a full week. His only company was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s that he’d almost finished, stuffing it in his coat’s large pockets as he walked back home.

This was how you felt about him. You hated him.

And he’d have to make amends with that, but not without the encouragement of cheap alcohol pouring into his system. Thank god for Ross, who always bought him all the booze he needed.

You, on the other hand, had wasted all of your breath trying to look for Daniel everywhere. It’d almost been an hour and you were at the hands of Sam, trying to think about all the possible locations that his friend could be at. You searched for him at the O Club, down at the basketball court, even his own apartment, but he was nowhere to be found. Your heart was beating rapidly against your chest, caught in your throat as you walked back to his neighborhood, opting to give his apartment another try. It’d been more than thirty minutes ever since you first went, maybe he’d returned by now. Your hands were shaking as you brought a loosely balled up fist to the surface of the door, hesitantly knocking on it once, twice — then heard steps from inside.

“Go away.”

Your entire body eased momentarily at the sound of his voice. Good, he wasn’t dead. His tone was cold and distant, nevertheless, and you knew that he was in no mood for seeing or even speaking to you after how you’d behaved during his speech, or even earlier, during the trial. Your mouth went dry at the first attempt of speaking back to him.

“Danny—”

“You’ve got no place to call me that.”

Oh. So, you’d really broken him.

“Daniel,” you corrected yourself halfheartedly, your hands rubbing up and down against the sides of your outer thighs, “can you let me in?”

“No.”

Your face dropped. You weren’t used to Daniel being so… you didn’t even know how exactly to describe it. The relationship between the two of you hadn’t started on a brilliant basis, neither did it get any better throughout all the time, but even though he didn’t seem to like you very much, he’d always been open for you, in some sort of way that your mind still struggled to comprehend.

“Daniel, please,” you begged, stepping back, surprised when his door creaked open just an inch to reveal his heavy lidded, blurry eyes.

“Do you have anything to say to me about the case? Otherwise, get moving, Commander.”

“Did you… Are you drunk?” you found yourself asking worriedly, ignoring his previous question.

“Why do you care, huh? Last time I checked, you didn’t give two shits about me!” he yelled, slamming the door back shut into your face, causing you to flinch. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“So this is it?”

Daniel swore he was only a second away from exploding, your question sending him over the edge as he chuckled in frustration, not knowing whether you asked what you asked simply to piss him off, or if you were genuinely placing an inquiry that you had been unclear about.

“This is what? Are you fucking with me?”

“You’ve hated me ever since you stepped into my office. You always did, say it. Just say that you hate me, you can’t stand me anymore, come on. Or is this just for Sam’s ears? That you wished I’d taken you out of the case just so you wouldn’t have to listen to my voice any longer. Come on, Kaffee, that’s all you’ve got to say.”

Daniel backed away in disbelief, then made you silently wince as he punched hard against the door, the sound of his skin hitting the processes wood ringing in faint echoes inside your eardrums. You’d driven him out of control.

“Me? Hate you? How could you possibly say such a thing — I — I…” Daniel wasn’t sure how to continue the sentence. There were too options and both of them would have a negative impact upon your relationship with each other and case.

One; he could let his tipsy mind ramble on and on about how you hadn’t once left his mind ever since he saw you for the first time, that he’d never felt so intimidated by anyone, never had fallen into such a deep awe of someone’s passion and ability to pursue their goals in life. That he wished he could possess the one thirds of your courage and determination, because you were honestly scared of nothing, got all the questions you wanted answered within a heartbeat. You didn’t back down in any occasion, you were your own person and Daniel had fallen so deeply in love with everything that you so proudly owned in your character that he thought he was a lost card.

Two; he could never continue the sentence, trail off and stay completely silent, see if you had anything to reply to him — and of course, he opted for the safest option, which was the second one. He was too scared of wearing his heart on his sleeve, knowing that you’d break it anyway.

“The fact that you’re so fucking scared of being a lawyer is beyond me. You’re in the Navy for crying out loud, get a hold of yourself,” was all you muttered in response, leaning against his door, completely unaware of the fact that he was also in the same position, that if the door disappeared in thin air that very moment, you’d fall on top of him with your mouth so dangerously close to his own that he’d pass out (and so would you, in some extent.)

Daniel’s every muscle was so tightly contracted, that he believed they’d crash altogether without any warning if he spent one more minute, forehead pressed against the door, knowing damn well that you were still outside, that you breathed just as heavily as he did, that he’d tied himself to the tracks, ready to be run over.

He knew that whatever was happening in that moment would reek of runny makeup and salty tears, sweat of agony running down the faces of two attorneys, bewildered and scorned as they fell into silence in preference of doing what they’d studied in law school for four years; defend their own selves, master the words. The ability of speaking had died down your throats near the day you chose bitterness over respect for each other.

Daniel averted his eyes to the ground, mustered all the courage he could possibly get and loosened his fingers in his fist. He called your name once, twice, but no reply ever came back. He knew you’d left, could understand it by the way he peaked through the glass hole in his door and saw that no one was there. His logic screamed at him to stay where he was, crash in the couch, close his eyes and sleep, forget about the case, forget about you, the conversations, the feelings, the tension, everything. Take down the entire Jack Daniel’s bottle and lean into the cushions without any further thinking.

Thank God that Daniel hated logical reasoning.

His door flew open as he hurried outside, not caring about his half unbuttoned dress shirt and blowsy uniform. It had been raining for hours now, the steady patter of water hitting against the windows of his small apartment long since faded to a dull rush in the back of his mind. He stepped out of the building, the thick material of his coat almost getting soaked through instantly. He squinted his eyes, trying to make out how far ahead you’d gotten, the pouring rain blurring his vision as he eventually spotted you on the road.

“Commander!” he shouted, but you didn’t turn, so he called for your name instead, numerous times until your feet gave up. A piercing gust of wind shook the trees above your head, showering your already miserable frame with a fresh deluge. You wiped the water from your eyes with a wet sleeve and tucked a lock of long brunette hair that fell into your eyes behind your dampened ear.

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” you said with a steady voice, barely audible in the downpour. Daniel tried to catch his breath as he finally reached you, looking like he was about to either melt along with the rain, or simply vanish.

“No, I can’t accept that. We — We braved extraordinary circumstances to get over here. You need to give me one chance,” he begged, but you kept walking, tired of his mediocre speeches and dramatic overreactions everywhere possibly imaginable. You wanted facts, wanted to listen to him fully, crystal clearly admit what he had to say. Not dance around it like he’d catch on fire. “Hey, I’m talking to you! Fucking listen to me!”

“Fuck off, Lieutenant Kaffee!” you screamed back, not caring about the fact that the rain would probably give you a deadly cold the following day, if not kill you by throwing you off at a very abrupt road pit. Daniel was soaked, hair sticking to his forehead and still very drunk. He felt embarrassed of how high pitched his voice got whenever he yelled from the top of his lungs, almost sounding like a complaining kid at the supermarket, who wouldn’t get the sweets he wanted from the counter while waiting to pay.

He needed answers. Did you even like him?

“You’re saying I’m scared and you can’t even face how you feel!” he shouted catching you off guard. “You can’t even look at me without lying.” Your blood was boiling into your veins as you gave him that chance, which he so desperately wanted, to explain himself to you, to see what he had to say.

“What did you just say?”

Daniel came closer, hands shaking from the temper building within him, looking pathetic as his hair dripped along with the rain down his face.

“You say I’m scared, but you’re terrified. At least I’ve shown you how I feel about you. I give myself away, because I can’t hold back everything that goes into my head the second you walk in it. I’m too weak to defend myself when it comes to you — look at me, you make me forget how to do my job — and I’m one of the most qualified lawyers out there, according to the Navy.”

“What are you talking about? You haven’t even once told me anything about how you feel about me. I’ve overheard you say to Sam that you hate me, that you wish you couldn’t hear my voice. What the fuck were you on about, huh, Kaffee?”

Daniel threw his hands and looked up, gulping down his worn out feelings as he tried to collect himself from breaking down in front of you, yet once again. “You know what Sam said to me when I kept telling him all that stuff about you?”

“I don’t care about what he said to you,” you scoffed in annoyance, ready to leave again, when you heard the words fly out of his mouth.

“That I’m in love with you!”

Daniel ached to prove that you were the scared one in this, breath wasted as he summoned every single ounce of remaining strength he had to grab you by the arm and yank you close to him, crashing his lips into yours forcefully. He never imagined the first time he’d get to kiss you to be that way. His body was trembling in fear (and because of the weather), heart hammering in the most literal way possible. The kiss barely lasted, seeing as you pushed him away almost instantly.

He felt crashed into millions of pieces, exploding like they did in the cartoons. He’d gathered so much courage to finally kiss you, and there you were, looking at him like he’d committed some sort of unbelievable crime, like he’d offended your honour. Daniel felt like an idiot; he’d ruined everything even worse. Had he really misinterpreted every look, every conversation, every fight? He wanted to cry, so he did. His tears ran down his salty cheeks, mixing with the rain, which allowed him to sob as hard as he needed to, not caring whether it made him look more pathetic and weak than he already was.

Who was going to see anyway?

You weren’t saying a word and Daniel was sure that another heartbeat was all it would take for the organ to crawl up inside his throat and hurl out, break; rip in two. He’d said his biggest fear, had actually put the exact words in it, then proceeded to throw an action. And he was destroyed, not because you didn’t kiss him back or because you pushed him away, but because you had chosen the mute torture of silence.

“…What else do I have to do to prove to you that I’m so fucking head over heels for you that I can’t possibly concentrate on anything else? I might lose the case and make a fool of myself, because you make me not think,” he tried again, this time with a fragile and weak voice. He honestly had no idea what more he could do to convince you about his feelings, about how nuts you drove him with your attitude and insane personality.

But again, you opted not to say anything. Instead, you quickly took a few steps forward, grabbed him by the ends of the collar of his long, black coat and pulled him into you, mouth capturing his own swiftly as you tilted your head to the side, deepening the kiss. Daniel was paralyzed for a short second, not knowing if he’d been struck by some sort of lightning that had killed him and brought him to a different reality, or whether you kissing him was an actual, real, skin to skin thing.

Stupidly enough, he allowed his lips to turn upwards into a broadening smile, responding with such enthusiasm, even though he was ridiculously taken aback by your choice of action. It took him a minute to regain his composure, the storm — hell, the entire world — around you feeling meaningless as his hands laced with yours, causing your grip on him to relax a little.

Daniel was falling fast, faster than ever, craving more of your scent and the feel of you pressed closer and tighter to him, the taste of alcohol mixing along with the buds of your mouth, unsure how this whole story had even began for him.

But his stupid, stupid lungs had to find air, and he was forced to separate from you with the feeling of gravity being torn out of his core. You’d disconnected your hands from his (with another pitiful drop in his stomach) so you could run them through his disheveled, wet hair, and his eyes fluttered close at the touch. You looked up at him with an emotion that neither of you could really find the words to explain, and Daniel wanted to kiss you again, heat rising to his face, forming a what he thought could be a permanent blush as his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

“I’m so wet,” you realised out loud with a dumb smile, trying to hold back a giggle as you watched him bemusedly, eyes glowing brightly at the way he looked at you with such confusion, a bulge straining into his damp uniform pants.

“What — wha… what?” his voice was high pitched and shaky as he cleared his throat. “Oh! Shit — the rain, let’s — let’s get you inside!” He was so flustered and hard, just from one kiss, and he stuttered in every word he spoke. He took his coat off and covered your head with it as he grabbed you by the hand, hurrying back to his apartment.

When you went inside, you acted all unbothered, like nothing had even happened just a moment ago, and it was killing Daniel, because he was terrified of you throwing him away once again. He helped you to the couch, then rushed into his bedroom, pulling out every piece of clothing that he had in the wardrobe with such anticipation as he anxiously roamed through the selves to find blankets to offer you, get you dry from the rain.

“Okay, this is all I have. Do you prefer the pink or the... what color is this — orange? Coral? Erm, which one—” he was getting tongue tied and you found it adorable, taking both blankets off his hands as he stared at us, mesmerised. You looked over your shoulder, as if he was looking through you, then returned your gaze at him, getting nervous. “I’ll — I’m going to make coffee!”

You heard him smack his forehead as he went in the kitchen and grinned like a child. “Daniel?” you called from the living room with a slight chuckle.

“Yeah?”

“It was coral, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“The blanket. It was coral. Can I change my clothes? I’m getting your couch wet,” you asked.

“Sure! Closet’s in the left.”

You got up, wrapped in the blankets as you walked into his closet, shamelessly going through all of his ridiculous, childish, cheap shirts that you so deeply hated (loved). You found a black shirt, which you threw over your body as you picked a checkered shirt to put on as well, feeling a little lump from the chest pocket. You went through it and pulled out an unused condom, cheeks turning pink as you held out the object and went to the kitchen, proudly exposing it in your hand.

“Is this a gift?” you questioned, laughing wholeheartedly when you noticed Daniel’s cheeks burn red in earth swallowing embarrassment.

“Oh… uhm,” he snatched the condom off you, “you’re wearing my special shirt.”

“Your what?”

“My special shirt. It’s for… good luck… for when I go to baseball games and everything. Or — Or dates. Nothing important, no need to make a great deal out of it.” He felt dead inside, still very confused by the fact that you still hadn’t made the smallest reference to the kiss you’d shared. Was it just a thing that occurred due to the heat of the moment? It broke him just to think so, because for a split minute, he gave himself the permission to picture the two of you together, as an actual couple in love. Was he supposed to bring it up first? Were you waiting for him?

Daniel felt like a jerk, unintentionally pouting.

“Please,” you mumbled. Please stop being pathetic, I really like you too. “Danny?”

“It’s still raining. You can stay… I mean, if you want to, of course.” And gosh, both of you were about to melt, saying nothing, just staring at each other with millions of words being exchanged just through the different kinds of gleams in your eyes. You fucking hated Daniel Kaffee so much.

“Danny?” you repeated and he urgently shook his head, letting you know that you could keep going with the question. You smiled warmly, wrapping your arms gently around his neck, then, “I’d love to stay overnight. Oh, and you’re like seven of the strangest men I’ve ever met.”

FIN.

for your information, me and @honeymvnt wrote this together. might be one of the best things i’ve ever had the chance to write, ilysfm lia 🫵🏼🎀

[yuri-is-online]

Jade would be VERY pleased about finally having another club member. I would be happy to listen to him info dump while we look at mushrooms and neat nature stuff.

I let this sit in my ask box for too long but I've had this idea kicking around in my head for a while and then harveston had to go and drop that one line validating my delusions and you've given me an excuse to post it ha

notes: they/them used for Yuu, violence against animals (a bear), swearing at animals (the same bear), Yuu is unnaturally strong (enough to fight a bear), Yuu is implied to have grown up in a forest/woodsy environment, Jade typical blackmail. Other more serious fic can be found on my masterlist here.

Once upon a time, back when you first arrived in this world, you had been unsure how to feel about NRC. Castles existed back home, sure, but ones like this belonged firmly in illustrations or video games; it felt a but nauseating to walk through your wildest dreams brought to life, even if it was exciting sometimes. It was little wonder to you then that the idea of a Mountain Lover's Club was so appealing.

"Did you hike a lot back home?" Trey has that strange smile on his face that suggests you have made him tense somehow.

"Yes. I practically grew up in the woods." The flow of wind through the branches, the smell of fresh rain on the decomposing earth below, all of it wrapped you in a familiar sense of serenity even if the tree line was completely foreign to you. What are men to rocks and mountains after all? You could make yourself right at home here-

"I still don't think you should join." Trey says with all the air of a man who is certainly not telling you something, but the surprising harsh nod of agreement Riddle gives before injecting himself into the conversation convinces you more than whatever Trey had in mind likely could.

"I'm not entirely certain what they do," Riddle has never forbid you from participating in things since you and his dorm-mates brought him back to his senses," but if you want to hike it might be safer if you did it by yourself, assuming you let one of us know when you are going and when you expect to be back. It wouldn't do to have something that brings you so much joy used against you prefect, none of us want that." But he has always expressed concern when he thinks things to be unsafe, and in this case his argument was something you found yourself agreeing with. Hiking is best done at your own pace anyway, why get a club full of self-centered assholes involved in your me time? Though you did wish now they had been a bit more... specific with their concerns. Maybe outlined some of the club's scheduling, but then they would have needed to ask him and in so doing betrayed your interest.

Which would have been much less embarrassing than how Jade actually found out. Because of course he did, was there ever any doubt he would? ~~~~ There is a creek not far up the mountain path behind your dorm you like to rest at when coming back from your adventures. It's a good place to check over the photos on your camera and enjoy the last few rays of sunlight before returning to whatever mess Grim had made in Ramshackle searching for where you had moved all the tuna cans. Sometimes he joined you, and the two of you would have a little picnic up the path a bit further, but that day had not been one of those days. Nor had the day you met this particular nemesis who is staring you down from just across the creek with such a judgmental glance you would think this was a Sunday brunch and not an afternoon meander through the forest.

"The fuck do you want bitch?" You snarl and the bear indignantly sniffs as if to imply she's better than you. "Oh I'm sorry I didn't realize it was my fault your face is so fucking crooked, thought you were just born that way." She huffs again, making a big show of turning her back on you as you rush to get your equipment off and tucked safely out of reach before the skankiest grizzly you've ever met whips around and charges you shrieking something about "how dare you steal her man!!!!" and blah blah blah "I'll show you, you good for nothing hussy!!!!" as if you could actually understand her and this wasn't a three act play you insisted on writing yourself. You weren't even sure this bear was a girl if you stopped to think about it in between punches, not that you really cared. She huffs and makes a valiant attempt to pin you as you snarl and flash your teeth and beat her right back into the creek laughing at what sounds like pathetic winging about "kids these days!!!" and how rude you are for-

A startled noise pauses your match, as you both turn, harsh glares towards a break in the thicket where a very out of place, very surprised looking man stands, hand infuriatingly poised casually at his chin. His infuriating smirk doesn't unfurl until you growl, deep and low reverberating through your opponent just enough that she decides to leave for the day while you are preoccupied.

"Oya, this is a surprise." Jade doesn't move and you stay firm in the creek, body shaking with unspent adrenaline as he decides to move just a bit closer. "If you were that desperate for a sparring partner, I'm sure Floyd would have obliged, animal abuse is not exactly legal you know?"

"What the fuck are you doing here." You spit before you exit the creek, a flash of something darting through Jade's eyes as his gaze darts between you and your pack on the ground.

"Me? I should be asking that of you. The Mountain Lover's Club had to go through quite an ordeal to get permission to leave the school grounds unsupervised..." His teeth begin to show as you crash down from your high, you hadn't actually thought of whether or not you would need to talk to someone other than a friend about where you were going... surely Riddle would have mentioned something if you did? Or did he not think to ask since he wasn't the adventurous sort? "I can't imagine how the Headmage would react to know his ward had been sneaking out to terrorize the local wildlife."

"Hey Brenda started it!" You snap and Jade looks briefly towards the treeline where a very indignant bear is pursing her lips and inspecting her claws, the very picture of innocence if he does say so himself. "She stole my sandwich while I was taking pictures of the sunset!"

"Maybe you should have had someone there to hold it for you." He laughs, finally moving from his spot towards you and your pack, eyes gleaming with familiarity as he looks over your things. "Perhaps, someone who would be willing to... forget about what he just saw if they accompanied him next time?" It's a threat using what gives you joy against you certainly, and you huff indignantly at it but don't deny his request. Jade is an eel of his word, and his joy at doubling the Mountain Lover's Club membership cannot be contained as he ushers you the rest of the way down the mountain, eager to plan your first expedition together.

Not that he intends to ever delete the pictures he took. Your angry face is just too cute.

[lumiolivierlithium]

So is the Life of a Pirate (1/?)

Series: One Piece

Chapter: 1/?

Word Count: 5019

Rating: T

Pairing(s): Sanji x OC (Reader)

A dalliance six years ago has a funny way of catching up to Sanji when the Straw Hats stop to restock the ship.

a/n: I'm not sure how often I'm going to update this, but I have 4-5 chapters already done, so do what you will with that information. Depends on how well this one does, I guess.

“Come on, Mama!” a little boy cried at his mother’s knee.  His big, blue eyes staring up at her.  His soft, round cheeks cradled in her palm.  His light blonde hair falling in his face, “Please?  They don’t believe me.”

“Who doesn’t believe you, Ash?” his mother asked.  Cordelia was nineteen when she arrived to her island of Beniville Bay.  It wasn’t an easy trip to her new home, but she wouldn’t have asked for it any other way.  Getting to Beniville Bay got her the sweet little angel at her knee.  But only a few years later, her son would be born.  Her world would be turned upside down.

“The other boys,” Ash took Cordelia by her hand and tried to drag her off.

“Ash, I’m working,” Cordelia giggled, holding her post at the tavern, “I’d love to entertain your friends, but if I’m going to do that, you’ll have to bring them here.”

“Ok!” Ash took that as all the permission he needed.  And he bolted from the tavern. 

“You got your hands full with that one, Cordelia,” the owner of the tavern sat at the end of the bar, her laughter deep and hoarse.

“I know I do,” Cordelia agreed, slumping over the bar, “But he’s my handful, Nora.”

“What’s he on about anyway?” Nora wondered, “He said something about how the other boys don’t believe him.”

“It’s the same story he begs for,” Cordelia sighed out, “When I was still out there.  Before I settled here.”

“And the argument could still be made you haven’t fully settled,” Nora pointed out, “You always look out to the sea.”

“Because it’s where I belong,” Cordelia confessed, “And in a perfect world, I’d go back to the sea.  But I can’t.  I got Ash to think about now.  I can’t just take him and bring him out to sea.  It’s much safer for him here.”

“I think it’s the other reason,” Nora smiled softly, “You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?”

“Him who?” Cordelia went back to wiping down the bar.  The sooner she could switch her train of thought, the better.

“You know damn well who I’m talking about, girl,” Nora gave her a little nudge, “I may be getting up there in years, but I know that look when I see it.  There’s someone you’re waiting for.  Isn’t there?  And that’s why you’re still here.  In case he ever comes back.”

“Waiting is pointless,” Cordelia wrung out her rag and threw it in the bucket under the bar, “I have other priorities that definitely take precedence over that.”

“Do you remember his name?” Nora nodded to the empty barstool next to her.

“Of course, I do,” Cordelia took her seat, “It was-”

“Mama!” Ash came barreling back into the tavern with two other boys behind him, “Tell them!  Tell them!”

“Ash,” Cordelia held her face in her hands, “Alright, boys.  I know I’m not getting out of this one.  Grab a seat.  I’ll tell you.”

“Ash said you knew pirates!”

“Yeah!  And that you were a pirate!”

“My dad said pirates are bad!”

“Alright, alright,” Cordelia settled them, “You wanted me to tell you my stories, didn’t you?  I can’t do that if you’re still running your mouths.”

“Yes, ma’am.” All three of them were dead silent and listening intently.

“Alright,” Cordelia began, “Now, there’s something you need to understand, boys.  There are bad pirates.  That is one hundred percent true.  Because there were some bad pirates that gave me this…”

Cordelia extended her arm and showed off a burn scar on her wrist.  It was no ordinary burn scar, though.  Ash put his fingers up to it, “What’s that, Mama?”

“It’s a brand, baby,” Cordelia went on, “I’m from a place called the Savinon Isles in the South Blue.  They were peaceful little islands.  And I loved it there.  I grew up there.  But when I was about sixteen, those islands were raided by pirates.  They took everything they could.  Berries, jewels, artifacts, map charts, anything they could get their hands on.  And they even took a few of the girls from my village.  Including me.  And they made sure we knew who they belonged to.  So, they burned that mark into my skin.”

“Did it hurt?” one of the boys asked.

“It was the worst pain I ever felt until Ash was born,” Cordelia admitted, “But I had to stay strong.  I couldn’t scream.  I couldn’t cry.  I couldn’t even change my facial expression.  I just had to wince through it.  And it was unbearable…Maybe this isn’t a good story to be telling you three.”

“Come on, Mama!” Ash pleaded.

“We can handle it, Miss Cordelia!”

“Yeah!  Honest!”

“What happened next?”

Cordelia did her best to ever forget what happened next.  She pretended like it never happened.  But those pirates did things that she would never fully be able to shake.  But that wasn’t the end of her story.  And she knew it.  A little smile crept across her face, “Well, those pirates didn’t know who they picked up on the Savinon Isles.  Because my home wasn’t the only one they ransacked.  Whenever they’d have me on deck, I would look everywhere for any possible escape routes.  Or so they thought.  What I was really doing was counting the crew.  There were fifteen men on that ship.  And there were easily double that of the girls they took.”

“They took other girls?”

“That’s not ok.”

“You’re right,” Cordelia agreed, “It’s not.  People aren’t meant to be cargo.  People are meant to be people.  They’re not supposed to be kept.  But when they’d all go to sleep at night, the other girls and I would talk.  And when we’d talk, we were planning our escape.  But it wasn’t enough for us to escape.  They would pay for their crimes.  And because it’s not like the Marines were going to do anything for us, we had to take those matters into our own hands.  They thought they had us completely broken of our spirits.  And they almost did have a few of them.  But their captain…I had a personal vendetta against him.”

“What’s a vendetta, Mama?” Ash cocked his head.

“It means he and I had problems,” Cordelia explained, “And that the only way they’d be solved was violence, bloodshed.  Trust me, Ash.  He definitely got everything he had coming his way.  But because he thought he had me broken, I didn’t get shackled anymore.  So, I let that go on for a couple nights.  Just so I could somewhat earn his trust.  But then…Then, I lost his trust.  And for a good reason.”

“What’d you do?”

“I radicalized those girls,” Cordelia jumped down from her barstool, “I took one of the crewmen’s swords and one of their guns.  I tiptoed into the captain’s cabin while he was sleeping.  I patted him down for any weapons he might have had on him and made sure I took any of the others away.  And I put that gun to his forehead and cocked it.  I was ready to pull the trigger and end him right then and there, but we were miles out in the ocean.  We needed to get to shore.  When he woke up and realized the predicament he was in and that all the other girls were in on it, too, he called the crew on deck.  And I ran that ship all the way to shore.”

“And what about the captain?  What’d you do to him?”

“What any good person would’ve done,” Cordelia shrugged, “I let him go.”

“WHAT?!”

“Mama,” Ash gasped, “After everything he did, after how much he hurt you, you just let him go?”

“I’m no killer, Ash,” Cordelia assured him, “I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t pull the trigger.  But he didn’t know that.  What I could do, though, was that the second I heard one of the girls call land, I had the original crew of the ship lined up at the plank and I watched each and every one of them jump into the water.  I’m not sure how many survived after that, but I know the captain sunk all the way to the bottom.  I made sure of that.  He had rocks in his pockets.  There’s no telling how many the sea claimed that night.  But the girls and I…Oh, did we celebrate that night.  And into the morning.  And into the next night.  And we were all miserable for a week after that.  We docked and restocked the ship before they were all reunited with their families.”

“But what about you, Mama?  Did you go home, too?”

Cordelia could feel a blow to the heart she didn’t need.  But she still pushed forward, “I didn’t have a home to go back to.  When my village was ransacked, they left it in flames.  So, I was on my own.  Those girls were the only family I had left.  But I was alright.  My notoriety for taking on an entire pirate crew didn’t go unnoticed.  I even got stopped by a Marine vessel.”

“The Marines stopped you?!”

“That’s right,” Cordelia nodded, “The Marines stopped me.  Because I didn’t change my jolly roger.  I needed other pirates to know my ship wasn’t to be messed with.  Because seeing his flags…Then, only seeing me on board…That sent a message.  And even the Marines realized that.  They boarded and searched what was now my ship because they didn’t believe me when I said I was the only one on it.  They told me the former captain had a bounty on his head.  I told them his head was at the bottom of the ocean for trafficking.  They told me it wasn’t my place to give his execution and I should’ve just collected the bounty.  But then, I showed them my brand.  And I looked that Marine captain in the eye and told him it was entirely my place to be his judge, jury, and executioner.  They left me alone after that.  And left me ten million berries for my efforts.  Ten million measly berries for my efforts.”

“Ten million berries can get a girl pretty far on the open sea,” Nora chimed in.

“And it did,” Cordelia sat back down, “That’s when I ended up here.  I made myself comfortable, kept food in my belly and a roof over my head.  And I didn’t trust a pirate after that.”

“But Mama,” Ash flopped over, “You always said we could trust pirates.”

“We can,” Cordelia nodded, “I didn’t say the story was over, did I?”

“You didn’t…”

“There are definitely bad pirates, boys,” Cordelia confirmed, a smile on her face, “That much is true.  But where there are bad pirates, there are also good ones.  There are very good pirates in this world.  And I think I knew the best of the best.”

“What were they called, Miss Cordelia?”

Cordelia couldn’t help it.  Her heart turned into a puddle.  Because only one pirate crew came to mind, “The Straw Hat Pirates.  And I knew all of them.  Although, there were only five when we met.”

“Who were they?”

“Well,” Cordelia laughed to herself, “They were…All something.  They all had their own things going on.  There was Zoro, their swordsman.  He was lucky if he could find his shoes.  But he’d probably get lost finding his way back.  I could’ve given him a compass and a map and he wouldn’t be able to find the bathroom ten feet away.  I also wouldn’t trust him with a bottle of sake.  It’d be gone by morning.  And yet, you could throw a coconut in the air in one piece and by the time it was down on the ground, it’d be cut in eighths.  You don’t take Zoro’s swords away from him.  He won’t hesitate to run someone through if they deserve it.  And there was Usopp.  I have yet to meet someone who’s a better shot than Usopp.  You want someone who could tell a story?  Have Usopp tell you a story.  Because you won’t get a better one.  And there was Nami, their navigator.  I told her about what happened to me on my old ship.  And she told me what happened to her with the last pirate crew she was part of.  We bonded that night.  But the girl had money on her mind.  And I can’t blame her.  And then…Then, there was their captain.”

“Was he like the other captain?” Ash worried, cuddling closer to his mother’s side.

“Oh, no, no, no, sweetheart,” Cordelia could hardly hold herself together, stifling her laughter, “The Straw Hat captain couldn’t have been further from that.  I remember their captain.  He was the worst of all of them.  In fact…Hold on.”

Cordelia went over to the bulletin board they kept in the tavern.  Wanted posters covered it like wallpaper.  Every so often, a bounty hunter would come in and take one, but she knew there had to be one on there.  The one wanted poster she was looking for.  Nora glanced over her shoulder, “Who are you looking for, Cordelia?”

“Hang on…” Cordelia kept scanning them.  Only to find an all too familiar grin sticking out from under one of them.  And she grabbed that wanted poster.  And she slapped it on a nearby table, “I knew I’d find him up there.  That’s him.  Monkey D. Luffy.  I can still hear him introduce himself in my head.  That’s something you can never shake.  My name is Monkey D. Luffy and I’m going to be king of the pirates!  And you know what, boys?  I think he will one day.”

“What makes you say that, Miss Cordelia?”

“Because,” Cordelia took the wanted poster back and rehung it, “He ate all his vegetables.”

“Really?”

“God no,” Cordelia laughed, “I’ve never met someone more carnivorous in my life.  Luffy wouldn’t hurt a fly.  Unless someone hurt one of his friends.  That’s when things would get messy.  Then again, I’ve heard stories about Luffy through the grapevine.  He’d overthrow entire governments if he’s not kept in check.  And with the rest of his crew, it’d be a disaster.  But he had a good heart.  There’s no doubting that.  That’s what made him one of the good pirates.”

“Who’s the other one?” Ash asked.

“What?” Cordelia looked at him strangely, “What do you mean, the other one?  I told you about the whole crew.”

“No, you didn’t,” he shook his head, “You said there were five.  You talked about Zoro, then Usopp, then Nami, then Luffy.  That’s four, Mama.  What about the other one?”

“Oh,” Cordelia let out a little sigh as memories of her encounter with the Straw Hat Pirates flooded her thoughts, “That other one.  Their cook…Their cook was…special.”

“What was his name?” Ash’s eyes only got bigger.  And in those eyes, Cordelia saw…everything.

“Alright, boys,” Cordelia shook it off, “You’ve heard enough.  I’m sure your mothers are looking for you.  And I’m not going to have it be my responsibility when they find you in a place like this.  Ash has an excuse, but you two don’t.”

“Aww…”

“Bye, Miss Cordelia!” And just like that, the boys took off.

“Mama?” Ash knew there was something not right with her.  All they had in life was each other.  The slightest change in Cordelia’s demeanor wouldn’t go unnoticed, “Why wouldn’t you tell us about the other pirate?”

“Don’t worry about it, Ash,” Cordelia brushed him off, “Go in the back and wash up.  I’ll get dinner going for the three of us.”

“That’s awfully sweet of you, Cordelia,” Nora awed, “Thank you.”

“Sure,” Cordelia needed to get her head back on right.  And she could always find her peace in a kitchen. 

But once Ash was in the back, Nora stopped Cordelia from putting her apron on, “You know you’re going to have to tell him some day.”

And with those few words, Cordelia’s heart sank to the floor, “I know.  But it’s not going to be easy, Nora.”

“I know,” Nora took her hand, “But it’s better than lying to the boy.  One day, he’s going to look at the wanted posters and he’s going to see a familiar face.”

“I don’t want to talk about it now,” Cordelia snapped a bit, “And we’re not going to talk about it now.  We’ll just…Let this go.  Just for now.”

“Alright,” Nora dropped it, “But Cordelia…I remember when those Straw Hat Pirates came to town.  They came through this very tavern.”

“I know,” Cordelia felt the heat rising in her cheeks, “How else would I have met them?  I’m just glad Luffy didn’t eat us out of house and home.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make dinner and then, I’m going to take my son home and tuck him into bed.”

“Fine by me.”

Dinner was quiet.  Dinner was a little uncomfortable.  Every time Cordelia looked over at Ash, she could feel another crack splintering off in her heart.  And how the inevitability would soon be upon her.  As much as it’d pain her.  But once the plates were cleared and cleaned, Cordelia brought Ash back to their cozy, two bedroom house just off the square. 

The moment his head hit the pillows, Ash was sleeping like a baby.  However, sleep wouldn’t come as easily for his mother.  Cordelia watched out the window, her stomach in knots and her heart in dire straits.  It wasn’t until she closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep that the ache would stop. 

The next morning, Cordelia was awake bright and early.  And Ash still slept.  She refused to leave him home by himself.  That meant him being lonely.  Cordelia had to go to the market for Nora, so she only had one option.  Carefully, she slipped into Ash’s bedroom and she put a hand on his shoulder.

“Ash…” Cordelia nudged him, “Asher Grey…You need to wake up, baby.  We have places to be.”

Those big, beautiful eyes slowly opened, sparkling in the morning sun, “Where do we have to go, Mama?”

“We need to go take care of some errands in town for Ms. Nora,” Cordelia helped him out of bed, “Why don’t we get you clean and dressed, ok?”

“Ok,” Ash fell into his mother’s shoulder, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep.  But he knew better.  Slowly, but surely, he pulled himself together and grabbed some clothes out of the trunk at the foot of his bed, “Are these ok, Mama?”

“They’re just fine with me,” Cordelia allowed, “I’m going to go run the water.”

“Ok.”

As Cordelia got Ash all cleaned up (and then, herself), he took her hand and the two went to the market.  All the fresh produce sat nicely in their individual stalls, bright and beautiful.  It wasn’t going to be much.  Only a few vegetables and some eggs for the tavern.  Nora had her meat supplier coming later that afternoon, so it wasn’t like Cordelia needed to pick that up.  However, there was something bright orange that caught Cordelia’s attention.  But it couldn’t have been, she thought to herself. 

Until that bright orange turned her direction, the face of a young woman revealing itself.  And the woman’s eyes grew as they met hers, “Cordelia?”

“Mama,” Ash looked up at her in confusion, “Who’s that?”

“No way,” Cordelia gasped, “Nami!”

“It is you!” the woman’s arms ended up around Cordelia’s shoulders, “It’s been so long!”

“It’s been too long!” Cordelia swallowed the tears bubbling up in her throat.  Because she knew what she’d have to do next. 

“Wait,” Ash looked up at his mother, then back at the woman in front of them, “Is she that Nami?”

“She is,” Cordelia nodded.

“Hi there,” Nami cracked a smile, not sure how to act around a four year old.  She got down to his level, “I’m Nami.  What’s your name?”

“Ash,” he played a little shy, hiding around Cordelia’s leg.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ash,” Nami got back up, “So, what’s his story?  Keeping an eye on one of the neighbor kids, Cordelia?”

“Well,” Cordelia bit her lip, “Not quite.  Could we find somewhere to go talk?”

“Sure,” Nami agreed, “But I’m kind of a mission right now.”

And that got Ash’s attention, “Wow!  You mean, you’re on a real pirate mission right now?”

“It’s not that exciting, kid,” Nami giggled, “Just doing some shopping for the cook on my ship.”

“So…” Cordelia’s heart sunk, “You’re saying the whole crew’s here?”

“Mmhm,” Nami nodded, “In fact, when we needed to restock, I brought us here.”

“Wonderful,” Cordelia winced, “Great.”

“Are you sure about that?” Nami wondered, “Because you might want to tell the rest of your face that.”

“Again,” Cordelia reiterated, “It’s been a while since we last saw each other, Nami.  Come on.  Let’s go talk.  I’m sure the produce can wait.”

And so, Cordelia and Ash took Nami to the square.  Somewhere bright and open where Ash could run around with his friends and where Cordelia and Nami could catch up on things.  The square of the village was always bustling with life.  Plenty of kids for Ash to play with, young couples on the cusp of falling in love.  It was a beautiful place.  And it had been a beautiful place since Cordelia first arrived.

“So,” Nami looked over at the sweet, little boy she ran into at the market, “Ash is your son?”

“Yes, he is,” Cordelia confirmed, “I know.  Hard to believe.  But that’s my baby.  I swear, he turned my life around.”

“I’m sure,” Nami gasped, “That’s bound to happen when you have a freakin’ baby!  Why didn’t you tell us?”

“That’s where it gets a little tricky,” Cordelia gnawed on the inside of her cheek, “Because it’s just Ash and me.”

“What about his dad?” Nami wondered, “Or is that a touchy subject?”

“It’s funny,” Cordelia twiddled her thumbs, “Nami, how old would you figure Ash is?”

“I don’t know,” Nami looked him over, “Probably…Four?  Five?”

“He’s almost five,” Cordelia told her, “And how long would you say it’s been since we last saw each other?”

“It’s definitely been a few years,” Nami started doing the math in her head.

“Would you say about six?”

“Actually,” Nami thought back, “Yeah!  Probably about six.  Give or take a few months.”

“And with that in mind,” Cordelia nudged her along, “What happened the last time you guys rolled through here?”

“Well,” Nami giggled, “You were working at that tavern.”

“Still am.”

“And when we walked in,” she went on, “I remember Luffy practically licking the inside of your fridge clean.”

“He came damn close,” Cordelia laughed, “Yeah.  And what else?”

“Zoro passed out on the floor,” Nami added, “And I had to be the one to carry him because Sanji was nowhere to be found.  You know, Cordelia, come to think of it, you weren’t either.”

“Yeah,” Cordelia’s face settled into a soft smile, “Yeah…I wasn’t.  And neither was he.”

“Oh, Cordelia,” Nami awed with sheer disgust on her face, “Tell me you didn’t…Tell me you didn’t run off with Sanji.  Tell me you didn’t fall for his garbage.”

“Hey,” Cordelia defended, “It’s not all garbage.  I fell for his garbage in the way you feel bad for a puppy left in the rain.”

“And you still wake up in the morning with fleas in your bed and pee in your slippers,” Nami argued, “Come on.  You deserve better than that.”

“Well,” Cordelia glanced out at the square at the sweet little boy she loved more than anything in the world, “After you guys left, I met a man.  Tall, good looking, strong…When he found out I was pregnant, he was over the moon.  He couldn’t wait to be a dad.  But then, my first year with Ash went by and…He took off.  Because Ash didn’t look much like me.  And he didn’t look a thing like him.  So, he knew Ash wasn’t his son.  And it’s been Ash and me ever since.”

“I’m so sorry, Cordelia,” Nami took her hand, “What happened then?”

“I know Ash was way too young to remember this,” Cordelia smiled, “But I needed to clear my head and what better way than taking some time out at sea?”

“You took your one year old out on the boat?” Nami gasped, “That’s pretty ballsy.”

“And it was a hell of a time.  He learned to walk on the deck before he learned to walk on land.  And when he finally walked on land for the first time, it was like he never learned to walk at all.”

“He learned on his sea legs,” Nami teased, “But he seems to be doing alright now.”

“We both are,” Cordelia confirmed, “But you guys being here…That could very well be a disaster.  For everyone involved.”

“Why?”

“Hey, Ash!” Cordelia called out to him, “Come here!”

Ash ran right up to his mother’s knee, “Yeah, Mama?”

“Oh, nothing,” Cordelia pushed his hair out of his face, leaving Nami a bit speechless, “Just making sure you’re doing alright.  We might need to be getting home soon, sweetheart.  I have no doubt we’re going to have company tonight.”

“We’re having company?” Ash wondered, “Who’s coming over?”

“Well, Ash,” Cordelia sat him on her lap, shooting a quick glance at Nami, “How would you feel about having a house full of pirates for dinner?”

“Really?!” Ash squealed, “You mean it, Mama?”

“I’m sure Nami could talk her captain into it,” Cordelia hoped, “Right, Nami?”

“Anywhere that promises to feed our captain,” Nami sighed out, “You know he won’t be able to say no.”

“Yay!” Ash bounced down from Cordelia’s knees, “Our house is going to be full of pirates!”

“Cordelia,” Nami kept her voice down, “You do realize what this means, right?  If I tell everyone we’re coming to your house for dinner…”

“Do not tell them you’re coming to my house,” Cordelia demanded, “Please, Nami.  I already know this is going to be a hard pill to swallow, but don’t tell them it’s my house.  And don’t tell anyone about Ash.”

“I won’t,” Nami swore, “Not a peep.  But I will gladly tell the boys to come by your house.”

“Thank you.”

And just before they parted ways, Nami looked back at Ash.  Then, back to his mother, “Hey, Cordelia?”

“Hmm?” Cordelia grabbed her bags.

“Is it me,” Nami wondered, “or does Ash’s eyebrow kind of…Curl up a little?”

“On his left one?” Cordelia flagged him down, “Yeah.  It does.  You’re not wrong.”

“It’s weird,” Nami grabbed her own bags, “Because I know someone else who’s got the same thing.”

“I know you do,” Cordelia bit the inside of her cheek, “It was great seeing you again, Nami.”

“See you later.”

And just like that, Cordelia grabbed Ash while Nami headed back to the ship.  Although, the walk back was interesting.  While Ash rattled on about how excited he was to meet the same pirates his mama knew all those years ago, Cordelia had too much on her mind to even let it process.  He’s going to freak.  He’s going to get one eye on Ash and he’s going to freak.  I don’t think either one of us is going to be able to handle that.  But I’ve taken care of Ash on my own for the last four years.  I don’t see why I couldn’t keep doing that.  What am I thinking?  We’ll be fine.  No expectations.

“Mama?” Ash grabbed the door for her, “Are we really going to have a house full of pirates?”

“That’s right, baby,” Cordelia dropped her fresh produce in the sink, “We’re going to have a house full of pirates.”

“I can’t wait to tell the others,” Ash bounced on his chair at the kitchen table, “They’re going to be so jealous!”

“Yep,” Cordelia sighed out.  I’m sure there were a lot of women here that would’ve been jealous of me if they saw who I was with that night, “Are you going to help me cook or are you going to just sit there?”

“What do you need me to do?”

For the rest of the afternoon, Cordelia and Ash were peeling, sauteing, boiling, and slow roasting.  All within reason, of course.  Cordelia wasn’t going to let the baby near the heat.  He didn’t need to burn himself.  In her heart, Cordelia wanted nothing more than to be petty.  Granted, she always told herself since she was pregnant with Ash.  She didn’t need anyone else.  It’d be herself and Ash.  And that’s the way it would stay.  But she looked at her spices.  And there sat the sealed bottle of oregano.  A part of her wanted to break its seal, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

But then, night fell over Beniville Bay.  And Cordelia could hear the hustle and bustle outside start to dim down.  Until it got to be the ruckus on her front porch.  She could hear assorted chatter floating in through her open kitchen window wondering where they were, whose house Nami was taking everyone to for the evening, what was going on.  Along with the faint smell of cigarette smoke.  And it made her smile.  It had been so long since Cordelia had seen her favorite group of miscreants.  But she knew it may not go well.  And she had braced herself for that.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Ash,” Cordelia caught her baby’s attention while he sat at the kitchen counter, “You ready?  We’re about to be taken on by a bunch of pirates.”

“I’m ready, Mama!” Ash could hardly contain himself.  He hadn’t been able to sit still since he met Nami that morning.  He couldn’t wait to have his house full of pirates.

“Alright,” Cordelia wiped her hands off on one of her tea towels and went to the door, “I want you to behave yourself tonight, Asher.”

“I will,” Ash promised, sticking his pinky out to his mother.

“Thank you,” Cordelia kissed the top of his head, “Because I’m about to have enough babies in the house tonight.”

Well…Here goes nothing.

[katyspersonal]

Hello Katya, do you have any ideas about Simple Gratia?

....

Yes, my girl!! I have some observations AND ideas! I remember that back when I checked, a fan Wiki incorrectly said that she is wearing Yharnam Hunter set. I do not know whether they've fixed that since then or not, but I know it confused a few artists. Gratia, in reality, is wearing an Old Hunter set but slightly altered:

(Close images of her model are from this ( x ) page, datamined by AstralLace!) This is what an Old Hunter set looks like, for a reminder:

Gratia is an Old Hunter: the type that started under Gehrman like Maria, Vitus, Henryk, Djura, Bestial Hunter, all that. I think that she knew all these characters and more, and with Maria she was a lot like an older sister that Maria never had! But I think she would be genuinely annoyed by Djura's complex inventions and at times not be able to hide her disdain, right in the middle of Djura ranting about them! That'd spark stupid, petty arguments about what kind of weapon is "better" which their friends laugh at in the corner like hyenas until Gehrman or Maria separate them XD

In comparison with the generic set, she is missing the long flowing cape, as well as the glove on her left hand. Her weapon, a chunk of metal, also goes in the left hand. I think she is missing the glove to have a stronger grip on the metal, so it would not slip away! I wondered what her right hand weapon would be before, but I think she doesn't need one in the end! I imagine her staggering the beast with her Iron Fist and then TEARING THEIR HEAD OFF WITH HER FREE HAND DFJHFSHSD .....but, you know, a hammer or a mace would also be nice yeah sure

In Bloodborne setting, red hair is also highlighted as a trait of Cainhurst nobles, that isn't really seen in any other NPC. Edgar may be also a ginger but much brighter kind, certainly not a REDhead!

This makes me think: what if Gratia's red hair is not just a random design choice, but a hint? And even if it isn't, it can still be used for a headcanon! Cainhurst nobles descend from Pthumeru Ihyll and have some Pthumerian heritage (just in case here ( x ) is the post with evidences of it) 🤔 At the same time, Pthumerians have gigantic variants, that seem to be more slow and dim than 'regular' ones. And interestingly, Gratia is abnormally big AND stated to have some intellectual drawbacks:

So, she has 1) otherwise Cainhurst-exclusive hair color 2) a size abnormally large for a human and 3) correlation between inability to use guns and being 'dim'! This gave me a headcanon that she was born in the Cainhurst walls, but shown Pthumerian genes that were "undesired" in the eyes of snobbish nobles and thus, abandoned at birth. She never knew of her origins, but was adopted by a kind man! Yeah, in this context, Maria and Gratia feeling family-like bond almost from the start in kind of fateful!

^ I often draw her with the same body pattern that shows on the skin of Snatchers, and that is exactly what kind of descendant she is!

I also always liked the idea that Gratia, Simon and Yamamura were the 'detective friends' up to uncover the Healing Church's secrets! Later, I decided the Yahar'gul Hunter we find in the prison under Grand Cathedral should also be a part of the squad! I did not know that Simon interestingly had Fist of Gratia as a part of his equipment back then and only judged from their location, but that made me feel validated with that headcanon! xD

Gratia is, of course, more of a 'power' of the team! She might be not very smart, but she has her heart in a good place and can understand the concept of shady bad business that should be stopped. She is easy to deceive in terms of pranks and other remotely innocent things, but when someone lying to her or trying to use her is malicious she will sense it. Pair that with her being very brave and blunt, and you really don't want to mess with her! The girl could grab Laurence and slam him against the wall accusing him of being "full of shit" if he attempted to deceive her, ffs! And not even his friends would defend him because it IS his fault for playing with this tigress x)

Needless to mention that she is protective over her friends! Not a kind of a protective friend that will mindlessly jump into fighting the other guy, but someone that will walk in and give them a fair warning to get lost first. She has threatening aura and usually just that is enough to scare away a person that means no good to someone she cares about. But, when she is powerless to do anything against some prick in power or likewise, she will express her frustration by breaking a property on her way out xd

Also she gives me this vibe:

Thank you for an ask! :D She has a very vivid and fleshed out image in my mind! Funny enough, this makes describing her harder because she feels so self-explanatory for me!

[icarusbetide]

the time my friend argued that jefferson would be a raging capitalist today

questions along the vein of "would this founding father be a democrat or a republican", etc. etc. are impossible to answer for a lot of reasons - 18th century politics don't match up nicely with our idea of left or right. even if we really really dumb it down to big gov, small gov; manufacturing vs. farming; it gets complicated. throw in modern issues and it's a whole other deal entirely. and obviously if they were resurrected and dropped into this world today they would be so overwhelmed and irrelevant it doesn't even matter.

but as someone who believes environment has a huge impact on people, i do wonder what they would be like if they were born and raised in today's world. how many political convictions or personality traits are going to translate directly?

my fellow history geek who studies economics had a really interesting argument about hamilton and jefferson. (all of this is based off of the assumption that they were born and raised in the modern era. this was a stupid conversation we had while procrastinating, don't take it too seriously!)

Hamilton:

obviously based on history, the first thing i said is that hamilton would be a wall street capitalist dude. but my friend said that you could make a (simple, rough) argument that his economic policies were radical for the time, moving away from the existing more mercantile structure. if we're going by solely what's considered radical today, it's a different picture. and he made the point that hamilton had a focus on energetic, involved government - very clearly clashing with fiscal conversative values of free markets and reduced debt, etc. so even if we translated him as a capitalist, it wouldn't be purely fiscal libertarian/conservative.

he wasn't by any means a destitute rags to riches story, but he did face quite a lot of early trauma and prejudice. illegitimacy and being west indian aren't as stigmatized in today's world - but if he still goes through similar experiences in a modern context, in a world less bound to enlightenment ideals? my friend (again over simplistically, he wants me to emphasize that) said "okay. let's say we translate that struggle to him being raised by a single mom and a deadbeat dad, with an immigrant status? he faces the problems in the existing structures, maybe the foster system? and if we accept that he might have had feelings for john laurens, that's probably going to affect him heavily; in today's world i can see him being more of a left-leaning person politically."

we both hesitantly agreed that given some of his qualities, childhood experience, etc. the fanfics that depict a modern hamilton to be at least liberal might not be too off? he'd still be a realist, wary of perceived demagogues, etc. and always fighting on twitter. my friend very strongly made the case that "just because he created and backed a capitalist financial system in the 1700s doesn't mean he would be right-wing now. simplifying but if he genuinely believed that his plans back then would improve the lives of americans, then he might see the system we have today and hate it. because it's not working: we're falling behind in a lot of important statistics; hamilton had negative qualities for sure but i do think he was genuine in trying to find what he thought would actually improve people's lives. he wasn't entirely motivated by money, right? he cut off his other incomes as treasury secretary? yes he was ambitious but he wanted to get things done. if anything, he'd see the ineffectiveness of a whole bunch of crap happening today and hate that."

he also thinks that because hamilton dedicated a lot to working on systems (both federal governmental and economic, perhaps the two most controversial and important ones at that time) it's valid (given that earlier childhood translation as well) that he'd be very interested in social programs and economic programs today. less of the federal government thing since that's more set in stone.

so his tldr: "i know it seems like presentism and wishful thinking for me to say that modern hamilton might've been left-leaning, but i really do think it's a possibility, if we translate some of his experiences to our world. there are other founders i'd argue that would be much more conservative and or capitalist. please don't attack me."

me: "wait who do you think would be the raging capitalist?"

him: "Jefferson. if we assume he's born into a rich, rich, prestigious family today - chances are he's the son of a ceo or some corporation. and that isn't exactly old money but you can argue that any colonist family is less old money compared to the actual british nobility. and how far back is old money? if it was his grandfather who struck it big then he's still got that trust fund kid energy. so in a way, we could argue that he'd actually be the raging capitalist, probably still wanting a smaller government but for the free market and tax cuts."

this was hilarious because i focused in on his ability to hone into what the public wants to hear, and thought he'd be one of those hipster, seemingly social justice warrior people who still harbor a great amount of elitism and hypocrisy.

my friend pointed out that both can be true. he can be like kendall roy and tweet "we must overthrow the culture of corruption that silences women" while being a piece of shit with a crazy family.

you'll probably notice that this is entirely speculatory, and a lot of it is based on vibes. and we made a lot of logical jumps in terms of translating influential experiences at that time to something equivalent in the modern day. this isn't scholarly or well justified in any way - we aren't trying to prove anything but it's fun to see what aspects of their personalities we pull out. how hilarious is it to consider a hamilton raging against the financial systems and structures of america while jefferson supports big corporations or whatnot?

[teruel-a-witch]

(I was thinking it strange that danny never made it official that steve would be in his kids' life in case something happens to him considering their line of work and his fic-headcanon was born.)

'we should make it official.'

'what?'

the urgency in danny's voice startles steve, so he stops chopping chicken breast for eddie because he doesn't want to cut off his fingers.

'you know i love you, right? and you love me?'

'yes?'

'and you love my kids and they love you, you are great with them, i honestly don't know how i could do it all without you...'

steve's heart is beating way too fast and he tries to steady his voice when he asks 'all of this is very true but i still don't know where are you going with this?'

'i want to make it official that you are a permanent fixture in my kids life even if something happens to me. gracie will probably be old enough that it won't matter but i want to update my will to make sure rachel can't revoke your access to charlie. i just need your consent for this,' danny finishes his ramble in one breath before he loses his resolve.

this isn't where steve hoped the conversation would go but he's still touched beyond measure.

'of course, i consent. i love your kids and will take care of them till the day i die, which, for the record, i'll probably be the first to go, but, yes, i accept.'

danny breathes a sign of relief and squeezes his arm.

'thank you.'

'don't get me wrong i am incredibly honoured but... what brought this on? what have i done lately that would make rachel hate me so much she would try to take charlie from me?'

danny looks down. he cannot exactly tell the truth. can't say he's just had a fight with rachel where she as good as blamed steve for the fact that danny wouldn't get back with her.

('you chose him over me once already and you are still doing it!'

'for the millionth time he was framed for murder! what was i supposed to do?'

'well he's not in jail now, and you are still choosing him.')

it's not like they haven't had that exact argument before but this time danny panicked. he wanted to make sure his kids and steve don't suffer if rachel decided to retaliate. he couldn't tell that to steve, though, so he settled for vague.

'oh ...you know how rachel is, what if she meets someone and follows him to kazakhstan. i just wanted to take precautions.'

'there's no distance long enough to keep me from the kids ...or you. i will follow you to the moon if i have to.'

danny looks up to meet his intense gaze...what is steve saying?

something niggles at the edges of steve's mind...why would rachel hate him ...can it be?...

'hey, danny?'

'yeah?'

'you know, there's another way to make it official. rachel couldn't keep charlie from his stepfather...'

danny scoffs 'i can't ask you to marry me, it wouldn't be fair to you.'

'i don't care if you marry me for my pension and benefits, as long as i get to be married to you.'

danny chokes on air. 'what about other benefits?'

'they are on the table. dealer's choice.'

danny doesn't know what to say, whether to die of shock, or happiness.

steve brings him closer by the waist and grins. 'i never thought i would be so happy about rachel hating me.'

danny thwacks his chest. 'what are you grinning about?'

'i won, and i love you too, in case you were wondering.'

'oh my god, i can't believe I'm going to marry this insufferable idiot'. danny doesn't shrug off the embrace.

'so that's a yes?' steve has to make sure. this morning he had no idea he could have everything he ever wanted.

'yes.'

steve wonders if he should send rachel a gift basket, but he's feeling generous. besides, his future husband probably won't tolerate him being this petty.

[thewritingofspencerrose]

The Anxiety of Tres Cher

Pierre Gasly x OC

Part 2 to Pierre , this will end up with more parts, I've gotten attached to Pierre & Diana

"Um... hello?"

"Bonjour, Diana yes?" His accented voice asks, allowing my breath to reenter my body. Okay, he sounds like the same man.

"Yes, hi, you're the Pierre that..." I begin, suddenly feeling awkward at the idea that I slept with this man. I had no idea who he was a week ago, and now I know that I'm carrying his child.

"Yes, that is I," He assures, chuckling slightly, "So, you're pregnant? With my child?"

"I promise I wouldn't lie about something like this but if you don't believe me we can do a paternity test as soon as she's born but like I know she's yours I mean I hadn't had sex for almost four months before I slept with you and -"

"Tres cher, take a breath for me, would you?" He requests, my heart beating a mile a minute as I try to explain myself. "From the couple days we spent together I did not for one moment see you as someone unable to be trusted, but my team would feel best comfortable if we did get the test run when the time comes."

"No, no of course, you're the one that's famous here, I trust you on any famous person things, obviously only if you want to be involved, you by no means have to be, I have a very involved best friend and my mom-"

"Diana, do you have anxiety?" Pierre's voice interrupts, a small chuckle with the question.

"Um... yes, why?"

"Because your taking one breath for every three hundred words and speaking in worst cases," Is his explanation, and I can feel my face heat up in embarrassment. "I don't plan on leaving you to this on your own. I actually wanted to get in touch with you to see about you flying out to discuss the details. I won't be able to fly to you due to obligations, so I was hoping you could come to Milan? All expenses paid."

"I can't let you do that."

"My penis is the reason your life has changed, let me do this one thing," Is his argument, the way he's put it making me holler out a laugh.

"Fine, I'll come visit. When?"

"As soon as possible."

january 2023

liked by pierregasly, maeve.mcd, dianasmom, and 682 others

this.is.diana life changes as swiftly as the sun rises, or so i've learned

"Diana," His voice calls, a hand reaching my shoulder and making me turn, the familiar smile from those months ago clear as day on his handsome face. "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you too," I can help but agree, pulling him into a hug around the bump that has grown in between us since the last time we were this close. His eyes wonder down, staring at my stomach with such a look at awe I have to do my best not to cry.

Taking his hand, I move it to where our active little girl is kicking up a storm at the sound of French, something she has become accustomed to through facetime call after facetime call.

"She's really active whenever she hears your voice, I realized it a couple of calls in," The explanation comes out in a soft tone, heart fluttering at the tears in his eyes.

Over the last three weeks of talking, I can say I've gotten to know the man in front of me. He made sure to wish both baby and I a merry christmas, and a happy new year when the time came, somehow patient enough to wait to after the holidays to meet our daughter, still sitting snuggly in my body.

5 months in and he's just getting to experience what I've spent every day loving since I found out.

Kneeling, his watery eyes meet mine with a large smile before resting once more on my stomach.

"Tu seras toujours ma fille préférée (you will always be my favorite girl)," He whispers, and I have no idea what it means, but the entire interaction feels private, so I keep quiet as I help him back to his feet, his hand taking my suitcase from my own, a spark lighting through my body at the small touch of our hands. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes, of course."

There a comfortable silence between us as we walk, a gasp leaving my lips only a few moments later at the site of his car, the reaction making him laugh as we load in.

"I was wondering," He begins, earning my attention from the site seeing I was doing, "If you had considered any names?" He asks, eyes still on the road.

Shaking my head, I quickly mumble a no. "I had wanted to wait and discuss it with you."

"I actually did have a suggestion."

"Yeah?" Why does the bare minimum of his thinking about baby names make my heart so happy.

We're just coparenting, this isn't anything more.

"I was thinking maybe Antoinette, after my friend Antoine," He explains, voice quiet, and my heart squeezes. I read about Pierre and Antoine. "I don't know what you know of motorsport or formula but-"

"I know," Is all I can think to interrupt, trying to prevent a painful trek down memory lane. "And I think Antoinette is perfect. Antoinette Gasly," I comment, his eyes leaving the road for a moment to glance at me, the brightest smile on his face.

"She will have my last name?"

"Of course she will," I answer as if it's the most foolish question I've heard in the last six months. "She's your daughter, isn't she?"

"I just figured, since we're not-" and he pauses, looking for the correct phrase, "you are not my girlfriend I figured she may take your name."

"I'm thinking Antoinette Briar Gasly," I continue on, ignoring his doubts. Never for a second since he got in touch have I considered baby girl, Antoinette, being anything but a Gasly.

And Pierre smiles, eyes back on the road but just as bright.

"I think that's lovely."

Tag List: @janeholt3

[menalez]

Am i off or is it the case that all this chasing brain scans to show we can identify female vs male 67 or whatever percent of the time (which as you rightly point out is a pretty weak prediction) is also overinterpreting to at all conclude it = gendered or sexed brain by birth/genetic/innate nature.

I think of it like this. Because patriarchy and sexism is MULTIPLE THOUSANDS OF YEARS old, and pervasive globally, and how we are raised in it has physical affects on not just the rest of our bodies, but also our brains………. a scan could just be learning to pick up on the changes that tend to happen to the brains of people treated as women are. Who are encouraged to do certain things and banned or discouraged from others. Who are deprioritized with nutrition and resources globally. Who are moulded toward certain beliefs and personalities. And then it would be no wonder that not only are these signs found in 60-something % of women, but also pop up with gay men and other gnc men (cough cough the trans identified males who think they’re women or non-binary)

Are they accounting for this? Also are these studies looking globally or basically just whoever they can grab off the street in Boston?

Other thought: even if let’s say female typical estrogen levels in the womb or throughout puberty or something = certain significant brain changes……… that impact everything from the brain physical structure to abilities and behaviors…. even IF that were true (and I don’t think we see evidence that it is) A MALE WITH THAT TRAIT WOULD BE AN ATYPICAL MALE NOT A FEMALE PERSON. Female-typical brained male would be a female-typical brained male in the same way a giraffe-typical heighted human wouldn’t therefore be a giraffe.

This is all on top of the initial point that you and Cornelia Fine cover with delusions of gender and debunking the gendered/sexed brain

Are they accounting for this? Also are these studies looking globally or basically just whoever they can grab off the street in Boston?

in general neuroimaging studies are: time-consuming, expensive, and difficult to conduct. this is why they don't tend to have very high samples and also why they are usually limited to whatever labs they have. for it to be done globally, there would have to be a cooperation between numerous labs around the world and they need to follow the same exact methodology, it would be difficult to organise. so you can bet that almost every neuroimaging study and its finding is "whoever is willing to participate in the vicinity of the lab" rather than a global effort.

that said, yeah the people who make these arguments ignore the fact that socialisation does influence brain development. we don't even need to account for the fact that this same socialisation has been existing for generations, even in one generation the brain is impacted by socialisation. the way girls are taught, talked to, what theyre encouraged to do, what theyre taught is their purpose, what theyre discouraged from doing, etc ALL will play a role in how the brain develops. these people do not seem to understand that brain plasticity means that our environment, not just our biology, often impacts how our brain develops. a lot of brain differences are thought to be down to environment, namely socialisation. a second factor is hormones bc yes hormones can affect the brain. but despite these two factors, there is significant overlap between "male" and "female" brains AND there is significant variation in "male" and "female" brains. there is a lot we do not know yet, like why these differences & overlaps exist.. but we do know that its existence makes it clear that brains are not sexually dimorphic.

i wish i could find it rn but i read research papers before on how the vast majority brain differences found when comparing males & females either appear post-puberty or due to differing experiences & socialisation. we aren't actually born with distinctly different brains that u can distinguish sex with, and even as adults, our brains are not as distinguishable by sex as some ppl pretend

[greekbros]

"greek-Bros": The Cat's Honeymoon

*once upon a time, a cat loved her owner so much she desired to be with him. The cat had traveled to a temple of Aphrodite and prayed to her, Aphrodite was so moved by this cat's love she metamorphosed her into a human woman....this is what happened afterwards*

Zeus: *holding a court against Aphrodite* ... Court is now in section. The court of Olympus vs Aphrodite on the charges of *reads a little slip of paper* ....ah yes....of complying to a breaking of natural law, unconsenting marriage between a human man and a female cat in the guises of a women....and ugh...ah yes. Sabotaging the prayer in an act of malicious hubris not conveyed by the victim.

Aphrodite: She DID consent, and the guy didn't seem to have a problem with either. Besides I changed her back. ┐⁠(⁠´⁠ー⁠｀⁠)⁠┌

Hades: *acting as judge* yes but you assisted in the act with a creature whom we have elaborated with several *looks at Dionysus and Artemis as the local cat experts* ....well...two... experts.....that cats are NOT animals we should be taking seriously in terms of granting prayers.

Artemis: yah, you literally can't trust cats.

Dionysus: However big cats are a lot more reasona-*Artemis covers his mouth*

Artemis: sssashhhhhhh no. No cats can't be trusted, big or small.

Ares: *doing his very bestest best to be Aphrodite's lawyer* Ah if I may make a supporting argument for my client.

Hades: *actually impressed with Ares's eloquence for once* you may state your plea.

Ares: This court is bullshit and Aph literally did nothing wrong.

Hades: *no longer impressed* aaaaaand you were doing so well.

Hermes, Poseidon and Dionysus: *cheering like a trio of simps*

Zeus: ARES WHAT HAVE I TOLD ABOUT INSULTING THE COURT OF LAW?!?

Ares: Official statement, suck my balls dad, also you did it to.

Zeus: YOU KNOW DAMN WELL ITS DIFFERENT WHEN A GOD DOES IT NOT A NATURAL BORN ANIMAL!

Pan: *somehow has decided to go up to the witness stand even though he literally was not allowed in court* I've actually had a relationship with that cat and yah she kinda has a thing for humans, it's kinda kinky but it's also kinda like... weird...even for me.

Hermes: *stands up and deadpan* Pan you're fucking grounded.

Pan: you're not my mom, you can't ground me.

Aphrodite: wow like wut I thought this court case was about me. (⁠・⁠_⁠・⁠;⁠)

Ares: don't worry sweet cakes, it's all part of my plan.

Aphrodite: wait wut plan? (⁠─⁠.⁠─⁠|⁠|⁠）

Ares: if case you're guilty, we're gonna bust you out of jail.

Hephaestus: *outside with a weaponized bulldozer*......in hindsight, this would be a little more appropriate if she's actually was officially going to prison....*shrugs*

Aphrodite: awww.... wait wut? (⁠꒪⁠꒳⁠꒪⁠);

Hades: *just about had enough of this* order in the court *uses his gavel* and you all wonder why I refuse to come up stairs.

Aphrodite: soooo am I free to go or wut? ヘ⁠(⁠￣⁠ω⁠￣⁠ヘ⁠)

Hades: no. At least not until you admit it was a mistake on your end.

Aphrodite: ew wut no I never make mistakes. ƪ⁠(⁠‾⁠.⁠‾⁠“⁠)⁠┐

Ares: yeah wtf uncle?

Hades: .....she did wait until the honeymoon to change the cat back.

Literally everyone in god court: *gives that disappointment side eye look*

Ares: ......oooooooh. *leans to Aphrodite* yeh comeoneAphthatkindawasdickmove.

Aphrodite: ....mmmmmmmno. ヘ⁠(⁠￣⁠ω⁠￣⁠ヘ⁠)

Ares: mmmmmmyehitkindaisidontidwaituntiltheliteralnighttheyabouttofucktochangeherbackthatskindadickmove.

Aphrodite: jagaywjnwhah*+#+18!jshwjans.

*literally these two are now just communicating via inaudible whispering*

Zeus: ......you would think Hephaestus would be here to support Aphrodite.

Hades: hmm yes. Where is h-

*fucking loud as hell crashing into the fucking wall*

Hephaestus: ARES WOULD HURRY UP AND FAIL IN YOUR LEGAL DUTIES FOR THE LOVE OF CHAOS.

Ares: IM FUCKING WORKING ON IT YOU FORGE-APE!

Hephaestus: IF YOU ARE GOING TO STEAL MY WIFE THAN BE A MORE COMPETENT THEIFT YOU WAR MONGERING BOAR!

Aphrodite: awwww the both of you love me so much (⁠ ⁠˶⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ꁞ⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠˶⁠ ⁠)

Zeus: ....Did ....did Hephaestus just...crash into the wall with a bulldozer?

Hades: it's like my blood pressure is skyrocketing. If I die of a heart attack I'm going to write you off my will.

Zeus: *tenderly and with loving surprise* I'm in your will?.....*suddenly realizes* wait a minute you have a will? You are an immortal god what makes you believe you will die?!?!

Hades: If I leave the underworld again to THIS I will have to reconsider my constitution.

[caseopened]

Last weekend, I popped on TCOT Heartbroken Bride (1992 movie), and I've been ruminating on the implications for a plot line that could be interesting to explore. I'll include some scenes and some thoughts below:

SCENE I

PERRY: [looking reminiscent] Laura, you look wonderful. [They kiss.] LAURA: And you have not changed a bit. You remember what I used to say? You never change, Perry Mason, you only weather. [She places a flower in his lapel. It's at this point Della comes in on their reunion, and you can tell that Della knows what is between Perry and Laura. There's some idle talk, and then...] LAURA: Perry, thank you for coming. You have no idea how much this means to me. [They kiss.]

SCENE II

PERRY: I do imagine that I've known Kaitlynn since she was born. DELLA: I don't believe you've told me how you came to know Max and Laura. PERRY: Laura and I worked on the same Civil Rights Committee. DELLA: What Civil Rights Committee? PERRY: Oh, around 25 years ago. DELLA: The year you lectured at Georgetown? PERRY: That year, yes. Laura and I spent a lot of time together. Laura and Max were going through a very bad time. They filed for divorce. DELLA: How'd they get back together? PERRY: Oh, they hit a very rough patch, but they weathered it. Laura had found out she was pregnant. Now, they're the happiest couple I know.

SCENE III

GARY: [Kaitlynn] needs you, Mr. Mason. She knows it, and it scares her. Please, you gotta help her. PERRY: [looking reflective] Yes, I do.

SCENE IV

KAITLYNN: I won't let you drag [my father] into court. You'll ruin him. PERRY: I know how you feel. KAITLYNN: No, you don't. I love my father. I'd do anything to protect him. [...] I'm sorry, Perry. I just don't want to see him get hurt. PERRY: Neither do I. I believe he's innocent, and I will do whatever I can to protect him and his reputation. All right? KAITLYNN: All right. [She leaves.] PERRY: She's tough, isn't she? DELLA: [offering a knowing look] She might just say the same about you. PERRY: [looking distant] She doesn't know me. So she doesn't know how far I'd go to protect her and her family.

SCENE V

[Case closed. Kaitlynn is found to be innocent. Perry leaves the court room because of his injured shoulder, and Della and Laura are alone.] LAURA: Please tell Perry I owe him so much. He's given me back my daughter. DELLA: Why don't you tell him yourself? LAURA: I can't. There's so much you don't know about Perry and me. DELLA: [getting teary eyed] Oh, Laura. I know. I really know. [They hug.]

SCENE VI

[Della and Perry are standing outside, watching Kaitlynn and Gary leave as newly weds. Perry is watching Kaitlynn hug her father. She eventually climbs into the car.] DELLA: I'd say his father really loves her. PERRY: [Still looking after Kaitlynn in the car.] Yes. [Della and Perry share a knowing look.] PERRY: Yes, he does. [They hug.]

What's also scattered throughout the film is Kaitlynn calling Perry her "Uncle Perry" because he has been a family friend through the years.

Certainly, what is clearly obvious is that Perry and Laura have a past history with each other. It implies romance with their close affection and Della’s reactions to their relationship.

However, I just think you can make an argument that Kaitlynn is Perry and Laura's daughter.

So let's break this idea down.

Perry and Laura spent a lot of time together at a time in Laura's life that was emotionally turbulent. She's filed for divorce from her husband, and I think it's pretty reasonable to conclude that, in spending a lot of time with Perry, she leaned on him for support.

How involved they were with each other is left open to interpretation, but however involved, they remained very close. Close enough for Perry not only to support her, but also to have known Kaitlynn since she was born and to remain a family friend through the years.

I think things start to get a bit ambiguous when Kaitlynn comes to Perry to argue about involving her father in the trial. She doesn't want him involved because it will ruin him, to which Perry responds: "I know how you feel." It is the fact that Perry brings emotion into it that makes me feel like it's beyond factual acknowledgment that bringing Kaitlynn's father in will ruin him in a financial sense. If it were just factual acknowledgment, then the answer simply could have been, "I know." But if Perry knows how Kaitlynn feels, we must ask why? She feels angry at Perry for involving her father... why? Because she loves her father and doesn't want to see him in court. If Perry knows how she feels, you reverse it to his view-- He's a lawyer having to watch his daughter on trial.

And Kaitlynn fights back with, "No you don't [know how I feel]." This only stresses the strained emotion on Perry's part, and the implications behind his previous line. After their argument, Perry makes a comment that Kaitlynn is tough, to which Della implies kinship and similarity between Kaitlynn and Perry with her reply: "She just might say the same about you."

But it's Perry's response that suggests a duty beyond that of a lawyer-- a duty by which Kaitlynn doesn't know he maintains: "She doesn't know me. So she doesn't know how far I'd go to protect her and her family."

If it was left at that, I'd say it was just Perry's commitment to justice. But when Kaitlynn is ruled innocent and Della and Laura have an exchange, it seems that there is something else going on. Laura tells Della that there is so much she doesn't know about her and Perry, but Della gets emotional about it and confirms that she does know (because let's be honest, when Perry and Della finally reunite after over a decade, I know he'd tell her). This is immediately followed by a scene wherein we watch Perry look after Kaitlynn after she got married. And it's the way Della says, "I'd say her father really loves her" before she looks at Perry, who hasn't taken his eyes off Kaitlynn, that suggests she's saying that he really loves her. She could have said "Max", but leaves it ambiguous to "her father." That ambiguity is only further bolstered with Perry's confirmation that yes, he does love her (implying that he is the father).

There is also the matter of Perry's involvement in fatherhood. And there's so many questions there. What I think would be plausible is that Perry and Laura simply clung to each other, and one night it went further. But it was enough for Laura to become pregnant. Sometime after that, she reconciles with her husband, and instead of being the person who breaks apart a marriage and family, Perry lets her go to be with the man she was still legally married to even though she had filed for divorce. I think there's just a whole lot of complications there that Perry would be against: breaking apart a marriage for one night, the fact that the Laura wasn't legally separated yet, ultimately creating the potential for a child to grow up in a fractured family dynamic, and his own unresolved grief and love for Paul and Della. And to quote Laura, Perry gives her daughter back-- he gives them the life that he perhaps would have wanted to have himself, but ultimately knows is not in the cards for him.

And if that were the case, Perry being "Uncle Perry" and supporting Kaitlynn in other ways may be as close as he gets to fatherhood. He essentially becomes her benefactor, and she never really knows that he is her real father.

But there's the matter of chronology here, too.

If we follow what Perry has given us, he left to lecture at Georgetown for a year "around 25 years ago". If we use the release date of the movie (1992), that takes us back to 1967-- a year after the last episode of the series aired.

In my head, the one way this makes sense to me is for something like this to happen after Paul passes away. I do headcanon that it's Paul's passing that breaks up the trio and drives Perry away from Los Angeles and away from Della for roughly 15 years (see here). Additionally, I do think that Perry grieving over the loss of Paul and separating from Della would leave him especially raw and vulnerable himself. And if you pair that with Laura going through an emotionally hard time, I could easily see how they'd cling to each other.

But 1967 is too early in my own timeline for Paul's passing, and as such, the only way I'd see it working is if we take Perry's "around 25 years ago" to heart and just fudge the years a little to make it work post-Paul's death.

Anyway, it is just food for thought that is stirring in my brain!

[tomoyajpeg]

White Brim | BATTLEROYAL/10

[ powered by ois~su ♪ ]

Eichi: You’re awfully long-winded, Tsukasa-kun. I wonder if Keito’s been a bad influence on the archery club.

Tsukasa: Hasumi-senpai has nothing to do with this! Please stop changing the subject!

Eichi: I believe that I’ve been speaking consistently this whole time. If you think my statements are scattered, it’s your own fault that you can’t connect the information in your head.

Tsukasa: .......

Eichi: Fufu. If you go silent so earnestly, thinking “maybe that is the case,” you’ll never be able to control those egoistical Knights of yours.

If you, too, want to be a “king” - a sovereign - you ought to learn that trying to keep everyone’s opinion in mind is an exercise in foolishness.

For example, let’s say that you’ve been obstinate up until now. Although you’re thoroughly acting like you want to settle things once and for all with that adorable Tori...

Tsukasa: Yes! In the previous battle, I was but a mere step away from cornering him, so next time I shall be certain to bring him down with my own two hands!

...We have similar familial circumstances, so if I didn’t have an opportunity like this, I wouldn’t be able to face him head-on. That’s why it has to be tonight.

Eichi: That’s true. Our fates are tied by blood to the houses we were born and raised in.

If you and Tori were to begin going at it in earnest, in the worst-case scenario it could lead to a bloody feud between your families.

This isn’t equivalent to classmates getting into a little fight just because they don’t like each other, the way commoners do. The two of you aren’t just high school students, you’re burdened with representing your entire family.

Tsukasa: Indeed. I, of course, understand that reasoning.

That is why I can normally only get into trivial arguments with that awful child, so my Frustration has accumulated.

Therefore, it’s precisely because I have the opportunity now that I...

Eichi: No. Therefore, that’s precisely why that wish of yours will never be granted.

Tsukasa: ...?

Eichi: Let’s start over from the beginning, Tsukasa-kun.

To begin with, “clamming” originated from a tragedy that unwound a long, long time ago.

I don’t know how much you’ve heard about the rise of our families from your parents...

But whatever you’ve heard has likely been glorified. That’s business as normal for the victors.

It’s a tale from long ago. One after another, we marched into lands of abundance as ill-mannered invaders and drove out the people who peacefully lived there.

And so, to put it simply, our family prospered by usurping resources from the natives.

This is the original sin shared by all those “noble people” who sprung up around Yumenosaki long ago, the burden they carry.

“Clamming” is a ritual to ensure we never forget that bloodstained history of ours.

That we are unsightly fishermen who grew fat on the overfishing of innocent fish.

Tsukasa: .......

Eichi: As expected of a family descended from warriors, will you settle your dispute with your fated rival fair and square, in a duel? In your mind, you must be imagining a glorious tale of heroism, right?

But let’s take a look at reality, Tsukasa-kun. We are demons who trample on the weak from our overwhelmingly advantageous position, gobbling up each and every one of them.

In your current state, where you’ve been divided into “fishermen” and “fish”, you won’t be able to settle things the way you wished for. You shouldn’t settle things like this.

This isn’t a proud duel. It’s taking your hated opponent and beating them to death while you have the upper hand - that’s just bullying.

Eichi: Is any further explanation of why I’m stopping you necessary?

Tsukasa: No... I apologize, Onii-sama. I’ve cooled my head.

I see, so our houses had such a gruesome past...

Eichi: Well, it’s more like a fairy tale. To err on the side of caution, I’ll make it clear now that I don’t know whether it’s true or false.

Besides, you’re an honest, kind, and good boy, so it seems like hearing about our history has hurt your heart.

The moral I got from listening to the legend of “clamming” is that any evil deed can be justified.

Tsukasa: ...?

Eichi: History is written by the victors. All we have to do is embellish the circulated history with some flowery language, and pretend to reflect on our actions behind the scenes just like this—

By carrying out a secret ritual that not a single soul knows about.

And thus we hold a memorial service for those we’ve trampled upon, comforting our own hearts.

We can eat delicious fish sashimi with the same mouth we use to promise that we’ll never allow such a tragedy to happen again. An empty promise, of course.

It really moved me, Tsukasa-kun. What’s beautiful is filthy, what’s filthy is beautiful— when something’s altogether far too hideous, on the contrary it seems as if it’s all the more lovely.

We never learned from our past mistakes. Why? Because we never thought they were mistakes.

And this isn’t some fairy tale from long ago. Even now, it’s our very common “everyday life” that gets reenacted again and again.

We continue to usurp and conquer. In Yumenosaki, in ES, we grow by stealing resources from others. Justifying those disgusting acts, then sometimes pretending to reflect on our actions.

Eichi: Living by devouring the weak for sustenance.

[ ☆ ]

[butch-reidentified]

I'm intrigued by your thoughts on emotionality. What is it that drives you to 'commit to a belief system' (paraphrasing you slightly) exactly? I would say I'm not a particularly emotional person, my feelings are more vague a lot of the time, but certainly a lot of the things I believe viz right vs wrong, male supremacy being bad, etc I can only rationalise so far until ultimately I get to the root of them, which is that the thought of some people brutalising a group of people I am a part of makes me feel a negative gut emotion.

But sometimes, if I consider humanity from a cosmic perspective, in which humans are just collections of proteins obeying certain statistical parameters, and in any given situation someone is going to get the upper hand and dominate, I stop feeling any way about it at all. I think this is why I tend not to 'commit' to belief systems. I try them out for a while, absorb the interesting ideas but ultimately take none of them as gospel since morals are essentially either emotional at root, or just self-imposed dogma, then get bored and move on to something else. I guess I would understand an argument for self-imposed dogmatic morals, in that you probably need to construct some parameters to live by otherwise you will probably struggle to bond with other people, but to me the knowledge that they are self-imposed would mean I could never seriously commit to them as a set of beliefs.

I have a question in that case: do you think that if you were born male you would be at all sympathetic to female liberation/equality? When you could have the option instead to just take advantage or not care? I often wonder if a big part of the reason a lot of feminist thinking has stuck with me is because it's ultimately self-serving. My ego does not allow me to accept the idea that I am inferior. Feminism supplies me with a justification

I'm going to answer this completely honestly, but I have a sneaking suspicion that not everyone will be thrilled with my response lmao

My belief commitments are a large part of what I refer to as my anchor system. My brother, who is just like me (down to exact same score on the TriPM with almost identical answers), also uses an anchor system which very clearly functions similarly to mine, though is comprised of somewhat different commitments. The anchor system serves several functions, including improved interpersonal interactions/relations, self-preservation from societal consequences, and keeping us "grounded" in an external (albeit self-imposed) value system.

You are approaching the answer in what you say about "understanding an argument for self-imposed dogmatic morals." It is pretty similar to that. It does kind of end up functioning as a sort of moral compass, though the lack of internal response to violating my own "morals" means that this compass changes fairly often - and usually just because I've come to find part of it inconvenient. It ends up being more of a loose behavioral constraint that helps limit certain impulsive behaviors, but is easily overridden/renegotiated when I want to do something badly enough. So yes, you are right that I can only commit to them so much, take them so seriously, knowing that they're consciously chosen.

I am fully opposed to oppression and the like, not only when it affects me. That said, if I'm going to be completely honest like I said I would, for me, this doesn't primarily come from a place of compassion. I am very very good at cognitive empathy (understanding what others feel, even if I can't relate to it or feel it myself), though, so I am capable of that perspective and have made it matter to me, it just isn't innate for me. My opposition to oppression at its core comes from a utilitarian thought process: I think it's incredibly wasteful and disadvantageous to the species/community to stifle the potential of entire populations (or anyone, really).

I do understand that people tend to get upset about that, but it's not a choice, it's just how I innately function. One function of the anchor system is to compensate for this to an extent, keep me more focused on cognitive empathy and commonly accepted morality. This means that my behaviors, my moral code, so to speak, are in effect a well-stirred mixture of utilitarian thought processes and externally adapted perspectives.

does this answer your questions adequately?

[moonstone27ls]

Saw Spiderman Across the Spiderverse

It was good, REALLY good. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT. I loved it so much I wish we could have part 2 out already. I loved  Pavitr Prabhakar / Spider-Man India and Hobie/ SpiderPunk the most (am I allowed to say he’s sexy... it was that voice.) 

I only have a few things I wanna ask to fellow fans. Not so much a critique just thoughts. So spoiler warning before I speak...

Spoiler warning....

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I’m warning you..........

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I’m REALLY WARNING YOU........

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Last spoiler warning people....

.... As much as I loved Jess( Issa Rae was a wonderful actress)... for a person who was pregnant she was doing a lot of motorcycling. I mean yes I know its comics and one could argue its “spider baby” whatever but... Jess took an awful lot of risks. I mean again yes you could argue “Well Peter took risks with baby may”. But I think May was obviously able to show it. But that doesn’t mean every universe is the same. For all Jess knows that baby’s gonna get shock, could be born human.

Andddd I admit as much as I loved her and I did... I find it surprising she seemed to cut herself off from being maternal to Miles/Gwen. I say that cause a common trope with pregnant characters it effects how they interact with kid characters. Yes again I get it, they are technically teens. But as much heck as everyone was giving Miles... I’m just kinda surprised not one of them thought “would I really put my own kid through this trauma? “

Then again... a part of me still can’t get over how from last movie and this one, they act like Miles should have his shit together oO. Now I don’t read the comics, I can only guess from the movies/tv shows. But as far as I know with the exception of maybe Miguel? and what I wanna say Jessica Drew. A lot of these spiders forget they were literally teenagers when they started this spiderman business. Depending on the version Peter (Peters in this case) was either fresh out of highschool or still IN highschool. And none of these characters gave themselves the third degree or went “am I mature enough for this? Maybe I need to work on my resume”. Literally every spider character acts like they were born into this work/and never made mistake. And believe me Peter, you made lots before XD. I think that one scene with Gwen/Jess was the ONLY time I actually heard someone acknowledge they aren’t born perfect

I also can not understand why Miles is being blamed for the incidents. You know the holes, multiverse crap etc. The only thing I can say watching is that he is to a degree to blame for making the Spot but that was actions he wasn’t fully of aware of. You know like events he couldn’t forsee stuff.

The whole holes whatever.... uhh Miguel does know that technically it was Kingpin’s fault oO (i mean he should since he has freakin’ cameras EVERYWHERE). I mean if we’re gonna blame anyone Kingpin was the one who used his money to do all that crap. The spot worked for him, I’m not entirely blaming him I’m just saying... its just a risk he took with that job.  Now if the portals were a response from when he(Miles) did it at the end of the movie. Then fine... but even then Miles couldn’t avoid it. He literally had to open the portals to send the first Spiderverse crew back. They would have died or the events would have gotten worse.

As for the betrayal... I get why Gwen, Penni, and Margo Kess didn’t really fight it. They are kids. This is something over their heads so they trust the adults. My problem.. is we didn’t really get much of a reason as to why Jess and Peter were okay with this twist on Miles. Now Miguel’s “cannon” theory... (will get to that later) okay thats HIS reason. But I feel Peter should have argued more before caving into that. I wish we could have seen the characters argue and see a more argument as to WHY Miguel was so easily believed. 

In addition... I’m not gonna lie the finally battle with Miguel and Miles... a LOT of hostility. I dunno even if he was to say he was “an anomaly”. Felt like a lot of that was just to tear down him as a person/and character. I’m like “Dude where’s all this hate?”. Is it trauma? Is this suppose to be a metaphor for what his mom said that some people in the world will hurt him? (I don’t wanna say racism because one I’m not black. Feel thats something out of my league discuss). And again why blame him? He LITERALLY is a kid who didn’t ask for this. Why isn’t he blaming Kingpin? Kingpin ACTUALLY started this. To blame Miles for his world’s Peter’s death is a HUGE stretch for several reasons.

1) Miles is a kid/teenager. He was just as traumatized by the rest of the so called canon events. He saw a hero murdered, trying to save him.And again the spider incident was out of his hands. 2) sorry to for once bring up technically.... but if Miguel knows all these canon events then he knows that in one of those universes Peter dies regardless if Miles is there. (I say that because there were several cartoon cameos so technically that disney cartoon one is there) Heck even in the comics.. I don’t think Miles was around when Peter died. 3) He literally gave a lecture about how there different universes, including one where he isn’t even Spiderman.... so again he brought that into subject. Is it Gwen’s fault then that Peter isn’t spiderman? No. There are several universes were Peter isn’t even the hero. Its a stretch to blame the kid.

Then I’m gonna touch on Miguel’s “cannon theory”. I’m gonna call it a theory because thats all it is for the moment. Now I could almost understand this fight if it was like DC’s Flashpoint were Miles used their technology to go to the PAST and prevent events. But... Miles wasn’t doing that. They were literally holding him hostage to stop him from protecting his father. Now from what I understood they argued that Miles had to let these happen for reasons Spiderman has a history with tragedy/ They can’t save everyone/ Its literally just part of their character building/ Got over it. (to quote Jess). Now they can’t save everyone fine, thats true. Its even true that Spiderman is often linked to tragedy.

But their arguments were moot to me for two reasons. One, Miles has already had tragedy twice in his story. He saw Peter get murdered, he watched his Uncle get murdered. Second, there was no 100% guarantee that the Spot was right that its destiny. It was a probability to my opinion. Miles is literally a kid being told by everyone and friends that he just has to be okay with his dad dying because just because. Thats literally the dumbest excuse. Miles isn’t going to the past. Its a probability not destiny. He’s seen enough death, being told to sacrifice his own father shouldn’t be one of them.

The argument is also mooted by the fact that previously every good action, the other Spiders. How does Miguel know that none of those people in the last movie was suppose to die? Or in the Mumbattan just because they aren’t central characters to the Spiders doesn’t mean it wasn’t suppose to happen. In addition again the Spot is making portals and not closing them, Miles is being pushed for something that is another villain's doing.

A villain that Miguel himself, if he was so concerned, should have acted earlier and gotten the Spot. And Miguel is technically in my opinion breaking his own rules by having so many of the Spider characters there. And the cannon theory is still just a theory because in my opinion there’s a difference between Miles’ situation and his. Miguel purposely went into another reality and took that identity. Miles never did that.

And its still not full proof this canon thing is solid. Because its not been tested in controlled conditions. Miguel’s one instance isn’t really proof. And we can’t really say “Well what about Mumbattan “... again the SPOT is literally screwing around.  And Gwen herself is technically also walking proof, since Gwen technically dies in several universes apparently (or to quote it doesn’t work out with her and Spiderman)

A part of me is also tempted to say they’re comics. Nobody stays dead long. But nooooo gonna skip that a moment 8B.

[theartoflovingthomashunt]

Stars and Stripes 🇺🇸 ⭐️ 🦅

[All Thomas Hunt x Alex Spencer Masterlists] [Red Carpet Diaries]

Characters: Thomas Hunt x Alex Spencer Hunt(F!OC) Book: Red Carpet Diaries Word Count: <900 Rating/Warnings: Teen (hints of N*FW but nothing described) Prompts: ​@choicesjuly2022challenge: fireworks (I used the word )

Synopsis: Alex has the perfect idea for a Fourth of July celebratory photo in mind.

"Ohmygosh! Yessss!!!" Alex practically squealed at the image on her phone. "This is so perfect!!!"

Thomas glanced over at his wife, his left brow arching at her sudden excitement. 

Alex chewed her lower lip as her gaze met his. Her eyes widened with a mischievous glint.

"No."

"What?" She feigned innocence, batting her lashes at him. "I didn't say anything yet."

"Emphatically no," He reaffirmed. His face remained stoic despite her growing pout. "I do not know what you saw to cause such a state. Nevertheless, I know the proper response to whatever query is brewing in your mind is no."

"You're no fun," she teased. She shifted closer, snuggling into his chest. 

His lip pulled up in the corner. "I will take that as a compliment."

Alex nudged him, resting her head on his shoulder as she looked up at him. "Just hear me out?"

He sighed heavily, "I presume I have little choice in that matter."

"You presume correctly!" She quickly pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw. Her nimble fingers unlocked her phone, revealing the image that had caught her attention moments before. 

His jaw fell open. His gaze narrowed at the image. "What am I looking at?"

"A fan art portrait of Chris Evans as Captain America with an adorable pup celebrating the Fourth of July, because, you know, Captain America's birthday is July 4th."

"Why is that a fact I would know?"

"Everyone knows that!"

"Clearly, not everyone." His head tilted to the side. "Isn't that a bit on the nose? Having "America's hero" born on the same day as the country's given birthday?"

"You're missing the point."

"I'm not sure you've made one."

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Alex."

"Ugh, fine!" She rolled her eyes playfully. "The Fourth of July is in a few days. I've been wondering how Bogart should dress up and celebrate, and now—" She held the photo up again to him.

Her large hopeful eyes met his. "Yes, Bogart should definitely wear sunglasses and a headband with stars to celebrate."

"And you???"

"And me, what?"

Her smirk stretched across her face as she pointed to Captain America in his stars and stripes brief swimwear.

"As I stated earlier, no."

"You're a model! It would be perfect!"

"Was—" Thomas clarified. "I was a model to pay for university."

"But you'd look so handsome and with Bogart!"

"Alex, no."

"Pleaseeee!!! Do it for me? I can arrange everything. You just need to stand there."

"I love you," he stroked her hair down her back. "However, my answer remains the same."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"We'll see."

"Alex."

"What? I'm agreeing with you."

"That is what concerns me."

A few days later on the Fourth of July...

He tugged uncomfortably at the swimwear. 

"Stop fidgeting," Alex pulled his hands away. "Here, put this over your shoulder." She handed him a flag-themed tube. "Just like this." She held up the photo again.

"I remember." He complied begrudgingly. "How is it that I said no, and yet here we are."

Alex handed him a flag to hold, positioning him as though he was her personal manniquin. "I believe I made a very compelling argument."

"I don't remember our conversation supporting that declaration." He smirked, raising his brow as she took a step back to admire her work.

"It was less the talking and what transpired after. I believe I helped you understand the merit of seeing stars; or did you describe it as more explosive like fireworks?"

"You don't play fair." His eyes darkened, remembering that night.

"Depends on who's rules you're playing by." She blew him a kiss, winking in his direction.

"I feel ridiculous, in case you were wondering."

"You look delicious." She licked her lips. "I'm having some very disrespectful thoughts right now."

"Dare I ask?"

Her nose scrunched as she shook her head. "Perhaps I can show you. Think of it as an exchange for services rendered as my model today."

Alex turned to retrieve the remaining pieces to complete her vision. "Come here, Bogart!"

The black lab pranced over, sitting right in front of her. 

"Good boy!" She scratched behind his ears. "Okay, come sit next to Daddy." Alex maneuvered the dog into position beside Thomas, placing a patriotic headband on his head and a flag scarf around his neck.

Bogart licked her face rapidly as she nuzzled closer to him.

"Such a good boy!!! Now, stay!"

Slowly, she backed away, checking the composition of her two boys and the pool in the background. "Ahh, this is amazing." She began snapping photos. "Oh, come on! You can smile! I promise I won't tell!"

"I know you won't." He smirked slightly. "You agreed no one would ever see these photos. Bogart only for social media."

"Aye aye, Captain!" She touched the side of her open palm to her forehead, giving him a salute. 

"You're incorrigible."

"Yes and you love it." 

He smiled warmly at his wife as she continued clicking away. Never in his life was this a moment he ever thought possible; and yet, there he was. All for her. For that smile. For that electric joy in her eyes. That was what made it worth it. Even though he protested, there really wasn't anything he wouldn't do for her, and they both knew it. 

Thank you so much for reading and supporting. I truly appreciate it more than you know! Tags in a reblog.

Also, for those curious and anyone who likes stunning art. This is the art/photo that inspired this whole story

I mean... How incredible would Thomas and Bogart look like this. Alex is really just doing what any reasonable person would do... right? lol

To see the full version of this art click here.

[ausetkmt]

On August 1, 1966, a baby girl is born in Norfolk, Virginia. Her mother names her Melanie Lynn. She is placed in foster care for two months to make sure she has no medical issues. Then she is adopted by a couple who live a hundred miles away.

On a day in 1970, a baby girl is born in Incheon, South Korea, a port city just west of Seoul. Her mother names her Eun-hee. Eun-hee lives with her mother and her mother’s parents in Incheon until she is three years old. When she is nearly six, she is sent to adoptive parents in America.

On September 18, 1985, a baby girl is born in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Her mother does not give her a name. The mother relinquishes her at birth to an adoption agency. The mother is asked if she wants to hold the baby and says no.

One evening in December, 2021, Deanna Doss Shrodes had come home from work. The TV was tuned to a news segment about the oral arguments at the Supreme Court for the case that challenged Roe v. Wade. Deanna is a pastor and a director of women’s ministries at a Pentecostal church in Florida. She is opposed to abortion, and was glad that Roe might soon be overturned. But then Amy Coney Barrett asked about “safe haven” laws, which permit a mother who doesn’t want to keep her baby to drop it off anonymously in a deposit box at a hospital or a fire station.

Why, Barrett wanted to know, didn’t safe-haven laws remove the burden that was allegedly being imposed upon a woman who couldn’t obtain an abortion? The woman wouldn’t be forced to be a parent, and the baby could be adopted. At this point, Deanna became so upset that she stopped listening.

Deanna is adopted, and she has spent much of her life grappling with the emotional consequences of that. She believes that a child who starts life in a box will never know who they are, unless they manage somehow to track down their anonymous parents. It distresses her that many of her fellow-Christians, such as Barrett, talk about adoption as the win-win solution to abortion, as though once a baby is adopted that is the end of the story. If someone says of Deanna that she was adopted, she corrects them and says that she is adopted. Being adopted is, to her, as to many adoptees, a profoundly different way of being human, one that affects almost everything about her life.

“I explain to friends that in order to be adopted you first have to lose your entire family,” Deanna said. “And they’ll say, Well, yes, but if it happens to a newborn what do they know? You were adopted, get over it. Would you tell your friend who lost their family in a car accident, Get over it? No. But as an adoptee you’re expected to be over it because, O.K., that happened to you, but this wonderful thing also happened, and why can’t you focus on the wonderful thing?”

There are disproportionate numbers of adoptees in psychiatric hospitals and addiction programs, given that they are only about two per cent of the population. A study found that adoptees attempt suicide at four times the rate of other people.

“A big thing that adoptees get frustrated by is when people say that adopting kids is no different,” Deanna said. “You know, if they say, I don’t feel any differently about my biological kids than my adopted kids, I’m just a mom, we’re just a family. That is not true.” How many parents tell their adopted children, I love you as if you were my own? And how many of those children wonder, Am I not your own?

One day, when she was very little, Deanna was playing hide-and-seek with her sister. She wriggled underneath her parents’ bed to hide, and in the darkness she felt something hard and cold, made of metal. She pulled it out from under the bed and saw that it was a box. She opened it, and found a piece of paper with her name on it. The language on the paper was confusing, but she understood that it said that Melanie Lynn Alley, born in 1966, had become Deanna Lynn Doss.

Melanie Lynn Alley was another person, but also, somehow, herself. Deanna already knew that she was adopted, but she hadn’t known that she’d had another name. Was Melanie Lynn Alley the person she would have become if her birth mother had kept her? It felt as though Melanie was a part of her, but a part that she couldn’t see, that existed next to her, or behind her, like the ghost of a twin.

“Some people have no issues at all with being an adoptee,” Deanna said. “They’re happy as a lark. They don’t feel the pain, for whatever reason. But there are others who haven’t come out of the fog, or they don’t think they’re in a fog, or whatever. And they join one of the adoptee groups and they go, What’s wrong with all you people? I’m so happy, I’m so grateful, I don’t see what you’re upset about. That will create an explosion of people going, Why are you even here? This is a support group, not a place to come and talk about how happy you are.”

“Coming out of the fog” means different things to different adoptees. It can mean realizing that the obscure, intermittent unhappiness or bewilderment you have felt since childhood is not a personality trait but something shared by others who are adopted. It can mean realizing that you were a good, hardworking child partly out of a need to prove that your parents were right to choose you, or a sense that it was your job to make your parents happy, or a fear that if you weren’t good your parents would give you away, like the first ones did. It can mean coming to feel that not knowing anything about the people whose bodies made yours is strange and disturbing. It can mean seeing that you and your parents were brought together not only by choice or Providence but by a vast, powerful, opaque system with its own history and purposes. Those who have come out of the fog say that doing so is not just disorienting but painful, and many think back longingly to the time before they had such thoughts.

Some adoptees dislike the idea of the fog, because it suggests that an adoptee who doesn’t feel the way that out-of-the-fog adoptees do must be deluded. And it’s true; many out-of-the-fog adoptees do believe that. They point out that a person can feel fine about their adoption for most of their life and then some event—pregnancy, the death of a parent—will reveal to them that they were not fine at all. But there are many others who reject this—who aren’t interested in searching for their birth parents, and think about their adoption only rarely in the course of their life.

Although she found her birth mother decades ago, Deanna feels she came out of the fog more recently, because she hadn’t realized how many other adoptees were going through the same things she was. She and her husband had gone to see a movie about a girl who finds out that she is adopted at the age of nineteen. Deanna wept with fury during the movie, and when she discovered afterward that her husband didn’t understand what she was crying about, despite having been married to her since she was twenty years old, she went online and discovered that there were dozens, maybe hundreds, of Web sites on which adoptees were talking to each other.

It was a wild ferment of rage and pain, support groups and manifestos. Some adoptees were posting about lies and secrets: altered documents and birth dates; paperwork they’d been told was lost in a fire or a flood (so many fires and floods); birth parents they’d been told were dead but weren’t; things they’d been told about their past that the person who told them couldn’t possibly know. Others were arguing about whether there was such a thing as a primal wound—whether a baby bonded in utero with its mother and felt abandoned if it were given up, even if it were handed over in the delivery room. Some had found their birth parents and were in the middle of whatever that was; some were still searching and needed advice about DNA or genealogy; many were waiting to search until their adoptive parents died, for fear of hurting them. They were looking for pieces of their lives or their selves that were missing, or had been falsified or renamed, trying to fit them to the pieces they had.

There isn’t a single adoptee movement—the community is too heterogeneous for that. There is the older generation, the so-called Baby Scoop Era adoptees, such as Deanna—the mostly white children of the four million or so unmarried women who gave babies up for adoption between the end of the Second World War and the passing of Roe v. Wade. Many of those adoptions were forced, and almost all were closed—the identities of the birth parents and the adoptive names of their children were kept secret, making it very difficult for the parents and the children to find one another. There is the youngest generation, some of whom have open adoptions and have always known their birth parents, posting on adoptee TikTok. For some reason, it seems the vast majority of adoptees in the forums online are women.

One thing almost everyone agrees on is that adult adoptees should have the unrestricted right to see their original birth certificates, rather than only the “amended” ones with the names of their adoptive parents (but this is the law in only a dozen states). Many adoptees condemn international adoption, which cuts children off from their native cultures more drastically than any other kind and makes it unlikely that they will ever find, much less know, their birth parents. (Rates of international adoption by Americans have plummeted in recent years, down ninety-three per cent since 2004.) Some adoptees want to end adoption altogether, although most believe that there are situations in which it is the best option. More want to end transracial adoption—to return adoption, in some ways, to its modern beginnings.

A hundred years ago, adoption agencies tried to match children and parents so precisely that they could pass as a biological family. If parents wished to keep the adoption a secret, from the child or from the world, they could plausibly do it. Then, in the nineteen-fifties, some agencies set about persuading white parents to adopt children of color, with campaigns such as “Operation Brown Baby.” The campaigns were successful—by the start of this decade, nearly three-quarters of adoptees of color were adopted into white families. Four generations of parents loved children of races different from their own. In much of the adoption world, whose foundational premise is that love is stronger than biology, color-blindness still seemed like a precious and viable ideal. But then the adopted children grew up and some of them—though by no means all—believed that love was not enough.

Many adoptees feel that the way we understand adoption has been dominated by the perspectives of adoptive parents. Birth parents are less often heard from, though almost anyone can understand the grief of a parent who gives up a child for adoption (one study found more than ninety per cent of those who are denied an abortion keep their child rather than give it up). But understanding how adoption can affect an adoptee is more difficult, because adoptees, and the various kinds of adoptions, are so different from one another.

You can divide adoption into three main categories: plausibly invisible adoptions, such as Deanna’s, in which a child is adopted by parents of the same race; transracial adoptions; and international adoptions. Each of these has its own complexities and problems, and each is now going through a new reckoning.

Joy Lieberthal grew up just outside New York City; she had three younger sisters, all adopted from Korea, like herself. Her father was Jewish, her mother Catholic; Joy and her sisters were raised Catholic. When Joy first met her parents, she spoke no English, but she went straight into first grade and learned the language in three months. Once she spoke English, her mother would tell her stories about how Joy had behaved when she first arrived from Korea—how, when her father came home from work, she ran to pull off his jacket and shoes and take his briefcase and sit him down and give him a massage and sing for him. How, when her mother was mopping the kitchen floor, Joy gestured for her to stop, that she would do it—she ran to fetch a rag and scrubbed the floor on her knees until it was so clean you could eat off it, then wrung out the cloth so thoroughly that when she was done the cloth was dry.

Joy’s earliest memory was of leaving her mother’s parents’ house in Korea. She remembered being in the back seat of a car, banging on the window and crying, as somebody in the car rolled the window up. She could see her grandparents standing outside their house, also crying, waving goodbye. She knew that later she had lived in an orphanage for a year and a half, but she didn’t remember it well. She remembered that it had been cold—it was in the mountains. She remembered a river where she had washed her clothes and cleaned rice. She could picture the room she had slept in, with sunlight coming in.

Because Joy was nearly six by the time she left for America, she remembered the journey. First she had been taken from the orphanage to stay for a few months in a Buddhist temple in Seoul, where nuns had trained her for her new life. They taught her how to greet her American father at the door, how to give massages, how to wash clothes and floors, how to take care of younger children, how to sing for adults. She didn’t know what her life in America was going to be like, and it seemed that the nuns didn’t know, either, so they prepared her for whatever might happen.

On the day she was to leave for America, she wore a floral dress with a peacock on it. She was given a bag that contained a pair of pajamas, a pair of shoes, a notebook, a photo album that her American parents had sent her with pictures of themselves, and a gift that she was to present to her parents when she met them. The gift was a white box containing a little drawstring coin bag made of rainbow-striped saekdong silk. There were a few other Korean kids who were on the same flight, including a little girl who would become her younger sister. One of the adults with them at the airport told her to be good, to honor her parents, and to make Korea proud.

She and the other kids walked out onto the tarmac and the plane’s engine was going and it was incredibly loud. She hated loud noises, and she covered her ears and started to cry. On the plane, her ears hurt from the pressure, and she threw up on herself, then threw up again, and her nose started to bleed. The flight to J.F.K. was twenty-six hours long, with a layover in Anchorage. She didn’t remember arriving in New York, but she had seen a photo her parents took when she got off the plane, her peacock dress torn, a bloody Kleenex sticking out of her nose, her hair crooked. Her new parents were scary. They had blue eyes—she had never seen blue eyes. Her new sister ran away in the airport and everyone was busy trying to catch her.

She didn’t remember the car ride back to her parents’ house, but she remembered waking up when they got there, and getting out of the car carrying a string of lollipops and a new doll. She and her sister were led up the stairs, and at the top was their bedroom—yellow, with patchwork bedspreads. She took off her clothes and her sister’s clothes and folded them and helped her sister to put on her pajamas. They had never slept in a bed before and kept falling off, but they slept for a long time.

Her Korean name was listed as Kim Young-ja on the paperwork her parents were given, but they named her Joy. In fact, Kim Young-ja was not Joy’s original name, either—her name was Song Eun-hee. What had happened, as Joy understood it later, was that the director of the orphanage had originally promised Joy’s parents a different girl, but had been unable to deliver her. Not wanting to lose the customers, the director said that by great good fortune she had found a second girl with the same name and birth date as the first, so Joy came to her parents with falsified documents.

Joy was a good child who took care of her younger sisters. The sisters were close, but they never really talked about being adopted. Joy didn’t wonder about her birth mother, because she had been told she was dead. She was smart and worked hard in school, though there were almost no other Asian kids there, and she was bullied. She was a cautious child who tried not to be noticed.

There was something wrong with the baby. Her legs were rigid, and one of her feet was twisted sideways. A doctor in Chattanooga gave a diagnosis of spastic quadriplegia, a kind of cerebral palsy, and said that she might never walk.

The agency transferred the baby to a foster home, and the foster parents named her Jocelyn Kate. The foster parents were young white evangelical Christians. They already had two biological children but got certified as foster parents out of a sense of mission. They fell in love with the baby. They held her and touched her and rocked her and talked to her. The baby’s tiny legs were so stiff that the foster mother had to spend several hours every day massaging them, rotating her hips and stretching out her knees, to loosen them enough to change her diaper. The foster parents wanted very badly to adopt the baby, but they had no health insurance and couldn’t afford the medical care they’d been told she would need for the rest of her life. They had her for a year.

Meanwhile, the agency was looking for adoptive parents. At first they tried for a Black family, because the baby was Black, but they couldn’t find one that could take on the baby’s medical needs. After a few months, they broadened their search. David and Teresa Burt, a white couple who had already adopted one baby with cerebral palsy, were able to take a second with similar requirements. The agency wrote that their fee was normally five thousand dollars, but since this baby had special needs they would reduce the price to fifteen hundred. If that was too much, they would take a thousand.

The Burts lived in Bellingham, Washington, a small city north of Seattle. They wanted a big family, and, influenced by the Zero Population Growth movement, they decided to adopt. They had one biological child, a daughter, when they were in their early twenties, and then David had a vasectomy.

The first child they adopted, in 1982, was a one-year-old white girl with a diagnosis of cerebral palsy, who had been born weighing less than two pounds. About a year after that, they attended an event in Seattle called Kids Fest, sponsored by the state adoption office—children played, and if a prospective parent saw a child they were interested in they could try to interact with them. The Burts adopted a white boy they saw there.

A couple of years later, Teresa saw, in a binder of kids waiting to be adopted, a photo of a Black baby girl with cerebral palsy. The baby was cute, but it was the diagnosis that caught Teresa’s eye. They knew how to take care of a kid like that; they were already set up with the equipment. When the Burts arrived to collect their new daughter from the foster home in Chattanooga, they discovered that the foster parents had named her Jocelyn Kate. But the Burts thought of her as Angela, because that was the name a caseworker had put on the paperwork, and they decided to call her that. Later, the Burts went to Kids Fest again and adopted a second Black child, and a couple of years after that they took in a pair of Black sisters from foster care in Kentucky. As it turned out, it seemed that Angela did not have spastic quadriplegia but a much milder form of cerebral palsy. Her twisted-up foot slowly turned downward, and by the time she was four she was running as well as any other child.

Bellingham was a very white place. Some remembered it having been a sundown town as late as the nineteen-seventies: anyone who wasn’t white had to leave town by nightfall. It seemed to Angela that there were almost no Black kids in her elementary school. The family stood out in other ways as well—children of different races, some with visible disabilities, and sometimes a foster kid as well. There were always physical therapists coming and going in the house, and caseworkers with clipboards. One neighbor thought it was a group home. People in the grocery store would ask Teresa where she got all those children, and would say she was a saint for taking them in. Some people called her Mother Teresa. Teresa would reject these sorts of compliments, but they still made Angela feel like a charity case.

When Angela was a child, the only place she spent any real time with Black people other than her siblings was a summer program she went to with other adoptees. At home, she had Black people on TV. She saw that Magic Johnson’s big smile looked kind of like hers and wondered if he was her birth father. She wondered if her birth mother could be Brandy, from “Cinderella.” She asked her parents about her birth parents and they gave her her adoption paperwork.

She read this over and over. At first, all she thought about was her birth mother. When she was older, the fact that she had four siblings came into focus. Deborah’s fourth child, a daughter, had also been given up for adoption, and Teresa asked the agency to contact her family, to see if the girls could be pen pals, but the family said no.

Deanna grew up next to Jones Creek, just outside Baltimore. Her father worked at a post office downtown, her mother worked at the V.A. in Fort Howard. They couldn’t have kids, so they adopted two girls from different birth mothers, Deanna and her younger sister. The Dosses were conservative Pentecostal Christians, and their lives revolved around the church. Deanna often fell asleep under a pew during revival services that lasted into the night. When she was a child, sitting alone in her grandmother’s back yard, she realized that she had a calling to the ministry.

All through childhood, she wondered about her birth parents—who they were, where they lived, whether they ever thought about her. Whenever she was in a crowd of people, like at a baseball game in the city, she would scan the faces to see if there was anyone who looked familiar. Sometimes she stood outside looking at the moon and would wonder if her birth mother, wherever she was, was looking at the same moon. Every now and then, she asked her mother about her birth parents, but she felt that the subject made her uncomfortable, so she mostly kept her questions to herself.

She went to Valley Forge, a Christian college, and met her future husband, Larry Shrodes. In 1989, Deanna gave birth to their first child, and she realized that this was the first time she had seen and touched a blood relative since her own birth. She understood more than she had before what it would be like to give up a baby. Suddenly, finding her birth mother felt urgent.

She started going to meetings of the Adoptees Liberty Movement Association at a local Unitarian church. The organization had been founded in 1971 by an adoptee named Florence Fisher; Fisher had been in a car crash, and her last thought before impact was I’m going to die and I don’t know who I am. Deanna also contacted the agency that had brokered her adoption. She was told that she could petition the county court to open her records to a “confidential intermediary,” who would contact her birth mother on her behalf. She agreed, and before long the intermediary called to say that she had spoken to Deanna’s birth mother. The intermediary had told her that she would be proud of how Deanna had turned out—college educated, a pastor. The birth mother had said that she was sure she would be proud of Deanna, but she didn’t think that Deanna would be proud of her. She didn’t want to meet.

Standing holding the phone, Deanna felt her legs weaken. She thought that maybe her being a pastor had put her birth mother off—people always thought pastors were going to judge them. If only the intermediary hadn’t mentioned that. She asked if she could send her a letter, but the intermediary said no, that wasn’t allowed. Her birth mother had thirty days to change her mind. For thirty days, Deanna pleaded with God every way she knew. She fasted and prayed. But the intermediary called and told her that the answer was still no.

To be rejected by her birth mother a second time was almost more than she could take. But then, two years later, a pastor at her church told Deanna to pray about her mother again. This time, she felt God telling her that, although her birth mother had said no to the intermediary, she had not said no to her. Deanna restarted her search.

It was the early nineteen-nineties—there was no Internet that she had ready access to. But one day when she was home with the flu she saw Joseph J. Culligan, a private investigator, on a talk show. He had written a book, “You, Too, Can Find Anybody,” and guests on the show testified that, thanks to the book, they had used public information to find people for less than twenty dollars. Deanna sent Larry straight out to buy it. There were all kinds of techniques in the book, all kinds of records you could search for addresses if you had a last name—liens, leases, bankruptcies, writs of garnishment. You could write to the D.M.V. or check abandoned-property files. The best source, though, was the Death Master File, which contained the Social Security Administration’s death records since 1962. The Salvation Army’s missing-persons program told her that they knew of a source in California who could gain access to the Death Master File for only thirteen dollars. She knew that her birth mother had grown up near Richmond, Virginia. She called California and asked for records of any man in Richmond with her birth mother’s maiden name who had died within a certain period of time.

The information arrived in the mail a few weeks later—pages and pages of names. She wrote to libraries all over the city and ordered obituaries for every one of the names, looking for her mother’s father. From her adoption paperwork she knew that her maternal grandfather had been an auto mechanic with six children, and that her birth mother was the youngest. The last obituary she received in the mail was of an auto mechanic who had had six children. That gave her her birth mother’s current, married name. She dialled directory inquiries, got her mother’s number, and called her.

A machine picked up and she heard her birth mother’s voice for the first time. It was a deep, Southern voice. Deanna started crying. She called over and over. Larry came home, took one look at her, and knew instantly what had happened. At the time, they were both working as pastors at a church in Dayton, Ohio, and had two toddlers. Deanna called that evening to make sure that her birth mother wasn’t out of town; when she answered the phone, Deanna hung up. She and Larry took the kids and drove through the night to Richmond.

Deanna had been imagining this moment for years, and she knew exactly what she was going to do. She knew she had to look at her birth mother’s face at least once, so she wasn’t going to risk calling first. She had brought a camera—she would ask to take a photograph of her birth mother if it was to be the only time she saw her. The next day, in the hotel room, she changed clothes several times and settled on a pink suit. She waited until evening, walked up to her birth mother’s house, and knocked on the door.

The woman who opened the door was smiling, and blond, which took Deanna aback—the adoption paperwork had said that her hair was dark, like Deanna’s. Deanna said, Please don’t be afraid, but my name is Deanna, and I think you know who I am. The woman stopped smiling. For a long time, she stood in the doorway and stared at her. Deanna asked if she could come in.

Angela Tucker believes transracial adoption should happen only as a last resort.

Her birth mother gestured for her to sit at the kitchen table, and began nervously moving around from stove to counter and back, making coffee and picking things up and putting them down again. She said, I know you don’t understand why I made the decision I made. She started crying, and began to tell Deanna about all the mistakes she had made in her life and how sorry she was for all of them. She told her that she had made a lot of bad choices, including her relationship with Deanna’s father. She had failed in her relationship with her other children’s father, and now she was divorced. She listed other things she was ashamed of—things she’d done and things that had happened in her family.

Deanna felt God telling her, Say nothing, say nothing, just let her talk. She was terrified that something would break the spell and get her kicked out. She kept thinking, I’m still here, she hasn’t kicked me out, I’m still here.

When Deanna’s birth mother was pregnant, her parents had sent her to the Florence Crittenton Home for unwed mothers, in Norfolk, a hundred miles away. People had treated her like a whore, and she felt like a whore. Her family was mortified by her situation, and had told her that she must keep her pregnancy a secret or she would be disowned. She was told that giving up the baby for adoption and pretending the whole thing had never happened was her only chance to redeem herself. If she gave the baby up, it would be raised in a decent home, and she would be able to pass herself off as a marriageable woman. It was the right thing to do.

There was also no other option. The baby’s father had refused to marry her or help her. While she was alone in the home for unwed mothers, he just went on with his life. She lied on the adoption agency’s paperwork: she gave them a fake name for him and a fake job; she said he worked in a drugstore. She wanted to make sure that the child would never find him, or he her.

After a long time, Deanna’s birth mother stopped talking, and Deanna said, We’ve all made mistakes, but I went to Hell and back to find you, and I would go to Hell and back to find you again. At that point, her birth mother seemed to realize that Deanna was not going to reject her. She stood up from her side of the table, came over, wrapped her arms around Deanna’s head, and wailed.

When Joy went to college, at first she mostly had white friends. Then, in her second year, she became friends with a group of Black students and began to understand herself as a person of color. Later still, she made some Asian friends, and some Korean international students asked her to start an Asian student union. She felt like a fraud, as if she weren’t really Asian, but the international students accepted her as such, and thought it was fun to fill in the gaps in her knowledge. They wanted to know whether she could use chopsticks, how high her spice tolerance was. She ate with them and found that her mouth still watered when she smelled kimchi. She tried to teach herself Koreanness. She put on a fashion show, for which she learned how to wear hanbok and do a fan dance.

After she graduated, Joy decided to visit Korea. She wrote to the orphanage where she had lived and asked if they would take her on as a volunteer. They told her she was welcome. When she arrived, in the fall of 1993, everything felt very foreign. She spoke no Korean. Things smelled bad. The water was cold. What was she doing there?

She tried to compare the orphanage to her memories of it twenty years earlier. She remembered being cold all the time; now the building had indoor plumbing and central heating. She saw that the river she’d remembered washing clothes in was actually a stream. The director of the orphanage, who’d been there when Joy was a child and was now in her nineties, asked her, Are you here to meet your birth mother? Joy said, No, she’s dead, and the director said, Oh, yes, right, right, right.

After a few months at the orphanage, she felt something in her shift. She started to understand more Korean, and to speak it. She saw how hard the children worked—in school, and on the orphanage’s farm—and how much disciplinary beating and humiliation the younger ones endured at the hands of the older ones. There was little warmth or affection in the orphanage, no joking or playing games. They worked, watched TV, ate, slept. There were only a few staff members for more than fifty children, from little kids to seventeen-year-olds, and some seemed to have no interest in the children.

She also realized that none of the kids were actually orphans. They knew who their parents were, and most of them went home on national holidays. The orphanage was a combination of government boarding school and foster care—there was no American-style foster care in Korea. Usually there had been some kind of crisis in the family, like illness, or divorce, or poverty, that meant the parents couldn’t take care of their child. Most of the children thought their stay in the orphanage would be temporary, but often it wasn’t. Many became estranged from their birth families and couldn’t find them when they aged out.

The children were unlikely to be adopted—many fewer Korean children were being adopted abroad by then. The first wave of adoptions, after the Korean War—mostly the biracial children of Korean women and American soldiers—was long over. Adoptions had risen to a peak in the seventies and eighties. When Joy was a child, the Korean government had encouraged them, as a way of ridding itself of financially burdensome children, and as a kind of soft diplomacy with the West. But at the time of the 1988 Summer Olympics, in Seoul, the exporting of so many children became a source of embarrassment to Korea, and since then the numbers had declined.

Several young people who had lived in the orphanage when Joy was there came back regularly, to visit. They had hated their time there, but now the orphanage kids were their family, and the orphanage their home. At first they assumed that Joy had been the lucky one—she could speak English, she had been to college, she lived in New York. But once her Korean was fluent enough she told them how lonely it had been growing up in a town with no Korean people. They couldn’t fathom a place with no Korean people; they couldn’t fathom that she would question whether she was Korean or not, or not know what that meant.

Toward the end of her time there, a woman who worked in the director’s office told Joy that her birth mother was looking for her. Joy said that wasn’t possible, her birth mother was dead. The woman said, No, it’s true—an investigator had called on her behalf. Joy said, If she is my mother, she will have a photograph of me. The investigator had a photograph—it was a picture of a three-year-old girl, the age Joy was when she had last seen her mother. As soon as Joy saw the photograph, she knew it was her. She felt the blood leaving her face. She didn’t know what to do. She suggested that she could sit in a park and the investigator could arrange for her birth mother to walk by her, so that she could see she was O.K. but they wouldn’t have to speak. The investigator then told Joy that her mother was dying. Joy suspected that this was a ploy, but it forced her hand. She agreed to meet her mother the following week.

She dressed for the meeting in her usual outfit of jeans, a T-shirt, and Doc Martens, but a young woman who worked at the orphanage told her she couldn’t possibly meet her birth mother looking like that. The woman took her to a store and made her buy a dress and stockings, and then, looking at her feet, said, You can’t wear those, either. Joy made her way to the investigator’s office, which turned out to be in a dirty back alley by a fish market. She picked her way through in her new shoes.

She sat in the investigator’s office, and two older women came out from behind a screen. One sat next to her, the other across from her. She looked at the women and felt nothing. The woman across from her said, I don’t think this is the right person. She asked Joy, Do you have a scar on your right leg? Joy said, Yes, I do—it’s a burn mark from an iron. The woman started crying and said how sorry she was, that it was her fault, that she had told Joy not to go near the iron but she did, and then she didn’t cry or tell anyone about her burn, because she was afraid of getting in trouble. Now the woman next to Joy started to cry, and grasped her hand—and Joy realized that this woman, not the one who had been doing the talking, was her birth mother. The other woman was her mother’s sister.

She didn’t look at her mother and her mother didn’t look at her. They both looked down. Joy asked her, What size are your feet? They had the same size feet. The mother, still holding Joy’s hand, took a ring off her own hand and slipped it onto Joy’s finger. She said, I have been wearing this ring waiting for the day I would be able to give it to you. She said she had been looking for Joy for twenty-one years. Then Joy started to cry.

She and her mother spent the weekend together. Joy had a half brother who was seventeen, and who had been told of her existence only days before the meeting, but he welcomed her easily. With her mother, it was harder. She didn’t talk much, or look Joy in the eye. They paged through photo albums, and there was a photograph of the mother at the age of twenty-four, Joy’s age, and she looked exactly like her. Joy said, I want to tell you about my life. Do you have any questions? Her mother said, The last time I saw you, you were a three-year-old child. Now you are a grown woman. I don’t know who you are.

Little by little, over years, Joy pieced together the story of her early childhood. Her mother and father had married young, before he had done his military service. For three years, while the father was in the military, Joy’s mother lived with her parents in Incheon and raised Joy, then named Eun-hee. When Eun-hee’s father came back from his service, he told her mother that he wanted a divorce. But, in Korea at that time, a child belonged to its father. Her father didn’t particularly want the child, but she was his, so he took her to be raised by his parents.

For two years, Eun-hee’s mother heard nothing from him. Meanwhile, she opened a small shop that sold cosmetics and things like cigarettes and gum. One day, Eun-hee’s father walked into the shop to buy cigarettes. She demanded to know where her daughter was. He said he didn’t know. She said, What do you mean you don’t know? He said he couldn’t talk, he had to work—he was a taxi-driver. She told him she would pay him a day’s wages if he would stay with her and explain what had happened, and eventually he admitted that Eun-hee was in an orphanage.

The mother went straight to the orphanage, which was in another town. The people there told her she had the wrong orphanage, her daughter wasn’t there. But she was convinced that she had the right one and kept going back, again and again, being told each time that it was the wrong orphanage, until finally she sat all day in the office of the orphanage school until the director came out. The director saw Eun-hee’s mother, and the mother looked so much like Eun-hee that the director knew immediately who she was. The director told her that Eun-hee had indeed been in that orphanage, but she had been adopted and was no longer in Korea.

On one visit, years after they had met, Joy told her mother that she had always believed she was dead. Joy’s mother said, Well, of course you thought I was dead. How else could a child make sense of being in an orphanage? Joy told her mother about her memory of leaving at three—of being in the car and seeing her grandmother and grandfather waving goodbye. But it turned out that her mind had altered the memory in a way that made it less painful. It wasn’t your grandfather there standing with your grandmother, her mother said. It was me.

When Angela enrolled at Seattle Pacific University, a small Christian college, she realized how different it was to be a Black woman without her white parents around. She was perfectly comfortable on the predominantly white campus, but to the other students she looked out of place. There she met Bryan Tucker, a white man she would soon marry.

After she graduated, she took a job at Bethany Christian Services, the agency that had handled her adoption. She knew that caseworkers were allowed to see adoption paperwork and thought that maybe if she was an employee she would be able to see hers, but she wasn’t. As a caseworker in infant placement, she saw other adoptees’ original birth certificates all the time. When she arranged an adoption and ordered an amended birth certificate for the child, she felt treacherous, as though she were betraying the child whose origins she was concealing.

Working at Bethany and, later, with other agencies, she realized that, although their mission statements always talked about finding parents for children, in fact the agencies were in the business of finding children for parents. She saw that the birth mother was more or less disregarded once her baby had been handed over. In meetings, Angela would ask, Did anyone follow up with the birth mother? Did anyone teach her how to stop the breast milk from coming in so she isn’t in pain? Her colleagues would sigh and say that this was a kind, sensitive thought, but they needed to think about the baby.

In most states, a birth mother had a short window of time—anywhere from a few months to ninety-six hours—in which she could change her mind. As the time passed, adoptive parents would ask Angela anxiously whether she had heard from the birth mother; then, when the window had closed, they would be relieved and happy, and, although Angela understood why they felt that way, she found it hard. She talked to adoptive parents about the merits of an open adoption, and most agreed in principle, but in practice they usually didn’t make an effort to keep in touch with the birth mother, or they cut her off on the ground that seeing her might be upsetting for the child. There was little enforcement of openness in adoption—it was up to them.

Since Angela hadn’t been able to see her original birth certificate at Bethany, she decided that she and Bryan would search for her birth mother on their own. She noticed that there were places in her paperwork where her birth mother’s last name had not been whited out—it was Johnson. A Google search for “Deborah Johnson” in Tennessee returned several million results. She and Bryan called all the Deborah Johnsons they could find phone numbers for, dozens of them, but came up with nothing.

One night, Bryan was reading Angela’s paperwork again when he noticed something that she had, bafflingly, not focussed on in the hundreds of times she had read it: the first name of her biological father. Unlike her mother’s name, it was unusual—Oterious. They could see by the size of the space that had been whited out that his last name was four letters long. They Googled “Oterious” and came up with one result in Tennessee: Oterious Bell. They searched on Spokeo, MySpace, Classmates.com, MyLife, and the International Soundex Reunion Registry, and finally found, on the Web site of a local radio station, a blog post, “Sandy Bell could use a lil help please.” It seemed that Oterious (Sandy) Bell had become locally famous, making the rounds of bars and restaurants in Chattanooga, selling flowers. He’d just been in the hospital for a month and was struggling to pay his bills. Angela found a photo of him online. He looked exactly like her.

When she was growing up, Angela had barely thought about her birth father. But, having found him, she wanted to meet him—maybe he could tell her who her mother was. She decided to fly to Tennessee, along with Bryan and her parents. Her parents had supported her through her search, and she wanted them near her for this, although one of her deepest fears was that her birth mother would consider her a racial fraud. What would Deborah Johnson think if she turned up surrounded by white people, who were her family?

When she got out of the airport, the muggy air hit her and she started to sweat. She had allergies, and her lungs felt heavy and clotted. She had fantasized that Chattanooga would feel like home, but now she just wanted to get back inside. Suddenly there were Black people everywhere, but she thought she sounded ridiculous with her Pacific Northwest accent. That evening, she and Bryan went to a bar and told people she was looking for Sandy Bell. One person after another told her what a character he was, with blue suède shoes and a bicycle decorated with bells, flags, and ribbons. Somebody said that they thought his mother lived in the Mary Walker Towers.

The next morning, standing outside the towers, she heard a bicycle bell, and spotted a man on a bicycle wearing a straw cowboy hat with a toy sheriff’s badge pinned to a faux-leather vest. She called out his name and told him why she was looking for him. He stared at her, and, reaching into his basket, presented her with a flower. Then he said, “It’s like I’m looking in a mirror.” Angela beckoned for everyone else, waiting a few yards off, to come and meet him, too. He invited them to return later to his mother’s apartment and meet the rest of his family.

That evening, surrounded by uncles and aunts in Sandy’s mother’s tiny apartment, Angela asked Sandy about Deborah. He said he thought he knew where she lived now, and his brother Jay jumped up and suggested they drive by her house right away. Looking out of the car window in Deborah’s neighborhood, Angela saw abandoned vehicles and brick shotgun houses. She wondered whether the neighborhood was safe to be in. She wondered how they looked to the people she saw sitting on their stoops—an S.U.V. and a minivan pulling up to the curb. Deborah’s house had black garbage bags taped over its front window. Angela had thought that they were just going to look at the house, but suddenly she saw Sandy jump out of his brother’s car and walk up to the front door. She’s in there! a neighbor shouted from the next-door stoop. She hasn’t come out for a while, but I’ve seen her lights come on.

The door opened and Deborah came out. She was short. Her hair was gray. Looking at the woman across the street, Angela felt as though she were in a fugue state. She opened the car door and walked over to the house. She said, Hi, my name is Angela. I think you may be my birth mother. The woman stood looking at the ground and said, I don’t have children. I’m sorry, but I’m not the person you’re looking for.

Angela had asked Bryan to film the encounter, because she knew she would be too overwhelmed to take it in. In their hotel room she played the twenty-eight-second clip of their meeting over and over for forty-five minutes, until Bryan asked her to stop.

Every adoption is a kind of conversion. When a child is issued an amended birth certificate, the child is, in one sense, born again. Christianity and adoption go back a long way. Not all proselytizing religions embrace adoption. Many Muslim countries prohibit it. A child can be taken in by a family acting as guardians, but new parents cannot take the place of the original ones. A child’s lineage cannot be severed.

Deanna found it tricky being a Pentecostal Christian among adoptees. Her anti-abortion views had lost her some friends, although her closest adoptee friend was pro-choice and an agnostic. It was striking how pro-choice the adoptee community was. A refrain you heard again and again, in various forms, was, Do not make more people like me. A lot of adoptees had been told by their parents that they were adopted because God put them in the wrong tummy, or that God had planned adoption for them since the foundation of the world. Because of this, they had rejected God. Deanna had been asked over and over, How are you a Christian?

But, as hard as it was for her to be a Christian among adoptees, being an adoptee among Christians could be even harder. Adoption was celebrated in evangelical circles as a selfless act of loving rescue. If an evangelical expressed pain about her adoption, she was likely to be reminded that all Christians were adopted in Christ. Deanna found it frustrating when Christians wanted to stop abortions but wouldn’t promote birth control.

Christians had driven much of the international-adoption business for decades. The mass adoption of foreign children by Americans had been started in the fifties by Harry and Bertha Holt, a Christian couple in Oregon whose motive was explicitly evangelical. They had chartered planes to transport children from Korea, sometimes more than a hundred per flight. But, in the more recent past, in the evangelical world, adoption had become much more important.

People often accused evangelicals of being not so much pro-life as pro-birth. Adoption was the answer to that: if there were unwanted babies, they would take them in. James 1:27—“Pure and undefiled religion before God and the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their trouble”—had become a central theological imperative, though nobody seemed to talk much about the widows. Many evangelicals who already had biological children adopted for religious reasons. Some even adopted children whom they knew were not orphans so that they could be raised as Christians, then return to their homes to convert others.

Congregations were told that millions of children were languishing in orphanages and might never have parents if they weren’t rescued. Sometimes the price of adoption was referred to as “ransom,” as though the child were a hostage. The numbers talked about grew larger and larger—after the 2010 earthquake in Haiti it was claimed that there were a million orphans there, a ninth of the total population. There were said to be a hundred and forty-three million, then a hundred and sixty-three million, then two hundred and ten million orphans in the world.

Christians responded to these terrible numbers by coming forward to adopt. But international adoptions were expensive—sometimes as much as fifty or sixty thousand dollars—and where there were lots of people willing to pay that kind of money for a child it was almost inevitable that corruption would follow. Deanna had read a book, “The Child Catchers,” by Kathryn Joyce, which laid out in horrifying detail how it worked. For one thing, there was a certain motivated confusion about what an orphan was. In many countries, as in Korea, children were placed in orphanages not because they didn’t have families but because their families weren’t able to take care of them. Sometimes things would get better and the family would take them back. Most of the millions of orphans cited in the statistics were actually “single orphans,” meaning they had one living parent.

Angela holds a photograph of her birth mother, Deborah Johnson, and her adoptive mother, Teresa Burt.

In many cases, a child could have returned home if the family had had a little more money—a fraction of the cost of an adoption. And some Christian charities did do family-preservation work. But, with so much money at stake, children in orphanages were being adopted abroad without their parents’ knowledge, or parents were told that the child was going to America to get an education and would soon return home. Orphanages were paid part of the fees, so they had good reason to find more and more adoptable children. Some children were kidnapped from their families, sometimes by traffickers who viewed themselves as missionaries. Sometimes a well-intentioned American couple would adopt a child only to discover, much later, that the child had a family that wanted it back.

When trafficking allegations grew too loud to ignore, some countries shut down their international-adoption programs altogether. Ethiopia and Guatemala had done so—Guatemala (which had been sending one out of every hundred of its children to America) in 2008, Ethiopia in 2018. As news of corruption in the orphan business spread in evangelical circles, and as more countries closed their adoption programs, the rates of international adoption rapidly declined. In 2021, Bethany Christian Services, one of the largest adoption agencies in the U.S., closed its international-adoption program after nearly forty years.

But evangelical groups were active in domestic adoptions, too, promoting to American women the idea that giving up a baby was a heroic act of love. Deanna believed that, except in cases of abuse or neglect, it was wrong to adopt a child unless that child had no family at all that could take it in. She tried to persuade people she knew that the thing to do was not adopt babies but give mothers what they needed to keep them. “People will say, in social-media posts, If you’re pregnant and can’t take care of your baby, I’ll adopt them,” she said. “I want to see people making ads that say, If you’re pregnant and can’t take care of your baby, I’m opening my checkbook, I will take you in, I will foot the bill for whatever you need.” She had done that herself, taking in a child for a year while the child’s mother, a relative, was in rehab. But she hadn’t had much success persuading anyone else.

When Joy came back from her time in Korea in the summer of 1994, she was angry—angry at the Korean government for giving so many children away, and angry at the ignorance of the Americans who had told her that she had been rescued, that Korea was poor and backward, that Korean men were abusive. A couple of years later, she joined Also-Known-As, or A.K.A.—a new organization based in New York that had been started by a friend of hers, Hollee McGinnis, to create a community of international adoptees. She began spending time with six or seven women in the group, all Korean adoptees around her age.

Something was happening among adoptees. In 1996, at the same time that A.K.A. was coming together, Marley Greiner, an adoptee and a reporter at the Columbus Free Press, started posting on a Usenet newsgroup, alt.adoption, and signed her posts “Bastard Nation.” Later that year, Greiner helped to form a group of the same name, in the spirit of Queer Nation and ACT UP. She envisioned Yippie-style actions—mass burning of amended birth certificates, “practical jokes” on social workers. “For those of you dear readers who may think that I had a terrible adoption experience, I did not,” Greiner wrote on the Bastard Nation Web site. “But the closed adoption system is a system of lies which would not be tolerated in any other forum.”

In the late nineties, Susan Cox, a Korean adoptee, came up with the idea of convening adult Korean adoptees for the first time. The Gathering, as it was called, was held in Washington, D.C., in 1999. It was decided to survey the participants, and Joy, who was then working for the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute, a think tank, co-wrote a paper discussing the results. It turned out that many adoptees had been abused by their adoptive parents. More than a third of the respondents said that when they were growing up they viewed themselves as Caucasian.

Joy got a master’s in social work and took a job with an adoption agency. She wanted to understand how adoption worked, particularly home studies, through which agencies interviewed couples and matched them with children. She talked to couples who spoke about their years-long struggles with infertility, and realized how traumatized many of them were. She was required, as part of the home study, to ask about this. Had they mourned the biological child that they would not have? Had they reconciled themselves to that loss, enough to make room for this new child, who would be very different?

She pictured the adopted child grown up, asking the parents, How is it that everyone in this community is white, and everyone who comes to our dinner table is white? Even if she believed that the family was not going to honor the culture of the child, there was nothing much she could do about it—to be counselled out of adoption, parents had to have something serious on their record. But she felt she was playing God with the lives of children. She began to sleep badly at night, and when she did sleep she had nightmares about children asking her, What were you thinking, putting me in that house?

After a year and a half, she could no longer bear doing placements, and she moved to the agency’s post-adoption division. She paid home visits to see what the new adoptees needed, from medicine to translators. She loved that work. She felt that she was there in the trenches with the child and the parents as they faced each other for the first time, with all their fears and limitations and misunderstandings and difficult histories and longing and love.

Joy had met her future husband in college, though they didn’t start dating until later. He was Korean also, but not an adoptee. It was unusual for a Korean adoptee to date a Korean. Adoptees were greeted with suspicion by Korean families. Joy had dated other Korean American men, but all of them broke up with her after their mothers found out she was adopted. Not only was she not a real Korean girl, but how could they know she was a good Korean girl when they couldn’t meet her parents? Joy felt that she and her husband were an interracial couple.

When she got pregnant, in her mid-thirties, she prepared diligently to become a mother. She went into therapy and read a lot of books. When she gave birth to her son, she was afraid. Is he mine? she wondered. Will he love me? She had to leave him in the hospital overnight because he had jaundice. That night she sobbed, thinking, Will they take him away from me? Will I be allowed to bring him home?

Several months after Deborah told Angela that she was not her mother, Bryan suggested that they try to find someone else in Deborah’s family. She heard back from an aunt, Belinda, right away:

“There’s a lot I’ve done that I can’t explain to you,” she said. “I’m angry with myself. . . . My mother did not raise me like that.” She was angry with herself mostly for not taking care of herself while she was pregnant. When Angela was born, a doctor had told her that the baby was sick, and she was led to believe that if she kept her she would probably die. Deborah said to the agency, I’ll sign this paper on one condition: don’t show me that baby, because if you do I’m not signing anything. “The hurt that I feel,” Deborah told Angela, “it will always be there. And I’ll take that to my grave.”

Deborah remembered telling Sandy, when she found out she was pregnant, that the baby was his. She was friendly with his family—she had known his sister since high school. But Sandy had been told by a doctor that he could never have children, so he didn’t believe her. One of his brothers was a professional boxer making money, and she figured he thought she was just after some of it, so she disappeared. For a while she lived on the street, sleeping in a different place each night; then she found an apartment in a housing project. She knew her family would judge her harshly for giving the baby up, so she kept her pregnancy a secret from them.

She had already had four children. Deborah had kept her first three because she was doing O.K. then. She had a job in the kitchen of a nursing home, and her mother was around to help her. Her mother was pretty much raising the children. Deborah told them to call their grandmother Mother and to call her Deborah. She felt she didn’t deserve the title “mother”—she was just the birth mother. When she had a fourth child, a girl, the year before Angela, she knew she could not take care of her and gave her up for adoption.

After she gave birth to Angela, Deborah left the hospital on her own. She went back to her apartment and didn’t leave for a long time. Even though she believed she’d done the right thing for the baby, she became so depressed that she didn’t care what happened. She felt she had been ripped bone from bone. After a year or so, she returned to the adoption agency to ask if the baby was still there. When a caseworker told her she’d been adopted, Deborah went back home and drank Coca-Cola all day, until a doctor told her she had diabetes and if she kept drinking Coke it could kill her. She bought a baby doll, and then another, and another. She and the baby dolls watched television together.

Even a decade after that first phone call, Angela felt that she and Deborah did not have the relationship she had imagined. When she visited Deborah, she liked to have her mom or Bryan there with her. Angela felt Deborah had never really claimed her as her child. Deborah always said that she wasn’t her mother, Teresa was. Angela had almost come to accept that she had had to be adopted.

When she had first met her aunt Belinda, Belinda had told her that Deborah didn’t have a motherly instinct. When Deborah heard this she was so angry that Belinda would say something so hateful and untrue that she avoided her for years. But Angela didn’t know this, and the idea that Deborah had never wanted to be a mother lodged deep in Angela’s brain. When she was in her mid-twenties, shortly after she first spent time with Deborah, she went to a doctor to get her tubes tied. The doctor told her she was too young and wouldn’t do it, but ten years later she was still determined not to have kids.

Angela had not connected the two things at the time she went to the doctor, but now she could see it. Deborah was so different from her—they didn’t even resemble each other physically, as she and Sandy did. But not wanting to be a mother, she thought, might be something—something profound—that she and Deborah had in common. “Probably it has a lot to do with learning who Deborah is,” she said. “Wanting to be closer to her. Wanting to feel like I’m really her kin.”

For twenty years, Deanna didn’t press her birth mother on the subject of her birth father for fear of upsetting her. But time was running out—if she didn’t find him soon, it was increasingly unlikely that she would find him alive. In 2013, she wrote her birth mother a letter to ask her one last time to tell her her father’s name. Her birth mother called and said that she would take his name to her grave, and, since the only two people who also knew it were dead, Deanna would never find him. Deanna told her gently that she could try to find him through DNA.

The idea that there could be other ways to search had clearly not occurred to her birth mother. On the other end of the phone, her tone changed right away. She said that she had faked her emotions during their reunion and for years after. She said that if Deanna tried to find her father she would never speak to her again. Deanna felt as if she’d been shot. While she was still on the phone, she logged on to a private Facebook page for Lost Daughters, a group of adoptee women who blogged about adoption in public and supported each other in private. She typed, Is anybody there? Is anybody there? Several of them were online, and wrote back to tell her she wasn’t alone.

On the phone, her birth mother told her that the adoptee community she was part of was a sickness that had infected her with the belief that she had to know who her father was. She should just let it go. What nobody but adoptees seemed to understand was that not knowing who her father was wasn’t a matter of curiosity—it felt to Deanna like life or death. It was like the not-knowing of a person whose child had gone missing.

All her mother had told her was that her father was Greek. She started a private Facebook group, Finding Mr. Greek, and enlisted a group of “search angels”—adoptees or birth mothers or other people who liked to assist in searches, who knew about DNA testing or genealogy. They posted on Facebook trying to find members of her birth mother’s high-school class. They called people in the Greek church in Richmond. Deanna also prayed to God to put the name of her father into her head. At one point, she prayed for many hours over three days. At last she sensed God saying to her, Your father’s name is Gus. Deanna immediately got in touch with the people who were helping her and told them of this new development, acknowledging that some of them might think she was crazy. They decided to look for all the Guses in Richmond who were within ten years of her mother’s age. She found out that, in Greek American communities, Gus could be a nickname for Constantine, Kostas, or Konstantinos, so they made lists of all the men of the right age in Richmond with those names. There were dozens of them, but if they were alive Deanna called them. If they were dead, she called relatives. She asked many people to take a DNA test for her, and many did. But at the end of all the calls and the DNA tests none of the Guses was a match.

For almost nine years, she got no closer. Anytime someone popped up on one of the DNA Web sites as a distant match, friends would stay up late looking up genealogical records and family trees, but they never found anyone close enough to identify him. At one point, Deanna started saying to her group of searchers, He must be dead by now—we are looking for a grave. But she kept looking because, even if he was dead, there might be a sister or a brother or a cousin who could tell her what kind of man he’d been.

Then, in May, 2022, one of her searchers called her at work and told her that a Greek first-cousin DNA match had popped up on 23andMe, and she would know who her father was in a matter of hours. The searchers started building out the cousin’s family tree, hoping that his mother didn’t have several brothers. She didn’t—she had one brother. He was sixteen years older than Deanna’s birth mother. His name was Gus.

Gus was ninety-one and in a nursing home. A few months earlier, adult protective services had found him alone in his home in Richmond in terrible condition; they forced him into a nursing home, because he couldn’t take care of himself and had no one to help. Deanna arranged to meet him over FaceTime. She asked him if he remembered meeting her birth mother in 1965, and told him she was the child of that relationship. He believed her right away and started to cry.

She drove to Richmond and spent a week with him. He had been a professional ballroom dancer, he told her. He was a bon vivant, always flirting with women, but he had never married. He told her, I don’t want to die alone in here. So she made up a room for him in her house with a hospital bed. She and Larry were living in a suburban development in Wesley Chapel, Florida, just outside Tampa. She decorated the room for Gus with mementos from his house in Richmond—a pair of two-tone wing tips, his dancing trophies, a portrait of him in his younger days—and brought him home.

He’d had no idea that she had been adopted. In his Greek community, adoption was rare—there was always someone in the family who would raise a child—and he was furious that she had been raised by strangers. At first, not wanting to upset him, Deanna said nothing. But then, one day, when he was roaring about how outrageous it was that her mother had given her up, Deanna said, Gus, what did you expect? She was kicked out of her parents’ house, she had nowhere to go, and you lied to her, you never helped her. He didn’t bring the subject up again. They had seven months together before he died.

By her mid-thirties, Angela had made a life of talking about adoption in every possible medium. She had a podcast, “The Adoptee Next Door.” She had a Web series, “The Adopted Life,” in which she interviewed transracial adoptees. She posted on Instagram as “angieadoptee.” She had written a book, “You Should Be Grateful,” blending her own adoption experience with those of others. She and Bryan had made several short films about adoption, in addition to a full-length documentary he had made about her reunion with her birth parents, called “Closure.”

They lived in a two-story house in the south end of Seattle, in a quiet housing development around a small park where people walked their dogs. From home, she hosted bimonthly meetings of adult adoptees, and mentored kids one-on-one. Some of the kids she had met in recent years had truly open adoptions. One boy referred to his birth mother, who was in prison, as Mother, and to his two adoptive mothers as Momma and Mom. Kids would talk casually about staying with their birth mother for the weekend, or their birth mother coming to watch their baseball games. To older adoptees, too anxious about hurting their adoptive parents to tell them that they read blogs about adoption, much less to search for their birth parents, this was astonishing.

More recently, Angela had developed “Cultivating an Anti-Racist Support Network” workshops for parents who had adopted, or were thinking of adopting, kids of color. It was through one of these workshops that she had met Ali and Drew Fleming, who lived in New York. Ali and Drew knew they couldn’t have a baby the ordinary way, and they had thought that adoption was the ethical alternative. Since Drew and his family were white but Ali’s family was from India, they had signed up for Angela’s workshop to prepare the ground for their interracial family.

They had first thought of adopting from India, but then they realized that that would make it nearly impossible for the child to know its birth parents, and they had heard about corruption problems in international adoption, so they started looking domestically. They hired an adoption attorney, who recommended that they not go through an agency, because an agency could demand tens of thousands of dollars up front which they wouldn’t get back, even if they never got a child. Ali also discovered that, if a woman agreed to give them her baby when it was born, the agency would ask for still more money, which they would not get back either, even if the woman changed her mind. That was bad not only because they might spend tens of thousands of dollars for no baby, but also because it was so much money that it could give the woman the impression that the couple had already bought her baby, and feel pressured to relinquish. No, the attorney said, they should try to find a mother on their own.

There were ways to do this. They sent letters to churches and pregnancy crisis centers and ob-gyn offices, but Ali and Drew were pro-choice and this felt predatory to them. They created a Web site advertising themselves as potential parents—he was a doctor, she was a math teacher, they had two dogs, surely all that would look good. They hired adoption consultants who taught them how to run ads on Facebook and Instagram that targeted women who were looking for parents. Ali was advised to spell her name Allie so it didn’t sound Middle Eastern. They were advised not to post any photos of Indian holidays on their Web site, but that there should be a Christmas tree.

They were contacted by about thirty women. Some were scams, but in most cases, as far as she could tell, the women were really pregnant. Most already had kids. Ali spent hours texting with the women and talking to them on video calls. Many of them were conflicted about giving up their baby. In many cases what was preventing them from keeping it was a relatively small amount of money—a couple of thousand dollars. She kept talking women out of placing their baby, though she realized that this was counterproductive. The more women she talked to, the less she could imagine a situation where it would be better for both mother and baby if the baby came to her.

By this time, she and Drew were starting to feel nauseated and sullied by the adoption business. Reading around online, Ali had discovered that there was a “second chance” re-homing adoption market, for children whom parents had adopted but didn’t want anymore, or couldn’t keep. These tended to be older children, often from other countries. Their situation was so bleak, Ali could barely think about it. They contacted their attorney and asked about surrogacy.

When Ali DM’d Angela on Instagram to say that they had decided not to adopt after all, Angela was glad. In her conversations with prospective parents, she tried to make them see how fraught transracial adoption was. She told parents that getting a Black doll for your child, taking them to an Ethiopian restaurant, sending them to transracial-adoptee summer camp, was not enough. All that just produced a sense that you were performing Blackness, Angela would say. What Black children needed was actual Black people in their lives. Most people who found their way to her were going to agree with that, but making it happen was another matter. She said, “I hear almost every day in my consults with white parents, We know we should have Black and brown kids in our kids’ lives, but, like, how do we find them, and what do we say when we see one?”

Joy Lieberthal Rho’s birth mother searched for her for twenty-one years.

Some years before, Angela had given a talk at a conference and told the story of her adoption by white parents, and afterward an older Black woman came up to her. You are my worst fear realized, the woman said. You aren’t a true Black person. I’m sorry the system erased you from our culture. Angela was stricken. The woman had introduced herself as a member of the National Association of Black Social Workers, which in 1972 had issued a manifesto condemning transracial adoption. “Only a Black family,” it stated, “can transmit the emotional and sensitive subtleties of perception and reaction essential for a Black child’s survival in a racist society.”

Angela no longer believed that there was such a thing as a true Black person—she felt more confident in her Blackness. And, whereas when she was younger she had believed that transracial adoptees were less truly Black than people raised in Black families, she now felt that the experience of growing up Black in a white home spoke to the core of what it meant to be Black in America.

On the other hand, she had begun to wonder whether the National Association of Black Social Workers might have been partly right—that transracial adoption should happen only as a last resort. She loved her adoptive parents, and was grateful to them for supporting her wholeheartedly in her search for her birth parents, and even in her questioning of transracial adoption. But she also wished she wasn’t adopted. It was so difficult to explain that to most people.

She found that people tended to understand the problems of transracial adoption more readily in the context of Native Americans. She was closely watching a Supreme Court case, Haaland v. Brackeen, which had been argued before the Court in November, 2022. The Brackeens were a white couple who had adopted a Navajo boy and wanted to adopt his half sister, too. They had filed suit to challenge the 1978 Indian Child Welfare Act, which made it difficult for outsiders to adopt a Native American child. They argued that the law was unconstitutional, because it discriminated on the basis of race. The Indian Child Welfare Act was a response to the removal of as many as a third of Native American children from their families, to be placed in deracinating boarding schools (a guiding motto was “Kill the Indian, save the man”) and, later, in the mid-twentieth century, in adoptive homes. Angela knew that Native Americans were a special case, but she thought it was possible that Haaland v. Brackeen would lead people to think differently about transracial adoption in general.

She had started to push against it in her work, but it was going to be difficult. In the early nineteen-seventies, at the time of the National Association of Black Social Workers manifesto, transracial adoption was rare—adoptions of Black children by white parents made up about one per cent of all adoptions. Now it was widespread—more than half of Black adoptees were adopted by non-Black families. “I was consulting with this white woman who wants to adopt, and she was, like, I don’t think I’m the best person to adopt a Black kid,” she said. “And I was, like, Great, tell your agency. This is the struggle, nothing will change until you stick by your principles. But white people are not going to do that, because white guilt starts to come out.”

For decades, agencies had been constrained by the 1994 Multiethnic Placement Act, which restricted how agencies could consider race in placements, but now some were pushing back. Bethany Christian Services had issued a statement that the act should be overhauled and race should be considered in adoption. Angela had consulted for one agency in Indiana which asked white people seeking to adopt children of color whether they lived in a racially diverse town, had identified a school in that town with both teachers of color and white teachers, and had found a multiracial church.

All of this seemed good to Angela; but what would happen to a Black child if an agency couldn’t find it a Black family, as had happened with her? There were twenty-five thousand Black kids in foster care whose parents’ rights had been terminated—what about them? Now that Angela had met her Black relatives, she saw that her birth father’s family could have raised her—agencies didn’t try nearly hard enough to find fathers. But her situation, having been given up for adoption, was unusual: the rate of never-married Black women voluntarily relinquishing babies had been close to zero for decades. Many of the Black kids in foster care were there not because their parents had given them up but because they had been taken from parents who very much wanted them, by child-protective services. And most of those children had been removed not because of abuse but due to “neglect,” which could mean a lot of things—unsafe housing, not enough food, leaving kids home alone, missing doctors’ appointments—that were often consequences of poverty. So was adoption a way for those kids to have permanent families? Or was it the escape valve that allowed the child-protection system to continue removing children from their parents without fully reckoning with the cost? It was both.

Joy now has a private therapy practice in Scarsdale, New York, consisting of adoptees and adoptive parents. About fifteen years ago, she took on a second job, as a counsellor at Juilliard. In her private practice, she sees patients in a quiet, dark room in the basement of a church.

Adoptees are overrepresented in therapy. Some worry that they might be unknowingly attracted to a relative and commit incest. Some are jealous of their own children—jealous of their own love. Some adoptees of color have had the experience, even years after growing up in a white family, of catching sight of themselves in a mirror or a shop window and thinking, Who’s that? Many adoptees have a persistent sense that they don’t exist, or aren’t real, or aren’t human—that they weren’t born from a woman but came from nowhere, or from space. Some picture themselves being birthed by a building—the hospital that was recorded on their paperwork.

“There were some international adoptees who said, My life began at J.F.K.,” Joy said. “Even if you know cognitively that’s not true, no one can prove to you that it’s not true. If, for the time before you landed in J.F.K., if the paperwork is inaccurate, if the story is falsified, if there are no witnesses, if there’s no documentation, there are no photographs, nothing—that can really fuck people up.” Some adoptees felt that way even when there was no missing time. “I remember working with a domestic adoptee whose parents were in the delivery room at the time of their birth, and they were literally handed over by the birth mother,” she said. “I met them when they were a teen-ager. They actually had by that time reunited with their birth mother, and all they talked about was, I have no idea who I am, I feel like I’m walking around with a mask on my face.”

She didn’t know why this was so, but that patient was far from the only one. “There’s one theory that if the birth mother knew she was going to relinquish, is there an intrauterine hormonal shift that begins to—were there different kinds of hormones that flowed in the amniotic fluid? Maybe.” It was known that cortisol levels in the amniotic fluid rose if the mother was experiencing prolonged stress. “Should the handoff have been so easy? Should the mother have nursed the baby? At what point did the baby feel, Wait a minute, this isn’t right, I’m missing something? Could it be that the adoptive parents had intense years of infertility, and was the adoptive mom depressed and maybe not really attaching to the baby, even though she desperately wanted it? There are so many factors we don’t know.”

Perhaps because she had lived with her mother for the first three years of her life, she did not have that feeling that she didn’t exist, but she felt something similar. “Loneliness feels more accurate to describe my experience,” she said. “One minute I’m here, the next minute I’m there—these leaps of time and space and cultures, there’s nothing that connects it. There are swaths of time that don’t exist in my consciousness, and don’t exist in anyone’s consciousness. My birth mother only knows me from zero to three. There is no person that can account for my entire existence.”

Over the years, Joy had tried to build a relationship with her birth mother, but it wasn’t easy. They sometimes texted each other on a group chat with her brother, but the texts felt formal and generic—good wishes and emojis. Joy felt that she was still basically a stranger.

In 2008, her birth mother and brother came to stay with her and her husband and two kids in their small apartment. She thought they would come for maybe four weeks, but they stayed for three months. She had heard from other adoptees that their birth mothers were nosy and couldn’t stop touching them, but her mother was the opposite. She was quiet and passive. She didn’t seem curious about anything. Even though by that point Joy’s Korean was very good, Joy found she couldn’t talk to her. She still barely looked at her. All that had been O.K. when Joy paid her short visits in Korea, but when they were crowded in together for that long in her own space it made her furious. One day, she blew up. She said, You have been living in my house for six weeks and you haven’t asked me a single question. You don’t want to know anything about me. Her mother started to cry. She said, You are out of my life. I just wanted to know where you were.

When her mother left to go back to Korea, Joy was glad to see her go. She didn’t really feel like staying in touch, but she figured she would do so for her kids’ sake. In the years after the visit, she reconciled herself to their relationship being what it was. Now all she wanted was to sit with her mother one more time without asking for anything. “I don’t need any more clarity on the past,” she said. “I’m perfectly fine with going out to dinner. I can’t— The ship has passed of trying to get her to understand me.”

Although she felt no closer to her birth mother, Joy did feel more Korean. There were a lot of Koreans in her neighborhood, and her spoken Korean was good enough now that she could chat with mothers on the playground and they never knew she was not as Korean as they were. They would ask her if she celebrated Thanksgiving, and were surprised that she knew about pumpkin pie. When she walked down the street with her husband now, she thought, We are a full Korean couple. It was weird. She had always felt more like an adoptee than anything else.

As she grew older, and fewer and fewer children were adopted from Korea, she realized that at some point the small culture she was part of would die out. “It’s just a matter of time,” she said. “In the long history of humanity, we will exist only in a span of sixty or seventy years.” She felt that she had to keep talking about that experience or it would all be lost. She had been interviewed on video as part of KoreanAmericanStory.org’s Legacy Project, and for the Side by Side project, both extensive film archives of Korean adoptees telling the stories of their lives. She had created an online adoptee community, IAMAdoptee.org.

She had heard that several hundred Korean adoptees, led by a Korean Danish lawyer, were demanding that the Korean government investigate how they had come to be adopted—if government orphanages had lied about whether they had families, or falsified their paperwork, making them harder to find. But she knew that most of her fellows weren’t interested in the history of Korean adoptions the way she was. None of her three sisters had tried to find their birth parents, or had even been to Korea. This was normal. Even the largest Korean adoptee group on Facebook had only about seven thousand members, and if you added others you got maybe twice that. But about two hundred thousand Korean children had been adopted overseas. Where was everybody else?

Soon, all that would remain of those couple of hundred thousand Korean children would be some documents that would end up in libraries, dissertations, and family albums. “How many adoptees in my generation were plastered on the Living section of their local newspaper?” she said. “Probably thousands of us. We were the sensation of the town. We all have a newspaper clipping of the arrival of the children from Korea. And in it the parents are happy and the babies all look traumatized. I look at my arrival pictures now, and I’m just, like, that poor kid—no one explained to her what the hell’s going on.”

When she thought now about that bewildered child at the airport in 1976 in her peacock dress, her nose all bloody, she found that she thought about her in the third person. “I don’t really think about this as me anymore,” she said. “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t think I can think about it in the first person, because I think that would. . . .” She paused. “She’s had to stay in the past,” she said. “I don’t know that I could bring her here.” ♦

[kanazawa-division]

“The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them.”

Timeline

Age 0:

Is born to Naofumi Kurusu and Makenna Murray in Sydney, Australia.

Age 3:

Family moves to Tokyo, Japan

Age 5:

His younger sister, Shannon, is born. Making him an older brother.

Age 8:

Shannon is constantly in the hospital for being sicker than the average child, his mother takes him to visit her after school.

Age 12:

Meets Kaiji Sano and immediately becomes friends due to their shared love for anime and video games

Age 13:

Defends Kaiji from a group of boys who were bullying him

Age 15:

Shannon’s condition worsens, only treatment that can cure her is an expensive surgery.

His parents are stressed and get into arguments

Joey decides to take matters into his own hands and starts gambling.

Age 16:

Tells Kaiji about his plans to make money for his sister’s surgery and asks for his help.

Continues gambling, eventually gaining an addiction.

Age 17:

Is chased into a corner by some thugs who he kept beating while gambling, they beat him pretty badly.

Age 18:

Barely graduates high school, attends University to obtain his degree in criminal justice.

Age 19:

Finds out that Kaiji had been stealing from him and cuts ties with him, angrily stating that he never wants to see him again.

Later that night, Shannon is found dead with multiple stab wounds to the chest.

His father throws himself into his work, his mother grieves, and Joey locks himself in his room, reevaluating his life.

Moves to Kanazawa.

Age 20:

Decides to go to rehab to lose his gambling addiction.

Age 21:

Recovers from his gambling addiction and attends a video game convention

Meets Mamoru Hirano and after an embarrassing first meeting, offers him to take him on a date, Mamoru accepts.

His parents relationship takes a turn for the worse, the two of them not on speaking terms.

Age 22:

Graduates university with a degree in criminal justice,

Starts police training.

Him and Mamoru move in together.

His mother moves to Kanazawa in an apartment close to him.

Meets Wataru Sasaki and Kyler Aaron.

Age 23:

Present.

Plans on proposing to Mamoru but keeps hesitating at the last minute.

Becomes an official homicide detective for the Kanazawa Police Department and already has solved 3 gruesome, difficult cases.

Hears about Wataru’s plan to join the DRB and begs him to let him join his team when making the connection that his sister’s killer could be the one wreaking havoc on Japan, Wataru reluctantly agrees.

Participates in Division Rap Battles along with Wataru Sasaki and Kyler Aaron, becomes 3rd and final member of Kanazawa Division’s Justice Shield.

Schedule

12 a.m. - 6 a.m.: Asleep

6 a.m. - 7 a.m.: Freshens up

7 a.m. - 7:30 a.m.: Breakfast

7:30 a.m. - 8 a.m.: Arrives at work

8 a.m. - 3 p.m.: Evidence collection

3 p.m. - 4 p.m.: Late lunch + Calls Mamoru because he misses him

4 p.m. - 7:30 p.m.: Investigative work

7:30 p.m. - 9 p.m.: Filing and Paperwork + Bothering Wataru

9 p.m. - 9:30 p.m.: Returns home

9:30 p.m. - 10 p.m.: Eats dinner with Mamoru

10 p.m. - 10:30 p.m.: Freshens up

10:30 p.m. - 11:30 p.m.: Free time (Either gaming or spends it with Mamoru)

11:30 p.m. - 12 a.m.: Gets ready for bed.

Character Hashtags

Regular Hashtags

#Wonder in the macabre

#Why so serious?

#Fun loving detective

Trauma Hashtags

#Gambled my life away

#Sister’s death shattered the family

#I never want to see you again!

Other Info

Hobby: Playing video games

Weakness: Too carefree

Trauma: “My sister was the only thing keeping my family together, now she’s gone.”

Twitter: @Quicksilver1009

Drinks: Yes

Smokes: No

Special Skill: “No matter how hard they try, I can read people like an open book.”

Intro Quote: “Detective Kurusu is on the case!….Pfft.”

Trauma Quote: “S-shanny? I-I…You were fine just a day ago…Who did this….WHO THE FUCK DID THIS?!!”