#Overly long sports babble

[hyenabeanz]

At the risk of having the fire of a thousand angry hockey nerds upon me, I'm going to share the deep dive I did today. I'm going to preface this with this is driven by me being curious about rule and game mechanics, and wondering why reffing sometimes does what it do, especially when incomprehensible on first glance to me. (Translation: this is a hyperfocus neurospicy dive, not a "my blorbo did nothing wrong." My blorbo did do wrong.)

I was pissed at The Hit. It looked really bad. And then I also was wondering WTF the refs were on.

So I found a gif and broke it down into individual frames.

And: I think they were right. Müller's stick is what hit her head, and Flaherty herself didn't, and it was weird flukey shit that made it happen as bad as it did.

PAUSE. I ask you please not come at me without at least reading the whole post. And it's long.

First: I really hope Muller is not too badly hurt, and I am worried, and it was/is upsetting she got clocked so hard. I shit talk Boston because historical MN Boston woho rivalry, but omg I don't want to see anyone hurt. Ever. Especially head injuries. I've had multiple concussions, it makes me ill to watch.

Second: The hit Flaherty delivered was illegal. Period. Yes. Their bodies were not going the same direction. That is against the clarified body rules, and is normally a two minute minor. A penalty was absolutely warranted.

But. Frames and further dissection below the cut. Be mindful they're just as ugly and scary to look at in still frame as in action if not more so. That was your content warning, and please regulate yourself accordingly; I'm not accepting abuse here.

so, chronological key frames from the impact. Hopefully Tumblr don't fuck these up

Looking at the frames, Flaherty never touches Müller's head. She kicks her elbow up to deflect Müller's stick, which is headed straight for her throat because Müller is holding it high, but drops her elbow right before contact. The result is still ugly as it hits in the collarbone region which is so not a nice place to get hit, but it is not a major penalty the way a check to the head is.

The high stick catches on Flaherty, and Flaherty's directional momentum whips it up into Müller's head. Müller's head doesn't move until Flaherty is past her.

The collision is still on Flaherty because she initiated the illegal contact which started the whole thing. But the call was an illegal check to the head, which is a specific thing. And that rule reads:

Rule 48 – Illegal Check to the Head will automatically initiate a further review with the PWHL Central Situation Room, by which referees may confirm their original call, reduce the penalty to a minor if the hit was accidental, or rescind it entirely if the review determines the head was not the main point of contact.

In this case it was pretty clearly accidental since I don't think Flaherty was out there doing the physics of how to get the stick to whip. Her head wasn't the main point of contact *at all.* So them going in between the two extremes of the rule feels appropriate imo since the fallout was so bad even though the head wasn't a point of contact between players.

(As an aside, I was curious if they could change the penalty to "illegal body checking" and assess it as a major, because I could be sold on that being potentially could be appropriate, that it was a bad body check that resulted in injury, but if I'm understanding rule 20.6 correctly, the answer seems to be no:

"The Referee shall have the following options following such review: (i) confirming their original Match Penalty call; or (ii) reducing her original Match Penalty call to a lesser penalty for the same infraction."

If I'm wrong pls lmk!)

So with all that context... It makes much more sense how that shook out imo. Or at the very least I see how someone(s) could legitimately arrive at the conclusion they did.

I don't say this all to say what happened was ok, or that it wasn't bad, because obviously minor shit can escalate bad. I'm not even super interested in convincing people a suspension or major isn't/wasn't warranted though I'm uncertain how they would've managed it with not making a body check call in the first place.

I say all this because a)I do think sometimes refs see stuff we don't. (Was a ref looking right at them at an angle we don't have and can't recreate that was compelling? Did the ref hear the damn stick thwack into the helmet?) b) the conviction that the refs are rigging shit is utterly ridiculous and c) the vitriol I am seeing is unnerving and gross. Wishing injury on anyone sucks. Casting people/entire damn teams as evil and willfully trying to cause severe injury sucks, and the evidence isn't there imo when you put the bits together.

If the stick hadn't been there, it would've probably been a garden variety thuggy hit that absolutely warranted a penalty but would not have been so catastrophic. The kind of play we expect from a physical game.

But nasty unexpected hits are gonna happen. It's fast, it's rough. I'm glad the league is putting stuff in place to try and keep those moments down. But they're still going to happen, even with no evil intent or even overly egregious carelessness.

And again, I really, really hope Müller is ok and recovers well. I do expect her to be out a while (THAT will tell me more about the PWHL's commitment to player safety than anything,) but I hope it's as short as possible. It absolutely was scary and I get why people are upset; it is upsetting that it happened, regardless of how the rules shake out.

[yandere-daydreams]

since y'all are tolerating my sex-doll!genshin bullshit,,, allow me to go on.

from what you've heard, Kaeya was a short-lived model from the Favious Line, barely promoted and quietly discontinued a few months after his initial release when his sly mannerisms and secretive nature proved unpopular with patrons of a collection widely known for its overly sweet, openly affectionate androids. most fans don't even know he exists, but you're a bit of a fanatic, so you do what you can to dig up retracted promotional material, listings from second-hand auctions, anything with a little more information on a model such a sentimental brand seems more than happy to forget. and of course, none of it does you any good, because of course, you only come face-to-face with your favorite local legend on a late walk down a dark alley, when you trip over the twisted leg of a Kaeya model some rich, wasteful asshole just left on the curb.

he's in a bad state - missing an eye, his clothes stained, his metallic endoskeleton visible in some places and completely exposed in others - but you don't care. it takes all night to get him back to your apartment, but it's a labor of love, and you couldn't be happier to finally bring him home.

you plan on repairing him before actually powering him up for the first time, but his wiring seems to be a little fried, and you find him wandering around your living room the morning after you bring him home, fully conscious and just a little less confused than he should be. it's for the best, in the long run - all models have a basic understanding of their own construction, and he's able to guide you through most of his more intensive repairs, even if the unflinching, unblinking expression he sports while you graft on new patches of faux-skin is a little unnerving. you can't replace his eye as easily, but he doesn't seem to mind the old eye-patch you found in the back of your closet, and he's genuinely grateful for what you've done so far, kissing your forehead and mumbling compliments and looking at you in a way that leaves your knees weak and your cheeks hot. that, or he's just doing it to get under your skin. he clearly likes having you at his mercy.

speaking off - his preferences might've gotten a little warped, too. you've done your research, tested out as many different models as you could possibly get your hands on, but you're not sure you've ever met another android as focused on his own pleasure as Kaeya, as happy to watch you choke on his cock as he hums and traces patterns into the back of your neck. he gives as much as he takes, sure, milks orgasms out of you with his tongue like a man starved, but sometimes, you can swear there's a special glint in his remaining eye when he has you on his lap, bouncing on his cock, or when you give him permission to use something aside from his body, to restrain you, to do anything that leaves you with just a little less control than he has. he never takes more than he gives, but still, you've never seen an android who's designed to take at all. besides Kaeya, of course.

you really do love him. he's good company, and he's great with guests, and you're so, so, so glad you brought him home. it's just, with the way he looks at you, with the tone he takes on as he coos praise every time you scrape up yet another lost piece of him - it seems like he might think you're the toy, sometimes, something that belongs to him, something he doesn't really have to listen to when it whines about overstimulation, or digs its nails into his back, or asks him not to wrap his hands around its neck so tightly, next time. he's made you say things, staved off your climax until you promised to never leave him, split you open on his fingers as you moan and babble about how he belongs to you and you belong to him and nothing's going to change that, but you're sure it's nothing, just a part of his backstory you haven't managed to uncover, yet. you're sure he's alright, even if you've been losing your phone, recently, even if your friends are starting to complain about how often your alarm doesn't seem to go off, or you can't find your car keys, or Kaeya pulls you away right before you're supposed to meet up with them.

you're sure he's alright, even if you don't really like the way he looks at you, anymore.

[gubler-me-up]

The Cure

Request: Not sure if you are taking requests but I’d love to see a one shot of that scene where Reid is getting washed down bc of anthrax and he asks the reader “I’m about to get naked, do you really wanna see that?” And the reader is like yeah and leads to some sexy times later lmaooo

A/N: Thank you for the request, anon! While I was writing this I was like how do I turn this moment into something sexy??? but I think I figured it out so I hope it makes for a good smutty read!! Enjoy!

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!reader

Category: Smut

Content warning: Unprotected sex, penetrative sex, fingering, creampie, swearing, mentions of anthrax

Word count: 2.7k

————-

“Go help Hotch,” Spencer insisted.

“Hotch has plenty of people helping him,” you assured.

The biohazard team was hosing him down with water to eliminate any traces of anthrax possibly lingering on his body. You felt bad you had let him wander off by himself even though he continuously insisted it was his fault. You wanted to stay by his side until he was taken to the hospital. You wanted to make sure he was okay throughout the whole process.

“He needs you more than I do,” he said.

You shook your head in protest. “Spence, I’m going to see you off to the hospital.”

“I’m about to get naked so they can scrub me down. Is that something you really wanna see?” He asked.

Without thinking you answered. “Yes.”

You quickly pressed your lips together as you realized what you had said. He looked at you in shock and you could feel the embarrassment tingling in your gut. The biohazard team looked on as if nothing had occurred but you could tell they heard you just by the brief looks they gave you. They seemed intrigued by what would be the next words to leave either of your mouths.

“Uh, maybe I will go see if Hotch needs help,” you said as you turned around.

“Y/N,” you heard him call.

You immediately turned around. You thought you turned around too eagerly because he looked thrown off by how quickly you switched your attention back to him. Or maybe he was still thrown off by your response to him. Either way you stood there waiting for him to say another word.

“I wa-”

“Dr. Reid, did you cut your hand?” Dr. Kimura asked.

Spencer looked at his left hand and you could see the instant look of panic wash over his face. You felt your heart drop as you saw how scared he looked and you were deeply scared for him. You both had thought he was in the clear for about an hour at that point which scared you even more. While they were hosing him down the anthrax had been going into his bloodstream.

He then let out a raspy cough. The panic started to come over you and you went right up to the glass that separated the both of you. He looked up at you and tried to tell you something but he was interrupted by a series of raspy coughs.

“He needs to get to the hospital now,” Dr. Kimura said.

“Spence, you’re going to be okay. Please tell him he’s going to be okay,” you begged.

“He’ll be okay once we get him to a hospital,” she reassured you.

She grabbed him by the arm and escorted him out of the room. The other biohazard team members rushed to the ambulance in the driveway. You ran out the door to meet them in the driveway. They took out the gurney and helped Spencer onto it.

You looked on in horror as he had trouble catching his breath. You didn’t even think your steps through as you walked towards the ambulance. As they put him in you were ready to climb in along with him. Dr. Kimura had to stop you immediately.

“Agent, you can’t be in the ambulance,” she said.

“But I have to make sure he’s okay,” you said.

“I know you do but I don’t want you to be put at risk. Meet us at the hospital to find out any further details about his health,” she said.

Before you could protest any further she hopped into the ambulance and closed the doors. You heard the sirens blare as they rushed out of the driveway towards the hospital. You ran towards the SUV and hopped into the driver’s side to get ready to follow them.

You took out your phone and called Hotch before you followed them. You impatiently waited for him to answer. You wanted to be by Spencer’s side as soon as possible so he had someone by his side to make sure he was okay. As soon as Hotch answered you frantically babbled everything you had to say to him.

“Hotch, Reid’s going to the hospital because the anthrax is probably in his bloodstream, so I’m going there right now to make sure he’s going to be okay,” you said.

“Y/L/N, how did that even happen? I thought they were going to hose him off,” he said.

“Hotch, I’ll fill you in later but I have to go. Bye,” you said and hung up on him.

You knew Hotch would call you out for your irrational need to panic but you didn’t care. You had to make sure Spencer had some sort of support. He had been through so much by himself and you couldn’t let him go through another downfall in his life alone. You put on your sirens and pulled out of the driveway before rushing to the hospital.

It had been an agonizing three hours of waiting for Spencer to wake up. Lucky for him he found the cure before he was rushed to the hospital. When he did wake up you made sure he was the first person he saw. It would have been you and Morgan but he went to go get an extra jello for Spencer for when he woke up. You and Morgan had eaten both of the jello’s in his room because you both got hungry as you waited for him to open his eyes.

You were over the moon when he had woken up. You couldn’t contain your excitement and went in for a hug immediately. You made sure it wasn’t too tight but close enough so he could feel the warmth you had to give to him. He wrapped his arms around you to hold you tight to him.

He couldn’t thank you enough for being by his side the whole three hours he was asleep. You assured him you would have waited longer if need be. The need did arise when Dr. Kimura informed him she wanted to keep him overnight to make sure he was fully stabilized. You told him you would stay with him as long as possible before the hospital had to send guests home for the night.

You were walking back to his hospital room with a paper bag full of fresh fries from the mom and pop diner from across the street. Spencer said he wished he had some fries to balance out his plain Jane hospital ham and cheese sandwich. You took it upon yourself to get it for him. It was the least you could do for him after everything he had been through in the day.

You knocked on his hospital room door before entering. He was reading a sports magazine Morgan had left behind in his room. From the look of confusion and dissatisfaction on his face you didn’t think he liked it very much. He looked up at you and instantly smiled as he tossed the magazine onto the side table.

“Hey, I got those fries you wanted,” you said.

“Aw, Y/N, you really didn’t have to,” he said.

“Spence, this isn’t the time for you to be overly considerate about my time or money. You almost died today,” you said as you closed the door behind you.

“That’s no excuse to splurge on me,” he said.

You chuckled as you rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible sometimes. If you don’t want them I’ll gladly eat them for you.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want them, I just said you didn’t have to but since they’re here I’ll eat them,” he said.

You laughed as you walked up to his hospital bed. You sat on the edge and handed over the bag. He smiled as he gladly took the bag from you.

“Thank you for everything, Y/N. I really appreciate you,” he said.

“No problem. Anytime,” you said.

“Can I ask you for one last favour?” He asked.

“Of course,” you said.

“Can you pull the curtains? I don’t feel comfortable with people watching me eat through the windows,” he said.

You got up and walked over to the big curtain to pull it across to block out anyone from looking in. The only light pouring in now was from the little gap of space at the top. You looked over at him with a smile but soon noticed he had put the bag of fries on the side table.

“Aren’t you hungry?” You asked.

“I’m actually curious about what you had said earlier,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow in question to what he meant but you already knew what he was asking about. You walked back over to him and sat on the edge of his hospital bed. You knew he could see through your disguise of playing dumb. You sighed and decided to come clean instead of trying to lie to a profiler.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing you naked. I know it was totally inappropriate and unprofessional and I’m sorry,” you rambled.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“Because I wanted you to stay,” he admitted.

It took a second for you to comprehend what he said. Your eyes widened as you took in his desire for you to be there as he got naked. You didn’t have any words to say to that. On the inside you were screaming at a high pitch that only dogs could hear but nothing left your mouth. You could see Spencer’s open expression soon fade into a worried one.

“Uh, sorry. Maybe you didn’t mean-”

You leaned in and kissed him briefly on the lips to prevent him from continuing his sentence. When you leaned up from him you could see a thrill spark in his eyes. You softly giggled as you felt adrenaline come over you.

“I think you’re really special, Spence and for months now I’ve had you on my mind,” you confessed.

“So have I. Eight months, twelve days and eight hours to be exact,” he said.

You chuckled. “I’m glad we’re on the same basis. If my profiler skills are on point you didn’t want me to close the blinds so you could eat.”

He smirked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You chuckled as you crawled onto the bed and swung your leg over him so you could straddle him. You leaned closer to him so you were right in front of his face. He couldn’t hide his true intentions from you now. He couldn’t help but laugh as you caught him red-handed.

“How about we stop talking and start doing?” You asked before planting a heavy kiss on him.

He latched his hands onto your hips. He lowered your body down so your pelvis could touch his. You could feel how hard he was through his hospital gown. You slowly grinded on his hard bulge to get him even harder. He moaned through the kiss and you loved hearing him being unable to even form a proper word to express how you made him feel.

He slid his hands down to the bottom of your skirt and moved his hands up to pull it up. He managed to slip his fingers underneath you and slowly stroked the cloth of your underwear. You started to moan yourself and you wanted more of what he was doing to you. You moved your underwear out of his way so he could get to stroke you properly.

He didn’t hesitate to run his fingers up and down your folds. He made sure not to forget to pay your clit a visit here and there. You moaned in pleasure as you let him feel you for the first time. You unbuttoned the first four buttons of your blouse because you were getting hot. Spencer had no problem with you revealing more of yourself to him. In fact he looked ecstatic to see you loosen up even more.

He then inserted two fingers into you. You nearly lost your mind as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. He looked you in your eyes as he did. He had a small smirk on his face in response to how you could barely contain yourself anymore. He leaned forward to trap you in another lengthy kiss. From your lips he kissed along the side of your face until he reached your ear.

“I’ve been waiting for a long time to know how you feel,” he whispered.

“I hope it’s everything you’ve ever desired,” you moaned.

“It’s more than I could ever desire,” he whispered.

His words alone could send you over the edge. You pulled back the sheets from under you and proceeded to lift his hospital gown. You gently took his fingers out of you as it was time for you to show him how good you could feel.

You grabbed his dick from underneath you to hold it in place. You gently slid down onto it and you both let out a moan in unison. You grabbed onto his shoulders for support as you gently rode him. You would go faster but you thought he had already been through a wild ride during the day.

The way he grabbed your hips to motion you to go faster indicated to you his heart could take it. You obliged and quickened your pace as you continued to let out countless moans. You looked in his eyes as you rode him and you could see how lost in lust he looked.

“How do I feel now?” You asked.

“Amazing,” he said.

You smiled and leaned down to kiss him again. You couldn’t get over how amazing his kisses were. You didn’t know if you liked his kisses more or his dick. He was definitely the whole package all around and you couldn’t get off the high he made you feel.

You continued to ride him for a few minutes and it was becoming harder and harder for both of you to contain your moans. You then felt him grab your hips to hold them still. You were confused until he started to buck his hips up into you. You accidentally moaned louder than expected so he hushed you as he continued to buck his hips.

“I’m about-”

“Just fucking cum in me.”

“You su-”

“Yes, just do it.”

He grunted as he came in you. You moaned out a sigh and eased up off of his dick. You two were heavily breathing but catching your breaths didn’t stop you from kissing each other. You could have kissed him for hours on end but a knock on the door scared you so deeply you jumped off of him. You fixed your skirt and buttoned your blouse as quickly as possible as Spencer pulled down his nightgown before covering himself with his sheet.

“Come in,” he said.

A security guard came in. He looked at the both of you and for a second you were nervous he knew what you two did. You didn’t exactly care if you two were caught by him but it didn’t make a good first-time story to remember. You immediately grabbed your bag because you came back down to reality and realized what he was going to say.

“Visitation hours are up, miss,” he said.

“I know, I’m leaving now,” you said.

He nodded and left, closing the door behind him. You looked over at Spencer and the both of you laughed. You leaned in and gave him one last kiss.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning to pick you up,” you said.

“Thank you. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow,” he said.

You smiled. “Me either. See you tomorrow.”

You turned around to walk towards the door. You couldn’t stop smiling to yourself as you thought about the possibilities of tomorrow and the future with Spencer held. Before you turned the doorknob to leave, you heard him call you.

“Y/N,” he said.

You turned your head. “Yes?”

“I can’t let you leave without asking you on a date. Would you like to go on a date next week?” He asked.

You giggled. Even though the two of you just had sex in his hospital bed, he still had to be a gentleman about the whole thing. He was definitely the best guy you had ever known. You nodded in excitement.

“I would love to, Spence,” you replied.

He smiled. “Awesome. I can’t wait. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Spence."

—–

MASTERLIST

Tagged: @shadyladyperfection, @slutforthegubes, @pinkdiamond1016, @spencerreidsthings, @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto, @slutforsr @bxtchboy69, @fallinallinmendes @haihappen5 @mgg-theprettiestboy @siltuz-png @ptrs-prkrs @tclaerh @agentadhd @alexmarie29 @closetedreidstan @mac99martin @blxckhearthood @jesspavlik0vsky @katexrichardson @keniaasf @reidbuck @corishirogane3 @thegoddamncrazycatlady @keniaasf @pastelbabygirl19 @shadybagelsludgecolor @bootycrackraisinjuice @vintagebeauty1496 @laneybobeczko-g @littlewierdalien @cynbx

[tenyacore]

their love is...

-> bakusquad + jiro x gn!reader (separately).

this either gon flop or its gonna pop off as a sexy hot post would..... idk mane.

warnings: mild language, brief mention of a blunt in sero's, very vague brief mention of throwing up bcos of a stomach virus in kiri's.

word count: 207 (mina), 204 (denki), 208 (kirishima), 209 (sero), 206 (bakugo), 205 (jiro).

alternative title: im falling in luv <//3

check out my masterlist for more of my works !!

mina’s love is… joyful. hyper bunches of pecks all over your face, late night nail painting and face masks. watching terrible rom coms and laughing together, the night ending with a light hearted make out session, only pausing to giggle and look at each other fondly. shopping sprees where you two spend hours trying out clothing, even sporting the ugliest shirts you could find for each other as you two held a fashion show.

helping her find better products and better routines for wash day, going on full on spa days and chatting all day long as you get your mani pedis by actual professionals, relaxing together. online window shopping together, your feet up, kicking the air, bumping against and tangling with hers as you two added shirt after shirt into your cart. secretly adding gifts into the cart while she’s in the bathroom as a surprise for her when the package comes.

buying her skin care and spa day supplies because you know how much she loves taking care of her physical appearance, because it gives her confidence. seeing the way she both literally and figuratively glows after a self care day with you, your arms never failing to find their way around each other again.

denki’s love is… chaotic. sneaking out late at night to skateboard in a dark, unkempt park. scurrying off and finding cover when a random drunk starts incoherently babbling at you two. desperately holding in fits of laughter in the middle of the night, him accidentally farting from straining too hard. playing video games together when you should be studying, taste testing every flavor that monster energy drinks come in and deliberating where it should rank between other flavors, from best to worst.

placing bets and waxing him when he loses, slapping a hand over his mouth nervously whenever he lets out a blood curdling scream at the pain of the waxing process. tip toeing into the kitchen when everyone else is asleep and stealing snacks like the kitchen gremlins you are, before him slipping and falling over. getting zapped lightly whenever you creep up behind him, making him electrocute a chair whenever mineta says something outta pocket, so you can go “electric chair” and point to it.

holding burping contests, being tired of each others’ bs whenever one of you starts acting hyper. saying “that’s kinda gay” every time one of you says something overly cheesy, yet loving whenever you’re sappy with each other.

kirishima’s love is… strong. unwavering and loyal no matter what. being by your side during playful tickle fights, painful situations, and everything in between. piggy back rides and ice cream clinging to the tip of his nose after he steals a lick of your ice cream cone. holding every door open for you, pulling out every chair, and never failing to support you even during the most off putting scenarios.

holding back your hair as you suffer from a stomach virus, rubbing your back after a night terror. being an indestructible pillar of support to you when everything comes rushing back to you, a sturdy net to catch you when you find yourself falling. being there for him when he becomes overwhelmed, reminding him he is forever the strongest, best hero in your eyes. unspoken words reaching each other through muffled sniffles and tight grasps. dyeing each others’ roots and confiding in each other when it comes to secrets no one else knows.

being confident in your love for each other and vice versa, not hesitating to open up and be vulnerable about past pains. reassuring each other of how important you two are to one another, mumbling reminders of your love to each other throughout the day.

sero’s love is… calm. dancing slowly to kali uchis, doing everything together as if you’re attached by the hip. him introducing you to indie latinx music as you sit back and unwind from a long, long day. him giving you massages as you fall asleep because of the ministrations of his hands against your tired back. respecting boundaries and never pressuring you into things you’re uncomfortable with, not taking advantage of you or turning a helpful act like undoing your buttons or pulling down your zipper into something sexual unless you give clear consent.

understanding each other with the subtlest looks, getting each other just by seeing body language. mutually coming to each others’ aid in uncomfortable situations, a relationship built on complete trust and love- being able to stand on your own but preferring to lean on each other. not two halves of one whole, but two wholes coming together as one.

sharing his blunts and feather light pecks turning into hungry kisses. eating half of your meal at a restaurant and then switching plates and finishing each others’ food. light hearted banter, hardly ever fighting because of his relaxed nature, soothing your irritation. late night romantic speeches, professing your undying love to one another before falling asleep.

bakugo’s love is… surprising. it starts off as nothing special, the same relationship with a different label. aggressively negating that he enjoys the way your hands linger on his, hidden blushes followed by soft pops coming from his palms in embarrassment. over time, his reaction to your hand lingering on his becomes him softly grabbing your hand, squeezing it tenderly.

his hidden blushes becoming yours, and what once were stiff hugs becomes warm cuddles, his hand drifting slowly on your lower back, and you can swear his index finger is dragging against your skin more than the others, lightly etching a pattern that feels like a lopsided heart on your skin. cooking your favorite foods for you, getting special treatment from him even when you join in with the others’ antics.

soft expressions just for you, the way his brows unfurrow at the sight of your smile, the way his shoulders become less tense when he wraps his arms around your body, feeling every curve and point there is to feel. sweet kisses never to be expected from such a hot headed boy. a new side, all to you. a whole new world, all for you to enjoy, and love, just as you are all his.

jiro’s love is… musical. mixtapes filled with songs to make you smile and to make you cry. songs to fill your heart with sheer happiness to have met someone like her. joyfully playing the guitar and singing together, and going to music stores to look through all the cds and vinyls.

love songs filling the air and finding songs to softly kiss her to, holding her face in your hands as you tearfully sing a heartwarming love song. “the only exception” being your song, a song that always reminds you of one another. finding new songs together as you lay on the bed, hand in hand as you listen intently to every word. tons of joint playlists filled with your favorite songs for every different occasion, from things as common as naps together, to things you’ll probably never do, like road trips across the country.

secretly thinking up a list of songs you’d want to have at your wedding- not realizing the other has done so as well, and you both have the same songs filling them up. dancing cheerfully together at the end of a day together, your bodies’ last hurrah before you give out in each others’ arms, content, and full of love.

[mymelodyheart]

Miles Between Us Chapter 10 ~The Art of Non-Communication

WARNING: MILD SEXUAL CONTENT

Previously in The Mediation

"Three million pounds for a house!" Jenny broke through his reflection. "Doesn't it make ye wonder what else she inherited?"

Jamie looked at the paper again.  That's what the house is worth? Ach, Christ!  Even the Oxford gossip found its way to Broch Mordha. He knew Claire would be mortified if the news of her assets became everyone's favourite topic of conversation.

Folding the note, he handed it back to his sister. He shook his head at his sister. "Not a word about this to any of yer mates!" he warned her. "Or else ..."

Jenny's eyes widened. "What do ye take me for?"

"A babble merchant," he ribbed, unsmiling. "Now, let me be."

"Ye're no' angry at me still, are ye?"

"No," he sighed. "I'm just exhausted."

"Can I do anything for ye?"

He puffed out a breath. Jenny was looking at him earnestly, and he knew she only wanted to reach out. "Aye, in fact, ye can. Ye can arrange that appointment with the therapist for me."

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  Jamie was removed from the noise of Lallybroch's homely routine when he stepped inside the shower that barely allotted for his breadth and height. He stroked the erection he'd been sporting since he'd woken up from his dreams of Claire, his elbow occasionally hitting the wall. If he kept this pace up, there would be some damaged tiles to answer for by the time he finally climaxed.

Creamy pale skin and amber eyes seeped through his mind, and he stifled a groan, the throbbing flesh in his hand swelling to the point of anguish. It was the reason he'd escaped to the shower when his dad had woken him, the image of Claire still vivid and the need to spill urgent. But the act of pleasuring himself was tainted with guilt. It didn't feel right using the memory of them together to find completion when he'd left her on her own. Not only did it make him a sick lecherous human being, but his action defied all reason and logic. 

Anyone in their right mind wouldn't be depriving themselves if they had what he and Claire had, but instead, here he was, on self-imposed retreat, his hungry thoughts reliving that time she'd been on her knees taking his entire length in her sweet, sweet mouth. Depravity kicked in, and his body responded to the memory in a fast, fluid rush. Every moral compass he'd had, went from dried cement to loose sand, and nothing could contain the rampant desire to relieve the pressure between his legs. 

He propped his left hand on the wet wall and quickened the pace of his strokes, the tight fist travelling from the base of his hardness to the engorged tip. 

"Christ," he gritted, hoping he could finish without the repercussion of self-loathing and feeling like an unredeemable bastard. 

Ye left her! In tears!

It's for her own good. I'm taking steps to make myself better ...for her.

What if she gets sick and tired of waiting for ye to sort out yer issues?

No, no ...she understands. 

Ye havenae called her.

I'll see her after the therapy, for fuck sake.

Guilt made him want to dim the image of Claire sucking him, but the heavy sack hung between his thighs wouldn't be wheedled into emptying without envisioning her. 

He was so close. He replayed Claire's most recent voice message in his head, her voice husky and yearning. She must have been in bed wearing nothing but his shirt.  I love you, Jamie. I wish I could hold you right now and ease your pain.

"Ah, fuck!" Jamie groaned as convulsion racked his body. "Christ, Sassenach." His seed spurted from his cock in what felt like an endless surge of the tide. Back and forth until he was compelled to release his flesh to brace himself with both hands on the tiled surface while the remnant of his release washed down onto the shower floor.

The water had turned tepid by the time reality came streaming back in. Steeling himself, Jamie waited for the chitter-chatter in his head to start reprimanding, telling him what a sick bastard he was, but nothing came. It was quiet. Notably quiet, in fact, and the prolonged silence was too unusual for comfort and almost deafening. The voices had been his life long companion, and it seemed like someone had muted the noises. The only sound he heard was the sound of his breathing and the shower spray hitting the surfaces.

He almost jumped at the loud rapping on the door. "Jamie! Ye're gonnae be late for yer therapy appointment," Willie called out, impatience lacing his voice.

He blew out a breath. "Two minutes!" he shouted. Damn it!

"Two minutes," Willie repeated, and he strode off, the sound of his heavy footsteps making creaking sounds on the wooden floor.

Therapy! He wasn't looking forward to it, but if it would mean bringing him closer to living a normal life with Claire, he'd take his chances. He had his future waiting for him in his cottage, and God knew what was going through her mind with his prolonged absence. There's a possibility she could decide right there, and then, she'd had enough, and he could be returning to an empty home. Fuck that! No' gonnae happen.

Wrenching a curse from the depths of his soul, he grabbed a towel and dried himself in record time. No more messing about. It was time to regain back the rein to his life. After his therapy, he was returning back to his Sassenach.

..........

Jamie hadn't replied to Claire's multiple voice messages, so she'd stopped sending them, thinking he needed a break. If it hadn't been for Willie checking up on her, Rollo needing to be walked and her own work keeping her busy, she would have gone out of her mind. 

She found solace in knowing he was safe with his family and sorting out his issues and tried not to dwell on the theory that she might be the reason for his worsening condition; otherwise, it would mean giving up on them and walking out of his life for his own good. They'd both had a traumatic start to childhood. If anything, their shared experience should bring them together ...well, at least she was hoping that was the case.

As long as she was busy, she was absolutely fine. But it hurt being apart from Jamie. The minute she unwinded from her daytime activities, the feeling of abandonment crept in, and she felt lost and empty. An all-consuming gloom would lurk, overwhelming her, and tears would start to fall. It had been only two days since Jamie left, but she was already fearing she'd return to London without seeing him again. It's just not fair. It was as if the universe was conspiring to keep them apart, and if that was the case, they'd never really had a chance from the start. Such thoughts would lead to a part of her wishing they'd never met because it was like being shown what happiness with someone you love could be, only to be yanked back out of reach.

She glanced out the kitchen window and realised it had begun to rain, the grey skies echoing her sombre mood. Frustrated, she mentally shook herself. There were a lot of things to do, and her uncle would be arriving in a couple of days. She hadn't mentioned anything to him about what had happened with Jamie, but that was a worry she'd have to deal with later. Because of all days, Tom Christie had called earlier, arranging to meet with her this afternoon to further discuss his book's publication. She hadn't anticipated meeting up with him for another week or more. Maybe it was a good thing he'd decided to show up. It would certainly be a much-needed distraction from the growing worries she had of Jamie. But first, she needed to book a bed and breakfast room in the village centre, a request her uncle had explicitly stressed as he didn't want to stay in Jamie's cottage to watch them canoodle, as he'd gruffly pointed out. But Claire highly doubted there would be any danger of his uncle witnessing that anytime soon.

Grabbing her coat and bag, she headed out. She was just stepping across the threshold when she caught sight of Jamie's sister walking towards her. What is she doing here? The last time she'd seen Jenny was when they were first introduced, and back then, she hadn't failed to notice the lukewarm reception. She'd tried her best to dismiss it as overly protective sibling behaviour. But something had been niggling in her mind lately ever since Willie mentioned Jenny's meddling with Jamie's love life.

Bracing herself, she forced a smile. "Hi, I'm just on my way out. Does Jamie need some fresh shirts?" She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "I can quickly grab some if that's what you came here for."

There was an awkward silence. "I ...ah, I'm here to see ye." Jenny held up a plastic container. "Oh, and ma made these ... it's rhubarb pie. And she's asking after ye."

"Oh, that's thoughtful. How are ..."

"Do ye have a moment?" Jenny interrupted out of the blue.

Claire paused. Though feeling like she was in this weird bubble filled with fog and not in the mood for small talk or niceties, she stepped back and waved Jamie's sister in. "Sure. I suppose I can spare a few minutes."

Jenny nodded gratefully and stepped inside the cottage. Claire watched her cross the room to place the rhubarb pie and her shoulder bag on the dining table. She started to wring her hands, possibly because she'd realised Claire wasn't going to initiate the talk. 

"Jamie is taking steps to get better," Jenny began, facing her.

"I know."

"Of course, you do."

Claire tamped down the urge to roll her eyes. "From what Jamie's told me, that's what he's been doing all his life, hasn't he?"

"Yes, that's true."

She sighed, impatience beginning to creep in. "Jenny, why are you really here? Please let's not pretend that you like me. You practically ignored me when we first met, and you've made no attempt whatsoever to get to know me. I am not expecting us to be the best of mates just because I'm with Jamie, but I do expect manners. So, I am asking very kindly if there's a reason for you taking over my precious time, please spit it out."

Jenny's eyebrows hit her hairline. "I ...uh ...I came because I wanted to see you. To check if ye're alright."

"Willie's been doing that but thank you anyway." She had no time for pussyfooting around. Pulling her coat tighter around her, she made a move to leave. "Well, I need to get going. Please thank your mum for me for the pie. I'll have it later with coffee when I return. And regards to your da as well." She pulled the door open.

"Wait ..."

"Yes?"

Jenny let out a rickety inhale. "I'm sorry, okay? I came to apologise. You're right. I was downright rude." Her lips barely moved when she said the words. It was as if it's taking a lot out of her to admit to her faults. "I have no right to meddle in my brother's affairs, moreso make ye feel unwelcome when ye're the one Jamie wants to be with." Her shoulders lost most of their tension, but the lines of her body were still strained tight. "I was worried about my brother making trips to London, and ye ken the reason why. I thought by not acknowledging ye, ye would eventually go away for good. I ken it was wrong. I shouldn't have behaved the way I did."

"But making me go away wouldn't have made a difference to his condition. Jamie would have continued to have those panic attacks."

"I ken," Jenny shrugged. "It was a dumb move, and I feel stupid for it. I realise that now. I dinnae ken what I was thinking. I'm so sorry, Claire. Can we start all over again and be friends?" 

Claire felt a spark of sympathy for Jenny. In that brief moment of admission, she'd kind of started to like the girl in front of her. Though she knew it would take a while before they could converse without feeling awkward, at least this was a start. Claire smiled genuinely for the first time. "Of course. I understand now why you felt the way you did." She glanced at her watch. "But in as much as I'd like to continue this bonding, I really need to go. I have a few errands to run. Shall we talk another time?"

"Oh aye, I completely forgot ye have someplace to go." She whipped around to grabbed her bag but knocked it to the floor instead, spilling its contents. "Ach, so clumsy of me," she muttered, getting onto her knees. "Ye go ahead, Claire. I have a spare key. I'll lock up once I'm done,

Claire immediately crouched down to help, grabbing feminine bits and bobs that were scattered on the rug. "Two pair of hands are always quicker getting the job done," she assured her.

"Aye, I guess so," Jenny mumbled as she skimmed the area with her eyes looking for anything she missed.

Claire scooped the loose pennies that had rolled off and slotted them into Jenny's bag. Then she picked up a slip of paper and was about to hand it to Jenny when she realised it was a newspaper clipping with her surname printed on it. Curious, Claire unfolded it and was surprised to see it was a small article from Oxford Mail about her family home, including a small line mentioning her as an heiress. Though she was aware of the article's existence, she was shocked to see it in Jenny's possession. What is Jenny doing with this?

Blood drained from her face when she recalled Willie's story about Jenny playing matchmaker between Geneva and Jamie. Didn't Willie say Geneva comes from a well-off family, Jenny's perfect solution to Lallybroch's financial problem? Claire skimmed the familiar article once more, the worth of her property jumping out of the paper: three million pounds. A sudden sharp pain slammed into her chest.

Claire held up the newspaper cutting to Jenny's face. "Why do you have this?" she whispered through numb lips.

Jenny's face was white as a sheet. "I ...it was given to me."

"Is this the reason why you're suddenly nice?"

"No!" Jenny licked her lips, thoughts racing behind her blue eyes. "I swear to God, I meant what I said earlier ...that I’m sorry. It has nothing to do with ..." She waved a hand towards the paper Claire was holding. "...that."

Claire scrambled to her feet. "You're sorry?" Her voice was high-pitched and unnatural, but she couldn't help it. There's a rumbling earthquake beginning to take place inside her. "When did you start feeling sorry, Jenny? After you read this?" She crumpled the piece of paper and threw it on the floor. "Did you really want to be my friend? Or was that all hogwash too?"

"Claire, please." Misery slashed across her face. "I realised my mistake when Jamie took off with his car the other night, and Willie spent hours looking for him. My parents, husband and I were up, and we were worried sick. My constant meddling has made him fled and taken him away from ye." She wrung her hands together. "I was a bloody idiot for thinking I was doing what's best for my brother when, in fact, I was making things worse. And Jamie's now miserable because he thinks it's all his fault when really, it's mine. Ye have to believe me when I say that piece of paper was given to me. I never sought it myself. It was handed to me."

"Good God, are you listening to yourself?" Her voice had been reduced to a whisper. All she could see was Jamie's guilt and tortured face that day when he'd told her about his fight with Jenny. His pained expression before he'd sped off to the night and her fear of the unknown. The many times he'd excused and apologised for his sister's behaviour because he thought Jenny was doing it out of love when Claire could clearly see it was all out of selfishness. "Let me get this straight ...you only recognised your mistake because you became worried sick after your brother took off. Are you even aware that you've been treating him like an imbecile all this while as if he can't decide for himself? This was never about him, Jenny, is it? You're only thinking about yourself. The other night scared the bejesus out of you because you knew well you were part of the reason he took off. Tell me this ...how does it feel like to be riddled with guilt now, huh? Try multiplying that guilt by a thousandfold and remind yourself that's what Jamie feels every day of his life. And if you think saying sorry will make things right again, you need your head thoroughly examined. Jamie loves you despite all your meddling, and you unashamedly continued to manipulate him. So excuse me if I have trouble believing a single word you're saying now. Because you know what the bloody hell this looks like? Your apologies to me sound like you're trying to manipulate me as well. And all because I happen to own an impressive three million pound property."

"No!" Jenny shook her head in despair. "Everything else is true ...but not that about yer property." There's a tremor in her voice and shame in her eyes. "I stopped by yesterday to apologise to ye, but ye werenae home, and when Mrs Fitz from across the road saw me, she handed me that newspaper clipping. I swear to God, Claire, I came to ye even before I knew ye had that property."

Claire couldn't stand there and listen anymore, not after what she'd gone through the last couple of days. She needed to let all her frustration out, or she'd implode. "I don't trust you, Jenny. If drivel could bounce, you'd be in the bloody orbit by now. Unfortunately, that won't happen, so I'm out of here. I can't stand being here any longer." The words exploded out of her and popped in the air like bright red fireworks. 

Jenny fell back a step and gasped. Claire was shocked too with the words that came out of her mouth. But she took that opportunity to rush out of the cottage, not caring if it was still raining, only focusing on getting as far away from Jenny as possible.

She'd just crossed the street when a vehicle screeched to a stop and reversed. Claire kept on walking, still reeling from her conversation with Jenny.

"Miss Beauchamp?"

She stopped and glanced into the Land Rover window that stopped by her side and noticed a familiar face. "Yes?"

The man tipped his baseball cap on his head and smiled. "It's me, Tom Christie."

"Oh ... it's you ... you're early!" was all she could say, too surprised for words.

"Actually, I'm on my way home to change clothes before our meeting. Do ye need a ride? I noticed ye dinnae have a brolly with ye, and it's raining."

Claire glanced back at the cottage and saw Jenny standing at the doorway, looking at her with that still ashen face. She'd heard rumours in the village about Tom being a ladies' man and knew what it would look like to Jenny if she got into the Land Rover with him. But she didn't give a flying fig. Let her gossip! Smiling, she nodded at Tom. "Yes, please. To the village centre if it's no trouble."

He grinned. "Nae bother at all. Hop in."

..........

"Remind me again why I'm here," Willie mumbled under his breath as they followed a young woman down a long hallway lined with modern paintings. "I thought I made it clear it should be Claire attending this therapy with ye. In case ye need reminding, I got our business to run."

Jamie sighed. "I'd rather ye're here. Ye ken my condition better than anyone."

"Is it Geneva ye're worried about?" his older brother asked in a low voice.

"God, no. I'd be more worried if Jenny came with me. Christ, she'd been pushing Geneva and me together for as long as I can remember. I ken the lass took a fancy in me, but that's all it ever was. I'm just concerned it's gonnae be weird since we ken each other."

Willie glanced at him with understanding. "There's nae avoiding it, lad. We live in a small village, and everyone knows everyone. It's the bane of living in such a place. We just have to make do with what we have."

"Aye, that's true."

The young woman in front of them turned. "The last one on the right," she smiled, pointing at the white door. Jamie wanted to say he knew his way around and that it was the same office as his former therapist but decided not to and returned her smile instead.

With Willie close behind him, he stepped forward and knocked lightly against the door. A feminine voice answered from the inside, "Come in."

Pushing the door open, they were greeted by a familiar, cosy space and Geneva, dressed in a black pantsuit with her hair done in a bun. She was sat in a dark leather armchair, looking them over with her transparent-rimmed glasses. If she was surprised to see Willie with him, she hid it well. 

"Mr Fraser, it's nice to see you again." Smiling warmly, she stood up and held out her hand for him. Taking it, she gave him a firm handshake before doing the same to Willie and motioning them towards the over-size beige leather sofa arranged in the middle of the room. "Please take a seat." Like a couple of schoolboys, they both did as they were told. 

"Before anything else," she began, looking at Jamie. "I have you here for one on one therapy. Is there a reason why you brought your brother with you?"

Jamie cleared his throat and licked his lips. "I, ah, wanted him here for moral support." 

"Fair enough. So what can I do for you?" She smiled, crossing her legs and reclining back into her armchair, a clipboard resting on her thigh.

Jamie anxiously glanced at Willie, but his brother only shrugged. "I dinnae ken where to start. Ever since yer predecessor left, I havenae been to therapy because I didnae feel comfortable seeing a therapist who knows me on a personal level. It kinda feels odd."

She steepled her fingers together, her blue eyes narrowing on him. "I understand this is out of your comfort zone and probably, for some, highly unusual. But I'd like to make it clear that I take my job seriously, and I hold myself to the highest professional standard. Whatever friendship I have with your sister will have no effect whatsoever on what would transpire within these walls. If you wish to proceed, please take a few deep breaths and just forget that you know me. In here, I am Dr Dunsany, and you are Mr Fraser."

Jamie considered her words as she waited patiently for his reply. After a minute of contemplation, he finally nodded and took a few cleansing breaths. "Fine."

She smiled. "So, first things first. What prompted you to finally see a therapist?"

He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. "I'm in a serious relationship." Jamie thought he saw an ever so slight arching of her eyebrow but immediately dismissed it as his imagination. "And my condition and the panic attacks are hurting our relationship. I figured in order for us to move forward, I needed to take steps in getting better."

Geneva picked up her clipboard and started scribbling. "What do you believe your girlfriend thinks about your condition?"

Jamie smiled briefly at the thought of Claire. "Weel, she's very understanding and very patient, and she's taken my condition in a stride. Like the rest of my family, she thinks I'm suffering from suppressed guilt and emotions."

Geneva paused and closely appraised him. "Why do you think she thinks you have suppressed guilt and emotions?"

His heart began to increase its pace, and his throat tightened. "Because we were both there when her parents died. She was able to move on, but I couldnae," the words came out rapidly.

A whoosh of breath came from Willie.

"Why do you think she was able to move on and you couldn't?" she pushed, seemingly unaffected by Jamie's revelation.

A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. "Because it's my fault that she grew up without a family."

He heard Willie's breath hitch, but Geneva ignored his brother.

"And why do you think it's your fault?"

His mouth became dry, and his tongue thick. "I didnae run fast enough to get help when their car crashed. If I had, she wouldnae be orphaned today. If I was stronger, I wouldnae have needed to run off and get my godfather, and I could have pulled the door open myself and saved her parents as well."

"You look like a strong man, Mr Fraser. Why do you think you needed to run and get help to pull the door open?"

"I wasnae big enough back then. I was only ten." He dropped his head into his hand. "And she was so wee ...crying for her ma. All I could do was hold her." 

He started to hyperventilate as the image of Harry staring at him through the window, sprung to life. It was the last image he saw before the car had exploded.

Sensing his discomfort, Geneva stood from her armchair and retrieved two bottles of mineral water from the mini-fridge, handing them each to the brothers. They both gratefully accepted, taking large gulps.

When he got his breathing back under control, she proceeded. "I understand now your frustration at not being big enough to carry the task out yourself and why you had to get your godfather." She scribbled a few more notes on her clipboard. "I'm going to go back to the question you haven't answered yet. Why do you think your girlfriend was able to move on from her parents' death?"

He squashed the empty bottle of mineral water. "She was too young then to understand any of it, just a wee bairn when it happened."

"And so were you."

"She was five, and I was ten. I was old enough to be able to do something about it, but I couldn't."

"Your godfather, who was old enough and stronger than you, was unable to do anything further. Do you think it was your godfather's fault?"

"No! Of course, not. He tried his best. We got her ...Claire, who's m-my girlfriend now, out first and my godfather made me take her to safety. But the car caught fire, and it exploded."

"So it's not your godfather's fault, and yet you think it was your fault."

"Yes!"

"Why would you think, after all the efforts you and your godfather have done to try and save your girlfriend's parents, it's still your fault?"

"It was the way he looked at me."

"Who looked at you?"

"Claire's father. Just before the car exploded."

"How did he look at you?"

"He was just staring at me."

"And you can't get that out of your head?"

"No."

A mild frown of concentration descended across Geneva's face as she flipped through the notes on her clipboard. She reached out for a manila folder on a coffee table by her side and browsed through it too. "This is a great start, Mr Fraser," she continued. "From what I've here in your history with your former therapist, this is the first time you've ever talked about an experience from your childhood. This is highly interesting. Care to tell me why you've never talked about this before."

"It's a memory that I've forgotten, and it's just resurfaced recently."

She arched an eyebrow. "How recently?"

"A few days ago."

"Can you remember what triggered the memories to come back?"

"The night I met my girlfriend's uncle on video chat."

"So, prior to that night, you had no recollection of the forgotten memory, is that correct?"

"Aye."

"Why do you think your girlfriend's uncle triggered all the memory to come back?"

His fingers began to pick at the water bottle label. "He looks exactly my girlfriend' father."

A long silence ensued.

Geneva placed the clipboard by her side and uncrossed her legs. "That will be all for today, Mr Fraser. We've covered enough to have something to work on."

Jamie's head shot up. "So that's it? That was quick," he pointed out, glancing at his watch.

"Oh, we're far from done, Mr Fraser, but you've revealed more than I anticipated, so I decided to stop while we're ahead. Thank you for answering all questions as openly as possible."

"So what's yer diagnosis?"

She tilted her head to the side. "I believe you have a lot of misplaced guilt about your past that may be hindering you from moving on. So ...what I would like you to do is ...I want you to think about how you want your future to look like. Think really hard and try to dig deep. Next time we catch up, we'll discuss everything in details." She stood up, and Jamie and Willie followed suit. "I'll see you next week. My assistant will write down the date of our next meeting. You can pick up your appointment card on the way out," she smiled, opening the door and ushering them out.

The brothers walked out quietly together, both lost in their own thoughts.

"That wasnae too bad, was it?" Willie asked as they stepped out of the building.

Jamie shook his head. "No, no' at all." His head was still buzzing from the session, so he didn't really have much opinion to offer.

"Perhaps next time, ye can bring Claire with ye."

At the mention of her name, he pulled out his phone from his back pocket. He'd silenced it all morning as he'd prepared himself for the therapy but was disappointed to see there was no new message from her. "She hasnae messaged."

"I'm no' surprised. You havenae been returning her calls. And ye have no excuse, lad, because I left ye a charger at Lallybroch."

Jamie followed his brother close behind as they made their way to the car. "How do ye know I've no' been returning her calls?"

"She told me."

"How is she?"

"Find out yersel'."

A familiar bright red Fiat slowed down next to them just as Jamie was about to get into the car, and Ian, their brother-in-law, poked his head out of the window. "Hey, lads, guess who I just saw back in town?"

The brothers looked at each other and shrugged. 

When Ian stalled, Willie blew out an impatient breath. 

"Out with it!" Willie grumbled. "I've been away from work for far too long already."

Ian grinned. "Yer pal Christie."

Jamie waved a hand in the air in dismissal and turned to open the car door, not particularly interested in hearing the latest coming and going in Broch Mordha. "I'm pretty sure the lassies will be thrilled he's back."

"Aye, ye're probably right, but I dinnae think ye'd be too pleased to hear if one particular lass is enjoying his company."

Jamie whipped around. "What do ye mean?" He sounded like someone just launched a flying rugby pass onto his stomach.

"Saw Claire and Tom through the window of Slater's Arms. Probably sitting down for late lunch."

His heart and brain must have swapped places because suddenly, his heart seemed twice as heavy, and his brain thumped against his skull. "M-my Claire?"

Willie tipped his head like he's on the brink of calling Ian an eejit. "Hold up, this could all be just an innocent thing. Wasnae Claire supposed to be meeting with someone from here for some book publication?"

"Nae way!" Ian shook his head. "Christie doesnae look like the type to string a sentence together, never mind write a book."

"Alright," Jamie breathed, propping his hands on the edge of the car's roof. His brain was barely functioning because it was knocking against his temple, making him see red. He'd completely underestimated his ability to let her go, thinking he was doing it for her own good. Claire hadn't called today because she thought he'd given up. Ah, shite! He felt he was going to be sick. "I need to go and see her. Now."

"Fuck!" Willie muttered. "I'm coming with ye." Then he bent down to Ian's eye level and pointed his index finger at his brother-in-law. "Next time, run this kind of info by me first."

Ian smirked. "Fine. But I'm coming too. I'm up for seeing a bit of nefariousness."

Jamie was already in the car, fastening his seat belt. "Let's go!" 

  Dear Readers,

Whew, that was a long chapter. I'm literally drained; nevertheless, I'm feeling a sense of satisfaction that I can post it today. My eyes are wonky, though, from editing, and I was about to go through it again when I thought, ah bugger it, I will do the grammar check tomorrow.

Before I say nighty-night, thanks for your feedback from the previous chapter, and I'm looking forward to what you think of this next one. I know it's slow going, but I really wanted to cover as many plot holes as possible. Slowly but surely, I'm getting there. Anyway, take care always and keep spreading kindness and love. Until the next update, much love! X

[schrijverr]

Warmth

The Toy Soldier gets some love from all the Mechs.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none, but tell me if I missed something or you want me to tag something!

~~~~~~ ~~~  

Contrary to what they tried to project on stage, The Toy Soldier was one of the most important members of the crew and although it was never said everyone tried to make it feel happy and loved in their own little emotionally constipated way.

It had been confused about it for a while, but Marius was always ready to explain people things to it that it didn’t understand, so when it asked why no one wanted it there Marius had sighed and said: “They’re not the best at it, but they do love you, just watch. And if you ever doubt it you can come to me, I’m not as emotionally constipated.”

Then Marius had given it a hug and although The Toy Soldier did not know what warmth felt like it, it thought it would feel like Marius’s hug.

After that it paid closer attention and it noticed the little things that made it painted on smile all the more real, no need for pretending at all.

It noticed how Nastya would always ask it if it needed tuning up whenever they’d had a good fight or if she’d done maintenance on Aurora.

She tried to be casual about it, but when it had thought more closely about it realized it was her way of making sure it was alright and it could see her eye it carefully always making sure it was comfortable when it did need help.

And Tim made sure that the door would always be open, even if he claimed otherwise when Jonny asked him and he made sure none of the important clockwork would be hit if they had a little spat, just like he didn’t aim for Jonnys or Brians heart, Ashes lungs or Ivys head.

Brian was a good ol’ chap, who never minded The Toy Soldiers tea and always smiled whenever it came up to the helm to sit with him as he steered the Aurora, who discussed the philosophies of being real with it, never telling it was naive or didn’t get it.

Ashes was a bit harder to figure out, but it had realized that they were always careful with their pyromaniac tendencies and made sure The Toy Soldier never got burned ever since it had mentioned once that it thought burning was a very unpleasant sensation and not how it though warmth felt like at all.

Ivy was usually by herself, but she asked it at regular intervals to help her in the library and when it had asked Marius about it, he had explained that was her way of spending time with it without having to ask for it, since she liked its company.

After that The Toy Soldier always agreed with a seemly bigger smile than had been painted on and made sure to keep up a constant chatter when it helped, catching her little smiles out of the corner of its eyes.

It liked helping Raphaella a lot, she was always careful as she tried to figure out how it ticked and at the end she gave it a little peck on its forehead, sometimes leaving a lipstick mark that The Toy Soldier was careful not to wash of for a few days.

Jonny was more difficult to figure out, it had tried really hard and had been almost convinced Jonny really didn’t like it when it had figured it out. Jonny was the meanest to the people he loved most, it was how he expressed affection and no matter how many comments he made about The Toy Soldier, he always tried to get a song with it on every album. He always smiled so much whenever they sang together and The Toy Soldier loved that.

And so the Mechanisms lived, but then Ivy, Marius and Raphaella disappeared to some planet to wreak havoc and with them missing it wasn’t the same, so The Toy Soldier decided to go out again. It knew it would come back, they all did, but it just wanted to explore a bit on its own.

At first no one really cared, everyone left every now and again and The Toy Soldier wasn’t the only crew member missing anyway.

But then Ivy, Marius and Raphaella came back with a story to tell, but The Toy Soldier wasn’t there. They tried to wait for it, but it wouldn’t return and they started to get worried about it. With heavy hearts they made the album without it, but it wasn’t the same.

The album was still good of course, but the practices didn’t have tea and uneatable cookies. There was no encouragement and overly polite but genuine excitement, there was a Toy Soldier shaped hole.

From planet to planet they went with their new show, but they still missed the cheery wooden soldier that had filled such a large gap in their lives, always there, always making them smile.

It was because this hole that they almost didn’t believe it when they heard a chipper voice call out after a concert: “Friends! I Am So Happy To See You All Again, Oh This Is Such A Joyful Occasion!”

Slowly they turned and there a smiling Toy Soldier stood, waving and excited. Marius and Raphaella didn’t care about what the others thought, they put their instruments down and ran enveloping it in a big hug.

“Thank You, My Dear Chaps, I Missed You As Well.” The Toy Soldier hugged them back, “I Wanted To See This Planet, But They Do Not Have Interstellar Travel And I Got Stuck.”

“Glad to have you back, Toy Soldier.” Marius smiled, looking it in the eyes before hugging it again.

They led it back onto the Aurora while they chattered among themselves. It noted that no one grumbled about letting it back in and that every one send it small happy glances from time to time as if they were checking it was still there.

Back on the ship they didn’t retreat back to their rooms instead choosing to drop down on the couches in one of the communal areas and asked The Toy Soldier about its adventures while they leaned back and listened.

Nothing of real importance happened, but it was happy to babble on, only interrupting itself to make everyone some tea, not missing how there were zero complaints about it not being alcohol.

It also listened closely, happy to be with its friends again, as they told it about the Yggdrasil system and the time Ivy, Marius and Raphaella had spend in a prison annoying a poor inspector, who probably didn’t deserve it.

But the adrenaline of finding each other again and of the concert wore off and soon everyone was trying to speak through the yawns. The Toy Soldier clapped in its hand and said: “You Are All Tired, You Need Sleep. I Hope You All Will Get Sufficient Rest So That We Can Talk Again Tomorrow, I Missed Talking To You.”

Ivy had the most common sense of them all, so she stood up and stretched. Before she left, however, she gave The Toy Soldier a hug and said: “I missed you too, it’s good to have you back.”

Then she left. Nastya followed her example also hugging it, while she said: “Me and Aurora are happy to see you again, TS.”

Brian only petted its head as he told it how much he’d missed it. The Toy Soldier knew how Brian could be about touch, so he just beamed at him and returned the sentiment.

Marius gathered it into a big bear-hug, swaying it from side to side while its feet dangled slightly above the ground while Raphaella gave it a kiss on its forehead before she left. It was sure the lipstick mark was there again, it had missed that.

“Don’t stay away for so long again, okay.” Ashes told it after they’d given it a kiss on the cheek.

Tim put his hands on its shoulders and stared into its eyes for a long second, then he smiled and said: “Just as I remember.” and hugged it, before he wished it a good night.

Then it was just it and Jonny in the room.

Jonny hesitated for a second, shifting his weight for foot to foot as the silence dragged on. The Toy Soldier didn’t really know how to act, since a situation like this had never come up, so it hadn’t thought about how to react.

Luckily Jonny seemed to have made a decision, because he walked up to The Toy Soldier and pulled it into a hug and held on tight for a while. The Toy Soldier hugged him back and waited for Jonny to let go until it did they same, it liked hugs and Jonny was good at them.

His eyes was wet and his voice was thicker then usual as he said: “We missed you, we don’t mean it when we joke about not wanting you here, don’t leave again, okay? And don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“Of Course, Old Sport.” The Toy Soldier smiled and gave Jonny a salute.

Jonny grinned back and told it: “You’re an idiot.”

Then he also retreated leaving it feeling its own interpretation of warm inside, happy to be back home.

[nissakii]

How similar are Hinata and Deku?

In a previous blog post I covered the similarities between Bakugo and Oikawa, finding out that both of those characters actually share more traits than visible at the first glance.

You can read it here, if you didn’t read it yet.

This time I will continue with another Boku no Hero academia meets Haikyuu comparison!

Deku also known as Izuku Midoriya and Hinata Shoyo, what makes them so similar?

Role model figure

In real life as well as in many stories the common role model figure is present, which the person that is the core of the story looks up to.

Both Midoriya and Hinata have that kind of person that they look up to in an unnatural and almost shackling way, that drives them to become much stronger and grow out of their weaknesses.

First of all we have Midoriya whose greatest role model and aspiring dream to become like him is Toshinori Yagi, the eighth holder of One for All.

Even before becoming his successor and inheriting the power of One for all himself, he always looked at videos on repeat of his favourite hero and role-model.

In his room as well as later on in season 3 when the U.A students moved into dorms, you can see Deku’s room filled with posters, figures and various other articles of him, making it more than a simple I look up to this person.

On the other hand we have Hinata Shoyo who overly admires the Little Giant, someone he feels connected to by their background.

Unlike Deku who found his role-model much earlier in his life, Hinata found his role-model figure around the end of elementary school.

He admired him for being such a strong Volleyball player despite his lacking height and amazing jumps that made Hinata wonder if he could do the same, and so Hinata started his path as one of the shortest middle-blockers being even shorter than the Little Giant as coach Ukai stated.

In the Karasuno team he even gets the shirt number 10, that used to be the number of the little giant and like Deku you can see the parallels between the successor and role-model.

Both of them try to step into the footsteps of their role-models as close and in the same way, being shackled down by the fact that they are chasing to become them instead of developing an individual playstyle from the get-go.

Another thing is that they are the two people who seem to be a little bit obsessed with the idea of becoming the next one after their role-model that you cannot see in any other character of the specified series, making them blind to their own weaknesses and potential as an individual, as well as their influence on their environment.

Off mode

We all know that people who are overly passionate get into their thing and suddenly switch modes as they keep babbling and showing you the world they love so much.

But as soon as you move them out of their field of passion they tend to immediately become a whole different person, as if you pushed the off-button.

This trait can be seen especially with our two young men.

Hinata who is naturally energetic and cheerful is much more nervous and easily frightened when not playing Volleyball, at times he can be even socially-awkward when it comes to certain people like girls, upperclassmen or elders.

Even Oikawa, who he challenges in season 2 indirectly or talks cheerfully about how strong he is on the court, becomes a threat that scares him into shivers when meeting in front of the bathroom outside of the court.

Also he has the habit of throwing up or using the toilet before a match, making him much more fragile, sensitive and overly-anxious when not being in the game, even more than the usual anxious characters like Asahi or Yamaguchi.

Same goes for Deku, he is someone known for his easily intimidated and jumpy personality.

While he can talk clearly and loud when in a fight or in his hero mode, he usually stutters and mutters his opinion while becoming nervous, avoiding eye-contact and fidgeting with his hands.

Here it doesn’t matter if it’s the intimidating childhood friend Bakugo or the cute considerate Uraraka, even some other students who approach him naturally make him jump and stutter sometimes.

Eyecatcher

Despite their looks and seemingly low presence when compared to their peers, both Hinata and Deku always manage to focus everybody’s eyes on them, due to several positive as well as negative reasons.

Let’s start with the positive reasons on both sides.

Hinata surprised everyone with his seemingly never-ending stamina and crazy jump-ability, making everybody focus their eyes especially the first time they see it.

Combined with Kageyama’s setting technique, the freak duo quick is one of the things that people still gape at when they see it several times.

As mentioned Deku in his off-mode is someone of not much presence, but when he fights and talks seriously, he can make everyone look at him for being one of the view who possess the essence of a true hero.

He rather sacrifices himself to save anyone he can save, fully aware of his own inability power-wise in some situations.

The first one to act as well in a dire situation.

His attacks are always progressing, surprising, combined with his analysis skills and observation his quick judgement and ideas make him unpredictable and worthy of an opponent.

On the negative side, Hinata sometimes focuses too much on jumping and getting the ball, making him seem scary and reckless, also bumping into his own teammates.

After a long time of pressure he tends to become more easy to read since he is not on the brain side of things and purely acts on instinct and his trust in Kageyama.

His opponents focus on him, block him and can see when something is wrong immediately in Hinata’s expression.

Deku is also known for acting reckless, people view him as useless in fights  despite his analytical skills and strength.

This stems from his will to even sacrifice breaking bones and injuring himself in a fight to a point where he is immobilized.

An example would be the sports festival in season 2 where he indeed caught people’s eyes but in the end was viewed as crazy and reckless due to his fighting behaviour.

Judged by the cover

Like mentioned in the paragraph before, people underestimate Hinata and Deku.

Hinata for being short and Deku for several reasons, one would be that he used to be quirkless and can’t use his quirk properly another would be his shy and “wimpy” personality.

Yet they both always impress both allies and enemies with their outstanding power when they are serious about something.

Being mocked at the beginning of the battle just to make their enemies and allies wonder what more they could be hiding when doing their thing.

Therefore do not judge a book by its cover, since even a short middle-blocker can outplay you and even the former “wimpy” kid can become a more outstanding hero with an amazing quirk.

Helping hand

For the one who longs to be a hero it may be simpler to explain since it is immediately shown in the first episodes.

One of the very  reasons why Deku was chosen by Toshinori is the fact that he is the first one to help and lend a hand, pushing his own life into the background while doing so.

Even when he was quirkless he rushed to the scene to save his bully and childhood friend Bakugo while he bore the risk to be kept hostage or get killed in the process.

In many other scenarios it was seen that when everybody, even much stronger heroes and aspiring heroes froze, Deku was the first one to rush in and fight for others.

Two big cases would be Kota in season three when both were almost killed by a villain, despite Kota offending Deku and even hitting him… where it hurts.

The other one in season four when he was adamant of saving Eri, even facing Overhaul who injured and killed so many with his quirk already and almost getting eradicated by Eri’s quirk if it wasn’t for him breaking his bones constantly.

In other cases he also cheers up his friends and classmates, may it be due to his nerd-talk or just him being so innocently kind.

As a parallel we have Hinata who is not a hero, but a Volleyball player yet in many scenes we can see him cheering Kageyama up, adapting to his pride by making it look like teasing.

In other cases he even tells him there is nothing to fear since he now has Hinata, giving him a safe space to move in.

Other cases would be him talking to Nishinoya to get him back in the team, as well as Asahi and cheering up Yamaguchi when he missed his pinch serve.

He all does that in a way that doesn’t make the other person feel pitiful but in his own way.

For Yamaguchi as example he told him next time he would get ten points back for sure or that they both get ten points each, and that he won’t lose to him being on the court.

With that he makes Yamaguchi feel like a threat , stealing his place on the court which results in Yamaguchi having the feeling of actually having potential and belonging to the team.

Another example would be Yachi.

When he heard her problem and story, even when she insisted she would be okay, Hinata literally dragged her to her mother and wanted her problems to be resolved.

He forced his help on her and due to his help she could full-heartedly become their new manager.

Troublemaker

Earlier the negative side of the eye catcher was mentioned, concluding that both of them recklessly work hard to achieve their dreams and forget what is around them or even in front of them.

Again, Hinata fixes so much on the ball and wants to improve immediately that he forgets that there are other middle-blockers around, crashing into them.

Also when heated up or nervous he becomes easy to read and makes a lot of mistakes since he still lacks a lot of technique when it comes to his serves and receives.

He often gets scolded by Kageyama and Coach Ukai for this behaviour, they even think of him as a potential monster when gets into that mode.

Also Hinata’s habit of bumping into several of his rivals and wanting to start a fight when he gets defensive outside of the court makes him a bit of a troublemaker when nobody of the third-years are around.

It also happened that Hinata got lost several times while focussing on running faster than Kageyama or training in general, showing his naive and innocent side as he talked to Kenma the first time who was a complete stranger.

This all can be applied to Deku who basically breaks all his bones in a fight.

He attracts villains and rivals alike, due to his presence.

His reckless behaviour made him the focus of events.

Also in season three, after being released from the hospital he sneaks out to save Bakugo with a couple of students, he does get into a fight with Bakugo on the school grounds and his quirk that he inherited from Toshinori was labelled as very similar to his quirk.

Therefore Aizawa and the rest of Class 1-A, labelled him one of the trouble students.

Unyielding

One thing both of them clearly have in common with not much words needed, an unbreakable spirit to go on with their dreams.

Even if it was shown that they both have suffered many setbacks, judgement and suffering (which they rarely show on the outside), they never stopped  working hard for their dreams, if not even harder than before.

As many people watch them, call them names and ridicule even mock them, they do not give up.

Instead, they give them that one look, which is going to show them how much they are ready to give and fight to become the person they want to be.

Fanboy

Last but not least, fanboys.

Not only do their eyes glitter and shine, as well as their voices sounding much more energetic, no they do not hide the fact how amazing and admirable they find the person in front of them.

May it be villains, heroes, teammates or opponents, nobody is safe from a little smooth compliment.

Their respect for the person in front of them is big and they do not underestimate or ridicule them at all.

Deku always analyzes his allies and enemies, noting their strength and technique until he breaks out into a mutter concert he cannot stop.

He does not hold back openly complimenting and letting his inner fanboy out, even flushing from the overexcitement as seen in several cases at the cultural festival arc and sports festival arc.

A case where Deku complimented a Villain would be in season four when he finally beat Gentle and told him he was the hardest opponent he fought yet and that he thinks he made the right decision when he turned himself in.

Hinata is not much more different, unlike Deku who in general analyzes Hinata simply sees things as they are and just is amazed by them like a child.

He even rushes over telling the person in an unknown excited mix of japanese and his own description of sounds, how cool and amazing they actually were and if they could teach him.

One example would be Nishinoya and his rolling thunder, another one is Bokuto’s feint.

Just like Deku even with an opponent he doesn’t hold back as seen in season one when he first saw Oikawa play in the inter-high preliminaries along with Nishinoya, he even gave him the name Grand king and talks highly of him as he keeps saying he wants to play against him.

Some opponents are even irritated when he directly tells them during a game or after how amazing they were.

For now this is all for our favourite tangerine and cabbage boy.

Did you see any of these similarities before?

Do you have more that weren’t mentioned here?

Drop it in the comment!

Now let me take a sip of my- wait who knocked my tea off with a volleyball?!

-Makii

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[philosophicusabicus]

Diaries in the Loony Bin

The Loony Bin is a group of individuals who could be called “friends”, but maybe that’s too suggestive. At any rate, this group has a diverse set of opinions on politics and sports, with voices across the political spectrum and through many sports. The intersection of politics and sports, in contemporary society, is met with disdain; however, the members of the Loony Bin seek to make it an acceptable space of discourse. Every week, when the asylum isn’t particularly chaotic (there can be no promises as to consistency of date), an entry will be posted, documenting the developments of thought and culture within these walls. Where many see lunacy as a vice, it is seen as a virtue here. The diary herein is will capture all of the voices of this group, but it will use only one narrator, striking many different chords and tones. Topics will change with rapidity, so be always on edge. Though, nothing will get too toxic, as most topics will be treated rather lightly, aiming at parody. We’re in the Loony Bin after all.

Entry #1:

Where saner minds prevail in the Loony Bin, there is the same old chatter about Brady; about how the Bucs will repeat; about the prospects of Tampa’s young roster. But, in the deeper corners of the Loony establishment, there are whispers of a new team in town — a team in the same conference which has been biding its time of late. The St. Louis R… Los Angeles Rams. This team has the defense of a Trump supporter pressed about another investigation; and they have Stafford now, who can be a completely average version of himself and still be better than Goff. They made the playoffs last year with the latter under the gun: by trusted and tried Loony bin logic, there is no world where they don’t fare better this year.

Alas, as we approach the eve of the NBA Finals, we would be remiss not to reflect on the curious outcomes of the playoffs we have just witnessed. The Suns are on the cusp of their first finals in 28 years, walking over a series of teams who were hobbled to their bones. 1st round against LAL, practically no AD. 2nd round against Denver, no Murray. 3rd round against LAC, no Kawhi.

Is anyone else seeing a curious trend here?

This is like the string of upsets that led to the election of Biden in 2020 — think Georgia, Michigan, and Arizona, among others. Speaking of Biden, nobody can say they’re overly happy with what he’s accomplished in his term so far, but then again many are still aboard the “anything is better than Trump” bandwagon. So that mass is just easy to please.

I have a story to relate. A guard patrolling the halls on a foggy evening last month overheard in a ward unit a patient on a delirious soliloquy. Ranting and raving was usual for this patient deep into the night, but this rave, this was different. “Trump’s rhetoric.. his mannerisms.. his behavior.. it is unfit for the Presidency. Nothing need be pinned on him from a legal standpoint for it to follow that he does not meet the standards of the Chief Representative of the United States. If you were to quantify the number of immoral exhibits he has demonstrated, however insignificant, they would add up to a hefty sum: a demeaning and vicious personality. A personality unfit for such a high position. If we have to pick political poison, let’s pick the lesser of the poisons.” The guard began to hear an uncorking of caps, a sloshing of potions, and a loud thump of a corpse, crashing to the floor.

There was a rampant disease going around the property, from hall to hall, greensward to greensward. Its many and various symptoms included: involuntary association with Big Tech, amnesia about mortgage loans and student debt; anxiety related to pressures of the labor and financial markets; headache and fever regarding quality of romantic life; and a strong preoccupation with taking selfies.

The Bin was in lockdown and every non-faculty member had to isolate in their respective wards. Hence, if the patients were to communicate to each other, a new way medium had to be contrived: they call it “Loonygram”.

As I understand it, though admittedly I understand it very little, one performs some kind of slippery action to facilitate the correspondence between users. From what I have gathered though, it has little chance of success without being a certified maniac. Many prefer the pleasure they derive from their own babbling monologues.

While a doctor was trying to rationalize his patient one day he got carried away on a sermon of his own: “Why the fuss over kneeling anyway? Just because some action affronts a symbol you respect, doesn’t mean the intention was to disrespect that symbol. Differentiating actions and their outcomes from intentions goes a long way out there. There was no intent to disrespect what that American symbolism; that was just a byproduct of an effort trying to gain respect for another symbol: social equality”

The patient, strapped to their chair looks helplessly up at the doctor and asks “So… that helps me in here how?”.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t. Look, it aint all rational out there either, if you catch my drift”.

The patient scrunched his eyes circumspectly at the doctor before his attention was drawn to a fly buzzing on the adjacent wall.

These are curious times within these walls. An episode occurred on the Loony grounds one morning in which one patient wandered over to another, unprovoked, and yelled “my team is winning it all this year!”. The other patient, startled, replied “w..who is your team?” “w..what sport is this even?”

“I am at liberty to express myself; I have the first amendment behind me after all!” cried the provocative patient.

“Indeed, you do. But only where it doesn’t infringe on the freedoms of others” observed the second patient.

“And at what point is that?” jeered the first patient.

“Frankly, I’m not altogether sure. But let’s come to this decision mutually before you spam me with your raptures about the Yankees. Your favorite team is the Yankees, ya?

“How could you possibly.. know?”

“I saw you in the cafeteria last October, forking your pork chops like a feral animal; not long after Gleyber struck out for the 5th time that night either; I saw it in your eyes.”

How that altercation ended remains to be seen, since I merely borrowed it from the journal of another author, who has been missing ever since.

In other rumors, it is with great pain and sympathy that I report an exorcism which took place some time ago in the health dormitory on the fifth floor, all dust and eerie. The patient was being consumed by the demons of his loyalty to the Cowboys.

The pastor on hand, tending to his duties as exorcist, was on the verge of performing his most solemn task, when the possessed man said, as he foamed at the mouth “Elliot… Elliot”

“Excuse me? Elliot? What… Elliot’s going to be the most overrated running back in the league? I’m with you there” laughed the pastor, stuffing a hankerchief in the man’s mouth to muffle his screams.

“Dak. Dak. Dak. Back”

“Dak or not, there is a constant with the Cowboys. At the end of every regular season, they’re barely scratching playoffs.” applying the shock therapy he was taught in his vocational school.

“D..depth a..and.. youth.. a..at receiver” coughs the patient as he loses consciousness for the final time.

“Death and youth make a believer? That’s some sound philosophy my man. You’re impressionable when you’re young so that makes sense, and you live with more respect and appreciation for life as you get old and nearer to death. Truly well spoken”

“This one is one of the better cases, Mary” the doctor says as his assistant walks through the doors.

Tensions are up to a fever pitch these days. Just yesterday, two psychiatrists were shoving each other over whether the condition of the patients is binary or not.

“Their conditions are binary!? That is a very limiting way to view things. If the patient does not want to identify their condition as “sick”, and feels like they want to be labeled ‘sort of sick I suppose’, then the more power to them.”

“No, that is infeasible. If we do not have a clear threshold for their condition, then how can we administer their treatments? At what point? It would be arbitrary.”

“There is no essence of “sickness”; you can’t just define it in any terms you want, just so that it aids your goals; besides, they’re not really sick, sort of.” The insane man, lying on the bed for the entire course of the conversation, just looked blankly and confusedly at his doctors, thinking “so the stories you hear on the outside are true, these people really are Loony huh?”

Some disturbance is happening on the floor below me now, so I must close this entry and I will write another day…

[pain-somnia]

Title: What Once Was Rating: T Characters: Madara, Sasuke; background minor SasuSaku, implied GaaNaru, mentions of implied past HashiMadaMito Disclaimer Day’s Notes: hello! This was a fic I wrote for @a-year-of-naruto and I thought I had posted it but I guess I haven’t because I can’t find it. I wrote for the season of spring and this is a reincarnation AU that focuses on Madara and a bit of Sasuke. It’s still a goal of mine to do a Sasuke PoV companion piece. Warning: few mentions of violence and a corpse’s description

What Once Was

The light breeze blows in through the bars of the window, bringing the leftover chill from winter with it. The cold had been stubborn this season, lingering even as March was now reaching its end.

Yet it had never bothered Madara and he wonders to himself if it was a trait that carried on across lifetimes. Fire coursed through his blood long ago and now in a different time, his body keeps warm━scorching like fanned flames━a whisper of what once was.

The wind chime hanging off the roof sways with the breeze, singing a soft tinkle over the bustle of people walking the path from the suburbs to the city. Every day the residents would pass by his shop on their way to work or school. Sometimes they entered, sometimes they didn't, using it instead as a meeting point before moving on to their true destination.

“It’s freezing,” a middle school girl complains as she searches for something warm to drink. Tucking a strand of rose gold hair behind her ear, she gets to work on preparing a cup of hot cocoa at the dispenser near the front counter.

“It’s not that bad.”

The deeper voice has Madara shifting his gaze to the new patron entering the shop. The familiar, unruly spikes catches his attention. He has seen this boy before, not just around the neighborhood, but somewhere in a distant past.

With a slight inclination of his chin, the teenage boy bows to him as he passes the counter. He is always overly polite to his elders, he’s noticed. Perhaps raised by a traditional and strict family.

“You never get cold, Sasuke-kun,” the girl grumbles, capping a lid on her drink.

Sasuke. An uncommon name, too old fashioned for a child of his generation, but that too breached across to this lifetime━perhaps fate had his parents naming him so.

It was a different name than the one Madara had assigned to him in his mind, but a name he came to terms with years back when the boy first entered his shop in his gakuran uniform with a loud blond boy and a much quieter and sleepy looking red haired kid.

“Should I get one for Naruto?” Another uncommon name, also familiar.

“Don’t spoil him, Sakura. He’s running late, he doesn’t get a drink.”

“Not running late,” Sakura corrects him in a singsong, “he’s waiting for Gaara.”

Sasuke rolls his eyes and digs out his wallet for change, paying for her share. It’s a simple exchange, nothing out of the ordinary, but as the boy places the money in his hand, Madara is hit with the scent of smoke and the coppery odor of blood. Angry charcoal eyes flash across his vision.

“Thank you. Have a good day!” The girl━Sakura━waves goodbye cheerily, dragging Sasuke along.

And off they go, away from his old corner store. They will make their way around the bend of the street, past the small shops to their bus stop that will take them to the crowded and noisy city.

A city he escaped to get away from the ghosts of his past, only to run into another one.

.

.

Madara doesn’t see him again the following week.

He sees the sunny boy—Naruto, he reminds himself—with their red haired friend. They’re in casual clothes now that they’re on holiday. The two of them are often together as they enjoy their Spring Break.

During the school year it wasn’t a strange sight, seeing them alone. Sasuke would be traveling home either alone—carrying a sports bag and a kendo shinai—or with the girl with the rose gold hair, carrying books that could have been his but usually were not.

It’s not until near the end of March that he sees him again. It’s as Madara steps outside his shop, acrid cigarette smoke mixing with floral notes and disappearing into the white sky of the cloudy day, that he spots him in neat casual attire walking hand in hand with the same rose haired girl dressed in a pretty sundress and cardigan.

Ah. A new development, he thinks, watching them hold hands for the first time on their way home.

If he squints his eyes and forgets his name, Madara can almost picture him as a different boy, a boy raised in war. It’s easy to fall into the trap of replacing this Sasuke with his brother. Easy to imagine it’s Izuna enjoying the brisk Spring afternoon.

He subtracts Sasuke and adds Izuna into every scenario. It’s Izuna goofing off with friends. It’s Izuna falling slowly but surely in love. It’s Izuna that practices kendo and goes to cram school.

It’s Izuna living a life so carefree, free of the burdens of war. Izuna being allowed to be a child the way that Madara now knows how to be, even with his past life bridging to his current in the form of dreams and memories.

Of all his kin, why this boy? This boy━that shouldn’t even exist as long as he’s breathing━gets a new chance at a different life.

He can’t help that he’s glaring when the boy looks up and they catch each other’s eyes. The boy glares right back and, holding on tightly to his girlfriend’s hand, he picks up his pace, getting as far away as possible from his shop.

I don’t care about your hāfu girlfriend.

He remembers the Uchiha, almost as homogeneous as the society he lives in. Maybe his past self would have found it traitorous but his current self can’t summon an ounce of care to discriminate against a child born of a Chinese parent.

The memories and emotions simmer under the surface but some still feel as though they belong to someone else. And then there are some that settle as absolute truths.

.

.

Sometimes the way the smoke of his cigarette burns in his chest and up his throat feels like a katon ready to unleash. It’s as he’s sweeping the carpet of pink petals blocking his shop that Madara wishes he could still summon flames to speed up the task of clearing the sakura blossoms that cover the roof tops, the streets, and every nook and cranny they settle in after the wind scatters them.

Grunting to himself, he piles the petals in a heap before moving on to his neighbor’s little shop. She sells ceramic wares, pottery spun by her wrinkled hands, and yet cats make the shop their home. The obaasan that owns it leaves food and water out and the cats never knock over any of the clay pots or bowls. They simply laze about, only rising from their spot when a guest arrives, eager to fetch the granny like dutiful little employees.

His neighbor has watched over him ever since he took over the corner store four years ago. The old woman never asked him why a city boy would move out but still remain as close as possible, settling in between the loud city and the sleepy suburb of which families had made their home. She doesn’t care to know his story, only brings him something to eat and has him fix her up a cup of tea.

Madara knows that if she asked he would never tell her about meetings at an izakaya after work. Would never talk about the woman with porcelain skin and auburn hair or the man with chocolate brown eyes and a mouth with the ever present upturn at the corners. Would never talk about the rings on both of their left hands and how even in this life they left him behind.

His hair had been shorter then. Thick and spiked but cropped close to his head━perfect for an office worker. Crunching numbers during the day and dreaming of the screams of his enemies at night. Madara ignored the memories of his past in favor of clinging to what his life could be.

The dreams were just dreams, he told himself. They meant nothing, even in the mornings when he could still smell sulfur and feel the weight of long hair against his shoulder blades despite the absence of it when he looked at his reflection in the mirror.

But that was four years ago and gone are the days of sitting behind monitors and filing paper. It took four years and now his hair, although tied loosely, settles against his back, creeping down to his waist.

The second week of April brings gentle rains. The drops drum against the shingles on the roof above his flat. The temperature had been rising and the mellow showers are just a precursor to the ones that will fall in a couple of months.

Taking the kettle off the stove in his kitchenette, Madara is glad he got back from the bathhouse before the rain came down. He settles on the tatami, just under the window, and listens to the pitter patter melting into the babbling of a brook.

He can feel the warmth of a sunny day on his cheeks and the roaring of laughter against his ears. Madara opens his eyes and he’s in the middle of the woods, hakama pants getting heavy from retaining water. In a voice not quite his own he shouts insults at the young man with the unfortunate haircut that had pushed him in.

Madara grabs Hashirama’s ankles and drags him down in the water with him. Laughing through his nose, he prepares himself for a retaliation that never comes. Dropping his stance Madara glances around in confusion, not understanding where his friend could have gone.

“Niisan…” a voice croaks below him.

At his feet, floats the eyeless corpse of his younger brother.

Madara doesn’t scream as he wakes up. The dream is old and although his heart is palpitating at an alarming rate, it no longer brings him the same terror it had when the memories were still fresh.

Grabbing his phone to check the time, Madara doesn’t register the hour as he’s distracted by the notifications on his screen.

His dreams had summoned the caller and looking at the number of missed calls Madara swipes his thumb on his screen to clear his notifications.

Of course that fool would call seven times.

.

.

Owning a corner store gets to be tedious. Tracking inventory and restocking use the most basic of his accounting skills. Manning the counter is a lazy task and Madara finds himself constantly leaving his shop to watch people as they pass by to keep from dozing off.

He keeps his mouth busy with cigarettes he purchases from the vending machine right outside his shop. Chain-smoking wasn’t a habit he expected to pick up but had anyway when the company he worked for merged with another.

It was the merger that changed everything.

“You can call me Hashi,” his new coworker introduced himself. The new staff had entered in the Spring, only a few months after the merger was announced, and it was the first time Madara had spoken directly to any of them.

The exchange was sparked by a request for a lighter and from then on the man had initiated a one sided friendship that quickly became mutual.

Conversations in the designated smoking room soon moved on to shared lunch breaks and drinks after work. There had been moments━Madara is sure there had been moments━and despite the awkwardness of dealing with memories in which in a past life the two of them stood on opposing sides in battle, it was the most alive Madara had felt in the longest time.

And then came the arrival of Hashi’s “Mi-chan.”

She had also called the night before. Mito had messaged him on LINE but unlike Hashirama, she hadn’t called repeatedly. She wasn’t one to do any chasing. But the message was a blunt lecture about absences and leaving people hanging.

Madara watches the sky break out in hues of pink and orange, melting into purple and navy. It’s time for the students that do not have after school activities to arrive on the bus.

And sure enough there’s a blond knucklehead gesticulating to a red haired kid holding a small potted cactus rounding the corner. They’re no longer wearing gakuran but blazers and tartan slacks, the uniform of the local public high school.

Well it is Spring, Madara thinks to himself as he takes a long drag of his cigarette. The brats couldn’t stay middle schoolers forever.

But there is one missing in the usual trio of boys. Standing taller than the other two, and usually bickering with the blond kid, Sasuke wasn’t with them.

It had been a few weeks since the new school year had started and Sasuke never seemed like the kind of person to stop going to school when it was no longer compulsory.

.

.

The granny’s cats usually are quiet as they lurk about the alley between his shop and hers. Madara will come across them when he’s making sure that the combustible trash has been sorted properly.

The brat standing in his alley is definitely not a cat.

Charcoal colored eyes glared back at him defiantly as if Madara’s fist isn’t balled up in his blazer. The neat black blazer with red trimming has the crest of a school Madara knows very well. It belongs to a school that he had sat an exam for and failed. It was a high school he had aspired to go to as a teenager for its exclusiveness. It was a rigorously structured school that boasted the best performance academically and only accepted those that were able to pass the intensely difficult entrance exam.

For a moment Madara is proud. If anyone were to get into such a school it would be his kin. Sasuke is an Uchiha through and through. A different lifetime didn’t change that fact.

That pride crumbles with the glittering of silver on Sasuke’s ears and the exhale of smoke coming out of his mouth. His descendant reborn is a delinquent.

“You’re fifteen,” Madara hisses, pushing Sasuke back against the wall of his shop.

“You don’t know how old I am.”

“Boy,” Madara grips his collar lapel and yanks Sasuke up so they’re nose to nose, “don’t try acting smart when you’re clearly wearing a high school uniform.”

Sasuke looks older than a first year, face more mature than children his age but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a child.

“Where did you get a Taspo from?”

Sasuke shrugs which has Madara shaking him. He obviously stole the smart card for the vending machine, possibly from a relative. Or maybe he was sent by his father to pick up a carton and took the opportunity to buy one for himself.

“Come on brat, we’re going to talk to your parents.”

Sasuke pulls back, making himself heavy and refusing to budge. Madara has half a mind to tug on one of his earrings and force him to move.

“Hand it over.”

“Hand what over?” Sasuke cocks an eyebrow and feigns innocence poorly. If the odor didn’t give him away, the look of complete indifference did.

“The box of cigarettes! Don’t act stupid with me now, brat.”

Sasuke makes no move to do as he is demanded. He looks directly into Madara’s eyes unwavering and it is here that it’s even more clear to him that this boy could never be his younger brother. Their noses are different. Izuna’s cheekbones were higher and sharper. This boy’s lower lash line is slightly longer than the upper.

How did he ever mistake him for Izuna?

“There’s a woman with your face,” Madara speaks up after a beat. “I’ve seen you with her before. She goes to the city, but when she passes my shop she always stops for a chat with the granny next door.”

Sasuke narrows his eyes at the threat hidden in Madara’s words. Four years of watching all of the people. Four Springs passing by him, of course he knows at least that much about the boy from his past.

Reaching into his back pocket, Sasuke takes out a box and tosses it to the ground. He never made anything easy━not in their old life and not now. He shoves him away with a force that has Madara fumbling backwards and having to catch himself before he knocks over the bins. Without another glance Sasuke leaves the alley and if not for the carton of cigarettes on the ground it would have been as if he had never been there to begin with.

Not one to leave perfectly good cigarettes go to waste, Madara picks up the box from the ground and opens it up. The carton is half full and he pulls one out and lights it up.

Huh. Menthols.

.

.

That night isn’t the last of his run ins with Sasuke. Madara uses the evenings to stand outside and enjoy the chill of the night as the temperature drops with the sun.

He aligns his outings with the time the stragglers would be coming home from work or after school clubs. He sparks up a cigarette and watches as the teenager scowls at him before turning down the road in the opposite direction of what he knows is the path he usually takes to get home.

Some nights, Sasuke drops into the store and picks up a Pocari Sweat and mints. He has his gym bag and shinai on those nights. Some nights he’s home earlier than expected and he loiters the corner store, usually playing with a visiting cat before he makes a purchase of another sports drink and tin of mints.

“Are they helping to curb the craving?” Madara asks him one night as he rings him up.

“Gotta do something considering you’re a persistent jiji, always guarding the machine.”

“Jiji!?” Madara’s right eye twitches at the rude name he’s called. “How old do you think I am exactly, boy?”

“Forty-seven?”

“I’m thirty-six,” Madara hisses. Being called ossan would have been better. Still rude, but better than jiji.

Sasuke doesn’t apologize for his answer. He simply counts his change before handing it over. Madara eyes him before slipping the change in the till.

“Women tend to prefer non-smokers anyway,” he advises. The ghost of Mito’s voice flits around his ears, nagging him and Hashirama for their habits.

Sasuke gives him an unimpressed look. The aura of superiority around the kid grates on his nerves. He was a boy of merely fifteen and yet he had such an abrasive attitude with his elders.

What happened to the boy from a few weeks ago that would bow his head when entering his store? What changed?

“I only do things because I want to. Not for other people.”

And why would you want to smoke or pierce your ears? What’s the benefit?

Madara doesn’t voice his questions. He just does what he always does and watches him leave, his eyes following him down the street and turning in the wrong direction from the bars of his window.

.

.

The following night is one of the nights where Sasuke comes home early. Instead of picking up a sports drink like he always does he helps Madara unpack boxes of goods and shelves them in their appropriate places. Madara observes as he unflinchingly lines up sanitary napkins and tampons on the shelf and then moves on to small packages of toilet paper.

The Naruto kid had been in the store earlier and kicked out two minutes after entering for making a racket when he only saw the boxes.

“Your friend was here today.”

“What friend?” Sasuke continues stacking and if Madara wasn’t looking at him he would have believed he had imagined that Sasuke spoke at all.

“He’s loud. And obnoxious.”

Sasuke ignores him and moves over to the aisle on the other side of the shelves. He continues stacking with an unnerving focus. Madara is tempted to chuck something at him to see if he would even react to it. The kid stares into space often enough to worry Madara about his state of mind. Schools like the one Sasuke attended focused heavily on exams and it usually took a toll on the students. It was still early in the year but the shift from public school to private may have been difficult on the boy.

Especially considering that he keeps skipping cram school.

It is a few nights later that he receives an old visitor. The rose gold hair is familiar but it’s the look in her eyes that has Madara remembering a different set of determined green eyes that faced him down as he stood among the rubble and overturned earth of a battlefield.

He had stabbed this girl before.

She slides a pack of lead for her pencils across his counter and a tin of mints. The brand is the exact same one Sasuke picks up and it’s then that Madara notices she is wearing the same blazer that Sasuke wears as part of his uniform.

“Ojisan? Have you seen a boy about this tall,” the girl waves her hand several centimeters above her head, “with spiky black hair and bangs that fall across the left side of his face? I usually come in with him in the morning.”

Madara shakes his head and tells her the total of her purchase. With a sigh of defeat she thanks him and pays for her items.

He has in fact seen Sasuke. It was about an hour earlier than she had arrived from the city, most likely coming home from cram school. He usually sees her walking home alone in the evenings.

Sometimes, Naruto and their red haired friend pick her up from the bus stop and escort her while Naruto cheerfully tells her about something going on at his school. As the trio walks there’s a mindful gap, as if they are subconsciously aware of their missing friend as they head in the direction of their homes.

“Where do you go when you come home from school?” Madara asks him on a rainy afternoon. Sasuke looks around the store and back at Madara as if the answer was obvious. “Besides here, brat.”

Sasuke doesn’t respond, not that Madara actually expected him to. Talking, it seems, is another one of those things Sasuke doesn’t do unless he wants to.

He moves around the shelves slowly, taking things down that were put back in the wrong place by customers and putting them in the correct shelf. Madara told Sasuke that he wouldn’t pay him for the work, that he wasn’t hiring any part timers, but the boy continued to come back and assist him in the shop.

“My school doesn’t allow its students to have jobs,” he explained. Madara finds it curious that Sasuke obeys that rule even though he clearly doesn’t care about the restrictions on body modifications. Even the hair that falls in his face that he constantly flattens and brushes to the side is too long according to his school’s rules.

Madara watches as Sasuke continues to grab things with his right hand, never reaching with his left despite it being free and closer to items. There is a slight stutter in Sasuke’s movements when he bumps the shelves with the left side of his body as he attempts to go around a corner. He looks down at his left arm in confusion before shaking his head.

Sasuke flexes the fingers on his left hand and unnecessarily drums them along the shelves as he turns. Madara hears him muttering to himself, “It’s still here…” and wonders if he should be concerned by the strange behavior.

His reincarnated descendant is a strange one and getting stranger by the day.

“You’re avoiding something,” Madara calls after him as Sasuke moves behind shelves of snacks and out of his line of sight. “Or someone.”

“You’re one to talk about avoiding something,” Sasuke’s voice carries as he walks throughout the store. “When are you going to finally answer that phone? It only rings like five times within an hour.”

As if on cue, Madara’s cell phone rings, rattling against the old register it sits on top of. He doesn’t even need to look to know who is calling. It is around the time Madara used to call it a day and shut off his computer.

“Going to answer that any time soon, old man?”

“Out.” Madara seethes, tired of his attitude. No one talks to him in that tone, especially not fifteen year olds. “Out of my store.”

“More like your bubble,” Sasuke retorts, finally coming around from the back row of shelves. “You never leave this place. You even live right above it.”

Sasuke snatches his messenger bag from off the floor and Madara is tempted to reach over the counter and snatch him by his sweater vest. For a moment he forgets that in this lifetime he is simply a middle aged former salaryman and not the fighter he once was in a distant life.

Sasuke narrows his eyes at him and Madara expects them to bleed into the scarlet coloring he has witnessed in his dreams and almost moves himself to brace for an attack. Instead, he stops in his tracks and examines the young face of this teenage boy. The skin underneath his eyes is dark and puffy, a clear sign that Sasuke hasn’t been sleeping properly.

“Go home,” Madara mutters. He’s not what he used to be. Fighting doesn’t bring him the same joy it brought his past self.

Sasuke pulls back and brings himself to his full height. He tightens his grip on his messenger bag strap and just when Madara thinks he’s about to do as he’s told for once, Sasuke decides to have the last word.

“I would tell you to do the same but, clearly, you’ve decided that you’re already there.”

Madara throws a roll of receipt paper that Sasuke deftly avoids, side stepping and rushing to the door.

“I won’t be like you, I refuse!” He shouts behind him as he makes his exit, confusing Madara with his words.

Was there ever a chance you would be?

.

.

Madara expects him to come back after a few nights but by the end of Golden Week, Sasuke still hasn’t shown his face. Madara almost gives up on looking for him when he spots him by the corner where the bus should stop.

Sasuke doesn’t move even as it starts to shower. He opens his umbrella and continues to wait.

Madara grows tired of watching him and puts out his cigarette and heads back inside his shop. He’s sitting behind his counter and flipping open a book when he hears a familiar shout of joy before there’s a much more familiar angry retort. It’s quiet again with only the drops of rain harmonizing with the soft jingle of the wind chime.

The sound of students chatting as they walk by his shop isn’t a new occurrence so he continues reading his historical fiction, only pausing when he hears a slight knocking against the wooden bars of his window.

“Are you trying to prank the corner store jiji?” A bright voice trills. At that Madara is standing up, ready to throw anything, even his flip flop, at the brat attempting to vandalize his shop.

Madara is poised and ready when he spots the spiky dark head of Sasuke, walking underneath an umbrella with the green eyed girl, Sakura. Naruto ditches the shelter of the umbrella he shares with the red haired boy and jumps on Sasuke’s back, hounding him for answers.

“What was that about? Come on, tell me!”

“Knock it off, idiot!” Sasuke shoves him off and Naruto stumbles backward, falling into a puddle.

The two of them bicker back and forth with occasional interjections from Sakura. Despite the ongoing argument, the tension in Sasuke’s shoulders is gone and there’s a softness to his demeanor that had been missing weeks ago.

Madara watches as they round the corner and head down the street in the direction of home. Sasuke elbows Naruto the whole way as the latter continues to try and squeeze under the same umbrella as the couple and cling to the both of them.

Madara takes a deep inhale and holds it for a count of four seconds before exhaling. He’ll see what Sasuke did to his window and find him later. There was only one path to get to the bus stop and Madara can stand watch forever for the brat.

Inspecting his window, Madara finds a white handle sticking out from between the bars. Pulling on it reveals the flat, red side of an uchiwa. It was an unusual design for a fan but the message Sasuke is trying to convey is clear.

Huh. So that’s how it is. Madara shakes his head and exhales a laugh through his nose. Well, I’m not going to be shown up by a kid.

Sitting at his counter, Madara drums his fingers against the table top and eyes his cell phone. He wills it to ring but it just lays there on top of his register. He runs his hands down his face, smoothing his palms against the stubble on his jawline.

“Alright,” he mutters, swiping his phone from its designated spot. He searches his call log for a number he still knew by memory, stalling the call by as many seconds as possible. It seems like minutes have gone by before the dial tone stops and the call is picked up.

“Hello? Ma-kun?” Madara takes in a sharp intake of air at the sound of her voice, so clear even through the phone’s speaker. “This better not be a butt dial, Madara.”

Letting out a breathy chuckle, Madara greets her and in one breath Mito releases a few years worth of complaints, sprinkling in a few questions in between.

“I can tell you about the shop later,” Madara cuts in when he is given the opportunity. “You can tell Hashi that I’ll be at the old pub.”

[alluringoneirataxia]

Long Winding Road Stay Strapped My Dude

By: Astoria Cathryn Andromeda

Alrighty, this is a long one boys. So I touched briefly on this in my Welcome to Literally Everything post. No worries I'll recap you, so you don't have to switch back and forth. I just diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder, and then ADHD when I was 18 years old, and even then I had to fight for it after countless hours of research. See, there seems to be a wee bit of misogyny in the neurodiverse diagnoses. When I say a wee bit, I mean that scientists used to think that only boy could be autistic or ADHD. They only studied autism in males. Fortunately, nowadays we know that girls can be autistic and/or ADHD, but we present the traits differently than boys, and a lot of our traits are played off due to gender roles in society. For example, being overly talkative in girls is called chatty, whereas boys who can't sit still are sent off for testing immediately. This also causes problems for the boys, because little Johnny gets put on Adderall at the ripe age of 6 years old, just because he can't sit still for 8 hours straight, which by the way should not be expected of any elementary school kid, By the time, he's 25 he's 1) completely dependent on amphetamines 2) his body will stop producing dopamine due to being on the medication for so long. Nicht Gut. Generally, boys who are on the spectrum get picked out earlier due to late speaking, or lack of social skills. This is the one thing that girls happen to do better than boys. Girls are good at masking, which is basically taking social traits, phrases, personalities, demeanor, and copying them. In public, they put on a mask and at home, they have a meltdown. Girls are still not picked up as being on the spectrum, because shyness is called being 'ladylike' and 'dainty', and having a meltdown is just because :( girls are oh-so emotional, boohoo. Anyways tons of women do not get diagnosed with autism until they are well into their adulthood, I actually can be considered lucky to have technically still been a teenager when we finally got all the pieces together.

Alright, let's start with I don't know me as a baby. I did not speak until I was 2 years old, and then it was immediately full sentences from then on. I didn't do the babbling thing, which I don't know how impactful that really is to the topic. I was a very shy little girl. I was teeny tiny, we didn't know I if I was going to make it to 5 feet tall until I had a big growth spurt in 7th grade. I am 5'2 now and definitely done growing in case you were wondering, so not that short anymore. I did not like talking to adults, especially strangers, especially men. I did not look anyone in the face, and I will always hide behind my parent's legs when they would try to introduce me to people. I am an only child, and I spent a lot of time entertaining myself. I always had seasonal affective disorder, where my grades would dip in the winter. My parents knew I had a timer, they had 45 minutes from the moment they stepped into a restaurant before I would start breaking down. If I got off schedule as a toddler in any form, it was a catastrophe. Or this is what my parents and family tell me. I didn't really notice. I did not like being out in public a lot, I was a very picky eater, and I was extremely hyper. I was a very eccentric child, I only had 1-2 close friends and they were always a very well-liked outgoing girl who I just followed around. Looking back, I don't know how we missed it. I was shy because I didn't understand how social interactions worked, I was anxious about it because I didn't understand, I had sensory overloads, routines, and a very bland diet with a safe food which was ketchup. I put that shit on literally everything, eas, apples, mac and cheese, pizza, all meat, anything something forced me to eat that I did not like. But because I could sit still in class, and because I could zone out and daydream all day through school and still make A's nobody ever flagged me for anything and how I was supposed to know that not everybody just copied other people, scripted things before they talked, and could never pay attention. My mom always required me to be in a sport, and I was a gymnast and a swimmer for a long time, two very high-intensity sports, to help lower my energy levels, and because my mom has mild depression and she knows that exercise does help. Skip to middle school, my mom tells me I'm being bullied at church. It's not that I wasn't observing my surroundings I knew I was being excluded, but I didn't understand vindictive behavior, I thought it was my fault. I had zero friends in 8th grade until I sat down next to a random acqutaince I had gone to school with since I was 4 and the same gymnastics place. Then we were immediately attached at the hip after that. She is my best friend due this day and definitely got me through high school. Led me through so many social situations without either of us knowing. I had a very close friendgroup in highschool, all of them were on the drumline which I met through my best friend, and my first boyfriend was my best friend's neighbor. I ended up playing bass guitar for my high school's indoor drumline, and it was the best experience ever. I love my friends, but I had really bad depression when I was 15-now:) jk It's better. I didn't really realize I was depressed, I just didn't want to go to school, or swim practice, or do anything so of course, my mom noticed, and then once it was pointed out to me it got worse. My severe anxiety spiraled with my depression. Senior year of high school, my boyfriend and I were like toxic star crossed lovers, hurting each other over and over again without meaning to. My friends and I were self harming, all my close friends gad some demon going on. I finally decided to try therapy again after the disaster of being forced to go when I was 15 and the lady told me I wasn't depressed because I had a boyfriend and good grades. It helped a bit, I was able to get my panic attacks under control. Then I went away to college and stayed dating my senior high school boyfriend, we were just up and down as always, but with slightly better communication. My freshman year of college I joined a fraternity, a research lab, and my first hs boyfriend/ex/best friend and I went to a Christian campus place. By second semester, I had a lot of people who knew me and talked to me, but I didn't have any close friends, and even less close friends who were girls. All my close friends who were girls were at another college. My parents were worried about me, so they made me rush a sorority, which I knew was never my scene, but my parents made me join and I found a few girls I liked. Soon I was going to 6 classes, fraternity chapter, research lab meetings, christain crash group meetings, soriorty pledge meetings all on every Tuesday. I was different person at each of these events and wore a different mask. I was having what I know now were autistic burnout meltdowns every single day on the phone in my crusty dorm's stairwell. It was not cute. His mental health had always been bad too. Finally I decide I need to try a psychatrist and go back to therapy, and then he broke up with me. Then I made my first close friend, a guy who was in 3 of classes, and I took him to my fraternity's formal, and then coronavirus happened.  Rona kinda saved my grades, and mental health by sending us home event though it did suck. I got on anti-anxiety meds and things went up, but I was still having what I thought were panic attacks, they were austistic meltdowns. My psychiatrist, he's kinda an asshole, he diagnosed me with Obessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. I'll insert definition here: (OCPD) is a personality disorder that's characterized by extreme perfectionism, order, and neatness. People with OCPD will also feel a severe need to impose their own standards on their outside environment.> Basically hr told me I had rules for everything like how everyone drives on the right side of the road, but nobodythinks about it andwhen I broke one of my rules I got depressed, and when wasn't perfect I got depressed, and when I made an A I was relieved not proud. The diagnosis seemed to fit really well, and my therapist and I started working finding my rules, and getting rid of the bad ones, and making the others less harsh. I had thought every once and in a while in my life when I was really upset, what if I'm on the spectrum, because I just felt so hopeless for social interactions and I didn't understand. I always felt like I was a very specific person, but after the ocpd I started thinking more and more, and I saw a tik tok of a girl with lae diagnosed autism basically describing me and ranting about the misogyny. I did more research and I decide, yea I'mm gonna bring it up to mypsychatrist well he's a dick, so he was like um you don't act like sheldon cooper from the Big Bang theory,and I was like wellI just I have always thought I might have adhd like be neureodiverse, and he was like your grade point average in hs was a 97.8%, you're not adhd. I immediately cried, because I can't handle when anyone says anything in a even a slightest stringent tone. I'm baby, I know lmao. It made me angry though because I felt like he just brushed away all of my struggles I had in my whole life. I spent hours researching and typed up a 47 page document on evidence for why I was on the spectrum, and had my parents help will some of checklists to make sure I was getting outside perspectives. I rally my parents to be my back up and next psychiatrist appointment we actually talk about it and he asked my parents questions about when I was young and such and finally he was okay you're on the spectrum. I felt so validated and like I could start being myself. I slowly got more and more confident, changed my style of clothing, and researched more about adhd pushed to be tested, and oh look at that I also have ADHD. So basically discourse: "I feel like as a child I coded a machine to do life for me so I didn’t get bothered except I didn’t know about the machine I thought i was the machine and now I’ve become self aware and I have to learn how to read the code and rewrite the code because it’s dysfunctional because I’m not functioning well as a human being. I was really shy as a child. I would turn beat red when people talked to me or looked at me so I think I started cookie cutting situations and using them over and over again because they worked until I accidentally hard wired these expansion rules and expectations for myself. I didn’t may attention is class ever I just day dreamed and if I got good grades i wouldn’t be bothered i could just stay in my head and if I did my sport well my parents didn’t bother me. I was never asked if I did my homework I just did it so I wouldn’t be asked and have to deal with that situation. I would cookie cutter situations in class that would draw the least attention to myself.

I feel like i don’t have friends I just fulfill the expectation like a side quest on video games" I wrote this down pre autism confirmation when i just thought I had ocpd. Now I don't directly identify with ocpd, but I definitely think I developed that personality disorder a bit from living with undiagnosed autism. I am linking below the very informative Tik Toks by the lovely Paige on autism in girls. The imposter syndrome one really hit home. I had had so many panic attacks about thinking I tricked people into being my friend, or thinking I was smart.

I highly suggest watching these short tik toks, you'll definitely learn something

https://vm.tiktok.com/wVvcYA/

https://vm.tiktok.com/wqRRUf/

https://vm.tiktok.com/wnqhvX/

https://vm.tiktok.com/wqeyYg/

https://vm.tiktok.com/wnoE7u/

https://vm.tiktok.com/Kas6gB/

https://vm.tiktok.com/owM9hs/

Imposter syndrome

I am also linking an article about Sheldon Cooper from Big Bang Theory and Autism that explains why my psychiatrist was wrong, and also I am a girl and the spectrum is called a spectrum because it's a fucking spectrum no two autistic people are exactly the same it's like a color wheel.

http://www.autismsupportnetwork.com/news/problem-sheldon-cooper-and-cute-autism-387783

Here is a fun comic about the spectrum and how to view it.

https://the-art-of-autism.com/understanding-the-spectrum-a-comic-strip-explanation/

I am still learning about myself, and how to be me, and how to be myself but without breaking bad social rules. It's quite humorous though because I'll learn something is related to autism and I'm like oh shit again, like still, like, we're still discovering things.

"Tu ne me manques pas"

Bis später,

Astoria.

[hedwigstalons]

High Expectations - Ch4

This time the chapter art had me digging out the pencils.  Sorry Gordy - you’re looking a bit old and tired rather than the youthful Olympian I envisaged.

Also, more thanks to @willow-salix​ who helped me try and improve both wonky writing and wonky chins.

Earlier parts: One, Two, Three

Chapter Four

The call connected but brought not the cheery tones of a brother but the now overly-familiar sound of yet another voicemail request to leave a message after the tone.  The last few days had been a litany of missed calls and crossed text messages.  Whenever he had a break between training and physio appointments the family seemed to be watching another event with phones off.  Whenever he returned from a gym or pool session there would be another blinking icon waiting for him.  Another failed attempt at contact.

It was great seeing the messages wishing him good luck followed by messages offering congratulations as he cleared his heat but it would have been nice to speak to his family in person.  Everyone else on the squad seemed to be able to schedule video calls with loved ones.  You would have thought that with such a large family he would have struck lucky at some point.  

Gordon scrolled through the call history.  Alan.  Scott.  Virgil.  Even John, the least sociable of his siblings and apparently with an allergy to small-talk, had made two attempts to reach him over the last few days.  And there, right at the bottom, one single attempt from his father to make contact shortly after his initial heat.  He wondered how the call would have gone.  Would he have received congratulations for making it to the final or would he have had to justify his second place finish?  It was too late to speculate now.  His coach was rapping impatiently on the door; it was time to head to the pool for the race of his life.  

The changing area was filled with the incomprehensible babble of a multitude of languages.  Old rivals sat alongside new upstarts.  Gordon plugged in his earphones in an attempt to drown out the sound and get into the zone.  He had been competing for long enough to know what worked for him; even his coach knew better than to try and intrude at this point.  The familiar playlist hammered into his head as he leant back against the cool tiles.  Eyes closed.  Breathing regulated by the sound of the beat.  He waited to be called through for his race.

The playlist wasn’t working.  He wasn’t normally prone to nerves but this was the big one, the race everyone had been talking about.  From the early whispers as a kid on the junior circuit through to actual squad selection the word ‘Olympics’ had never been far away.  This was the dream.  This would be his defining moment.  It was as if none of his other achievements mattered.  This was what he had been training for all these years.  Everything else was just a warm up.  

He checked his phone one last time.  Nothing new.  Of course there wasn’t, everyone would be up on the balcony already but it gave his hands something to do.  Every muscle felt jittery.  The announcement that it was time to go pool side had him bouncing up as though the starting gun itself had gone off.

xoxoxox

Alan practically hung over the balcony rail, straining to see the far end of the pool where the competitors would be making their entrance near the starting blocks.

A heavy hand on his shoulder pulled him back and stopped him leaning out too far.  

“Steady there.  He’ll be out soon enough.  Don’t want you going into the water.”

Alan huffed at Scott but complied, sitting heavily back in his seat, eyes roving to the big screen that was showing a shot of the top end of the pool.  It was difficult to be patient when his brother would soon be competing in an Olympic final.  For most of the spectators it was just another race in the session but for the Tracys it was personal.  

It wasn’t just Alan that fidgeted with impatience though, there was an air of barely repressed excitement running through the family group, the atmosphere in the venue just served to increase the tension.  This was a big medals day in the pool and Team USA had already added a gold and two bronze to their total haul.  The swimming squad was representing their country well and showing that USA was a sporting force to be reckoned with.

A cheer rippled through the venue as the athletes entered.  A kaleidoscope of tracksuits parodying the flags and emblems of their nations appeared at the top end of the pool.  The yellow and green of Australia shone out amongst the variants of red, white and blue worn by the representatives of USA, Russia and France.  Eights athletes filed in to take their place on the seat behind their block.  Eight bodies jiggled legs and stretched out arms and shoulders.  Take a drink.  Adjust goggles.  An array of displacement activities and rituals as each competitor did what was needed to mentally prepare themselves for the task ahead.

At a signal from the officials eight figures stood and disrobed, exposing honed muscles and expanded shoulders.  Gordon, placed in lane six after his narrow inclusion in the final, bounced on the balls of his feet.  Slightly shorter than the average swimmer in the line up he was dwarfed by the Norwegian in lane five, his neighbour in the pool towered a good eight inches above the young American.  

There was no holding Alan back now and even his more self-controlled family were leaning forward against the railing to get a better view than that already offered by their front row seats.  Eyes were fixed on the distant figure fifty meters away at the far end of the pool.  

Giving a start of realisation and guilt that he had almost forgotten Alan dug into his backpack, pulling out the banner he had cajoled Virgil into painting.  He shoved the two ends into the hands of Scott and John who proceeded to tie it to the balcony so it could be seen hanging down from the guard rail.  It was impossible to read the expressions of the swimmers from this distance but Alan swore he could see Gordon turn and smile in their direction.  Whether this was true or not the others couldn’t tell but their squid certainly seemed to gain an air of calm after the banner was unfurled.

A further signal from the officials had the competitors stepping up on to their blocks.  Silence descended over the crowd.  

Poised.  

Taut.  

Ready.

The starting gun had eight figures launching into the water with enviable grace and speed.  

Stroke.  Glide.  Breathe.  Repeat.  Each competitor found their rhythm and gave the performance of their life.  

Ordinarily the pack would form a V shape.  An arrowhead through the water as those that had won their heats were graced with the more desirable centre lanes.  

Today was no ordinary day.

Today was the day Gordon Tracy dredged into reserves he barely knew he had.  Start strong, stay strong, end strong.  There was no let up in his pace and determination.  Focus and rhythm aligned.  The arrowhead was broken.  Soon the commentary was focussed on lane six and the seventeen year old competing in his first Olympics.  

Cheers erupted from the Tracy section as the swimmers reached the final board and triggered the timing pads.  From their seats aligned with the end of the pool they were in the perfect position to see Gordon hit home in first place.

For the swimmers in the water the rankings were less clear cut.  Without the benefit of a grandstand view eight sets of eyes were focussed on the board awaiting the final results.  Moments stretched into eternity as they waited for the official times.

1 USA GORDON TRACY 1:44.20 WR

There, on the first line of the board was the confirmation of not only his success but an achievement surpassing all hopes.  A world record.

The family watched as down in the water Gordon shook hands over the lane dividers with the swimmers to left and right.  He was a sportsman to the core and he congratulated those who had provided stiff competition.  Only then did he turn and wave to the balcony, acknowledging the family that had supported him through years of training then followed him to the opposite end of the Earth to witness his crowning glory.  The cameras tracked between the Tracy in the pool and the Tracys in the stand, capturing their moment of shared joy for eternity.

xoxoxox

The fluttering feeling in his stomach was off-putting to say the least and probably wasn’t helped by the two celery crunch bars and a glucose tablet he had inhaled after getting out the water, he knew they were needed after his intense energy usage though.  The last time he’d tried to skip the obligatory post-race refuel he had nearly taken a header off the podium as his blood sugars crashed.  He wondered if throwing up on an official was more embarrassing than fainting on them.  

The call to head out to the podium soon put a stop to the nerves as he was ushered back pool-side between the other two medallists.  This time there was no escaping the fact that all eyes were on him but there was no performance required; the joy spread across his face was pure and true.  This was the culmination of years of early morning training sessions.  Gym, yoga, vitamins, nutrition schedules.  Every missed party.  Every rejected invitation to go bowling.  The sacrifices he had made had come together to create one perfect moment.  

The medal, the anthem, the flowers; everything played out as he had imagined.  The flash of a thousand camera bulbs only partly responsible for the tears in his eyes.

His dream. 

Complete.

[griimreaping]

@utternocries​ - one word fic prompts

Lower ( part 1 )

The tolling of the church bells was genuinely ominous. An impending sense of dread dominating the grey morning fog, which blanketed Novigrad. Those silvery sounding clangs ringing out through the mist to call forward its faithful masses from the gloom. Pulling the traveling cloak tighter around her shoulders, if only to stave off the nerves rather than the general chill that harkened the coming of autumn, Jean flinches when Geralt's shoulder lightly brushes hers. Nerves had been high in the woman's chest as they neared the city, the last time she'd stepped foot in those walls being the night before her family died. Now with the cold solid stone rising around them, Jean couldn't help be reminded of a tomb.

This must have shown on her face from the flicker of a frown that graced the Witcher's mouth. He'd been summoned on a contract put forth by one of the wealthy governors that had come to occupy a mansion in the northern district of Novigrad. Since he'd taken up residence there, it's caused the man nothing but grief. Deaths in the family, along with some more insidious spectral activity that made even the most persistent of tenants shy away from even renting the place. Which only added to the misfortunes befalling an otherwise uninteresting and mundane man of wealth. With such wealth, he enlisted Geralt's help, and by some lucky stroke, Jean as well. Who had insisted she come along since the governor had mentioned something about black vines overtaking most of the house. 

"What plant has black vines?" Had been the first question Geralt had asked when done skimming the frantic letter that had been sent forward to Downwarren. The Witcher had to stop spending so much time in her little hut, now even people outside of the village were beginning to notice. Plucking the letter from his hands and chewing on the inside of her cheek as she read, Jean's mind crunched over all the various odd species that thrived in this environment.

 "Devil's bramble is the first that comes to mind, but it's more of a shrub than vines. Could also be just a mistaken color?" Placing the letter back down and folding arms across her chest, the Druid casts an uneasy glance out of the dewy glass in her kitchen to the misty bog. She hadn't been to Novigrad in nearly fifteen years. The harsh smell of a house fire coming back in a wave so sudden it took a considerable amount of will not to choke on the air stuck in her lungs. Hugging herself tighter, Jean forces the words out of her lips in an attempt to cast away unwanted memories. To drown the screams.

"You'll probably need an expert on plants and herbs," a glance is cut at the Witcher to gauge how the words are received. "I won't ask for any of your payment, I'm just genuinely curious now and could do with a bit of adventure away from the bog and corpses." Geralt grumbled a few words about how things were dangerous, and Jean's rebuttal of how she could handle a sword along with magic seemed to lessen the worries only marginally. Or at least enough that he put them to bed. Now walking among the cramped sewage reek which clung to the southern district like a diseased lover, Jean begins to miss her bog. Roaches hoof beats echo in the dull mist as they weave through cobblestone streets going north. A beggar approaches before seeing the Witcher and thinking better of his choices, slinking back into a darkened patch of fog that yawned into an alleyway. The struggling morning sun had yet to touch these streets, sleepy shop windows gazing out onto quiet abandoned boulevards. A liminal moment in time before the meager warmth of an autumn day shone through the slate clouds above.

 That invisible line between districts isn't so invisible in Novigrad. A stark change between cramped tenant buildings that had begun to go crooked like a thieves smile, to the gaudy colors in the markets almost hurt the Druid's eyes. Even at such an early hour, a merchant in puffy gold pants tried valiantly to hawk some bruised peaches to her, claiming they were the city's sweetest. More polite "no thank yous" than Jean figured were necessary, and he'd given up his venture only to flag down another tired traveler bustling away. They did not make it out of the markets without expending a small amount of coin, which Jean put out to receive a small set of glass bottles in return, which now clinked softly in her bag. Geralt eyed the merchant selling her the glass wear with a critical eye, waiting to see if he was going to swindle her or not. This intense cat-eyed stare is more than likely what got jean a reduced price just to make them go away.

"I think I have a new idea about what the vines are." The Druid pipped up as another jarring change in scenery happened from the markets to the northern district. Now polished iron gates bore their teeth at them from the mouths of massive walkways up to ostentatious villas. No longer is the lower districts' corpse stench lingering; instead, a delicate waft of mountain roses and lemon trees walk in step with the Witcher and the Druid. Jean felt dirty here like she shouldn't be permitted to touch anything for fear of sullying it beyond rescue.

"There's a rare type of flower which only grows on the site of immeasurable evil. I've only ever read about it, though; the drawing seemed close enough to the description he gave." Rummaging around in the folds of her cloak, Jean produces a very worn and overly bookmarked tome. Roughly the size of her palm, the books brown and yellow pages had the look of something that had been steeped in bog water and perhaps blood at one point. Leafing through to the proper page, the pages crackle with age under the woman's touch.

"Here, Dagon's breath. Black vines with leaves about the size of a supper plate, able to produce flowers but only on full moons. Dried flowers turned into a powder can produce some of the most potent madness-inducing potions known to the world. Since this is such a rare specimen, there are speculations that even the scent of the flower can cause severe hallucinations." Reading this passage aloud, the Druid could feel a cold hand drag down her spine. If this was what they were dealing with, then whatever cast the curse even to make it grow had to be obscenely powerful.

The Dagon is old magic. Older than what most perceived as life it's self, coming from the chaos before time. From all that Jean could find in the books in her home, it was a god born of entropy and discord but required strict worshippers to ensure that it would have a proper host to inhabit when the void took back over. Mages and fanatics alike that dabbled in the Old Gods were ones that put their minds in the hands of babbling madness willingly, hoping to be rewarded with some form of forbidden insight to the world. The thought made the Druid shudder. She'd tasted the sharp edges of madness once before, those dark whispers in a language lost still snaked into the blackest of nightmares that she couldn't wake herself from. They'd always promised such alluringly unfathomable things to her.

It's lost in these troubling murky visions that cause the woman to bump into Geralt when he stops at one of the ornate gates. Placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her, the Witcher's disquiet shows fully. He'd had many half-hearted qualms about bringing her along on this, and now that she was becoming so distracted, it only furthered his worry about her being a liability.

"You should go wait back at the inn. Now that I have a better idea of what this plant is, it shouldn't be a problem." I don't want you to get hurt; goes unvoiced, but his cat-like eyes' narrowing conveys the sentiment. Jean's face flares pink around the ears at her embarrassment, but she doesn't allow the dialogue of the inn to go any further. Making a vague gesture at the nameplate affixed to the gate, the woman lets out an irritated breath, the frustrations more directed at herself.

"We're already here; it wouldn't make sense just to send me away now. Plus, I don't remember which roads we took to get here through the fog. Come on, Geralt, just let me continue, and I'll keep my head on straight, okay? No more distractions." A half-hearted smile that she hopes will cement the words into place only has Geralt absently rolling his eyes. Producing the key that had been sent along with the letter they'd received, the gate is unlocked. A horse post just inside the iron portal is where they part with Roach, who busies themselves with munching on the fresh hay that had been left out.

Path flanked on either side by overgrown flower beds containing every flavor of poisonous plant known to the region. Even a few that look notably exotic had a tight knot of anxiety forming in the woman's chest. A breeze sighing up the path causes the nefarious blooms and grasses to seethe in a green ocean around them, their ghostly voices curling in Jean's ears. Reaching out to place a holding hand on Geralt's arm, Jean freezes in her tracks when the house looms into view from the dismal fog, which had turned into a light misting rain.

When the governor had stated the vines were growing along the house, she had expected a few sparse fingers grasping greedily at the spaces between the bricks. Instead, what they were greeted with was a building that seemed to move with a life of its own. Thick coal-black leaves nearly the size of Geralt's head shiver in the breeze giving a sinister shivering quality to the house from foundation to rain gutters. Interspersed with wine-red flowers sporting elegantly curved petals and long golden yellow pistils that reminded Jean of a great blood-sucking insect searching for its next meal.

Then the whispers.

"Geralt, we shouldn't go in there." We're the words Jean heard herself saying, startled by how her voice sounded so terrified. While the Druid can listen to most of the passive voices of the plant life around her, these held that same nebulous darkness that only spoke to her in deepest nightmares. They carried the same voice as the madness. Their saccharine-sweet smell only there to lure you in closer with beckoning leaves and candy red petals.

Before responding to such a statement, a loud voice calls to them excitedly from the house. A gaunt man in a midnight black traveling cloak hurries toward them, waving his arms and wearing an almost crazed smile that shows far too much of his gums, which are far too pale to be healthy.

"Witcher! And... company. So good of you to finally arrive, and when I fear I am at my wits end!" The man nearly shouts at them, reaching out to vigorously shake Geralt's then Jean's hand with both of his clammy skeletal paws clasped around theirs. When his fingers leave the Witcher's, he notices fresh raw wounds on the man's forearms peeking out from his dark robes' confines. They looked almost like symbols carved into his skin, but such a quick glance hadn't been enough time. Deep-set eyes that once would have struck a woman dead with a glance now flit in their sockets nervously, the striking ocean blue ringed with bloodshot scleras and the deep shadows of exhaustion. The man looked to be hand in hand with death, yet the cold grip that clutches Jean's own spoke of fierce hidden strength that still dwelled like an angry spirit inside him.

"You must come inside! He has told me so much about you. I am looking forward to speaking with you before we get to such dark and dismal affairs. Come come." Voice and grip offering no rebuttal, the governor loops his arm with Jean's, nearly dragging the woman toward the house of dark whispers. Following close behind, Geralt notices the low humming of his medallion as they approach the building. There was nothing good contained within, the corrupted magic oozing out and tainting the air around them.

[lachlann-macnab]

Task #6 (Write ten short-short stories of no more than a paragraph long) and #10 (Write a one-shot about your character’s family)

*The first thing Bridie Ward couldn't help but notice about Robert MacNab was the fact that he was built like a brick house. The second thing she noticed was that he moved as if he was light as a feather even if he looked like a ton of muscle and was dragging his very punished motorcycle around. The third thing she noticed was his bloody nose and how loud his laugh was as he wiped blood out of his upper lip. The fourth thing she noticed was more of a feeling that came suddenly, out of nowhere, and was simply announced outloud with a "...fuck".

Robert MacNab hadn't expected such language from a lady, to be completely honest, but those words and the story behind them were the best story about first impressions and romance he would ever know of -so much so that he would share it with whoever wanted to hear it, and even with those who didn't (namely, their future kids).

The men wanted to give one another the stink eye and probably would have done so for the full hour it had it not been for the fact that they were not only on opposite sides of the room, but also the fact that doing so inside a church and during a wedding would be a terrible faux pas -specially because said wedding was their child's. Joseph Ward didn't have a lot of love for Mikkael MacNab, the loud and boisterous semi-retired pilot that somehow, someway, sported more medals than himself even after all of his years of service; By the end of the night and many, many drinks later, however, Joseph had found a legitimate affection for Mikkael, even if the man was still (and will always remain) loud and boisterous.

Bridie had always been refered to as "Birdie". The letters of her name and that word were too close and since her name was somehow unusual people automatically assumed how it went, how it was pronounced and what it meant. She never did mind the error and would always take a second to correct the error. Bridie, however, only truly became "Birdie" the day Robert let her pilot his plane -he'd jokingly pointed out she was a natural at flying and how it seemed related to the word that always seemed so close to her name. The nickname stuck.

Robert MacNab has always had a penchant for naming his maneuvers in a overly-complicated-yet-hilarious way. Besides, saying "I failed to do the Triple Decker Treetop Bebop Tuck ‘n Roll once again" sounded way better than "I don't even know how I managed to get the plane stuck on that tree and I have no idea of how I'm getting it down without causing some serious property damage". Lachlann would inherit both of those penchants -the one for the silly names and the one about finding himself in bizarre situations.

Lachlann MacNab was born some minutes past noon on a particularly sunny September day. The new parents beamed in delight at his chubby little hands and tiny chubby toes and his bright blue eyes...but specially by the way he laughed his tiny lungs off as they rocked him in their arms. He was a tiny ball of energy and always seemed to be doing something -watching intently as he tried to decipher how the tiny planes on the mobile above his crib stayed up there, or giggling, or clapping or babbling his tiny toughts (and receiving many "oh, you don't say?"s in return).

The first thing Lachlann crashed was his Jumperoo; Bridie had been busy making sure his baby formula wasn't too warm or too cold and when she looked back she found the toddler chuckling in the ground, still on his Jumperoo even if it was now tilted. No damage was done and Robert would always chuckle at the idea of little Lachlann just casually laying there as Bridie lost her mind (and then he would always get playfuly slapped in the arm).

Lachlann wasn't even a year old when Mikkael decided to change his surname, much to Robert's confusion. It had, however, been a long time coming and after a heated discussion with an old uncle of his, Mikkael was no longer interested in using it -Robert didn't have much say in the matter, really. He gave his father's shoulder an understanding pat and nodded. And that's how Mikkael MacNab became Mikkael Halvörsen (or rather, became distanced from his own father's infamy and simply decided to live his life in a way he fancied, even if that meant still traveling the world and getting in harm's way. He had good company during all that, anyways).

Pryce had just recently landed in the US and was still quite jet-lagged as he watched over a very, very excited tiny Lachlann, who went on and on and on about the many cool things he would do with his little sister as soon she became old enough to play with him: he spoke of Darkwing, of playing with toy cars and letting her use his favourite one always and forever, of sharing secrets and cookies and staying up late telling eachother funny stories and being the best big brother ever. Tiny Lachlann was so excited about getting to know his little sister that he didn't notice (or mind) the moment in which Pryce feel asleep on the sofa.

Pryce jumped out of the sofa as little Lachlann screamed in delight at the sight of his baby sister in his mother's arms. Baby Louise, ever the daredevil, wasn't scared of confused by that or the man almost having a heart-attack in the background and she, instead, babbled a little "blabh", scrunched her tiny nose and then decided she wanted to sleep a bit more before getting used to her surroundings. Lachlann promised to wait for her to be ready. And he did. He stood by baby "Lou-lou"'s crib all day and only was convinced to let her side because there was a Darkwing commercial playing on TV and his father promised to watch over her. (That would be the first time he would act fiercely protective of his little sister, something he does even to this day).

[queen-of-the-vampires]

elijah, meet elijah

characters: elijah mikaelson x reader, reader’s family, klaus mikaelson

word count: 2,213

warnings: fluff

summary: you take elijah to meet your family for the first time, and he gets a lot more than he bargained for.

beta: she wants to remain anonymous

squares filled: meet cute

author’s note: this is for my own fluff bingo and if you have any requests, please send them in!

feedback the glue that holds my writing together

tags at the bottom

“I’m really nervous right now,” you said as you bit your lip and bounced your leg in nervousness.

“It’s going to be alright. Parents love me,” Elijah grinned from behind the wheel. He knew how nervous you were and tried to lighten the air.

“No, I love you. My parents are a different story. Not saying they’re mean or strict, but they will either be overly friendly or play the ‘tough parent’ act. They might overdo it. My siblings aren’t that far behind. My mom overthinks everything and anything. When she found out I was dating you, she wanted to throw me a party. My dad may act tough in front of you, but don’t let him steer you. He’s harmless,” you rambled. This happened whenever you were nervous, and the only way to stop it is if someone forced you to stop.

“My brother may want to beat your ass because he got this older brother protective vibe going on, but he’s all talk and no bite. Well, he did beat up my ex-boyfriends way before I met you, but you’re so big, tall, and muscular, so he got nothing on you. Though they are human, so maybe not mention the whole vampire thing, okay? They don’t know anything about that life. My sister, though, is a little shit and will try and get with you. She’s just that way. She’s a teenager, and she thinks she can get any guy she wants. Just stay away from her. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe we should turn around.”

You were cut off by Elijah’s lips on yours, and you could feel yourself relaxing at his touch. When you remembered he was driving, you pulled away quickly in shock but frowned when you saw he was parked in your parent’s driveway. Damn, how long were you rambling? Pressing your lips back on his, you wanted nothing more than to crawl over the middle console and have your way with him. He had a habit of making you forget where you were or what you needed to be doing, but they needed to be done. As you pulled away, you bit his bottom lip and tugged, letting it snap back into place.

“We will definitely be continuing this later, Mikaelson,” you grinned when he growled lowly. Getting out of the car, you met Elijah on his side before walking to the front door. Your parents were the kind of people who always kept their doors unlocked, so you opened it after taking a deep breath. However, the family member that greeted you wasn’t human, and you forgot to mention him to Elijah.

“Oh, I forgot to mention--” Your baby golden retriever barked which interrupted you. He ran at full speed once he smelled your presence, but he bypassed you and went straight for Elijah. As much as he loved you, he loved strangers more. Your dog wasn’t small like how a puppy should be, but he hasn’t grown to his full size just yet. Elijah laughed as he caught your dog when he jumped up to his legs. Your puppy licked his face excitedly as Elijah pet his soft fur.

“Elijah, meet Elijah. I named him before I met you,” you laughed.

“Hello, Elijah,” your boyfriend smiled. Your dog barked and begged to be put down, and when Elijah did so, he ran around his feet and sniffed. Once he was satisfied with the stranger, he went to you with a happy bark. Picking him up, you pressed kisses all over his face.

“He’s my baby. I hate that I’m away from him,” you said as you walked further into the house.

“How old is he?” he asked, and he shut the door behind him.

“Almost 2 years old. I know, he’s so big already, but I love him. Mom! Dad! I’m home!” you called out for your family.

“Y/N! It’s so good to see you!” Your mom came out of the kitchen, and you set Elijah down so you could hug your mom. Elijah happily stood next to your boyfriend and wagged his tail as he watched.

“I missed you so much. Oh, mom, meet Elijah, my boyfriend,” you blushed as you pulled away.

“Hello, Mrs. Y/L/N. It’s nice to meet you,” he said politely as he held out his hand for her to shake.

“Oh, put that hand away,” Your mother grinned as she pulled him in for a hug. She was shorter than you by a couple of inches, so she had to reach for Elijah.

“Y/N?” Your dad spoke as he entered the room. Looking at him over your shoulder, you grinned widely before rushing over to him to hug him.

“Dad!”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said as he kissed your head.

“This is Elijah, my boyfriend.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” he said as he shook hands.

“Nice grip,” your father praised. Your mother took Elijah’s coat for him, and she grinned at the muscles he sported.

“Oh, you’re strong. Lucky Y/N,” your mother laughed.

“I’m the lucky one, ma’am. Y/N is an amazing woman,” he gushed.

“Oh please, call me Barbra.”

“So, what do you do?” your dad asked.

“Oh, Sean, leave him alone. He is a very nice man,” Your mom led your father away into the kitchen.

“Sorry about that, Elijah. We should really come up with a cover story about what you do. I don’t think managing vampires in the French Quarter will sell here.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something,” he whispered as he pulled you close and pressed a kiss to your lips.

“And you are?” your oldest brother asked as he entered the room. He acts so toughly, but you knew he wouldn’t really do anything if there was no true threat. He was older by two years, but he acted so much older than that.

“Nick, this is Elijah. I told you about him.”

“You know I’ve beaten up her boyfriends before,” Nick said, getting off to a bad start.

“Nick, stop it. Elijah is very respectful.”

“Trust me, Nick, I would beat myself up before I even think about hurting her. Not to mention my brother would love to get a swing or two in there,” Elijah chuckled cooly. He was right, Klaus would kick his ass if Elijah ever hurt you. Since you spend so much time with the Mikaelsons, he became your best friend.

“Come on, Lucy is over, and she’s waiting for you,” Nick said before going to the living room.

“I love Lucy!!”

“Who’s Lucy?” Elijah asked, picking your dog up and following you.

“My mom’s friend’s daughter. She’s only 2 years old, and I want her. She is so cute,” you grinned when you saw the adorable blue-eyed toddler. She squealed when she saw you, standing on her little legs and waddling over to you.

“Lucy! Hi!” Picking her up, you kissed her cheek before placing her on your hip.

“T!” she giggled.

“She can’t pronounce my name, so she calls me T,” You explained to your boyfriend. Taking a seat on the loveseat, you placed the toddler in your lap as Elijah joined you. Your puppy curled on his lap comfortably, content with just staying there.

“So, Y/N, you never told us how you two met,” your mother asked when she came from the kitchen with a tray of hot tea. She handed one to you and Elijah before taking a seat on a chair. Truth be told, you met Elijah because he saved you from a vampire’s bite. One had been chasing you through the woods when he came, and he healed you before taking you in to make sure you were okay.

“Well, that’s a funny story actually,” you chuckled nervously.

“We met in a bar actually, well, a Grill of some sorts in Mystic Falls, Virginia. Before you say anything, it wasn’t like that. My brother, Niklaus, had a crush on a woman that used to go there a lot, and he dragged me along with him. Y/N was there, playing pool with some other girls, and I couldn’t stop staring at her. Niklaus was the one to actually push me into talking to her. I’m glad he did,” Elijah finished with a smile.

“Awe, you hear that Sean?” Your mother beamed.

“Every word,” he said as he walked into the room and took a seat on the armrest next to your mother.

“Elijah, let me show you around,” you said as you stood up, placing Lucy back on your hip. Elijah complied, and your dog jumped off his lap to trot behind. He loves strangers, but he seemed to cling to your boyfriend’s side more than usual. Taking Elijah upstairs, you pointed out each room before explaining what they were. Approaching your room, you stood outside of it before taking a deep breath.

“I haven’t been in this room in so long, so don’t judge me about the things I have in here. I was 18 when I moved out, mind you,” you grinned before opening the door. When you were 18, you were into crazy shit and had posters all over your room.

“Not judging,” he laughed as he walked inside. Taking a seat on the bed, you placed Lucy on your lap. She babbled and started playing with your long necklace. She was always a happy baby, and you were thankful for that. Elijah maneuvered around your room and studied the trinkets you had inside. Lucy looked at you before giving your cheek a light slap. Giggling, you peppered kisses all over her face to which she squealed. The bed dipped beside you, and Elijah grinned as he placed his hand on your lower back.

“I want one,” you commented after she calmed down. It was possible since you were human and he was a vampire. Lord knows you’ve tried enough times to make it happen.

“You’re really good with her.”

“Nah, she’s always happy,” you blushed.

“Want to try and have one?” Elijah asked, giving you a serious look.

“We’ve tried so many times to make it happen. I mean, Klaus impregnated Hayley, and he’s a vampire, but he’s also a werewolf. I can always get a sperm donor, but I want my child to be yours.”

“We’ll think of something. I want nothing more than to give you what you want,” he said truthfully. Before you had a chance to respond, your dog barked loudly and jumped onto Elijah’s lap. He fell from the force and laughed when the dog started licking his face. It was amazing how much your dog loved your boyfriend, and you wished that you could take him with you when you left.

The rest of the day went by smoother. Your dad grew to like Elijah, and your brother didn’t threaten him every time he caught his hands on you. You were only going to be there for the day, and night fell more quickly than you expected.

“Please, come back soon,” your mom said as she guided you two to the door. Elijah was in your brother’s arms, and he whined at the fact that you were leaving so soon.

“I will try mom,” you nodded before turning to your boyfriend. “You think we can convince Klaus to let us keep Elijah?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Okay, Nick, I’ll take him,”  you grinned. Your brother set down your dog, and he ran happily over to Elijah.

“Okay, we’ll be leaving now,” you said as you two walked out the door and to the car. Your parents said their goodbyes before closing the front door.

“He’ll love Elijah. I mean, who wouldn't?” you grinned as you let him in the backseat.

After arriving back at the Mikaelson Manor, Elijah dashed out of the car as soon as you opened the door.

“Well, that’s one way to ease Klaus into it,” you laughed. Walking into the mansion, you saw Elijah all over Klaus as he was trying to read.

“Get him out of here.”

“No, Klaus, please. He’s a complete sweetheart. Elijah and I will take care of him, so you don’t have to do anything. He’s my baby, and I hate leaving him at my parent’s house,” you begged, giving him your best puppy dog eyes you could muster up.

“Why you have to do that every time you want something?” Klaus groaned.

“Please Klaus. He’s a good dog,” you sniffled as if you were crying.

“I hate you both so much right now,” he sighed. Taking that as his answer, you grinned happily.

“His name is Elijah.”

“Great, another pain in my ass,” Klaus half-joked as he got up and left the living room

“Why don’t you and I get started on making that baby?” Elijah grinned as he pulled you back into him from behind.

“I have no problem with that,” you whispered as you closed your eyes once you felt his lips at your neck. Your dog barked as he nudged your legs in request to give him attention.

“We should go to your room. Then after, you’re taking me to the store to buy him food and stuff,” you ordered as Elijah picked you up bridal style. You loved your boys so much.

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[mariomandzho]

PROTECTIVE DAD MARIO MANDŽUKIĆ DRABBLE.

DESCRIPTION: when mario’s son, marko, is bullied in school, mario becomes an overly protective dad who teaches his son how to fend for himself. some daddy mario fluff, sexy times with mario and his wife, and heartwarming friendship between mario and luka modrić.

word count: 4,326

as always, thank you to @vatreniworld for coaching me through this, giving me ideas, and always being so supportive about my fics and ideas. love you.

please like & reblog!

“I’m so sorry, miš.”

You dabbed a warm cloth over your son’s forehead, soothing the red scrape descending from his hairline. While he still refused to tell you where he got it from, it doesn’t take long for you to put two and two together after he’d taken a photograph of himself and his friend, Tommy, off the picture wall.

Marko glanced at you for a moment, his large blue eyes that he’d inherited from you on the verge of welling with tears, before he pushed away your hand and sat down in a huff. “No more,” he whispered gently.

You heard the garage doors open and silently cursed to yourself. Mario wouldn’t be happy – he was incredibly protective of your son and you knew that it would take him less than two seconds to figure out that Marko had been involved in a fight at school. “Daddy’s home,” you said to Marko, attempting to cheer him up, but his eyes did not stray from the floor. “Let’s go say hi.”

You lifted your five year old onto your hip and waltzed into the living room. The door swung open a moment later, and Mario, hauling groceries, called out, “I’m home!”

Marko instinctively buried his head into your shoulder, wincing only slightly as his scrape brushed against you. You made a mental note to apply Neosporin to it later, although you knew it would be an inevitable argument. “Hi, sweetie,” you said to Mario. “Need help with those?”

“No, no, I’ve got it,” Mario assured. He walked toward you, en route to the kitchen, his movements slowing as he neared you and eyed the red swell on his son’s forehead. “What happened?” He set the bags down and walked closer to Marko.

Marko squeezed his eyes shut, his nose turning pink with embarrassment. You knew that your son wanted to be strong for his dad; Mario was always trying to kick a ball with him, but all he wanted to do was construct legos and read about dinosaurs. Mario tried to engage with him, talk about cars and sports, but Marko’s interests were far from that. He was quiet, like his father, but other than that he was nothing like his father, and you feared that would drive a wedge between them when he was older. “Poor little guy fell on the playground,” you explained, gently patting Marko’s back, “Ms. Marić called me at work and so I picked him up early.”

“You fell?” Mario asked, bending down briefly to graze his lips against your cheek in greeting.

Marko nodded shyly, barely glancing at his father, before squeezing you and murmuring something indecipherable about being tired.

Mario looked at you, obviously searching for the right words to say, or the right thing to do. If Marko was more like him, it would be so much easier, and you could feel his eyes practically pleading. You smiled sympathetically at him and adjusted Marko on your waist.

“Why don’t you go put those away,” you gestured to the groceries, “and Marko and I will go run a bath? Hmm? Sound like fun?” Marko remained quiet. “It’ll be fun.”

Marko at last grumbled, “Okay.”

“Atta boy,” Mario declared proudly.

-

The next week passed by uneventfully. Mario was away in Turin for five days for a press conference, and Marko returned to school. When Mario was away, you employed a nanny (who Marko loved) to make his lunch and pick him up after classes, and this allowed you to work freely on a recent proposal your boss expected you to finish by the end of the quarter – which was a ridiculous suggestion, by the way, for the mom of a rambunctious five-year old and the wife of a football player. But, as all things, you made it work.

You were typing away at your desk when your phone chimed, and Marko’s nanny, Eliza, graced the screen. It was 3:10, which meant she had just picked your son up from classes and he was probably wanting to talk to you. As sure as rain, when you picked up the phone Marko was on the other end, babbling nonsense before he realized you picked up. “Mamica!”

“Hi, miš. How was school today? Any yellow cards? Any red?”

“No, none! I promise. We’re having a party tomorrow.”

“Oh, how exciting,” you commented, a beam forming on your lips. He sounded so happy. Rarely did he get so excited about things, that you immediately wished Mario was here to hear it, and your heart tightened in your chest. “Who’s it for?”

“Tommy’s birthday is tomorrow. He’s turning six before the rest of us. That means he will die before the rest of us.”

You gasped, chiding him in your best stern voice, “Marko Mandžukić. I don’t want to hear those words out of your mouth ever again. Are you listening to me? There will be serious consequences.”

How could you even begin to punish him? Turn off his National Geographic subscription? Refuse to let him read Web MD when his throat was sore?

“Yes, mamica.” Marko quieted for a moment before rattling on gleefully. “Ms. Marić said we need to bring cupcakes tomorrow for the party.”

You tapped your pen against your keyboard, thinking for a moment, wondering how you could possibly wedge baking into your jam packed schedule, and in last minute fashion. You would make it work; you had to. “Why don’t you ask Eliza to help you make some? I can pick up ingredients on my way home.”

“Eliza is making dinner, she says. She’s making duck.”

“Oh, wonderful! You know, that’s daddy’s favorite. You should call him to tell him that; he’d love to hear your voice while he’s away.”

“But, mamica,” Marko protested in all seriousness, “you know we can’t have duck. You know what they do with the ducks. They fatten the ducks with plastic tubes in their throat. It’s an abob–mini–nation!”

You could only stare blankly in response – how on Earth did he know all this? Surely Mario didn’t tell him. You would have to monitor what he was researching on the computer. And you’d have to tell Mario to stop using the word ‘abomination’ so liberally.

“The ducks have a liver disease called lipo–ma–tosis and can’t walk!”

“I–Marko,”  you were still mustering up a response when your asshole-of-a-boss charged into your office, his brows raised in expectation. Suddenly, remembering the board meeting you were likely late to, you stood to your feet and shifted things around on your desk, feigning work. “Marko, honey, mamica has to run. I’ll see you tonight at six. Be nice to Eliza! I love you!”

The phone clicked off in response.

-

The kitchen counters were still covered in flour and sprinkles the next morning when you received a call from Marko’s teacher. Mario was expected home any minute, so you were cleaning haphazardly and hardly noticed your phone ringing. You raced after it, rummaging it out of your purse, and answered it breathlessly, “this is [y/n] Mandžukić, hello?”

“Hello Mrs. Mandžukić. It’s Elena Marić from your son’s school. I’m calling on behalf of an incident we had this morning – is this, is this an appropriate time? You sound... winded.”

“I’m sorry–yes. I’m cleaning. How can I help you, Ms. Marić? Is everything all right? Did Marko’s classmates enjoy the cupcakes we–he–made?”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s a complicated answer. Mrs. Mandžukić, are you aware of the issue between your son and Tommy?”

“Issue? I know they had a falling out last week, but, with all due respect, they’re five. I’m certain the issue has been brushed under the carpet by now.”

“Afraid not. There was a heated exchange and Tommy tried to swing at Marko today, after Marko implied that he was adopted. I think you should come and pick Marko up as soon as possible.”

-

Mario sat across from his son in the living room, silence descending between the pair. They shared the same lips, nose, and hair – but apart from that, there was nothing but blood linking them together. Mario was sitting partially hunched over, his hands folded in between his knees, heel bouncing nervously. His son, on the other hand, was sitting neatly – one knee crossed over the other, his hands cradled over his lap, lips slightly pursed and brows knitted.

There was one thing they shared: even at five, Marko’s look of concentration was exactly like his father’s.

Due to the argument that broke out between Marko and Tommy, it was advised that Marko remained home from school for the rest of the week out of remediation. His teacher would send over assignments and lessons electronically, but he wasn’t to return until Monday and that meant, since you had to work, that Mario would stay home with him. And he promised you that he would have a stern talking-to with Marko to resolve the issue.

“Tell me about what happened at school,” Mario began, opening the issue and praying there wasn’t a deeper one beneath. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a sympathetic bone in his body, but he didn’t always know how to access it – and his attempts to very rarely appealed to Marko.

Since birth, Marko had always been on the smaller side (in the thick of a heated dispute, Mario had even asked if you slept with Luka). He was shorter and more sensitive than kids his age, whereas Mario had been a ringleader; taller and more athletic than his age group. He’d inherited his father’s looks, save for his light eyes, but his height was all yours, and throughout his childhood he remained a tiny little mouse, hence the pet name. Perfect for cuddling, but it made him a prime target for bullying and–well–needless to say, Marko wasn’t like other boys at his school.

He struggled being a misfit, and struggled to find his place in his athletic, charismatic, and loud family.

Marko sniffed and turned his nose up, curiously, “Why?”

“Because,” Mario drew out, “when I get a call from Ms. Marić telling me you’re ‘antagonizing’ other students, it’s my job to get to the bottom of it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Marko crossed his arms over his chest and glanced away. The reflection of the windows played in his stormy-gray eyes.

“Fine.” Mario leaned forward and tapped Marko’s knee, “What’s his name, then?”

He glanced up at his father with wide eyes. Surprised, and perhaps a little relieved, if he was being honest, that his father was so in touch with exactly what he was thinking. Marko knew he couldn’t hide it for long. “Tommy Erlić.”

“Tommy Erlić,” Mario repeated.

“How did you know?”

“I’ve been there.”

Impressionable shock crossed Marko’s features. “You’ve been to the Jurić Day School?”

“Um, no. Metaphorically. Son, you’re going to have to stand up to Tommy eventually. Is that how you got–this?” He pointed to the fading reminder of the scrape from last week.

He nodded slowly. “But what if I don’t want to? Mommy says not to fight.”

“Then he will kick your ass. Mommy doesn’t know what it’s like to be a boy, does she?”

He shook his head, his long brown hair shifting to the side. “He’s bigger than me and does karate,” Marko explained. “And he called me a bad word.”

Mario’s abdomen was in knots. He liked kids–most of the time, anyway–but he wasn’t above cursing out a six year old if they dared to hurt his son. He tried not to show it, but within him his tendencies to protect and to be concerned were flaring up, and he wondered who this son of a bitch’s parents were.

His brows descended over his dark eyes, “You don’t have to actually fight him. Intimidate him, make him think that you could fight him. If you’re the wild-card, the one who stands up for himself, no one will want to mess with you.”

“Really?” A small flicker of hope wove through Marko’s voice. That he could try.

“Really,” Mario said, his voice sincere. He was glad that Marko trusted him, glad that he’d gotten through, somehow. “Come here. Give your dad a hug and we’ll go out for lunch.”

“Maybe another time,” Marko murmured, again dejected.

Mario’s spirits fell at once.

“Hey, dad?”

They rose again, for a half-second.

“Yes, Marko?”

“Can we get a telescope for my birthday? One of those with the tripods and high-tech apertures?”

Marko’s interest went way over Mario’s head, although he attempted to show interest. Attempted, being the key word. “What for? Your birthday isn’t until May.”

“So… I can look at the stars?”

“Do you think you can make a missile to go to the moon?”

“Space exploration is strictly for professionals. Didn’t you hear about the Challenger? It blew up!”

Mario bit his lip. “I’ll talk to your mom about it, kid.”

-

“I think I’ll take Marko to school on Monday. I’ll pick him up after school and take him to my sister’s to play with their kids.”

You set your hairbrush down on the desk of your vanity and glanced at Mario in the mirror, your head canting to the side. You weren’t surprised necessarily, Mario loved his son, but he didn’t always take the initiative in parenting. He was currently sprawled out across the velveteen duvet spread over your bed – all long limbs and muscular torso – reading a magazine, his brown hair a disheveled mop on his head, wide eyed and bushy tailed after a week of not working.

Trying to conceal a smile from displaying too overly on your features, you nodded. “All right. I’ll text Eliza not to come then.”

“Good,” he mused absent mindedly. “I think we need to take him to the park more. Maybe that one near the training centre. You think he’d like that?”

“The park? As in, swing sets and slides? He might complain about ‘bacteria’, but, sure.”

“That’s true.” Mario pressed his mouth into a thin line, “It’s good for him to be active, maybe pet a dog.”

“What brought this on?” You rose to your feet and crawled onto the bed, sliding into the space next to him and reaching out to card a hand through his untamed hair. “He pets Leni plenty. Too much, by all accounts.”

“I don’t know.” Mario shrugged, “I want him to have a childhood like I did.” A beat of silence lapsed, and what you were both thinking remained unspoken, hanging in the air. A childhood like he had, without the war. “Open air, the beach, freedom, being with friends. I’ll teach him how to throw a football, and we’ll watch the Juventus game. He can’t be so worried about ‘bacteria’ all the time. You know, he told me he thinks he’s a hypochondriac. How does he know what that is?”

“That sounds really nice, Mario.” You smiled, squeezing his arm, “he’d love to spend more time with you.”

“Really?” Mario rose a brow, his voice undoubtedly hopeful.

“Really. He talks about you all the time – you’re his hero.”

“Does he wear my jersey?” He asked animatedly. “With our name on it?”

“All the time.” You nearly rolled your eyes at him, albeit playfully. He took pride in his son’s admiration of him, but Marko wearing his jersey obviously took the cake.

“He’s a good kid. I can’t imagine us–you and I–without him.” He pointed between the two of you.

“I’m glad you think so. He is, after all, our son and there’s no getting rid of him now.” You glanced at him wryly and he shot you a deadpanned look.

“You think that’s funny?”

“A tad bit.”

Mario rose on his elbows and caged you beneath him, nipping lightly at the pale skin of your shoulders. “Tell me if you think this, is funny…”

-

On Monday morning, Mario woke up early, made a pot of coffee, and gently stirred Marko awake to get ready for school. Marko groaned, furling his nose the same way you did when Mario woke you up on Sundays to kiss you goodbye, and Mario had to smile at the small similarity as he tugged the covers off his son and sent him to the bathroom to wash up. “And don’t think about falling asleep in there. I’m coming to check on you in five minutes,” Mario ordered, tapping the expensive watch secured on his wrist.

“Okay, dad,” Marko yawned irritatedly.

When Mario returned in five minutes, Marko was standing on his step stool, brushing his teeth in the mirror and humming a nursery rhyme to make sure he brushed for at least two minutes. An idea leaped into Mario’s head, and as ‘Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star’ came to an end he opened one of the drawers in Marko’s vanity and rummaged for a jar he knew he stowed in there a few months ago. When he located it–a fresh bottle of hair gel–he turned to his son and displayed it on his hand proudly.

“What’s that?” Marko asked nosily.

“Hair gel. Turn around and I’ll make your hair like dad’s.”

Marko glanced askant at Mario’s hair. It was always so spiky–and the gel made it… crunchy. He didn’t want his hair, that was soft and shiny, to look like that. But he simply shrugged compliantly and turned around so his dad could brush his hair upward, and secure it with at least twenty dime-sized globs of gel that smelled like mint and cough syrup.

When he finished, Marko gazed at his reflection in the mirror and his eyes widened in surprise–he looked exactly like Mario’s mini me, save for his eyes of course. And suddenly, all the times strangers had come up to them and said, ‘you look so alike!’, finally made sense.

Mario was satisfied with the results and grinned joyously, expecting praise. “Good? You like it?”

“I like it, dad,” Marko assured. “Maybe you could teach me how you do it?”

-

“Remember what I told you,” Mario said, crouching down on his knees to hand Marko his lunchbox. They were standing just outside of Marko’s school, and he was itching to rush inside and start on today’s science project, but not before his dad reminded him of the advice he’d given him last week. “You’re the wildcard, and this Tommy kid? He’s got nothing on you. No one’s going to mess with a Mandžo. Repeat after me.”

“No one’s going to mess with a Mandžo,” Marko reiterated in a tiny, timid voice.

Mario shook his head, unconvinced. “No. Give me more confidence. No one’s going to mess with a Mandžo.”

Marko gripped the lapels of his backpack and repeated after his dad, this time unflinchingly, “No one’s going to mess with a Mandžo.”

“Good boy.” Mario grinned and gave him a fatherly squeeze, “have a nice day at school. Be good. No yellow cards.”

Marko nodded, running into his dad's arms before the bell rang and he scurried into class with all the confidence in the world.

-

The minute Mario stepped onto the field, all the stress that had been mounting within him peeled right off like a bandaid and fell to the wayside.

Mario was ecstatic to be back with his national team, and the fading priorities in their own distinct clubs allowed them to gel together better than ever. Some might’ve thought that the enormity of their World Cup win meant they were nervous, anxious to override their own success, but that was far from the truth. They were a well-oiled machine, primed and geared to bring home the glory for Croatia.

The stress of work, family, the unsurety of their successes and losses, it all seemed to evaporate into thin air after his cleats grazed against the lush green beneath him as he joined his team mates in a sprint. The voices in his head cheered him on, coached him, and even frustrated him, but there was no denying he was right where he wanted to be. If only you and Marko where there to watch him.

“You seem happy, man.” Luka commented, joining Mandžo in a brisk jog.

“I am,” Mario echoed, “everything seems to be falling into place, you know? Work, family, all of us.”

“You’re lucky – most people would kill to have it figured out.”

“Figured out? No,” Mario chuckled, shaking his head. “We’re not like you and Vanja. You two are perfec–”

“And have the same issues as everyone else. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You and [Y/N] are doing a great job at this whole ‘adult’ thing.”

“It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

Zlatko blew his whistle, and Dejan called out to them, “get your head in the game, pičkice! You think we’re going to win if you two keep flirting like that? Get a room!”  

“Why don’t you try fucking a woman before coming after me, hey, Lovren?” Mario shot, sprinting backward toward the field as he and Modrić dissolved into laughter.

Practice ensued for another hour and a half of taxing routine, occasionally interjected by Domo or Šime’s wild antics, as Dalić coached them through a series of drills that were progressively more invasive and difficult. Mario was wiping the sweat off his brow, the harsh Croatian sun beating down on his tanned skin, when Lana, one of the interns at the stadium, approached him apprehensively.

“Mr. Mandžukić?” She cleared her throat nervously.

Mario lowered the water bottle in his hand and rose a brow, wondering what she could want. “Yeah?”

“There’s someone here for you. They said it’s an emergency.”

“Who is it?”

“Why don’t you come with me?”

-

“Marko? What are you doing here? Where’s your mother, is she all right?”

Marko was sitting in the reception room, his head hanging low and his shoulders hunched.

“I found this little guy walking around in the parking lot,” Lana explained, “so I gave him some water and told him to wait in here for you.”

“Thank you, Lana. Could you give us a few minutes alone?”

“Of course. Take as long as you need. I have your wife on speed dial, should I call her?”

“N-no,” Marko managed to sputter out, his voice watery. “Please?”

Mario considered calling you for a split second before he waved away the offer.

Lana nodded and silently walked into the hallway that led to the interns’ offices.

Mario bended on one knee in front of Marko, placing his hand on his leg and glancing at his face. Though Marko was obviously hiding from him, he couldn’t conceal the bruise on his temple and the large split on his bottom lip. It took all Mario’s might not to let the rage bubbling inside of him to overspill and scare Marko, but his injuries had ‘Tommy’ written all over them.

“Marko, what’s going on? What happened? Tell me.”

His voice was devoid of any leniency. Although he was concerned for his son, he wanted to get to the bottom of things, and fast.

“Tommy,” Marko supplied, confirming his father’s suspicions. “I was at recess and did what you said. He was there. I started acting crazy.”

The knife lodged in Mario’s gut turned and ripped apart his insides. Had his advice hurt his own son? Guilt washed over him like a tidal wave, rendering him unable to speak or utter a single word. The sun illuminated Marko’s bruises and Mario felt a mere husk of the man he was.

“Miš, your face…” Mario grazed his fingertips against his son’s chin and lifted his face so that he could get a better look at the extent of his injuries. Although he made certain to be extremely gentle, Marko still let out a tiny hiss.

“He punched me and threw me into the pond and then smacked me again. He didn’t care that I was crazy. And then I got in trouble.”

“I’m going to call your mother. Your school is over a half hour away from here, how did you get here?”

“No, you can’t call her. She’ll get mad.”

“She’s not going to get mad at you, miš. You did nothing wrong. You did what I told you to do.” ‘I’m sorry’ rested on the tip of Mario’s tongue, although he bit down on the impulse, hard enough that he could taste blood invading his mouth.

Marko remained quiet for a beat. He then rolled up the sleeves of his jacket, revealing his cut up knuckles. Mario winced.

“I punched him back.” He sniffed and wiped at the moisture forming in his eyes. “Daddy, you have to take me home. Take me home, please.”

“Marko, why did you come here?” Mario tilted his head, gazing at his son, “why didn’t you call your mother?”

“Because I thought you would be proud of me.”

Unable to bear the hammering of his heart, Mario pulled his son into a tight hug. He wouldn’t let him go – never again. Marko molded to his figure, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and burying his head into the crook of his father’s neck, content to be held. The cadence of his heart began to slow against Mario’s chest, and his eyes shut drowsily. He felt safe, protected. There was nothing more comforting than his father’s arms around him, ensnaring him into the warmest hug he’d ever received.

After a few minutes had passed, Mario stood up and offered his son his hand. Although Marko quickly slipped his smaller fingers into Mario’s, he glanced up at the man curiously, tentatively. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home. We’re going to get you cleaned up and put some ice on your lip.”

Marko nodded, slightly afraid of what his mother’s reaction would be, but overall trusting of his father. “Daddy, can I say hi to Uncle Luka first?”

“Of course you can.” He cocked his head toward the stadium, “let’s go, mini me.”

Let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the tagging system.

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[mymelodyheart]

Highland Destiny Chapter 17 ~Highland Shenanigans Part 1~

Jamie had noticed that fleeting look Stephen had given Claire the previous night. It may have been brief, but it spoke volumes. At that point, he knew the extent of Stephen's feelings for Claire went beyond fondness and wondered if she was aware of it. He hadn't liked it one bit the way she had flung herself into Stephen's arms, the way she had leaned forward to listen to every word he had said, and the way she had smiled and laughed at a shared memory. Jamie wanted to be the reason for her joy, and the sparkle in her eyes, to be the one she shares her innermost thoughts, memories and secrets with. Irrationally, he wanted her pregnancy to show soon so that the world can see that he had done that to her - and that she was his.

After Stephen had left their table, they had hastily finished their meal, eager to be on their own again. After leaving the inn, Jamie had hoisted Claire on his back and weaved their way through the open fields to The Boat House, laughing and screaming. At the threshold, he had carried her into his arms, coaxing her to close her eyes. Inside, she had been enraptured at the rusticity of the modest dwelling as she beheld her surrounding, admiring the craftsmanship of the unembellished woodworks. He was charmed as she took joy in the simplest things as if he had laid the most precious jewels at her feet. 

"Sassenach, what do ye think were ye born to do? Do ye think it is to be a highly accomplished and successful Neurosurgeon? Or...to be a wife of a nomad to spend the rest of yer days sleeping under the stars? Or...do ye see yersel' as a lady of the manor with people to serve you at yer disposal? Or...how about a mother with many children?" Jamie had asked as he held her close.

Claire had simply answered, before kissing him softly on his lips, "I was born to be with you, James Fraser."

He knew that it was never easy for her to put into words her true feelings, but her reply was the nearest thing to expressing her love. So he basked in the light of this admission, his heart exulting in the knowledge she had chosen him.

Although tired, they had made slow passionate love that night with the moonlight streaming through the huge window that overlooked the loch. He loved how the glow had painted her body in shades of silver, her pale skin beaming out luminescence as they moved in tandem to their coupling. He savoured the intoxication of her scent; sunshine, lemon, sweet herbs and wildflowers. He delighted in the sounds that she made at every touch, stroke, and caress; even more, when she cried out his name, clawing his back, her heels pressing into his arse. He wanted all of her, every atom and molecule that made up her body, every thoughts and dream. He yearned to brand her and to leave his imprint, making his claim unquestionable and true. 

As he found his release in her arms, he had groaned into her ears like a dying man. "You are mine, mo nighean donn. Mine alone. Do ye understand me?" 

Then he realised, after uttering those words, that he could never ever possess her soul without losing his own.

..........

Before setting off for Skye, Jamie and Claire breakfasted at the edge of the loch wrapped in tartan pattern blankets with a teapot of Oolong tea and generously buttered rolls. Although it was a glorious spring day and the sun was out, the air was still chilly and crisp. They had sat in silence enjoying each other's company and the surrounding, content in their own thoughts, afraid if they spoke, the peacefulness and tranquillity of the scenery would be disturbed.

The drive to Skye was smooth and traffic-less, and they had made a pit-stop at Eilean Donan Castle in Kyle of Lochalsh to enjoy the scenic view of the lake and rugged surroundings. Jamie had explained how the castle was destroyed by British Naval Warships in 1719 because it was a stronghold of Jacobite rebellion under Clan Mackenzie and their allies. Although the location was stunning, they didn't stay long, and they were only too happy to leave as the first tourists-filled coaches started to arrive.

Claire had been surprised when Jamie suggested, after they have checked-in into their cottage, to visit her friends Philip Wylie and Stephen Bonnet in the Cuillin Hotel in Portree that day. He hadn't been overly keen the previous night when Stephen had extended the invitation, and Claire had already decided she wouldn't press the matter again. Seeing that he was genuinely enthusiastic about it, she had dismissed his change of heart to male-bonding over sports and rugby.

It was early afternoon when they arrived at the hotel with their camper van, after calling Stephen to warn him of their arrival. As Jamie and Claire strolled hand in hand into the grounds, they could see a flurry of activity on the lawns, awnings and canopies erected, and tables and chairs spread about. The air smelled of roasting meat and bbq and fresh grass, and there was music playing subtly in the background. The service staff scurried about refilling chafing dishes with food, offering dainty hors d'oeuvre in silver platters and serving aperitifs from trays. Further afield, there was a game of Tug O'War about to commence with men on both teams all wearing their respective clan's kilt.

As they approached nearer to the festivities, Claire saw Stephen waving his arm animatedly at them. Still, they didn't hurry and took their time to read the signpost of the upcoming nuptials and programme of the next few days' forthcoming events. Claire waved back at Stephen who was already alerting Phillip Wylie of their arrival. 

She felt Jamie stiffened in her hand.

"What is it, Jamie?" she asked distractedly as her focus was divided between reading the notice in front of her, Jamie's reaction to something he read and the approaching Phillip Wylie with fiancee.

Jamie turned to her. "Sassenach, there is something I must tell ye before we go..."

"Is it important, Jamie?" she asked, as she waved to the approaching couple, oblivious to his mounting trepidation.

"Sassenach listen to me...this is important!" he asserted impatiently, his face turning white as the couple came nearer.

Finally, sensing his distress, she turned to face him exasperatedly. "What is it, Jamie?"

"Th-the bride of yer ...friend Phil," he winced and swallowed hard, dreading Claire's reaction, "She used to be a former lover."

Claire let out a sigh as she reached out to touch his face. "It's alright, Jamie...I get it. You have a past and so have I...everyone does." She smiled at him in reassurance. "Actually, I have something to tell you too. Stephen was my..."

Claire was about to finish her sentence with "my first kiss" when the hosts arrived.

"Stephen was yer what?!?" Jamie hissed in her ears, his face turning from chalk white to a thunderous red.

"Claire! So good of you to come!" A smiling Phillip Wiley interjected, pulling a stunning woman eagerly by his side.

Claire ignored Jamie and turned her attention to the beaming couple.

"Phil!" she squealed, her arms already open wide for an embrace. "So good to see you. Of all places...here in Scotland!?!"

Phil took Claire in his arms and squeezed her warmly, laughing and babbling in her ears how happy he was to see her.

When they finally let go, Phil turned to the woman next to him. "Pardon me, sweetheart for getting carried away, but I'm just so thrilled to see an old friend of mine from Oxford. Claire meet my bride, Mary...Mary MacNab."

Smiling broadly, she shook the woman's hand. "Nice to meet you, Mary. I'm Claire...Claire Beauchamp. Phil and I used to be teammates in our local pub dart competition during our university days. We were the best team ever," she enthused, laughing. Claire noted, although stunningly beautiful, Mary McNab looked much older than Phil, and she just caught her in time stealing glances at Jamie, recognition apparent in her eyes.

"The pleasure is mine, Claire," Mary purred with an enigmatic quirk of the lips. Then her eyes flashed as she glimpsed the engagement ring on Claire's finger and cocked an eyebrow at Jamie as she turned to him. "Jamie, darling, nice to see you again." She placed a hand intimately on his arm before offering her cheek for a kiss.

Claire noticed Jamie was rigid and reserved as he leaned down to kiss Mary and introduced himself to Phil formally. He was not his usual lively self, and obviously, something else was bothering him. She almost felt sorry for him that they came, especially that she knew Mary was his former lover. She took his hand and gave it a tight squeeze, but he didn't respond. 

"Aaah James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, of course. The kingpin of Scotland's finest whisky. Mary had insisted on your  usquebaugh  gracing our bars...what an honour to have you as our guest," Phil exclaimed, shaking Jamie's hand overly vigorously and looking at Claire with  I-never-knew-you-knew-him  eyes.

Jamie smiled weakly. "Thank ye for having us here, Phil...now that ye mentioned a bar, I think I need a stiff one."

Claire was about to remind Jamie that he was driving when Stephen suddenly showed up from nowhere, pumped up and sweating from some rigorous activity and too jolly for Jamie's liking.

"Hey, Jamie, how about that rugby game you promised? You still in it?" he asked, winking at Claire. "It's five against five, and we're missing one. You'll do to play forward for the defending team with your muckle size. So are you in?"

Jamie didn't need further persuasion. He was already taking off his jacket before Stephen could finish his sentence. "Aye, I'll be there. I'll just need to change my clothes in the camper," he answered, his jaws clenched and his face set in determination. He deposited his jacket in Claire's arm and turned around without saying anything as he headed toward their vehicle.

"Ooooh, this should be interesting! I love watching Jamie play sport. C'mon, darling let's find a seat near the field. I can't miss this for the world," Mary MacNab chimed in, already stirring Phil away who looked at Claire with an apologetic shrug.

"What's up with him?" Stephen wondered, pointing at Jamie's retreating figure.

"God knows, Stephen, God, knows!!! He's probably got chilis stuffed up his arse for all I know," Claire grumbled irritably as she turned around and walked towards the dessert buffet.

..........

Claire piled dainty petits fours onto her plate mumbling to herself and not bothering as the other women near her gasped at her sugar-laden dish. She stole a sideways glance at a group of girls and checked out their outfits. She knew she was under-dressed for the occasion, but she was beyond caring.  Well, at least I'm warm in my jeans and sweatshirt...I can't be prancing about on the lawn in high heels and flowing dresses, like these bunch of hoity-toities . She refused to take further notice at the glances thrown her way as she found a seat in the sun at the edge of the field, waiting for the rugby to commence.

Although it was sunny, the breeze was biting. Claire had put on Jamie's leather jacket and smiled to herself as she noticed the length of it almost covered most of her thighs.  All the better to keep warm, lass!  She was about to bite into her sweet treat when she felt someone put a tartan scarf over her shoulders.

It was Stephen smiling down at her. "I saw you shivering and took this from my hotel room. It's wool, it should keep you warm."  

"Thank you, Stephen, that's really kind of you." Knowing how well Stephen plays rugby and that Jamie will be playing on the opposing side, she jokingly, cajoled, "Go easy on Jamie, will you."

"Oh, my sweet darling missus," he began with a grin. "I know the likes of James Fraser...they have it too easy in life. So no, I will not make it easy for him. He needs to earn you even if it's just with a game of rugby. I saw how he looks at you, so I'm betting my bottom penny he'll be showing off today." 

Claire laughed as he blew her a kiss and turned to run towards the field. She knew perfectly well how provocative Stephen can be when playing with opponents. He has had a few split lips and damaged eye retina in the past as testament to those provocations. She just hoped that he had outgrown those habits, for both his and Jamie's sake.

Lost in her thoughts, Claire nearly missed the tittering, giggling and gasping from the nearby group of girls. She turned towards the source, and he saw Jamie running to the field in his team's plain black t-shirt and sweatpants while Stephen's side was in all white. Both teams were priming for a warm-up before the game as the players did some stretch exercises and lunge twists.

"Oh my God, it's Jamie Fraser! I can't take it!" she heard one say not too subtly as the others from the group shrieked excitedly.

Inwardly Claire rolled her eyes and stuffed one confectionary morsel into her mouth, shoving it in with her forefinger.

"Hungry much?" asked a voice in a very posh English accent.

Claire turned to the seat next to her and saw a woman dressed in a very expensive pantsuit. In fact, everything about her was expensive; her perfect hair extension, well-manicured fingernails, Chopard sunglasses, Hermes handbag, Christian Louboutin high heels and a light Burberry coat. Even her scent smelled expensive.

"Oh, sorry, hi," Claire replied with a mouth full of cake, wiping her right hand on the side of her jeans to shake hands, "I'm Claire...Claire Beauchamp. Sorry, these cakes are just so good." Her voice sounded muffled as she extended the plate with her other hand to the woman next to her. "Want some?"

The woman ignored her offer of handshake and cake. "Hi, it's Geneva, Geneva Dunsany and sorry, I don't do carbs. It's not really good for the waistline," she responded off-handedly.

Claire ignored the barbed remark and focused her attention to the men on the field warming up, as she put the last piece of cake into her mouth.

As if she couldn't help herself, Geneva piped up again. "An excellent piece of arse that James Fraser have don't you think?"

There was a moment of silence before Claire answered, as she put her empty plate to the ground. "Oh, I've seen it a multitude of times, and I have to agree, it is an excellent piece of arse indeed," she said keeping a straight face as she took a massive gulp of orange juice offered to her by a waiter.

Disregarding her reply, Geneva added, "Well, I've met him in London before, at a gala dinner for Food and Drinks Presentation Award. He seemed interested in me then, but we never got to talk further because he had a lot of interviews lined up that night. I plan to get reacquainted with him again today. I think he'd be thrilled to see me."

"If that's the case, I can arrange a meeting for you with him. He's my boyfriend," Claire pointed out casually, not looking at the woman next to her as she groped for a tissue she stuffed in Jamie's jacket.

Geneva turned to Claire, pulling down her sunglasses and raising her eyebrows at her. "Well, every girl can dream, so they say," she said in false cheerfulness, as she looked at Claire up and down. "Dream on, Claire, you're not his type."

Claire, still not looking at her, agreed, smiling to herself, "Yes, that's definitely true, every girl can dream."

..........

The whistle blew as a signal that the rugby game was about to commence. The players quickly left the field to remove their sweatpants to reveal sports shorts underneath. Surprising Claire, Stephen ran up to her to kiss her on the forehead.

"I know you'll be cheering for your lad, missus but I've come to give you a peck for luck. Wish me well, lass!" He huffed, giving her a mischievous wink.

Not giving Claire a chance to reply, Stephen was gone as quickly as he came, leaving her in stitches. And before she could recover from laughing, Jamie too was running in her direction, sweatpants in his hand and his face still looking like thunder.

Geneva Dunsany suddenly straightened up and smiled. "Oh, hi, Jamie!"

Jamie didn't notice the girl nor the greeting. He purposely advanced towards Claire, leaning down to grab her neck, not too gently, to give her a long bruising kiss. Claire could hear a lot of drawing in of breaths and gasps from nearby, as Jamie continued with his silent amourous admonitions. When he finally raised his head, he whispered in a warning tone, stormy blue eyes boring into her, "We'll talk later, Sassenach." And then he was off leaving Claire to deal with the trail of shocked onlookers.

..........

Claire could hardly contain the heat on her face after Jamie's ardent display. She knew Jamie was well known for his whisky among the socialites and celebrity circles even if he tried his best to downplay it. But Claire had never imagined being pulled into it. She had heard phone cameras snapping, audible whispers of  who-is-that-girl,  and even felt the sudden dislike towards her person from some women, during and after Jamie's punishing kiss.  Damn you, Jamie!

So she was glad when an incensed Geneva left without saying a word, and her seat was taken by Phil.

"Oooh, that was some kiss, Claire," he remarked with a shake of his head before pointing toward the field," And that game is becoming like a two-men rugby game. I do not like the look of it."

She smiled weakly at her friend, glad of his presence and distraction, as he sat down. "They're both a couple of Neanderthals if I may say so myself. Stupid bloody oafs! They could beat each other for all I care," she retorted, glowering at the two giants on the field intentionally body-slamming and tackling each other even if neither of them possessed the ball.

Phil and Claire winced as they witnessed an illegal high tackle by Stephen on Jamie sending him flat on his back, and then they grimaced when Jamie swung an arm on Stephen as he retrieved the ball during a scrum. They both agreed Stephen and Jamie were very well matched when it came to stamina and endurance that even the rest of the players began to off-load the ball to them regularly. Ignorant of the game's rules, the majority of the spectators thought battering and pummelling were part of the game, and they cheered exuberantly at every hit and fall.

"Crikey, they're going to kill each other!" exclaimed Phil, who was already signalling one of the men to stop the game. "That's not even funny anymore."

More bodies crowded the outer field as they yelled and applauded, inciting both men, like bloodthirsty spectators of Ancient Rome. Some of the players had already stopped playing, and instead, they watched in astonishment as Stephen and Jamie grappled with the ball, ignoring the sound of the whistle

Instantaneously, as more people rallied the game, Claire began to feel sicker and sicker in her stomach. Not because of watching the brutality of rugby, but she felt a rather rapidly building nausea in her guts, and her skin started to feel clammy and cold to the touch. A sudden tautness assailed her middle, and her stomach felt like it was carousing with her kidneys. She gripped Phil's hand to keep from falling. "Ph-Phil, I think I have the collywobbles," Claire said hoarsely before collapsing to the ground.