#This is my phlegm period

[chestcongestion]

More chest cold An/gel ft. Hu/sk's feline hearing coming in clutch

[sxnctxxry]

i am better !!!

[ruairy]

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[gavisuntiedboot]

We Can't Be Friends (but I'd like to just pretend)

Pedri x Reader

Part 1

Warnings: None

Word count: 8.7k

A/N: After a lot of consideration, I have decided to start posting my Pedri series. I think that I can get a lot of interaction with these, and I think it is a good way to feed my soul and get eyes on what is happening in Palestine. So please, if you enjoy this series, consider helping out Palestine. Even if it's just with a click (second link!)

(Also if there are any continuity errors pls pls pls lmk)

Operation Olive Branch is an org working to help raise money to evacuate people from Gaza. I have decided to highlight Anwar and his family, who need to raise $35,000 in order to survive. Please donate what you can:

I will continue to highlight this family on all my posts until they reach their goal inshAllah.

Synopsis: Moving to a new country can be a pain in the ass. So can starting a new job when your position is completely different to what you thought. But nothing is going to stop you from achieving your goal of being the next Law Roach. Not the language barrier, your aching feet on the wonky streets, and definitely not your annoying, full of himself client. Because everything is going to stay professional, right?

~~~

"Bryce, can you please pay attention? God, I hate Americans."

The slow and thick laughter flowed through the line, peppered with static and cutting off whenever a particularly loud vehicle rolled past.

"Self-hating much? You are also American."

"I'm Texan, sweetheart. We are basically our own breed. Now can you help me?" You were finally able to flag down a taxi, stepping in carefully to make sure you didn't flash the driver. The stark white of the flowy skirt contrasted heavily with your bright orange cowboy boots, worn to match the white "TEXAS" baby tee with orange lettering. Your bangles clinked happily against your wrist as the door closed, hair mused by the late September wind. It was a comfort-from-home turned fashion statement, a way to stay close to your roots but show everyone at the office you were the type of girl that people saved on their "cool y2k outfit inspo" Pinterest boards. At least, girls back home would.

"How the hell did you move to a foreign country without learning the language?"

"Because I was supposed to be in PARIS, remember? I didn't minor in French just for mierde and giggles."

"Yeah, yeah, and then Paris decided to self destruct. I've heard the story. Just put me on speaker already."

Through the phone, Bryce's Spanish flows fluently as she instructs the driver to deliver you at your new place of work. Style Di Fortuna was one of the best styling firms in Europe, if not the world. Located a mere two streets from the Passeig De Gracia, there was nowhere better for a young woman to start her career in the fashion world. Except you weren't supposed to be here.

The plan had been perfect. After 4 years working your fingers bloody at UT Austin, you finally turned the bright orange tassel and accepted your B.A. in fashion. You were able to say "couture" with the perfect amount of phlegm to be taken seriously by the French snobs you had interned with, the ones who were supposed to be your colleagues after you graduated. The dreams of smoky cafes, bike rides through the city, and the lights of Paris fashion week were often the only things that helped you push through your professor telling you that you sewed like a blind sloth.

But then the French did what they do best: went on strike. For months. And after the long periods of no productivity and the destruction of half the inventory, you got the concise email that you would need to find employment elsewhere. About a week before you moved to France. So in a blind panic, you applied to every job you could think of within Europe, desperate to not have your first year post grad be spent at the soup kitchen or bagging groceries. You finally heard back from one of your contacts, another alumni from your school who said they could get you a job in Spain, but it was a little far from the type of fashion you wanted to do.

A "yes please I'm begging" email and 24 hours later, you had a job with SDF. Hey, fashion is fashion, and if you have to start by styling TikTokers in sparkly mini dresses before you could get to the good stuff, so be it. There were dues to be paid after all. So you grabbed your already packed bags and changed your ticket from Paris to Barcelona.

"I can speak Spanish. I lived in Texas for 21 years. Just not... Spain Spanish." You said quietly, rummaging through your bag for the ID that had been mailed to you the week prior.

"Right, and my white ass took it in school and he seemed to understand me just fine. So you, Miss Texican, need to stop with the perpetual fear that people will think you're stupid. Be confident and just speak. The company is Italian, anyways. Most of them will probably speak English, and if not, they'll think you're exotic and sexy."

"Mhm I'm sure."

"You're going to do great, okay? Just be yourself. You had like ten billion friends at home. It's almost impossible not to like you. You got it girl - go hook 'em."

Laughter bubbled out of you at her cheesy pep talk, feeling lighter already. She was right - even if you had gotten this job on the fly, your portfolio was super impressive, and people had no trouble liking you. So what was there to be worried about. After bidding her goodbye and having the courage to thank the driver in Spanish, you stepped out of the cab to the front steps of the new building. It was much taller than the surrounding, standing out like a sore thumb amongst the lower buildings and pale stone. Making your way up to the 16th floor, you were quickly ushered past bolts of bright fabric, racks of shoes worth millions, and some very stressed (yet very stylish) other employees.

"So excited that you're going to be joining our team! It is going to be so helpful having some international input to make sure we are not pigeon-holing our clients into fashion that is not received well globally. You will be reporting directly to Katerina, and she will report to me. Your colleagues are mostly male given the nature of the division. But Tania, Silvia, and Maria should be a good support as you move into the role. We also have Juliana who is between here and the Milan office. So it isn't a complete boy's club."

Huh?

After years in fashion, one thing you definitely knew was that it often was not a "boy's club". Sure, all the suits and big investors were often old and withered men, but most of the creative side of the business had been run by almost fully female teams (and the exceedingly rare stylish man).

"I'm sorry, the nature of the team? What do you mean?" You asked, trying to keep smiling while running after her towards a more and more barren part of the office.

"Sorry, was it not included in your offer letter? You're working in our athletics division. We are horribly understaffed in that department, especially now that we have taken on all the Adidas athletes in Spain. My word there are a lot of them. Bellingham alone needs three team members for every event."

No no no no no. This cannot be happening. You had come in prepared to style a lot of things: prom dresses, lingerie, even the scraps of fabrics that were rented out by the local burlesque show. But sports???

Now don't get it twisted, this isn't some "I'm a girl and I don't know anything about sports!" kind of thing. On the contrary. You were at every football game rocking the longhorns, cheering on your friends as they crushed it at basketball, and even tried watching a formula 1 race (there was a three car crash and you fainted) - you were totally hip with sports. Although you were not a fan of stretch materials or athleisure, you were willing to bite the bullet as a first step. The issue was the hidden undertones of your job. It was the fact that you would be working with, from what you could surmise, a lot of male athletes.

Bryce was right - it did feel like you had ten billion friends back home. Everywhere you went, you spoke to strangers with ease, and people warmed quickly, conversation flowing and bonds forming. But that's the issue: everyone seemed to warm to you, and so it meant a lot of male attention. And despite your best efforts, you always made a "too flirty" comment to someone's crush or "inappropriately smiling" at someone's boyfriend. And so as fast as they liked you, suddenly you were public enemy #1, and the drama became all-consuming.

No one seemed to understand. There was constant advice to just brush it off, to ignore the people who brought pain to your life. But you couldn't help it, laying in bed, stomach in knots, questioning why no one could see that you were just trying to be kind to everyone around you. The cycle of worrying had created a very isolating experience.

"Tania! Where are the other girls? I want to introduce you to the newest member of the team."

A girl with blown out black hair turns around, double nose piercings taking a back seat to a piercing charcoal stare. She was in high waisted jeans and a leopard print button up, the first two unbuttoned to show off the black strap of her bra. Her neck was adorned with a simple gold cross necklace, and she flashed a cordial smile as she stuck out a hand.

"I love your shoes." You said sweetly as you exchanged a shake, eager to make your first friend at work (and maybe in all of Spain).

"Oh, thank you. Dolce and Gabanna - they're friends of the firm. Your shoes are..." She gave a glance to the cowboy boots you had on, "muy naranja" (very orange).

You crossed your legs, self confidence waning after she addressed you like you had traffic cones on your legs. You were introduced to Silvia (a tall girl with short blonde hair and vintage Adidas Sambas paired with boxer shorts) and Maria (dark blue hair slicked back to show off her Italian football jersey). All of them oozed the coolest essence, and you were excited to get to know them.

"Alright, girls, not too much chattering. Barca arrives in 15 minutes, and there is not a single jersey in sight. Lets go! Rápidamente!"

A gasp spread across the room, accompanied with a groan from Roberto in the back, and there was suddenly a mad dash. Stretch fabrics in a hundred different colors were flying across the room, and it seemed like no one could move fast enough.

"I'm sorry to ask but... what is a barca?"

Silvia's sambas squeaked loudly as she came to a halt, whipping her neck towards you. Her eyebrows knitted together, looking at you like you had just said Jesus was a goat.

"Who is Barca? You cannot be serious. Please don't say anything like that when they walk in the door. Just stand out of the way and do some googling. We will fill you in when the team leaves."

You stepped back towards the mannequins, trying not get trampled by the other employees. A quick search on Instagram gave you the basics. Soccer (or well, football now) team that was super famous. SDF was tagged in their post from their TV series premier, so you came to the conclusion that they were long time clients. You were so consumed with your search that you didn't notice the gaggle of young men enter the constricted space until you heard a chorus of voices chant "Bon Dia, Pedri!"

You glance up, trying to see the man that the girls were addressing, but he was covered by a crowd, which was comprised of Tania, Silvia, and girls from the other departments of the building (you could have sworn that red head worked at the café in the lobby).

"Bon dia, ladies."

The giggles that came as response were far too exaggerated for just politeness, and before you could roll your eyes, you heard the gag from beside you and turned to who was ultimately Maria.

"Don't mind the girls. They aren't usually like this, but their brain turns to mush around the magician."

"The magician?"

Almost as if planned, the swarm of girls parted in that moment, a pair of sickly sweet molasses eyes meeting yours, holding your gaze in something that felt warm and almost intimate. His stubbled cheeks spread into an infectious smile, and suddenly a gorgeous man in a hideous pair of jeans was giving you a subtle wave across the room.

"Pedri "The Magician" Gonzalez, current reigning golden boy at FC Barcelona. Who knew God could pack so much talent and trouble into such a small package? Anyways, the other girls in the office are obsessed with him. They all think they're going to be the special little snowflake to pull him away from the line of Instagram models waiting to jump in bed."

As you listened intently to Maria's rant about the sports star, the two of you couldn't keep your eyes away. As Tania and Silvia went back and forth, talking his brain into oatmeal, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Who is the new girl?"

~

Pedri Gonzalez was many things: a generational talent, a laid back 20 year old, and (though less known) a shit-stirrer. These monthly team visits to SDF ranked very highly on his list of favorite activities. He was able to sit with his teammates as they watched some of the hottest girls in Europe fall over themselves just for a kind word or a prolonged glance. He just wished the boys would have seen the way they moved when he came in for personal sessions whenever there was a new Adidas campaign. Not even the king was served so wonderfully.

As the team bus parked outside the building, he lazily draped one arm over Gavi's shoulders, ripping his attention away from his phone screen.

"You know she does have a life outside of answering your texts, Gavi."

There was no attempt to hide or deny, just a continued scowl coupled with scrunched brows.

"She was really weird during the drive home the other day. After Martin was a little bitch on the field, she hasn't been the same. I think there's something wrong, but I don't want to push her away. I just want her to be happy."

"Ay, you'll have lots of time to make her happy after you confess your undying love in her passenger seat and kill her boyfriend." Pedri quipped back, taking a few careful steps off the bus and rushing into the building, the squeals of his name from adoring fans fading into the background.

"Okay, maybe not the best idea I've ever had, but now you do have work with Adidas and Springfield and all the other brands that want a piece of Pedri Potter." The nickname earned Gavi a light smack on the back of the head. "So in the end, I did you a favor."

The boys make their way upstairs, greeted at the elevator by Pedri's fan club.

"Bon dia, ladies."

"Bon dia, Pedri. We missed you."

Gavi tried to tone down the look of confusion that painted his features, watching these two girls trail behind his teammate in a way that was anything but professional. But there was a natural air to Pedri that had women swooning whenever he uttered a sentence, so Gavi supposed this situation would be no different than the one he had seen before in the club, at the beach, in the grocery store - basically anywhere Pedri went. He said a silent thank you to the powers that be that their types were vastly different.

The girls vying for his attention were promptly shooed away, with only the two who were actually part of their styling team remaining. Pedri scanned the room, making a mental note of who he would be looking up on the SDF Instagram once he was done for the day. He was a humble young man, but he wasn't self depreciating. He knew the number of women that wanted him was rising into 6-figure range, and he was not one to deprive himself of a pleasure that wasn't closely regulated by the staff over at Camp Nou. He loved entertaining the occasional tryst with an influencer or model or bottle service girl - whoever caught his eye for the evening. The world was his field, and boy was he ready to sow.

His newest playthings were his regular stylists. Since he was going to be spending a lot more time at the firm, he decided to at least enjoy himself a little bit. He dropped casual compliments, noticed the changes they made to their appearance, let them talk his ears off about how well he did in the previous match. Whatever they wanted he would provide. Why not? He was young and single. If they were to delude themselves into thinking he was going to settle down and take a wife at this stage of his career, then really they had no one but themselves to blame.

Tania and Silvia were nothing if not wholly entertaining. They always bounced around the office together, blonde and black hair making them look like a salt and pepper shaker set. Today, they dedicated themselves to dressing Pedri in the vintage Barca jerseys that were being photographed, leaving the rest of the squad to be dealt with by Maria, Roberto, and the bright spot in the corner of the office that caught Pedri's eye.

"Who is the new girl?"

He knew the question was going to cause the bile to rise in the throats of the two girls in front of him, who were already milliseconds away from killing each other if it meant he would take the survivor to dinner. But there was something about the flash of color that had caught his eye, hair falling in front of a pretty face that was glued to a screen and trying to stay out of the way.

"What new girl?" The response came from Tania, the more jealous of the pair by a mile. Pedri had often caught her stalking his account, his brother's account, and the account of every girl DeuxMoi "spotted" him with during the international breaks.

"Her. In the corner. She's new, right? That's someone I would remember seeing." He raised his head to get a better look at her, taking in the tight shirt and bright colors, watching her jewelry sway along as Maria (his least favorite in the office by far) called her over to help dress the rest of the team. The girls whipped around, taking in the same view that Pedri was.

"La naranja?!" Tania asked, disgust evident in her louder-than-appropriate tone. At the use of what was quickly becoming your office nickname, you looked towards the sound of the commotion, seeing Pedri staring intently at you once again. And while the depth of his gaze threatened to ignite a warmth somewhere within your chest, it was Tania's furious expression that had your heart racing in fear. You hadn't even been at work for an hour - what could you have possible done to have invoked such a murderous glare?

"I didn't think foreign girls were your type." Silvia said, much calmer but tone still icy.

"Maybe I just like the color orange." He replied smoothly, whipping off his shirt to slip into the one from 1980 that he would be modeling for the Barca site. The sight of bare skin was enough to make his playthings forget their rage, being replaced by lustful stares and lingering touches as they "adjusted" the fabric over his pecs about 20 times over.

"I think orange is a hideous color on girls." Tania couldn't help but mutter and she fixed his collar, putting in a couple pins so it wouldn't move as he walked to the photographer.

"I think the ugliest color on a girl is jealousy green." Pedri's eyes met hers in a silent warning. She was officially nothing more than one of his stylists. He was a busy man, and the last thing he needed was for his distractions to become a new stressor. He was notorious for being quick to cut girls off for the most superficial reasons, and Tania was not eager to be one of those deprived of his affections. She smiled sweetly, biting the inside of her cheek.

"Oh, of course. Especially when there is obviously nothing to be jealous of. Go welcome her on her first day - if she can even understand a thing you're saying. I don't think the American school system teaches Canarian." She left Pedri in that moment, calling sweetly to Ferran to come get dressed.

"Ay, Gavi, I knew you were short, but they can't even find pants that fit you now?"

The sudden voice behind you made you jump, causing a yelp from Gavi, who had been stabbed with a stray pin due to your scare. Your head whipped around, meeting that same smile that was brighter up close.

"Perdon, Naranja. Didn't mean to startle you."

Your eyebrows came together, a small frown on your features.

"I don't know what Tania told you, but that's not my name."

"I didn't think it was, but it's quite fitting, don't you think? A cute nickname for a cute girl."

The complement caught you off guard, and your mouth dropped open, reply unable to form in your mind. Was he seriously flirting with you? After half the office just threw themselves at his feet?

"Thank you, but I would really prefer if you called me-"

"Your accent is strange. Where are you from?" Pedri cuts you off, giving you a once over and taking in your figure, focusing intently on the writing across your chest.

"Texas. Can't you read?" You asked, growing more annoyed by the minute. Maria would be back any second to grab the boy who you were hemming, now identified as Gavi. You weren't eager to be seen as a slacker on day damn one.

"Houston?" He asked, accent preventing him from getting the "S" in the word quite right. "My brother used to live there for a bit."

"San Antonio, actually. But I went to school in Austin." As desperately as you wanted to make a good impression on your first day, something inside your chest wanted to make a good impression on Pedri, who was listening intently to the mini tour of Texas you were giving him.

"Is that close to Dallas? We are meant to play a game there in the summer. Maybe you can come along, show me around your city." He punctuated his sentence with a wink. You wanted to speak, tell him that Austin was actually several hours from Dallas, San Antonio even further. But your heartbeat was in your ears, and you could do nothing but nod along.

Pedri was not much better off. He had spoken to some of the most gorgeous women in Europe, maybe even the world in his mere 22 years on the planet, but something about the way you looked at him while speaking, eyes locked onto his, made his heart race in a way that was foreign but not unenjoyable.

"Hey! Hurry up - they need Gavi next. Or are you incapable of putting in a couple pins?" It was Silvia barking down at you, causing you to tear your gaze away from Pedri and back to Gavi's leg. Thankfully, the boy was typing away and didn't notice the break you had taken to chat with his teammate. "Pedri, stop distracting la naranja with your flirting and go get a pair of shoes from Maria."

You burned with embarrassment, the nickname turning from something affectionate to something sour, used to remind you of your outsider status as 'Cinderella' was reminded of her place by the coals.

"I was just being friendly." Pedri said, standing to follow her instructions.

"I think you have enough friends in the office." She bites back, shoving him lightly towards the wall of sneakers.

Your cheeks burn, embarrassment causing your hands to tremble as you continue hemming the trousers in front of you. Maria had gone out of her way to warn you that Pedri was off limits, and yet here you were again: persona non grata with your coworkers because some boy had taken an interest in you.

"You speak really good Spanish for someone from America." A quiet voice said from above you. Looking up, Gavi was gazing down at you, distracted by his phone every few seconds.

"I'm half Mexican, and most people in Texas speak Spanish anyways." You reply, trying to tone down the annoyance in your tone.

"Oh, I didn't know that. My friend- eh, physiotherapist also studied in America. She has this really cute accent when she says some of her words now." You watched his eyes glaze over in a way they probably shouldn't if he was just talking about his doctor.

"You don't have to make conversation with me, you know." You mutter back, scared that maybe this player was Maria's and you would sever the final connection you had left in the office inadvertently.

"Oh. I didn't mean to annoy you." The tone in his voice and his crestfallen expression made you feel like you had just kicked a puppy.

"Oh no! You're not. I just... It seems like I just pissed off the girls by talking to Pedri, and I don't want to make any other mistakes."

He laughed, eyes crinkling and head tilting back. "Pedri is a special case. When you flirt with everything that moves, someone is bound to be upset eventually."

The admission caused a pit to form in your stomach. Everything that moves? The romantic heat you felt earlier cooled into a slimy, sickening emotion. What kind of person toyed with people's feelings for fun? As you entertained the thought, you tapped Gavi on the leg, instructing him to hop off the stand and go get photographed. A shadow loomed over your form as you tidied pins from the floor of the workroom.

"So, I believe you were about to give me your address before we were so rudely interrupted." It was Pedri, returning with a grin, standing coolly with his hands in the pockets of his cargos. "Of if that's too personal, I'll settle for a phone number. Or an Instagram handle - I'm not picky."

"I can tell." You muttered back, unease still sitting in your chest. You avoided his gaze, chewing nervously on your bottom lip and directing your eyes to anything but Pedri.

"I'm sorry about Silvia. She can be... intense. And let me just go ahead and apologize for Tania as well, in advance. They're weirdly possessive over me for some reason." Pedri sounded sincere, eyes doing their best to catch yours and convey his message.

"Don't worry about it. I can see why you're so popular." You shuffled to collect stray pins off the floor. Pedri was not like any other guy you had ever been attracted to. Usually they were tall, lanky frat boy types, all blue eyes and khaki shorts. But the combination of beautiful brown eyes brushed by dark hair, chiseled jaw and plump lips, and strong arms that lifted a mannequin out of your way did weird things to your heart and your stomach.

"Can you now?" He was smirking. You could practically hear it in his voice, the amusement dripping from every syllable. He was obviously completely unbothered by your clear signs of distress.

"Yeah. Every girl I ever knew wanted to be the sugar baby of an athlete. Watch out or you'll get your bank account drained." Despite your best efforts to come across as cutting and sharp, he laughed at the statement. A full head thrown back and hands on his belly type of laugh.

"It's been a long time since I've spoken to a girl as funny as you." His eyes held yours, and the look was so captivating you simply couldn't avert your gaze. In that moment, it was also lost on you that you had, in fact, only made one joke. You responded with a half smile and heat radiating from you.

"Hey listen, a couple of the boys and I are going out tonight. You should come with us."

The invitation started to knock some sense back into you. Out? As in out out? Back home, going out usually meant getting shit-faced and riding a mechanical bull. It wasn't the best look to pull up to work the following morning looking like death and smelling like tequila. You were already on the way to holding the record for the worst first day in history.

"I don't know... I think Tania would put Nair in my shampoo if we were seen together when not contractually obligated."

You looked up shyly, and a part of you waited for him to insist, to feel somewhat special.

"Ah, I won't make you do anything you're uncomfortable with. Just DM me on Instagram if you change your mind. I'm not hard to find."

"Do you answer DMs from every girl that finds you?" You asked, rocking back and forth on your heels.

"No. But I'll be looking out for yours."

Another voice called out to Pedri, and he left you standing there slack-jawed. Who was this man? And what was so special about you to have piqued his interest? You asked these same questions of Bryce, who was now fully awake.

"Girl, the answer is obvious." She said through face time, words garbled by her teeth-brushing.

"Please don't say-"

"You're hot."

"That. Bryce, these girls in the office, they're stunners. 10s across the board. If he was going for looks, he wouldn't be going for me."

"I think you're over-thinking this whole thing. He just wants to talk to you for now," She paused to spit, "So talk! What's the worst that could happen?"

A shrill voice cried out 'Naranja!' and the trill of your new unwelcome work nickname was the signal that your lunch was over. You trudged back into the office, abandoning the warmth and sunshine for the cold front put up by Tania and Silvia. They bumped you every time they walked past, making comments about your clothing, your hair, the speed of your work, your taste level - everything. You stuck close to Maria, getting only two smug "I told you so's" before it was back to business. The boys left a disaster in their wake, with jerseys, trousers, socks, shoes, and all manners of accessories scattered about the workroom. Maria exchange stories of her childhood in Rome for your escapades in San Antonio and Austin, and the day passed with relative ease. Katerina click-clacks into the room an hour before your sweet release, huddling together everyone who worked with the team for a summary of what was accomplished.

"Great job team. I think Barca will be very happy with the photos, which will make me very happy. Now," Katerina handed out a series of files to everyone in the circle. "As some of you know, we have been fighting tooth and nail against Fordham Fashions for the new Adidas Rising Stars contract. Well, we have finally won! Here are the clients that we will be working with closely for individual Adidas campaigns, collaborations, and so on."

Opening the file, a familiar face grinned back from the first page.

"Everyone already knows Pedri, so we will move past him. Now, let us begin the style briefing for Bellingham..."

You stared for another moment at the bright grin on the page before turning it to take notes on everything Katerina was saying. The meeting wrapped 30 minutes later, with one final request from the boss.

"The new Predator boots have just come in from Adidas. We will be sending a pair to each of our athletes to allow them to adjust before we style and shoot in the coming weeks. And to avoid another, ehem, hair pulling incident, the new girl will be sending Pedri's. Sort the rest out among yourselves. See you tomorrow!"

The glares burned your skin before you even had the chance to process that the 'new girl' in question was you. Everyone scurried to the wall of blue shoe boxes as you looked over the brief again to find the man of the hour's shoe size. Pulling it out of the pile, you moved to a far corner of the workroom, but that did not seem to stop Tania from coming your way.

"So, you think Pedri likes you?"

The statement caught you off guard, hands slowing and your eyes widening at your coworker.

"Excuse me?"

"You think that now he's going to date you just because he laughed at one of your jokes? Because trust me, you're not his type."

You were prepared to rebut, tell her that she had completely misunderstood the situation, and you were just being nice to a client. But it died on your lips as the meaning of her words washed over you like an icy tidal wave, leaving you to pathetically whisper out,

"Why not?"

Her laugh trickled out lightly, delicate and beautiful and cutting all at once.

"Just look at you, Naranja. Anyways, this is a note from the agency that needs to be included in Pedri's box, so slip it in there, 'kay? See you tomorrow!"

Swallowing thickly, you didn't watch her walk away, staring at the table top to stop the flood of emotions that was clogging your throat. You knew you weren't ugly. Quite the opposite actually. It usually only took a coy glance and the bat of an eyelash for you to have people eating from the palm of your hand. But the self doubt started to eat away at you. What was wrong with the way you looked?

And then your eyes focused on the crisp white envelope on the table. The girly scrawl of Pedri was too... romantic to be a formal note. The green slime of jealousy seeped through every one of your veins. You took a quick look around the room, and finding no one, you carefully opened the envelope. Immediately a strong perfume assaulted your senses. The letter was a quick confession of love, and you couldn't help the increase in your heart rate. If your coworker was determined to hate you, then you should at least give her a reason.

Your childish antics came two fold. First, you tiptoed over to the cabinet with the stationary, grabbing a blank envelope and some corrector fluid. You carefully removed Tania's name from the bottom of the letter, writing in a little "S" with a heart beside it. You refolded the letter and placed it into the new perfume-less envelope. The letter found its home in the shoe box, and on your way out of the building, you dropped it off at the mail room. As you waited for your cab home, you typed five familiar letters into the Instagram search bar, and sent a message asking,

"Am I still invited out tonight?"

~

Pedri could not contain the Cheshire cat grin that lit up his face when he saw the DM from you. Scrolling quickly through your Instagram, he zoomed in on your pictures from the summer, swimsuits the same bright orange that had hugged your chest earlier that day. He responded quickly, telling you that you would be the highlight of the entire outing, and as he predicted, your phone number quickly followed.

"See, Gavi? I told you." He turned the screen to his teammate, who could not possibly be less interested. Being met with silence, he quickly snatched Gavi's phone from his hands, eliciting a protest.

"Gavi, this is an intervention. You need to stop this sad puppy behavior. After the sixth unanswered text, it's time to accept that she's not going to respond."

Pedri almost regretted it as soon as he said it, the sunken look painting Gavi's features being too much to bear. It was like taking a baby's favorite toy away.

"I just mean that she's probably busy, hermano. She'll respond when she can. Now, back to me."

Gavi rolled his eyes and leaned back against Pedri's couch. He displayed his most exasperated expression.

"Please, Pedri. Tell me again how you got a girl to swoon for you in a matter of minutes. It's always my favorite story."

Gavi barely missed the pillow chucked at his head, but pressed on anyways.

"Come on, Pedri. It's the same story every week. Find a cute girl, flirt, invite her out, sleep with her, and then block her on all your socials."

"Okay but this one is different. She's my first American."

Gavi gave him a look that told Pedri that maybe the joke should have been reserved for Ferran. Despite all the wisdom Pedri had imparted, Gavi hadn't listened. Instead of taking advantage of the swarm of women ready to show him heaven, he had gone and fallen in love with one of his coworkers. Sheesh. What a stupid idea. But he had never seen Gavi, or anyone really, care so much about a person. So he was being a good friend, just pretending that this love story wouldn't go down in flames (badum-tsss).

Pedri was not willing to be a hopeless lover boy. He killed himself on the pitch, and there was no way he wasn't going to enjoy life after the whistle blew.

"I just don't think it's an idea to start involving girls you're going to have to see again."

The statement cut straight through Pedri's daydream of what you would wear to the club that evening. Gavi may have been right. When messing with Instagram models, it was easy to avoid previous flings. A block online, a slip of their photo to Camp Nou security, and worst case scenario, when they came up to him at an event, he just put on his best confused face and asked, "Do I know you?"

But this was new territory. He had toyed around with Tania and Silvia for months now, but it never left the office. Inviting a girl who he would have to see again and again for work out was risky. But the risk-assessing brain cells were on vacation. All that was left were the party neurons, the ones that craved dopamine and finding out what your skin would feel like against his palms. So he pushed all of Gavi's valid objections into a dark corner of his brain. He opted instead to ask,

"So, are you coming out tonight as well?"

Gavi lifted his hoodie up to cover his face, using all his self control to not grab his phone from its place on the coffee table.

"I don't think so. I'm not in the mood to see Ferran or... anyone really. Just want to sit home and watch my show."

"Suit yourself then. I'll let you know how the night ends."

"I'm begging you not to."

~

You smoothed your hands over your dress one final time. You were pacing around your living room, eagerly waiting for Pedri to pick you up. Despite your best efforts to assure him that you could Uber yourself to the club, he refused, and you couldn't help the giddy feeling at the gentlemanly antics.

Staring at yourself in the mirror once again, you thought of the dates you had been on in your senior year of college. From darties on frat lawns to drive-thrus to fine dining, many guys had tried to win your favor. It wasn't that all of them sucked (even if the majority did). It was just that the guys back home in America were... boring. All of them were pretty self centered and shallow, nice to look at but nothing deeper. While a pretty boy was nice at 19, it was time to grow up and look for something more.

The buzzing of your phone knocked you out of the trance you were in. "Pedri from work" illuminated the screen as you rushed to answer.

"I was going to come in and knock on your door, but I can't get into your building."

You laughed lightly in response, apologizing about the door code while grabbing a jacket and heading downstairs. A low whistle greeted you, dark eyes tracing your figure with a look that you tried not to interpret for your own sanity. A shy smile played across your features as you allowed Pedri to open your car door, sweet talk you throughout the drive, and escort you in to what was more of a lounge than a club. Live musicians played just loud enough for ambiance, but not enough to completely drown out everyone chattering amongst themselves. The two of you walked up to a table of Greek Gods, which you assumed were his teammates.

Pedri introduced you to the group, making sure that his body was physically situated between you and Ferran. He was a good guy somewhere deep, deep down, buried under the anguish of his last girlfriend, who left him upon finding out about the pay reduction that came with moving from Manchester City to FCB. Pedri tried to stop him from taking out his rage on a coworker (and Gavi's crush), but he was hard headed and couldn't be swayed. Eventually he would calm down, and they could go back to being young and single and not bitter. Pedri's phone glowed with a notification from the boy on his mind.

[Gaviiii]: dude i foujd her outside my house just sitting in her car n cryng so im gonna take care of that

[Gaviiii]: dont tect me or call me im not gonna answer

The typos were normal, as it was hard for Gavi to avert his eyes for even one second when his most precious was in sight. Pedri shook off the text and turned his attention back to you, arm coming to rest around your waist in what was meant to be a comforting gesture.

You were not comforted. On the contrary, you were on the verge of throwing up. You were one of only two girls in a circle of incredibly attractive men, the other being someone's wife. You couldn't remember the names of any of them, except for Ferran, who you had been specifically warned about on the drive over. The devil really is a charmer. His short cropped hair showed the angels of his face beautifully, long lashes fanning against his cheeks. A few tattoos peaked out from under rolled up sleeved, and you had to remember that you were with his friend on a... what was this exactly? Pedri had never said anything more than that he wanted to be friends. But he asked you to go out with him, picked you up, gave you the pre-date compliments, and now was shielding you from other men. Were you on a date?

You tried your best to participate in small talk, listening to them go back and forth about football and training and life in general. The various accent were not kind to your brain that was barely used to the Canarian lilt to Pedri's speech.

"Are you okay?"

The whisper came softly in your ear, hot breath against you skin causing an eruption of little bumps. Pedri's arm had not left your waist, but now he was rubbing delicate circles into your skin.

"I'm fine. Just... a little overwhelmed? I feel sort of out of place."

"Don't worry, linda. No one can take their eyes off you."

The affirmation only increased your heart rate once again, the thump against your chest beating in rhythm with the base from the speakers. You were acutely aware of the warmth of his palm against your skin, radiating through the fabric of your dress. You loosened up as the evening progressed, participating in the conversation more confidently and laughing more freely. Slowly, the boys excused themselves from the gathering one by one, and soon it was only you and Pedri in the low light, talking about the most beautiful scenery you have ever seen.

He was lost in describing his home island, the clear waters and lush foliage that he called home. You leaned forward, enraptured by the passion that he spoke with about the places and people he loved. Slowly, you found yourself getting closer and closer, until there was only a few inches of space between you. The gold flecks interspersed in dark brown became clearer, and you struggled to breathe as you watched Pedri's gaze drift to your lips.

"I am getting the impression you want me to kiss you. Please correct me if that's not the case." Pedri breathed out slowly, more strained than you had previously thought. You don't know what you were thinking. Maybe you weren't thinking. You just acted on what felt right. Closing the distance, you joined Pedri's lips to yours, arms around his neck as you kissed with a hunger borderline inappropriate for the public.

You weren't usually this person. It was usually a couple dates before you would allow for a goodnight kiss, let alone the almost make-out you were currently engaged in. You pulled away from Pedri, the heavy breathing a commonality between the two of you. Maybe it was the being in Spain. Maybe it was that he was hot and young and famous. Maybe it was that of all the girls throwing themselves at him, including your coworkers, he picked you after an hour of conversation. Something told you to take a chance on what could be your love at first sight moment. So when Pedri leaned close and asked,

"Do you want to go back to your place?"

There was no answer but yes.

~

The following morning was filled with bliss. Pedri had woken up just as the first rays of sunlight were painting the stone. He kissed you on the cheek, whispering something akin to "see you around" before he left to training. You floated through your morning, making a coffee in a daze and dressing with a permanent smile. Bryce was still fast asleep, so you left her about 30 minutes worth of voice messages before you had the guts to step out and hail your own cab to work.

You walked into the office still riding the high from the night before. Your skin was ablaze, and every time you thought of the "activities", heat spread through you rapidly. Luckily the November chill kept you from sweating through your bones. Your bliss lasted for most of the morning, as you worked with Maria and a couple of people you had never met to create a mood board for an upcoming photoshoot. As you flipped through paint swatches, a piercing scream split the air, causing you to drop to the ground and cover your head.

"Why are you on the floor, Naranja?"

One of the boys looked at you with raised eyebrows, and a part of your brain registered that your new work nickname had trickled into other departments.

"Oh, sorry. I went to high school in America. Screams like that meant someone was getting jumped. Or shot."

Another scream rippled through the hallway as Maria helped you up.

"That was Silvia. Given recent history, your prediction about her being attacked might be correct."

The both of you scurried down the hall, the clicks of the other department workers followed behind you, eager for the newest and juiciest chisme. The sight before you made you stop dead in your tracks. Roberto was holding Tania by the waist, apparently the only thing that was keeping her away from Silvia, who was on the other side of the room crying and grabbing her head. There was a trail of silver thread between the two hysterical women. No, not thread - hair.

"She cut my hair! She came up behind me and cut my hair!"

"She's a traitor and, more importantly, a whore! I should've slit her throat."

Katerina had finished ushering everyone who didn't work there out of the room, and now she was standing in the middle of the room ready to mediate.

"You two have 5 minutes to explain what the hell happened and why I shouldn't fire you."

Tania had calmed, no longer straining against an iron grip and gaze filled with slightly less murderous intent. She released the clump of hair that she had in her hand onto the floor, revealing the absolute carnage that had taken place. Safe to say Silvia was going to be rocking a pixie cut for the next few weeks. Both of the girls remained silent. The prisoner's dilemma in real time. Katerina clicked her tongue after the moment of silence and simply said, "Roberto."

You could swear you saw a smile on his face briefly before he cleared his throat and began.

"Tania gave the new girl a note with her phone number in it to send to Pedri. Pedri texts the phone number, but instead of addressing it correctly, he says-"

"HEY SILVIA. THIS MORNING HE TEXTS MY NUMBER WITH HER NAME." Tania's outburst had everyone stand up, fearing that she was going to lunge. She remained in place, but no one sat back down.

"So you decided to attack her because he can't tell you two apart?"

"She must have done something to my note. She-"

"No." Katerina interrupted. "I have hear enough. Both of you are no longer working on any project Pedro Gonzalez is involved in."

Protests came from both of the girls, suddenly sullen and docile. They began to plead to be punished with anything else, but not exile from their favorite footballer. As they whimpered to your boss, who reminded them they were lucky to still be employed, it dawned on you. This morning. He texted who he thought was Silvia this morning. In response to a flirty message. After he left your bed. Maybe before he had even left the apartment.

There it was again. The nausea. The urge to projectile vomit. All because of Pedro Gonzalez. Fuck a nickname. He was a rich fuckboy that had played you like a fiddle. You held the tears back as you went back to fabric swatches, taking a moment to block him on Instagram.

"So, how does it feel to be Pedri's personal stylist now?" Katerina startled you, and the shock caused a delay in processing what she had just said.

"His what?"

"Well, now that those two are not allowed to be within 50 meters of him, it's only you and Maria working the Adidas contract. Especially now that Roberto is part of the Olympics team. So you get Pedri, and she gets Bellingham. Perfect, no?"

You nodded, swallowing hard to push the bile back down. This very unfortunate one night stand maybe have been the worst idea you have ever had. You walked through the rest of the day with disgust and rage flowing through you. You decided to brave the cold of the November afternoon and walk home, stopping by a bakery to get something with chocolate to keep the tidal wave of intense depression at bay.

How could this be happening? You weren't this girl. You weren't someone who let yourself be gullible and played. Hell, you had gone the last four years with all of Texas and parts of Mexico vying for your affection. But this little Spanish boy took advantage of the connection you felt, and he had barely left your bed before starting to text your coworker. Your phone buzzed with several messages in rapid succession.

[Pedro Gonzalez]: My agent just told me you were my own personal stylist

[Pedro Gonzalez]: that's good to hear.

[Pedro Gonzalez]: At least I'll have a friend at all these long and boring photoshoots

No mention of the night before. No "I had a good time". No question about your wellbeing. Nothing except his own self interest. How the situation would be good for him. Again. You felt awful as you pushed a teenage boy out of the way, barely making it into the bathroom before throwing your guts up. What the hell. How did you manage to fuck up so poorly so quickly? It was day damn one. And now you were throwing up in a bakery bathroom in Spain because of a man that's 5'9". You sat at a table, cake and coffee cooling in front of you. You didn't trust your legs or your stomach just yet, so you decided to type out a response instead.

Pedri was in overall low spirits. His injury had had another flare up, causing him to limp to the locker room. The email from his agent brightened his day, as he saw your name in the email. He shot a quick text your way, excited at the prospect of seeing you again, only to sour at the response.

[Naranja]: dont speak to me pedro

[Naranja]: we are not friends

[Naranja]: and we never will be

[You can no longer send messages to this user]

~~~

A/N: Here it is! The first part of the new series! Just some preemptive answers: I don't know what my posting schedule will look like and idk how many parts it's going to be. I hope you enjoy this first part. It might be a little rushed because I just wanted to set up the main story. Please let me know your thoughts in comments and asks! I'll try to reply to as many as I can. I love you all <3

Palestine: I will try to donate $1 for every comment that has a watermelon or an olive in it. I will keep y'all updated with how it goes.

Here are some more links to please please please look at while you're here.

Care for Gaza: an org that has been getting help and aid to people on the ground -> https://www.gofundme.com/f/careforgaza

Daily click that donates money to help Palestinians -> https://arab.org/click-to-help/palestine/

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

desperate times, desperate measures

Tonight is turning out to be my fifth night of sleep deprivation due to a nasty upper respiratory virus running its course through my system. Thankfully, it's not Covid (which I've already had twice), but I'm only getting about three hours of sleep each night due to excessive post nasal drip & phlegm that wakes me up from coughing and bad nausea. Unfortunately, I used up the last of my sick time to call out on Sunday (with Monday as my regular day off) and had to go back to work on Tuesday. Between the exhaustion, coughing, and nausea, it was pure misery.

If I call out again, I will reach my work limit (only 5 absences allowed in a rolling six month period) and will be subject to dismissal (sadly, that's the state of employment for most 'essential workers' in the US these days), so I'm going to have to apply for a 3-day leave of absence (minimum I can request) in order to save my job. Meaning I'll be short three days pay towards my lodging next week.

As much as I hate to ask for help once again, I have to try to raise $300 to cover the difference.

Donations of any amount will be immensely appreciated, and thank you in advance for any reblogs of this post!

[maverick-werewolf]

Werewolf Fact #70 - Werewolves in medical history + "clinical lycanthropy"

The results of the werewolf fact poll over on my Patreon are in, and now we have this month's werewolf fact: all about werewolves in historical medical treatises of the Renaissance/Early Modern period and the term "clinical lycanthropy," as well as what all that means and how it still impacts werewolf studies and werewolf pop culture today.

This post will make use of a lot of primary sources, which I always find fun, so buckle up!

I've done several posts touching upon subjects similar to this before, you might be familiar with them, such as how werewolves in folklore are the result of a curse instead of a disease, and my two-parter on when werewolves became associated with insanity (Part 1 and Part 2 are here). You can also read a whole lot more about that topic and my arguments regarding it in my thesis, which was on werewolves, and can be found here on Amazon.com (hardback coming soon!).

However, I have never really delved in detail into a few of the actual medical treatises written during the Renaissance/Early Modern Period - in other words, primary sources - of which we have several. In this post, I will cover a few, but not all. I'm also going to make mention of a few more modern ones in regard to clinical lycanthropy, but let's start with older first...

First of all, there was a lot of discussion of "melancholy" in the 1500s in regard to werewolves. This was even referenced in the play The Duchess of Malfi (and I actually have an academic article dedicated to the discussion of the lines involving werewolves in said play). This is, of course, related to the ancient Greek theory of humors, in which the composition of the human body and health required the balance of four humors: black bile (earth), blood (air), choler (fire), and phlegm (water), each related to one of the classic elements.

Throughout the Renaissance, "wolf-madness" was attributed to a case of melancholy, or an excess of black bile. There are many examples of this. And, of course, there are also many attributions to Satan... which was not a thing at all before this time period, as before this, werewolves were even sometimes associated with Christianity (see: werewolves of Ossory, among others).

An oft-referenced source in both werewolf studies at large as well as my own works is "Admirable and Memorable Histories" by I. Goulart, from around 1607 and translated from French by Ed Grimeston; I use this source from my book A Lycanthropy Reader by Charlotte F. Otten. Please note that the language of the piece is dated, so it will read funny to modern audiences.

Goulart discusses "Licanthropes and mad-men, the which wee will consider of two sorts," not necessarily equating those suffering from "lycanthropy" as mad-men, but as those "in whom the melancholike humor doth so rule, as they imagine themselves to be transformed into Wolves." He refers to them as "counterfet Wolves" and discusses how they "runne into Church-yardes, and about graves," something not uncommonly seen in the newfangled werewolf sources of the 1600s onward but not commonplace in werewolf legends of previous time periods.

Goulart also discusses men "tormented with an evill spirit, that at a certaine season of the yeare, hee imagined himselfe to bee a ravening Wolfe," and references other elements seen only in the later werewolf trials as opposed to previous werewolf legends. I also can't help but wonder if the "certain season" element is something Curt Siodmak saw and carried over into the original werewolf in The Wolf Man turning during a particular season (when wolfsbane blooms in autumn)...

Anyway, another of Goulart's sources is Job Fincel in 1541, who describes werewolves in ways we see around a lot when googling and finding garbage on the internet but not so much in legends previously, such as how those afflicted with the "disease" of believing themselves to become a wolf (but not actually turning into one) "are pale, their eyes are hollow, and they see ill, their tongue is drye, they are much altered, and are without much spittle in the mouth." This is consistent with particular illnesses rather than anything seen in werewolf legends, as these are not the people who truly become wolves, only those who believe that they do - and Goulart was still drawing lines between those with hallucinations, those who actually change shape, and those who are werewolves by other means. For example, Goulart also discusses the idea of people whose souls fly from their own bodies and enter into the forms of wolves instead.

There are other examples that discuss these same topics, of course, including but not at all limited to "Diseases of the Mind" by Robert Burton and "A Treatise" by Robert Bayfield, both of which are also featured in A Lycanthropy Reader, and there are plenty of others in assorted other werewolf studies publications.

Now, in addition to these older examples, we also have much more recent medical studies regarding what is known in modernity as "clinical lycanthropy."

Here's a fun fact: the term "lycanthropy" wasn't ever used in antiquity to refer to werewolf legends. It was created by the medical profession in the 1500s to refer specifically to a form of madness, not shapeshifting. It referred to what was recognized as a mental illness that they called lycanthropy: someone believing that they turned into a wolf, not to someone actually turning into a wolf (as in, not referring to the legends in which this happened).

Today, we call this "clinical lycanthropy," because the term "lycanthropy" was basically taken by werewolf media and werewolf studies and retroactively applied to werewolf legends. But the term "lycanthropy" was never actually used in said legends.

The term "lycanthropy" to refer to a "werewolf disease" is just another way in which medical studies and Renaissance writings turned werewolf legends into a "werewolf disease" instead of a magical curse, as it always used to be.

Now, of course, the medical world doesn't really recognize "clinical lycanthropy" anymore. It's considered to be a part of other mental conditions, the result of drug-induced hallucinations, or something entirely different. Several cases were attributed to schizophrenia instead, for example. So the term "clinical lycanthropy" in itself is all but outdated.

I won't be including or directly quoting from the case reports from the 1970s in this discussion, as this post is already enormous and, frankly, the case reports are not things that could be easily discussed in today's environment, as the language in the reports would certainly be considered offensive today, and that's not something I want to navigate. So I won't get into all that. They're out there if you want to read them, but I won't bother breaking them down here.

There are also certainly other examples of medical history relating to werewolves and werewolf legends, but I'll save all that for the werewolf facts book or another publication of mine!

Medical treatises are just another example from the Renaissance (and for quite a while after, into at least the 1800s and even early 1900s) of trying to rationalize and find "scientific explanations" for all manner of folklore and mythology. This also resulted in a considerable amount of condemnation for those who still believed in this sort of thing, as well as those who believed themselves to be experiencing it. As mentioned in some of my other werewolf facts, this didn't always include punishment (many victims of clinical lycanthropy at the time were actually well taken care of), but it did include things like being locked away from society for being declared insane. And, of course, if the victim in question was not a victim but a perpetrator, then it would result in a trial and punishment - and often execution. However, this was much more likely to happen to witches rather than werewolves. Just another way in which the trial of Peter Stubbe were very obviously witch/sorcerer trials and had nothing to do with werewolves at all.

Now, of course, you'll also recognize that a lot of the things you see in the treatises I used as examples don't follow up with many or even any werewolf legends you're very familiar with. Things were getting a bit weird at this point in history in regard to folklore and the like, and the reaching for rationalizing something like a person turning into a wolf or wolf-monster of any sort certainly resulted in some wild connections.

While this is far from the werewolf legends that personally fascinate me most, they are an important part of werewolf studies - hugely so. In fact, they're often discussed more than almost anything else, because unfortunately werewolf scholars are overly obsessed with later time periods that I personally find less fun and interesting than the Middle Ages and ancient times. But, hey, I love all of it.

Until next time!

And remember, if you want to vote on the next werewolf or vampire or other folklore fact, be sure to check out my Patreon. Thanks for reading!

( If you like my werewolf blog, be sure to follow me here and check out my other stuff!

Patreon — Personal Website (new and improved! Great starting point!)  — Wulfgard — Werewolf Fact Masterlist — Twitter — Vampire Fact Masterlist )

[potofstewie]

Deja Vu

The low down: History is repeating itself and for once, Kyojuro is tired.

The things to know: Reader uses she/her pronouns, Absolute angst (I kind of got teary eyed while writing this), mentions of blood, character death, this mostly takes place before mugen train , ooc shinjuro but he's a nice guy promise, Venting, sobbing kyojuro, like literally this ray of sunshine is BROKEN, a peaceful and sober Shinjuro, Y/N is literally a bg character lmao sorry, daddy issues

Pairing: Kyojuro x Reader

W/C: A WHOPPING 3.8K WORDS, MY BIGGEST ONE YET!

Words/phrases to know:

Monstuki Haori Hakama: Traditional formal garment that would be worn as simplified attire by people in the Samurai Society (during the Edo Period)

A/N: Hey you guys, I'll come clean. This one is a doozy not necessarily in length but in the emotions I tried my best to display in this one. It's true, reader is nothing but a background character and I kinda apologize for that. I really wanted to write a fic that portrays a new leaf in Kyojuro and Shinjuro's relationship and what better way than with sacrificing Y/N? Anyway, I finally made a pinned post linking my masterlist and other stuff for my mobile users. I plan on posting this and my other stuff on AO3 probably tmr as well. I hope you guys enjoyed and DO TELL ME YOUR FAVORITE PART

It was happening again. 

Kyojuro laid wide awake within his futon, puffy and reddened eyes burning the ceiling with his intense gaze. The calming silence of the night was occasionally interrupted with your pained coughs erupting from the other room. Kyojuro ran a tired hand through his disheveled mane, completely fed up with it all.

The coughing, the wheezing, the piles upon piles of tissues that were stained with spots of blood and phlegm. The never ending servings of soup, the countless doctor visits that always ended on the same confusing and irritating note. 

“It’s only a matter of time.”

Kyojuro didn’t hate a lot of things in the world, but that sentence he hated the most. “It’s only a matter of time.”

A matter of time until what? Until she gets better? Until she becomes the second one to leave them? What the hell did it mean? The situation weighed heavily on the Rengoku males, tension forever present within the household. At the beginning, all three of them would listen intensely to whatever orders and updates the doctors gave. They would each take turns administering medicine and delivering soup, massaging sore muscles that grew tired of being idle under a futon. Now, however, it was only Senjuro who listened. Kyojuro, as well as his father, continued to serve your every need despite giving up on worshiping the vague and aggravating words of the doctors.  

Your lover tried to keep his cheerful façade on display as usual, but as the days went on and the coughing grew louder and longer, his smile would falter and heavy sighs would take the place of his boisterous laughter. The bubbling fear and anger within him replaced his ever so optimistic and happy demeanor. There was no doubt that his family took notice of his change no matter how hard he tried to hide it, you included. Any time he would be with you, you would always ask the same things:

“How have you been, honestly?”

“Have you been eating?”

“Are you taking care of yourself while you’re away?”

“Something is on your mind, my love. What’s upsetting you?” 

You were easily satisfied with the simple “I’m alright, don’t worry about me.”, “yes” or “nothing is wrong my dear, honest.” You’d always give him that smile which he loved dearly before turning your back to him, returning to the warm embrace of slumber. Kyojuro’s beaming smile would always dissipate immediately when your eyes were no longer on him, fatigue tugging at his spirit. Of course something was bothering him; you were crumbling away right in front of him and he was absolutely powerless to do anything. 

On the days he would be free from pillar duties, all he could do was roam the house aimlessly like a ghost who couldn’t pass on properly. Even at night when sleep couldn’t find him, he would wander the halls. His frame would always buckle and slide against the walls, silent tears covered his cheeks every time as he curled in on himself. This all felt like Deja Vu to the flame hashira, every second he experienced was just another second he had already gone through. However this time he would be the grieving partner. He was grateful, though, that instead of turning to alcohol like his father did once upon a time, he stuck to wandering like a stray dog. 

Kyojuro grew to envy his father when your illness took a turn for the worst. He took notice of the lack of sake present in the house and the ever growing moments he and Senjuro would catch their father outside his room. He took note of how attentive his father was to your every beck and call, even to those that didn’t require him or ask of him in the first place. Even without being told he would do his damndest to ensure his would be daughter-in-law is alright. Opening the Shoji to let the sunlight flood into the room, cooking hot meals for the house and giving you the largest servings, taking up extra chores so Senjuro could keep you company. All these things Kyojuro wished he had the enthusiasm for. He loved helping you, truly, but his determination had depleted almost completely. 

Rubbing his eyes, Kyojuro sat up, a heavy sigh leaving his dusted red nose. The corners of his mouth twitched, heavy with sadness as a revelation dawned upon him. His father was probably doing this out of habit, out of fear. He faintly remembered what it was like when his mother was sick, his father doing everything he could when he had the time to be at home. He supposed that maybe doing all of these things and more was a way for his father to cope with the haunting truth that another person he cared about would die due to unchangeable circumstances. Maybe, just maybe, his father hoped that things would get better and that he wouldn’t have to relive the same pain he had once experienced; even if it wasn’t him who would take it the hardest. 

A single tear escaped Kyojuro’s fiery eyes, his hand quickly erasing it as he sniffled softly. No, the one to bear the pain the most would be him. It was his turn now, and no amount of soup and small conversations his father offered to the family’s source of light would change that. Getting up from his futon, Kyojuro wondered if there had been a curse placed upon his family. It couldn’t be a coincidence that this same situation would happen twice. Did a demon from his father’s past place a curse on the bloodline as it died to his blade? Damning every Rengoku to suffer absolute heartbreak?

Entering the dark hallway, Kyojuro silently stalked his way to the entrance, mind lost in sorrow. Staying in bed couldn’t help him and wandering the halls wasn’t something he was up for. Instead, he aimed for the fresh, crisp night air to fill his lungs and clear his mind. Oh, how he wanted so badly to purge the sickness in you and toss it to the farthest reaches of the earth. He wished to take you out to all your favorite restaurants again, to go on a picnic with you again, to bear witness to you playing with Senjuro under the cherry blossom trees again. He missed being able to kiss you during the cold winter nights that only a lover’s embrace could heat up. He could no longer give you the sweet kisses you had once pleaded for, your illness putting a stop to most intimate tokens of affection you were both accustomed to. 

As a heavy sigh left his lips, Kyojuro opened the shoji and blinked in surprise. His father, broad back facing the house and his eyes focused on the sky above, was sitting on the engawa. Legs hung over the edge, a half empty cup sitting next to its owner. Shinjuro turned around slightly, acknowledging his son.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He explained softly, turning his attention back to the dark sky, the bright moon the only thing decorating the endless dark abyss. Kyojuro closed the shoji behind him and took a seat next to his father, burning eyes gazing at the cup in suspicion before looking at his father in silent question. Shinjuro picked the cup up and slightly turned it. “It’s just water.” He said simply, resting the cup on the other side of him before resting his hands in his lap. 

“I..couldn’t sleep either.” Kyojuro said softly, hesitation ladened in his sleep-deprived voice. Although things within the house had gotten better since you entered his life and the lives of his family, Kyojuro still had a slight problem conversing with his father. You managed to change his father for the better, instead of heaps of sake littering the house only one or two bottles were kept in the kitchen before his father made the decision to get rid of it entirely once you fell ill. He started to eat with the family, although he barely spoke, only talking when answering a question or giving Senjuro or you his praises for the meal. He started training Senjuro in simple hand to hand combat, leaving the sword work to Kyojuro. He even had daily, lengthy conversations with you about an array of things; from what Ruka was like to how happy the birds seemed to be that day. 

It wasn’t easy but progress was slightly made between the father and son. His father started returning any greetings he was given, he waited alongside you and Senjuro when Kyojuro finally arrived home from a grueling mission and even confessed to him that he was proud of him being a hashira but still preferred it if he turned away for his own safety. But, all of that still didn’t quite quell the nervousness Kyojuro had when it came to him. 

“I know. That’s why you’re here, Kyojuro.” He remarked quietly, taking a sip of his drink. If he focused hard enough, he could’ve sworn that there was a twinge of tease hidden in his father’s voice.

“R-right.” He replied, voice barely above a whisper. For a few pensive moments, there was a cold silence between them. Kyojuro furrowed his wild eyebrows slightly, oh how awkward this all was! He didn’t know what to say to his father, even if he did he still wasn’t sure if he should voice it. He was in an intense battle with himself and by the looks of it, it was going to end in a draw.

One part of him wanted to vent to his father, to tell him all of his frustrations and woes about the depressing situation all of them were currently in. He wanted to bawl and curl up by his father, have his hot tears soak through the clothing on his father’s shoulder. He wished to be a little boy again, to trip and scrape his knee and have his father pick him up like he used to and comfort him. To hear him say: “It’s alright little one, you don’t need to cry anymore. I’ll patch you up, good as new.” like he used to. To plant a loving kiss on the top of his head and rock him in his arms. To call him a big boy when he was finally at ease and say how proud he was for being brave. All that he wished to have again.

The other part of Kyojuro, however, wanted to keep the peaceful silence between them. To just gaze up at the moon with his father and bottle up his emotions; to burn through it all passionately as he usually would. But even Kyojuro knew that would end in failure. He wanted to be as strong as he could, to bear it all on his tired and weakened shoulders. To give hope to his father -and to himself- that things would be alright and that you would bounce back better than ever. That you would play with Senjuro again, that you would do morning stretches with his father again in the garden, that you would plant millions of loving and passionate kisses all over Kyojuro’s face. 

As the young man sat in silence, mind ravaging with his thoughts, Shinjuro broke the silence with the clearing of his throat. “I..think it would be best for the two of you to get married as soon as possible.” Kyojuro turned his head to his father, his puffy eyes blown wide as his father continued to stare at the sky. “It..would be best for all of us if there was one last good memory to hold onto.” With that, he finally gazed at him, tired eyes drinking in the clear signs that his son was crying earlier.

“Oh, um, yes. You have a point…I’ll bring it up with Y/N tomorrow morning.” Kyojuro muttered, calloused hands slightly gripping his yukata. Kyojuro’s gaze lowered to his lap as he tried to figure out how to pose his question. “Um, father?” He called out. Shinjuro answered with a gruff hum, taking another sip of water.

“Father, Y/N..isn’t going to get better, is she?” Kyojuro could feel his ears heat slightly at his question. He sounded like a small child that couldn’t grasp the concept of someone he cared about dying. He reminded him of himself once upon a time. Shinjuro grunted again, looking at Kyojuro.

“She won’t, Kyojuro.” He answered simply, flaming eyes once more concentrating on the moon. Kyojuro’s bottom lip twitched at the obvious confirmation, a painful lump slowly forming in his throat.

“Father?” He started again, picking at the hangnail that resided on his pointer finger. Shinjuro sighed softly and leaned back on his palms. 

“Yes, Kyojuro?” He answered patiently, completely understanding the heavy task he was assigned once Kyojuro sat next to him. He knew how fragile his son currently was and he knew just how painful it was. Nobody was by his side when Ruka fell ill but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t be the lighthouse for the ship his son sailed on, horrible waves from the daunting storm threatening to capsize him. 

“It’s all useless, isn’t it? The doctor visits and the soup.” He started, worry taking the reins and causing him to talk faster. “A-As well as the medication and the massages and-”

“Kyojuro.” Shinjuro interrupted sternly, shocking the young man and causing him to look at his father with worry plastered on his face. An iron gaze was focused on the young man’s sorrowful features. A sigh flew from the older man’s lips as Kyojuro looked back down at his fingers, eyes covered in a sheen film. “It may all seem useless, hell, it might actually be. But those things..bring her ease. It brings Senjuro ease. It gives them hope and it would be cruel to just stop it and force them to face the grave truth.” 

“Right, I apologize.” Kyojuro said meekly, lolling his head back to keep from sniffling. A tender yet battle-worn hand rested on the top of Kyojuro’s head, giving him a slight pat before leaving his messy hair. 

“It’s alright, Kyo.” Shinjuro reassured softly, sitting up straight again. He dithered, unsure of how to say his next words. If one thing Shinjuro wasn't good at, it was being reassuring. But, his son needed him and he truly didn't want to let him down this time. Never again, he silently vowed to himself as he took a deep breath, lips parting slightly.

“It’s okay to feel this way. I don’t have to tell you how hard this all is and how awful everything feels. But just know that I won’t leave your side for any of it. I’ll be there to hold your hand through it all and I’ll make sure that you don’t end up like I did. I promise you, Kyojuro.” He finished, a small yet reassuring smile resting on his lips. Kyojuro looked at his father in both bewilderment and comfort. For the first time in a while, Kyojuro was finally receiving the love and care that he had longed for from his father for a long time. With a slight nod, Kyojuro once more looked down in his lap, fingers tightly woven. A single tear finally broke through, leaving a small dot on his clothing.

“Father, I..I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know if I can keep being cheerful anymore. I’m so tired, father. I feel like I'm lying to her, lying to myself. And I can't stand it, I just-” And with the last word to leave his trembling lips, a struggling wail escaped Kyojuro’s throat. Rapid streams of tears left his screwed shut eyes as his shoulders convulsed, rough hands frantically trying to wipe away the stains on his crimson cheeks however they just kept coming even stronger than before. Large hands grabbed the side of Kyojuro’s head and shoulder, pushing him into a tight hug. Soft hushes filled the heavy night air as Kyojuro’s wails grew louder and became filled with incoherent babbling. 

“I don’t wan’ to lose her, I hate it. I hate it all! I-I wanna save her but- but I can’t!” Kyojuro spoke through an agape frown, drool beginning to leave his mouth while his hands gripped the back of his father’s yukata tightly as Shinjuro’s hand rubbed his back. “P-please, Papa, help me, Please!” He pleaded, voice muffled as he buried his head further into his father’s embrace. Shinjuro’s lower lip twitched slightly before burying it on the top of his son’s head, placing a soft kiss in the blond tresses. 

“I know, Kyo, I know. I’ll help you out, don’t worry. It’s okay, my son...I promise.” Shinjuro whispered as the gut wrenching sobs left his son’s lips. Shinjuro hated it all too. He hated seeing the memories of Ruka’s final moments every time he visited you. He hated seeing Kyojuro slowly turn into a shell of his former self, he hated looking into the mirror that was his son. He hated seeing younger Kyojuro within Senjuro, always trying his hardest to raise everyone’s hopes and quietly asking him if Y/N will for sure get better; always being met with vague answers. It was all Deja Vu to the older man, as if he was watching the past play out right in front of him but ten times worse. They hadn’t even gotten married yet, let alone have one or two children. Shinjuro could feel nothing but the sorrow and anguish within his battered heart beating loudly in his ears as Kyojuro finally succumbed to his emotions. 

Shinjuro started to slightly rock his son side to side as burning tears soaked through his clothes. He didn’t mind not one bit. He would have all of his clothes drenched in the salty tears of his children if that is what they needed. He would rock them and comfort them as many times as they requested, no matter how big the issue was or how old the children were. It was his responsibility as their father to do so, as well as something he owed to them for all the years of negligence. 

Kyojuro’s wails died down to occasional sniffles and heavy breathing. His grip on his father slightly loosened as he partially uncovered his bloodshot eyes, gaze resting on nothing in particular. “What..am I going to do? I love her so much, it hurts. It hurts so bad. I feel like I can’t breathe, my lungs are burning. I-I’m so tired, Papa.” Kyojuro mumbled, no longer caring about how childish he seemed calling his father “Papa”. That’s what he was after all, Papa. Papa the Brave that chases the demons away every night before bed and when he’s away from home. Papa the Strong that can carry both his children and his wife on his body, carrying them throughout the house as tiny, sweet giggles filled the air. Proud Papa that teaches his sons how to hold a sword and praises them when they beat the air with wooden swords. Loving Papa that coats Mama in sweet kisses when he comes back home. Helpful Papa that saves little boys with snakes from sorrowful places and wipes his children’s faces every meal time. His Papa. 

Shinjuro sighed softly, rugged hand traveling in his son’s hair. “I’m sorry, Kyojuro. There isn’t much you can do but be there for her. Love her as much as possible no matter what. Try to make her happy every day, even if you feel like giving up. And when you do feel like giving up, find me. And I’ll carry you.” 

Kyojuro sniffled as his body felt the brunt force of fatigue. His wild eyebrows furrowed as he began to succumb to the sweet luls of slumber. “Okay, Papa..” Softly leaving his lips as he finally slept, Shinjuro kept his steady rhythm of rocking until the morning sun crested the horizon, birds singing their wake-up songs to the once still Earth.

A warm, gentle breeze traveled throughout the lively forest as boisterous laughter filled the air. Shinjuro chuckled softly as he watched his two sons walk briskly ahead of them, jokes and funny stories exchanging between the two. Kyojuro laughed loudly again as Senjuro entertained him with a funny face in the middle of his story, swinging the picnic basket in his hand.

“Kyojuro!” Shinjuro called out, his sons giving him their attention. “Try not to laugh too hard, remember? You’re still healing.” He reminded the young man, gesturing to the bandages that were wrapped around his torso, hidden underneath his Monstuki Haori Hakama. Kyojuro gently rubbed the eyepatch that rested on his face, a habit he started to pick up when in thought, a beaming smile shining at his father.

“Don’t worry, I feel good enough to laugh. It doesn’t hurt, promise!” He assured before joining his little brother that was already ahead of the both of them and underneath the tree. Heaps of food sprawled out on the red blanket once Shinjuro finally caught up to his children, a bento and chopsticks already out for him. He sat down carefully next to Senjuro, content eyes soaking in the picturesque view that laid before him. Many trees danced with the gentle summer wind, birds swooping and diving into the canopy for their lunch. A nearby stream sang its song elegantly as the two sons conversed with each other. Shinjuro took a deep breath in, the sweet scent of the manju and flowers filling his nose. 

“She would’ve liked this place, right Aniue?” Senjuro said softly, snapping his father from his silent appreciation of nature. Kyojuro lowered his chopsticks, a small smile plastered on his face. He rubbed his stomach gingerly, before turning his attention to his little brother. 

“She would have. Both of them would, I reckon. However, they’d probably yell at us for being late.” He chuckled, producing a large smile from Senjuro, a smaller one from his father. “Not to mention, we didn’t make Y/N favorite food to bring with us.” He finished, laughing loudly as Shinjuro released a soft snort. 

“She’d be mad at you, not me and Sen. I told you we should’ve made some but you insisted on rushing.” He retorted, Senjuro giggling softly at his father’s remark. Kyojuro chuckled sheepishly as he rubbed his neck. His father was right, of course. But you would forgive him, Kyojuro knew you would. 

“Then let’s make some when we get home and give it to her. Now hurry up and eat before I end up taking everything.” Senjuro warned before quickly snatching up a mitarashi dango, eliciting a shocked and hurried response from his brother as well as a scoff from his father, joining in the competition. 

Things hadn’t been fair to the Rengoku family and although things would forever change for them, one thing was for sure; no sorrowful bouts of Deja Vu would visit them. And if they did, Papa the Brave would be there.

ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ, ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟ, ʙɪɴᴅ ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ. ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜱ ɢᴏ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴏᴛᴏꜰꜱᴛᴇᴡɪᴇ™ 2022

[megraen]

So, for the last three weeks, I have been dealing with a persistent cough that has only been getting worse.

It has been causing me to almost collapse because the fits are so bad and I’m been coughing up phlegm.

As it hasn’t been easing up, I decided to go to the doctors. My regular one wasn’t available, so I instead saw one I never encountered before.

I hated him.

He dismissed all my symptoms, telling me that I clearly just had a sore throat, when in fact, my throat is fine. He also lectured me on ‘wasting his time’ over a ‘simple cough’. He read my medical records in front of me and told me that they were incorrect, such as my previous period symptoms that’s were so bad I had to get a hysterectomy. He also had the gall to say I wasn’t anemic, and that anemia doesn’t cause fainting.

This man was so rude and clearly didn’t give a fuck about his role as a doctor.

[tama-gucci]

I am….. sick again. Started to get better but then exhausted myself during the wedding and now I’ve relapsed 😭 there’s so much phlegm and I’m coughing and I’m exhausted. I just want to feel betterrrrrrrr it’s been like three weeks of this and also I’m getting my period 😭

[squalodinoappreciationsquad]

Anyway, Dino with the Customer Service voice now lives rent-free in my head.

Have a ficlet.

A/N: in my hc Dino is from Rimini. Squalo is from Bassano del Grappa.

It's the peak of summer. It's hot, it's humid and Rimini is swamped with tourists and in general people who are looking for fun.

And Dino - oh joy of all joys, he thinks sarcastically - has just finished his shift at the restaurant and has rushed immediately to an urgent meeting the Vongola family has called.

Not even the time to unwind and decompress.

Dino reminds himselff that he actively chose this, even after he paid off the debts, so there is really nothing he should complain about.

And yet.

The conference includes also several allies, including the Varia, and when he arrives he falls on the floor, barely missing the table corner, and then proceeds in standing up and slouch down on the nearest chair.

Romario will have to come and pick him up with a spoon, figuratively speaking.

Anyway, this conference appears to be about how to resolve some feud Tsuna, or his guardians, or whoever seems to have started due to a typical lack of tact that comes with being a teenager and also being raised by Reborn, and somehow Xanxus is finding a way to just throw verbal jabs at everyone.

And Dino is tired.

It has been a long period, he has done nothing but run on his feet for three consecutive weeks, he has had to deal with entitled Karens, he has had to deal with angry boyfriends throwing at him death glares because he dared asking what would they like to order to their other halves.

He has had to deal with screaming children and feral parents, sand and sea water and those coming back from a whole night of dancing and clubbing.

And he wants to be the nice guy, really, but at the umpteenth "Why is this my fault?" and "Can we not try to kill each other?" he has had enough.

It is by that time that everyone turns to him for an opinion, expecting him to be reasonable.

He takes a deep breath and with a phlegm that would make a stoic boil with rage he snaps.

"Would you like me to be fully honest?"

Everyone nods. Dino puts on a fake smile and speaks calmly.

"Well, you all have the patience of a feral raccoon, can't breathe the same air as each other for five minutes and it definitely shows, but I am certainly not here to judge you."

Everyone looks at him. "Come again?" Someone says and Dino keeps talking.

"Tsuna, you are like a little brother to me and I love you, but this whole debacle could have been an email and it would have had more effectiveness than whatever that was. And Xanxus, what you call 'confidence' is just a more evolved way of saying that you want to murder people and we know that it is your favourite way to deal with situations. Unfortunately you both have the same way of dealing with stuff as a dumpster fire and it shows, so now we have to find a good solution."

By then Squalo has gone right next to Dino showing the calm and serene expression of a man about to commit manslaughter and shouts: "VOOOOIIII CAVALLONE do you want to DIE??? THAT'S HOW YOU DIE YOU DUMBASS!"

But Dino does not relent. His tone is now unrecognizable, it's as if all humanity has just been sucked away from his body. "Now that we have established that, we have only one option. We apologize and try making amends, hoping that the other party will be willing to accept. Possibly sending someone who actually knows the meaning of 'diplomacy', unlike the ninety-percent of the people in this room."

Reborn is smirking from underneath his fedora, clearly he taught Dino well the art of morally destroying people's egos, but also Reborn is not really aware that Dino also works at a restaurant and he has to deal with people all the time and by the time he is there he becomes as patient as a trap.

Unfortunately Xanxus is about to murder Dino and Tsuna is about to go into hyperventilation and Squalo is forced to remove Dino from the room with Lussuria's help before the situation degenerates further.

Once outside Squalo points his sword at Dino, whilst Lussuria acts as a mediator of sort.

"VOOOI, do you want to DIE??? Because I can help you with that, RIGHT NOW!!!"

"Oh, I am certain you can and you will, Squalo, but am I wrong? Am. I. Wrong."

"You just called everyone a bitch about that whole fiasco, you fucking idiot!"

"How d-"

And then Dino realizes. With next to no time to decompress and unwind he has not switched off his Customer Service Inner Voice.

The bitchy voice he usually has for dealing with the requests of the particularly annoying customers at the restaurant.

"Oh no."

"Yes, Dino, and now you are going to be MURDERED by Xanxus."

"I am sorry?"

"Not. Fucking. Working. This time."

And Lussuria tries interjecting. "Aw, come on Squ-chan. He is not technically wrong."

Dino smiles sheepishly. "Maybe we can find a solution?"

Well, judging by the exasperated scream Squalo lets out, that is DEFINITELY NOT the right answer.

[sanguinaryrot]

I believe we’re entering into one of the two famous periods of the year when i feel like im doing Good. I’ve read that if you rate moods from 0 (suicidal depression) to 10 (psychotic mania) most bipolar people don’t actually live their nonepisodic lives at a 5 (euthymia, neither depressed or manic). Most live at a 3-4 (kind of depressed) or 6-7 (kind of hypomanic). I’m the type who exists largely as a 3-4 most of my life but like once or twice a year for a few weeks i enter an episode of 5ish bliss. Either im feeling the euphoria of not being plastered with phlegm or my mood is reaching that balance at which i am generally happy with my life

[patricia-von-arundel]

I have an ask I'm genuinely curious about and that you might also be able to speak to, given your other recent asks! I noticed in FE3H, in one of her support conversations, Hilda mentions metal allergies in the context of making jewelries. But.... I don't think allergies were known about at that time period? I'm curious how much this is an anachronism, if at all. Also can you even tell (as a person with a medieval history background) from context if there's a certain time or period that FE3H is trying to base itself in?

A lot of medical history is characterized by "well, they knew... but also they didn't." Basically: cause and effect, yes. Why something was cause, or something produced an effect, often not so much. Modern understanding of "allergies" only dates back to the mid-19th century, when it became more possible to use scientific advances to get a much more detailed idea of what and why. As far back as Ancient Egypt, and certainly documented extensively in Greek and Roman treatises, people knew that someone might have a negative reaction to something (whether it be a certain weather, foods, etc.), but not precisely why. Asthma and what we now call "hay fever," in particular, were well known (likely because they produced a clear pattern both of symptoms and causes, and didn't as often outright kill someone, like, say, am extreme allergy to foods or insect stings might). These things got worse in spring, plants are blooming in spring, there's something about plants causing this. But it wasn't until the 1800s that "pollen" could be truly tested as (one of) the culprit. You see the same in other areas of pre-modern medicine - things like "eating more red meat when showing weakness and easy bruising, because these are signs that your sanguine humor is out of balance." And it worked, because if those things were actually a sign of iron deficiency, and red meats are rich in iron, the effect was the same whether credit was given to vitamins or humors in balance: the symptoms got better.

Sooooo... I would assume an allergy to metal would certainly be recognized, because it would not have been fatal. I have a latex allergy - even if I didn't know that was what was causing it, I'd be able to see that if I slap a Bandaid on my arm and leave it too long, there are unfortunate results. 🤣 So if someone had an allergy to, say, copper or iron, they might not refer to it as an allergy, but they would be able to recognize "wearing jewelry of this make = a bad time," and avoid it. So: knowing you have to be careful with jewelry? Oh, yeah! Calling it an allergy? Less likely, but I also understand not throwing at a casual audience "ah, yes, copper is clearly causing the phlegm to collect in your wrists, and you can only rebalance it with liberal application of aloe leaves boiled in mare's urine under the new moon in April" (where the actual effect was entirely down to the aloe, and, uh... horse pee should be optional). It's anachronistic to be certain of why it was happening, but not to know such things happened to some people and how to avoid them (plus the horse pee). I'll let them have that one, especially since it means there isn't a monastery activity of "collect pegasus urine and boil it with blood collected from Sylvain's skull after Ingrid finally bashes it in." 😅

As for the time period - it says it right in the game! I'm almost certain the 1100s was quite deliberately chosen for a number of reasons.

1. It was the High Middle Ages - when you ask someone about "Middle Ages," and what they think happened then, all the common answers (kings and knights, ecclesiastical law, Crusades, heresy, wars on massive scale both time-wise and place-wise, even stuff like Ivanhoe and Robin Hood and Joan of Arc and all that fun stuff) are in the High Middle Ages (roughly 1000-1300 AD). (Well, okay, Joan was a bit later, but not much. Also, it's worth remembering that "Middle Ages" did not mean uniform developments even within Western Europe - Italy was already running like hell towards the Renaissance while some extremes of the North were still crossing their arms and closing their eyes and refusing to leave their pagan religions behind until people convinced them that they could still have trees and eggs and shit, just now for Jesus!) So - "medieval," someone says? They probably mean 1100-ish, whether they know it or not.

2. That period also matches pretty neatly with the major powers that existed in Europe (and a bit beyond) at that time. Without going into detail of every mentioned land in 3H, if we just consider Adrestia, Faerghus, Leicester, and Garreg Mach, we can still find parallels. (Not always geographically, but definitely culturally.)

(And I'll say here that this is my interpretation only. I've seen others mention differences here, and I respect that too! Unless we're told, any speculation has validity. I'm also basing this on the period I studied in the most depth, including for my dissertation: the twelfth century. 1100s for me and for Three Houses!)

(I studied Peter Abelard. He and Edelgard would either get along beautifully, or she'd bash his head in before the day was out. But he definitely knew a thing or two about being declared a heretic and excommunicated. And teachers sleeping with students. Er... anyway...)

Garreg Mach is clearly the Papal States, what remained of the Western Roman Empire. I don't think anyone would argue with that.

Adrestia is almost certainly the Holy Roman Empire, and particularly the Empire under Henry IV and Henry V. The twelfth century was all about conflict over ecclesiastical versus royal law, and what was called the investiture controversy: does the church allow kings, or do the kings allow the church? What happens when an emperor and the papacy are in conflict? This pops up again and again during this time, but the particular parallels between the HRE and Adrestia become very clear when considering the reign of Henry V, who, from 1098 until his father's death, co-ruled the Holy Roman Empire. Sound familiar, if on a truncated scale? (Also, without going into great detail, there was already conflict between the papacy and the empire over which was truly "the Inheritance of Rome.") Henry V ultimately sided against his father and forced him off the throne (again, sound familiar to the way Adrestia is presented in any route except Crimson Flower?)... and then took the pope hostage (I assume I don't even need to say it again 🤣).

Without going into aaaaaaall the complicated shit that went down during the cage match between Henry and the popes, let's consider another fly in the ointment of Fódlan, and of Europe: Matilda.

And this, as you'll see, is why I think Faerghus is based on France and Norman England. Matilda was actually married to Henry V, not Henry IV, but her life has several very interesting parallels to a certain Anselma. (Even the name issue - she was either Maud or Matilda, depending on where and when she was!) Her father was Henry I of England (whose own claim to the throne was a little iffy - he probably had his brother, William Rufus, shot so he could claim both Norman France and England). Again without going into great detail, Henry managed to, amongst his MANY, MANY CHILDREN, only have two who were legitimate. One was William, who was heir presumptive. The other was Matilda, who was shipped off to marry Henry in the HRE.

Then - oops - a ship went down in the English Channel. The White Ship. It had William on it.

Oops again.

Well - now Henry had a problem. But he decided to make it a problem for after he died: he got Matilda back to England and made everyone swear they'd recognize her as the heir. Then he died. Then shit really went down.

Over in France, there was a guy named Stephen, whose mother was Adela, daughter of William the Conqueror. And he had a penis, and therefore would be a better ruler than Matilda, who was also a grandchild of William the Conqueror, but a stinky female one. So Stephen trotted off to England, called himself king, and he and Matilda spent several years having a slap fight, before they agreed that Stephen's heir would be Matilda's son, who became Henry II, and everyone else rolled their eyes and were thankful they could mostly ignore the idiots in charge, as they had already been doing through Celtic, Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Danish, and Norman rule, and essentially as most Brits still do to this day.

...And it's almost 9pm and I just realized I should probably have dinner. I'll get into Leicester tomorrow, but I think it's the Byzantine Empire, with Almyra being the near East/nascent Ottoman Empire. Watch this space! I can go into more detail on the others, too, if anyone is interested. Medieval shit is complicated. 😆

[browngurl99]

In the morning, I was shaking, crying sleep-deprived, unable to breath due to phlegm and swelling throat. Then I went to doctor. Somehow my afternoon was much peaceful, thanks to the medicines. And boom! In evening My friend calls me and tells me she's near to my place and our other friend is with her too. Then a surprise meet up at my place. All of this when I'm on my freaking period.

Life huh?

[tiredtransttrpgdesigner]

My Experience With Pine Barrens

I wanna tell y’all a story. It’s the story I experience when I listen to the song Pine Barrens by Jakey. I recommend listening to it yourself to experience your own story before I share mine. Feel free to continue, but do know that this will discuss self harm, trauma, emotional abuse, and destructive relationships.

Have you ever been dangerously in love? I don’t mean like a passionate crush, or being attracted to a bad boy, or getting sucked into someone’s destructive life. I mean the kind of love that hurts you to be in it. The kind that leaves wounds in your heart and makes you spit up trust and intimacy like bloody phlegm. Not the Romeo and Juliet love that’d make you break curfew and go against your family’s wishes. The Romeo and Juliet love that causes you to slice open your wrists at the mere thought about being taken away from them, sending your families into a spiral of grief and pain they can’t recover from.

I’ve felt that love before, a couple times, and each time prefaced the worst periods of my life. But it’s not just dangerous because of what it can do. It’s dangerous because every single time I couldn’t stop myself. It was like an addiction, pulling me in deep and swallowing my life whole, just to spit me out a couple months later, broken and shivering alone in the cold. I even started to see it coming, but it didn’t change anything. The allure was so damn powerful because it gave me something I had been chasing my entire life.

Pure, powerful, passionate bliss. The kind of shit that sends tingles through every nerve in your body. The kind of shit that makes your heart race faster than you thought possible, that makes all the anger and doubt and worries melt away just under their touch. It lights you up like a furnace and makes you scream forward like a muscle car. But it never lasts. It can’t last, because it’s fuel is you. All the little bits of you. Your quirks, your idiosyncrasies, your habits, your opinions, your creativity, your very essence. It eats it all up and burns it away, all fuel for the passion. You end up trying to do anything and everything just to keep it going another day, another hour, another minute, until it finally sputters out.

And then it’s gone. And you realize there’s nothing left. And while they’re still there, the love is nowhere to be seen, and they become a reminder of what you don’t have. It hurts, and all too often that hurt gets shared. You start finding things that don’t fit, the parts of each other that scrape like there was a miscalculation at the factory. The scraping just goes and goes, and without that fire going it digs into your brain until you can’t take it anymore, and you snap at them.

Or maybe they snap at you. It’s a game of whoever has the least patience, but it's inevitable either way. It’s not much. Just a hurtful comment at the wrong moment. But the foundation was empty, and so it crumbles into dust before your eyes. And then you’re alone. Alone and in pain. Maybe you run from it, moving away to somewhere new, somewhere better. Maybe you hide from it, distracting yourself with vices both legal and maybe illegal.

Me? I always wallowed in it. Sitting in the sadness and pain, feeling every detail of it coursing through my veins. Committing them to memory so I could replay them in my head on a loop. But it didn’t stop there, either. My mind would turn on me, like an emotional autoimmune disease. Regret and blame and hatred all turning to me and telling me I was the problem. That I was cursed. That I couldn’t love people. At my lowest, that’s when my mind would come to torture me. A few times it almost felt like an execution.

Listening to Pine Barrens reminds me of those times. It reminds me of the things my mind used to tell me at my lowest moments. It reminds me of being so hopelessly and dangerously in love that it would ruin my entire life. It reminds me of burning myself out for that other person and being tossed aside in return. It reminds me that passionate love is often the most destructive.

However, while I’m bombarded by these memories, I’m granted something important to protect myself against them. An outside perspective. Listening to Pine Barrens lets me view these moments outside of myself, seeing the moment as it is instead of how I felt. I see the pain, I see the futile attempts at bliss, I see the self-sacrifice tearing me apart. I see it all, but it’s not happening to me, not really. It’s happening to a me I used to be, a kid who was misguided but was still trying her best.

It was so easy to be there and flog myself at the altar of the person I Should Have Been and Could Have Been. To scream and yell and hurt myself in the path of a wish that was never granted. To condemn my soul early and cast myself into a hell of my own making. Now, I stand here and see the past and I realize.

I have no interest in following false idols. The person I should have been never existed. She was never going to exist. Should Have Been and Could Have Been were just the excuses, just the blinds over the view of what Was. Seeing what Was, I can’t help but feel empathy. When the false comparisons melt away, the hatred melts with them.

I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people, and been hurt back. I’ve indulged in dangerous love and left myself scarred. I don’t have to hate myself for that. There wouldn’t be a point to, anyways. I’m not who I should have been, but I’m something a lot more real.

I’m a person who is trying to be better.

[wisdomrays]

THE SPIRIT and WHAT FOLLOWS: Part 5

Approaches from the Muslim World

Now, let us see how Muslim sages and scholars have approached the matter of spirit.

We do not have exact knowledge about how God informed the previous Prophets of the identity of the spirit. However, the Qur'an contains a specific declaration concerning it: They ask you about the spirit. Say: "The spirit is of my Lord's Command" (17: 85). That is, the spirit is a conscious entity that issues from the Realm of Pure Divine Commands or the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Commands.

The earliest Muslim scholars were content with the information given in the Qur'an and avoided going into details concerning the identity of the spirit. The considerations of such Western thinkers as Claude Bernard (1813–1878), Raymond, Spencer, and Hamilton are similar to that declaration from the Qur'an.

The attitudes of the earliest Muslim scholars were free from taking any risks. Just as with the spirit, they did not attempt to make any comments on other allegorical statements of the Qur'an. However, when the legacy of ancient philosophy began to be translated into Arabic and found its way into Muslim minds, "the scholars of later periods"—as they are called in Muslim sources—felt obliged to make explanations and interpretations concerning these statements, including the existence, nature, and functions of the spirit, and what awaits it after the death of its owner in the grave and Hereafter. They tried to correct the wrong concepts that originate from the legacy of ancient philosophy and other trends of thought and religions.

There were differences of views among those Muslim scholars concerning the spirit. A few approached it from the viewpoint of the atomism of Democritus (455–370 BCE), and there were some among them who thought like hylozoists. Some dealt with the matter like modern physiologists, while others discussed the existence of three souls and three varieties of soul, namely the animal (vital or natural) soul, the vegetable soul, and the human soul, seeming to be followers of Aristotle. There were some theologians who thought that the spirit was a fundamental dimension of the human form; while physicians regarded it, like Galen (129–200/216), as the manifestation of the balance of the four elements or fluids—blood, bile, phlegm, and black bile. Yet others considered it to be a "subtle entity" which is related to the body, like the relation of oil to olives, or the rose oil in roses; some avoided making any comparison or explanation and were content with describing it as "a sensitive, perceiving substance."

However, the overwhelming majority of Muslim theologians and Sufis have regarded the spirit as a basic, immaterial substance of human existence and nature, attributing human value to its perfection and stressing that while the body decomposes and rots away after death, the spirit remains alive and awaits the Resurrection, to meet either eternal happiness or punishment after the Resurrection. Thus, they have adopted a unique way, different from that of materialists, spiritualists, monists, and followers of reincarnation.

Except for a few who were influenced by Platonic thought, Muslim scholars believe that the spirit was created in time. But there is a difference of views concerning whether the spirit of every person is created before they come into the world, or whether it is created at the time when life is breathed into the embryo in the mother's womb. This difference of opinion has caused some to argue about whether the Resurrection will be only spiritual or both spiritual and bodily. Despite these differences, all Muslim scholars, philosophers, and Sufis agree on the existence of the spirit, and that it will remain alive after the death of the person by God's Self-Subsistence causing it to subsist.

Despite following different schools of thought in Islam, philosophers and thinkers such as al-Kindi, Ibn Sina, Ibn Bajja, Ibn Rushd, and Nasiru'd-Din at-Tusi, and verifying scholars such as Raghib al-Isfahani, Sadr ash-Shirazi, Abu Zayd ad-Dabusi, Imam al-Haramayn Juwayni, Imam al-Ghazzali, Fakhru'd-Din ar-Razi, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Sa'du'd-Din at-Taftazani, Jalalu'd-Din ad-Dawwani, and Imam Sharani unanimously accept that the spirit is the essence of human existence. Now let us examine the ideas of the spirit of the most famous among these thinkers.

Ibn Sina (Avicenna) (980–1037 CE)

Being one of the most famous Muslim philosophers and scientists, Abu 'Ali ibn Sina influenced almost all thinkers and Sufis who came after him. With his great genius, extraordinary love of science, resolution, and endeavor, he understood ancient philosophers well, and he had sufficient knowledge of the thoughts of such philosophers as al-Kindi and al-Farabi. In his works, he quoted from the philosophers of Ionian, Italy, and Elea, and made references to the thoughts of al-Kindi and al-Farabi as well. Therefore, knowing his ideas also means having knowledge of those of these two philosophers.

According to Ibn Sina, life is the result of feeling, motion, and the spirit. All activities related to consciousness and perception originate in the spirit and life. Nevertheless, the continuous and healthy manifestation of life requires the healthy operation of the physical system or mechanism.

Ibn Sina also discusses three souls or three varieties of the soul. They are the vegetable, animal, and human souls. The vegetable soul has two powers: the power of nourishment and the power of growth. There is also another power which he calls "the power of reproduction," which serves the continuation of every species. The animal soul has the powers of motion and perception, or the powers that cause motion and perception. The power of motion has sub-powers of cause and agent. We can describe these as the power that causes something to happen and the power of doing it. The power of cause has two faculties: the faculty of desire, or of attractive and repulsive passions, and the faculty of anger, or of defensive passions. He sees the power of the agent, or the power that performs an action, as the origin of physical movements under the influence of the faculties of desire and anger.

Ibn Sina also mentions certain internal senses in addition to the five external ones. They are the common sense (sensus communis: the mental sense or faculty of general perception), which he calls "bantasya," as well as the powers of supposition, imagination, recollection, and conceptualization. He offers detailed explanations concerning the duties and activities of these senses.

[thebeautyinsideme]

Little health journey

The past few weeks with my health have been absolutely crazy. I started to have a cough about 3 weeks ago and has not gone away. I talked to my doctor about 4 days after it started and they recommended using Mucinex, allergy medication, and nasal spray. They said I had a sinus infection. So, I do that for 6 days and I’m getting worse. I’m coughing out more phlegm and I really wasn’t feeling good to work but I went in anyway. I go to work and I tell my manager I was so close to calling out. My manager sends me home about 2 hours early. I go to the doctor and they said I had a respiratory infection. They gave me steroids and cough medicine. I stayed home for three days after that trying to get enough rest, fluids, etc, and feel okay to go to work. During the weekend I still felt like I wasn’t getting better. I take everything for a week and still nothing helps so I go to the doctor a week and a half later and they give me Amoxicillin. The next day I had a dizzy spell during work and almost pass out, my arms were feeling numb or weird of sorts so they decided to take me to the emergency room. On my way to the emergency room I feel my body getting really tense and during my wait my toe turns purple a few times and I freak out. I was in the emergency room for about 8 hours. During that time they gave me an IV, Nausea medication, a blood and urine sample, covid/rsv/flu swab, and EKG. They did not find anything so they give me medication for the dizziness and medication for nausea. I get out of the hospital and I get my period. I stay home the next day. It’s currently the next day, I’m still getting dizzy spells and feeling tired.  

I am unsure if I am stressing myself out or if this respiratory infection is, or what. But one thing I can say is, I’m over it.