#and also none of that contains a single fiber

[goodbysunball]

Digital monsters

Sneaking a few in before April's done and gone. Many of these musics were experienced digitally only for the most part, whether it was due to lack of a physical product or expensive import prices, none of which now apply (except for the Stone Rollers) as I finally get around to posting this. Ian's making Light Metal Age tapes, MIKE just put Pinball on CD, I finally pulled the trigger on KN​Æ​KKET SMIL, etc. Still, the car is the place where most listening is done these days, an unavoidable and really-not-that-bad reality. Windows down, these up:

Maria Bertel & Nina Garcia, KN​Æ​KKET SMIL (Kraak/No Lagos Musique/Otomatik)

It would not be much of an understatement to say I'm a bit burned out on free-improv-jazz and adjacent records, but a live video posted earlier this year by @dustedandsocial piqued my interest in this duo. Nina Garcia shreds and mangles the guitar in a manner both controlled and explosive, like the best no wave auteurs, but the draw here is what Maria Bertel does with the trombone. She pulls these long, drawn-out notes from the belly of the instrument, like glass fibers being pulled from a melt, reminiscent Phill Niblock's arrangements for cello or voice. There's plenty of scrape 'n skronk coming from the trombone, too, like on "Trick & Illusion," but I find the bass-y drones to be more interesting. The end result is a brittle, harsh push-pull between the relatively free guitar and the more grounded trombone, where it often sounds like the two are running in circles in a room with their eyes closed, occasionally colliding to combine forces. When they are not at odds, as on "Nightmare of a Lunatic," the results can be thrilling. At other points on the record I am reminded of Harvey Milk's "Pinnochio's Example" (the title track), later-period Sightings ("Lost Arts," "Twin Truths") and the instrumental side of Khanate ("Playground of Blind Forces," "Inorganic Body"). Given how this is presented - bare, without any perceivable ornamentation or post-production - it makes for a tough listen; you've gotta be in the mood for something this harsh and unadorned, 'cause meeting you halfway isn't happening. But, if you've any affinity for old instruments hammered into new shapes by inspired/inspiring hands, there's some powerful, almost-mystic energy wafting from the grooves.

Bobby Would, Relics of Our Life (Digital Regress)

Bobby’s back, continuing his partnership with the esteemed Digital Regress label, who brought his STYX release to the LP format. STYX was dedicated to his mother, and initial listens have left me convinced that Relics also appears to be wrestling with her passing. Unlike STYX, which contained tracks like "Hype On" that worked themselves into something resembling upbeat and energetic, Relics is a comparatively somber affair. It's bookended by two quiet instrumental tracks ("Runaway" is especially good), and in between is more skeletal, maybe even refined, version of Bobby Would. The overall effect here is often reminiscent of Wonderfuls, or Lewsberg on In Your Hands: gossamer-thin arrangements, sparkling guitars, slow tempos and mumbled vocals. While there are points where Bobby Would presents as a bit listless or hopeless, it never stretches to the maudlin, mostly due to the opaque phrasing. As on previous BW releases, the lyrics are still usually little more than repetition of single phrases until they become profound, which works especially well on these subdued arrangements. The more I listen, the more it sounds like a natural progression from his last two proper LPs, the subtle refinement of a now-signature sound. Like “Maybe You Should” from World Wide World, “Tryin' 2," "Is It Nice Now?" and “No More” rank with some of his best slow dancers; "Explain" and "All I Do" feel like Baby's grown now, using only the necessary elements to create a song and cutting the tape when it's done (not that Bobby Would has ever had a problem with economy). The only misstep here? The hidden track at the end of the physical record, a cover of UB40's "Red Red Wine" (no fucking joke), and nothing more need be said about that. The nine tracks that properly make up Relics of Our Life deserve to be lived in, spindly guitar lines swirling around like smoke and mumbled vocal incantations taking you elsewhere for the duration. Another unassuming gem from the surprisingly durable Bobby Would.

Light Metal Age, s/t (self-released)

In retrospect, I think Gen Pop's PPM66 is one of the best records to come out in the past decade, wringing modern ennui by the neck to squeeze out lyrical inspiration, nailing down a balance between catchy and smart in an impressively effortless way. That record flew, and still flies, under the radar, unfortunately, and the band is no more. Light Metal Age is the new project of Gen Pop's Ian Patrick Corrigan, and it sorta picks up the thread of PPM66, but veers off into the countrified black humor of Country Teasers ("Quil Ceda"), lonesome new age ("Oakland 2017"), and a chilling minimal synth track ("Garage In Meridian"). Corrigan's vocals sound like Bill Callahan in his early days as Smog, but in content he appears to be searching for a place or meaning or some sign that the world isn't as backwards and cruel as it actually is. I think opener "What He's Done" is my favorite song of the year so far, a perfectly dusty guitar line paired with deep, reverberated vocals coldly presenting a personal inventory (“Tattoos since he was 20,” “$20K he owes/20 years to go”). It’s all tied together by the chorus of “You said let it go/But do you know/what he’s done?,” the anxiety of being a prisoner of your past neatly summarized. “Quil Ceda" is my other standout favorite, the biting line "It will make you sick" now popping up in my head all too often as I go about my days. Really, there's something to like on every track here: the double-timed portion toward the end of "T.U.L.I.P."; the rain-soaked, pre-dawn alleys conjured by "Garage In Meridian"; and the subdued Ben Wallers impression on "Gaps In the Material." Sure, "Oakland 2017" is maybe a bit long and saps momentum plopped in the middle, but this seems more like a mixtape than a finished product, and I've come to appreciate the cracks in the tracks forced together. I've been playing it non-stop for nearly two months now, a potent distillation of the young American's modern struggle, laid out without self-pity and the right amount of simmering discontent. Can't ask for much more.

MIKE & Tony Seltzer, Pinball (10K)

Here’s an unexpectedly economical and breezy offering from MIKE, produced entirely by Tony Seltzer. Not sure what Tony Seltzer did here to allow MIKE to let down his guard and puff out his chest a little, but it’s a welcome change of pace, if a bit forgettable. Seltzer’s beats aren’t going to have many rappers come calling, but they’re exciting enough jumping off points for MIKE to try on different personas. I get hints of UGK-era Bun-B (named checked in “Underground Kingz,” as required), Young Dolph, and Lil Baby in MIKE’s rapping on Pinball, and it’s fun and jarring to hear him rap over trap beats like “Yin-Yang.” For all his efforts, the album lags in spots - “100 Gecs,” “Underground Kingz” and “R&B” have become laborious over multiple listens, the beats sputtering, the rapping losing steam without MIKE’s usual emotional overflow. But the opener “Two Door,” the unassuming bounce of “Skurrr” and "Pinball," and the Niontay-featuring “2k24 Tour” still connect, MIKE throwing off a satin boxing robe and sparring with whoever. It’s true that overexposure to this album over the past few weeks has probably taken away some of its luster, but hearing MIKE in this capacity paints a more complete picture of him as an artist. Short ‘n mostly sweet, with no tears, Pinball’s sure to be a steady listen through the punishing summer ahead.

The Stone Rollers, The Ballad of Bill Spears (self-released)

Are the Woolen Men done? Nothing official on that, but members are shifting priorities to other groups: guitarist Lawton Browning is in Change Life, and the Stone Rollers features WM drummer Raf Spielman. The Stone Rollers have been releasing single tracks, one at a time, since September of last year, and The Ballad of Bill Spears puts all four tracks together. It's a separate project and unfair to compare the two, though there are strong sonic similarities to the Woolen Men. The Stone Rollers are bouncy and hard-strumming, somewhere between folk protest songs (yes, there's harmonica) and country with a punk edge (but obviously not as bad as that descriptor conjures). In the spirit of the best country songs, the Stone Rollers don't restrain themselves from saying some really mean shit on these songs, taking people to task with an acid tongue and leaving without apology. I like all four songs - if you're not listening to the lyrics too closely, these are breezy pop songs with the strong character of the '60s - but I think "The Shell Song" and "You Can't Reach Me" are the two best. The former has the harshest lyrics ("When I see you down the line, I hope you're not the same" and "I won't wait around to see what you become/because good or bad I do not care at all"), and "You Can't Reach Me" is an ode to the dream of escaping "my life/bound up so tight" for the greener grass. All four tracks are simple and effective/affecting in an immediate way, familiar but bristling, classic-sounding but unmistakably modern. A nice teaser from the Rollers, who I can only hope will excoriate this feeble review on an upcoming track.

[oppitfs]

Words: + 2k Prompt: Healing the wounds and the heart. Warnings: This is funny. This is a post-Shibuya oneshot that has no Shibuya or Culling Games spoilers. Just a brief mention of Hakari that might leave anime confused, but just ignore that. It may also contain a lot of the word "blood" and possible post-traumatic stress on Yuji's part (I didn't think about this while writing, but there are some symptoms present) A/N: This oneshot came about after I had a nosebleed last month and instantly remembered that fight between Hakari X Yuji. So yeah, this is me working on Yuji's broken psyche while wishing someone would take care of my bleeding like Megumi did. Anyway, have a good read :D

Yuji felt like his head was broken into a thousand pieces.

Maybe because it's true.

Just maybe .

The beating he took from Hakari was nothing like anything he had ever felt, at least nothing he had accepted without fighting back. His ribs hurt where senpai's punches landed – it wasn't a lie when he said that his cursed energy was much greater than that of other sorcerers – and perhaps there are some broken bones in the chest area. This would explain why Yuji's breathing is labored, difficult even after rest.

Not that he cares.

If, for Hakari-san to listen to them, it is necessary to break every bone in his body and turn it into jelly, Yuji is more than willing to accept any punch, kick or blow.

What's more, he's starting to get used to the pain.

Blood runs from his nose, dripping onto his old bruised hands like water from a tap. The metallic taste, however, remained suffocated in the back of his throat and Yuji instinctively swallowed it. It seems so natural to him now, like blowing on hot food first or humming while eating ice cream – innocent things he'll never do again without constantly remembering the taste of blood and the smell of smoke.

Yuji took off his jacket, wrinkling his nose when he saw the state of it.

It's a disaster.

No, that's an understatement.

It's much worse.

The white fabric turned into a mess of rusty red. There are three large tears showing off ostentatiously and so much concrete dirt that it looks like it was used on some construction site instead of being a new jacket. Okay, maybe 'new' is an exaggeration since she was bought at a thrift store, but still... He knew it was stupid to be upset over just a piece of cloth, however, once the guilt set in his chest, it was impossible to get him out.

Yuji grunted, trying to remove a small mess of blood with his fingernail, but failing miserably. Red was engraved between the fibers of the fabric.

Fushiguro had used the last savings they had to buy this jacket, opting for something white so that he wouldn't lose sight of Yuji when they entered Hakari's fighting game, where men in black suits and fighters in other dark clothes could easily devour him. it.

"Not that that's really necessary..." Fushiguro commented vaguely as he changed out of his school uniform and into a black hoodie that Yuji found vaguely familiar, though it was hard to tell from the corner of his eye. He no longer wanted to think about how narrow his colleague's waist was. “Your hair attracts much more attention. It will be like finding cotton candy in the mud.”

Yuji's cheeks heated up at the memory... Or maybe he hit him harder than he thought.

Who knows...

Yuji jumped off the bench when the locker room door slammed shut.

Under the dim light of a single lamp, Fushiguro frowned at him, his spiky hair falling like a shadow before his very green and sharp eyes. The other boy locked the door without taking his eyes off Yuji, without blinking, without any other satisfied expression. Granted, it is still difficult for him to fully read Fushiguro, however, at least a relieved sigh should have come. Maybe a “ hey , good job”.

However, none of these things seemed to be about to happen.

Yuji swallowed.

“Fushiguro...”

The name echoed through the bathroom with a hoarse, choked tone, probably due to the injury Yuji had on his throat. Not that it was important, because any words that were about to come out were interrupted by Fushiguro, who approached quickly and stealthily like a wolf, taking the first aid kit from Yuji's hands and wandering into the bathroom in a determined manner, without any space. for conversation.

Yuji followed the hurried and firm movements, long fingers gripping a towel as he wet it in the dubious-looking sink. Fushiguro's eyebrows were furrowed tighter than usual, which certainly indicated that he was in another level of stress, almost bordering on fury. Yuji also noticed that Fushiguro had his lips pressed tightly together, but he didn't have much time to be sure when his friend looked away.

In the space of a minute, Fushiguro was back in front of Yuji, sitting so close that their knees bumped together. The damp towel was spread out expectantly.

“Want me to write you an invitation?” Fushiguro growls, pushing the damp fabric closer to Yuji's face. “Cooperate, Itadori.”

Yuji arched his eyebrow, his mouth open uselessly.

What... What's going on?

He had gotten Hakari to listen to them. A small victory in the war. The reason why the two traveled together, facing curses, and entered this place of clandestine fights.

So why does Fushiguro seem one step away from blowing him up?

“Fushiguro, what are you doing?”

The other boy smacked his lips in derision.

“Trying to clean up your bleeding, obviously. Hakari blasted your brain too?”

Before Yuji could respond, Fushiguro pushed the towel on his nose. The tightness that should have been painful was softened by the softness of the fabric, eliciting a relieved sigh from Yuji. The cold water softened his burning face, slightly dampening the fire of adrenaline that still existed.

By focusing on the cold, he didn't need to see the fire burning in Fushiguro's green eyes.

The two remained silent for a few minutes, just the sound of their breathing and the dripping of the tap between them. Fushiguro does a silent – and almost gentle – job of cleaning all the blood from Yuji's face, carefully touching the still tender wounds and cuts. It's nice, peaceful. It reminds him of when they arrived from missions, sitting in Shoko-sensei 's office , cleaning off the dried blood so that the jujutsu doctor wouldn't waste time looking for them. If this was one of those moments, Yuji would laugh at what a great nurse Fushiguro would be, which would definitely make his friend blush and kick him in the shin in retaliation.

But that time has passed.

Now, in this reality where they are no longer at jujutsu school just pretending to be normal teenagers, Yuji lets the silence devour them and forces himself not to think about how someone is missing there.

The stillness is interrupted when Fushiguro lets out an irritated and even – if Yuji was really playing psychoanalyst – hurt sigh.

“Why do you always have to do this?”

"Do what?"

“Don’t play dumb with me, Itadori.” He snaps, looking increasingly furious. Yuji doesn't know if the way Fushiguro throws the used towel away, without seeming to care where it lands, is intentional, and he doesn't want to know what it could mean. Working on a cotton pad, dipped in saline, Fushiguro continues in the same scathing tone: “You could have defended yourself from that first attack. Hell, you could have even counterattacked. Why did you accept the punches?”

“It was the only way Hakari-san could hear us.” Yuji responds, grabbing Fushiguro's hand before he shoves those tampons into his sensitive nose. He feels the sorcerer's pulse quicken beneath his fingers. It's the only sign of emotion Yuji receives. “I didn’t care, really. And neither should you.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s too late!” Fushiguro exclaimed, pulling his hand away from Yuji, almost as if he had burned him. It hurts, but no more than the words that follow: “Because I care and I won’t let you die again because of me, Itadori!”

Fushiguro turns his face away, staring at the ground beneath his feet, as if he can hide the way his lips tighten more and more, trying not to tremble. Sweat drips from his face, elegant hands tightly gripping the useless fabric of the white jacket, his throat swallowing words that Yuji would like to hear, but doesn't have the courage to ask.

He looks so helpless, lost.

Desperate.

Yuji blinks, shock escaping in the form of a sharp breath.

Hakari's words mid-fight then come back to Yuji, a small whisper of the memory in his mind.

“When a sorcerer asks another for help, it's basically asking 'please risk your life with me'.”

Silence lingers between them.

A drop falls, hitting the metal of the sink.

Then two, three, four, five...

Yuji tentatively extends a hand to Fushiguro, not knowing exactly what to do or what to say.

It's so painful not to be able to say everything he feels, everything he's been ignoring since that day at the conservatory, where the rain never seemed to wash the blood from his heart or erase the fear on Fushiguro's face, too many words and regrets on the edge of his mouth. language, however unable to verbalize them.

It was always easier to leave everything underground.

After all, everything always had an expiration date for him.

One day it will all end for him. Maybe in ten years or less than ten days.

Yuji is nothing more than a cog that will be discarded as soon as his function is fulfilled.

So why does Fushiguro look at him like there's something more?

Yuji takes a deep breath and his heart hurts with the weight of feelings he can't get out.

"I'm very sorry." He speaks, genuinely, lifting his eyes just enough to find Fushiguro's already looking at him. “I didn't want to... I just want...”

He doesn't know what he wants.

This matters?

A gear does not need to want anything, as its only function is to serve a purpose. However, Yuji can't help but selfishly want something and keep it close to him.

Because of these selfish desires to not be alone, no more, he gave in to Fushiguro even though he knew the dangers of keeping him around. Because of that little selfish part that loves when Fushiguro looks at him with affection and trust, that shines when he sees his best friend alive by his side, that wishes he could live a life that was denied to him when Sukuna's damn finger went down his throat, Yuji can't move away.

God, he's so filthy and stupid and cruel.

Yuji's head falls into the space between them, finally feeling the weight of all that fighting, all the stress, all the rush. Your hands squeeze your face to stop the tears from falling, even though you've known for a long time that there isn't a drop left to fall. They all stayed in Shibuya.

“I just want to be able to help you.” He gasps, feeling unable to breathe. “I want to save someone at least once.”

It's not exactly what Yuji wants to say, but it's the most he can manage.

He will not drag Fushiguro into a current in which he, and only he, is doomed to sink.

This would be the moment when Fushiguro leaves. Let Yuji deal with his own demons and nightmares, spare him the memory of all those he has lost and is about to lose when the higher-ups find him. Yuji almost wants to beg his friend to do it. Stay away before he stains Fushiguro's pale skin with blood like he stained his jacket.

Leave before you are destroyed.

However, Fushiguro was never the type to back down.

Instead of going far away, he gets even closer. Instead of moving away so as not to stain himself, Fushiguro extends his arms to offer an attempt at a hug, one hand resting on Yuji's hair with a comforting squeeze, a silent promise that he won't leave – he will stay until the end. . Yuji wonders if he can feel that promise on his lips if he kisses Fushiguro's hands, but he pushes that thought away. For the moment, being selfish and stupid, he accepts the hug and holds Fushiguro as close as he can to himself.

“I’m not going to lie and say everything will be fine, because it probably won’t.” The words come out of Fushiguro, low and soft, a true, broken whisper. Yuji feels when Fushiguro settles down on the bench, holding him back, as if he's afraid he's going to disappear. “But I know we will get through this. You and I. Together. Just… Don’t scare me like that again, please.”

Yuji shakes his head, taking a deep breath of Fushiguro's vanilla shampoo.

"I am going to try..."

Try to be better. Try to overcome the past. Trying to be someone worth saving.

Fushiguro pulls back just enough so that Yuji can see the small smile that appears on his face, and for a moment, it's like being back in Yuji's high school dorm, the darkness swallowing them both as their breaths mingle and the heat Summertime does things to your teenage hormones. Rewind the tape until they have all the time in the world to memorize eyes and smiles instead of scars.

The memories make Yuji's heart beat in different rhythms.

He won't think about them now.

Now, he will simply enjoy Fushiguro's rare, gentle touch, memorize the way his eyelashes are long, his eyes burn with a fervor and purpose, how the smile on his face is broken but still beautiful and the only thing that reminds Yuji of his own humanity.

In the flickering light, he clings to Fushiguro's voice like a shipwreck clings to a piece of wood.

"Thanks. That's all I can ask for.”

[forenerblog]

From Blueberries to Bananas: Surprising Facts About True Berries

When you hear the word "berry," what comes to mind? Probably strawberries, raspberries, or blackberries, right? What if I told you that none of these are actually true berries? Yes, you read that right! On the other hand, bananas, tomatoes, and even eggplants are true berries.

So, what is a true berry? The definition comes from botany, not the grocery store. A true berry is a fruit that develops from a single ovary of a flower, has a fleshy interior, and contains seeds embedded within.

What Is a True Berry?

A true berry is a simple fruit that develops from a single ovary of a flower and has a fleshy pericarp (fruit wall) with seeds inside. Unlike aggregate fruits like strawberries (which form from multiple ovaries), true berries follow a strict botanical definition.

How Do True Berries Differ From Other Fruits?

To understand why certain fruits make the cut as true berries, let’s compare them to other common fruit types:

Drupe (Stone Fruit) – Fruits like peaches, cherries, and mangoes have a single hard seed (pit) inside.

Aggregate Fruits – Strawberries and raspberries develop from multiple ovaries, meaning each little bump on their surface is a separate fruit.

Pomes – Apples and pears have a central core that holds their seeds, unlike berries.

Now, let’s dive into some of the most unexpected true berries!

The Most Surprising True Berries

1. Bananas – The Berry That Feels Like a Snack

Yes, the humble banana is a true berry! Unlike strawberries, bananas grow from a single ovary, have a soft, fleshy interior, and contain small seeds (though they are barely noticeable in cultivated varieties).

Nutritional Benefits

Rich in potassium, which supports heart health and muscle function.

High in fiber, aiding digestion and keeping you full.

A natural source of energy, perfect for a quick snack.

Culinary Uses

Enjoyed fresh or blended into smoothies.

Used in baking for banana bread, pancakes, and muffins.

Frozen and blended into a dairy-free ice cream alternative.

2. Tomatoes – The Savory Berry in Your Salad

Surprised to see tomatoes here? Botanically speaking, they fit the berry criteria. Each tomato develops from a single ovary, has a fleshy interior, and contains seeds within its pulp.

Nutritional Benefits

High in lycopene, an antioxidant linked to heart health and cancer prevention.

A great source of vitamin C, boosting immunity and skin health.

Low in calories but rich in flavor and nutrients.

Culinary Uses

Essential in salads, pasta sauces, and sandwiches.

Used as a base for salsa, ketchup, and soups.

Roasted or grilled for a sweeter, deeper flavor.

3. Blueberries – The Superfood That Got It Right

Finally, a fruit that actually is a berry! Blueberries fit all the botanical requirements and are also packed with health benefits.

Nutritional Benefits

Loaded with antioxidants that support brain health and reduce inflammation.

High in fiber, aiding digestion and promoting gut health.

A great source of vitamin K, which helps with bone health.

Culinary Uses

Perfect for smoothies, yogurt bowls, and oatmeal.

Baked into muffins, pies, and pancakes.

Eaten fresh as a delicious and nutritious snack.

4. Kiwis – The Fuzzy Green Berry

Kiwis may look unusual, but they meet all the berry criteria. Beneath their fuzzy brown skin is a bright green, seed-filled interior.

Nutritional Benefits

Extremely high in vitamin C, supporting immunity and skin health.

Packed with fiber, aiding digestion and gut health.

Contains antioxidants that promote heart health.

Culinary Uses

Sliced into fruit salads or smoothie bowls.

Blended into fresh juices.

Used as a topping for desserts and yogurt.

5. Grapes – The Classic Berry We All Love

Grapes have always been classified as true berries, making them one of the most recognizable members of the group.

Nutritional Benefits

Rich in resveratrol, which supports heart health and longevity.

High in vitamins C and K for immune and bone health.

Contains natural sugars, providing a quick energy boost.

Culinary Uses

Enjoyed fresh as a snack.

Used in salads, cheese platters, and desserts.

Fermented into wine or blended into juices.

6. Eggplants – The Berry You Never Expected

Eggplants may seem like an odd addition to this list, but they fit all the botanical requirements of a true berry.

Nutritional Benefits

High in fiber, supporting digestion and gut health.

Contains antioxidants that protect against cell damage.

Low in calories but packed with essential nutrients.

Culinary Uses

Roasted, grilled, or baked in dishes like eggplant parmesan.

Used in Mediterranean and Asian cuisine.

Blended into dips like baba ganoush.

Health Benefits of True Berries

True berries are not just interesting from a scientific perspective—they’re also incredibly nutritious! Here’s why you should include them in your diet:

Rich in Antioxidants – Protects against oxidative stress and aging.

High in Fiber – Supports digestion and gut health.

Packed with Vitamins and Minerals – Boosts immunity, heart health, and energy levels.

Culinary Uses of True Berries

True berries can be used in countless ways in the kitchen:

Smoothies & Juices – Blend bananas, blueberries, and kiwis for a nutritious drink.

Salads & Snacks – Add tomatoes and grapes to salads for a burst of flavor.

Cooking & Baking – Use blueberries in desserts, tomatoes in savory dishes, and eggplants in stews.

Fun Facts About True Berries

Strawberries and raspberries are not true berries, but watermelons and pumpkins are!

The tiny black specks in bananas are undeveloped seeds, but wild bananas have large seeds.

A single grapevine can produce fruit for over 100 years!

Conclusion

Now that you know what a true berry is, your grocery trips will never be the same! While strawberries and raspberries don’t make the cut, true berries like bananas, tomatoes, blueberries, kiwis, grapes, and even eggplants are packed with nutrition and flavor. Whether you enjoy them fresh, cooked, or blended into a smoothie, true berries offer both health benefits and delicious versatility.

[haris7247]

4 FOODS THAT ARE DESTROYING YOUR MANHOOD

There are many reasons for the generational decline in testosterone as we face it today – porn addiction, xenoestrogens, and a sedentary lifestyle are just some of the many. But the one thing that is responsible more than all of these other factors combined is our dietary habits.

Our food culture has changed more in the last 100 years than it had in the previous 100,000 years. The reason? Large-scale industrial food processing. The industrialization of food introduced us to 4 foods in particular that are starving your brain, expanding your waistline, and wreaking havoc on your testosterone.

Refined Sugar

In 1822, the average American consumed about 40 grams of sugar every 5-days – equivalent to the amount in a 12-ounce can of coke. Today, the average American consumes that much sugar every 7-hours (1).

Over the course of the past two hundred years, we’ve increased our sugar intake by 3,000 percent. This is the single biggest change to the human diet since the invention of fire.

– Tyler Graham and Drew Ramsey, authors of The Happiness Diet

The problem with consuming refined sugar is that it instantly enters your bloodstream and spikes your blood glucose levels way up. Your body responds to this by releasing insulin to help deposit the glucose because excess amounts of it are extremely toxic – as any diabetic can tell you. Insulin does such an efficient job at removing the glucose molecules, that blood glucose levels immediately come crashing down – only to have you craving more sugary foods.

These crazy fluctuations in blood sugar lead to a decrease in insulin sensitivity, which means that more and more insulin becomes required to do the same amount of work. Lower insulin sensitivity leads to a significant decrease in both testosterone and growth hormone levels (2, 3). Over the long term, it can even lead to the development of type 2 diabetes.

So yeah, kick your sugar habit. Tame your sweet tooth with some fruit or dark chocolate.

Also Read: Kenya rich sugar mummy wants a masculine Ben 10

2. Refined Grains

We did not have refined grains before the industrial revolution. We had grains, yes, but they were all stone-ground, which means that we were unable to separate the germ from the kernel. After the industrial revolution, we began to press grains with iron rollers to remove the germ from the kernel. Why did we do this? Because although the germ and kernel packed the grains full of fiber and nutrients, they are also what caused the flour to spoil faster. By removing the germ from the kernel, grains developed a longer shelf-life and were able to be transported far and wide without spoiling.

But here’s the thing about refined grains – your body responds to them the same way it does to refined sugar – sometimes worse, actually. The Glycemic Index (GI) – a figure that represents how much a particular food spikes blood glucose – tells us that white bread spikes insulin even more than a tablespoon of sugar. Furthermore, grains also reduce your body’s ability to synthesize vitamin D – a critical component in testosterone production.

What to do? Switch out all refined carbs—white bread, bagels, white rice, pasta, etc.—for complex carbs like legumes, starchy vegetables, and brown rice.

3. Vegetable and Seed Oils

Just because vegetable oils have the word “vegetable” in them doesn’t mean that they’re healthy. All vegetable oils—canola, safflower, sunflower, soybean, etc.—are manufactured in an industrial factory through which plant sources are refined and heavily processed. Before the industrial revolution, none of these oils existed in our diet. Today, the average American gets 20% of his calories from soybean oil alone (4). And soy, as you already know, exerts its own share of feminizing effects.

The problem with vegetable and seed oils is that they contain an omega-3 to omega-6 ratio that’s completely out of whack. Omega-3’s are anti-inflammatory fatty acids. Omega-6’s are inflammatory fatty acids. Your body requires both to maintain optimal function, but the ratio in vegetable/seed oils is something like 16:1 in the favor of omega-6’s (5). The result? Chronic inflammation.

Inflammation not only lowers your testosterone (6), but it also leaves you at an increased risk of developing a myriad of other health issues as well—heart disease, diabetes, cancer, and depression to name a few (7).

Toss out all of the vegetable and seed oils in your pantry and replace them with male-friendly alternatives like olive oil, coconut oil, MCT oil, grass-fed butter, and avocado oil.

4. Factory Farmed Meats

Animals brought into a factory farmed environment are introduced to an unnatural diet (animals that are used to eating grass are being fed grains and GMO’ed corn), growth hormones (to get them to grow as fast as possible), and antibiotics (because they are getting sick from an unnatural diet and growing too quickly).

The only study I was able to find on this topic observed how a man’s sperm quality was affected by his mother’s meat consumption during pregnancy. In sons of “high-beef consumers” (mothers who ate more than 7 beef meals per week), sperm concentrations were 24.7% lower than in men who’s mothers ate less beef (8). There was no further research I was able to find on how the consumption of factory farmed meat affects a man’s hormones, but an important point to understand is that most of the research performed in this area is sponsored by the food industry giants themselves.

If you want to be an experiment of the FDA, go ahead and keep eating factory farmed meat. Otherwise, opt for organic and grass-fed.

Conclusion When it comes to naturally increasing your testosterone levels, what you don’t eat might be even more important than what you do eat. There are a bunch of other foods you should avoid as well—soy, flaxseed, and alcohol to name a few—but the above 4 form the bulk of our nutritional intake.

If you’re a man of purpose that wants to function near his peak potential, definitely avoid these 4 foods. Doing so will have profound effects on your energy, mental clarity, as well as your ability to enter your true power.

Interested in natural testosterone optimization? Let’s get on a call to figure out where you’re at, where you’ve been, where you want to be, and then determine whether I can help you get there. Schedule your free appointment here.

[starz222]

wrong branch 

contains college au    not proofread   crack   diluc deserves better    part fic   part smau synopsis diluc finds out you work at mcdonalds, he goes to visit you but you don’t show up

“hey, diluc. i saw y/n the other day at mcdonalds, did you know that they worked there?” kaeya looks at his brother with a smug look on his face. “and why are you telling me this?” he scoffs. “don’t you wanna go see them? aren’t you head over heels, inlove with them? of course, besides the fact that you barely talk to them?” kaeya teased, of course he had to be his brother’s wing man. otherwise, he’d barely get anywhere in his love life.

diluc sighs, “it’s none of your business.” he walks away. “go see them after class!” kaeya waves at diluc as he walks further, and further, away.

diluc looks at the floor while he walks. it takes every fiber in his body to not smile like an idiot.

2:15 PM 

diluc walked into mcdonalds and took a seat near the cashier, hoping he’d get to see you as you work. everyone is loud, and it’s insanely crowded. but, as long as he gets to see you, it was worth every single second. 

3:45 PM

diluc hasn’t ordered anything and has just been sitting there, the cashier decides to go up to him and tell him to leave. “excuse me, sir. would you like to order now?” (can you please leave) 

he looks at the shoes by his chair and looks up. it’s not you. diluc stares blankly at the cashier. “um…” the cashier becomes nervous, diluc’s blank stare is… so intimidating. “um… would— would you like to order?” 

“alright.”

the cashier leaves and returns to the front as diluc begans to scan their menu. the workers whisper to each other,

“do you think that guy’s getting stood up?” 

“no way… who has dates at mcdonalds? plus, he’s too good looking.” 

their eyes widen when he gets up and walks directly towards them. did he hear us? the cashier looked at their co-worker. i don’t fucking know!

“do you have grape juice?” 

“i”m sorry?”

7:00 PM by now, the cashiers made a bet on how long it would take him to leave. diluc’s totally not leaving! he’s just sitting there, staring into nothing. he looks down at his table and sighs, this was a waste of time. he grabs his phone and opens his contacts. he hesitates to press kaeya’s number and send him a message.

note based off my parents when they were in college LMAO. i swear my dad is so cheesy, i probably inherited that. that's why my works are so cheesy </3 also i'm sorry i havent posted in like 2 days holy shit i gotta fight the burn out man

[ensnapemysenses]

A Day in the Life of Severus Snape: A Rather Mundane Tale

Hogwarts: Early Morning Routine

Synopsis: Enjoy a look into the rather boring early morning routine of potions professor Severus Snape!

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1,408

Masterlist

Severus awakes suddenly, judging by the position of the moon in the sky he guesses it is around 3:30 am, and as his eyes shift to the clock he finds he is correct in his assumption; it’s 3:30 am on the dot. He rolls over and scrunches his eyes closed for a few moments, willing sleep to come but knowing it won’t. 

Without fail, he wakes up from his nap at 3:30 am every single night. He never really sleeps he only naps because he doesn’t fall asleep until 12:00 am or after. As always, he shortly gives up trying to sleep and begrudgingly climbs out of bed, lighting the lantern he keeps on his bedside table and tying his hair up with a hair tie. Picking up the lantern, he wanders into the little kitchenette in his chambers and takes a seat at the small table. 

His dishes from his late-night snack last night are still on the table along with the book he had been reading. With a flick of his wand, the dishes are washed and put away neatly in his cabinets in no time all while he has his morning coffee brewed. As the cup of coffee arrives at his table, he subtly drops in one sugar cube that he specially crafts himself. It contains his daily dose of nicotine since he isn’t allowed to have cigarettes on school grounds. He knows caffeine and nicotine aren’t exactly a good combo, but he doesn’t care. He needs whatever bit of serotonin and energy boost he can get as he drags himself through each day employed at a job he hates with every fiber of his being.

As the coffee stirs itself to dissolve the sugar cube, Severus leans over and grabs the book he is currently reading: ‘A History of Banned Potions Around the World.’ He’s a bit of a history buff when it comes to both potion making and the dark arts. They both fascinate him and he is usually able to read a book a week. At this rate, he’s almost read his way through all the books at Hogwarts on these subjects and he is going to have to start buying his own and start his own little collection.

Humming to himself, he reads his book while sipping on his coffee until 5:00 am, forcibly prying his eyes away from the pages as his clock offers a quiet musical note to alert him of the hour. Determining it is now an acceptable hour for one to be awake, he carefully closes his book, sets it to the side, blows out the lantern now that the sun is beginning to rise, if only slightly, and cleans up his morning coffee cup.

Stepping into his small bathroom, Snape begins to run some water in the tub. He likes to soak in a hot bath in the morning as an attempt to relax before he begins his day of being tortured by insolent dunderheads. An hour later, he exits the tub, taking care to thoroughly dry off, and then he ties his towel around his waist. He gargles some mouthwash, brushes his teeth, and lastly he styles his hair which he will allow to air dry. He has to wash his hair daily in order to try and keep the oil at bay, but by the end of the day, his hair is always limp and greasy anyways.

He walks into his bedroom to begin getting dressed and gets distracted by his reflection in the full-length mirror, having to force his eyes to look anywhere other than the dark mark on his arm and the numerous, hideous scars all over his body. Instead, he takes a moment to focus on his face and begins compulsively picking at it causing it to turn a bright red color against his pale skin. Sighing to himself, he retrieves the paste he makes to keep his skin clear, since it is also just as oily as his hair, and applies it all over. He will never understand how he, as a grown man, still battles with acne. He figured it would be something he would outgrow eventually but still, it persists; his homemade ointment being the only thing keeping his skin clear. Stepping away from the mirror, he removes his towel and finally begins getting dressed. Taking his time, he is sure to fasten each of the many buttons on his all-black clothing securely. He could use magic, but he finds it rewarding to button them by hand each morning.

It is now 6:30 am and with an hour to go until breakfast, Snape takes his usual stroll down to the Slytherin common room, to ensure his house is waking up and beginning to get ready for their day. This isn’t something he has to do, but he likes to know that none of the Slytherin students are skipping breakfast, are late to their first classes, or if any of them are sick for the day. If he finds that a student isn’t feeling well, he always escorts them to the hospital wing so they can get the care that they need to feel better. 

The few students already mingling around the common room, happily greet Severus with a smile as he enters and he nods his head back at them in greeting. Severus goes about his rounds of checking in on every dorm, knocking on the door to announce his presence before entering. Once he is sure every student is awake and none of them need his assistance, he exits the dungeons and heads to the Great Hall since it’s 7:00 am, only thirty minutes until breakfast begins.

Breakfast runs from 7:30 am until 8:50 am but he likes to get there early so he can read his newspaper in peace. Plus, he isn’t someone who is comfortable being late to anything, his anxiety won’t allow it. As he takes his seat in the corner of the High Table, his Daily Prophet newsletter arrives right on time by owl. He’s soon caught up reading about all that is happening in the wizarding world and is brought back to reality as Minerva sits down beside him, alerting him that breakfast is about to begin as Minerva always arrives promptly on time for each and every meal. Carefully folding the paper out of the way, he begins to eat his breakfast as it appears. He has the same thing every morning, a quarter of a slice of toast with a bit of strawberry jam, scrambled eggs, a few pieces of tomato, and two small sausage links. He’s not a big eater and especially not during breakfast time. 

Minerva tries to make small talk with him as he eats and it takes all his self-control to not yell at her. Instead, he stays as silent as possible, offering headshakes and the occasion mhmm where needed. He doesn’t like to speak much before his classes begin. He finds it takes away from his already very low energy and he will be even more grumpy when the day ends. It is better for both himself and his students, that he conserves his energy as best as he can so he doesn’t totally lose his temper in front of them, though it does still happen.

He’s done with breakfast by 7:50 am and he retreats back down to the dungeons to his potions classroom. By 8:00 am he’s in his classroom, leaving him with one hour to prepare for the day before classes begin at 9:00 am. The first thing he does is skim through his notes for the lessons he will be teaching today, then he walks over to his supply closet. There, he begins to take inventory, carefully taking note of which ingredients he needs to restock as well as keeping an eye out for missing portions. More often than he likes, he finds that students steal from his storeroom and it drives him insane, resulting in him meticulously measuring and counting out each ingredient every single morning. 

Losing himself in the numbers, he soon hears his first-period students beginning to trickle in. Groaning internally, he closes up his potions storeroom and stalks to the front of the class where he gathers the things he will need for his first lesson and he waits for all the students to arrive. His day begins when the bell for first-period rings at 9:00 am.

[lightsovermonaco]

His Good Sweater: Chapter 9

Masterlist

As always thank you to my beautiful bestie @acollectionofficsandshit you can also thank her for all the Max content in this chapter. Its a long one, enjoy!

Word Count: 9.6k

Recommended song: “Hate the way” by G-Easy and blackbear

The one thing that never failed to lift your spirits was your dad's homemade blueberry chocolate chip pancakes. Whenever you were upset as a kid, whether it be your team losing a sporting event, your high-school boyfriend dumping you for the head cheerleader, or getting rejected from an ivy league college you never expected to get into in the first place, his pancakes had been there to cushion the fall. Clever as he was, he always messed them up in some insignificant way like leaving off the whipped cream and hiding the container so you were forced to talk to him in order to remedy it. Then he would crack some stupid joke or cheesy pun that would just barely have the ghost of a smile curling your lips.

Blueberry chocolate chip pancakes were no match for the heartbreak of losing your best friend.

The morning after, you only trudge to the kitchen when your stomach's demands to be fed become too loud to ignore. A steaming pile of fluffy pancakes sits at your usual spot, no syrup in sight. You don't have the energy to find your dad and ask where he's hidden it, instead picking at them. You knew the flavor should be fruity and sweet but every bite tastes like ash. One pancake is all you can manage before nausea roils, threatening to make your meager brunch resurface. 

"Some is better than none," Ben murmurs behind you and you drop your chin in the barest of nods. "We can save the rest and you can warm them up later."

"Thanks," you mumble when he takes your plate. You pull your blanket tight around your shoulders as your gaze turns to the window while your brother washes your dishes, wishing for all the world that you could make your uncooperative limbs move and help him but the mental effort it requires is too taxing. Instead you stay curled up on the chair, the noises of the house waking up around you a dull buzz in your ears. At some point your mother kisses your head and hustles out the door to work, her husband close behind. Ben is the last to leave and is reluctant to do so.

"Promise you'll text me if you need me," he says. "Mom already gave me permission to cut class after trigonometry."

"Sure." You both know it's a lie and a bad one at that. Your voice is dull and flat, completely void of emotion. 

"Mom said she's coming home early anyway,” he tries. “Something about overstaffing at the greenhouse."

"Okay."

The mechanical spooling of the garage door tells you he's finally gone. Your elbows slide forward until your head rests on the table, unable to hold it up any longer.

Every fiber of your being yearns for him, to hear the distinct r's and flowery lilt of his accent as he comforts you through the heartbreak, always knowing exactly what to say. It was second nature to call one another when either of you had had a bad day or a good day or just a normal day - you'd talked so often that last year you had convinced your parents to add international minutes to your phone plan. 

Your fingers itch to dial the number you had long since memorized, knowing it would ring no more than twice before he picked up. He never let it go to voicemail unless he absolutely couldn't avoid it and you had a hunch he was waiting for your call.

Despite knowing better, you scroll through the messages on your phone. Love was evident in each witty remark and wish goodnight, pulling at your heartstrings. Your finger hovers over the delete conversation button, and after a minute of debate, you can't bring yourself to do it. You would allow yourself one reprieve to look back on and remember the good.

It would be so much easier if he had given you a reason to hate him. If he'd cheated or intentionally led the media to your house, hating him would be easy. You wouldn't have to admit that you still loved him because his betrayal would have yanked out the newly blooming bud of love you nurtured and crushed the fragile petals. Instead, you were left knowing that it had been your choice to inflict damage in him. You had no right to seek comfort in his arms or even ask how he was doing. You deserved to be miserable for causing him to feel the same way. 

Yuki is the first to check in on you. You don’t know what he expects; you lie through your teeth when you tell him you were fine.

The press is asking me for my thoughts. No idea why. I told them not to stick their noses where they don't belong.

At least someone had the guts to stand up to those bloodsuckers. Yuki was the last person you'd suspect to do so, but the scrappy twenty-something continued to surprise you.

Thanks, you type back. How is he?

You hesitate. You didn't really want to know the answer. Pierre was devastated and just as broken as you are. You delete the last part and opt to refrain from subjecting yourself to biting off more than you could chew.

I'm here if you need me, is Yuki's reply.

Charles, Daniel, and his newly promoted girlfriend were the next ones to text you, all offering varying degrees of support. Daniel's friend was the one that offered to sucker punch anyone that came near you without your permission, and actually dragged a single huff of laughter from your aching lungs.

I'm good thanks. But if I need a bodyguard you'll be first on the list.

Just because Daniel can lift me with one arm doesn't mean I'm not punchy!

I believe you.

Spent, you set your phone down and retreat under the down comforter. The bright pink clashed with your earthy decor, but at least the old blanket didn't smell like Pierre. Your mother had taken it upon herself to erase all trace of him from your room when she had managed to coax you into a shower, and the half hour you had spent letting the scalding water run over your skin had given her plenty of time to do so. The absence of him hurts almost as much as the trace of cedar you know you're imagining when you breathe deep.

It has to be impossible for so much agony to be contained in your body. No matter how much you try, the tears won't stop flowing because Pierre's crushed expression had taken up residence at the forefront of your consciousness. 

It didn't help that so many of your recent memories were touched by his presence. Getting into university served to remind you of the ecstatic call you'd gotten after his race that Sunday, voice strained with a mix of excitement for you and the disappointment of his race ending crash on the opening lap. Even something as simple as staring at the saggy bean bag chair in the corner brought back the memory of the countless times he had lounged there, sprawled out like he owned it.

Max's text brings you briefly back to reality.

You doing okay? Dan told me what happened.

No, was all you say back. Within a minute, Max's face occupies your screen. You sigh but accept the call, laying the phone on the pillow.

"I don't feel like talking, Max."

"That bad huh?" He asks, concern lacing his usually chipper voice.

"Yeah. That bad." As if that summed up getting your heart torn to shreds.

He's uncharacteristically quiet for a beat. "Wanna hear about Vic's day? She had some crazy clients at her salon- it'll take your mind off it."

"I guess," you say, utterly nonplussed. You could care less if he kept talking or not, you wouldn't be paying attention. He prattles on for a few minutes, seemingly unaffected by your silence as his words pass through one ear and out the other.

"Told you it was crazy," he says finally, your cue to respond. You hum noncommittally and Max just sighs.

"Look, I don't know how I can help you unless you come here. I know you have a flight booked- do you still wanna come to the gala? My date's been stolen so I'm in need of one."

"Who stole your-"

The realization hits you before you can finish. Pierre. Pierre stole Max's sister and left him without a date. Something about his willingness to replace you so quickly rubs you the wrong way. It shouldn't have been so easy for him to find someone new; he should be hurting just as much as you. Fundamentally, you knew nothing would happen between Pierre and Victoria. She wouldn't go for him out of respect for both of you and you were thankful in the knowledge that it was completely platonic. Still, it was like rubbing salt in a wound. 

"You know what? I'll go." It was the most you'd said all day, your throat scratchy with disuse. Max whoops on the other line and you could almost see him punching the air in victory.

"Great! When's your flight get in? I'll bring the Acura and pick you up." 

You put him on speaker and login to the airlines website to punch in the flight number. Last night you'd debated canceling the flight that Pierre had paid for, determined to stay home and be miserable. Looking back you were glad you'd trusted your gut and left the reservation untouched. If he could find someone else to attend the gala with, so could you. "I land in Nice at noon on Friday. It'll be a short flight, I can text you when we take off."

"Sounds good. I'll set up the spare room for you. Victoria is staying here too, I'm sure she would love to help you get ready and do whatever it is girls do before fancy events."

"Hey, Max?"

"Whats up?"

You trace patterns through the condensation left by the glass on your nightstand. "Thank you. For understanding."

"That's what friends are for," he assures you. "Is there anything you wanna talk about now? Or are you planning to wait until you're here?"

"Ben's been keeping an eye on me. I'm okay for now." Better now that you had something to look forward to.

"All you have to do is call," he promises. "I'll listen, I don't have anything going on this week besides streaming."

You latch on to the small redirection and run with it. "You and the twitch quartet?"

"They've been kind enough to allow me to join them on the sim this week, yeah."

"I'll try to catch a race. No promises though." 

"See you Friday. Try to contain your excitement."

Your lips twitch upward. "Bye Max."

**********

The rest of the week was more of the same. You stayed home and your family dealt with the swarms of people that still gathered on the lawn each morning not so patiently waiting for you to tell your side of the story. You had decided that the best course of action was to keep your mouth shut and let them figure out for themselves that there was no longer a story to report thanks to the wedge they had driven in your relationship.

By the time Ben drives you to the airport Friday the buzz has died down. You hug your brother tight before checking in for the flight and texting Max. His response is immediate, letting you know he's excited to see you.

You wish you could return the sentiment. You wanted to see your friend, sure, but you were beginning to dread the upcoming gala. Max would be your crutch and you knew he was okay with that, but it still felt wrong. 

Unlike your brother, Max was waiting at the curb when you arrived in Nice. A nondescript cap was perched on his head, the oversized sunglasses he wore hiding his eyes from passersby. His gleaming orange peel of a car attracted more attention than he did for once, people stopping to ogle the Acura as they came and went.

"Hey you," Max greets, a broad grin causing his trademark dimple to appear as he wraps you in a rare hug. You cling to him, throat going tight at the intimacy of it. Max wasn't a physical person by any stretch; if he was hugging you this tightly it meant he knew how broken you were.

He waited for you to break contact first, giving you all the time you need. You sniff and wipe the single tear that had somehow escaped and laugh lightly.

"Hey," you say, voice scratchy. "Thanks for picking me up." 

He waves a hand, brushing it off. "Vic wanted to come but she changed her mind when I told her I was driving."

"Probably a smart choice," you observe, letting him pop the trunk- which was in the front of the car, since the Acura NSX was a mid-engined beast of a Japanese supercar- "and considering your choice of car, she wouldn't have fit anyway."

"This is true." He starts the engine, the roar of which makes a poor old woman a few yards away drop her purse.

The drive back is near silent, broken only by Max's occasional quips about a landmark or an observation about someone's driving. It was impossible for any driver to turn off the analytical part of their brain, their Formula 1 habits crossing into their daily lives. 

When Max parks at the curb outside his apartment, you move to open the door but he hits the lock button. You glance over your shoulder at him and quirk a brow.

"Am I your prisoner?"

"Are you gonna talk about what happened?"

Sighing, you sink back into the seat. The way the bolstering hugs your sides almost makes you believe you could fade into it if you try hard enough. "I wasn't really planning on it."

It had only been a handful of days since you had broken it off, the wound still leaking fresh blood when you poked at it. It refused to scab over or give you any kind of reprieve from the torture.

"You know you'll have to face him tomorrow at some point. He'll want to talk to you."

"That's why I'm going with you. You won't have a problem telling him to leave me alone."

Max sighs. "Yeah, I suppose. If that's what you think is best."

The trudge up the stairs and subsequent silent elevator ride allows your thoughts to wander to Victoria. It wasn't her fault that Pierre had asked her to come with him after you'd canceled, after all she was already planning on going and the late notice meant it was likely no one else could make it, but it didn't stop the pang of jealousy that rocketed through you each time you ruminate on it.

It didn't help when she wrapped you in a hug the moment she saw you and whispered an apology in your ear, like she knew she'd done something wrong. Tears spring to your eyes again and Victoria shoots Max a leave us alone look.

"Uh, I'm gonna hop on the sim. Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge if you're hungry."

"Thanks Max." Your eyes are pinned to a smudge of dirt on the wood floor, safely out of range of anything triggering. Keeping it together was more of a struggle than you'd expected.

"I hope you don't hate me," Victoria starts genuine concern lacing the words. "It was just easiest-"

"I know," you cut in. "And I don't." Your smile is tight, not quite hitting home as she returns it.

"Well then. Let's figure out how we're gonna do your hair tomorrow, shall we?"

**********

The dress was a single, simple piece of fabric, spun of sunset orange and free of any bells or whistles. The feather light chiffon hugged every supple curve through your hips until flaring out slightly at the bottom just enough to allow you range of motion. The deep vee of the neckline prominently displayed your cleavage, toeing the line between attention grabbing and scandal starting and leaving little to the imagination. The back dropped low, leaving the elegant curve of your spine free to be kissed by the salty Mediterranean breeze.

The dress is nothing special compared to the thousand dollar pieces that the other boy's dates would be wearing, but you didn't have the money- or the will- to find something new. It by no means broke the bank when you picked it up from the second hand store last year, but it looked the part. It had been a showstopper at the spring formal you'd originally worn it to and judging by Max's reaction, it still was.

He let out a low whistle when you stepped into the living room. "I'm sorry, did you pick that out with me in mind?" He laughs and despite yourself, heat rises to your cheeks. You hated being the center of attention, even among friends. "It's the perfect shade of orange to match my tie. I swear I didn't plan it that way!"

"I know you didn't." You give him a forced smile, praying he doesn't call you out on it. The dress you wore hadn't been your first choice. The one you originally planned to wear still sat in your closet at home collecting dust. It had been the perfect shade of blue to compliment Pierre's sky eyes, but it didn't match Max's deeper ocean blue. So at home it had stayed, and you had chosen the orange one because it made the necklace at your throat pop.

Your fingers engulf the stone before you can stop yourself, as they always do when your thoughts wander to him. Him, because you could scarcely think his name before your heart wretches at the reminder of what you'd lost. Flashes of bright smiles and soft kisses filter through your mind, making you lock up. You swear you can feel the ghost of plush lips to your throat and the scrape of callouses over the curve of your spine. Your eyes fall shut, desperate to get lost in the idea of him like you used to.

"You good?"

Max's quiet words startle you back into the present. No, you were in no way shape or form good, but you had no choice to fall back on the familiar mask of humor to cover up your inner turmoil.

"The real question is are you?" You smirk and look him over. The Red Bull navy suit strains over his broad shoulders, suggesting he had put on muscle since the last time he'd been forced into it. "You look stiff as a board in that tux."

"I feel so awkward." He straightens the suit coat and absentmindedly lifts a hand to tousle his hair. You grab his wrist just in time to keep him from ruining his sister's hard work and shoot him a chiding look. He grins sheepishly and lowers his hand.

"Vic would kill me if you got to the gala looking like you got run over." 

"That's a good point." He offers you his arm and you accept the lifeline he unwittingly offers you. "But I refuse to leave the windows up on this beautiful night, so we'll test how well it'll hold."

You quirk an eyebrow at him. "You're driving us there?"

"Well duh. I always drive when I'm at home."

You glance sidelong at the glaringly orange Acura parked at the curb a few floors below. Your dress would blend right in with the paint, but perhaps that was a good thing. It would provide that much more of a shock factor when you arrived and stepped out.

"Just don't crash out on the hairpin," you tease half heartedly. 

He rolls his eyes. "At least it's just the two of us so I don't have to call an uber. Vic's getting picked up by-'' Max cuts himself off and gives you an apologetic smile.

"You can say his name," you whisper, eyes trained on the tile of the hallway as you walk. "It's not like he's gone."

"Getting picked up by... Pierre," Max tries, carefully monitoring his neutral tone. God, you thought you could handle it but you can't, stumbling over your own feet with only Max's grip on your arm to catch you.

He'd dance with Vic tonight, and probably countless other women, his hands drifting over their bodies like they'd done on yours only days ago. You'd be forced to watch from the sidelines and make small talk that no one would remember come morning, utterly unable to do anything about it. At least Daniel’s girlfriend would be there to be the voice of reason, if you could peel her away from Daniel long enough to speak with her for any length of time.

Max was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride to the venue, leaving you to study the city as he drove. Few yachts were left in the harbor as the sun was swallowed by the sea, the owners undoubtedly set sail for a weekend getaway. Your gaze involuntarily searched for the slip that held Charles' Ferrari red speedboat that you'd visited countless times with Pierre. The eyesore was hard to miss when surrounded by its monotone brethren, memories flooding back in droves at the sight of it.

Sighing, you turn away to glimpse what you can of the city through the ridiculously tiny sliver of windshield. How anyone could confidently drive the Acura while having so little field of vision was beyond you. It was probably second nature to Max, who weaves through the narrow streets with practiced ease and barely lets off the gas through the corners. 

The city of Monaco rarely slept, and tonight was no different. Soft yellow fluorescent glow seeps from high rise balconies, the occupants soaking up the last dregs of sunlight before heading out to the casinos and clubs. People spilled out of cafes onto the sidewalks, their laughter lingering on the breeze as you speed past.

The list of people you trust enough to get in the car with and let them drive with such intensity is short: Max and Pierre. Not even Daniel made the final cut, not when his then not-girlfriend had recounted the tale of him losing the rear of his McLaren 570s at a track day and nearly sending them into the wall. According to her, he'd been too busy ogling her to keep his full attention on the road, but it was enough for you to question his judgement at times.

If you close your eyes, you could pretend it was someone else next to you, cutting through the gears like a hot knife through butter and coaxing every inch of performance out of the car that he could with the light traffic. You draw a surf-scented breath deep, lungs aching with the effort. 

Max joins the queue of cars waiting to park outside the venue, your attention trained on the guests stepping out of cars and climbing the wide set of marble steps leading to the sleek glass building. The modern structure is slightly out of place among the Roman-esque buildings surrounding it but the air of importance it exudes overrules any who dare say it doesn't belong.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that there's an open bar," Max remarks, hanging his head out the window to wave at someone. "It makes these events so much easier."

"You're telling me," you mumble, searching involuntarily for a familiar head of dusty blond hair in the droves of people arriving. Instead of sight, it's the unforgettable rumble of his Civic Type R's exhaust that alerts you to his arrival. Your head whips around, eyes eating up the pearl white paint of Pierre's favored car as it slides in behind you. You silently thank whatever deity is listening that his windshield is tinted, protecting you from seeing the smirk you are certain is playing on his lips.

Once upon a time, the cockpit of that car had been your favorite place in the world. You'd spent countless hours inside it eating shitty gas station cuisine and singing along to the radio at the top of your lungs as Pierre drove you to whatever adventure he had planned for the day. 

Max waves at your- his friend, you remind yourself sharply- and revs his Acura in response. He leaves the keys with the valet, picking up on the tension in your shoulders as the white car parks behind you. Max tugs your arm in attempt to turn you away, but your feet are rooted to the spot. 

“I see you found another date-” The flash of a grin on Pierre's face as he steps out is immediately dashed when he notices you on Max's arm.

If looks could kill, Max would keel over then and there. A muscle in Pierre's jaw flutters as he takes in the sight of the two of you together, your hand on the Dutchman's forearm and your matching attire looking for all the world as if it was purposefully coordinated. 

Max lifts his chin, spine going straight under Pierre's threatening glare. “Her airfare was already paid for and she already had the dress. Someone had to take her.”

Your stomach sinks; the last thing you wanted to do was become a point of contention between the two boys, but you refused to apologize for at least attempting to enjoy yourself. 

Pierre doesn't speak again, only nods to Max and pointedly avoids your stare. He tosses the keys to the smart-dressed kid serving as his valet, coming around to open Victoria's door. With his back turned to you, you take a moment to study the crisp white suit he's chosen for tonight. You had always told him black wasn't his color and he seemed to have taken it to heart. White was what you loved seeing him in, and the tight cut brought back memories of a different type of suit in an entirely different city only a few weeks ago. You'd peeled him out of that Alpha Tauri race suit the moment he made it to the trailer, eager to worship him after his podium. You'd be lying if you said it hasn't been the best sex of your life.

"Come on," Max urges, placing a chaste hand on your upper back and turning you around. He leads you up the stairs, his comforting touch never leaving your skin for a moment. The callouses were all wrong, the fingers too broad to be who you wanted it to be, and yet you couldn't help but imagine it was Pierre leading you up, stopping to smile for the few cameras scattered around.

Flashes spot your vision as you pull your face into an expression of excitement. Max murmurs something in your ear that you think is encouragement but the din of reporters is too deafening to be sure.

"How come you aren't with Pierre?"

The shouted question comes from an unknown assailant but it strikes you like a physical blow. You freeze, mouth going dry as you search for a suitable excuse. Max grants you the space of a single heartbeat to respond before he does so on your behalf.

"How about you mind your own damn business and worry about your cheating wife?"

The man who had bombarded you goes slack jawed, Max's wild guess clearly somehow hitting him just as hard as he had hit you.

"Keep walking," he urges you, leading you through the blinding sea of flashing lights. When you hear the same question directed at Pierre, his flippant laugh grates on your nerves.  

You don't have it in you to appreciate the grand architecture of the entrance hall, too busy trying to keep your breathing in check. Max steers you off to the side and places his hands on your shoulders.

"Look at me," he demands, and you drag your eyes up to his face. "Breathe. He's hurting just as bad as you, only difference is he's better at hiding it. Just enjoy the night okay? I'll grab you a drink and we can find Daniel and his friend and you two can catch up."

You nod, placing a hand on your throat. The delicate chain of the necklace is a vice around your neck, the reminder of him pulling it tight. Your pulse hammers beneath your fingers and you focus on it until it slows. "Get me whatever you're having."

Max disappears in the crowd, and you take a seat at the bench tucked in the corner. No one pays you any heed as they walk past, entranced by the elegant decor and fragrant florals. Your head falls forward to rest in your hands and you struggle to take deep, calming breaths.

Pierre was here. Inhale.

He looked happy. Exhale.

He was getting by. Inhale.

You could get by, too. Exhale.

Renewed, you glance up in time to find Max standing before you with a drink of dark liquid adorned with maraschino cherries in each hand. He extends one glass to you and you don't bother to question what it is before swallowing half in one go. "Better?"

"Much." You stand and brush out the wrinkles in your dress. "Where are we sitting?"

"Er, about that," Max starts, rubbing his neck sheepishly. "They put two teams at each table. We're at the Red Bull Alpha Tauri table."

"I see." You take another deep, steadying breath, letting the anxiety ebbing in your veins fade out with the exhale. It was times like this that you channeled Daniel a bit. It sounded silly and you would never admit it, but the slogans on his helmets worked if you focused on them hard enough. All good, all ways.

If Pierre could get through tonight, so could you.

“I can try to see if I can switch tables-”

"It's fine," you say and down the rest of the drink. “I can handle it.”

Max shifts on his feet, his discomfort something you rarely see from him. He usually excelled at keeping a straight face in uncomfortable situations but it seems that your unease rubbed off on him. “We should get going then, dinner will be served any minute.”

You once again take the arm he offers you, the liquor in your veins already granting you false courage. “We would have time to mingle if you hadn’t taken the scenic route.”

“It was nice out,” he protests, and pulls you to a halt when he spots Daniel across the hall. His girlfriend waves at you with a sad smile. She gestures between the two of you to indicate that you’ll talk later before Daniel pulls her towards the McLaren table. That boy was punctual to a fault and would be caught dead before he was late to anything.

Thankfully, the two of you arrive before Victoria and her date and are able to secure seats that ensure there’s a buffer between you. By some small miracle Christian Horner and his wife were absent and instead a few engineers and their significant others sat at the packed table. Max greets Gianpiero while you take your seat, happy to observe.

“Hey!”

You twist in time to see Yuki’s short frame emerge from the crowd and point to the empty seat to your right. “This one taken?”

You shake your head, standing to give him a quick hug. “How are you doing? Where’s your date?”

“Ah, she couldn’t make it. Had some family stuff to take care of. You look great, by the way.”

You dip your chin in thanks, unsure how else to respond. He was in a white suit that you were sure would wind up stained five minutes into dinner. “Did they mandate that you wear white?”

He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Honestly, it’s the only one I own. I haven't been to enough events to build up my closet yet."

"Well I think it's…"

You spot Pierre before he sees you. His brow is slightly creased as he hunts for the correct table using the same focused determination as when driving his Alpha. For a split second, he meets your gaze. The cacophony of the event fades to background noise and suddenly it's just the two of you and you damn near lift your hand in a wave. You're positive he can see your heart beating out of your chest like in an old cartoon as you curl your fingers into a fist in your lap. Your restraint proves fatal, the floor falling out from beneath your feet when he drops your stare. This was your new normal, you remind yourself. Stolen glances were all you would get.

"I can move," Yuki says, starting to rise. You grip his wrist, holding him in place.

"Please don't." The only other open seats were across the table, and at least then you didn't have to worry about brushing elbows with him all night long.

Yuki nods, slowly settling back in. Max finally takes his seat after giving your shoulder a supportive squeeze.

"You don't have to say anything to him," he reminds you, barely audible over the scrape of chairs and various chatter.

You find anywhere else to look as Pierre pulls out Vic's chair for her and makes his rounds to greet everyone. Daniel and his girlfriend are seated a few tables away and you distract yourself by attempting to read their lips. You manage a few minutes of tenuous peace, catching snippets of Daniel's cheesy jokes and her disapproving, yet flirty, responses.

"Damn, we clean up well, huh?"

You squeeze your eyes shut at the sound of home. His words are honey and you lap them up like you'd never tasted anything sweeter. They weren't even directed at you and yet somehow you twist them to fit your narrative.

Pierre stands at the bottom of the stairs like a chaste high school prom date patiently waiting for your grand entrance. He checks his watch and rakes a hand through his messy hair. You stifle your laugh with a hand, amused by his unnecessary nervous energy.

Taking mercy on him, you clear your throat. His gaze snaps up to you, mouth falling open. You take your time gathering the orange fabric of your dress and descending the stairs, savoring the way he eats you up. He was resplendent in his crisp white tuxedo and you had half a mind to make him late for the gala and strip him out of it then and there and devour him.

Your heels clack on the marble floor of his entirely too fancy apartment and you pause to do a little spin for him, earning you an appreciative whistle for your trouble. A laugh bubbles out of you and you place your hands on his shoulders. His own settle on your waist to pull you flush against him, his body heat soaking through the thin fabric of your dress to warm your core.

"Damn, we clean up well, huh?"

You start when knuckles graze the back of your bare neck. The touch is there and gone but you know immediately that it's Pierre. It's slight enough to be brushed off as accidental to anyone else, but nothing was accidental with Pierre. The barely there contact conveys more than any words ever could. 

He still loved you. You looked stunning. He wishes you were still his so he could prove it to you. All this and so much more contained in a half second brush of his skin to yours.

It all comes back to you in a rush, the emotion you'd so carefully tucked away in a locked box in the back of your mind finally set free. His touch ignites any other thought in your mind that isn't him, burning it away until it's ashes on the wind. 

Despite your better judgement, you lean into him, giving him permission to unravel you. This time you sigh when his fingers ghost over your skin, electricity sparking in their wake. You didn't care who might be watching; the tiny touches were slowly repairing your shattered heart. Your traitorous mind replaces his fingers with the brush of his lips to your nape, imagining the heat as he slides the strap of your dress off your shoulder, lips moving to follow.

You bite your lip to stifle a groan when his heat is withdrawn, leaving you feeling inexplicably naked. You open your eyes to find Victoria's pitying stare paired with an apologetic smile. Max nudges you with his elbow, and you realize someone has addressed you.

"Um, what?"

"I said I like how you guys coordinated outfits," Pierre repeats and openly prods your shoulder. "Obviously Max chose the color."

His tone is playful, but his words are clipped in a way only you understand. Craning your neck, you twist to look up at him. His eyes are cloudy and his smile doesn't reach them, more for show than anything else. "It was an accident."

"Doesn't look that way."

Your retort is ready on your tongue but he doesn't give you a chance to reply before retreating to his seat. His ability to act as if nothing has changed astounds you, as your head is still reeling from the pinpricks of his skin on yours. Instead of being rendered speechless, he strikes up a conversation with Yuki about the Alpha's performance, leaving out the confidential details but giving enough away that it surprises you.

The sheer fact that he can so easily switch off whatever feelings he harbors is unfair. The sensation of his fingers on your neck still lingers and it's all you can do to keep from stepping around the table and slotting yourself between his legs like you had in that bar in London. Your nails bite into your palms, listening in if only for his voice to wash over you and calm your racing heart.

When he mentions the rake angle, you know it's just to mislead anyone who might be eavesdropping. He'd told you the exact angle in the past, and it certainly was not one degree, and it did not cause the level of understeer he was describing.

"The understeer comes from improper tire selection," you blurt. "And driver error."

All eyes turn to you and you straighten. You knew enough about the construction of a Formula 1 car to be positive your assessment was correct. You were almost as certain that he'd said it to force you into speaking to him whether you liked it or not.

"What was that?"

If Pierre could torment you with his subtle touches, you could do the same and call him out when he was wrong.

"Driver error caused the rear end to slide out around that turn in Japan, not the rake angle. That's got nothing to do with it. Your tires were blistered because of you taking an imperfect racing line and they were old. You miscalculated the level of traction they'd give you."

Why no one else had pointed it out was beyond you.

"So you're an engineer now?" Pierre challenges, crossing his arms. Something about the arrogance radiating from him rubbed you the wrong way. You let all the emotion of the past few days surface and add fuel to the fire.

"No, but I've learned enough to see through the bullshit drivers spin to mislead other teams."

Max murmurs your name in warning but your frustration is boiling over. He replaced you tonight, didn't even pause to consider going alone and instead choosing to take Victoria. Sure, it had been your fault that he was dateless, but that didn't give him the right to hurt you too. He knew it would destroy you to see him with anyone else even if it was completely platonic, but he did it anyway.

"Why don't you tell me where I should brake on turn ten since you're an expert all of a sudden?" Victoria lays a hand on his arm but he yanks it out of her grip. "What crack in the pavement? Or is it a mark on the barrier? Drive one lap in my car and then you can tell me how to drive."

It wasn't your analysis that had upset him. You'd done so plenty of times and he had always taken your criticism with an open mind, using it to tweak his driving style to improve his lap time or turn it into a teaching experience so you could learn. No, judging by the way his eyes are lined with silver that he fights to blink away, it's your betrayal that upsets him and rightfully so. You glance around the table but no one is willing to meet your eyes save for Max, who angles his head as if to say fight for it.

But you can't. It's monumentally easier to let Pierre win and sweep it under the rug than to address the deeper issue. "I was trying to help," you say lamely, picking at the salad in front of you.

"You don't get to do that anymore."

The venomous words hit like knives, knocking the breath out of you. Your mouth hangs open like a fish gasping for air but any reply you think up dies on your tongue.

As the music fades out and a man climbs up onto the stage, Pierre gets up and leaves. You track his progress as he weaves through tables, noting Daniel reaching for him as he passes. You flinch when the balcony door slams behind him, an astonished murmur rocking through the crowd.

"You should probably talk to him," Max whispers.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. You had no idea what you would say. 'Sorry' was insignificant and 'I love you' would be cruel when the barest of thought regarding how the media treated you made your stomach churn. 

Max pulls his phone out under the table and you think you see Charles' name on the screen. Good; someone had to make sure Pierre didn't do anything he would regret in the morning and if it wasn't you, Charles was the next best chaperone. A minute later, the Ferrari driver leaves his seat too, exiting the same way as Pierre. 

Focusing on what's said on stage proves fruitless. Try as you might, your attention is trained on the side door Pierre had disappeared through, praying he returns despite knowing it would mean more barbed words hurled at you. Neither he nor Charles return at any point during the presentation. His absence was quickly becoming a gaping black hole, swallowing up any semblance of sanity you had managed to gather in preparation for tonight.

"Try to have some fun," Max says, nudging you with an elbow. "As soon as this guy shuts up I’ll get us some more drinks and then we can eat and get out on the dance floor and forget about everything, yeah?"

You nod. You already feel the buzz of the first drink, and one or two more would push you thoroughly over the edge into blissful forgetfulness. "I don't wanna be sad anymore."

**********

He didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he had to get away from you before he said something that would tear whatever hope he held of repairing what was between you to ribbons. He registers Daniel's low, "Gas, you good?" as he breezes past, but doesn't pause to answer. His sights are locked on the wide, carved oak doors that lead to fresh air.

The breath whooshes out of him when he flings open the balcony doors. They slam behind him and he winces. Chalk that up as something else for Helmut to pick him apart for on Monday.

Pierre rakes a trembling hand through his hair and rests his elbows on the railing, sucking in lungfuls of air like he'd just surfaced from a dive in the harbor. 

When you'd agreed to come to the gala with him, he had been overjoyed. You hadn't made it to the winter gala earlier this year due to a last minute exam and he had sulked the entire night. He still had the place card embossed with your name in the fishbowl by his door, the sizable container nearly overflowing with memories of you. Everything from forgotten earrings to plastic hotel key cards filled the bowl and it was a bright reminder of your adventures together. His plan had been to add another place card to the mix after tonight but after what he'd just said to you, he'd rather forget today ever happened. 

He fucking hurt. Everything just hurt, from the shirt collar scratching at his neck to the bone deep ache that had started when he laid eyes on you on those steps, arm locked with Max's. You'd stolen the words from his mouth, the jab he'd planned to toss at Max dying at the sight of you. 

He hadn't expected you to come tonight. Despite anyone's objections, he'd been fully prepared to get completely shit faced to the point that the ghost of your skin no longer haunted his fingertips and your voice no longer sang in his head. But seeing your damned face had shattered the false reality he had constructed, the one where you never broke him and left him scrambling to piece himself back together.

The universe had dealt him another low blow when he discovered Red Bull and Alpha Tauri would be at the same table and he'd be forced to endure your presence at arms length, close enough to touch but absolutely not allowed to do so. It was his own personal hell, constructed solely to punish him for whatever transgressions he'd made in his life.

And that fucking dress. 

The orange painted the aquamarine charm at the hollow of your throat in sharp relief, showing it off like he somehow still owned you. If you had arrived with him, he would have already led you back to the Civic and bunched that damned dress up past your hips to drag his favorite sounds from you with his tongue. If he could just get you alone, he's sure it wouldn't take more than a single touch to have you crashing into him and begging for more.

Seeing you with Max tonight paints an entirely different picture.

It's Max he sees tearing off the dress at the end of the night when you get back to his apartment. Max's hands slide over your hips and you laugh, walking back so you can keep your lips on his as he slams the door shut behind you. You dip your head back when he presses you to the wall, Max unfaltering as his lips and teeth trace the curve of your exposed throat and he slips the straps of the matching dress of your shoulders to let it pool at your feet. Max's name breezes past your lips on a shaky exhale as you become putty beneath his fingers.

No matter how loud Pierre calls your name, you don't hear him, instead cupping the back of the Dutchman's head and pulling him in for a heated kiss. When you do finally notice him observing from afar, agony wracking his body, all you do is grin. It feels real, even though Pierre is certain it's a crazed fever dream, his mind spinning his worst fear to life: you seeking comfort in the company of someone that wasn't him.

Pierre starts when the door squeaks open, the nightmare thankfully dissolving. Charles steps out clad head to toe in blazing Ferrari red and instantly he knows who sent him. The thought alone stokes rage in his chest, the image of your lips on Max's still fresh.

"Not as easy as you expected it to be, is it?" He asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Fuck off," Pierre growls and immediately regrets it. Beyond you, Charles was his closest friend. They had known each other for ages. It wasn’t a friendship he was willing to sacrifice just because he felt like shit. Pierre sighs and throws him an apologetic glance. "No it's not."

"Why don't you talk to her?"

"She doesn't want to fucking talk, Charles. Take one look at her, she's hanging on Max like she can't get enough of him." Pierre hangs his head in his hands, emotions shifting faster than he did on race day. "I can't go back in there and watch her choose him over me."

"You don't really believe that bullshit, do you?" Charles asks, joining him at the railing.

Not entirely, but he still struggled to understand your thought process. He thought he knew you, but you being here tonight when he had been certain you wouldn't be proved he didn't. 

"I don't know what to believe anymore. I thought it would be forever, that I'd finally found someone who didn't mind my lifestyle and accepted it for what it was, who loved me unconditionally. I thought she was my forever."

"You think she's done with you just because some assholes invaded her privacy?" Charles shakes his head. "She's loved you for a long time, years even. You haven't seen the looks she gives you, but the rest of us have. You hung the moon in her sky, Pierre. That kind of thing doesn't just get swept away by the breeze."

His shoulders curl inward in an attempt to hide the frustrated tear that escapes him. "What am I supposed to do?"

Charles shrugs. "I don't think there's a right answer to that. Try giving her some space. She didn't grow up in the spotlight like we did. It's not an easy adjustment for some people, mate. And blowing up on her when she tries to make conversation doesn't help anything," he says gently. "Let her figure it out and come to you when she's ready."

The concept of letting you go even temporarily was terrifying to him. Waiting on you to make the first move was even worse because he was setting his fate in your hands. 

"I miss her," he murmurs, turning his face to his friend.

"I know." Charles throws an arm around the taller man's shoulders and follows his gaze out over the tiered streets of Monaco's city center. "My suggestion is to throw yourself into the season. Show her you know how to fight, y'know?"

Pierre nods. He could do that. It was how he normally handled his problems anyway; let the track wick away whatever was on his mind and force him to hone in on the details surrounding him in each moment. 

"You ready to head inside?" Charles asks.

"I don't think I can go back just yet."

"Want me to hang out here with you?"

"No. I'll be back eventually."

Charles' hand falls from his shoulder after a short squeeze, the sound of a tinny voice over the speakers temporarily flooding the balcony as Charles returns to the banquet. Pierre allows himself a few more moments of reprieve before slipping back inside just as the applause starts. Rather than returning to the delicately portioned meal that sat cooling before his empty chair, he orders a drink. Whiskey on the rocks, his go to in times of crisis. He takes one sip before the reminder of you ordering it for him in London makes holding the glass of caramel liquid unbearable and he downs it in a single swallow, going back to order a beer instead.

He nurses the green bottle of Heineken as he leans against the wall until the meal is finished and the chit chat starts. You stand with Max, practically pressed against him as you snatch a flute of champagne from a passing server. You search the crowd, brows drawing together when you don't locate your quarry. Pierre had made sure that he was tucked out of the low lighting, unsure if he could survive you stealing worried glances at him all night. 

Charles winds his way over to pass off a roll he snagged from dinner, practically forcing the Frenchman to eat it before returning to his date. He nibbles at it absentmindedly, entirely too focused on you to divert an ounce of focus elsewhere.

Your dress is a glowing sun in a sea of earth tone garments, drawing his eye as you pull Max out onto the wood platform serving as the dance floor before the tables are fully cleared. The flush in your cheeks tells him you're deeper in your cups than you should be; Max didn't know your limit as well as he did. Three drinks was all you could manage before you got tipsy, five if you wanted to be completely blitzed. 

The lights dim and his hiding spot is no longer quite as good as the party lights sweep over him from time to time. Max places one hand on your hip and you place one on his shoulder and grin up at him. Judging by the fit of giggles that requires you to lean into Max for support, you were teetering dangerously on the edge of being wholly drunk. You throw your head back and laugh at whatever Max says in response to your fit, Pierre straining to hear the musical sound over the band. 

"Hey," Victoria says, breaking his concentration. "You wanna get out there?"

Pierre grimaces. He had managed to completely forget about her, too stuck in his own head. "Sorry, Vic. I don't think I'd be a very good partner tonight."

"No worries," she says, a soft, understanding smile on her lips. "I can keep myself busy."

Pierre nods his thanks, his attention immediately returning to the dance floor. Daniel and his girlfriend steal the show, both laughing as he dips and twirls her across the floor. 

Being together was so fucking easy for them, effortless in a way it wasn't for you and Pierre. They never once paid any heed to the photographers that swarmed them or the headlines printed about them, they just laughed the rumors off and carried on. No one could question their love for each other because they were vocal about it- sometimes annoyingly so- and Daniel was rarely seen in public without her at his side. They were always touching, holding hands or stealing kisses or even the near scandal of his hand blatantly on her ass at the podium a few races back, and neither of them cared.

Their love was all that mattered. They didn't care who knew it.

But you and Pierre were far too private to be like that, at least not when you were still trying to figure things out yourself. The first sign of outside pressure had you cracking, and he wouldn't stand for knowing he was the source of your pain.

He tries and fails to convince himself he isn't jealous of the way Dan's hand so easily glides under the navy blue silk of her dress to caress her back without a second thought, wishing he could do the same to you. If he's being honest, he's living vicariously through Daniel for the next few songs, pretending he was someone else observing you and himself on the dance floor instead. It almost works; the way she shudders when his lips graze her ear is strikingly similar to how you'd react. The smile she flashes up at him is agonizingly close to your own wicked grin.

When her mouth finds his, Pierre gathers his wits and turns away. Their blatant public affection flipped a switch inside him, disgust rocking through him for a split second before he pushed it away.

He was happy for them. He knew what a long, rocky road it had been for them to become lovers instead of friends, had firsthand knowledge of the stress they'd gone through before they'd finally admitted their feelings to each other, put their pride aside and got together. Pierre had been the one to offer her advice on a night not much different than this one months ago, helping repair the damage Daniel's idiotic, thoughtless words had caused. 

But Pierre had since become the person who was sickened at the sight of others in love. It reminded him that part of himself was missing and he hated it.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep his eyes from wandering back to you. You still occasionally scan the room as Max struggles to lead you through a dance. By some stroke of bad luck your gaze snags on him just as a spotlight illuminates his face and he grimaces. A slow blink is the only surprise you let show before laying your head on Max's shoulder. Jealousy spikes through him like wildfire, igniting his blood and tinging his vision with red.

He wants to march over and rip you off Max. He wants you tucked safely against him as his thumb rubs circles on the bare skin of the small of your back. He wants, more than anything, to take you to his apartment and half carry you up the stairs, having to shush you because you're giggling loud enough to wake the dead, and lay you down in his bed. He wants to help you out of that stunning dress and into a pair of his sweats and curl up against you, letting you sleep off your hangover until noon.

He'd fucked up that chance though, hadn't he? He had slipped up and driven you straight into your friend's arms, who he trusted not to make a move on you but not enough to negate the jealousy coursing through him.

In that moment, he hates you. He hates the hold you have on him, the way a simple gesture between half-drunk friends could send him into a spiral so steep he didn't recognize himself. He hates that he can't keep his eyes off you, your gravity too strong for him to resist.

Most of all, he hates that he doesn’t know how to quit you.

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max​ @sunshinesewis​ @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval 

[3fluffies]

Hunger Games Headcanon: The 32nd-40th Hunger Games

Here follow my gap-filling headcanons on every single Hunger Games and victor for my new longfic, Favors. I incorporate canon wherever possible and fill in gaps with the headcanons.

Hope you enjoy!

The First Hunger Games

The 2nd-6th Hunger Games

The 7th-10th Hunger Games

The 11th-16th Hunger Games

The 17th-24th Hunger Games

The 25th Hunger Games

The 26th-31st Hunger Games

The 32nd-40th Hunger Games

The 32nd Hunger Games

Special Events/Policy Changes

None

Games Highlights

Setting: Swamp with little dry land besides island holding the Cornucopia.

Trees and cattail-type plants shed vast amounts of pollen and fibers into the air.

Suffocating swamp gases also made the arena very uncomfortable.

Temperatures were uncomfortable warm.

The swamp water could be made safe to drink after substantial filtering and boiling.

The Cornucopia contained substantial survival supplies, climbing and camping equipment, but few conventional weapons other than what could be fashioned from the survival supplies. No food, as food was plentiful in the form of fish and edible plants.

Hazards included piranhas, giant mutt spiders whose venom paralyzed victims before they were woven into a silk sack and drained of blood, and a kudzu-mutt that could grow itself around a sleeping human so thickly that the victim could not escape.

11 tributes died of or were disabled by respiratory ailments from exposure to the gases and inhaling the pollen and cattail fibers.

7 tributes died of or were disabled by infections caused by wounds being exposed to the swamp conditions and/or drinking water not properly filtered and purified.

Victor: Felt Evans, age 16, District 8

Felt was among the few tributes who recognized at the outset that it was necessary to mask his mouth and nose to avoid inhaling the fibers, pollen, and gases directly.

His textile factory in District 8 was situated near a swamp where his entire community foraged for extra food and supplies, so he was familiar with the best ways to move and survive.

He was also adept at climbing trees and camped there, using netting tied to his metal equipment to alert him to wake up if anything encroached.

He threw his final opponent into a school of piranhas and attempted to determine a way to mercy kill her but was unsuccessful.

His victor talent was weaving tapestry.

He was addicted to alcohol and hypnotic sedatives to soothe the trauma of his Games.

As of the 75th Games, he is still alive, age 57, and the current male mentor for District 8.

The 33rd Hunger Games

Special Events/Policy Changes

None

Games Highlights

Setting: Artificial, rocky northern coastline with permanent "pea soup" fog so thick visibility rarely rose beyond 10 feet.

Plentiful food from the water and plants, including fish, shellfish, crustaceans, seaweed, birds, and plants.

Temperatures were tolerable by day but dangerously cold and damp by night.

12 tributes died of or were disabled by exposure.

The Cornucopia contained camping and fishing equipment and close-combat weapons.

Fresh water springs fed into the "sea".

Hazards included random massive waves from the "sea" that flooded coastal caves where some tributes sheltered or washed campsites and supplies away, "sirens" - actually giant seal mutts whose call imitated large wading birds tributes liked to eat to lure tributes close enough to attack, swarms of crab mutts that could strip a victim of flesh in two hours, tide pool electric eels, and poisonous plants.

Victor: Billy Merton, age 15, District 6

Billy lived near one of the Great Lakes and was less psychologically impacted by the fog and knew how to forage, fish, and navigate such an environment.

He killed no tributes in direct combat at all, but outlasted and outwitted them all by moving faster, stealthily, and more safely.

His sole offensive involved adding poisonous foods to other tributes' stashes, burning campsites, and in the case of the Career pack, sprinkling bits of fish and bird flesh around their base to gradually surround them with crab mutts and hunting snakes.

He feared being alone after the arena and self-medicated with morphling.

As of the 75th Games, he is still alive, age 57, and the current male mentor of District 6.

The 34th Hunger Games

Special Events/Policy Changes

This was the first and only time the Gamemakers attempted to facilitate tributes working in teams as allies.

Before the Games, mentors were told tributes had to form 4 teams of 6 with no 2 tributes from the same district on the same team but nothing else.

The pre-Games negotiations and betting that resulted were popular, but the in-Games execution was a disaster for the Gamemakers.

The arena setting also generated complaints among Capitol gamblers that it was clearly meant to favor District 4.

Games Highlights

Setting: 4 large boats on an artificial sea briefly moored to a floating Cornucopia.

Weather was temperate but prone to extreme artificial storms.

The seawater had extremely high salt content so tributes floated, but the only available shelter was found on the 4 boats, the Cornucopia, or (briefly) rock formations submerged twice daily by tides.

The Cornucopia contained water, food, and weapons. Each boat was stocked with oars and equipment to fashion sails.

2 boats capsized during the first storm, forcing the tributes to try to shelter on the floating wreckage.

1 of the 2 remaining boats' teams survived well, but bonded so intensely that the 4 survivors committed mass suicide rather than face having to turn on each other

Victor: Ray Lagarde, age 18, District 4

Ray was an experienced sailor/fisherman on the final surviving boat, whose team began with 3 of the 6 Careers plus 3 more talented tributes.

Ray's crew engaged in infighting and backstabbing from the start, causing him to admire and envy the other crew.

He was ashamed and disgusted by the District 2 male tribute insisting on killing injured crewmates and seeking out stronger survivors from the wrecked boats.

He won by scuttling the boat and drowning his surviving rivals by being able to hold his breath longer underwater.

He lost an eye in the arena and preferred a patch to a replacement, preventing him from being forced into prostitution.

His talent was gourmet cooking.

He was rebellious for the rest of his life and stoked anti-Capitol sentiment in District 4 as a mentor and academy trainer.

He married and raised 4 children, 2 of whom were reaped and killed, only adding to his rage and bitterness.

He has 1 surviving son and 1 surviving daughter.

As of the 75th Games, he is still alive, age 59, widowed and "retired" in District 4 from mentoring and training.

The 35th Hunger Games

Special Events/Policy Changes

None

Games Highlights

Setting: Desert of sand dunes intersparsed with oases containing the only shelter from the sun or fresh water.

Temperatures were extremely high by day and nearly freezing at night.

Food was extremely scarce, only plants from the oases and some rodents and lizards who inhabited the dunes.

Cornucopia was located on top of a fifty-foot, conical dune, forcing tributes to run up from their launch plates to reach it.

It contained only food and water, forcing tributes to manufacture weapons or fight hand-to-hand.

The Capitol audience considered this one of the "funniest" Games in history because of the tributes' difficulty in navigating the dunes and frequent falls.

17 tributes died or were disabled by dehydration.

Hazards included giant sand worm mutts that could swallow multiple humans, mosquito mutts whose bites caused tributes to scream uncontrollably, and poisonous snakes.

Victor: Venus Fabre, age 18, District 1

Venus had entered District 1's tribute academy at age 9 when it was established after the First Quarter Quell

Her planned talent was singing, but due to having been bitten multiple times by the mosquitos, she did irreparable damage to her voice.

Since one of District 1's principal exports to the Capitol is "entertainers", she was also an accomplished dancer and opted instead for ballet as her victor's talent.

Though 18, she was slender, light on her feet and fast, which helped her navigate the sand more quickly and avoid losing energy and hydration.

She was forced into prostitution like other attractive victors and became the 3rd female victor who played Suadela, Goddess of Temptation in the Garden of Bacchus (Seeder Hines' arena-turned-Capitol-orgy-site from the 30th Games).

From age 26-38, she was exclusively mistress of Marcus Kendy, Minister of the Treasury.

As of the 75th Games, she is still alive, and a tribute trainer, age 58.

The 36th Hunger Games

Special Events/Policy Changes

This was Coriolanus Snow's last year as a Gamemaker in order to push for greater political power.

He married Valeria Gaul (Volumnia's granddaughter) during the final preparations for the Games and held the celebrations during victory ceremonies. He was 44, she was 26.

Valeria Gaul and Coriolanus Snow spent more than 5 years beforehand preparing this arena themselves based on an unfinished design of Volumnia Gaul’s prior to her death.

This was the first time since the 9th Games that tributes had human contact while in the arena.

However, these Games sparked complaints in the Capitol audience against using drugs in the arena to make tributes have sex or act ridiculous.

The movement was crudely themed, "We want to see them fight, not fuck!"

(This clarified any misapprehension that the audience was at all concerned about the humiliation and torture tributes endured when drugged in the arena.)

Games Highlights

Setting: Hills of scrubby bushland and small rivers, interspersed with 21 empty shacks. Weather was hot and dry.

The Cornucopia contained only a hologram of the arena showing the locations of the shacks.

Prior to launch, the tributes heard a poem written by Volumnia Gaul explaining the shacks.

The primary hazard was daily bushfires, and while the shacks could be sealed to escape it:

The "unlucky 7" would become traps: one filled with heat with each fire, "cooking" the tribute inside slowly, one allowed smoke from the fires to enter and suffocate the occupant, one shrunk until the occupant was crushed, one filled with blister gas, another with lethal mutts, one had spikes randomly shoot out of the walls until the occupant was impaled, and one filled with water.

The "7 heavens" gave the occupants 12 hours of safety, lowering them into luxurious spa-like chambers below. Rendered docile and blissful by an aerosolized drug, their injuries were treated, and they were massaged by attractive attendants of both genders (and received sexual favors if they wanted) and fed all the food and drink they wanted and able to sleep.

Of the other 7, 3 contained supplies or weapons, 3 contained survivable traps, and 1 was the "love shack" that admitted two tributes who had to "fuck or die". Sometimes they were forced to do so sober, other times, one or both were drugged. (Valeria Gaul and Snow were both voyeurs.)

As a vacation spot, this arena was extremely popular, with the death traps exchanged for minor discomforts or challenges and more "love shacks" added.

Victor: Sophia Dillon, age 16, District 9

Sophia was extremely observant and analytical, and figured out that the Gamemakers were choosing which shacks would be the unlucky 7 with each fire based on whims and dislikes.

She was also very well-read.

While not very pretty, she amused the audience (and Gaul and Snow) by coming up with rhymes in response to Gaul's, resulting in an effective banter.

As a result, she found herself in a "heaven" shack 11 times, where she composed little poems about the pleasures of the flesh.

In the arena, she murmured rhymes about the hunt and the fight and was able to work out by the door mechanisms which shack was the "love shack". She entered it 4 times, giving a poem asking for an attractive partner.

Gaul was delighted by her and guided attractive tributes of both genders to her and exposed them to drugs so that they enthusiastically serviced her. She ended each "love shack" visit by killing the other tribute, while composing poems about love, lust, and death.

Snow wanted to kill her in the "oven" unlucky shack so that she would rhyme about her own death (finding her uncomfortably similar to Lucky Gray Baird), but Gaul insisted on sparing her. She referred to Sophia as her "wedding gift".

Her victor's talent was poetry.

She was already becoming addicted to the drugs she was exposed to in the arena and only increased her usage afterward to avoid the horror of what she'd done. She was also a sex addict but couldn't write or perform poetry or have sex while sober.

As long as she was drugged, she was willing to be a Capitol prostitute. Valeria Gaul enjoyed buying her and a partner to have sex while she and Snow watched.

As of the 75th Games, she is still alive, age 55.

The 37th Hunger Games

Special Events/Policy Changes

None

Games Highlights

Setting: Two environments split by a wide river, spanned by a single bridge.

The Cornucopia was on the opposite side of the river from the tribute launch pads.

The launch-side of the arena seemed barren and less concealed, while the Cornucopia-side was lush.

The Cornucopia contained a variety of supplies and weapons.

Tributes soon discovered the "greener" side was populated by far more mutts and hazards, forcing them to retreat back to the barren side.

9 tributes drowned in the river or were killed by fish mutts, making the bridge the sole means of safely crossing and a regular combat site.

Victor: Celsus Master, age 18, District 2

Celsus won relatively easily, being the biggest, fastest tribute and one of the first to recognize the need to hold the bridge.

He chose tumbling as his talent but surprised audiences by opting to become a Peacekeeper "in service of Panem" while his family lived in the house in District 2's Victor's Village.

Despite being a Peacekeeper, he was still forced into prostitution by the Capitol.

He was very popular in the Capitol as a good example to the districts, and never spoke a word against the Games, even expressing pride when his youngest son was reaped and died in the 63rd Games.

As of the 75th Games, he is still alive, age 56, and a tribute trainer at District 2's academy.

The 38th Hunger Games

Special Events/Policy Changes

None.

Games Highlights

Setting: A steep mountainside with a variety of environments, woods, grasses, and boulder outcrops.

Temperatures plunged below freezing at night and were chilly during the day. Small waterfalls provided fresh water.

The Cornucopia was situated atop the only flat area and contained only food and gear, no conventional weapons.

The waterfalls collected at the base of the mountainside to form dangerous rapids, and the land above the cloud line was full of mutts waiting to devour any tribute who climbed too high.

17 tributes were killed or disabled by avalanches and/or falls, including 6 who landed in the water and drowned.

Victor: Porter Millicent Trip, Age 17, District 5

Porter worked around hydroelectric plants and was experienced at navigating similar terrain to the arena. Due to her petite figure, she was able nimbler than many other tributes.

In her final battle, she and her opponent suffered a fall into the rapids, in which she sustained a spine injury but was still able to clamber onto some rocks and survive.

As a result, she suffered chronic pain for the rest of her life and became addicted to morphling.

This didn’t spare her from being forced into Capitol prostitution until she was 30.

Her chosen talent was music composition.

As of the 75th Games, she is still alive, age 56.

The 39th Hunger Games

Special Events/Policy Changes

None

Games Highlights

Setting: An abandoned, gutted concrete building 10 stories high surrounded by fire, each room containing different hazards, each floor accessible by internal and external stairs, ladders, and elevators.

The Cornucopia was on the roof and contained food, water, medical supplies, and weapons.

The ground floor and exterior rooms had the fewest "hazards" apart from being stiflingly hot and causing tributes to become dehydrated the fastest.

Other rooms contained supplies, but some supplies were booby-trapped.

In response to Capitol audience complaints about too many arena traps and not enough fighting, traps and hazards in this arena were aimed at forcing the tributes into combat, such as rooms sealing themselves and requiring the tributes inside to fight for the sole chance at escaping through the door, with the losers falling through the floor into the fire below, or tributes forced to fight for a single dose of poison antidote.

Victor: Antonius “Tony” Stanton, age 18, District 2

By far the most skilled fighter and climber, Tony had a major advantage and won all battles against other tributes.

He suffered severe, painful burns scaling a lower-floor wall, but these were treated and erased by remake.

He was obsessed with fire safety and burn treatment after the Games and channeled his trauma into tribute/peacekeeper/firefighter training, doing long stints in other districts such as 4, 6, and 7 where fire was a frequent hazard.

His tribute talent was the violin, but he achieved special recognition as the first victor to obtain a major degree: medicine, specializing in burn treatment.

A handsome, fit young man, he was forced into prostitution in the Capitol and became a favored gigolo for several Capitol women in succession.

He had rebellious leanings before his Games, and they were solidified by the horror of the sadistic arena.

As of the 75th Games, he is still alive, age 54, and the current male mentor for District 2.

The 40th Hunger Games

Special Events/Policy Changes

Tribute trackers were introduced for the first time after almost 30 years of development.

Wirelessly connected to every camera in the arena, the trackers enabled audience members to follow their favorites throughout the Games and view them through any camera in their line of sight.

Games Highlights

Setting: The "petting zoo", a mock-farm full of animals that tributes had to tame, fight, or slaughter for survival.

Water could be found around the edges of the arena that only the fastest runners could reach on foot, but easily reachable on horseback.

Meat was the primary food source except for a few plants or rations in the Cornucopia, but to avoid Capitol audience distress for the animals, only unattractive breeds were used.

The Cornucopia was at the center of a round paddock disgorged dozens of pigs and goats with supplies and weapons strapped to their backs.

Victor: Taurus Seymour, age 17, District 10

Taurus's victory was overshadowed by accusations of Gamemaker collusion to ensure him the win by tailoring the arena to his strengths, but insufficient proof was found.

His chosen talent was carpentry.

Forced into prostitution, he quickly became an alcoholic.

As of the 75th Games, he is still alive, age 52, and current male mentor for District 10

[emf005]

Like Me For Me Part I

Marauders Era

Sirius x Reader

Warnings- Talk of abuse, mentions of death

Part 1 out of 3

“Come on, Y/N/N,” your friend pleaded. “You know you want to go.” You thought about it for a moment as you five walked down the hall.

“No. No, I really don’t think I want to. Not in the slightest.” She huffed and folded her arms across her chest. Marleen was one of the prettiest and most popular girls in your grade. You were the opposite of her. Her and the rest of your friends actually.

It wasn’t that you weren’t pretty. You were actually drop dead gorgeous. You liked that, actually. That you were pretty. But you also hated it. You hated that you were pretty and fashionable with every fiber of your being.

Your friends knew you were fashionable and beautiful, and they often urged you to show it like you helped them do. Be popular like them and not just ‘that one girl… oh what's her name?’ But you liked being her. Big glasses, that were faker than fake, oversized sweaters that hung off your body and leggings and sweatpants and jeans that barely even touched your legs they were so baggy. If you weren’t in your school uniform that's what you were in. And your hair.. Well… that was always just naturally a mess. You normally just threw it up into a messy bun or ponytail.

“Come on, Y/N. The winter ball this year is supposed to be the grandest there has ever been! You already promised to help us get ready. Why won’t you just go?” Cora asked. She was a Hufflepuff in your year. Yet again, very pretty and very popular.

“Because I don’t want to. You all have handsome dates who are beyond thrilled to go with you and I have my studying in the library.”

“Which will be closed!” Darla squeaked. She was a small rounder Ravenclaw with deep black hair. But still considered one of the prettiest girls in school. She was going with Peter Pettigrew to the dance. And you couldn’t have thanked god enough. That's all she talked about was that boy.

“Thank you, captain obvious,” you hummed and flourished your robes dramatically to leave and head to the black lake for Care of Magical Creatures. “Good afternoon everyone. I’ll see you all at dinner. Perhaps.” You added at the end, sounding mysterious. You may or may not read far to many mysteries in your spare time.

Your friends rolled their eyes and left you to go down on your own. As you headed down you saw your other close, very beautiful, friend Lily Evans.

“Lily!” She turned and waved at you. You jogged down the hill and skidded to a halt before you tripped over a rock. “What's up?” You asked, not even close to out of breath despite the distance you had just run.

“Nothing. You?”

“Oh, just headed down to C.O.M.C.”

“No one is going to start calling it that,” she hummed as you two continued down.

“I know. And I don't really care, either. It just gets tiring saying that entire phrase all the time. C.O.M.C. is much easier in my opinion, thank you very much.” You said with a nod. She rolled her eyes.

“Whatever you say. Are you coming to the Christmas dance?”

“Absolutely not. I’m still helping you with hair and make up though, right?”

“You’re letting her help you with your makeup and hair, Evans?” Narcissa Black scoffed. You looked down at your shoes and frowned. So you may dress down to take attention away from yourself. What you didn't realize was that that would call attention to other things. Girls would then call you ugly and unstylish, which was the biggest insult of them all. But at least men weren’t prancing on you, right?

“Oh shove off, Narcissa.” A voice called from a ways down the path. You looked up and saw Sirius, James, and Remus looking over their shoulders at the three of you. “Like you have much more style.”

Was that supposed to be a double edged sword? Was that supposed to stab both Narcissa and I?

You couldn't help but wonder.

Sirius Black. The boy you have had a crush on for the longest time. I mean, who hasn’t. Marleen often told you to go try your luck, but you wouldn’t dare. You were far too cautious for that. Love and dating was a matter you took very seriously. You weren’t just going to date because you wanted to. You wanted it to be a mutual liking of each other. Well, a bit more of a mutual liking.

And while you had a crush on that boy, he had a reputation of just dating to date. Or one night stands or one week stands. Even just leaving the girls crushed and throwing themselves at him long after they had broken up. But you didn't like him because he was popular, like them. Or that he was gorgeous (Because he certainly was). No. You liked him because of his personality. Which, with teen hormones, wasn’t something that often happened.

Narcissa sneered at her cousin but made no further comment and just stormed away. You turned your attention to the ground again and scurried off towards the class. You weren't shy. You normally would greet the boys even though none of you really talked. Except you and Remus. You two were quite close. But Sirius’ comment stung a bit and you really couldn't face them. Lily and the boys watched you go and she sighed with a shake of her head.

The boys watched in confusion. Well, James and Sirius did. Remus knew what had happened, he had actually been the first to figure out your crush on him, even before you had figured it out yourself. He knew that you were quite fashionable and took pride in your work of your friends’ appearances when they asked you to do their makeup or their hair. Or even help pick out a perfect outfit that was both stylish and practical for their activities for the day. And he also knew how much comments like ones both Sirius and Narcissa made hurt you.

“What was that about?” James asked as he watched you drop your bag and settle on the grass away from the class. “I mean. I know we aren’t her friends really, but she normally gives us a wave or something.”

“Aren’t you her friend, Rem?” Sirius asked, slinging his bag further on his shoulder as they headed down to the lake.

“Yeah.”

“Is she mad at you?”

“No.”

“Then what was that about?”

“Missing the attention?” Lily teased. She had Remus had suspicions that Sirius actually liked you back, but had never mentioned it to more than each other.

“Ha!” he scoffed. “I have all the attention of the entire school, Evans. Why would I miss one from.. What?” She and Remus were looking at him the exact same way. “What's with the looks? Why is it coming from the both of you? James, help, I’m scared.” James laughed. Lily rolled her eyes and walked past.

“Your boyfriend can’t save you from everything Sirius. Least of all me.” She called over her shoulder and headed to sit by you. You had pulled out your sketchbook and were doodling.

“Am I the only one lost?”

“No.” James responded, making googly eyes at Lily. Both Remus and Sirius rolled their eyes at that.

“Who can tell me about Nifflers?” Your professor asked. Your hand shot up, Lily’s followed a moment later. You two rivaled in everything school related. (a healthy, playful rivalry. It was one of the reasons you two were friends.) Though, you were often a bit better at Care of Magical Creatures and she was often better at Potions.

“Miss. Y/L/N.”

“Nifflers are attracted to shiny objects, which make them wonderful for locating treasure, but that also means that they can wreak havoc if kept (or set loose) indoors. Nifflers in general are usually harmless. They are native to Britain and live in burrows as deep as twenty feet below ground, the females can produce six to eight young in a single litter. Nifflers have a pouch on their bellies which holds far more than at first seemed possible, like the effects of an Undetectable Extension Charm on a container. Nifflers were gentle by nature and can even be affectionate towards their owners. However, they could destroy belongings looking for sparkly objects, and for that reason it is inadvisable to keep them as a house pet. It is also implied that they could turn vicious if provoked.”

“Very good, Miss. Y/L/N. Ten points to Gryffindor.” You smiled at the praise, needing a boost today.

“Try Miss. Know-it-all.” You heard someone grumble from beside you. No one else, including Lily, heard. But being mocked like that was still better than the so-called “praise” you would get if you let your beauty show through.

You tucked your knees closer to your chest, unknowing of the eyes on you from the other side of the area. They were not mocking or angry or anything even close. They were actually close to admiration, if not that.

You sat by Marleen and Lily in the Great Hall eating dinner. Classes had finally ended, which meant no more classes. Only Homework. But yours was nearly done. You had gotten the majority of it done during Divinations. You “did not possess the gift” so she wouldn’t really assign Homework. And were you complaining? Hell no.

“You should really come, Y/N. Please! It will be so much fun! We would all have dates and we could all dance the night away in the arms of our dashing men,” she said dramatically. You rolled your eyes and shoved another fork full of food into your mouth.

“I don’t have a date yet,” Lily said.

“Didn’t James ask you and you said you’d think about it?” She didn’t say anything. The poor boy had finally grown up enough to win some of Lily's approval. If she would just say yes!

“Oh, just say yes to the poor boy, Lily! He looks like a wounded puppy every time you reject him. Especially this year! Just go as friends or something.”

“Only if you go.” You rolled your eyes and shoveled another fork full into your mouth.

“Firstly, no one would want to go with me. Second off, everyone already has a date.”

“Sirius doesn’t.” she hummed and you started to choke on your food, making her and Marleen laugh. The table looked over at the three of you, including the Marauders.

“NOT-Cough cough cough cough- funny!” You wheezed out.

“I’m being serious, no pun intended.”

“Lily, you heard what he said today during COMC. Think! No one wants to go out with me.”

“Oh come on, why would-”

“Mar, I swear to god, if you finish that sentence,” you stood up dramatically, “I will shove a fork down your throat and open up your voice box, got it?” She just stared at you with wide eyes and nodded. “Good. Good night ladies. I have work to do.” You left the table and headed to your dorm.

“So, who are you asking, Pads?” James asked, tossing the snitch he had nicked from the broom shed in the air.

“Probably just float around and dance with everyone. Everyone already has a date.” He shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich. Remus then got a terrible idea.

“Why not ask Y/N?”

“Huh? Why?”

“She doesn’t have a date yet either.”

“That's shocking,” they heard someone mutter from down the table. They glared in that general direction.

“Nah. More fun to just float around.”

“Come on, Sirius. It could be fun. She seems alright.”

“Not my type.”

“You have a type? I thought your ‘type’ was female?” Remus asked. Sirius threw a bread roll at him.

“Yes. And she is not it. Smart is not exactly my idea of a fun night. If you know what I mean.” The three boys rolled their eyes at Sirius.

“She’s not like that, Sirius.” Remus defended you. “Come on. You might have fun. And it's not even like-” they heard coughing from down the table and looked down to see you choking on your food. Remus face palmed. He was trying to get you a date with your crush and here you were choking elegantly on your food.

Remus looked away from you and back at his friend, about to try and convince him again when he noticed something strange. Sirius had his cup raised to his lips, hiding his mouth, but he could still see the corners upturned and a fond look in his eyes.

The damn dog does like her! He thought.

“Come on Sirius. For me? She’s my friend and I want her to relax for a night.” Remus attempted. Sirius pulled his gaze away from you and turned to his friend and sighed dramatically.

“Fine! I’ll go ask her now. Happy?”

“Yes. But she’s leaving.” Sirius’ head whipped around just in time to see you disappear from the great hall. He grabbed his nearly finished sandwich and dashed out of the doors after you, eating as he went. He looked around once he got to the entry hall.

Where had you gone? And how had you disappeared so fast? He continued dating as he made his way up to the common room. Perhaps you had decided to turn in for the night?

In truth, Sirius didn't think he had a crush on you. He had an interest. Not a crush or an attraction. You were foreign to him. He knew Remus was right. You weren’t a stuck up know it all. And despite the crew you hung around, you didn’t act like a popular girl. You were kind, and smart, and the few jokes he had heard you cracking were genuinely funny that he had caught himself laughing quietly to himself at a few.

He had been out with Marleen a few times, but that wasn't anything to either of them. Just a bit of fun between friends. A date here, a make out session there. All because… Why not?

He caught you as you were headed up the stairs to your dorm.

“Y/L/N!” You turned and smiled a quiet smile at him.

“Hi, Sirius.” You leaned on the banister. “What's up?”

“You don’t have a date to the dance yet, do you?”

“No but-”

“Well do you want to go with me?” You were speechless and skeptical.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yeah I do.”

“Sirius, no. You really don’t. I bet Remus talked you into it.” His silence was enough of an answer for you. “Figured. Go with someone you want to go with, Sirius. You don’t want to damage your reputation by going with a muggle born nerd like me.” you smirked and turned to go upstairs again.

Had he just been turned down? That did not sit well with him. Not one bit. And the way you had called yourself a muggle born nerd didn’t sit well either.

“I actually do, and I won’t take no for an answer.” He saw you sigh.

“Sirius. I’m not even going.”

“But you're staying for break.”

“Well, yes…”

“So you could if you wanted to.”

“Well, yeah but-”

“So why don’t you want to?” You didn’t answer. How did you tell your crush that you didn’t want to look pretty or that you were too scared to be seen in anything other than sweats and a sweatshirt in public? “Y/N?”

“Uh… Yeah?”

“So, are we going?”

“I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?”

“Not at this stage in the game.. No.” You sighed.

“I’ll meet you at the staircase by the Great Hall at eight. No earlier. Deal?”

“It's a date.”

“No. It's a compromise. Technically I’m doing James a favor and your doing Remus a favor. I’m helping your friend and I’m helping yours. Good night, Sirius.” You left the room and disappeared into your room to write to your mum and ask her for one of your dresses from home. You weren’t about to ruin Sirius’ reputation to save your own hide. What could go wrong?

Sirius had been left speechless. That was the strangest and most reluctant acceptance that had ever happened to him. He was definitely giving Remus hell for this, though this did make him a bit more curious about you, he wouldn’t lie… to himself at least.

First Chapter done!! Make sure to check back for part 2!!!

[come-on-shitty-boys]

//general dating headcannons//

Characters: Sugawara Koushi/Matsukawa Issei/Miya Osamu

Word Count: 1.5K (~500 a piece)

Warnings: none :)

Notes: my head is so empty.  It is just tattoo artist!kuroo rn.

Sugawara Koushi

Ah my beautiful chaotic angel.

Sugawara is pretty bold for the most part, but-

When it came to asking you out?  He couldn’t do it.  His stomach would get all jittery and he was never able to form sentences.  

So, when you made the first move?  When you hit on him first?  He instantly regained any and all of his confidence.

You thought he was just going to sit there and blush? Oh, honey.  How wrong you are.

Sugawara simply smiles at you and flirts right back twice as hard.  Knowing that you’re into him as much as he’s into you makes him forget any anxieties he has about approaching you.  By the end of the exchange, Sugawara has your number and a date scheduled for Friday night.  

It’s a very relaxed dynamic with the two of you.  

Sugawara is really big on study dates and if you aren’t the best student, he doesn’t mind breaking it down step by step with you.  He’s going to be asking if his explanations make sense after each step and if you’re still lost, don’t worry.  Suga would love to try to find a better way to help you.  He wants to be a teacher, so why not start practicing now?

He’s going to pester you about taking care of yourself.  Please expect regular reminders to drink water and grab a snack, but the same applies to him.  If he’s asking you to get a snack, I can assure you that he has unwrapped a granola bar.  He tells you to drink some water?  Koushu will be downing water as if he hasn’t had a drink in years.  

He is a very “we” oriented person.  Any problems he wants to get through together.  He doesn’t see the point in attacking one another if there’s a bigger issue that needs addressed.

Because of this, you guys never really fight?  Sure, there’s some minor spats every now and then, but it’s never anything serious.  

Sugawara also doesn’t really get jealous.  He has a crazy amount of trust in you and knows that you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.  But, if you need him to step in, he’s not afraid to be so overwhelmingly nice that whoever might be hitting on you backs off.  

Always makes sure that you’re okay ;-; He wants to make sure that you are mentally, physically, and emotionally well at all times.  

He’s very open with you and would really like it if you could be open with him.  He understands that it’s difficult and not everything is the easiest to say, but he’s there to help you through anything.  It’s the two of you versus the issue.  Suga doesn’t want you to feel alone.

He’s a super kind boyfriend, but also very fun.  He will be showing up at your door in the middle of the night because he’s craving a milkshake and some fresh air.  It’s as simple as that.  

Sugawara keeps an extra jacket in his club room cubby in case you ever get cold in class, because yes.  He is that boyfriend.

10/10 recommend a Koushi in your life.

Matsukawa Issei

THE BEST 

Like the absolute best

Issei is just so laid-back that it’s difficult not to have a good time with him.  

He likes to have his arm around your waist and he’ll pull you into his side nice and tight, let you relish in his body heat.

He’ll give you a really soft kiss on your temple that makes you smile up at him, love in your eyes, so happy to be with him.

Only for him to straight up jab you in the sides with his fingers.  Not hard enough to actually hurt you, but it’s definitely catching you off guard.  

Issei loves to make fun of you.  I don’t make the rules.  He’s going to lovingly call you an idiot when you misspell something simple or make a simple calculation error.  If you’re shorter than him, doesn’t even matter how short, he’s going to pat your head and call you ‘short stuff’

But he would never laugh at you for something that you were genuinely insecure about.  He’s not that much of an asshole.  And if he ever does say something that upsets you?

He’s right there behind you, bringing you flush against his chest, leaning down to whisper every reassurance and every apology, reminding you that every fiber of his being loves you just the way you are.

I would never outright tell you that he gets jealous, but-

The extra bite to his words whenever the conversation is focused on another guy would lead you to believe otherwise.  

He refuses to admit that he’s jealous.  Matsukawa Issei?  Jealous?  N o.  yes.

One time he took you to work and the two of you took a nap in one of the bigger coffins

This was, of course, only after he hid from you.  When you came looking for him, he waited until you were right in front of him before he grabbed you and pulled you towards him.

You screamed loud enough to wake the dead.  Luckily, none of his clients had an urge to wake from their eternal slumber in response to your screams.

Nap time with Matsukawa is a must.  Whether it be in bed or on the couch or, hell, he’s willing to sleep on the floor, he just wants to be able to stare at you while you fall asleep on his chest.

He really likes playing with your hair?  That’s his go-to mindless habit; twisting your hair around his fingers absently.  

Not going to lie, he prefers staying home for dates than actually going out.  He wouldn’t object if you really wanted to, but sitting on the couch with take-out containers and Netflix is his preferred date night activity.  

He doesn’t even ask if you want his jacket.  The minute it even gets close to being the slightest bit chilly, he’s putting his jacket around your shoulders.

Loves back hugs and you can expect all of the back hugs from our gorgeous boy 

Miya Osamu

It all started because Atsumu told him that he wouldn’t.  

Ever since Atsumu had found out about his brother's little crush on you, he had made it his personal mission to tease ‘samu about it every single day.  

Atsumu pretty much said that Osamu was too much of a scaredy cat to ask you out and if ‘samu didn’t ask you out by the end of the day, Atsumu would take you out on a date instead.

So, insert Miya Osamu immediately walking towards you without another word to his brother.  He stopped you in the hallway and simply asked, “Would you like to go on a date sometime?”

Is he proud that it took his brother threatening him to get him to ask you out? No. Does he regret asking you out? Also no.

Osamu made you food and took you on a picnic for your first date ;-; He would’ve liked to have just invited you over and cooked with you, but Atsumu was home and there isn’t a bigger vibe killer than your twin brother down the hall playing video games with his friends.

It takes a lot for anything to really piss Osamu off.  He would never yell at you, but he does have his moments where he gets annoyed and everything just bottles up until he snaps at you.

Instantly feels bad.  The way you flinch at his words has his temper fizzling away from him in a moment’s notice.  He’ll wrap you in a bone crushing hug, apologizing into your hair, not even giving you a chance to speak, because he’s practically smothering you against his shoulder.

Hahahahaha he’s one of the most jealous people that you will ever meet.

Maybe it’s from growing up with a brother and constantly having to share that made him despise the thought of someone else looking at you now.  

Osamu is a pretty big guy which already makes him kind of intimidating, but his deadpan expression and bored words just adds another layer of icing to the cake. 

His grip on your hand will tighten until his knuckles are white and you’re squirming in an attempt to pull your hand away because his grip is kind of uncomfortable.  

He won’t even say anything.  He’ll just stare and make the occasional back-handed remark towards whatever guy had approached you.

He really doesn’t like to cuddle.  You can lay your head on his shoulder or his chest, but other than that, he doesn’t really see the appeal of it, and, quite honestly, he’s fine without it. 

But, he does like to hold your hand.  Like-

Always.  If you’re just sitting on the couch together, he wants to hold your hand.  You guys are waiting for something to finish up in the oven?  He’s holding your hands in his.  There’s just something so comforting to him about feeling your hands in his 

In conclusion.  Hi, I love Miya Osamu and I would like to purchase one ASAP. Thank you.

Taglist: @moncymonce​ @nicka-nell​ also hey @nekxrizawa​ come get your husband.

[weasleydream]

Ad astra

This one is for @teheharrypotter​‘s two weeks of angst, obviously I had to participate! My trope was dying in their arms. I wanted to add that the last scene is inspired by a very sad scene of the movie Christmas shoes (I made the gif to show the scene). If you haven’t already seen this movie, don’t watch it or you’ll cry. A lot.  Anyway, as usual feel free to like, comment, reblog and enjoy! 

Masterlist

(gif is mine)

There were so many things he loved about her. 

The way she always closed her eyes when he kissed her, the way her sweet lips moved against his. The little groans she let out every morning when he woke her up. The warmth of her breathing in his neck, the way his heart always beat faster whenever he saw her. 

He used to think that no one would ever take a place in his heart as important as the one she had taken. 

That was before they met.

It was a nightmare. The most awful nightmare you could imagine, and it wasn’t even violent. There was no blood, no murderer, no monster chasing after me. I wasn’t locked up in a room, I wasn’t getting drowned or tortured, yet it was like all of this was happening to me at the same time. Everything felt more intense, more painful, and everything seemed to disappear. A fucking nightmare, and I wasn’t even asleep.

A sentence, it’s all it had taken for me to sink. A sentence pronounced by a hurried nurse who had left the room a few seconds later, leaving my world crashing around me. And in this damaged world was Charlie. He had always been my rock, the only one who had never given up on me, the only one who had always been able to look straight into my eyes to tell me “You’re wrong”. And now, he was unable to even look in my direction. All I could see was his back, his hunched posture and the nervous movement of his hands. He was pacing, getting to the window before sitting back on the chair, then getting up again and doing it all over again. And me? I was looking at him, my eyes fixed on his bright hair which colour had always been a synonym of peace and protection and love. I was biting my bottom lip to the blood, barely noticing the metallic taste. I was trembling, I was getting more and more terrified and numb at the same time. I was dying.

“We don’t know what it is. Nobody, muggle or wizard, seems to have heard of this disease. I’m sorry, miss Y/L/N.”

“Charlie…” 

My voice was weaker than I had expected, so small that I knew even Charlie’s trained ear hadn’t heard me. But I didn’t know if I could trust my voice to be louder, my trembling had reached every single fiber of my body and my vocal chords were vibrating with the emotions I was trying to contain, and the rest of my body had already betrayed me. Given up on me, stopped fighting, it was letting me die. 

“Charlie, please, don’t ignore me.”

I knew he had heard me as his pacing had abruptly stopped, but he still wasn’t looking at me. In a way, it was better like this; I didn’t know if I would be able to face him. I didn’t know what was going on his mind, and mine was hard enough to ignore. 

“I’m not- It’s not you that I’m ignoring.” He stopped and I waited for him to continue. “It’s the fact that every time I look at you could be the last.”

“Does it really change anything?” 

I was surprised, because I didn’t think opening my mouth without exploding in sobs was possible. It had been roughly five minutes, yet I was already accustomed to the feeling of pressure on my chest, and I already knew I wouldn’t bear it for long. But I also knew I couldn't let it overwhelm me because Charlie was needing me and I was going to give up on him, and I had to say something. Anything.

“Every day we’ve spent together could have been the last. It’s just- now, we know for sure it’s going to arrive.”

Then came the sobs. They began weak, silent, only betrayed by the shaking of my shoulders. And a first cry echoed in this creepy hospital room, and Charlie’s head turned toward me. I caught the movement, but everything was blurred by the pool of tears in my eyes. The damaged world around me was now nothing more than a dull white cloud in which this bright stain of ginger was getting closer and closer. 

Charlie’s arms wrapped around me, strong and firm like I had always known them. His chest was vibrating against mine and his head was hidden on the crook of my neck. He was silent but I knew he was crying. His tears were soaking my blouse and mine were soaking his shirt. It had never happened before, the both of us crying in the other’s arms. We had always stayed strong when the other needed it the most, whether it was after a long and tiring night and Charlie was missing his family or when I was hurt by my parent’s remarks about my choices of life. But now, what was the point of staying strong? Things wouldn’t get better, the nurse had said it. Now, every day was another danger, a step that maybe would be too high for me and that would make me fall. As Charlie was tightening me against him, as I was tightening him against me, as we were holding each other like the last thing that counted on earth, I remembered how the unknown used to be exciting. All it was now was destructing. 

_ _ _ 

The romanian sun was already high in the sky, and its light was piercing through the closed curtains. If I opened my eyes, I would certainly be able to walk to the door without tripping on Charlie’s mess which, trust me, was an exploit. An arm wrapped around my waist and I smiled to myself, savouring the warmth of my boyfriend’s touch. I wriggled to face him without waking him up and I was met with his freckled nose. I laid a gentle kiss on his lips and he didn’t even move, his snores barely stopping for a second before echoing again with a renewed vigour. 

“Charlie, love, I need to go.” I murmured before trying to move his arm. 

He only tightened his grip around me and mumbled something I didn’t understand. 

“Charlie… Charlie, wake up!”

My voice was becoming more and more urgent as the odd feeling was invading my body. There was a time I didn’t know what was this impression stronger and stronger within the seconds. It was like a veil enveloping me, tightening me so hard that it was making me suffocate without depriving me from oxygen. It also felt like a weight on my lungs, as if someone was pressing my chest constantly to make sure I wasn’t breathing. 

I didn’t know if it was my voice or my agitation, but Charlie woke up. He first opened an eye and muttered a few words before looking at me and opening both his eyes. 

“Y/N, love, are you okay?”

There was a knowing glimpse in his eyes, and he tried his best not to frown. I shook my head and closed my eyes, the movement having caused strong nauseas. 

“You should go back to sleep, you’re quite pale.”

Charlie put his hands on my shoulders and gently yet firmly pushed me back on the mattress. I barely nodded and curled up on a ball, letting him cover me with a blanket after a particularly bad shiver. He placed his hand on my forehead and his eyebrows furrowed. 

“You don’t seem to have a fever. Sleep, you’ll be better.”

He couldn’t know it, of course. None of us could. Maybe it would be better, maybe it would get worse.

He laid a light kiss on my forehead and left the room, closing quietly the door so that I wouldn’t be bothered by the noise. It only took a few seconds for me to close my eyes and fall in an agitated sleep. 

I opened them after what had felt like a minute. The feeling in my chest had disappeared, replaced by a headache particularly strong. Slowly, I sat on the bed and the mattress squeaked. The room was now dark, I couldn’t distinguish Charlie’s belongings on the floor anymore. I grabbed my wand which was on the nightstand. 

“Lumos.”

I crossed the room, picking up a sweater on the floor before joining the kitchen. I glanced through the window - it was night. The sky was dark, for what I could see there were no clouds and the moon was missing. A cold air stream made me shiver. I put on Charlie’s sweater and pushed the front door wide open. Charlie was standing a few meters away. His dark silhouette was barely visible, but he seemed to be staying still in spite of the wind. I walked toward him, and he only moved when I stopped just behind him, extending an arm and wrapping it around my shoulders before pulling me against him. 

“Aren’t you cold?” I whispered. Charlie was only wearing a shirt and I could feel his goosebumps against the skin on my neck. 

“No I’m okay, don’t worry.”

I looked up to see his face turned to the sky, and his eyes resolutely fixed on the stars. 

“It reminds me of the Astronomy tower.” I murmured a few minutes later. “When we would sneak out of the dorm and just go up there.”

“The good old days…” added Charlie. “Of course I remember. It was easier back then, wasn’t it?”

I nodded. Of course it was easier. Back then, we were teenagers in love and our only worries were to be caught by Filch in the corridors during night. Now, we were both afraid that whenever I closed my eyes I wouldn’t open them again. But the worst was that I knew it was easier for me than for Charlie. He would be the one to bury me, he would be the one to keep living with only our memories, and that was what I was the most afraid of, because I knew how much he put his heart in our relationship, I knew how deep was his love for me because it was as deep as mine for him, and I knew that if he had been the one to leave me, I would never have gotten over it. That would have broken me in the very same way as he was going to be broken. 

“Charlie?” He hummed in response, not looking away from the stars. “I’m sorry.”

It was rare to see Charlie’s walls crumbling, and now was one of these moments. His jaw clenched as if to make sure nothing would escape his mouth. He opened and closed his eyes several times to blink the tears away and suddenly, he engulfed me in a strong hug with the vivacity given by years of working with dragons. His hands were on my back, his long fingers clenched against it in an almost painful way that even the sweater couldn’t ease. I didn’t say anything though, and I held him even tighter, because I understood. 

“I love you so much…” he whispered in my hair, his voice shaky. “So much more than just to the moon and back… Y/N, I- please, don’t say you’re sorry. I know- I know you don’t want to leave me. I know it.” 

His hands cupped my cheeks and I rested my forehead against his, breathing deeply because I didn’t want to disturb the bubble around us. It was terribly sad but it was also filled with a love more pure than what we had ever shared before. Slowly, I kissed him. Our lips were trembling, our movements too clumsy and our muscles too tensed, but it brought me and incredible comfort. It brought me peace, because it was one more memory of Charlie to bring with me when the time would come, and because it was one more memory for him to keep for when he would need it. It was just us under the stars, two lovers whose story was bound to turn to the tragedy but whose love was deeper than anything else. 

It seemed like such a strong flame wasn’t meant to last. 

_ _ _ 

It had all begun with a simple headache. Sometimes, after having read for too long or helped Charlie with a dragon, a sharp pain would appear in my head and it would only disappear with a potion and a good night of sleep. Then it began to get more and more regular. Charlie was the first to get worried, and I would always shrug it off, pretending it was because I had read in the dark, or because I was tired.

After a while came the nauseas. Every morning I would wake up because of this pain in my stomach and run to the bathroom. I began to worry too but not for the same reason: I was sure I was pregnant. And if there was one thing we didn’t want with Charlie, it was kids. I told him about it, we freaked out together and I eventually took a few tests. They all happened to be negative, and after the relief had disappeared, another question had popped up in our heads. 

If it’s not a baby, then what is it?

But I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Maybe I was too scared, maybe deeply I knew something was wrong, fact is that when Charlie had asked me to go and see a doctor, his blue eyes full of worry, I had refused. Shrugged it off again. I had only accepted when it became harder and harder to breathe, always at random moments and for longer and longer moments. Charlie had brought me to the nearest hospital from the reserve and the diagnosis had come. 

I was sick. I was going to die.

Things had quickly worsened and, a month after my first visit to the hospital, during the first hours of the day, Charlie had brought me back there again, my limp body in his trembling arms. I had lost consciousness. The same nurse as the first time had taken care of me. The results were clear: there was nothing we could do anymore. 

“How are you feeling, love?”

Charlie’s voice was extremely quiet, and I could barely distinguish his silhouette in the darkness of the hospital room. It was late at night and the only light was coming from the streetlamps outside. 

“Now that you ask, the pillow is a bit hard.”

I didn’t need to see it to know Charlie had rolled his eyes. What he thought was nonchalance was always getting a bit more on his nerves and, even though he had never told me so, it was making me feel even guiltier. But it was for the better, or at least that’s what I tried to say to myself. Asking him to be strong for the both of us would be selfish. I knew it was easier for me than for him, and I didn’t have the right to add to his pain. 

“I can’t sleep.” I whispered, and Charlie’s hand immediately found mine.

It was closer to the truth. I was unable to close my eyes but not because I couldn’t… It was because I was terrified. Terrified because it could be the last time I closed them, because I wouldn’t have the time to say goodbye, because Charlie would be left alone and I didn’t want to do that to him. If there was one thing worse than wondering when you’re gonna die while on a hospital bed, it was thinking of the after. 

The after for me, because what would happen when my eyes would definitely close? Was I going to wake up in a fabulous place, surrounded by white clouds and lost persons that were dear to my heart? Or would it be more like nothing, emptiness I wouldn’t even be aware of, an eternity of just not existing, where I would forget and be forgotten? 

But the after for Charlie too, because what was he going to do? Would he cry or try to stay strong? Would he stay in our shared apartment or would he go back to his family? 

“Do you need anything?”

“Is a night or two in this hotel in Alaska too much to ask?”

The corner of Charlie’s mouth moved into a faint smile when he thought of the memorable week we had spent in Juneau. 

“I think I can manage this.”

I sighed and opened my arms, hoping he would understand the silent request. His face, previously quite relaxed, immediately gained back this anxiety that had never left him and he let go of my hand.

“I don’t think that’s reasonable…” he muttered.

“Fighting against three nurses to stay here day and night for a week wasn’t reasonable.” I corrected, a ghost of a smile on my lips. “Hugging me until I sleep is way more reasonable. Please.”

My hands still in the air as if to reach his, I suddenly hoped that, despite the darkness of the room, Charlie could see how desperate I was, how I needed his reassuring touch when the night was the most terrifying. Obviously, he understood, as he had always seemed to be reading my mind. He slowly got up, walked around the bed and slipped under the blanket behind me. His strong arms wrapped around me and he stuck his nose in my hair. 

“I love you.” he whispered, and the sound of his voice reached straight to my heart, making it beat faster and faster. “I love you, and I want you to know that no matter- I chose you Y/N, and if I was given the chance I would do it all over again.”

I was glad we couldn’t see each other. I didn’t know if I would have been able to bear the sight of his blue eyes sparkling not with joy but with tears as I knew they were, and I didn’t want him to see my face getting more and more wet as salty drops were overflowing. 

I wanted to answer him. I love you too. These four little words had always been so easy to say, so natural, but now it felt like a burn in my throat. It felt like a lie. How could these simple words said again and again possibly hold the immensity of my love for Charlie? It was like calling an ocean a drop of water, like calling a desert a grain of sand. What I felt for Charlie was so much more than love that calling it love was a lie. And despite everything I was leaving him, inexorably getting snatched from him and I didn’t even know what we had done to deserve that. 

Instead of saying something that would feel like a lie, it was easier to sound asleep. I steadied my breath as much as I could with the sobs that were blocked in my throat. I didn’t move. And Charlie was doing the same so that I was sure he was sleeping. I don’t know how long we stayed like this, but decades could have passed and I still wouldn’t be able to sleep. My mind was too concerned, my heart too pained. 

“You aren’t sleeping.”

Charlie’s breathing tickled my neck and I shivered. He misinterpreted and tightened his grip around me, pulling me closer to his torso.

“I still can’t.”

“You should get some rest, love. You’d feel better.”

“I know.”

Our voices were faint whispers that I was sure no one could hear even with their ear to the door. 

“I was thinking.” began Charlie, still murmuring in my hair. 

“Congratulations.” I smiled lightly when Charlie chuckled. 

“There’s so much I still want to do with you…” he said with a strangled voice. “You know, we’ve never danced together.”

“I’m sure we’ve already shared a dance or two.”

I closed my eyes, thinking of a night that seemed so far from us. We had spent hours dancing like fools, reproducing shamelessly muggle dances we had only seen once or twice, and it was one of my best memories with Charlie. 

It was in another life.

“Not like this. A slow dance during which I could hold you really close and…” He stopped and sighed, very lightly though, as if he didn’t want me to hear it. “Let’s dance.” he suddenly said. 

It was my turn to sigh. I wanted it so bad, of course I wanted to be held in his arms, but I knew I wouldn’t have the strength. I couldn’t walk on my own anymore for days, now.

“Charlie, I-”

“Don’t think about it. Do you want to dance with me, love?”

“You know the answer.”

Charlie left the bed and my back suddenly felt cold. I didn’t move, still giving him my back; my eyes were closed, I was trying to imagine the next seconds. Charlie whispered a first spell which I didn’t understand as it was muttered underneath his breath. He said something else - a spell I understood but that I had never heard before - and music echoed in the room. Then, extremely precociously, as if I was a fragile porcelain doll, his arms slipped under my body, bringing with them a welcome warmth. He lifted me up effortlessly, giving the impression that I didn’t weigh more than a feather, and immediately pulled me close to him, the closest possible. I snuggled against his torso and wrapped my arms around his neck. 

Suddenly, I wasn’t dying anymore, Charlie wasn’t grieving. I had never felt like this before. My heart was fast, so fast that in any other moment I would have worried. But I knew it wasn’t bad, it was the most fabulous feeling. It wasn’t euphoria that was flooding in my veins, it was something way softer that was soothing everything in me. Charlie’s body was firm against mine but his touch was like a caress, light, gentle. My face was hidden in the crook of his neck, and his head was bowed and resting on mine. 

Charlie had never really known how to dance. He was a clumsy boy, not really the kind who went to girls during balls. However, tonight, he was perfect. Perfectly in rhythm with the music, perfectly steady as he waltzed in this dark hospital room, perfectly him when his lips kissed mine.

It felt like a second or a lifetime before he eventually stopped - more like a lifetime, because feeling so many things during a second was impossible. Charlie delicately lied me back in the bed and covered me tenderly with the blanket. Slowly, his hand found my cheek, cupped it, stroked it. He bent over me and kissed my forehead, and in the darkness the only thing I could see was a blue sparkle moving away from me when Charlie straightened. 

“I love you so much, Y/N, so much…”

“So much more than just to the moon and back…”

When I closed my eyes, I realized it was time. It was my last night, my last seconds with Charlie. I wanted to fight, I wanted to keep my eyes open, but Charlie’s other hand cupped my other cheek. His face approached mine, and in his teary eyes I saw that he had realised too. His lips barely touched mine. 

A tear rolled down his cheek, and I closed my eyes.

[senju-sekhmet]

The Leash (Part 7)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death ~5300 words (this chapter, finished work: 80.000) Previous: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6 Read on AO3!   Disclaimer below the cut! (I updated it actually this time, lmfao)

DISCLAIMER! I’ve split the chapters of as some of them were too long (the last one being +18k, oopz), therefore this comes a little bit shorter than usual! But each of them still should contain a meaningful amount of progress in terms of, y’know. Plot and all. But! It should make posting the chapters more frequently a bit easier. More angst and science here! Other than that: enjoy my very self indulgent work, filled with my own headcanons and angst galore. Let me know what you think and thank you so much for reading!!!! ______ Tobirama couldn’t believe what you had just said. So much so he fell silent after his incredulous outbreak - prompting you to repeat your eerily calm statement. “You need more time. Stretching the intervals will do just that.” His hand on your shoulder gripped it tighter as the message had settled in, slowly, but he retorted before he had comprehend it, really. “Absolutely not!”

You closed your eyes slowly. “Tobirama…”

Your calmness was unnerving him additionally. “Do you even realise what you’re saying?!”, his voice had risen in volume.

Your eyes snapped open again. Your stare was boring into his, the cold hand that had been caressing him fell limply to your chest. “I’m the one who is going to suffer, so I’d say yes,” you stated.

Tobirama’s heart was hammering in his chest again. But this time, it was from fury - the worry from before was shadowed by it easily. The things you were saying - outrageous. “The withdrawal is lethal! I will not allow this, Y/n!”, he was almost shouting now. Hell, were you losing your mind?

Your mien hardened. “It is not lethal right away. The decision to shorten the interval because of potential harms was made by an assumption we have no hard proof of,” you countered somberly. "Maybe it can be stretched."

Tobirama drew his hands back to cross them in front of his chest, causing you to wince as your chakra connection abruptly ended. He merely hissed curtly, but the ire had his chakra swelling already - such a connection would be dangerous to your delicate state now. Besides, it made arguing a lot easier. “We have very good reason to believe stretching the interval is dangerous,” he began, his baritone voice near trembling again. He still couldn’t believe you were even talking about this. “And you are in absolutely no state to take on even more strain, at all,” the sternness was becoming scathing. 

You laid completely still in the bed. His attitude was bouncing off of your stoic demeanour like water on oiled leather still. “Then I’ll need more support. There are ways to do that until the withdrawal becomes too detrimental to my health, then I get the next dose.” 

You made it sound so easy. So simple. Like nothing was at stake here.

Tobirama’s expression fell apart more and more. He could only gaze at you in utter horror. “You’ll suffer miserably, Y/n,” his voice was cracking. Whether it was from fury or shock, he didn’t know anymore. Unable to sit still anymore, he jumped to his feet to stand by your side. “We don't know at all if there aren't more ways in which the withdrawal will harm you! Even  if  we get you through those prolonged withdrawal phases - which we will  not  be having - there is no saying what effects it will have on you - what if you’re taking permanent damage?” He’d never forgive himself if that were to happen - if you became impaired because he did not administer this godforsaken leash on time. 

If you died because of a gamble. He was trembling now.

You gasped almost inaudibly, your facade cracking finally. A wrinkle on your forehead. Tobirama huffed. Just as quickly though, you found your proverbial balance again. “I’d rather become handicapped than dead, Tobirama.”

The statement hit close to home. Only momentarily though for his anger bristled even harsher in return for it. Proceeding like this might just as well kill you, after all. “You’re expecting me to let you undergo additional, intense torment, risk permanent injury, possibly even killing you!”, he intended to make it a question, but as he listed these things, he was almost shouting again. His hands gesticulated out of sheer frustration - every fiber of himself refused even entertaining this idea more; even discussing this was so revulsive he thought he’d stumble over his words until all he’d bring out was ‘no’. “I won’t allow this.” His eyes narrowed as he stared you down, crossing his arms firmly in front of his chest. “We are not doing that.”

Your gaze narrowed in turn. Again, you started to move again to sit up in the bed, each arm by your side hefting your chest up - get closer to eye level with him. Tobirama scowled and took a step closer to your side. “Y/n!”, he couldn’t believe it - just a short while ago he had berated you on resting, and already, you were moving again - plus, you obviously weren’t letting this foolish, foolish idea go-

“Tobirama,” your voice was clouded with fury of your own now. He placed a hand on your shoulder that already wanted to shove you back onto the bed again, but it rested for now. “I know that,” you panted, hissing past clenched teeth. “But you forget that all of that won’t matter if I  die  because there’s none of that damn leash left!”, your voice rose to a shout, hoarse as your vocal chords still reeled from the abuse.

He stared back at you for a moment only, his vision tunneling. The fury was burning under his skin. Each and every single aspect of this proposal was just plain wrong-

“Lie down again,” he hissed strictly, mustering every bit of his control to not shout back at you. Or simply shove you down. Or use more unkind words.

“I will not,” but before Tobirama could shout back at you, your frail hand had gripped his wrist. He felt the tremble in your body from the extortion of sitting up - he knew this must cause you pain, too. But you didn’t give him a chance to speak or start berating you, “Stretching the interval is going to give you - me - us - more desperately needed time, Tobirama. Time is all that matters now!”

He stared right into your eyes which he was positive were glistening now. Distantly, he became aware again of the fact how his heart was still hammering against his ribcage.

“Even if it’s just twenty-four hours, maybe thirty-six,” you finally whispered, letting go of his hand and sinking back on the bed, panting. The little endeavour had visibly cost you quite some energy - but then by now, the delirium phase would start again soon. It was hailed by the weakness. “Think about that logically for a damn second, please,” you breathed.

Tobirama felt the heartache constrict his chest again. Desperately he began to take deep breaths against the feeling, raking a hand over his scalp. Unable to stand still any longer, he turned around. Pacing in front of the end of your bed, his mind was racing while the emotions were surging. He couldn’t possibly allow this. It was foolish, it was unspeakably dangerous for you - and there was no telling if they could extend the interval by a meaningful margin. He’d agree to a terrible amount of agony for you, risk handicapping you - for what?

Time. The reason was time. The one thing he needed. Well, despite the solution to the mystery of the leash. But time would answer that one just as well.

It was a gamble with the highest stake: you. But you were on the line, either way. Either he took the five days he had left and worked nonstop. Or he took this risk, this ridiculously perilous risk, he forced you through a new dimension of hell - and he gained more time. 

He was confident in his skills - but never so arrogant to look in the mirror and think a day - or more - would not matter in cracking the leash. Because they would. Greatly. Maybe not enough to even the odds. But every day you endured longer - he absolutely loathed himself for how logical the whole situation seemed.

Tobirama was seething with rage. Rage about the situation. Your proposal. What this meant for you. Your stubbornness. “Dammit,” he muttered near silently.

Your eyes were on him with a sad look when he gazed back at you, both hands gripping the foot end of the bed. His knuckles turned white. “I don’t want to do this,” he breathed, desperation seeping into his voice, jaw taunt again.

You blinked, a sorrowful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I don’t either, Tobirama,” you whispered, haunted. 

He clenched his teeth. He wanted to say there had to be another way - but he knew, there was none. By all means, if he knew one thing despairingly clear now, unravelling the leash was a staggering task, even for him.

He swallowed the lump down his throat. His head hung low. This was another defeat. “I’ll speak to Hashirama about this,” he finally muttered brokenly, aware of what waited for you next - medically - would well exceed his skills. It wasn’t about mending some damages you had suffered - no, this would be about keeping you stable. Alive. Not that he had the time to supervise you as much as you’d need to, now. Another fact that didn’t sit well with him at all. Not only were you going to very likely be in a critical condition, but he also couldn’t be there all the way through, for every bitter second of it.

He looked back up at you, furrowing his eyebrows forlornly.

“Tobirama,” you called out then, softly. Your hand waved him over, he obliged, slumping down by your side again, still gazing down sadly.

Your hand reached for his and he couldn’t help but notice the fine tremor that shook your arm. It would get so much worse from now on. He took it in both of his, a palm running over your forearm soothingly.

His eye widened slightly when he felt the faintest nudge at his chakra network - you were trying to soothe over his like he had done so often these past few days. The gesture was incredibly touching on the one hand and on the other it was heartbreaking. He closed his eyes and groaned faintly to ease the ache somehow, letting his chakra graze over your network. A chill sensation on his cheek prompted him to open his eyes again. You were caressing his cheek again.

“It’ll be fine, Tobirama,” you whispered.

No, it won’t be. He didn’t respond.

Your mien became more sorrowful again. “Tobi,” you began, the nickname warming his heart like few things could. “Promise me you’ll go as far with this as you possibly can.” Your gaze was piercing. He gasped. “Promise me no matter how much I scream, writhe or whatever - so long as it’s possibly justifiable, you’ll hold off of giving me the next dose.”

His pulse thundered in his chest. This is insane. Nobody should ever agree to this. He didn’t want to. He’d never want to do anything that’d make you suffer.

“Promise me,” you repeated when he didn’t reply right away, firmer now but no less mournful. Your thumb grazed over his cheekbone.

He felt entirely numb when he spoke. “I promise, Y/n,” he choked out, voice broken. His grip around your hand and arm was firm now. Desperate. “But I won’t risk anything,” he added swiftly, “I can’t - I can’t do that.”

“I know. Thank you,” you replied, almost a whimper. Your hand smoothed over his face to reach for the back of his skull, through his hair. With very light pressure, you beckoned him closer. Dazedly he moved again, and a moment later your cool lips were on his in an utterly tender kiss. He couldn’t help the whimper of his own that escaped against your lips. Your hand stroked over his short hair. 

He pulled back only very slightly after, his face hovering over yours. Your eyes were glistening again. His were prickling again, too. “I don’t want to lose you, Y/n,” he muttered.

You gave another smile that tore at his heart. “You won’t. I’ll fight as much as you do.”

He was damn sure you’d fight. In both a sarcastic and wholehearted way.

He closed his eyes and a hand snuck around your chest, under you, while his face buried in the crook of your neck. Your arms wrapped around him. He took a deep breath that nearly turned into a sob.

You kept rubbing gently over his back while he tried to bite down on more tears and sobs. The ache in his heart was near unbearable now.

 _____

As much as he wanted to simply hold you, time was more essential than ever. He mournfully released you not long after and with another warm caress, both inwardly by his chakra and outwardly, he promised he’d be back soon to find his brother and discuss the plan. You on the other hand had become weaker yet again, urging him to hurry even more. The withdrawal would set in soon, and they had to be ready.

Even so, Tobirama decided to make most of the time he had, as well. If you were going to run a high risk, so would he - before he sought out his brother who no doubt was in the Hokage office at this time of the day - past noon - he went to the laboratory again. Three shadow clones - for now. With what little information he had gleaned from Zenji as well as the result from his first experiment, he might as well triple his efforts in trying to recreate the leash. Four times more, once he was involved. Frankly the number was low for him, but they'd be working quite a long time and he well remembered the head-splitting concentration it had taken to even conduct his first experiment in imbuing the basis with chakra.

When he'd let these clones disappear, it'd be tripled. So would the progress, however. He let out a low gruff when they got to work. All he needed to do was remind himself of the strain you'd be shouldering soon. 

He should have done this from day one. But then he didn't have enough information to go with for this to be truly efficient - he hadn’t even known what to do, really. 

Hashirama indeed was in the office, which Tobirama noted was in some disarray. Quite possibly because he had not been here to swat at his brother's hands. His scowl mustered the scrolls that were strewn about, shaking his head.

Hashirama already sighed when he noticed his disapproving glance. "You're not here to berate me I'm guessing," he began, already defensively.

"I have more urgent business, although I will say this office is ridiculously untidy," he frowned, casting a last glance around to find his brother drooping again. Luckily they didn't receive guests in here. Tobirama crossed his arms.

"Yes…?" Hashirama inquired, slumping further into his chair. 

"Y/n … brought up an idea," he began, suddenly finding difficulty in wording this. Proposing this insane plan. His pulse picked up already. He tilted his head to gaze out of the window behind his brother. "We… I need more time, anija. And she thinks we should extend the interval at which she takes what we have left of the leash as much as possible."

Once the words had left him, a weight felt lifted off of his shoulders at the same time it came crashing onto his chest again. His heart. There was no turning back now. He firmly had to believe this was the right thing to do. Like so often these past few days. He simply staggered through the heartache all this caused him and tried to forget about how wrong it was.

Hashirama straightened in his chair, frowning now. His elbows propped up on the desk and he intertwined his fingers. Any of the depressed demeanour was gone. "I hardly think I need to tell  you of all people how dangerous that is, Tobirama."

Tobirama hissed past his clenched teeth. "Tell me something new." He still found himself profusely struggling with all this. "I… even if it's just a day or a day and a half more," echoing your words. He paused, his arms sliding down and fists clenching by his sides. "I can't deny I'd take every damn hour I can get."

Hashirama's gaze was trained on the desk, his forehead wrinkled in fine ponder. "It's that bad," he whispered, half to himself. 

Tobirama remained silent. He needn't supply that statement with more fodder. Him being here - saying the things he was saying - was proof enough of that. Slowly, he crossed his arms again, taking deep breaths. 

That sort of had seemed to become his new mantra. 

Hashirama leaned back in the chair again, turning slightly but still lost in thought. "The withdrawal ultimately is lethal, that much we have ascertained."

Tobirama sighed. The words stabbed at his heart. "Indeed," he replied nonetheless, beaten down. "We have to stabilise her as long as possible-"

Hashirama cut in. "-before the withdrawal becomes too severe. I understand that." He fell silent again.

Tobirama grew uneasy the longer Hashirama did not speak.

When he finally spoke again, Tobirama almost flinched. "I'm not sure to what degree that is possible," he began slowly, a hand rubbing over his chin. "We're already facing the problem of Y/n's chakra overload due to weeks of sloppy care on top of grievous injury, so that is not a good angle to work with. One we will have to use if necessary - even if it means to overburden her - but as a last resort." 

Tobirama listened intently, trying to ignore the rush of blood in his ears. The implications of his brother’s elaborations didn’t sit well with him either, but then what of this did? Therefore he didn’t argue, but just listen.

"It comes down to using every kind of physical aid we have available therefore, mainly medicine. Also other physical aid, but that would be our focus, for now."

"That's not a bad start," Tobirama stated, aware there was more to follow.

Which it did. "Any chakra based methods are our last resort. And we won't be able to do anything for her physical state otherwise, meaning her remaining injuries won’t receive attention." That would set you back yet again - they'd again push the limits of what you could take, even go beyond. And after - after all this was over, you'd face a prolonged recovery to repair those damages perfectly. Tobirama's hands bunched the black fabric of his shirt. 

It was manageable, still. Somehow. Eventually.

Hashirama was not done though. "I'm worried it won't hold very long. The withdrawal effect we have witnessed was intense as such. That was somewhat more than the interval we're at now. And we know the bulk of it seems to stem from the way the victim’s chakra starts to interact with the leash."

Tobirama frowned. Something about that sentence made him wonder - but he stowed it away for later. "So you're saying we can't prolong the dose by a meaningful margin either way?" 

Hashirama shook his head. "I don't know enough to make a prognosis. But…," he sighed. Tobirama knew that sigh. Whatever Hashirama wanted to say next won't sit well with him. Inwardly, he rolled his eyes. It couldn't get any worse at this point, why mince his words? "... there might be merit in sealing off Y/n's chakra, temporarily. As long as the withdrawal sets in worse."

That did strike him harshly. Tobirama sucked in a sharp breath. "That's tantamount to amputation, anija," he rasped out with a slight tremble to his voice, a cold shiver running over his back. 

Hashirama cleared his throat solemnly. "Think of it more as restraining." 

The world was upside down if Tobirama became the one to question Hashirama's methods. "Restraining implies just preventing something - you're talking about taking it away from her completely!", his voice rose in volume as the shock seeped through his veins icily. "A punishment befitting criminals," he added, pained.

It hurt. It hurt so much because -

Deep down, he already knew this was yet another thing they'd end up doing to you, thinking it was best. He'd do better accepting it quickly. Still, in this moment - it was sheer horror. He’d fight it, be disgusted of it… and do it anyway.

Hashirama closed his eyes. " Temporarily, Tobirama. It's worth a try. It won’t stop the withdrawal as it gets worse, because her chakra is just sealed from her, but obviously not gone from her body. But I’m confident it’s going to help prolong the time between the intervals." Of course it was. Logically, he well comprehended this. If he’d sit down calmly, he’d have come up with this on his own, too. It didn't make accepting this easier.

But he had to. 

Defeatedly he heaved a heavy breath. "Very well." He silently hoped you were so out of it by then, you wouldn't feel it as much anymore. 

"I'll speak to Mito," Hashirama announced. "And I will supervise Y/n personally." He rose to his feet already. "When would the next dose be needed?"

"About two hours," Tobirama murmured, feeling numb again. 

"Alright. Then there still is some time." Already, Hashirama began to move for the door. "I'll be in the laboratory. I want to be notified right away if any complications arise," Tobirama announced tersely, “Or when she needs the next dose.” No discussion about this whatsoever.

Time to deal with the problem that was splitting his head, not his heart.

_______     He inspected his shadow clones work when he got back to the laboratory. Not much more than what he had managed before - but they had just started to work. He briefly contemplated visiting you again but decided against it in favour of you resting.

You were in for enough as it was. He resolved to put every single second to use now more than ever given the situation had become as grave. Yet being here again placed him in front of the seemingly insurmountable task again. He still didn’t know how to continue, and what he had gleaned so far served as a vague indicator at best. If he interpreted it wrong, he might end up in the wrong direction altogether. And that meant…

The painful tightness settled in his chest again. He took a moment of gripping the lab bench tightly to breathe through it.

He really only had one shot at this.

Reviewing what he knew so far he was almost completely convinced that the liquid had been imbued with chakra, no particular jutsu involved at all - but rather a complex weaving technique of chakra itself - akin to the way medical jutsu at a very basic level worked. Simply because his first experiment had shown a similar effect in Zenji. Still, he couldn't rule the possibility out entirely, since his experiment hadn’t produced the same effects the leash did. So far concerning the immediate effect of the leash.

But there was also the time component. Because his own experiment had worn off rather quickly in comparison to the original, Tobirama couldn’t help but wonder if maybe a technique was needed after all to make it last longer. A seal, rather, he corrected himself. However that, he judged, would not be as difficult to imitate - it’d have to be a containment seal of inferior quality due to the fact neither he nor Hashirama found any trace of it on the bottle they had brought with them. Anything more complicated would’ve required some ink work.

A relief, albeit a small one.

He still did not know at all how the change of the chakra component between muting and then disrupting the victim’s chakra happened, though. Recalling how different your two blood samples had presented - it made him doubt again if there really was no jutsu involved. This seemed too far-fetched to be accomplished by weaving of chakra alone. Every effect the leash caused - altering chakra flows to a stop, almost, and causing disruption in someone’s network to a point the body reacts, violently and physically - a well-versed medical nin could produce in a like human being with their own chakra. But to imbue a liquid that caused these effects consecutively in a timely manner - for a duration that would kill the victim before they have worn off - it seemed near impossible, the more Tobirama thought of it.

Unless.

He recalled Hashirama’s words from before: the bulk of it seems to stem from the way the victim’s chakra starts to interact with the leash.

Something about that had bothered him. Why would someone go the long way to create a drug that served as a chemical leash due to its withdrawal effect without actually taking advantage of it in interrogation settings? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to let the victim suffer continuously in fact, and not with the belated onset? Sure, the withdrawal effects were lethal at some point - but Tobirama did not doubt for one second that a person who was able to imbue a vial with chakra that changed its effect over time could easily let the uncomfortable feeling of the withdrawal set in sooner and prolong that, shortening the chakra muting phase of the drug. Even scrapping it altogether, really. To immobilize a victim’s chakra was handy for torture, true - it lowered mental defenses. To some degree, anyway - it hadn’t worked with you. Yet… bothering a person with something like the withdrawal effect would do the same just as well. Even for restraining purposes this seemed ineffective: chakra handcuffs or the like would serve the purpose better and longer. A torturer should know how to seal off chakra, too.

It hit Tobirama then.

The leash didn’t change over time. It had not one, but two chakra components: one to clog the victim’s chakra flow, the other to disrupt it.

How had he not realised this sooner? Just as he found a medic-nin might create all these effects in a person, he should’ve realised it would be impossible to do so without actively altering the chakra they were using profusely. Or, multitracking with two different kinds of chakra flows at the same time. He had judged what the leash did was extremely difficult to recreate - but that was because the way he perceived it, it just was not possible. Chakra did not change on its own, someone needed to do it.

He couldn’t help but bark a haughty laugh for being so foolish to think the Stone shinobi had pulled that off. Well, then again he had seen stranger things.

The chakra muting component of the leash settled in and covered up the disruption component until it wore off and the victim began to experience symptoms. The chakra muting component therefore wasn’t intended for torture: it was necessary. Without it, the withdrawal would set in right away, starting to kill the victim. From the examinations he and Hashirama had performed on you during the withdrawal he knew the disruption was incurable in the way toxins might be extracted; that had been a hint to the chakra based nature of the leash. But not just that: it spread through the whole body, seeped through everywhere, making it impossible to be destroyed manually, in a sense. When he examined your blood, he had seen then the correlation of this; the enemies' chakra that had near branded itself to your cells in a most detrimental way. Both the effect it causes as well as your body's reaction were what was killing you during withdrawal.

A cure will have to remove it, Tobirama dismally realised. Somehow.

Though even more dismally he found that new questions arose from these realisations. While he had ascertained there must be two components, he still did not answer the initial question: was it  really  not possible to simply increase the withdrawal effect over time, foregoing the muting component? This seemed extra complicated. There had to be more to it - the only guess he could hazard really was the fact once imbued with chakra, the substance’s effect wouldn’t change. Any shift in intensity in the drug would only happen due to an effect wearing off. And why did the muting effect fade, but not the withdrawal effect? When he first analysed the leash with his sensory skills, the substance appeared so intricately woven, he hadn't even guessed two manipulations happened. Even your blood had not made him guess as much - initially there had been this fuzzy, heavy aspect of it - almost smothering - and in the later sample, it was stingy, like a million hooks that ripped along everything they touched, specifically chakra and its pathways. Why had he not felt both, if there had been two modifications?

Tobirama groaned finally and rubbed a hand over his face. The more he thought about all of this, the more he felt like he was starting to split hairs. He still hadn’t even found out how to weave the chakra in properly. Sighing heavily he released his clones briefly just to let them reappear, equipped with his new thoughts. The exhaustion was bearable as of now given they had not been working long yet, but still, the amount of images, feelings and experience that flooded his mind the moment he broke the jutsu made him stagger a moment.

He was not looking forward to gathering their results for this day.

Cynically he noted more sleep and food might help the issue. But he had no time for that yet.

Time to get to work himself. He began exactly the same as last time; starting to weave chakra he figured would cause the desired effect in a person’s body. Thanks to his added experience the process was a little bit faster, but it still took him - and his clones - a fair deal of time to produce four vials in total. And the concentration required was daunting - he couldn’t allow himself a moment of distraction or the tiny threads might crumble, knot together or frazzle. He might as well try to weave a complex pattern using spiderwebs only, or something of that caliber. The result wasn’t even gratifying: he merely had the muting component woven in, nothing like disruption was added yet. Truth be told, Tobirama was quite worried the delicate structure might crumble if he added more to it.

But he had to, eventually. Still, he had four vials in total now to try it with.

His gaze wandered to the clock. You had exceeded your interval by four hours so far. Which meant right now, you definitely would be suffering - and Hashirama was managing, or else he’d have sent for Tobirama.

If his brother had administered the next dose without him, then so help him whatever power he wanted to place his faith in.

He slipped one of the vials into his pocket. Then, he himself and each of the clones performed a very simple seal to preserve the vials as they were so the chakra woven in wouldn’t diminish over time. With a heavy sigh, he released the three shadow clones - and instantly grasped for the lab bench when the exhaustion hit him. It wasn’t just like feeling tired, worn out. He felt entirely stripped of his last shred of concentration, let alone energy to keep his eyes open. This might as well have been a blow to his head with a hammer, shattering the bone and ringing through his brain. His own chakra levels were not bothered at all - none of this was demanding in chakra quantity. He panted heavily and tried to keep his eyes open forcibly - just a while longer. The experience he gathered was so valuable - he just gained three sessions like this.

The question was how often he could take it.

He lingered a moment longer in order to regain his composure and remember the way to your room again.

Why did he have to remember, though?

Wait. He had his branded kunai in there.

That bad, huh. Tobirama shivered. This kind of blunder really was not like him.

With a low grunt, he placed the vial in his pocket back onto the laboratory rack. He’d conduct his next tests after he rested some. This wasn’t going to yield good results and so he was forced to having only his mood greatly soured by this. He simply had no time for things like… sleep.

Blinking slowly, he forced the last bit of concentration out of him and used the hiraishin seal to teleport to your room.

[uchihasakurawrites]

Manifest (1)

Rating: T for language & depictions of violence

Summary: Their soulmate bond is borne of blood. With war on the horizon and tensions rising in Konoha, Itachi and Sakura try to navigate their newfound connection while balancing the growing demands of their own worlds. [Non-Massacre AU; Soulmate AU; ItaSaku]

Word Count: 3,394

Warning: This chapter contains somewhat graphic depictions of violence, so please wait until chapter 2 if that's difficult for you to read.

Note: Itachi doesn’t actually appear in this chapter. Chapter 2 will focus more on Itachi’s POV while the events of this chapter are happening - if you’re looking for ItaSaku interactions right away, please wait until I post the next part before you start reading!

(Also, heads up that I’m studying for graduate school & changing positions at work right now, so my updates on any multi-chapter fics will be slow this spring/summer. Thanks to everyone who’s still sticking with me!)

Cross-posted on Ao3 and Fanfiction.net

_____________________________________________________________

Two careless hand signals from her captain telling the team to scatter and engage  bring Sakura’s pristine ANBU record crashing down in blood-soaked shards.

Every logical fiber of her being had screamed at the silent command, her near-decade of experience with Team 7 having seared the importance of teamwork into her mind. If not for the rogue nin on their heels, Sakura would have pressed the issue, arguing for a tactical retreat with the information they had gathered on the budding Iwa-Ame alliance.

Not that her rookie captain - a Hyūga with a superiority complex that could have easily topped Sasuke’s during his genin days - would have listened.

Staying together was the only way they stood a chance. Their mismatched ANBU squad was as well-balanced as Tsunade could manage with the current strain on Konoha’s ANBU forces. Impending war stretched ANBU thin, and those who weren’t assigned to diplomatic security details were saddled with near back-to-back missions; in the past six months alone, Sakura had almost doubled the number of missions she had completed in her entire first year with ANBU.

Intel of a meeting between Ame and Iwa leadership reached Tsunade’s desk when most of her veteran ANBU had already been dispatched. Amegakure, which had never fully recovered from the previous war, had remained neutral despite increasing tensions between the five great nations, and it was imperative that they remain so.

Losing neutral territory that bordered both Suna and Konoha would provide the enemy a staging area far too close to home, so Tsunade scraped together the best reconnaissance team she could with the resources she had left. Sakura knew from the grim look in her mentor’s eyes as she explained the parameters of the mission that she was assigned to this team for the sole purpose of dragging them all back home alive, as was usually the case any time she was assigned outside of her unit.

Sakura counted herself lucky that there happened to be a Hyūga and an Aburame available for the mission to make infiltrating the meeting undetected easier.

Out of her four-man cell, Sakura had the most field experience with just over ninety successful ANBU missions under her belt. The Hyūga had only recently been promoted to captain, and she could read his need to prove his worth in the way he carried himself: nose held a touch too high in the air, a smirk twisting his lips, and an arrogant sway to his hips as he strutted into the Hokage’s office.

A small part of her mind, the one that kept her entertained on particularly mind-numbing missions, absently wondered if punting him halfway to Suna would fix both his ego and his stride.

Pride had no place in ANBU.

The Aburame and the boy who looked as though he had been promoted three years to young were tolerable enough. She’d seen finer control of the Aburame Clan techniques during her occasional work with Shino, but Tetsuya still managed to get the job done and relayed enough information back for Sakura to record in a sealed scroll that she would deliver to Tsunade upon their return.

Kaito, who she discovered had joined ANBU less than a month prior, had surprised her with his fine-tuned tweaks to the strategy she had laid out once she’d managed to get their captain to shut the hell up  for two seconds and listen to input from his team. Sakura became rather fond of the younger boy during their two-week mission, perhaps because his personality reminded her of a teenage Naruto.

When she witnessed Kaito’s chakra control firsthand, she’d proposed the idea of recruiting him into the ANBU medical program. She could hear the grin behind his mask through the string of eager questions he endlessly chattered about as they sprinted home. With a laugh, she promised to file the request with Tsunade as soon as they got back to Konoha.

What she didn’t expect was for him to be slaughtered as they crossed the border into Grass.

With the odds stacked against her team 3:1, Sakura decides retreat is the cleanest option for their team and turns towards her captain, expecting him to reach the same conclusion and give the order.

His two hand signals and the team’s immediate obedience lock her muscles in disbelief; sure, taking a prisoner from this situation could provide another well of information, but that was only if her team somehow managed to win the fight.

Reporting back that their team had been pursued by Grass nin would have been enough information for Tsunade to work with. A different team could have been assembled to follow up, and Konoha would have at least been warned.

Her team is at a severe disadvantage fighting on unfamiliar terrain after a full day of running at top-speed to clear Earth’s border. Torrential rain means that they will have to fight almost blind, and the Hyūga seems to have forgotten that the rest of his team doesn’t have the same benefit of a dōjutsu.

Sakura won’t even be able to provide adequate medical support for her team if they scatter, as summoning Katsuyu would both expose her identity and require more chakra than she should expend with how much further they have left to go to reach home.

Well aware that her actions could give her captain adequate grounds to write her up for insubordination on the off chance they survive, Sakura takes off in the same direction as Kaito. He’s the most likely to accept her assistance, and the faster Sakura can drag him back to regroup with their teammates, the faster they can leave.

The third rule for all medical nin rings clearly in her mind: No medic shall ever die until they are the last of their platoon.

Sakura has yet to lose a teammate on a mission, and she’ll be damned if the Hyūga’s reckless call changes that.

She catches up to Kaito quickly, calling out a quick Doton: Doryu Heki to throw up a fifteen foot mud wall between him and an enemy lunging at his back. She adjusts the flow of chakra to her feet to use the slickness of the ground to her advantage, releasing some of her traction on the mud to slide underneath the swing of a sword and slash chakra scalpels across the assailant’s heels. In a single fluid motion, Sakura thrusts herself up from her crouched position and follows through with a fist into the man’s back.

The sensation of muscle and bone snapping underneath her knuckles is so familiar that she doesn’t falter when the ANBU’s spine snapps clean in half. At some point, she’d lost count of the number of shinobi she’d broken with her hands alone.

Sakura doesn’t have time to check their surroundings further, opting instead to shunshin to Kaito’s right and weave her chakra into a Doton: Iwa no Doomu jutsu. It’s a strategic move to conserve chakra, building on her last jutsu as she wrenches additional walls from the ground to enclose them in a rock-solid dome.

She grabs Kaito’s wrist before the chokutō he jabs in her direction can make contact.

Kaito’s emotions are again an open book, even with his cloak and mask still intact. She can read the fear in the trembling left hand that clutches his shoulder, where a katon has seared his uniform into his skin.

His hoarse “S-Sakura-senpai!” instead of her codename broadcasts his inexperience; it’s pure luck that none of the Grass ANBU have gotten close enough to guess her identity. They don’t need the bounty on her head further complicating the situation.

Sakura makes a mental note to personally track down whoever gave this kid the green light for ANBU. He’s talented but clearly needs more field experience before he’s ready for ANBU-caliber missions and the heightened risks that come with them.

They have just under thirty seconds before she needs to release her hold on the dome. The Grass nins’ lightning jutsu grate at the threads of her earth-natured chakra, and there are already too many negative strategic implications for staying in one place as long as they have.

“Monkey,” Sakura speaks in code in hopes that hearing it will snap Kaito back to his senses. “I’m going to cast a genjutsu over the surrounding ten square meters. Escape underground, and get to Ant. Regroup with taichou and retreat. Move!”

She punctuates the command with a chakra laden smack to Kaito’s uninjured shoulder, just forceful enough to startle him out of the daze he had slipped into. With a shaky nod, Kaito snaps through the signs for the Earth jutsu and vanishes into the ground. Sakura drapes her genjutsu over the area just outside the dome and follows right behind.

Tetsuya is spread across the ground in pieces when they arrive at his position.

Choking down the bile that rises in her throat at the gruesome display - most field kills are more clean-cut, partly for efficiency and partly out of respect, even for an enemy shinobi - Sakura forces herself to focus on nothing but strategy and the enemies fully prepared to kill her next.

The rate she’s been burning through jutsu isn’t sustainable, but there are too many enemies left for her to engage in close-combat, and the ground is too wet to shatter. She’s already having to direct additional chakra to both her eyes for visibility and her cardiovascular system to maintain body heat.

She and Kaito are going to have to make a stand here, at least until they can thin the enemy’s numbers enough to create an opening to their team leader. With what little she’s seen of his abilities, their captain should be able to hold on for another few minutes.

Sakura is painfully reminded of why she prefers to work with her regular team when Kaito dives toward the nearest ANBU, the faint glow of lightning-natured chakra humming down his blade.

Team 7’s battle formations were second nature; they discussed mission-specific strategy setting out, but their battles were almost wordless. In this situation, Sasuke and Naruto would have taken on the long-range fighters as Kakashi drove the mid-range fighters into close-range combat with Sakura. Sai would have provided aerial support focused on mid-range fighters if Sakura had her hands full at close-range.

She resolves to never complain about her teammates’ penchant for turning every fight into a damn competition again - even with their dramatics, she’s never once doubted that her team will be there at the exact moment she needs them.

She’s yet to feel that level of synchrony with any other team, and she certainly doesn’t feel it now.

Sakura keeps Kaito in her peripheral vision as she catches a blade with her kunai and tries to fit his style into one of ANBU’s standard formations. New ANBU squads typically operate on variations of a standardized set of battle formations, as the sets allow for more flexibility between teams.

Kaito’s style, however, is erratic, driven by fear as his eyes stray towards every piece of his teammate he manages to spot on the ground. His stilted movements are more focused on keeping the enemies closest to him back than coordinating an attack with her.

Sakura adds yet another resolution to her increasingly long list, but she’s viciously stubborn that she’ll get back to Konoha and check every one of them off. She’ll need to speak to Tsunade about integrating more teamwork scenarios into ANBU’s training regimen.

Lashing out alone is the fastest way to die in the field.

Sakura sweeps her thumb along the seals on the underside of her left wrist-guard and launches a set of poisoned senbon at the three ANBU closest to her. She doesn’t actually expect the senbon to hit, and they don’t as the ANBU either dodge or deflect. Instead, Sakura takes advantage of the split second distraction to shunt chakra into her feet and drive close enough to an ANBU to trace a chakra scalpel neatly across their jugular.

The body hasn’t hit the ground before Sakura has the ANBU’s katana out of its scabbard and moves towards the next target.

She manages to hold her own for several more minutes, exchanging blows and countering a handful of A- and B-rank elemental jutsu with her own, until a scream cuts through the air. It’s the desperation in the scream - a wet, terrified noise almost ripped from Kaito’s throat - that draws Sakura’s attention from her own fight.

Time seems to slow as she realizes she’s not fast enough to stop what’s about to happen. She can almost hear Sasuke’s constant harping for her to work on her speed over the rushing sound in her ears.

Kaito stands frozen, mask shattered to pieces on the ground, as he locks gazes with one of the Grass shinobi. Before Kaito even has the chance to realize he’s ensnared in a genjutsu, the Grass nin’s companion brings his sword down on the boy’s neck.

Desperation immediately overshadows any grief Sakura might have felt over Kaito’s death as she finds herself surrounded by seven of the original twelve ANBU. Her natural chakra reserves are just over a third full, enough to push out a few elemental jutsu with her level of chakra control, and most of the wounds she’s sustained are minor sans the two-inch deep gash in her thigh. Her eyes burn from the strain of the chakra she continues to circulate through them, and she can feel the rain leeching warmth from her body.

She’s not hopeless, not yet. Not until long after she’s tapped out her byakugō and the scrolls at her waist. She’s got plenty of hell left to give.

That same desperation begins to give way to mounting anger at the brutal way her teammates have been killed, but she shoves it back in hopes of finding her captain in this mess and getting out. If they can lose the Grass ANBU even for a few seconds, she can use one of her personal genjutsu to hide their presence until they can work out a safe route to Konoha.

Her strategy is promptly dropped when the same man who captured Kaito in a genjutsu motions to one of his own teammates. Hyūga Ryota’s body drops unceremoniously to the muddy ground, at the best angle for Sakura to see that his eyes have been taken.

She’s only slightly relieved to notice the weak rise and fall of his chest.

As the pieces click into place, Sakura realizes that the attack with this large of an ANBU force was too well-timed to be a coincidence. If Grass had known there would be a Hyūga on their squad, this was an inside job.

A Leaf traitor had cost her two teammates.

It’s all Sakura can do to keep her breathing under control and steel herself against the steady voice in her mind that calls for blood. She gives Ryota a quick once over and decides that he may not survive long enough for her to retrieve the Byakugan and get them somewhere she can provide proper medical treatment.

Kakashi’s first lesson to her team - that those who abandon their comrades are worse than scum - runs through her head to damn the decision she comes to, but this is war, and she’s confident she can accomplish both objectives if she plays this smart enough. Her mind is already running through every possible scenario in which she can find the eyes in time to get Ryota out of there.

Sakura shifts into a defensive stance and surveys the ANBU who form a staggered circle around her, but curiously have yet to move against her. She promptly discards that observation, as she’ll gladly take the first move. She doesn’t even try to pretend she has a chance against all of them at once, so she prioritizes.

She’ll start with the ANBU who had been carrying Ryota and work her way through the masks she doesn’t recognize from her and Kaito’s earlier fights if that one doesn’t have the eyes.

A low laugh catches her just as she makes her way into the signs of a suiton jutsu she’d intended to use to capitalize on the relentless rain. Again, the voice is there, edging closer to the forefront of Sakura’s mind and clamoring for her to make the man who finds this amusing bleed.

She’s not sure how much energy she cares to spend continuing to stifle that voice.

“Haruno Sakura - the Tsuchikage requests your presence back in Iwagakure. Come quietly, and I’ll have the Hyūga boy dropped safely back in the Land of Fire near a well-traveled trail so he’ll be picked up soon.”

Sakura slowly drops her hands back to her sides, one with an active chakra scalpel and the other resting on top of her kunai pouch, as she unpacks that one statement. It’s evidence that Grass has joined the long list of smaller countries aligning with the enemy and that the contact in Konoha is privy to sensitive information beyond ANBU, who don’t use those regular trails.

She also notes the implications of how the Grass shinobi, who she pegs as the leader, phrased his statement - the Tsuchikage seemed to want her alive, most likely to lure the rest of Team 7 into enemy territory. It gives her a bit more leeway, since she’ll be the only one fighting to kill.

Baring her teeth, Sakura bites out a tart response:

“You can tell the Tsuchikage to go to fucking hell. Keep each other company once I take you out, asshole.”

Another laugh. The circle of ANBU take a step closer. Red tinges Sakura’s vision as the leader twists his sword into Ryota’s palm, earning a broken whimper she can still hear clearly through the rain.

Sakura’s moving with a speed even Sasuke would have been proud of in the next moment, her kunai bearing down on the man’s throat. She meets his gaze head-on, wanting to see the life drain out of them, and instead sees the world melt into an inverted grey-scale before she can even nick his skin.

The lead Grass nin is a fucking Uchiha. A shinobi from one of the Leaf’s most powerful clans turned rogue.

“You traitorous bastard.”

Sakura’s low growl is met with a louder, clearer version of the laugh she’d just heard seconds before that echoes in the empty space around her.

“Just say the word when you’re ready to come willingly, Sa-ku-ra-chan. Or don’t.”

The world around her goes dark. It’s an empty, infinite blackness without the sharply defined edges that come with shadows in reality. This is a formless, all-encompassing sort of darkness that threatens to steal the air from her lungs and breathes a chill of terror down the back of her neck.

It’s a genjutsu. Focus, Sakura.

Over the course of what feels like days stretched into weeks stretched into years, Sakura watches as her friends, family, and comrades are taken apart piece by piece. She feels the phantom pain as Sasuke’s Sharingan bright eyes are torn from their sockets, all while he rages at her for being the same annoying, useless, pathetic girl she was as a child.

Escape, Sakura. Focus.

She feels the slicing and tearing of a hundred swords piercing every inch of her body as she watches the same happen to Kakashi until he bleeds out, all while he spits venom about having ever been assigned to teach such a useless little girl who has no business playing kunoichi. Dead weight, he calls her.

She screams through the torture of having her skin flayed from her bones as Naruto is stripped of his. The image of his bright smile faltering into a silent scream follows her even as she tries to close her eyes.

Lee. Neji. Shikamaru. Kankuro. Hinata. Chouji. Tenten. Shizune. Sai. Ino. Tsunade. Okaa-san. Otou-san. On and on and on.

Sakura snaps. Black lines twist out from her seal, etching themselves down her cheeks and arms. She doesn’t even notice as the force of her chakra and rage shatters the genjutsu around her, the mantra of kill kill kill ringing through her mind as she lunges to the first sign of movement.

Soaked to the bone in blood, Sakura doesn’t notice the red string that knots itself around her wrist as her hand plunges through the chest of her enemy.

_____________________________________________________________

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I was a little hesitant to post this since another one of my works starts with a fight scene as well, but hopefully I was able to convey the emotional difference between the two. A Lesson in Practicality will be a Time Travel AU (eventually), while this one is obviously a Soulmate AU! I've also never written ItaSaku, so fingers crossed.

Please let me know your thoughts if you have the time. Your feedback means the world to me. ^_^

[hellomynameisbisexual]

“Faggot.” “Cocksucker.” “Femboy.” “Abomination.” Gay. The list of names I’ve been called since coming out as bisexual in June 2020 doesn’t stop there — nor did it stop when I went public with my sexual identity either.

From a young age, I knew I was different from my peers.

Maybe it was the way I walked. Or the way I talked. Or the way I dressed. I just knew I stood out to them like a sore thumb — or perhaps a rainbow of color in a sea of dull gray.

My differences became evident to me when other children at the preschool I attended in suburban San Diego, California, would forsake my company in favor of each other, already forming cliques and inciting drama at such an innocent age.

When my family and I moved to dreary Erie, Pennsylvania, I knew my struggles would only get worse.

Many of the children in my kindergarten class had already known each other for several years before I entered the picture.

They quickly noticed differences in my mannerisms, speech patterns, thoughts and ideas. I wasn’t like the other boys, but I wasn’t like the girls either. I was an outlier, a foreigner and a stranger considered dangerous and unwelcome.

Though I made friends the following few years — including some who would become lifelong companions — most of those primary friendships mirrored the kernels of a neglected ear of corn: delicious when ripe but quick to harden, rot and flake off.

By my fourth grade year, I was teased and bullied nearly daily for being too feminine, too weird, too annoying to fit into my school’s social circles.

When I told my teachers about my struggles, their solution was to attempt to masculinize me by placing me in groups of athletic boys in my class, boys I had nothing in common with and who certainly had nothing in common with me.

Even my grandparents — then and now my caretakers — noticed my un-boyish behavior and enrolled me in the local little league baseball team — whether to also attempt to instill in me a sense of masculinity and male toughness or to help me make new friends I knew not.

I would grudgingly participate in the sport for six, nigh on seven grueling years, never making a single lasting friend and crying almost weekly from the torment it caused me.

Needless to say, I felt like a floundering fish without fins in a sea of angry, hungry sharks during those years.

It wasn’t until the final year of my elementary education that I was introduced to the concepts of puberty, adolescence and sex.

I was told that very soon, I would start noticing the girls in my class and would begin to want to form meaningful relationships with them. Eventually, I would become sexually attracted to them and want to have children with them.

But in those coming years, though many girls would pique my interest, it wasn’t them who ignited the fire in my soul and made me feel the burning passion of desire — it was men.

I quickly realized it was this that set me apart from my male peers and resulted in me being shunned by the girls. I was a boy — soon to be a man — in every physical way, but I wasn’t attracted to or passionate about girls like the other boys in my class were. I was obsessed with men.

But I couldn’t possibly be gay, could I?

Growing up in a household of religious relatives, I was always taught that sex before marriage was a wicked abomination and that being anything but straight was a sin comparable to none.

I distinctly remember watching a news broadcast with my family around the time I was transitioning to my middle school years. The ABC World News clip showcased LGBT marriages being performed out west and contained affirming remarks from then-President Barack Obama on the matter.

“The Bible says marriage is between a man and a woman,” I remember my aunt saying in utter disgust at the television, murmurs of agreement echoing her around the room.

I resolved then to hide my feelings and my pubescent curiosity from my family at all costs, lest I be scolded, shunned or worse: abandoned.

During middle school, I relentlessly dug deep within myself and attempted to alter what I thought was but a simple mental barrier to social normality. All thoughts of being with men were forcibly suppressed in my mind before they could even become tangible, and each of my increasingly urgent bodily needs went ignored and unsatiated.

I even resorted to religion, the only weapon I thought strong enough to aid me in the war raging inside myself.

Day and night, I attempted to “pray the gay away,” but to little avail. Much to my chagrin, I realized that even divine intervention could not “help” me: My homosexuality seemed to be an immortal, malignant tumor infecting each and every one of my thoughts.

Thus, the preliminary years of my second decade of life became miserable and unfulfilling — I was engaged in a fierce battle with an integral aspect of my identity and was inadvertently shattering the chains that bound a beast capable of obliterating every fiber of my cognitive being — anxiety.

By my high school years, men — mean, nasty and indifferent but awe-inspiring, mystifying and oh-so-gorgeous men — had begun to control my deepest, darkest desires and fantasies. My lust had grown large enough to thwart even my most furious attempts at diminishing it.

As I slowly came to terms with the realization that nothing in the universe could “fix” me, my mental situation severely worsened. I fell into a dangerous downward spiral of self-doubt and woefulness.

My relationship with my grandparents quickly began to deteriorate, as did my relationships with my friends. Every day brought with it a new reason to hate my existence — the constant verbal altercations, the continued teasing and even bullying at school, the countless lonely nights spent sobbing quietly into my pillow.

And, to make matters worse, the true nature of my sexuality seemed to express itself in each of my social mannerisms. It wasn’t long before despicable rumors about me spread through the student body of my high school like wildfire.

My teachers noticed my strife, and some took the time to speak with me about a few of the different mental illnesses they suspected I had. But not even they could halt the hordes of horrifying thoughts racing through my head or the string of ruthless comments that would assault me in the hallways.

Soon, however, the light at the end of the long, grueling tunnel that was public education began to shine: I was graduating from high school and about to start fresh. Nothing could have contained my excitement at the prospect of escaping the largest source of my daily torment.

As I digested the freedom going to college offered, idealistic daydreams began to flood my mind — I could live how I wanted with whomever I wanted, and no one could judge me or tell me differently.

How wrong I was.

My first year as an undergraduate student at Penn State Behrend was a living hell.

Though the petty and immature teasing of high school was no longer an issue, standing up for my newfound political identity was, as well as dealing with my growing anxiety.

I was constantly engaged in polite yet heated political debates with those in my dorm. I felt like they were blatantly attempting to oppress me with their own beliefs and had grown to hate me for mine.

The same situation occurred with my grandparents, and we grew increasingly distant over the course of that year.

It didn’t help that I was still “in the closet,” so to speak, and contemplating methods of publicly revealing my true sexual identity. I hadn’t yet officially told anyone I was bisexual, and it remained my most closely guarded secret.

Needless to say, my social circumstances and the added stress of my adjustment to college academics and lifestyle allowed my mental state to reach an unprecedented low. I needed help.

That same year, I saw my family physician and then a psychiatrist, who prescribed me antidepressants in an attempt to lessen my now untameable anxiety. I took them with gusto and also began attending therapy sessions to teach me how to manage my thoughts and emotions.

For a small while, I felt better — I was actually happy in my skin and even happy with my bisexuality.

But then, even my long-awaited mental comfort abandoned me, and I slipped into the deepest, darkest pit of my life.

I became suicidal but never acted on that petrifying potentiality.

I didn’t trust myself to be alone, so I constantly sought the company of others, which only made me feel like a nuisance and waste of time, energy and space.

About a month later — in October 2018 — I got into an accident.

I was barrelling down the highway, escaping a particularly heated verbal altercation with my grandfather. It was raining that day, and the roads were slippery.

Going around a curve, I lost control of my vehicle and flew into a small ravine, flipping not once, not twice but three times in midair before landing upright — dazed, but alive.

Escaping relatively physically unscathed from the incident, with only a broken right clavicle, I was not mentally the same for weeks afterward.

I decided at that time I would come out and reveal my true sexuality at the soonest possible opportunity — I blamed my silence on every terrible situation that had occurred in my life up to that point. If I didn’t come out, I quite literally thought I would die.

Telling even my closest friends was difficult, but I managed, and the relief I felt was paramount to that of the titan Atlas in Greek mythology: I felt like the weight of the entire world — sky and all — had been lifted from my shoulders.

Fast forward to the present: I’m alive, well, out and proud. I’m no longer ashamed of my innate traits or of my thoughts.

Being a bisexual man has taught me many lessons, but foremost among them is that the people who can’t accept me for who and what I am don’t deserve to be in my life.

My anxiety made it difficult to let go of toxic relationships over the years — I learned that the primary source of my mental strife is a fear of abandonment by those I care about — but doing so opened the door to newer, healthier relationships that build me up and boost my confidence instead of chipping away at it.

I’ve since improved tremendously, and not even the onset of the coronavirus pandemic was able to pause my progress. Every day is a learning experience, and I’ve grown so much from the helpless boy I was mere months ago that if you showed me a map of my mentality from 2018, 2019 or even 2020, I wouldn’t recognize myself at all.

Revealing my bisexuality to the world didn’t solve all my issues — there were and still are other factors that contribute to my anxiety and mental health — but coming out was perhaps the most profound, life-altering moment in my 21 years. Nothing compares to the freedom I now enjoy, nor will any other experience compare to the relief I felt following my announcement.

[paradox-time]

People (idiots) tell me not to let my autism affect my daily life, but they never have to deal with the intense visceral horror of spending five minutes inside a TJ Max store. I mean this with every fiber of my being, fuck that place. TJ Max is a clothing store, all the places like Target and Walmart and shit give the clothes they can't sell to TJ Max to sell at a discounted price. Sounds pretty good right? Kinda like a thrift store? (thought past me like the absolute fool they were) But there's just one single problem that my funky little brain just couldn't handle about the hell that is this store in particular.

The place isn't fucking organized in the slightest.

"So what? That doesn't seem like such a big deal. I think you might be overreacting." Is what you're probably thinking right now. But when I go into a little more detail you might begin to understand why I have such strong feelings about this.

The second I walk in I look to my right and see nice little rows of bags sorted by size and type, the backpacks are very clearly in their own section, then the purses, and so on. This gave me the sense that I could navigate the new environment easily with such nice little visible defined sections. I walk a little farther and see dresses, this is not the section I would like to be in so I continue on my journey looking for cheap T-shirts. I turn left and see jewelry, a little odd to have here but I figure someone must have decided that dresses and jewelry needed to be close together because mainstream media's lazy depiction of femininity is dress+necklaces=marketing to women. I continue on and find what I'm looking for, or so I thought. See, I thought what I had found was shirts, instead what I found was sensory hell. As told above, it was not organized in the slightest. It wasn't organized by color like at Good Will, not by shirt type like at St Vinnies, not by brand like any clothing store that sells multiple brands, it wasn't organized by similarities like at Old Navy, that place fucking sucked. It was barely organized by size. The worst of the worst was that it wasn't sorted by fabric type/texture. I wanted to rub the skin off my hands after feeling a cotton shirt and then a fucking lacey blouse and then one of those awful velvet monstrosities followed by goddamn wool. I'll say it again, sensory hell. Not to mention all the clothes there were ugly as fuck, no wonder none of the other stores could sell them.

Oh but the worst was still to come. I exit the clothing half of the store and turn to find the motherfucking décor. I didn't think it could be done, but somehow it was even less organized. I already have issues with shitty decoration in general. It needs to be balanced, it needs to make sense, it needs each piece to look nice on its own but it also needs to look nice all together as a whole. That fucking store looked like a hoarder's storage container. Everything was jumbled and mixed up next to things that had nothing to do with each other, everything felt like it was too close to me. I was already in a ton of distress but this straight up made me feel like I was going to throw up.

Needless to say, I got out of there quick without buying anything.

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One: Breaking the Curse

Chapter 56: The Madness of the Evil Queen

Ordinarily, he would have dismissed Regina's ramblings as the whinings of a girl about to lose everything. But something about her behavior left him unsettled for the day. He knew Regina. He knew that this part would be a risk. When Regina was under pressure, she did stupid things. Hell, the last time she'd been this upset at her step-daughter and he'd given her the Curse, she'd gone out and settled for a poison apple. That had ultimately been fine, he supposed. It was a delay, but all had turned out okay in the end. This time, however, he didn't have the patience for stupidity anymore. And he didn't want it to be like last time where he had to wait for her to come and brag to him about a stupid idea she'd put into place. He wanted as much information as he could get.

He didn't like not having eyes on Emma throughout the day, but Dove hadn't called back regarding his parents, and he wasn't too terribly worried about her at the moment. Fortunately, he was happy to still have eyes on Regina. One of Dove's cousins was still watching the woman, and he was all too eager to call the bird and order him to pay close attention to the Evil Queen. He wanted to know what she was doing, where she was going, and what she was thinking; though in this world, knowing what she was thinking was only something he was going to get to the bottom of if he knew the first two. He didn't know how to prepare himself for what he found out throughout the day.

Regina hadn't gone to her office after he'd spoken with her. Instead, she'd gone home to fetch something. Mark couldn't tell what it was, but she'd put it in her car and then driven to the school. It was the strangest thing. Mark said that Regina had gotten out of her car, walked around a bit, and then gotten right back into her car. When she'd first pulled up, Mark had expected Henry forgot something, and she was there to drop it off, or perhaps she was planning on picking him up early from school. But as far as he noticed, she hadn't seen or spoken to anyone, not even her son, even though school let out only thirty minutes later. According to Mark, she'd been there all of five minutes before she'd gone back to her office.

It was nerve-racking. That visit looked like nothing. That was how he knew it couldn't actually be nothing. But he was helpless to do anything except wait at the store for more information, more clues to help him put this together.

The next clue came maybe an hour later in the form of a text message. Just left her office with a man, they got into a car, following."

He didn't bother to send a return message. He wanted Mark's eyes on Regina, not his phone. So he waited. He went into the back, sat at his wheel, and spun for a time to relieve some of the tension he felt. He wanted to know everything. Where they were going, what they were doing, who the stranger she was with could possibly be…

When the call finally came, the information made him sick to his stomach. The man who couldn't be identified was none other than Jefferson. Mark had been able to get a better look at him and properly identify him when they'd arrived at their destination, the Storybrooke cemetery. Specifically, the Mills family crypt. Mark reported that they'd both gone in together, spent perhaps twenty minutes total inside, and then come out again and gone their separate ways. Regina had been carrying something in her hand that she hadn't been carrying when she'd gone in.

Fuck.

He couldn't see Jefferson because of the deal they'd made. He'd promised he'd never see his face on his doorstep ever again. But he could call him, get him to tell him what he knew.

"Why on earth would you work with the Evil Queen, and what did she want from you?" he demanded in as smooth a way as possible.

"What everyone wants from me, a ticket into other worlds. I'm tired of waiting. I want my daughter back!"

"Regina will betray you."

"If she can get me my daughter, then that's what I'll do, damn the risks. I've taken risks in the past, and you better believe I'm going to take one to get my daughter back."

"You think this is what your daughter wants? That she'll be proud?"

"I don't care, and I know you don't either, so don't pretend like you do. Regina can do what you can't. I've waited long enough."

And then he heard a click, and the line went dead.

He swore loudly at that reaction. His old friend didn't sound well. He sounded crazed and frenzied, angry in a way that he hadn't ever known him to be. He wanted to go over there himself and get his answers, but he felt certain that it would break their deal, and if the Curse did break, he wasn't about to suffer those consequences. He could send some of his thugs out after Jefferson, but when he thought of all they'd been, he couldn't stomach it. Besides, it wouldn't work. Jefferson knew how he worked, what steps he'd take. He knew not to go home for fear of all that. His next play, whatever it was, would be unpredictable as Regina's. Oddly enough, he was fine with that.

Jefferson hadn't dealt well with the loss of his child, at least not the way that he had. And he couldn't really blame him. All these years, he'd had the reassurance of a Seer that he'd be reunited. Jefferson had…what…his word? Regina's word? What was that worth to a man missing his child? No, Jefferson was beyond his help now unless he was able to break the fucking Curse! And right now, all hope on that rested with a puppet who hadn't told him what was going on.

At sunset, he got another call from Regina's guard. Something odd had happened, odd enough that Mark felt the need to call while he drove. After Jefferson, Regina had gone back to her house. And who had shown up? None other than Emma Swan.

Why had she arrived? He hadn't a clue, only told him that the women seemed fairly cordial as they spoke. Regina invited Emma in. The visit was two, three, maybe five minutes tops, and then Emma Swan left the premises carrying something with her. What was it? He didn't know that either. It was a plastic container of something.

Roughly five minutes after Emma left, so did Regina. She was on her way back into town. He assumed it had been for her office, perhaps to do some of the work that was surely piling up while she ran around doing whatever in the fuck she thought she was doing. But she didn't.

He hid it well, barely glancing up from his ledger when the bell to his store went off again, but the truth was that he nearly sighed in relief. Finally, a conversation with the Queen, herself. He could get things out of her that his men couldn't. And he was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of whatever game she was playing.

Regina came sauntering into the place, looking like a woman pleased with herself. That excited him…a proud Regina meant she'd want to do some gloating, and gloating meant that her tongue would be loose enough to reveal more than a couple of facts he was dying to know.

"I hope you bought travel insurance because no one's going anywhere," she stated with the arrogance of a child in her voice.

"Oh, really?" he questioned, feigning a lack of true interest. "And why's that?"

"Because I found a solution to my Emma Swan problem."

"Oh, yes?" he prompted, continuing to work even as she bragged. She wanted to act like a child. He'd treat her as one…one throwing a temper tantrum that didn't deserve recognition. She'd be so irritated he didn't care more that she'd make his job a lot easier.

"An old, reliable solution."

He froze, unable to hide his shock at what she'd just said. . "Old and reliable"…where had he heard those words before. Regina might be a child having a tantrum, but she was a child that potentially had magic. Suddenly he recalled the plastic container that Mark had seen Emma leaving Regina's property with. Food was kept in containers like that. It was impossible, given that they were in the middle of a Curse, but…if he was right, and she'd done what she was hinting at, then she really had gone with an old plan, hadn't she?

"A Sleeping Curse," he assumed, watching her expression for confirmation. Her gaze said it all, and it took every fiber in his being not to swear out loud at her. How the hell had she managed that?! "Might I ask how you managed to obtain one here in Storybrooke?"

"By sacrificing the last bit of magic I had left."

He nearly laughed. For one so bright as she was, sometimes she could also be utterly stupid. Magic wasn't just about mastering the trickier spells; it was also about remembering the basics. Perhaps she'd forgotten in her years here.

"So, you made magic from magic. Well, I'm sure I don't have to remind you that, uh, all magic comes with a price."

Regina leaned forward. "Then you can pay it. Because now, the Curse is going to be stronger than ever. And you will be right here where you belong."

He had to walk away from her. He had to keep thinking, to keep busy, anything but let a single hint of expression show on his face. "Stronger than ever"…he had hope in the fact that he knew this Curse didn't work like that. It had a weakness, and the weakness was here, closer than she'd ever been. She was angry at Regina, and Regina was angry at her. Didn't she see? All this did was have the opposite effect. It was making the Curse weaker. And as for "old reliable"…how quickly she'd forgotten just how unreliable that plan of hers had been. He hadn't. But he also hadn't forgotten how much of a hand he'd played on making sure "old reliable" hadn't worked. He'd done it once; he could do it again.

"Don't you understand?" Regina shouted at him as he moved around the table, following after him, acting like some kind of puppy dog seeking gratification. Sometimes she really did remind him of her mother and sister. "I won! So, whatever plan you had, whatever reason you wanted the curse broken…too bad. Because it's never going to happen."

She placed her hand on the globe in front of her and gave it a spin before exiting dramatically. He wished he could state that an exit like that was unnecessary. Given the situation he suddenly found himself confronted with, he couldn't say that.