#pain pain pain pain pain pain pain for a thousand years

[dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth]

Another way to look at it:

>The pharmaceutical industry capitalizes on human suffering and profits off our pain. They take what we need for survival and a good quality of life, then put it behind unreachable barriers by charging fucking thousands for a single month of medication, holding said design for the medication under lock and key for the specific purpose of not allowing anyone else to profit off their design, thus they reap the benefits of us normal folks forfeiting our life's savings to survive and let them thrive.

>Art is an industry of alreay impoverished folks struggling to just enjoy their lives and who make things for folks to enjoy, but it isn't necessary to have art in the same way it is to have medication that keeps your body functioning and alive. Artists design one of a kind pieces for people to buy as they wish, and they pour years of work into what they do for the sake of enjoyment more than they do profit. They don't intend to make billions by watching everyone else suffer, and they have a right to protect what they make especially since it's, y'know, not a fucking thing you need to keep your damn organs from shutting down which will kill you.

>You have no choice but to buy medication to keep healthy.

>No one is forcing you to buy art.

>pharma companies monopolize on medication and restrict access to it thanks to intellectual property

>"I disagree, people dying because they can't access the medication they need is an arbitrary unimportant scenario, have you thought about my art?"

alright then.

[forwomenbiwomen]

I learned of a Tiktok 'trend' recently of men taking their female family members, friends, partners etc out on a lovely nature walk, then starting to record and saying "I bet nobody would be able to hear you scream here."

There is not ONE video that the woman laughs in, even when they explain the prank. Not one. For a sex who have been socialised to nervously laugh when uncomfortable, not one of them found it funny. It was mothers who stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes filled with fear. It was girlfriends who started running away in fear, to the laughing taunts of "it was just a joke come back!!!!!". It was sisters who stared these men down, unable to process what this male had said to them.

First of all, the timing is sociopathic. It's not an accident. With Nick "we control your bodies b*tch" Fuentes doing a monologue that undeniably sunk into the psyches of most men, AND the general political landscape for women atm, they feel joy and pleasure at unabashedly making their female friends and family suffer. They giggle at the prospect of making them fear for their life, and they film it for other men to get off on.

Moids continually stun me. After hundreds of thousands of years of oppression you'd think I would understand and expect it, but they reach new heights every time I blink. Deep down, I'm just a hopeful girl who sees men as humans. I try not to assume they're beyond saving, but they're making it harder to believe. They just seem wired for pain and suffering and destruction.

My heart bleeds for the women and girls in places where they have full reign. These demons won't stop until they have raped and destroyed the planet in pursuit of more intense porn to feel a sliver of the emotion women possess.

[magesforthedas]

Just have to share this, because I keep seeing critiques of Veilguard that like, try to guilt people who say they love, or even like the game. And HEAVY critiques of the protagonist, Rook, and how they aren't really a hero.

ALSO it contains some SPOILERS so just be warned ☺️

Like, yeah I have a couple gripes about the game, but overall it's emotional and amazing and I care about the characters so deeply. I keep seeing how people are saying how Rook and the party were not well written because they caused a lot of death?? This is Dragon Age, everything always goes from bad to worse, but the characters always bring out the light.

Rook was put in a very shitty situation, and I've seen people say they caused the destruction of thousands by trying to prevent the hundreds. But how many people, before the game came out, said Solas's plan to tear down the veil was a bad idea? Not all, I'm sure, but most. I always viewed it, and I know I wasn't alone, as that by trying to "fix" things Solas was just justifying his selfish wants, when he knew somewhere in his heart that the people of today, including the elves that he was "doing this for", would rather live alongside their friends & family in a world without their old magic, than live in a world with it alone.

That being said, even with differing views in and out of the game, it's very reasonable that a group of people would try to stop him, not know the consequences. And the beautiful thing about Rook, why Varric chose THEM, is that they saw what they had created, and didn't give up, didn't leave it to someone else to fix. Whether or not it was really their fault they stepped up and tried to save the world the best they could, from the mistake they unwittingly made (which I would argue against the fact that they made a "mistake", looking at that they were hired to do a job & by successfully completing that job there were unintended consequences).

Parallels anyone? Dragon Age loves those. But the difference, again illustrated in the game, is that while Solas couldn't move past the regret of his mistakes, Rook could. And on the topic of the deaths of those around them, not everyone that died in the past was Solas's fault, but some he did directly lead to their deaths. And he accepted that, did it over & over. Rook never led anyone to their death. Rook walked willingly into it themselves, and the love and trust their companions felt led them to choose to die for Rook, and the world instead.

And people who say the destruction of the south means the earlier games were for nothing? How so? 20 years ago, 10 years ago, things were happening, people were dying that needed saving. The heroes of that age saved the world so it would still be around to save now. And who knows what the south really looks like, or what it might look like as and after rebuilding? We will, in another 10 years once BioWare comes out with more content I suppose, and I wouldn't be surprised if everyone we knew is dead, but I also wouldn't be surprised if many, many of them lived.

Because that is Dragon Age. Death, betrayal, sacrifice, cruelty, pain. It's a dark, dark world. But there is always a ray of light, of hope. And characters who will do their utmost to protect that .

[libraryofbronze]

“You are sure about this?”

“Of course. We’ve had a thousand years to prepare” The holy paladin gestured to the field of combat before them. Massive, bulky turrets jutted out of the earth, each one a steel fortress in its own right. They bristled with dozens of barrels, holy water ran through them as coolant and holy symbols blazed across their armoured forms. 

There were hundreds; each as tall as a tree. They moved as one, slaved to the single central hub which controlled them from the distant city. It was eerie how they moved back and forth with one mind. But the turrets were not all that had been brought forth in preparation. A legion of paladins stood ready, under the shadow of the guns. Their distant ancestors had worn plate and holy metal, but these men and women of faith wore power-armour no less divine. Their blades were nano-edged, and each one also bore a gun slung over their back and a pistol at their waist. Beyond those, there were the tanks. Massive, growling beasts of steel and anger. Bedecked with symbols of divine authority. There were five hundred of the things, each one a masterwork, product of years of individual effort. No effortless mass produced model these. Each was unique. 

Beyond even this, the artillery stood ready to lay down a barrage. A battery of missiles, able to fill the sky with shrieking death and the shadow of a thousand drones which buzzed above the field of battle. It was, Thomas, the High-Priest would admit, an impressive sight. “We will win,” the commander said. “There is no doubt. Look at our forces. They’re beyond compare. No army in history has been as ready as we are now.” 

“I hope you are right, Thomas said. “For all our sake.”

The commander moved to reply, but the ground began to shake. Thomas tensed, an instinctive flicker of horror whipped through his soul. It was time!

At the centre of the field, there was an old wooden statue. It was disfigured by age, the image upon it worn away until all that was left was the vague outline of a massive, leering body. Yet it emanate a sense of palpable evil. The magic binding which had held the dark soul of the beast at bay had finally ebbed too far. 

The statue exploded. A detonation which shook the field as something big began to tear its way into existence. It was black, glistening like oil. Rising up and up and up from where the statue had been! A giant! A monster! Its skin slick and wet, rippling like liquid. It was humanoid, but only in the sense that it was made by someone who knew roughly what a human looked like but had never personally seen one. It had a head, two arms. A long, slender body. Its head was horned, its eyes blazed red. The teeth were pale as ivory, jagged and sharp like knives. Each was as big as a man. 

For a moment - a long moment - no one said anything. It felt as if the world was frozen. Like time had ground to a halt.

Then the cannons opened up. They fired as one, a wave of fire and death slammed into the monster! The impact shook the earth and Thomas felt himself blasted back by the wave of force! Heat pressed against his skin and he gasped in desperation. 

Holy fire. Holy light bathed the area where the creature had stood. He blinked, but it was so bright! There was no way he could even see what was happening. He shook his head. Nothing could have survived! There was no way that such an evil creature could withstand-

“Disappointing.” 

The words clutched at his soul. 

“One thousand years and this is what you bring me?”

“Drones!” The commander roared. “Now! Cannons, fire again! Bring the tanks! Paladin line, advance!”

The cannons roared a second time. The Great Evil simply stood. Impacts rained against its body. Sacred light splashed against its ichorious form. But every crater blasted open merely closed again. There was no blood nor sign of pain. It waved one hand, as if bored by the whole situation. A rain of black spears lanced from its palm. First one, but then a thousand, each one a tiny speck of the giant. They flew through the air, and though they should not have been able to even scratch the armour of the turrets, they did far more.

Detonations began to ring out, one after the next. Fiery blossoms bloomed across the battlefield and the bombardment started to falter. The stakes rained down like hail, catching not only the machines but also the drones, the tanks and the paladins. The air was full of screams and fire. 

The tanks roared forward and their main cannons boomed. The beast was hit. Hard. This time, it stumbled. A look of annoyance crossed its misshapen face. Green lips curled in brutal anger and it unleashed a wave of living darkness from its body that flowed across the land. 

Thomas flinched; the blackness passed over him. It was the coldest, most hateful feeling he’d ever known. When he could see again, his eyes widened with horror. For where there had once been one monster, there were thousands. Abominations, twisted creatures, all of them forged from living darkness. They bore the same snarling face as their master though wore many forms - humans and insects and monsters and more. Like all the darkest legends of mankind had been poured out onto this battlefield. 

“Destroy them,” the great beast spoke. “The time of light is over. Show them the power of the master of darkness.”

The army surged. The paladins leapt to meet it. Holy blade met living shadow and the sounds of battle were joined. The last of the turrets began to fire wildly. The tanks rumbled and roared as they engaged the bigger monsters. Missiles filled the air, striking and detonating with whipping explosions. Through it all, the great monster watched. It didn’t fight. It didn’t bother to defend itself. The holy weapons could slay its children, but it was not in danger. When it was hit, it healed. Thomas felt the bitter realisation that it did not even regard them as a threat. 

Suddenly, it lashed out! A dozen men and women died screaming. Their sacred armour burned. It picked up one of their swords, holding it between two fingers like a wooden toothpick. 

“Sacred blades…” The voice rumbled. “You did well. But not well enough.”

It closed its fist, shattering the metal in an instant. 

“There is only one blade I fear and these are not it. You carry the power of gods? I have slain your gods once. I will do so again.”

The battle raged and for a moment, it almost seemed like they might have a chance. The army of darkness was being driven back! The paladins were bleeding badly for every inch of ground they took, but they took it nonetheless. Every moment, there were less horrors standing. The black blood of their ichor stained the earth. 

“I am bored. This is a poor warm up for the real fight.”

The creature swept its arm out and a blast of black fire scythed the battle field. Holy armour, sturdy metal, blessed flesh, none of it mattered. The monster carved through their line in an instant. Hundreds died. Hundreds more as the monsters poured into the shattered formations. Screams of horror and pain began to ring out. With two hands, the monster silenced the last of the turrets and began to hunt down the final tanks. The drones were falling, winged horrors chased them from the skies and the missiles were being intercepted by an arcane force. 

Suddenly, Thomas felt the monster’s eyes focus on him. In that instant, he knew he was about to die. It flicked a finger at him. A single, casual gesture. But more than enough to send a river of power screaming towards his location. He braced for the end, but the paladin-commander leapt into the path of the attack. Righteous to the end, he gave his life for the priest without even a second thought. As his burned, broken body hit the earth, Thomas knew true despair. 

The battle was over. The high priest fell to his knees. The last of the paladins fought a desperate final stand, surrounded by islands of thrashing horrors. The turrets burned; the tanks were wrecks. Fire and smoke filled the sky.

And above it all, the Great Evil presided. It was not even happy. That was somehow the most bitter part. It was such a small victory to it that it was not even satisfied. It was simply an inevitability. 

It surveyed the battlefield, the ruins, the bodies, the craters and the fires. 

“So it was,” the ancient voice rumbled again. “So it is again. So it ever will be. This shall be the start of my empire. An empire of suffering and pain and evil. Where the dark shall triumph forever. A place where I - Aku - the Shapeshifting Master of Evil shall reign eternal.”

But then, quite suddenly, the monster stopped. It jerked, as if it had seen a familiar sight and for the first time, an expression of actual shock seemed to dance across its face. Thomas turned, expecting to see a choir of angels, or the descent of a god, or some other miracle. 

But there was only one man. One man had emerged from the distant treeline. He was walking, slowly, as if he was in no hurry at all. Thomas tried to focus on him, but he could not. It was as if he were not fully there.

But even if he didn’t know who it was, the monster did. It snarled, genuine anger boiled across its features. 

“You should be dead,” it snarled. “It has been a thousand years and still you come to plague me! But if you think you can stop me this time, you are wrong. You are old. You are weak. This is my time, sam-u-rai!”

The unknown man simply drew his blade. 

The prophecy foretold that The Great Evil would awaken 1000 years after his original defeat. As it turns out, the people took this very seriously, so when he awakened, he was met with an army of blessed knights, an evil containment system, and two dozen automated holy turrets aimed at him.

[mae-gi-writes]

let it be me | kuroo tetsurou (2)

In which you, as a new divorcée, can't help but crush on your 4-year-old's new PE Coach.

genre: singleparent!reader x coach! Kuroo, fluff, acquaintances-to-lovers

taglist: @patpatspatz @matchagirliris @multi-fandom-fanfic @alittlebirdahgaselx @kuroos--little--kitten @menacejelly12 @aeshiue @dreamlessnight @altheades @loonalockley @not-your-average-fangirl @bertqut1 @sunlixfl-blog @nabboo007

a/n: enjoy! <3 thanks for all the love given to the first part of this story! here's the second part. Third part is coming soon ~

---- previous | part two | next part >>>

"He can't be serious."

You sigh and watch the wine in your glass slosh around, creating beautiful patterns along the rim of your glass, "unfortunately, I think he is."

Your cousin has on an expression you can't quite place, in-between disgust and pure confusion. He's at the microwave, busy heating up some popcorn. Having adamantly asked you to sit on his couch while taking care of the snacks, you thus decided to watch Sakura play with her legos along the carpet, keeping a watchful eye in case one might end up in her mouth.

"He's only marrying her for the money," is what he concludes after a small pause.

You snort into your glass, take a sip of it and allow the bitterness to coat your tongue, "I wish that were true."

"How would you know that?"

" 'Tsumu, is it written stupid on my forehead?" your own wrinkles in distaste, "I see the way he looks at her. He's--" you choke on your words then, the knot in your throat growing tenfold, "--he's in love with her."

"Who is in love, mum?"

"No one at all," you're quick to answer upon noticing Sakura has been listening in. She normally doesn't, a kid that enjoys staring off into space and conjuring make-believe stories, where there's magic and only happy endings. You try and force a smile onto your face, "how's the house construction for Princess Peach going?"

Your daughter lets out a laugh as she presents to you a square that looks nothing like a house. Still, you coo at it, "so pretty! I bet princess peach would love it."

Your conversation with Atsumu has to wait until Sakura is tucked away in her uncle's bedroom and has listened to three stories about princesses, before you manage to join him back onto the couch where he's busy watching a rerun of volleyball matches.

You don't get to see him much now, courtesy of the fact that he's a national athlete and has been booked at the big games representing Japan. You couldn't be prouder, and yet his permanent absence does still leave a big hole in your heart whenever he flies over a thousand miles. Atsumu had been your rock since you guys were kids, defending you on the school playground and dragging you around to parties and birthdays without your consent. He'd taken care of you as a big brother would and he still is. You don't know how to repay this kind of kindness.

You're just thankful that he has one week off so that you can rant and ramble about the unfairness of the world. At least with Atsumu here, it appeases the pain, if just a little.

"Have you signed the papers yet?" he asks, handing you the bowl of popcorn.

You grab a handful, popping onto of them into your mouth as you answer, "not yet."

"You should ask him for alimony, at least."

"I'm not sure I'd win that, 'Tsumu."

"Still," his nose wrinkles in distaste, "this feels unfair. And why are you the one taking care of Sakura on your own? And I don't mean the parenting part. What about the finances? Why can't he contribute?"

"Because he's a dick and he thinks he can get away with it," you're glad that the tv is providing a welcome distraction, for you can't bear to look into Atsumu's eyes, "I'm just going to sign it and be done with it. I don't want Sakura to suffer any longer. It's not fair on her, she barely sees him."

"Well maybe it's time you find someone else too, y/n."

Your thoughts suddenly flash to Kuroo's beautiful smile and you have to physically force yourself to keep from grinning. You can feel the heat from the back of your neck and come up with the excuse that it's still too early and that Sakura wouldn't like her world shattering just for your happiness.

But it seems that Atsumu knows you better than that, for he asks, "are you blushing?"

"Wha--" Panic skitters through you, "no. No, why would I blush?"

His eyebrows raise, "you’ve met someone then?"

"N--No. Not at all. It's--" you realize you're blundering when his smile widens slightly, "it's not like that."

"So who's the lucky guy?"

"Atsumu."

"Y/N," his eyes glisten with playfulness and he nudges your shoulder, "c'mon. Tell me!"

You let out another breath and mumble, "He’'s not someone I met. He's...Just someone I know."

"And how do you know him?"

"He's Sakura's PE coach."

Atsumu lets out a whistle, "well that--" he shakes his head, "--that's not what I imagined at all."

"Shut up."

"So you like him?"

"It's not--It's really not like that. I--" you try and rack your brain for anything to say because this is really embarrassing. Who has a crush at the age of twenty-nine? Practically all of your friends are already married and have kids, talk about husband problems and how they wish for their youth back. And you? Here you are, thinking you might have a crush. You're no better than a middle school girl.

Which is why you say, "I don't even know him."

"You just think he's cute?"

"Precisely. But there are a lot of cute guys. It doesn't mean anything."

“Right,” Atsumu lets out a breath before he leans back into the couch, “but you know what I think?”

You hum in response.

“I think you should get laid—“

You almost spit out your wine in shock, gape at him in horror, “Atsumu!”

Again, your brain goes into overdrive at the thought of Kuroo and his sweaty chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the way he just towers over your small frame…

NO! You slam onto your mental brakes and shake your head, “you’re disgusting.” You spit out.

“I’m telling the truth princess. I really believe in the power of s—“

“Don’t—“ you cut him off with a raised palm, “don’t even say it.”

“So tell me,” Atsumu proceeds to wriggle his brows suggestively which makes it even harder to stop the blush igniting along your face, “this guy, how handsome is he? Must be pretty good-looking for you to be blushing like that.”

“Shut up ‘Tsumu, it’s not like that at all. Just stop. He's like--half of my age."

“Alright alright,” he laughs his deep-bellied laughter and wraps an arm around you in a gentle, comforting hug, “but if ever you do get lais with him, you gotta tell me.”

“Mum, what does ‘getting laid’ mean?”

“Oh!” Your head snaps to the doorway only to see your daughter all sleepy-eyed and clutching a spare pillow.

“Sakura!” You scramble to over, casting your cousin a scowl as you do, “c’mon, sweetie. Let’s get you back to bed.”

You hear Atsumu’s laughter follow you all the way to the bedroom.

————

It’s weird when Sakura isn’t around.

It’s almost like you’ve lost your purpose. But then again, you should be taking advantage of this right? That’s what everyone keeps telling you.

But alas, something in you cannot just let yourself rest for fear that your thoughts may go into a black hole of what ifs and images of Sakura with your ex-husband’s wife —well, almost ex-husband— and thus decide to take on a last-minute order.

It’s a simple enough request— a birthday cake. While you usually plan events from A to Z, this order merely requested a cake of any kind. So that’s how you spend your Saturday morning — creating a dough and sugar decorations that would fit into the theme of “Halloween”, as per what your client has asked.

You drive up to the pin location around four in the afternoon, strolling through the streets until the google maps signals you that you’ve arrived to your destination. Turning off the ignition at the said house — a beautiful Victorian home adorned with columns twice your height and size — you open your door only to come face to face with a familiar pair of golden eyes.

“Coach?”

“Kosuke-san?”

You both stare. And stare.

It’s shock that comes first. Before realization slaps you in the face, “oh!” You quickly bow in hopes that you haven’t been staring too long, “good afternoon, Coach. What—What brings you here?”

"Kosuke-san," he bows and looks just as surprised as you are, before he notices the way you're struggling to juggle to cake in your arms, "here, let me help you."

Without hesitation, he opens the door a bit wider and closes the gap between you, lifting the box from your arms, "jeez how heavy is this thing?"

You let out a small laugh, "it's all the icing sugar."

"Come in," he gestures with his chin for you to follow and as you step into the threshold he continues, "so when you said you were an event planner--I didn't expect you to be a cake designer too."

"It's an extra service I provide," you shrug, "I'm a patissier by career. Event planning is just something that keeps the cash flowing."

Kuroo pauses in mid-step then, "you're a patissier?"

"Yeah. Well, I was," you chuckle, "but anyway, it's been a while since I've baked now. So I hope it's just as good as you expect it to be."

Kuroo opens his mouth only to be cut off by a horde of boys stumbling into what appears to be the kitchen area. Now that you have a better look, it's all white marble and golden taps and golden handles on every piece of furniture to match. In any case, this house screams of money and for a minute, you feel a bit small and insignificant in your stained-flour blouse, the splotches of paint across your faded out jeans, courtesy of Sakura's art skills.

"You must be y/n!" one of the boys detaches himself. His orange hair glistens in the sun streaming through the window and he's a bit shorter than Kuroo. He beams at you and you can't help but be reminded of a puppy, "thanks for taking my order on such a short notice!"

"No worries at all. You must be...Hinata?"

"Yes!" he shakes your hand, "so I see you've met Kuroo! He's one of my best mates! We used to play against each other back in high school."

"Really now?" you quirk a brow in Kuroo's direction, watching the muscles of his arms ripple as he places the cake in an orderly manner inside the fridge. His voice is muffled when he replies, "yeah, he's the midget that made us jump for our lives. I hated him."

"You're just sour because you lost that one time," Hinata pouts, "but anyway, this is the rest of the ex-team!"

And so that's how you get a round of names that you will probably forget in five minutes and Kuroo, having seen the confusion in your eyes, can't help but laugh to himself because the sight is somewhat adorable. And he knows he shouldn't find it, he knows you're off limits because first, you're a mom from the school and two, you're married and have a kid. It's definitely not at all appropriate for his eyes to be roaming over your curves or to linger over the light glittering in your eyes.

Get a hold of yourself, he mentally whacks the back of his head.

“Where’s the little munchkin?” Kuroo asks you once you’re all settled after having been wheedled by Hinata to stay (“please please please you did such a great job on the cake” is what he’d begged). You’re now perched onto a plush lounge chair, a mixture of juice and vodka in your hand and watching the nth match of pingpong between someone whose name you forget and the other whose name sounds like Daichi. Though yoj might be wrong.

You’re glad for Kuroo’s presence, for even if he is a stranger, he still feels familiar to you right now in this setting.

“Sakura’s with her father today,” you explain with a slight smile in hopes it doesn’t give any of that bitterness away.

Kuroo opens his mouth like he wants so say something — anything— but you beat him to it, “we’re not together. Not anymore.”

His eyes widen with realization and you see it, the way he’s putting all the puzzle pieces together, “I’m sorry to hear,” is what he finally musters.

“Nothing be to be sorry about.”

“So… the name Kosuke…”

“Is my maiden name,” you reply, “I’ve never changed names. Looking back, I think I’ve done the right thing.”

Kuroo isn’t sure whether he should be mad for you or hurt in your place. After all, who in their right mind would leave their wife and their toddler daughter?

He deals with little kids every day, so he knows exactly what they’re like on a daily basis, and it’s not easy.

“I’m sorry,” it seems that’s the only thing he knows how to say.

“Really,” you laugh at him, “how can you be sorry when it’s not even your fault?”

Kuroo shrugs and grins bashfully because yes, it’s true and he still doesn’t know what to say. So he decides to ask, “And Sakura… how is she?”

“She doesn’t realize it. She’s too young,” your smile fades slightly, “in a way, I hope that’s a good sign.”

His heart clenches at the thought of you raising this kid alone. He can’t even imagine it. It makes sympathy swim inside his chest like an ache he can’t quite ignore. The look on your face suggests that you’ve been let down and he has the sudden impulse to tell you that everything will be alright, will be okay.

But he can’t do that. You’ll think of him as a creep. So he bites his tongue and look away instead, at the war of pingpong ongoing between his two friends. In a way, he’s glad for the distraction as he sips on his beer.

“And you?” Your voice piping up surprises him. His eyes flit back to your face. You continue, “married? Engaged?”

Kuroo’s throat bobs as he chuckles, “no. None of that.”

“How come?” You take a sip of your cocktail, “you don’t seem like the type to wound up alone with a hundred cats.”

“No no,” he can’t help but laugh because one, you’re hella attractive to him; tiny and frail and looking like he can fit you in a box no problem and two; you’re actually entertaining to be around. Something that he’s found lacking in his previous dates, “I just didn’t find anyone special yet.”

“Well there's no rush,” you lift your cocktail as you speak, “and anyway, you’re still young. You should enjoy it while you can.”

“Young?” Kuroo’s face breaks into a grin as his golden orbs glimmer down at you, amused, “how old do you think I am?”

"Uhm--I don't know. Early twenties?"

"I'm twenty-five," he gives you a look, "how old are you?"

"Twenty-eight. Going on twenty-nine."

"You look like you've just gotten out of college though," Kuroo's smirk is visible even behind his beer as he chugs down most of his drink, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you and Sakura were sisters."

"Not even," you retort, "And excuse me, but you look younger than twenty-five."

"I make up for it in height," he peers down at you, "but I suppose you wouldn't understand that considering--"

Your arm whacks at his shoulder before you know it. A playful gesture surely, but one that you don't really use on your daughter's teachers. Let alone ones that have bulging muscles and a figure to die for. You stare at your hand for a long minute, your brain going blank, before your eyes whip up to his and horror seeps into your gaze.

"Oh my god!" you screech and recoil like he's the one that had slapped you, "I'm so sorry, I--It's just--automatic you know, my cousin--he's got the same humor and--well I--I'm really sorry--"

The guffaw that leaves Kuroo's mouth is so loud that it causes heads to turn, even the ones invested in the ping pong game. He bends over while holding his stomach and the initial panic that you have wears off upon seeing him look so joyously happy. You can't help but chuckle along.

"What?" you say when he's regained most of his breath, "what's so funny?"

"You are," he grins, before it turns mischievous, "senpai."

"Hey--now that's going a bit too far!"

You're not quite sure what time you get home that night. But you do know that you've gone to sleep with a smile on your face.

————

"Kuroo sensei! He stole my ball!"

A typical Monday morning where Kuroo is busy surveilling the fifth graders as they decided to play basketball during their free time. He's not one to deny such requests, actually enjoys watching them play and seeing them grow day by day, developing their techniques. But to say that he's a bit in the clouds would be an understatement.

"Kuroo sensei!"

He finally snaps back to reality. Blinks down at the tiny boy with the biggest scowl he's ever seen yet, "yes I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

"He stole my ball!" the young boy points at one of the chubby classmates who seems quite content in playing by himself, "and now he's saying that it was his!"

Kuroo can't help but raise a brow. He's taught that class before, knows exactly that the chubby little kid doesn't have that many friends, including the boy standing before him.

"I don't think he stole your ball."

It's a bold statement, but from the way the tiny student squirms and averts his gaze, Kuroo believes he is right, "but--but he did! He really did steal my ball!"

"I have an idea," Kuroo bends down to his height, not able to restrain the grin along his face at the pout forming on the student's lips, "why don't you go and play with him? He seems a bit lonely."

"Yeah that's because he never talks to anyone in class."

"Then why don't you be the first? hm?" he nudges the boy's shoulder, "show your class a good example. Come on."

With a bit more reassurance, the said student goes over and Kuroo watches fondly as the two exchange awkward greetings before the chubby student nods his head, glancing at his PE coach like he'd just dropped a bomb.

Five minutes later, they're playing together like best friends.

And Kuroo goes back to daydreaming.

He's not usually like this. So out of it, so inside his own head that he can't see the outside world. But ever since that party he's been wondering when's the next time he'd get to see you, to talk to you. Not just as Sakura's mum but as someone, maybe a friend. He's addicted to the way your eyes curve up before your lips are even drawn into a smile, like you're sharing a special secret with him before the world gets a flash of blinding white teeth. He enjoys watching you move about because you're just so tiny, holding cups with two hands and always having to tiptoe about to find stuff. But most of all, that conversation with you had him dreaming of more. He wants to know you, that initial curiosity turning to what he'd define as stupid infatuation.

Yes, Kuroo Tetsurou has a crush, and he's not quite sure how to feel about it.

"--Earth to Kuroo?"

He blinks. In front of him stands his colleague and friend Bokuto. Having faced each other off countlessly during their high school days, it was a miracle and lovely surprise to see him at the new year induction. Since then, they’d been a constant pair inside the school walls and creating assignments, organizing and coordinating events had never been so fun.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and rubs a hand over his face.

“You look like death, mate,” Bokuto leans on the fencing that separates the courts from the building, “why the long face?”

“Haven’t slept well,” Kuroo says, but he knows he’s not convincing when Bokuto’s eyebrows raise in question.

“You? Firm believer of 10hrs of sleep every day?” His friend shakes his head, “no way. Tell me what happened. What’s got you looking so dazed?”

“It’s noth—“ he halts. Maybe he can find some advice? Bokuto’s known for being a badass romantic after all. Maybe he can have something wise to say.

Like tell Kuroo you’re way out of his league and— what the hell is he even thinking, dating someone’s mom? Someone older than him, at that?

The words burst out of his mouth without warning:

“I think I like someone.”

Bokuto merely blinks. His face lights up, “well that explains it. Who?”

Kuroo’s arm swings to the back to scratch his neck, “it’s… one of the student’s mom’s.”

The last few words are said in a mumble, causing Bokuto to lean into his friend with a wide-eyed gaze, surprise flitting across his face when he realizes what Kuroo has just said.

“No,” the grey-haired man’s mouth turns into an “o” as he stares his friend down, “no way. Who?”

“I don’t think you know her. Sakura Kosuke?” Kuroo prompts.

“Sakura Kosuke…” Bokuto shakes his head in thought, “haven’t heard of that one. But—-Kuroo! I thought older women weren’t your style!”

“She���s not that old,” Kuroo’s face flames, “only by three years.”

"Who would've thought," Bokuto breathes out with a chuckle when a thought suddenly occurs to him, "wait-- it's not the chick who came by with the cake last weekend?"

Kuroo nods and awkwardly clears his throat, "yeah, the very same."

"Ha! If only I knew! I would've done my best to set you up!"

"It's not funny!"

But now that Bokuto has some leverage of information, he's definitely not going to let it go and Kuroo kind of regrets spilling the beans to him, of all people. That, and the probably fact that he’ll be spreading this news like wildfire across their friend group.

Thankfully, Kuroo’s schedule makes it that it’s hard to think about anything but work since midterm season is approaching for his other primary school colleagues. There’s after-school shows and events for every single activity and since he’s being asked to help for every single thing (because he’s the preschool teacher and, yeah! How come you don’t have any events planned for your preschoolers?!). Which means that he doesn’t have actual time to think about you, not even when he’s finally home and mustering up enough strength to brush his teeth, take a shower and dump himself in bed.

He does, however, collide head-first into you one week day as you’re hurrying out of the principal’s office, looking flustered and red-faced.

“Kosuke-san,” he takes a longing glance your rosy cheeks and felt his hand tingle with want. Just to see if it’s as soft as he imagines it to be? “You okay?”

“Kuroo sensei,” you run a hand through your locks and causing your hair to get even more disheveled, “hi, sorry— how are you? It’s been a while.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You’re looking a bit more greenish now that he sees you in the light.

“Yes I—“ your hands flutter up before you in an attempt to find an explanation, “—just came back from a meeting with Sakura’s teacher.”

“Oh?” Kuroo frowns, “what—nothing bad, I hope?”

“It’s just—well,” you try to chuckle but it comes out like a whimper, “apparently she got into a fight with one of the other girls in her class. Got a few injuries herself so…”

Your eyes are wet and it seems you’re half a second away from a breakdown. So it’s only natural for Kuroo to take a few steps closer to you before he whispers a soft, “hey hey, you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sorry,” you take a shaky breath, “it’s just been a long, hard morning.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo bites onto his lower lip, not sure what to do to make things better as he watches your chest move up and down in staggered breaths.

That’s when an idea hits him. He makes a grab for the back of your elbow and the smallness, the thinness of your limb takes him be surprise as he steers you out of the corridor.

And when your wide eyes flutter up to his, he quickly says something along the lines of, “I know a place. It’ll make you feel better.”

That’s how he finds himself dragging you to the nearby coffee place he always frequents— called Espresso Block— a small vintage bakery run by none other than his good friend Osamu Miya, as part of his expansion branch from his onigiri restaurants.

"Y/N!" Osamu greets as soon as he spots your face trailing behind Kuroo's tall figure. He pushes the raven-haired man aside with impatience before sauntering over and wrapping you up in a bear hug.

"Osamu," you breathe in the scent of baked croissants lingering on his uniform, "you're choking me."

"Oh--sorry," he drops you and grins sheepishly, that is before he registers that you're together with one of his friends, causing his eyes to narrow, "how do you two know each other?"

"Kosuke-san is Sakura's mother and she was having a bad day," Kuroo explains before he turns to you, "how do you know him?"

Did you imagine the five-second frostiness that came from his tone? Maybe not, as you reply, "he's my cousin. We grew up together. I taught him how to play volleyball back in primary school."

Kuroo's relief is instant. Thank god, it's not a close friend, nor is it a romantic partner candidate. His mood brightens instantly and without further ado he proceeds to lead you towards a table in the back.

He doesn’t fail to ignore the way Osamu’s eyes are following him all the way back to his table as he carries the two drinks — strawberry latte for him and a black coffee for you — and Kuroo can just hope that his dear friend can keep his distance until you've gone.

Becayse he's quite certain he will be subject to interrogation. Especially if you're that close to Osamu.

Placing the tray on the table, he takes out the mug and pushes it into your hands before finding his seat opposite you. You grab the cup between your two palms and take a deep breath as Kuroo sips on his latte.

The sweetness of the strawberry never disappoints. It’s refreshing and brings a smile to his lips. Osamu sure knows his desserts.

“I'm really sorry about what happened earlier," you seem to have composed yourself from earlier. You take a small sip of your coffee and Kuroo watches in amusement as you shudder.

"Do you want some milk with that?" he can't help but ask.

You nod and look shameful, and Kuroo's heart squeezes with sympathy. Your eyes are tinged with aprons of blue and there are tired lines lining your eyes and the corners of your mouth. It's only when he comes back -- from having gotten some steamed milk from Osamu and a suggestive wink to match -- you dip your head into a nod and mumble out a soft 'thanks', eyes glued to the way the dark brown turned into a creamy latte.

"You could've asked me for a latte," Kuroo smiled to show that he didn't mind at all. But you winced.

"I'm sorry--"

"Don't say sorry," he softened, "just--next time, you can tell me what you want, Kosuke-san. I'm not here to bite you...unless you want me to."

Your eyes flit up to his in surprise and Kuroo pinks at his words. They'd just slipped out on their own. It's not like he'd wanted to sound flirty when you're looking all shaky and worse for wear. He quickly clear his throat and tries to change the subject, "how are Sakura's injuries?"

"She's fine, got herself a bruised lip."

His eyebrows raise in surprise, "woah, that's still something."

"Yeah," you mutter and take another sip. And then another, "I hope this doesn't become a habit."

"I've taught Sakura since the start of this semester," Kuroo leans forward, elbows propped onto the table, "and I can tell you--she's anything but violent."

"I really hope you're right about this. I can't have her running around beating up everyone."

Kuroo stifled a small laugh, "to be honest, I think it's good she knows how to defend herself."

You shoot him a look and he can't help but laugh. And it's so contagious, the way it booms out of him like a melody, that you cannot restrain yourself from joining in.

"You're right," you say in-between chuckles.

"Maybe she got her mom's feisty spirit," Kuroo adds.

"No way. I was as silent as a mouse," you retort, "if she got anything like that, it's probably from her father's--"

You halt in mid-conversation, wanting to bite down your tongue for even mentioning him and quickly flash Kuroo a bashful smile in hopes he'll just brush it off, "sorry, let's not talk about him--"

"Kosuke-san, you really have to stop saying sorry all the time," Kuroo says with a grin, "it's not healthy."

"I know, I'm--" you catch yourself and he bursts out laughing once more at your face, "don't say it! No matter what!" he chides.

"Stop--" but you're grinning from ear to ear, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, "--Kuroo sensei, I hope you're not as playful with your students or they'd never learn anything from you."

"Course not," he winks, "I keep that solely for the pretty ladies."

His suggestive tone makes you blush despite it all and you look down at your coffee with the blush blazing so hard across your cheeks you swear everyone can see its colour from afar.

"I don't know how it is at home though," Kuroo's voice brings you out of your small bubble of warmth, "it must be tough handling Sakura all alone. Do you ever take a break?"

"Well, she goes to see her dad ever two weeks. But other than that, she's always with me unless my parents decide to come over. Which isn't as often as I would like."

"Why's that?"

"They live in the countryside and have a farm. It's hard for them to take days off, and I don't blame them not wanting to be around," your voice lowers to a mutter at the last few words, "especially after what happened with the marriage and all..."

"Marriages fail every time," Kuroo says gently then, "that too, isn't your fault."

"I wish my parents believed that," you let out a small laugh, "but they're right. We were too young to get married."

"But you have Sakura right? Isn't she worth it?"

His eyes, golden flecked and filled with so much hope and softness, meet yours from across the table. You suddenly feel a bit hot in your seat, wanting to squirm as you quickly look away from Kuroo's gaze because dear god, it's almost like he's ripping away, ripping apart every single layer of self-protection and preservation and reading you out like an open book.

"You're right," you clear your throat upon realizing he'd still been waiting for your response, "she is worth every single second. I wouldn't change anything about what happened. I just--I wish my parents could see it that way too."

"I think you spend a little too much time stressing about things you can't control," Kuroo takes another sip of his latte, "how about you learn to let go a bit? Maybe take the day off? Go hiking?"

"With Sakura?" you shake your head, "impossible, I--"

"Surely you have someone that can take care of her while you're gone," he tilts his head, jaw resting into one of his hands and making him appear all the more handsome.

Your thoughts flash to Atsumu. He's right, you could technically take a day off by dropping Sakura with the blonde. But she's not his responsibility and Atsumu has other priorities in his life rather than hang out with his niece. But Kuroo's persistence is strong and he makes you -- practically orders you -- to text him when he connects the dots that you two are also family.

"That guy can learn a thing or two about being responsible anyway," grins Kuroo, "so I'm sure he won't mind."

————

How did you end up here?

That's the question you keep asking yourself -- even when you're busy picking out your clothes only to realize that you barely have anything that's worth 'party material', even when you're attempting to do your makeup even though it's been almost three (or four?) years since you've tried to look your best because Sakura's wellbeing always came first.

Even when you're strapping up your black ankle boots, the question is getting drilled into your brain like a broken mixtape as you wonder whether this is a good idea after all.

"Go," Atsumu is firm when you call him for the nth time. It's five minutes until Kuroo's supposed to pick you up and feeling the pressure on your shoulders, you quickly decide to call your cousin in an emergency, "you have to do it, y/n. Stop making this all about Sakura. You need to be happy too."

"I am happy," was what you'd mumbled out in the phone receiver. You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the phone, so tight that your knuckles have turned white.

"I know you are, but you'll be happier if you live for yourself. At least for one night," Atsumu responds, "and Sakura's safe with me. And if ever there's an issue I'll call Osamu first to--"

"What?! No! No you call me first, okay?"

"Y/n please just relax. It's supposed to be a fun night."

You slump against the wall in defeat, "I don't even know why I'm doing this," you mumble mostly to yourself, though you're certain he can hear it too, "there's no point trying to prove that I'm content with my life. There are things that are going to leave me unsatisfied. I'm--I was fine with that, really."

"Are you though?" your cousin's voice is accusatory this time, "you're ready to live just for Sakura? Making her happy will make you happy too? Is this how it's supposed to work?"

"Technically yes, I'm her mother--"

"--And you've been left behind!"

The words are like a slap. You bite down onto your lower lip.

It draws blood.

You hiss, sucking on the skin as the metallic taste hits your tongue.

In truth, Atsumu has a point. You can't just live to make Sakura happy because that will ultimately destroy you. Not because she's not the only thing you need in your life. But because despite having your little girl being the center of your world, despite being able to sustain her with your career, you still feel like it's just yesterday when Aoi had upped and left you. His excuses, as pathetic as they had been, were arrows shooting straight into your heart. He left you crying into your pillow that night, hovering over your figure until you'd told him to 'get lost or I'll call the cops on you' before curling up on the small couch that you'd gotten rid of once he'd moved out for good.

So much pain. So much pain and haunted nights and obstacles that had come your way. That, along with caring for Sakura, had been a big hurdle. You remembered the long mornings, how hard it had been to drag yourself out of bed for the first few days. Atsumu had volunteered to stay with you then, giving you all the support you needed until you'd had enough strength to get back on your feet.

So he knew exactly what you'd gone through. Had seen it all first-hand. He wasn't kidding when he said you really needed to get laid. Somehow, he seems to have a valid point.

But it's been so long since you've left the dating scene that the thought of it makes you want to vomit.

"I'm sorry y/n, that wasn't cool." Atsumu's voice flows through the receiver like a lullaby and you take a deep, staggering breath, "I just--I know how hard it's been pulling your weight and caring for Sakura. It practically consumed your entire life. It's about time you get that motherfucker back for screwing things up--"

"Language," you tsk at him.

"You know what I mean," he replies impatiently, "So go out there, have fun. Get smashed. And at least do something to make you happy for a change. Alright?"

"Yeah okay," you mumble.

"And plus, you're with a bunch of guys that I know. They're cool. They'll keep an eye on you."

"Thanks mom."

"Anytime hun."

You can't help but giggle before you hear a car pulling up outside, "alright. I think my ride's here."

"Yeah, try to get laid okay--"

"Atsumu!" your cheeks flame, "I hope you're not saying all this in front of Sakura!"

A burst of laughter echoes from the receiver, "don't worry, miss Sakura is asleep. Have fun y/n! Take pictures!"

The drive there is less awkward than you'd imagined it to be, despite the fact that Kuroo's get-up does make your mouth salivate. And not just you. You realize a bunch of girls have him on their radar, from the stolen glances driven his way as you follow his broad back out of the parking and into the small terrace-looking entrance flanked by colored glowing palm trees.

"I haven't been in a club for like four years," you confess to him as you trudge into the queue. The air smells like cigarette and smoke. And something else. Something dangerous. It makes you giddy, you realize.

"Four years?" his eyes grow round as he looks down at you, "you have drunk before right? To the brink of passing out?"

"Like...maybe four years ago?"

His mouth opens, then closes. He shakes his head, a smile curving at the edges of his lips, "remind me not to drown you with tequila."

"I'll try my best."

You meet the rest of the gang upon stumbling into the club. It's dark and pulsating with music, with two dance floors separated by the DJ stationed on a platform right in the middle. Lights are bouncing off the space like crazy and all around you are moving bodies that writh and mold together until you're not sure where one ends and the other begins.

“Y/N! You’re here!” A drunk Hinata hooks an arm around your shoulder before steering you towards the bar, “you’re just in time! We were going for a round of lambos.”

“Lambos?” You balk and meet Kuroo’s eye, “you mean— Lamborgini’s?”

“Hell yeah!” Another one of the guys chimes in. It’s almost comical, the way they’re all stumbling against each other as you move like a congregation until you’re straight up in front of the barman.

“Ten Lambo’s please!” Hinata slams his card ontot he counter.

It brings back a wave of nostalgia, seeing the line of glasses and the way the bartender drops the alcohol in like he can do it with his eyes closed. You’re jostled and pressed against warm chests and shoulders, surrounded from all sides and yet, you feel safe with them all. That is, until you feel a soft brush against your elbow.

You turn to see Kuroo’s warm golden orbs.

“All okay?” He mouths to you.

You nod and give him a smile in return, and the grin that he cracks makes a troop of butterflies swoop into your stomach.

You look away just as Hinata thrusts a glass into your hands, “come y/n! This one’s on me!”

One shot becomes two. And two become three. Soon enough you find yourself on the dance floor and moving to the beat with one of the girls from the group— Yachi?— while the guys are trying to pay each other back their shots. The music vibrates through the floor up your body and flood your veins so that you get lost in it, ecstasy and the thrill of just being alive finally gushing through your brain, fogged up and amplified by the alcohol in your bloodstream.

It’s amazing. You feel free. Like nothing can stop you.

It’s honestly the best you’ve felt in a while.

After a while, you and Yachi decide to take a well-deserved break, stumbling over to the clustered seating space filled with red cushions as the boys scatter to find more alcohol. At this point you’re surprised that they’re still moving around and conscious, considering the amount they’ve drunk.

One of the boys— the one with the kind smile called Daichi— offers to get you guys some water as you take a seat, allowing your tired legs to take a break.

“I’m going to fine Hinata!” Yachi says into your ear and you nod before ushering her out of your way. There’s something between those two, a kind of tension that will develop into something more if they just allow it.

But you’re not one to meddle, not when your own love life’s a mess.

That’s when you notice.

It’s the lingering stare out of the corner of your peripheral that makes you turn your head.

Then you see him.

A tall, lanky man. He’s seated right opposite you, a drink in his hand and taking a swig. But there’s no mistake, for when his eyes meet yours across the room you can only jolt in shock.

You look away with embarrassment and disgust. Heat spreads to the back of your neck and goosebumps run up your arms. Suddenly, it’s a little too cold in this hot, sweaty club.

Why is he looking at you like that?

There’s no mistaking the intention. You risk one more glance and confirm that indeed, there’s a darkness in his eyes; the kind of a predator.

The kind that wants to strip you bare.

It’s unsetttling, unnerving.

Disgusting.

You don’t even hesitate. It’s like instinct for you jump off your seat with the only purpose to find Kuroo. But to your terror, the man starts to follow you. And soon enough it becomes a game of catch: of cat and mouse. You almost trip over your high heels as you push through the moving bodies as quickly as you can.

But the figure is there, hovering over you like a dark shadow that causes your heart to clench.

You bite back a whimper, pushing through a throng of girls as you frantically search for a sign of Kuroo’s familiar mop of hair. Or Hinata’s. Or just about anyone for that matter—

Bumping into a chest, you’re more than surprised as you let out a small yelp only to hear a familiar alto.

“Kosuke-san, everything alright?”

“K—Kuroo sensei,” your mumble is drowned in the beats of the music, eyes darting between his face and the dodgy man.

He’s now standing by the bar a few feet away from you. The same kind of withering stare that makes you wince.

Hurriedly, you turn to Kuroo and grip his shirt, wanting nothing more than to hide behind him, “I—uhm— there’s someone—“ the words jumble up as they pour out of your mouth and you find you can do nothing but grip his shirt for dear life, like Kuroo’s the only thing that can help you out of here.

Thankfully, he seems to understand your dilemma, for he puts a hand on your shoulder before steering you a little closer to him and away from the main path, a frown evident on his face, “what’s wrong Kosuke-san?”

But it’s only when he follows your fear-stricken eyes that Kuroo realizes there’s something — someone tormenting you. He recognizes the dark hunger, the prowling intent.

Instantly, his hand grips your waist. Tugs you closer.

You stumble into him, “Kuroo sensei—“

But Kuroo’s not having it. He stares the man down with a glower, longer body practically wrapped around yours in a protective embrace as he dares the man to do something, anything.

Try me, his eyes are saying, you’re not going to lay a single hand on her.

The stranger finally breaks eye contact after a few beats of silence and Kuroo keeps watch, golden eyes blazing until the man is nothing more but a memory of smoke as he disappears into the crowd.

Only then does he allow his hold to relax. Tilting down towards you. He murmurs out softly:

“He’s gone, Kosuke-san.”

You’re practically glued to him at this point, face buried in his chest and hands gripping so tightly onto his shirt that you might’ve grown claws. Kuroo nudges you gently once more, and that’s when you look up from the depths of his shirt.

The sight makes him almost coo because goddamnit even in the dim disco lights you look adorable. He has the sudden urge to pinch your cheeks and he’s glad his hands are somewhat occupied along your waist.

“You okay?” Is what he whispers.

You nod, looking a bit shaky and green int the face, “yeah—I’m—I’m fine. Thank you. He was—it scared me.”

“I know,” Kuroo draws away ever so slightly so he can have a better look at your face, “I’ll bring you home, alright?”

“No no it’s okay,” you shake your head and attempt a smile, but even Kuroo can see past those shaky lips, “you stay and have fun. I’ll call an Uber and—“

“Nonsense,” he grabs your elbow once more, “I’ll accompany you. C’mon.”

———

It’s definitely unnerving. It leaves you shaking with fear and you’re thankful for Kuroo’s strong grip on your arm as he maneuvers you out of the club.

The rush of cold wind hits your cheeks, leaving the soft beats of the club behind. Slowly, the world comes back into focus as the air rushes through your lungs and the sound bustling traffic in the distance is brought back into focus.

Only then do you realize how close you’re standing to the coach.

With a start, you stumble away with a muttered “sorry”, not daring to meet his eyes while quickly brushing off your clothes because dear god you weren’t sure what to do with your hands.

The uber arrives without much delay — thankfully — and the ride home is silent, almost as if there’s an awkward tension that has settled between the two of you. Away from the alcohol and now sobering up, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that you’d practically glued yourself to this man earlier. The act is so embarrassing you decidedly keep your gaze on the flurry of bustling streets and dim lamps flying by.

You don’t realize you’ve dozed off until a warm hand is shaking your shoulder, followed by a soft; “we’re here.”

You gasp, noticing that you’ve been pressed against Kuroo’s shoulder all this time.

“Oh,” you scramble away as quick as lightning, “I’m so sorry—“

His lips quirk upwards, “no harm done, senpai.”

You hate it when he calls you that. It makes you sound… old.

Nevertheless, you decide to be quiet as he accompanies you up to your flat, hands in his pockets while following you up the rusty stairs. You hope he’s not judging; it’s not like you have unlimited amounts of funding, what with Sakura’s education and activities.

“Well,” you finally reach the door to your flat and turn on your heel so that you face him, “thanks… for everything.”

"No problem," he's smiling down at you. Still so patient, still so happy to help. Your heart swells in your chest and you ask, "how are you getting back?"

"Oh, probably Uber..." he trails off, already turning away to fish his phone out of his pocket, "it's not far."

"Where do you live?"

You almost bawk when he tells you his address, because it's practically at the other end of town. He'll be there in forty-five minutes, at least.

The words are automatic, shooting out of you, "I'm so--"

But Kuroo's hand whips out, clamping over your lips. Your eyes widen as you look up at him, only to see the young man grinning like there's no tomorrow.

"You really need to stop doing that," he finally says before drawing back. Already, you're hit with the cold air following Kuroo's touch upon your skin, "I wanted to accompany you. There's nothing to apologize for."

"I know, but--"

He throws you another pointed look that has you clamping down on your mouth. You're about to say sorry once more because you're being a pathetic blubbery mess, but the look in his eyes makes you say a soft, "thank you" instead.

"You're welcome," and with one final grin and a wave to match, the school Coach disappears down the corridor, leaving you gazing at his broad back until his silhouette turns the corner and away from your sight.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Something to Sink Your Teeth Into 23/?

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Vampire/Witch!AU

Read on Ao3 (current chapter)

Read on Ao3 (from beginning)

Evan thought he should be more afraid, having a vampire’s fangs this close to a vulnerable point.

He thought he should be panicking, in fear for his life, wondering what the fuck he was thinking, offering to let Tommy drink from him.

And yet, all he felt as his vampire took his hand and brought it to his mouth, inhaling deeply as though he were savoring the bouquet of a fine glass of wine…was calm. His magic was a warm and content glow throughout his whole body, radiating the rightness of what he was about to do. He was helping his vampire, sharing the power of his blood to help him heal, to keep them both safe. He was not looking forward to the pain of the bite, exactly, but he didn’t fear it. And he didn’t need Tommy to—to hypnotize him into accepting it, or whatever it was that a vampire’s thrall did. He didn’t want to be lost in a haze of false perception while Tommy drank from him.

The bite hurt when Tommy’s fangs sunk into the flesh of his wrist. He could tell his vampire was trying to be as gentle as possible…but it was still the teeth of a predator tearing into him. It wasn’t much worse than the burn of a tattoo needle, though, and he breathed through it until he felt Tommy’s lips close around the bite, not quite cold, but not the wet heat he was used to when people put their mouths on his body. Then he felt the bizarre sensation of suction, felt a pulling draw from the wound, though Tommy didn’t withdraw his fangs.

He hadn’t pulled off to slow the flow of blood, Evan realized. To make it harder to take too much, even accidentally. His magic trembled in his chest, a surge of warmth racing through him at the simple care. His eyes fluttered shut as Tommy swallowed, mouthful after mouthful of his blood, his magic swirling inside him, the warm glow of it intensifying, growing brighter and brighter until he felt like it was spilling out of him, wrapping around both him and his vampire, rushing over the two of them like a wave as Tommy drew part of Evan into him. The pain of the bite faded, swamped under a growing sense of connection.

He swore he could feel the connection the way Tommy was—heat and life rushing through him, his heart swelling with gratitude for the gift he was being given, a desperate desire for the closeness, the intimacy of the connection to never end.

He was shocked to realize he didn’t want it to, either.

He reached with his magic, throwing himself headlong into the bond between them, letting out a gasp when he felt it surge, strengthen, grow. He could feel his vampire, could feel Tommy, could feel the two of them together…the way it was supposed to be. The way it was meant to be.

And then an electric charge raced through him, his magic flaring the way it had the first time Tommy had drunk from him, the way he couldn’t remember it had until this very moment.

He was lying on a sagging bed in a cheap motel room, his vampire looming over him, and he had never felt so safe, so protected.

He was cradling his witch’s hand in his palms, his fangs deep in the wound his witch had trusted him to make, the sweetest blood he had ever tasted spilling into his mouth, and he could not remember if he had ever loved anyone so fiercely.

He was sitting in the cold snow, his baby brother in his lap, growing limp and quiet as the spell their parents had set on them tore his magic away from his small body, and he had never felt more scared or determined.

He was standing in the moonlit, snowy field watching the shadows of the night that had changed his family forever—the night that had haunted every aspect of his life for as long as he could remember—play out in front of him as they had a hundred, a thousand, a million times before, and he had never felt more exposed.

Tommy would know. He would know the secret that Evan’s family had kept for over twenty years, the single, horrible act that had hung over Evan his entire life and colored every interaction he had with his parents, his sister, and his coven. Tommy would know it all. His vampire would know why his magic was the way it was, why Evan’s own family treated him like a dangerous animal that couldn’t be trusted, why his coven had turned on him so easily when he’d stood accused of Doug’s murder.

Why there were only three beings on the planet who had ever seen something worth loving in him.

Tommy would know.

His magic spiraled around them, fragmenting his perceptions into what felt like a hundred different viewpoints, watching the memory from a hundred different perspectives. His vampire’s hand tightened on his, the pull of his blood into Tommy’s mouth blending with the remembered pull of the spell that had been meant to steal his magic until he was caught in a dizzying loop of sensation. Tommy would know.

He blinked heavy eyes and watched a bit of color start to creep back into his little brother’s chubby cheeks, the relief sweeping through him almost great enough to cover up the pain of the spell latching into his magic.

He watched the boy he’d never known and had loved all his life bend over the baby that he’d been and kiss his cheek, whispering love and reassurance with his last breath.

He watched a child he hadn’t known existed until this very second sacrifice himself for the infant that would grow into the man he was coming to realize he’d do anything to keep.

Evan gasped, his eyes flying open at the same time Tommy’s did. He gaped up at his vampire, his chest heaving as he watched the haggard pallor and lines of pain vanish from Tommy’s rugged features. The shirt he’d been wearing was bloodstained and torn, but before Evan’s eyes, the gaping wound in his chest started knitting together at an incredibly fast rate.

He winced as Tommy withdrew his fangs, moving as though he was about to brush his lips over the twin puncture wounds that now decorated his wrist. Blood pulsed sluggishly from the punctures and he tried to pull his hand back, only for Tommy to tighten his grip. Not enough to hurt. Not enough to even prevent him from pulling away, really. But his vampire didn’t want to let him go, and God help him, he didn’t want to, either. The reassuring feel of Tommy’s calloused fingertips pressing against his skin felt grounding. Soothing.

“Evan,” Tommy said, his voice low and quiet…and faintly horrified. Evan swallowed roughly, devastation welling up inside him.

Tommy knew.

“What was that?” his vampire asked.

*

He didn’t speak immediately. He couldn’t. He’d never had to explain what had happened…everyone in his life either already knew and had been forbidden from speaking of it or absolutely could never know. Tommy seemed to understand, busying himself with gathering up the blankets and sheets he had bled on and tossing them in the corner of the room. He grabbed a threadbare, but surprisingly clean, towel from the bathroom and tore a neat strip off of it and took Evan’s wrist back in his hands, efficiently wrapping the makeshift bandage around the still slowly bleeding wounds.

He did not appear to be even a little tempted by the sight of the fresh blood, and Evan wondered how fucked up it made him that he was actually touched.

“We’ll hit up a drugstore or something as soon as the sun sets…get an actual first aid kit.” He plucked at the bloodstained shirt he was still wearing with a grimace of distaste. “And something I can wear until we get back to the house.”

Evan blinked slowly, irritated with himself that it hadn’t occurred to him to take care of the shirt yet. At least as much as he could—try as he might, he’d never quite mastered the kind of charms it took to repair things. He chanted the cleaning spell, though, watching as the horrific bloodstains that told the story of how badly his vampire had been injured dissolved away, seeming to bleed back into the fabric in reverse, any remaining traces of it vanishing from his skin.

“Can’t do anything about the hole,” he mumbled, his voice sounding slow and exhausted even to his own ears.

Tommy had been running his hand over the clean—though still badly torn—shirt but looked up sharply when he spoke. “How do you feel?” he demanded urgently.

Evan couldn’t help but smile, despite the anxiety swirling in his gut. “Just tired,” he said. It was true. His limbs felt heavy, and he wanted badly to just stretch out on the bed and go to sleep for a little while. He didn’t feel weak or dizzy, though, and told Tommy as much when his vampire pressed him.

“Why don’t you lie down?” Tommy suggested, as though reading his mind. His stormy blue eyes raked over Evan’s body, a small furrow of concern etching itself on his brow. “We’ve still got an hour or two before sunset.” He sat down at the small table, his leg bouncing slightly as he watched Evan.

Evan could almost hear the questions racing through his vampire’s mind.

Tommy was clearly willing to put his curiosity on hold for Evan’s comfort, and for some reason that simple fact almost had tears rising in Evan’s eyes. He bit them back stubbornly, breathing through his nose until the sting subsided. He had not felt this cared for since the night he’d left Maddie standing in a parking lot near the border between Pennsylvania and Ohio.

The last five years had not been completely devoid of kindness for him. He’d had casual friends and acquaintances. There had even been a few lovers, though nothing that had ever progressed beyond infrequent hookups. He’d thought Jonah Greenway had cared about him, at least a little—though of course that had all been a spectacular lie. No one had looked at him like this since Maddie and Sally, though. Like he was something precious. Like he was something that deserved to be treated gently. Like he was worth caring about.

Like he was worth…loving?

He remembered the strange feelings that had swamped him when his magic latched onto Tommy as he was drinking from him. The way that for just a few heartbeats, he felt like he was seeing through Tommy’s eyes, feeling what Tommy felt. He wondered how much of the emotion that had washed through him was what his vampire was actually feeling…and how much of it was his own desperate desire.

“Could you…” He stopped, a lump rising in his throat and his cheeks heating.

“What do you need, Evan?” Tommy asked gently.

You, Evan thought and couldn’t bring himself to say. He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. “Would you, uh, sit with me for a minute?”

Damn it, he was not some touch-starved child in need of reassurance. He hadn’t needed someone to hold his hand until he fell asleep since he was six years old and had nightmares for a month after Maddie snuck a copy of The Wizard of Oz into the house so they could see at least one of the movies that their parents didn’t want them watching. But…he desperately wanted Tommy close. His magic ached for it, the phantom feel of his vampire’s calloused fingers stroking the skin of his wrist driving him crazy. He just needed Tommy beside him right now.

His vampire tilted his head, a strange look flickering over his face. Evan was afraid to let himself believe it looked like longing. “Of course,” Tommy said, as though there was nothing he’d rather do than indulge even the smallest of Evan’s whims. Evan couldn’t help the sigh of relief as Tommy stood up and slid onto the bed next to him, maneuvering himself so that he was sitting up against the headboard the same way Evan was.

It was only a double—nowhere near big enough for two men of their height and bulk to lay comfortably separate. The mattress sagged even further under their combined weight, and their bodies slid naturally closer to each other. Out of the corner of his eye, Evan saw Tommy lick his lips, and then his vampire hesitantly raised one arm, reaching slowly towards Evan, giving him time to shake his head or shy away from him. Instead, Evan sighed in quiet relief as Tommy’s heavy arm draped over his shoulders, pulling him even closer. Some tension he hadn’t even been aware of seeped out of his body, his magic settling in a way it hadn’t in years. For a single, mad moment, all he wanted to do was turn and bury his face in the juncture of his vampire’s neck, let Tommy hold him until the rest of the world faded away.

“I don’t know what that was, or how you saw it,” he said, unaware that he was going to start talking until the words were already out. “I’ve never, uh, I mean…I’ve had that dream, or memory or whatever before but no one’s ever, uh, no one’s ever shared it with me. Is it—was it you? Does that happen when you drink from people?”

He could sense Tommy turning to look at him, could feel the weight of his vampire’s gaze on the side of his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from a patch of mildew on the cheap wallpaper above the old TV mounted on the wall. “Something like that can happen,” Tommy said carefully. “When we’re thralling someone. But it’s usually just flashes. Pieces. Never that clear or that solid. It…I saw something when I drank from you at Gerrard’s party. Not the—not that. I think I saw the day you were banished.”

A dull pulse of surprise shot through Evan at the admission. Then that meant…

“You already knew who I was before Grant and her coven came to your house?” he asked, stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He felt Tommy stiffen beside him, felt his arm start to lift, ready to let Evan get up and away from him if he wanted to…but Evan found he didn’t want to. He was curious, not angry. After a moment, Tommy seemed to realize that as well, and he slowly relaxed.

“I mean…I think it’s obvious why I didn’t say anything at first,” he said, a wisp of wry humor creeping into his words. “You did try to fry my ass at least a couple times when we first met.” Despite himself, Evan let out a snort of laughter, and he felt his vampire relax further. “After that—it was your secret. Your business. I didn’t want you to tell me unless you wanted to.” He sighed softly. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he said significantly. He sounded like he meant it.

Evan knew he meant it.

“Daniel was my brother,” he said quietly, the familiar ache he felt whenever he thought of his older brother pulsing beneath his ribs. “He got sick when he was seven or eight, I think. Leukemia. And there are, I mean, there are healing spells and rituals, but bodies are…complicated. Witches aren’t gods, you know?”

“The spells didn’t work?” Tommy asked. Evan shook his head, biting down hard on his lip.

“My, my parents took him to doctors too, of course. But nothing worked. Not medicine, not magic. He just kept getting sicker and sicker. Eventually, there was nothing the doctors or the coven could do.”

“So, what I saw when you let me drink from you. That was a…”

“Memory,” Evan whispered. He finally turned to look at his vampire, in time to see him reel back a little in confusion.

“You were a baby,” he said. “How could you—”

“It wasn’t my memory.” He started twisting the hem of his borrowed sweatshirt in his hands, barely resisting the urge to reach over and grab Tommy’s free hand instead. “There’s a ritual. It’s left over from ancient times…back when it was a lot more dangerous to be a witch. When…when losing a powerful coven member, if, if they were sick, or hurt, or whatever—it could mean life or death for the whole coven. It lets you transfer someone’s magic to another member of their coven. To, to make them stronger, and give healing magic a better chance of working.”

Tommy’s face went carefully blank, but the faintest sheen of red shimmered in his eyes. “I’ve never heard of anything like that,” he said. “In almost a thousand years, I’ve never heard of witches being able to do something like that.”

Evan looked away again, taking a shaky breath. “It’s a forbidden ritual. The magic can only come from someone who hasn’t started formal training. It can’t be…settled, I guess? So, the witch has to be young. Too young to have a familiar, at least, but, uh, the younger the better. Apparently the spell works best with, with a baby.”

Tommy’s arm tightened around him, and when he glanced over, the red in his eyes had grown brighter. “What happens to them?” he asked, his voice deadly quiet. He sounded like he already knew the answer, but wanted Evan to confirm it.

He shrugged. “Officially? They just lose their magic, and never get to be full members of the coven.”

“What about unofficially?”

Evan’s lips twisted into a bitter, humorless smile. “Unofficially, the Venn diagram between covens who had someone ‘miraculously’ recover from something and covens who had a family lose a baby to SIDS or something would be a circle.”

Tommy let out a sharp hiss, his eyes flashing fully red for a moment before he forced it away. His grip on Evan stayed tight, though, even pulling him closer to Tommy’s side. “And your parents performed that ritual,” he growled.

Evan nodded, a barely perceptible jerk of his head. “You saw,” he said. “They were trying to save Daniel.”

“Don’t talk like—” Tommy started, but then broke off, shaking his head. “How did you…your brother did something to the spell, right?”

“He refused it,” Evan said quietly. “Refused to take my magic, so the spell turned on him instead. I was…I was only a few months old, I couldn’t…there was nothing I could do.”

“Evan,” Tommy said. Something faintly horrified in his voice. “You were children.”

Evan shrugged, one shoulder. Logically he knew it was ludicrous to think he could’ve done something when he’d barely started to sit up on his own. Logically, he knew that nothing that had happened was his fault. Both Maddie and Sally had tried over and over to get him to believe that with both his heart and his head. Some days he could do it better than others…but he didn’t think he’d ever quite gotten there entirely. After all…

“He died for me. When he refused the spell and let it reverse—he knew it would kill him.”

Tommy didn’t speak for several long moments, and only the fact that he hadn’t let go of Evan, was still holding him as close to his side as possible, kept Evan from spiraling into the fear that Tommy would see it the way his parents had—that his vampire would look at him and see only a parasite, vicious, murdering leech. “It—that felt like I was watching it from the outside,” Tommy said finally, his voice coming slow and deliberate, as though he was thinking through his words carefully. “But it was also like I was living it.”

Evan shrugged again, frowning. “That’s how it always feels. Almost like it’s some kind of divination magic? I don’t know—I’ve never been very good at divination. Or maybe it’s a side effect of me taking his, his magic. But it’s his memory. It’s…it’s the only memory of him I have.”

The only way his older brother had been real to him and not just a figure in faded pictures that his parents hid in the attic. The memory of the night he died and the magic that he’d given up to save Evan were the only parts of his older brother he had left. His parents and coven had done their very best to erase every memory of Daniel’s existence…but they could never pluck out the visions from Evan’s head. It was both a blessing and curse. The memory was the absolute worst moment of his brother’s life—Daniel had been hurting and terrified. Terrified for Evan, terrified for himself, terrified because his parents had betrayed him in the worst way possible. But it was also indelible, tangible proof that his brother had loved him.

“That’s why your magic is so strange. Why the banishment didn’t affect you the way Howie and Grant thought it should,” Tommy said, again not sounding like he really needed Evan to confirm anything. Evan nodded anyway.

“Not to, uh, brag or anything, but our coven is really strong. Buckley witches are always powerful, anyway, and I—”

“You have twice as much magic as any other Buckley witch,” Tommy finished for him.

“Even if I’d been guilty, it would have taken years for my magic to fade. Being innocent? And having so much power to start with? It’s only just started to fade in the last couple of years. Not having a coven bond is what actually holds me back.”

“God, Evan,” Tommy said, staring out over the room with an angry, bewildered frown. “And the rest of your coven just…went along with this?”

“Most of them don’t know. They think my parents took all three of us on a family trip when the doctors started talking about hospice for Daniel. You know, so they could ‘make memories’ and be together. They think Daniel died while we were all on the trip. My parents kept their familiars from talking about it. Our coven leaders swept it under the rug. Gotta protect the reputation, you know?” He laughed softly, and there was no more warmth to it than his smile.

“I can’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up in a coven like that,” Tommy said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Evan went quiet, daring to lean a little harder against his vampire, and closing his eyes when Tommy just pulled him impossibly closer, tucking Evan against his side like he never wanted to let him go. Evan was startled by how intensely he wanted that to be true. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had wanted to just sit and hold him like this, and he was seized with the need to soak the comfort of his vampire’s touch up for as long as Tommy would let him.

“I hated it,” he whispered, the words spilling from his lips before he could think better of it. “I felt like a ghost in my house. If it hadn’t been for Maddie and Sally—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I used to wish Daniel had just let the spell take me, sometimes.”

Not often.

And never for very long.

He’d had Maddie and Sally. His sister and his familiar had loved him with all their hearts, and between the two of them he’d never truly been alone until the day he was banished. Sometimes, though…when his parents seemed to look right through him instead of at him; when coven members treated him like he was something to be avoided, something that might taint them if they got too close (whether it was because they knew the actual story or simply because they saw others treating him that way)…sometimes he’d wondered if his brother’s sacrifice had been worth it.

He heard Tommy inhale sharply, and then his vampire’s arm shifted around him. Tommy turned his body slightly onto his side, drawing Evan into the same position as easily as if Evan weighed nothing. “Don’t say that,” he said fervently, reaching up with his free hand to cup Evan’s face. The touch of his rough palm against Evan’s cheek was almost electric; Evan swore he could feel sparks where the vampire’s cool skin brushed against his. “Please don’t say that.”

“Tommy,” he started, but was unsure of what he was going to say.

“I’m sorry for what they did to you. To both of you. But it wasn’t your fault…and I’m so glad you’re still here. Fuck, Evan—you have no idea how glad I am you’re still here.”

Evan’s heart skipped in his chest, his magic sparking through him like fire in his blood. He leaned forward, helpless to resist the pull he felt towards this man, resting his forehead against Tommy’s with a shaky sigh. He reached up and covered the hand resting on his cheek with his just breathing as his magic rushed through him, pulling him, guiding him, calling him ever, ever closer to his vampire.

He didn’t mean to kiss him.

It wasn’t a conscious decision on his part. Not something he thought out or considered or weighed and measured before he did it.

He just did it.

He pressed his lips to Tommy’s, and had only a fraction of a heartbeat to fear, to think he might have made the worst mistake of his life, before Tommy groaned low in his throat, shifted his touch on Evan’s cheek to grip his jaw, and kissed him back. Softly, at first, almost reverently, until Evan ran the tip of his tongue over the seam of his lips and then he surged against Evan like a starving man offered a seat at a feast. Evan tilted his head to a better angle, fisted his hand in the torn remains of Tommy’s shirt, and licked into his vampire’s mouth with just as much fervor.

He felt Tommy’s arm slip down around his waist and was ready when Tommy slid down backward onto the mattress, stretching out and drawing Evan on top of him. Evan pulled back for a heartbeat to take a breath, and then kissed him again. Again, and again, and again, and it had never felt like this with any of the girls and boys he’d kissed growing up. Never felt like this with and of the random hookups or one night stands he’d had over the years. Kissing Tommy felt like finding a part of himself he’d been missing his whole life. Kissing Tommy felt like coming home.

They only pulled apart when Evan’s lungs started screaming at him, and he sat back, straddling Tommy’s hips as he stared down at his vampire, want and desire and need rushing through him like a forest fire. Tommy’s eyes were sheened with red, and he ran his hands roughly up the sides of Evan’s thighs.

“Are you sure?” Tommy asked, sounding almost as breathless as Evan felt, which had to be some kind of feat for a vampire. Or maybe just proof that he was affecting Tommy as much as Tommy was affecting him.

He grinned down at his vampire, sliding his hands up under his torn shirt and spreading his palms against the hard muscle of Tommy’s stomach. “Are you?” he countered, and Tommy’s answering laugh sounded like pure delight.

“God, Evan,” his vampire groaned, his hands sliding up to curl possessively over Evan’s hips.

Evan shoved Tommy’s shirt up further, his fingers catching on the rough skin of a raised scar, high on the side of Tommy’s chest. He bent low, needing to taste, wanting to kiss and suck and bite until Tommy was just as dizzy with want as he was. He feasted his eyes on Tommy’s firm, broad chest, his eyes skating over the scar he’d felt as he…

Evan froze.

It was a cluster of faded red marks, the shape vaguely circular…almost like some kind of flower painted onto Tommy’s chest. He stared at it, all of his desire, his arousal, his desperate, breathless need draining away until he was absolutely ice cold.

“Evan?” Tommy asked, sensing the change in Evan’s mood and motions immediately.

“No,” Evan breathed out, a tremor running through his hands where they rested over the ridges of the scar. “No, nonono…oh God. Oh my God!” He scrambled backwards, almost throwing himself off of Tommy, scrabbling to the end of the bed as Tommy sat bolt upright, frantically calling his name.

“Sorry,” Evan gasped, almost hyperventilating, his eyes riveted on the scar, unable to look away. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry!”

[goldenandhappy]

okay but can we talk about Shanks ???

And more specifically about the unavoidable Shanks VS Luffy.

Years in fandom people have been speculating on what that fight will be like, with a friendly Davy Back Fight being a very popular contender, closely followed by the Evil-Shanks theory.

Those two represent two extremes: The We're-So-Totally-Bros-I'd-Never-Hurt-You VS the You-Betrayed-Me-And-Thus-Should-Die.

With that said, the latest chapters are announcing another, and yet possibly more difficult turn . One where their interests collide.

Luffy, especially in 1132, has yet again shown how much he revered Shanks. This makes sense. Shanks was his mentor. He owed him his life.

Now, if we may stop here for a second, may we ? Let's for a second explore a shonen trope : the mentor that dies.

This has happened a thousand times, with the most memorable example being Jiraya's death.

The mentor's death in shonen is a signal, a tonal shift, and a stepping stone for the MC to grow. It's a painful loss, and a message of trust. With their mentor dead, the MC is forced to leave the nest, with no one to back them up.

And there it is, our key word: forced.

Luffy won't watch Shanks die. He won't be forced to lose him. But he will have to choose to.

Luffy is now an emperor of his own right, with a fleet he vowed to protect. And a member of that fleet had just been attacked by Shanks. The hows and whys don't matter. The facts are there.

Luffy will have to choose between avenging/defending Barto, and his loyalty to Shanks.

And this will be his hardest test as a leader.

Will he have the guts to kill his darlings ?

Only time will tell

[fvckhxpe]

scenes from a mixtape

(originally published in Juked magazine, January 2007)

I slide the mixtape into the stereo and press play.  She takes off her low-cut socks and throws them at me, humming along to the Gin Blossoms.  The loneliness leaks from me in slow drips until it disappears.

She thinks I'm crazy and she loves me.  Two of the same and we're poisoning each other, unhealthy decomposition losing its heartbeat.  Talking, together, copulating, her arms circling a torso, any waistline, but now it's mine.  Anyone would do, as long as they're bent/broken, so she and I continue on borrowed time.  And love comes in waves, small packages, coffins, a gesture, the way she mixes her fingers into mine when she grabs for my hand.  I know her well.  Sweet when tongues taste her, she's reminiscent of an old flower, the small yellow blossoms mothers teach children to behead and suck from the bottom, all the honeysuckle, a strange taste.  There must be a mathematical theory for her body, from the curve of her ass up to her perfect neck—her lips that are shamans when she speaks in the low-pitched rasp that soothes and shakes everything.  And to be there as she exists, to hear her sing in the shower, to watch her stir sugar into her coffee.  To feel tense, waiting for her to yell over:

      "Your goddamn typing is driving me crazy!"

And I keep pounding intricate diagonals of confessional bullshit (c-o-n-f-e-s-s-i-o-n-a-l SPACE b-u-l-l-s-h-i-t).  Up from the typewriter at the kitchen table, spying her form hanging in the doorframe of the bathroom, pouring drain cleaner into the sink.  Long looks across the room—we're fifteen feet apart and we miss each other.  We're killing each other.  She's walking to the bed.  I'm still typing.  "New Day Rising" kicks in quiet on the stereo—a barely audible gurgling, complete with tape hissssss.  I count one thousand and twenty-six words and I've got nothing more to say, but I don't want to stop.  I type ellipses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . until she calls over to me.

      "Your goddamn typing is driving me crazy!"

The tape pops and the tape's over, a loss of lo-fi noise, the songs slept to in younger years, the songs of the local college radio, the alternative, the rock and grunge and post-rock and post-grunge—flipping the cassette over and readying it for side two—play—and the buzzing starts, crackling from the dust and age of the carbon.  I remember the tape, I remember not having the money for a proper blank one, so it reads as a collection of Christmas traditionals erased over, small wads of paper still jammed in the top to fool the tape deck 'record' button.

      "Today is the greatest day I've ever known, can't wait for tomorrooooow . . ."

      She remembers this song, she sings along.  I leave the typewriter for her, I abandon and slither under the covers.  We sing the song together.

She's a knife cutting into me, in a way I won't comprehend until the pain is no longer there.  Long stretches of nothingness with her head on my chest, waiting for the sun to rise.  Early:  she doesn't inhale, she lets air come to her.  She stands on the heels of her feet, leaning into it, smiling with her eyes closed as if waking up is an endless pit into which she falls.  She lets her chest extend out and she yaaaaaaaaaawns and falls back to the mattress.

      "Do you think McDonald's is still serving breakfast?"

      The clock reads seven twenty-four a.m.

      "Is it really that early?"

      Seven twenty-five a.m.

      "I'm going back to sleep."

It goes wrong somewhere deep and patterned, the way she would run her thumb along the paper of a thick book she was thinking of buying as we stood in the downtown bookstore, the pages fluttering in a blow.  She and I, we had built swift and perfect on the downhill and were imploding like a dying sun with nothing more than a sliver of why it had all started.  It becomes open range barbwire and we never stop running, and when a love like that catches your skin, it shreds you and you bleed out right there, exactly where you fall.  We feel our timeline freefall:  I'm ordered to get a job; she stares in disgust at the typewriter; I spend more time at the labor office.  The air between us is white noise, bottoming out with frost as a blanket.  We're numb.  And one night Hüsker Dü kicks in on the tape deck and we're sitting on opposite sides of the apartment—not out of anger, simply necessity.  Neither of us sings along, and she stops telling me my goddamn typing is driving her crazy.

Days pass and I miss them, right past me, forgetting the clock, forgetting the shades are down.  I hardly sleep, the dreams aren't pleasant.  I sit at the edge of the mattress most nights; she sleeps through the sound of creaking boxsprings.  We keep on, the borrowed time decays.  And one day while I'm downtown pawning videos and selling blood for rent money, she realizes we're tearing each other apart with our separate young madnesses, and there's no disappearing act like the one that leaves me wondering how she took all her things in one trip.  We fall from orbit and burn up on reentry.  She leaves, things devolve, become simpler.  And the loneliness crawls back inside my stomach and drills into my spine.  It stays.  She's found a new waistline for her arms.

And I make a new mixtape.

[dresden-syndrome]

26/VII-1978. State Security department No. 64, Burgas region, People's Union Republic of Bulgaria, EESU.

"Full name?" Iva Kostadinova Milcheva.

"Date of birth?" 7th of April, year 1950.

"Registration place?" City of Burgas, "Prvi Internatsional" street, **** **** **.

"Ethnicity, citizenship?" Bulgarian, citizenship of EESU.

"Employment?" European Communist Party, chairman deputy of Burgas municipal committee.

The same unchanging questions and answers, learned by heart and thrown in an emotionless bureaucratic manner. Who knows how many thousands of them Iva had to fill before; in this country, it's just a part of life. Only this time she was made to sit in what looks like interrogation room, the guards standing besides and the light of table lamp straight to her face. Trying to keep calm and still, like she always used to, just as if today is not the most horrible day in her life.

"What did you bring me here for?"

During her Party career Iva managed to cooperate with State Security quite a lot; although wary of them, she viewed them with respect rather than fear. This day, when they called her to get in the black Volga for a visit, she didn't think anything could go wrong - saying no to State Security invitations has never been an option anyway - until they cuffed her hands and turned to the unknown direction.

"You've been accused of assisting in a right-wing revisionist conspiracy against the socialist regime. Did you know that?"

Arrested. Arrested for political crimes.

It's somewhat like an accident; nobody is safe from it, everyone prays it doesn't hit close to home yet it feels like it won't happen to you right until it does. As experienced as she was, Iva couldn't yet believe that. Isn't it that only the spies and enemies end up there? How could she, who always loved her motherland more than life itself, become one?

"No. I didn't participate in anything."

There were no answers in her head, no time to plan what to say or do for a better outcome. Only one task of immense willpower. Not to cry. Not to scream out loud. Not to think of her breaking future. Stay calm. Do what they say. Even if it gets worse. Even as she feels the cold steel lock on her wrists and her eyes cover by a thick cloth.

"Take that one to cell 2-18."

As Iva exited the main hallway, held by guards by each side, into what seems to be a staircase, a horrifying scream struck her ears from below. It sounded like someone cried out in pure agony, abruptly ending with a sound of doors locked at that lower floor.

"Just what they deserve."

After a long disorientating walk through quieter upper floors, the blindfold falls, the cuffs unlock and the door shuts with an unpleasant metal bang. A cold lonely prison cell, for a couple of weeks or for the rest of her life. Nobody knows.

The nice summer day which began with a cup of strong coffee, two cigarettes and a nice walk along the beach filled with Soviet tourists and ice cream shops finally comes to an end.

Art tag @painful-pooch @prismpanic @generic-whumperz @suspicious-whumping-egg @onlywhump @whumpedydump @whumpthefifth @monarchthefirst @sunshiline-writes @project-xiii @3-2-whump @unforgivenn

[under-my-pillow]

Born to bring happiness to the dragon warriors? She thinks too highly of herself — Call me harsh, but I am of the opinion that it is too self important to have other people's happiness dependent on her existence.

She doesn't think that is weird? Having other people's happiness revolve around her? Seeing as how it is taking so long to switch a bulb in her head, Soo-won definitely made the right choice not telling her about Il.

This thoughtless idiot just set off a two thousand year tragedy - generations after generations going through so much tragedy, and pain each and every one of them relying on one person's happiness!

And born to bring happiness, she says!

I keep thinking about how the former green dragon says that he dreamt about King Hiryuu coming to pick him up and eventually coming to realize how unnecessary he was and when I think back to how many different dragon warriors have felt that way for over two thousand years, I feel sick.

At this point, it feels absolutely sickening to see Yona talk- even more sickening than the dragon Gods.

If anyone doubts that Soo-won made the wrong choice, well, now you have your example.

This will probably end in her favour too... She'll probably go back to her "family" and keep them "happy"

And all the two thousand year sorrow might end up getting written off somehow - I swear to God Soo-won better not be her fodder for this or I might literally end up burning that volume.

Yona is selfish? - The dragon gods might not be wrong...

Up until now even Hiryuu coming down to earth seems to be a selfish, self-righteous quest with bad consequences for so many people...

And Yona?

Finally after a couple of chapters the coin has finally dropped on her. It was responsibility...the dragon warriors...!

What an unbelievable naive thing to think...happiness? Why does she think they have suffered? Why did she think have countless dragon warriors suffered before the actual generation?

happiness? I am baffled due to this much stupidity!

Yes, but wasn´t that the purpose of your journey? To change their fate? Or was this a nice holiday for you?

In a way, this might be even Zeno´s truest desire. Finally peace.

Finally, she does try to talk to the dragon gods and negotiate...however is this no real negotiation...it is a plea...and the dragon gods should just give up on their greatest desire?

Of course they do not let Yona go...

But Zeno finally gets his wish granted...

[wiltking]

silent reading part 3 more like cut my life into pieces ...... this is my last resort..............

[fat-fuck-hairy-belly]

Bro, I have nothing against braces, I'm not a bigot! I just have some concerns. I just want the damn doctors to leave the kids alone. It's not right to mess with children's bodies! They don't really want to have their crocked teeth fixed, they are probably just autistic or depressed! They should live with their fucked up crooked teeth untill they are 21 and then they can decide if they reaaaally want to get braces. But they still should go to a therapist first to see if they actually have crooked teeth dysphoria or if they are just depressed. Also I don't think people should be allowed to wear braces in public were kids can see them. But I'm not bracephobic, I just have some concerns.

[bleadingheartart]

Rereading Nona the Ninth and I-

Jod could have cured Cytherea’s cancer??? The whole time??? And he what just didn’t?! Wtf sir

[lorenzoxreyes]

"Yeah, I guess two thousand years worth of.. well, life.. isn't going to fit into just one year of us having dinners and brunches," he chuckled; so much had happened, so many different lifetimes and identities, so many losses that had been beyond painful. Enzo tried to make it a rule not to fall in love with humans, but sometimes it just.. happened. They were so fragile, their lifespans so short in comparison to most other species.

It was good to hear that Raphael's business was doing well, although it really wasn't much of a surprise. It would be weirder if it wasn't doing well given Raphael's popularity and councilman status. At the question of how his job was going, Enzo just gave a soft huff of laughter, taking a sip of his drink. "It's.. fine, really. Not career goals or anything, but it's not like I'm doing it for the money," he chuckled. "Ever considered letting non-vampires be clients at the castle?" Enzo asked, smirking as he raised an eyebrow. "Nah, y'know, I enjoy it. I work pretty closely with Manny, he helps pass the time. He's good company. Not fond of Cairo, however, who seems to have it in for me for no particular reason, so I'm glad I don't have to deal with him a lot."

"You're more than welcome to ask them, we have quite some time to catch up on," Raphael replied. It didn't take long for the server to return with their beverage orders and he thanked him before sipping on his blood mimosa. "It is successful, yes. Plenty of people seem to enjoy it as a night life option. I'm glad you're one of them. How is work going for you?"

[eddis-not-eeddis]

How To Stop Killing Conversations

Talking is hard. People are confusing. Making friends is difficult, and interacting with coworkers is tortuous.

You want to make friends, you want to reach out, but it's hard and every time you start a conversation it dies, or limps along until both you and the person you're talking to are looking for excuses to kill it and put it out of it's misery so you can both escape the increasingly awkward situation.

As an introvert who has suffered a lot of social anxiety in my time, let me share a few tricks I've learned over the years going through hundreds and thousands of excruciatingly painful conversations until I found something that works. I've kind of distilled the process.

ALWAYS ASK A QUESTION!!!

The first thing is to always leave your partner an opening. You need to let each other talk for a conversation to get off the ground, but it's more than that, really. You need to actively encourage each other to talk. The best way to do that is to ask questions.

Here are two examples of an introduction: Example A

You: Hello.

Them: Hello.

You: Nice to meet you.

Them: Nice to meet you too.

Example B

Y: Hello, nice to meet you, how are you? T: I’m doing well, yourself?

Y: I've been really well. How are you liking the weather?

T: I'm so happy the weather's finally getting cooler, I'm looking forward to pumpkin spice season. Do you like lattes?

Do you see how in Example A the conversation wasn’t going anywhere? It just kinda died, because there weren’t any openings for new topics, whereas in Example B, there were openings to keep the conversation going.

But what do you do if your conversation partner is as socially inept as you were two minutes ago and doesn't play along? All is not lost.

Example C

Y: Hello, so nice to meet you, how have you been doing?

T: I'm doing well.

Y: That's great, are you enjoying the nice weather, then?

T: Yeah. I'm glad it's finally fall, I'm looking forward to pumpkin spice lattes.

Y: I love pumpkin spice lattes! Pumpkin spice anything, really. I recently got the best pumpkin spice candle at the shop down the road, have you been there?

Even if they don't leave you an opening, you can usually make one. It may be difficult, especially when they don't give you much to work with. This is where having a go-to script is a life-saver--me, I always default to talking about the weather, so when in doubt, you can do that.* The important thing right now is to keep fostering the conversation, so once you bring up the weather, segue into a question. When they answer the question, make a brief comment or observation from your own experience and build off of that comment or observation to ask another question.

"But I don't want to make it about me. Doing that's bad, right?"

This is why that questions are important. If you haven't been asked a question, you kinda have to make it about you, you don't have a choice. But to keep from being an attention hog, follow up your shared experience or anecdote with another question.

Example D

T: I love pumpkin spice lattes

Y: Me too. I had the best pumpkin spice latte the other day at the cafe down the road, have you ever been there?

Now you've circled the conversation back around to them again, and you aren't taking the limelight. Sharing an experience is so important, you're trying to show that you understand, that you sympathize, that you relate.**

This really is the most important element of being a good conversationalist. You have to keep asking questions.

The one other thing I will touch on is introductions. DO NOT get into turn based combat.

Example E

Y: Hello

T: Hello

Y: Nice to meet you

T: Nice to meet you too.

Y: How are you doing?

T: I'm fine. You?

Y: Me too.

This will kill any possibility of continuing a conversation. Instead, get it all out of the way all at once, if at all possible.

Example F

Y: Hi, it's nice to meet you, how are you doing?

This is good, but this is better

Example G

Y: Hi, nice to meet you, how are you liking the weather?

Don't ask how they are doing, or if you do, before they can answer, follow it up with your placeholder (weather etc.) so they have to say some thing like

Example H

T: I'm fine, and I'm really liking the weather.

or

T: Not so great, the weather sucks.

Either of those options are much easier to work with than your basic "I'm fine."

Usually, if you can get past the introduction, you can get a conversation going. And then, even if you don't end up hitting it off with the person you're talking with, you at least don't leave the conversation feeling like you've died a thousand tiny deaths.

In fact, if you get past that introduction, you may have just made yourself a friend.

Remember folks, basically everyone around you is more afraid of you than you are of them, and in this benighted age no one has been taught conversation skills, so we are all pretty much in the same boat. (Unless you were born an extrovert, in which case we are all deeply envious and would probably kill you if we didn't need you in our sad and lonely lives so much.)

Have grace for one another, and for yourselves because talking with people is difficult.

Go forth, and stop killing conversations.

*If you are one of those awful people who likes to brag about how you hate small talk and only want to talk about important and meaningful things, I have one question: Do you ever have a conversation that lasts long enough to become meaningful? I thought not. Small talk is an important skill. Develop it.

**This is how you deal with sad or difficult situations too. When you want to show you sympathize with someone going through a hard time.

Example:

Y: How are you doing?

T: Not very well. My dog died last week.

Y: Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. My own dog died last year and I still miss her a lot. How are you handling it?

Now you've circled the conversation back around to them again. You aren't making it about you.

If y'all want, next time I can share how to extricate yourself from a conversation.

[amariram]