#the surprise of it. the recalibration it demands

[mightyflamethrower]

We know the multifaceted strategy of the monstrous Hamas operation of Oct. 7

In precivilizational fashion it wished to kill and mutilate the most vulnerable of all Israeli civilians and thus to shock the world that it was capable of—and proud about— anything, from decapitation to necrophilia. Such animalistic savagery, in the reckoning of Western therapeutic society, was supposedly to be seen as forced upon Hamas murderers by the “occupation.”

The killers felt they would shock the Israelis into concessions given their eagerness to commit the unspeakable. They took captives for tripartite reasons: to barter children and the elderly for their kindred terrorist murderers in Israeli jails; to use captives to force the Israelis to grant cease-fires and pauses in their retaliation; and to bank them as shields to protect Hamas kingpins from retaliation.

Hamas invaded during a holiday in the early hours, in a time of peace, and on the iconic 50th-annivesary of the Yom Kippur surprise Arab attack. Their aim was to prove that  Israeli soil was for the first time porous and 2,000 killers could enter sacred Israeli ground with impunity and kill in one day more Jews civilians than at any day since the Holocaust.

The terrorists shot thousands of rockets into Israel to overwhelm Iron Dome and terrify the entire civilian population.

All these tactics was aimed at long-term strategic goals: stop the Abraham Accords; obey the directives of Hamas’s Iranian terrorist masters as payment for their arms; discredit the radical Palestine Authority and Arab moderate nations as anemic in their opposition to the supposedly shared hated Zionist entity; and prompt an Israeli response that by necessity would involve collateral damage to human shields, and schools, mosques, and hospitals atop subterranean Hamas headquarters.

Yet if we know their despicable methods, aims, and strategies, why did they think the civilized world would support their barbarity or at least excuse it?

One, Hamas assumed anti-Semitism was prevalent throughout the West and was canonical in the Middle East. Palestinian authorities count on the fact that being an enemy of the Jews of Israel wins them empathy of the world and creating their own unique rules of passive-aggressive victimhood.

So Palestinians demand to be the only “refugees” in the world—not Greek Cypriots, Eastern European Germans, and Prussians, Kurds, Armenians, and certainly not a million Jews cleansed from the Arab Middle East.

Israelis are to be “settlers,” not millions of Middle Easterners who surge and settle into the West, form resistance communities, sneer at integration and assimilation, and use Western liberality to protect and project their own illiberality.

Second, Hamas relies on useful Western idiots. It understands its terrorists repel the majority of Americans. But it figures Western and globalist institutions—academia, the media, popular culture—in their wealth, ignorance, and self-importance, alleviate guilt and find resonance by mouthing the shibboleths of the “underdog.”

In particular, Hamas understands that the Palestinian cause has fused with the leftwing Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion industry. Thus Hamas becomes the Middle-East counterpart to BLM, aggrieved minorities, and, more preposterously, the trans/gay/feminist movement. Meanwhile, Israelis are recalibrated as the demonized Western “colonialist” white supremacists.

Third, the Islamic expatriate populations of Europe and the U.S. have soared. In the strange logic of the Middle Easterner in the West—on a green card, or a student visa, or either as an illegal alien or a first-generation immigrant—he will envision the magnanimity of Americans and Europeans who offered him refuge from the violence, hatred, tyranny, racism, sexism, terrorism, and violence of his homeland all too often as weakness to be manipulated, not as generosity to be appreciated much less reciprocated.

Middle Eastern expatriates brag of their growing numbers and the political clout that Islam accrues in liberal democracies, without a clue of their hypocrisy of supporting illiberal tyrannies whose violence drove them out to the West in the first place.

So, we watch Middle Easterners in the U.S. trying to ruin iconic events such as crashing “Black Friday” shopping, disrupting the New York Thanksgiving parade, or tearing down American flags on Veterans’ Day.

Only in America would the Iranian terrorist theocracy’s ex-ambassador to the UN, Mohammad Jafar Mahallati, be accorded a professorship at Oberlin or a former top diplomat for the Iranian regime Seyed Hossein Mousavian land a coveted billet at Princeton.

From such perches these expatriates are free to promote pro-Hamas, Iranian, anti-Semitic—and Anti-American—agendas. They consider their hosts not so much tolerant as stupid, in the sense that any American expatriate in Iran who whispered criticism of the theocratic regime would either be hanged or used as a barter hostage. Why would those whose careers were devoted to demonizing and harming the United States from their coveted billets in Iran even wish to move to the Great Satan, while keeping warm relations with their theocratic kingpins in Tehran?

Four, behind all these considerations, is the reality of terrorism and the fear it instills in the West, given the 21st century history of Middle Easterners slaughtering thousands of Americans and Europeans. In crude terms, Hamas and its terrorist affiliates signal us, “damn Israel or be prepared for another 9/11.”

Five, Hamas is a death cult, an updated terrorist version of the more organized SS—with the qualifier it broadcasts rather than hides its savagery.

Radical Palestinians brag that they love death more than Israel loves life. So they count on Israel giving up three convicted terrorists to get back one elderly or young Israeli captive, on targeting civilians with rockets while Israelis drops leaflets warning of their bombing attacks, on coercing human shields that they assume Israel will avoid, on sanctioning raping, mutilating, and beheading in a way Israel would never conceive of reciprocating in kind, and on and on.

So will all these tactical and strategic methods work? For all the UN, media, and globalist support for Hamas, still perhaps not.

October 7 was a declaration by Hamas that all barbarity imaginable was now fair game. Yet its sheer evil has unleashed the IDF that perhaps not even Joe Biden, hostages, and “world opinion” can permanently stop.

For all the boasts about loving death, it was Hamas who cowardly murdered the unarmed, scampered back to the safety of their tunnels, and used their own kindred Gazans to shield them from death—delivered to them by supposed nerds who love life too much.

Europeans also have had it with unlimited immigration from the Middle East. Restrictionist politicians throughout Europe are ascending as never before, in Greece, Ireland, Italy, Germany, Holland, Spain, and Sweden.

They all reflect growing public anger that Europeans are hated by the very people who seek them out and wish to destroy their Enlightenment institutions by manipulating and discrediting them.  The thousands who hit the streets to cheer on October 7 and damn their hosts only confirm a growing global consensus—in the West, Latin America, Asia, and even throughout the Middle East—that admitting migrants from Palestine or Gaza, or their supporters, is a veritable death wish.

Pro-Hamas protestors calling Joe Biden “Genocide Joe” and boasting about the Arab or Muslim vote in Michigan is incoherent. Not only do harassing Thanksgiving shoppers and parades, disrupting iconic American holidays and events, swarming highways and bridges, and preying on Jews alienate Americans. But also taking credit for ensuring Biden’s defeat will only distance the Democratic establishment, such as it is, from its embarrassing, loud, but ultimately relatively impotent Islamic constituency.

Shouting for mass death “From the River to the Sea” does not endear the pro-Hamas crowd to half of their fellow Democrats, much less unabashedly strutting their anti-Semitism. The current overt support for Hamas, in other words, has revealed to the nation the bankruptcy of the entire pro-Hamas/DEI base of the Democratic Party and will do much to ensure a conservative president in 2024.

And that president will likely deport anyone on a green card or student visa promoting Hamas terrorism, or violating U.S. law, while ensuring a travel ban from terrorist supporting regimes in the Middle East. Such measures will win overwhelming public support, despite media and academic outrage.

Strategically, Iran, Hamas, and the Palestinians may seem to have flummoxed Israel into endless concessions by metering out hostages for serial pauses. But again, no Israel government can retain power by allowing the mass murdering Hamas to survive and so it will not.

Despite all the blood-curdling rhetoric of Hezbollah and Iran, neither will attack Israel or U.S. assets in force, given no American president could afford not to retaliate disproportionately. And “disproportionately” would mean rendering Iran’s military and Hezbollah to something akin to the current status of Hamas.

So for now, Hamas and its American-residing apologists are full of themselves and feel they are leveraging and manipulating the West. But such haughtiness may be a delusion. Hamas in the Middle East and its enablers in Europe and America have done more to harm the Palestinian cause and the idea of Middle Eastern immigration to the West than at any time since 9/11.

It is hard to anger Westerners, but continue the death chants, the violent demonstrations, the creepy anti-Semitism, and the proud support for the Hamas bloodwork of October 7, and they will be surprised at the growing anger of otherwise postmodern Europeans and distracted Americans.

Just as Israel realizes that there is no living with Hamas killers, so the West is learning that it can no longer sustain universities that despise the culture that nourishes it or Middle Eastern immigrants, visiting students, and residents that use the gift of freedom and tolerance to promote their abhorrent anti-Semitism, violence, intolerance—and, yes, hatred of their generous hosts.

We said never again. Did we mean it???

[skypied]

Aight been thinking about posting this for a while as I’m not making much headway on this long fic idea. There’s kind of an intro post to it here, I can’t be assed to re-explain again. cw for referenced/vaguely described underage sex/sexual assault, a shitton of fuckloads of homophobia, and a general warning for probably the whumpiest thing i’ve ever posted

You’re different.

You don’t know why or how you’re different, but you know.

You’ve always known, seen it in the twitch of an eyebrow, in the downturned corner of a mouth, in the unspoken what’s wrong with you, forever carved into your heart the one time it was spoken. Even when they’re trying to be nice about it, not worry you, there’s a slight pause, a lift of their tongues, the moment of recalibration they do to stop their true intentions from slipping through their teeth before shaping them into a smile.

You’re different and no one likes it and no one tells you why. You can’t ask why. You don’t know how, the question too expansive and intangible as a shiver of wind across waves, fleeting just out of the corner of your eye before you turn to look.

You don’t know how you’re different until someone sees you, really sees you, the surprised revelation bare in their eyes as they see the mirror in yours. And in a moment you would walk to the ends of the earth for them, naked, stumbling, bruised and battered, risking everything simply to see your own reflection. 

And that’s your failure. Your one, biggest mistake in life. The hole in your heart so deep, so desperate for something to fill it that you settle for anything.

Anything tastes like muffling your sobs into a cracked leather seat, sour cigarette smoke stuck in your sinuses, the annoyed sigh waiting for you to get over it already, you should be grateful, I was gentle since it’s your first time.

Gentle tastes like bile in your throat and your back quivering trying to recover from the cramping. Gentle tastes like a couple of lira shoved into your palms to get some gum or something. Gentle tastes like tears in your eyes for days and still coming back for more next week.

Gentle is never gentle, but you learn to take it, greedy hands grabbing for anything, anyone who will grab back, and treat you how you deserve.

Portorosso isn’t big, but you learn to find others like you. Or rather, they find you. You learn just how many milliseconds too long a man’s eyes linger on you to differentiate between cordial and carnal. You learn to follow them, far enough behind to not rouse suspicion, muffling the slap of your bare feet on cobblestone, sneaking glances over your shoulders and in windows. You learn to slink through their back doors and play comfortable in their bed, grateful when the scent of their wives’ perfume disguises the scent of your own shame.

After the first few, it gets easier. You get recommended and passed on like an exotic commodity, strangers casually mentioning they’ve heard a lot about you, making your skin prickle with their demanding grins. They know you won’t say no. You hate them for it. You hate yourself more.

You can’t explain it. You can’t explain it to save your life. How much it hurts, contorting into anything these disgusting men want, fearing both your mind and back will one day snap. How it’s worth it for feeling a little less alone, for the rare occasion someone will stroke your cheek and kiss you without teeth, when your heart flutters and believes in the possibility of gentleness, until you’re shoved unceremoniously out the back door, alone and aching both more and less than before.

Being passed between hands is better than having no arms around you, to compress you until you’re nothing more than the lump of charcoal you call a heart. 

You take it. You’re grateful. It’s a whole lot better than nothing.

This is all there is for people like you. You don’t get happy endings. You pick out words whispered behind hands, that are later tossed around like sharp rocks by the older kids, words that prick at the carved-out letters in your heart. Sometimes, rarely, you see yourself in movies, and your heart pounds and aches and yearns, but their endings have you clutching your chest, desperate to tear out the danger inside it.

This is all there is for people like you. 

You have no evidence to the contrary.

[landscapedesignfirm]

Winter Lawn Prep: A Strategic Guide to Sprinkler and Irrigation Readiness for Spring

As winter's chill settles in and blankets lawns in frost, it might seem counterintuitive to think about the verdant days of Spring. However, seasoned gardeners and landscapers understand that winter is the opportune time to lay the groundwork for a vibrant, healthy lawn when the warmer days return. One key player in this preparatory aide is a well-maintained sprinkler or irrigation system. Let's examine why winter is the best time to focus on your lawn's hydration infrastructure.

Soil Absorption Advantage

The soil has a unique advantage during winter—it's not dried from the scorching sun. This allows for better absorption of moisture from sprinklers or irrigation systems. When adequately hydrated, the ground sets the stage for robust root development in the Spring.

Preventing Winter Drought Stress

While we associate drought stress with the arid summer days, winter drought stress is a genuine concern. Plants and grass can lose moisture through transpiration during windy and sunny winter days. A well-calibrated sprinkler system ensures your lawn gets its hydration, preventing stress and maintaining resilience.

Addressing Potential Freezing Issues

Winter brings the risk of freezing temperatures, which can wreak havoc on poorly maintained irrigation systems. By conducting checks and repairs during winter, you prevent surprises when switching the system back on in Spring. This proactive approach ensures that pipes, valves, and sprinkler heads are in optimal condition.

Weed and Pest Control

Weeds and pests don't take a winter break. Some pests thrive in the cooler months. Properly timed irrigation can help control weeds by preventing them from establishing deep roots. Additionally, consistent moisture discourages certain pests, contributing to a healthier lawn overall.

Professional Inspection and Maintenance

Winter is the ideal time to enlist the services of irrigation professionals. They can thoroughly inspect your system, identifying and addressing any issues. From fixing leaks to recalibrating sprinkler heads, these proactive measures save you time and trouble when the demand for irrigation increases.

Lawn Aeration and Seeding

Winter watering sets the stage for successful lawn aeration and seeding in Spring. Adequate moisture allows for effective aeration, promoting better seed germination and root growth. This combination results in a denser, more resilient lawn.

Conservation and Cost Savings

Well-maintained irrigation systems operate more efficiently. By addressing issues during the winter, you conserve water and save on utility costs. Efficient irrigation ensures that water is delivered where needed most, reducing waste.

While winter may seem like a time of dormancy for your lawn, it's a pivotal period for strategic lawn care. Investing time and attention into your sprinkler or irrigation system during these colder months pays dividends when the first signs of Spring emerge. Think of it as giving your lawn a head start—a thoughtful, proactive gesture that ensures a lush, green welcome when the seasons change. So, as winter's frost settles in, consider it the perfect time to nurture the promise of Spring beneath the snow, with a well-prepared and efficient sprinkler or irrigation system leading the way. Contact a local landscaper that provides lawn irrigation services Malvern to help you prep your lawn for Spring!

[oliviadlima]

Application Modernization Services Market Size, Latest Trends, Revenue Growth & Key Companies

According to a new report published by Allied Market Research, titled, “Application Modernization Services Market, by Service Type (Application Portfolio Assessment, Cloud Application Migration, Application Replatforming, Application Integration, Others), by Deployment Mode (On Premises, Cloud), by Organization Size (Large Enterprises, Small and Medium Sized Enterprises), by End User (BFSI, IT and Telecom, Energy and Utilities, Manufacturing, Healthcare, Others): Global Opportunity Analysis and Industry Forecast, 2023–2032”.

The application modernization services market was valued at $15.53 billion in 2022, and is estimated to reach $69.8 billion by 2032, growing at a CAGR of 16.5% from 2023 to 2032.

Application modernization services deal with the transfer of outdated applications to new platforms or applications, as well as the integration of new functionality to give the business the newest features. There are a variety of modernization alternatives available, including re-platforming, re-hosting, recoding, architecting, re-engineering, interoperability, replacement, and retirement. The application architecture may also be modified to help choose the best course of action. Organizations must recalibrate their application environment to become lifelike, responsive, and robust at the enterprise scale as application modernization becomes crucial in the current digital era. Processes and corporate productivity are enhanced when monolithic systems are transformed with new functions and offerings that follow current market trends. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that organizations all over the world are making updating applications a major priority. Additionally, owing to numerous benefits of application modernization, in the next few years, 80% or so of outdated programs will be modernized.

Growing integration of cloud and devops technology in application modernization and rise in demand for improved software functionalities are driving the growth of this market. In addition, rise in government support for promoting the use of application modernization services is also fueling the growth of this market. However, high implementation cost of application modernization services and lack of skilled employees with expertise in application modernization hampers the growth of this market. Conversely, proliferation of AI and ML technologies and growing trend of micro services architecture is anticipated to provide numerous opportunities for the expansion during the application modernization services market forecast.

Depending on the enterprise size, the large enterprise segment dominated the application modernization services market share in 2022 and is expected to continue this trend during the forecast period, owing to increase in adoption of advanced software functionalities in business application to increase business efficiency. However, the SMEs segment is expected to witness the highest growth in the upcoming years, owing to increase in adoption of application modernization services among SMEs across globe.

Region-wise, North America dominated the application modernization services market size in 2022 and is expected to retain its position during the forecast period, owing to the upsurge in the adoption, encouraging infrastructure and growing number of investments in application modernization service market, which are the major factors that result in the growth of the market. However, Asia pacific is expected to witness significant growth during the forecast period, owing to the rising adoption of new technology by leading companies, also the growth of in the application modernization services market in the region would be fueled by expansion of IT services companies as result of significant government investment to upgrade the IT infrastructure.

The outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic has significant economic impact on application modernization services market, both in the short term and long term. In the short term, large and small enterprises may experience an increase in costs as they invest in modernizing the applications. This can include expenditures associated with hiring skilled employees, purchasing new software or hardware, and implementing new processes and workflows. Thus, such factors limit the market growth across the globe. However, in the long run, application modernization can lead to significant cost savings and revenue growth. By updating legacy applications and transitioning to more innovative and efficient systems, enterprises can increase their productivity and operational efficiency, reduce downtime and maintenance costs, and improve overall customer experience. Hence, such measures are anticipated to recover the market growth globally. Further, modernized applications can enable businesses to adopt recent technologies and opportunities, such as cloud computing, mobile devices, and data analytics. This can lead to increased revenue, improved competitive positioning, and a more agile and adaptable business model.

Inquiry Before Buying: https://www.alliedmarketresearch.com/purchase-enquiry/11910

Key players operating in the market are facing the less negative impact of the COVID-19 outbreak and are experiencing a moderate downfall in their profit maximization and revenue earnings. Several vendors have reported a considerable decline in their industrial profit during the second quarter of 2020. This is attributed to a slight decline in the usage of application modernization services on account of supply disruptions of required components in the international market. On the other hand, post the pandemic outbreak, there is an increased need for efficient application modernization services industry to provide safe, efficient, and reliable services as they play a crucial role in increasing safety standards in the applications. Hence, key players are embracing different strategies such as collaboration, partnership, acquisition, and product launch to stay competitive in the market and provide advanced services. For instance, in April 2020, Tech Mahindra Ltd. collaborated with IBM to help businesses modernize their operations and accelerate hybrid cloud strategies. Tech Mahindra helps consumers migrate core business applications to the IBM public cloud using IBM Cloud Paks. On the flip side, several other market vendors are often expected to continue to invest and undertake product launch and collaboration as key strategies, which contribute to the growthof the global application modernization services.

KEY FINDINGS OF THE STUDY

By Service type, application integration segment accounted for the largest application modernization services market analysis share in 2022.

Region-wise, North-America generated the highest revenue in 2022.

On the basis of end users, the BFSI generated the highest revenue in 2022.

The global application modernization service market is dominated by key players such as Alibaba Cloud, Cisco Systems Inc., Genexus, Qualcomm Technologies, IBM Corporation, Huawei Technologies, Agiletech Vietnam, Elluminati Inc., Line Corporation and Go To. These players have adopted various strategies to increase their market penetration and strengthen their position in the application modernization services industry.

About Us:

Allied Market Research (AMR) is a full-service market research and business-consulting wing of Allied Analytics LLP based in Portland, Oregon. Allied Market Research provides global enterprises as well as medium and small businesses with unmatched quality of “Market Research Reports Insights” and “Business Intelligence Solutions.” AMR has a targeted view to provide business insights and consulting to assist its clients to make strategic business decisions and achieve sustainable growth in their respective market domain.

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[thedancingkajira]

C13

Words are powerful things. They can turn bondage into security, agony into sacrifice and fear into courage. I am blessed to obey a Master who wields words well, using his tools to craft a most marvelous world. Master and I had a really good talk after our time together in the mead hall full of bananas and larmas. We discussed my progress as a coin girl, or lack thereof. We, as the Builder Caste say, "recalibrated." I am to have a new direction, one that puts fortune in my Master's pocket, rather than has me pressed to provide refunds to disgruntled torturers. I've been sent on a little tour, starting with the cities of Cos, Venna, Sais and Skol. I'll be putting together a dance tour at those cities. It will require certain materials to be purchased, certain settings arranged and, on occasion, additional performers. I will, of course, meet with the high-caste to promote and perform this. My Master insists that I keep meticulous records of my expenses, which will be a marked improvement over my time as a coin girl. And this is a warning to any Masters who are considering making their girls a coin girl. Many Masters will promise later payment to the coin girl and never deliver it. If the girl protests and demands payment up front, they remind the girl that she is a girl, and should shut up and put out. How the coin girl system ever worked without the constant presence of a protective Master, standing nearby in a fur coat and a feathered hat, is beyond me. The old adage from the farms outside Ko-Ro-Ba asks, "why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" And this certainly applies to coin girls who, as mere cows, cannot demand that the man pay for the milk. And, in fact, given that the girl is unattended, the man just thinks he can take the cow and put her in his own barn. Enough extended metaphor. I'm excited about my new undertaking. The road is like home to me and it will be good to return to it. Moreover, I'll be acquainting myself in a directed way with a higher caste. As The Dancing Kajira, which I think is a name that gets right to the point, I'll have the opportunity to taste the full rainbow of the castes, both figuratively and literally speaking. Best of all, I feel I'll be more successful at this. It's not that I wasn't successful at the trade of a coin girl. In some ways, I was too successful, as I drew many wasps with my quality of honey. Rather, it's that I was not successful at being a coin girl, and would be surprised to encounter a coin girl who was. Dancing, serving the many castes, telling stories; these are talents of mine that tend to not result in robbery. Yet. And so, I'm elated to bring better value to my Master. He deserves all I can give and a hundredfold more. Not just because he's my Master. But because he's managed to turn mere earth into a world worth exploring.

[opedguy]

U,S. GDP Shrinks in Q2

LOS ANGELES (OnlineColumnist.com), July 28, 2022.--Wall Street rallied yesterday and today for no good reason as the Federal Reserve Board raised the Federal Funds Rate 75-basis-points to 3.75%, the largest rate hikes in 20 years trying to tame nearly 10% inflation.  Then, today, the Commerce Dept. reported that U.S. Gross Domestic Product [GDP] shrunk another 0.2% in the Second Quarter [Q2] for an annualized decline in GDP of 0.9%. Today’s 0.2% decline was preceded in Q1 by a 0.4% decline, marking two quarters of negative GDP growth marking recession by the government’s definition.  Biden White House sought to spin the results as an inevitable recalibration of the economy after the whopping job gains coming out the pandemic in 2021.  White House officials tried to explain today’s negative Q2 GDP number as a natural consequence of the Fed’s action to hike interest rates, together with coming out of the 2021 pandemic.  

All economic trends point to weakening of the U.S. economy, not due to some magical plague hitting the economy but 79-year-old President Joe Biden deciding he wanted to take on the Russian Federation.  Biden’s proxy war, using Ukrainian troops, against the Russian Federation is more responsible for the economy downturn than anything named by the White House.  “We don’t think we’re in a recession just yet,” said Aditya Bhave, senior economist at Bank of America.  “But the bigger point here is that the underlying trend in domestic demand is weakening.  You see a clear deceleration from the first quarter,” said Bhave, not admitting that the Ukraine War has put a real damper on the U.S. economy.  What happened to inflation when Biden boycotted Russian oil, coercing the Western Alliance to stop buying Russian oil, creating the worst inflation in over 40 years.

Biden wants to pretend that his proxy war against the Russian Federation has had no effect on the economy.  Yet ordinary citizens know that gas prices doubled when Joe decided he’d punish 79-year-old President Vladimir Putin for invading Ukraine Feb. 24.  No economist that‘s worth his salt can pretend that the Ukraine War hasn’t fueled shortages and skyrocketing prices, leading the Fed to hike interest rates wildly to tame inflation., all caused because of Biden’s Ukraine War.  Russia accounts for 10% of world oil sales, amounting to, before the Ukraine War, to 5% of U.S. oil purchases.  Once Biden boycotted Russian oil, it threw U.S. energy markets into chaos, doubling pump prices, fueling inflation in the retail and transportation industry.  Ehave and other Democrat-friendly economists don’t want to admit that today’s hyperinflation his directly related to Biden’s Ukraine proxy war.

White House officials won’t admit the damage the Ukraine War does to the U.S. economy, leading to another quarter of negative GDP growth.  “Coming off last year’s historic economic growth—and regaining all the private sector jobs lost during the pandemic crisis—it’s no surprise that the economy is slowing down as the Federal Reserve acts to bring down inflation,” Biden said today.  Biden knows, but won’t admit it, the damage his Ukraine proxy war has done to the U.S. economy.  Pretending otherwise shows why his aggregate approval ratings are about 37%. ”But even as we face historic global challenges, we are on the right path and we will come through this transition stronger and more secure,” Biden said.  Biden has hit the U.S. economy with a wrecking ball all because of his vendetta with Putin.  His relationship with Chinese Presidetn Xi Jinping isn’t much better.

Biden says the U.S. is on the “right path” for a two-front war, one with Russia, the other with China.  House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) has been assembling a delegation to visit Taiwan in August, prompting Xi to tell Biden today that there would be severe consequences.  Biden won’t admit that in 20 months, actually much sooner, Biden killed U.S.-Russian and U.S.-Chinese relations.  Biden talks about being on the “right path” to perpetual war with America’s adversaries.  Generations of U.S. presidents before Biden made every effort to get along with Russia and China.  Since Biden took office Jan. 20 m 2021, he has wrecked all the good will built up for generations for pragmatic, constructive relations with Russia and China.  Now the U.S., under Biden’s leadership, faces the very real prospects of war with Russia and China, once thought unthinkable.

Biden has taken a prosperous U.S. economy under former President Donald Trump and trashed any economic recovery by taking on the Russian Federation.  Paying for all of Ukraine’s government salaries and the proxy war against the Russian Federation continues to destabilize U.S. and World GDP growth.  Biden can demonize Putin all he wants but the fact remains that the Ukraine War has thrown the U.S. and world economy into a tailspin.  Whatever the Fed does to tame inflation, 69-ytear-old Federal Reserve Board Chairman Jerome Powell admitted that he’s not in control of geopolitical events like Biden’s proxy war against the Russian Federation.  If Biden pushes China into a military confrontation, all best are off for the U.S. and world economy.  Biden needs to remind himself that “peace is the highest aspiration of the American people,” not his constant state of war with Russia and maybe China.

About the Author

John M. Curtis writes politically neutral commentary analyzing spin in national and global news.  He’s editor of OnlineColumnist.com and author of Dodging The Bullet and Operation Charisma.

[tropes-and-tales]

His Favorite

Day 23:  Thigh riding (Poe Dameron x F!Reader)

(For the 2021 Kinktober event offered by @beeschaos and @withlove-sid.  The original post and calendar/list can be found here.)  

CW:  Smut (thigh riding, as the title implies); 18+ only.

Word Count:  4190

AN:  This is very late - apologies!  Tide and time wait for no overly ambitious kinktober schedule.

The hangar is mostly dark:  only a pool of light remains in your mechanic bay.  The Resistance mostly runs on cobbled-together ships and a lot of prayers to whatever deities oversee the star system you’re currently hiding in.  But you make the best of it, and you take pride in your work.  You’ve never had a single ship – freighter or X-wing or otherwise – fail mechanically on your watch.

Tonight’s fun project?  Fixing Poe Dameron’s X-wing.  The Resistance might as well assign a dedicated mechanic to Dameron’s ships because he tends to fly them rough, land them hard, and then demand they work flawlessly for the next mission.

The man is a certified pain in the ass.

He’s also capable of being extremely quiet….which is how he’s able to creep up on you tonight in the mostly dark hangar.  You’re in the cockpit, recalibrating the navigational system that was fried in the latest fire-fight, when you hear him.  Not the heavy tread of boots.  His voice, actually.

“You almost done, sweetheart?”

He’s so incredibly close to you, you jump in surprise – and knock your head against the console.  You curse and straighten up in the pilot’s seat to see him leaning into the cockpit too.  He must have purposely climbed the ladder up as quietly as possible for you to have missed the sound of his boots on the metal…or the vibration of his steps on the ladder leading to the cockpit…

Asshole, sneaking up on you like that.  

“What do you want, Dameron?” you ask, biting back what you really want to say to him.

He flashes that winning smile of his that makes other women – and many men – simper at him.  “Came to check on how my favorite girl was doing.”

You shake your head and lean back in the pilot’s seat.  “She’s not doing great,” you tell him, and you begin to list out everything you’ve fixed so far.  “Some of her hydraulic lines were shot, the retro-thrust nozzle was fried, and I had to – “

“Not the ship,” he cuts in, his smile never wavering.  “You.  You’re my favorite girl.”

His nerve makes you laugh as you roll your eyes.  “Sure,” you retort.

“You are.”

Another roll of your eyes.  “Okay, what do you want?”

His smile transforms into a hurt look.  “I don’t want anything.”

“If you’re angling for a new ion engine, you have to get in line.  We only have two spares – “

He shakes his head at that, cutting you off again.  “Why do you think I want anything?”

You laugh again, and this time it’s a little bitter.  Poe Dameron and his winning smile and soulful brown eyes and cocky swagger.  You’ve seen enough of how he operates.  Flash the smile, flash the dimples.  Turn on the sad eyes, if necessary.  He could get whatever he wants, and usually does.  

Whatever he wants.  Whoever he wants.  The engineering quarters are a hive of gossip, and Dameron is oft the subject of the hour.

“When do you ever flirt unless it’s to get something you want?” you ask reasonably.  “So let’s just skip the flirting bit.  Tell me what you want, and I’ll see what I can do.  No ion engines, though.  Like I said, we only have a few spares.”

“Why do you think I’m flirting?”

“Why did you sneak up on me, then lie and say I’m your favorite girl?”

“Why would you think that’s a lie?”  He’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite place, and while he’s smiling, it’s not his broad winning smile now – now it’s something softer.

Because you flirted with me after that one big campaign.  Because I thought you actually liked me and weren’t just drunk on spotchka.  Because I thought…I thought….

You don’t say any of it.  He had flirted with you, made out with you…and the next day, obviously hungover, he had forgotten the moment completely.  Never said another word to you that wasn’t about his ship.

“What do you want, Poe?” you ask softly, and the use of his first name – or your tone – makes him frown.

“I really did just come to check on you.”

“Sure.”

He sighs.  “I came to thank you too.  Looking after my ship.  I don’t trust any other engineer with her.”

“Okay.”

Another sigh, and he hooks his arm around the ship to reach his other hand into his pocket.  He pulls something out and hands it to you.

“Here,” he says.  “I know you like these.  Saw them on the supply run and thought of you.”

Then he’s gone, back down the ladder, and this time you can hear his footsteps fading away.  You open the little packet wrapped in thin, crinkly paper – sweet-sand cookies.  They are your favorite – your mother used to make them when you were young.  

-----

You catch up with him a few days later.  You have to wait until the dining hall clears out a little, and Poe Dameron always has groupies hanging around him.  But BB-8 sees you, and the little droid gives a series of shrill beeps that pulls Poe’s attention to you.  His smile is wide as he walks over to you.

“You here to tell me that I got a new ion engine?” he jokes.

“Ha, I knew it.  You were just angling.”  You shake your head in mock-exasperation, but then you fix him with a curious look.  “How did you know?  About the sweet-sand cookies?”

“We talked about it.”

“When?”

Your question makes his smile falter a little.  “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“That night.  After the campaign over Pheryon.”  He rubs the back of his neck and looks a little ashamed.  “We…you know.  Hooked up.”

You furrow your brow and shake your head, this time for real.  “No, we….we made out.  But we didn’t hook up.”

“No, we definitely did.”  He tilts his head, rubs his neck again in consternation.  “I definitely remember.”

“No, we definitely did not.”  You emphasize the last word; you are clear on this point.  You had drank a little spotchka that night, but you were well in control of yourself.  Your memory of that night was pretty clear, and you tell him so.

“We talked,” you tell him.  “We were talking about our childhoods, and sure, I kinda remember talking about my mother, so I probably did tell you about the sweet-sand cookies.  And we…we, uh, made out too.”  You flush a little at that memory, the heat rising to your face.

“I stepped away to go get some water for both of us,” you continue.  “You were pretty out of it, and I felt bad.  When I came back, you were gone.  So if you hooked up with someone, it wasn’t me.”  You try not to sound bitter, but you know you fail.

Poe doesn’t look ashamed.  He looks flummoxed.  “No, sweetheart…I’m sure it was you.  I remember you…being there.  Uh, you know.  In my bed.”

Of course it wasn’t you.  You had stood there with two glasses of water in your hand like an idiot, then you had made a hasty escape to your own room once you realized you’d been ditched.  Alone, where your disappointment and tears could be vented without any embarrassment.

“I slept alone that night,” you tell him.

He seems so convinced though.  He stares at you, like he’s trying to see if you’re lying or pulling one over on him.  It’s a long, awkward moment until BB-8 bumps into Poe’s leg and lets loose a string of beeps that you can’t make out.

“What, buddy?”  He kneels down to listen to the droid, and BB-8 beeps for a long moment.

“Ah.”  Poe nods at the droid, pats it absentmindedly as he stands up.  “Okay, so slight revision.  That wasn’t you.  That was…uh, a figment of my imagination.  Apparently.  BB-8 here says that I stumbled back to my quarters, threw up, and passed out on the bed.”

“Ah,” you echo.  It sets your stomach aflutter, knowing that he hadn’t ditched you for another person.

“Guess it explains a lot,” he continues, and now he’s embarrassed, looking down at the floor near your feet.  “Why I woke up alone.  Why you have been…frosty to me since that night.”

“I thought you left with someone else,” you admit.

“And I thought I was such a disappointment in bed, you fled in the night.”

“Spotchka can hit you hard.”

“Apparently.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence, and you’re unsure of how to proceed.  So you do the best you can – you chuck him softly on the arm, you thank him for the cookies, and you turn to leave.  His arm shoots out and stills you.  His hand is warm on your wrist, and he only releases you after a moment.

“Wait,” he says.  “I’m sorry about that night.”

You shake your head at his apology.  It’s not necessary.  Your hurt has burned off in the face of the truth, and you harbor no ill will.

“You’re back on the list for a new engine,” you joke.  “See you around, Poe.”

No need to make future plans.  You know you’ll see him.  The man is a pain in the ass, and he rides his X-wing hard.  You’ll be working on his ship soon enough.

*****

It’s always easy to get time with you – you’re the best damned engineer in the Resistance, maybe in the galaxy.  Poe is always putting work orders in for you to look at his ship.

This time, at least, it’s a real issue.  The pitch and roll control pedals are sticky, slow to react.  Nearly cost him his life on the last intel run.

“See?” he says, demonstrating.  Right now he’s in the pilot’s seat, and you are on the ladder outside the cockpit.

“Well, I can’t see a feeling, Poe,” you say, and he loves this – the way you joke with him now.  It all makes sense now, why you went cold on him.  He’s glad it got cleared up, grateful for his droid to cut through human misunderstanding.

“Let me sit there,” you add, and you pull a cute little move, hooking one foot onto the side of the ladder and swinging away so that he can pass by you.  But he doesn’t move from his seat, and you frown at him.

“Come on, Poe.  Stop playing around.  I have to try the pedals myself to feel how they’re sticking – “

“You can sit on my lap,” he offers.  

He loves how flustered you get.  That’s what caught his eye that night – how flustered you got when he came over to talk to you.  You were so assured around the ships, around the piles of broken machinery that you could magic back into usefulness….but around him, you got rattled.

“I can’t sit in your lap.”

“Why not?  You’d fit.”

You open your mouth to protest, so he slides the pilot’s seat back the few inches it can – then he pats his lap invitingly.

He also loves how nothing can stand between you and a broken ship.  He knows that about you.  He’s seen you sprint into the jungle to work on a downed fighter.  Heard you beg Leia to haul in any destroyed piece of ship for you to repair.  

You glare at him for a beat, but then you climb into the cockpit.  You don’t quite sit in his lap….you perch awkwardly on his knee, most of your weight held off of him until he wraps his arms around your waist and hauls you back against him, making you squeal.

“You’re an ass,” you mutter, but sure enough – you shift.  You put your feet on the pedals and test them, muttering to yourself about maybe needing a new anchoring bolt, maybe just disassemble and clean and grease everything…

Poe doesn’t loosen his arm around your waist.  He really did think he took you home that night.  Hallucinated the entire event, or dreamed it.  It had been so vivid, he had assumed it was real.  Maybe the spotchka was laced with something that night, but if he closes his eyes, he can still remember it – the feel of your body underneath his, your hands touching him, your mouth beside his ear, whispering the filthiest –

“Okay,” you say, breaking his daydream.  “You can let me go.  I think I’ll start by taking apart the pedals…”  You trail off and tap the arm that’s wound around your waist, but he doesn’t release you.

“Can’t believe you thought I ditched you that night,” he grumbles.  

“You did ditch me,” you reply, and there’s a teasing lilt to your voice.  “I just thought you left me for a better prospect, when really you just left me to puke and pass out.”

“I wanted to spend the night with you.”  It’s easy to admit in the semi-darkness of the hangar, the privacy of the cockpit.  

“Well, spotchka has a way of convincing a person – “

“No.”  He cuts you off.  “Wanted to spend the night with you before I got wasted.  I’ve had my eye on you for a long while.”

You don’t reply to that.  He can’t guess what you’re thinking.  You’re facing away from him, and you go still in his lap. Knowing what he does about you, you’re probably weighing his words like a formula, like a blueprint.  Seeing what checks out, and what won’t fly.

“Turn around, sweetheart,” he says.  His voice is low, and he shifts his hands until they are on your hips, gently turning you, helping you maneuver in the tight space until you are straddling him.  You lay your hands on his chest and look at him evenly.

“I mean it,” he adds.  “I hate that you thought I would ditch you for another person.”

You look at him for a long moment, as if you’re judging his words.  Then you give a little nod, as if to yourself.  

You lean forward and kiss him, and it’s just like that night – only now, he’s sober enough to take in every sensation. You’re a great kisser, and it surprises him now – as it surprised him that night.  Maybe Poe judges engineers unfairly, but he always thought them introverted and shy.  You’re bold, though, when you kiss him – one hand drifting to the side of his face, tilting his head so that you can deepen the kiss.  As if you just needed him to tell you how he felt before you let your boldness out.

Yes, Poe remembers this.  The way your sharp teeth nip at his lower lip, then the way you suck against it, soothing the slight sting.  The way your tongue presses into his mouth, not a bit of hesitation as you explore him.  As you taste him.  

And this is even better, in his opinion.  Cozier, the two of you tangled together in his X-wing.  He doesn’t tell you, not right now, but he always pretends that he carries you with him on missions.  Not like a ghost, exactly…he just carries your memory.  The ghost of your hands, making sure the ship brings him home safely.  The best engineer in the galaxy, and his guardian angel.

It takes no time at all for both of you to get riled up.  Poe grows hard almost instantly, was already halfway there to see you hanging off the edge of his cockpit.  He guesses you feel similarly aroused, by how your short-bitten nails dig into the thick fabric of his shirt, by the subtle swivel of your hips as you kiss him.  Almost riding him, but not quite.  There’s not enough room for much of anything, but Poe doesn’t want to release you.  Doesn’t want to take you back to his quarters until he can make you come.

It’s a kink of his, something he’s ponders in great detail late at night when he is alone:  coaxing an orgasm out of you in his X-wing.  He’s had plenty of lovers in his bed; he wants you to be the first in his ship.

“Here, sweetheart,” he says, and he smiles at the confusion on your face when he tries to rearrange your limbs.  You let him, and he shifts you over just a bit – so that you’re just straddling one of his thighs instead of his lap.  He wraps your arms around his neck, and he smiles again when you thread one hand through his curls.

He lays his own hands on you – one on your hip, the other on your ass.  He steers you gently against him, against his thigh.  He sets the rhythm, and he loves the shimmer of desire that washes across your face before you start to move without his guidance.

Poe had been so certain that he’d taken you back to his room that night.  That’s how intense and vivid the dream (hallucination?) had been.  But he can see now – that entire dream sequence of you naked in his bed, him fucking you senseless….it doesn’t even come close to this moment.  

This moment is tame by comparison.  Not a bit of nudity.  No relief for him.  Just you grinding yourself on the tensed muscle of his thigh, taking your pleasure for yourself once he sets the scene for you.  He’s hard as beskar, but he doesn’t care about himself.  Watching you ride him…it’s incredibly hot.

You’re biting your lip as if you want to silence yourself, but you can’t stop the sweet little whimpers that tear out of your throat.  Your hair is back, no nonsense for your work in the maintenance bay, but a few strands have worked themselves free, framing your face.  Poe can feel how warm your face is, like you’re embarrassed…but not so embarrassed that you stop.

He leans forward, captures your mouth with his.  Another whine slips past your lips, but he swallows it.  Slides his tongue into your mouth to taste you, and it’s better than that night.  Now he can taste you and not the cloying aftertaste of spotchka.

Kissing you ratchets up your grinding.  You move faster.  Harder.  The hand that’s wound through his curls tugs against his hair lightly, making him groan into your mouth.  Your other hand moves from the back of his neck to cup his jaw.  You hold him steady as you kiss him.  As you ride him.

Poe swears he can feel the wet heat of you against his leg, despite your jumpsuit and his own pants.  There’s no way you could be that wet, but the thought makes him groan as the blood steadily pulses in his cock, straining for relief that won’t come until later.

He knows when you get close.  You change the rhythm a little, drag yourself more on him as you whine at the friction.  You break the kiss but he holds you close to him, presses his forehead against yours.  Your eyes are squeezed shut at the sensation of riding him, but Poe keeps his own eyes open.  To take in your every expression.  To watch you when you finally come.

You aren’t loud.  Maybe you keep it quiet because you’re in the hangar – Poe figures he’ll find out later, when he gets you somewhere more private.  But now, this first time you come for him…in his X-wing, no less…it’s quiet.  A restrained moment.  

You arch against him when you come, your breasts pressed against his chest as if electricity is arcing through you.  You throw your head back and let out a quiet, shuddering breath.  You whisper his name and tremble against him, and once your pleasure crests, you bend your head and kiss him as you calm.  You’re out of breath, and your kisses are breathless too.  Breathless as you say his name, breathless as you mutter out tame curses at the stolen moment in his X-wing.

When you calm, Poe steers you in his lap again.  Moves you until you’re curled up in his lap, and you huff out a breathless laugh when you feel his hardness poking against you.  But when you reach down for him, he gently stills your hand.  Lifts it to his mouth, kisses your knuckles, a little skinned and bruised from working on ships.

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart,” he murmurs against the side of your head.  He’s dangerously close to coming already, and if you touch him, he’ll make an uncomfortable mess.  He just wants to hold you as you calm, as he calms…then he wants to take you to his quarters.  

“Want to make up for that night,” he says.

You twist a little in his lap and gaze at him, your eyes glinting with devilment.  “I dunno, Poe.  Do we have a barrel of spotchka for you to drink first?”

His fingers dig into your waist, tickling you until you squeal, and Poe laughs to hear such a free-spirited sound coming from you.  Especially after that period of coldness when the two of you misunderstood each other, when you kept your words with him short and curt.  

“Never again,” he says.  “That damned spotchka cost me too much time with you.  Had to go out of my way to get you cookies to start the peace talks between us.”

You furrow your eyebrows at that.  “Wait, I thought you saw those on a supply run…”  You trail off, confused.

Well, Poe’s been found out now.  He made a special trip for them.  Not entirely – he was in the vicinity of a Artoid Minor anyway, but he had spent half of the star-cycle searching for a certain bakery.  Best sweet-sand cookies in the galaxy, apparently, and Poe’s best bet at thawing your reserve with him.

You had been a little tipsy on spotchka that night too, after all, and you had talked about how homesick you were.  How much you missed your father.  Your mother.  How you’d do anything for a single bite of her cooking again.

Poe couldn’t bring your mother to you…but he could try to bring you a memory from home.  He tells you so now, and the confusion on your face cedes to almost-tears.  Almost-crying, and it alarms him.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to – “ but you don’t let him get any further.  You cut him off by twisting in his lap and throwing your arms around his neck.  Hugging him hard.  Hard enough to surprise him with your strength.  Hard enough to surprise himself with how much he likes this, hugging you tightly as you struggle not to cry against him.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled against the crook between his jaw and his shoulder, against his neck.  “I really misjudged you.”

He chuckles.  “Maybe you judged me correctly and I was just making amends.”

“No,” you protest.  “I thought – “

“Hush.”  He cuts you off, puts a gentle hand on the side of your face.  Steers your head back to his, presses a soft kiss to your mouth.  “We don’t have to rehash all that old misery.  Let’s just move on.”

You nod.  “Okay.”

He flashes you his winningest smile, tilts his head questioningly.  “Come back to my quarters?  Spend the night with me?”

You laugh lightly.  “I thought we weren’t rehashing that old stuff, Poe.”

“That’s not old stuff, sweetheart,” he says.  “I’m fully in control of myself.  No puking, no passing out, no hallucinating.  This is new stuff only.”

You laugh again.  “Okay.”

“And if I mess up again, at least I know how to get back into your good graces.”

You smile and climb out of his lap, your legs a little shaky as you exit the cockpit, make your way down the ladder.  You wait for him to join you, and then the two of you leave the hangar – his arm around your waist, unwilling to let you go for even a moment.

“And maybe if I get a good run of not messing up…maybe we can talk new ion engines?” he asks, and you swivel in his arm, make a grumble of protest.  

“I knew you were conning me, Dameron.”

He stills his steps and reaches out for you.  Pulls you to him and kisses you, long and lingering.  The heat of that moment in the X-wing flares like an ember coaxed back into flames, and he grins at the way you press the length of yourself against him.  You feel it too.

“Not conning you,” he says when he breaks the kiss and takes your hand back in his.  He tugs you towards his quarters, hurrying your steps.  “Didn’t I say you were my favorite girl?”

You don’t respond to him, but you squeeze his hand.  You follow him, and you spend the night with him, and almost every other night after that.  Through the long war with the First Order, through the losses and triumphs.  Through the end of it and into peacetime and beyond.

The only time the two of you are apart, in fact, is when he’s on a mission in his X-wing…but he carries the ghost of you.  Not ghost, exactly.  The memory of your clever, skilled hands.  The best engineer in the galaxy.  His guardian angel.

His favorite girl.

~~~Tag List~~~ @bananas-pajamas  @rachelxwayne​   @stardust-fray   @massivecolorspygiant​   @imspillingcoffee​   @amneris21​  @paintballkid711​   @mad-girl-without-a-box​   @bestattempt​   @rosiefridayrogersunday​   @strawberrydragon​   @hoeforthefictional​   @greeneyedblondie44​  @leannawithacapitala​   @stardust-galaxies​   @ataraxydreams​   @blunt-cake-yes​  @castiellover77​   @shesbiochem4​   @isvvc-pvscvl​   @frankie-catfish-morales​    @blacksquadron-roguetwo   @zizzlekwum​

[katsuhera]

paranoia

pairing: bakugou katsuki x f!reader tw/warnings: nsfw (18+), dumbification, alcohol, some choking, some degradation, some cockwarming, canon au but not relevant to story, aged up characters (18) wc: 4k

“paranoia, anyone?” kaminari asked, wriggling his eyebrows at the group. tonight was a chill drinking night, celebrating the start to summer vacation.

“ooh! i’m down,” mina exclaimed excitedly, clapping her hands together. you sat in the corner, just blissfully happy and quiet. you hadn’t drunk too much yet, but you could undoubtedly feel a light buzzing coursing throughout your veins, enough to make you just want to sit and recalibrate as everyone else moved animatedly around you.

“what’s that again?” kirishima asked, sipping his drink. “i forgot how to play, i think.”

“okay, okay, wait, let’s all sit in a circle,” kaminari started, waving his hands around. “it’ll be easier that way.”

“tch,” bakugou scoffed, a surly look on his face as kirishima forced him to scoot closer to the rest of the group. “do we have to? this is probably a shitty game.”

“relax, it’s fun, i swear,” mina assured him, her gentle hand on your shoulder encouraging you to scoot in closer as well. “one of my favorite drunk games! i promise.”

“okay, so here’s how we play,” kaminari said. “we go in a circle, like clockwise or counter-clockwise, whatever, and each person whispers a question to whoever’s next to them, and the answer has to be the name of someone in this room.”

“it sounds kind of complicated but you’ll understand once we play,” mina said. “so, for example, i’m sitting next to kirishima – i will ask him a question that only he can hear, like, ‘who has the coolest quirk?’ and he’ll say like ‘todoroki,’ or something, out loud for everyone to hear. and if todoroki wants to know what the question was, he has to take a shot, and then kirishima will expose the question.”

kaminari nodded, adding on: “it goes like that, but usually the questions get… spicy.” he smiled toothily, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint to them. “all questions are fair game! let’s not be mean, though.”

“let me grab some drinks, but you guys can get started!” mina said, getting up and heading off to the kitchen.

you glanced around the circle, giggling inwardly at how dazed iida and some of your other classmates seemed. iida in particular never really got around to drinking much, but when he did, he was predictably a lightweight.

everyone else seemed to be fine and vibing, and you curled your knees into your chest as you got comfortable, waiting for the game to start. drinking games were always fun with your class, especially when mina and the rest of their squad took control.

“who wants to go first?” kaminari asked, looking around.

“i can,” todoroki volunteered quietly, surprising everyone else.

“oh? bet, then go ahead and ask bakugo a question. we’ll go counter-clockwise, then,” kaminari piped up, getting up a little to help mina set the bottles of alcohol and plastic shot glasses down in the middle.

a hushed silence fell over the group as todoroki sat pensively, thinking of a question, before leaning in to bakugou’s grimacing face.

“what a stupid question,” bakugou snickered, and answered without missing a beat. “deku.”

everyone nearly snapped their necks to turn around and look at midoriya.

“do you want to know what the question was?” mina asked.

midoriya shook his head violently. “i think i’m good.”

bakugou sneered before cracking his neck and pausing to think of a question for kirishima.

“hurry up, bro,” kirishima teased, earning a scowl from bakugou.

“shut the fuck up,” he growled, leaning in to whisper his question.

you loved watching their best friend dynamic. bakugou was normally on everyone’s bad side, his antagonizing manner turning most people who met him off from interacting with him ever again. but with the way he interacted with kirishima, you knew that he probably had a softer side that he was either too embarrassed of or insecure to let on.

you felt your cheeks flush as you lost yourself in thought, staring at the redhead and the blonde – well, mostly the blonde, and the way his triceps flexed smoothly as bakugou leaned on his arm to get closer to kirishima.

“what are you staring at?” mina whispered excitedly in your ear. startled, you snapped your head to the side to look at her.

“nothing, nothing,” you murmured, embarrassed. if mina knew, you’d never hear the end of it.

“um...,” kirishima started, his pale cheeks flushed crimson as he prefaced his response to bakugou’s question. his eyes darted worriedly around the circle, lingering for a bit on jirou. “jirou… i think.”

jirou’s head immediately shot up from its cozy spot on kaminari’s shoulder, narrowing her eyes as she looked at kirishima. “shot,” she demanded, eliciting laughs from the group. mina poured one out for her and handed it over, giggling as jirou downed it easily, not even a hint of a wince on her face.

“what was the question?” she asked, looking straight at kirishima, making him blush even further.

“who here is…” his voice trailed off meekly.

“who here’s most likely to have a daddy kink,” bakugou grinned, his vermillion eyes glinting with amusement. “interesting… jirou, hah? i can see it.”

you smiled as you watched their interaction spiral – you’d never seen jirou more embarrassed in her life. kaminari watched on in mild amusement, though you could tell that the tips of his ears were also red.

interesting, maybe it is true, you mused to yourself. can’t blame her, though.

“my turn! ask me a question, kiri,” mina said, clapping her hands and sipping her drink.

kirishima paused in thought before covering his lips and her ear with his hand.

“stop!” mina laughed, gently slapping his shoulder. “you really asked me this knowing who i’d say?”

“yeah,” kirishima chuckled. “go on, say it.”

“mr. bakugou katsuki,” mina said, rolling her eyes. “you want a shot, right?”

“tch,” he responded, grabbing the bottle. “tell me the damn question.”

mina waited for the alcohol to make its way down his throat before she exposed herself.

“‘who here do i think will get married last?’”

“and you said me?” he asked, indignant. “oi, raccoon eyes–”

“oh my god, relax,” she replied offhandedly. “clearly it’s because you’re going to be the number one hero or whatever and you won’t have time for marriage. anyway, i get to ask y/n next!”

bakugou growled, but left it alone, choosing to sit and glower at her instead.

“i’ve got a good one,” mina smirked, and immediately you knew that you were in for a tricky question.

“who here would you fuck?” she whispered, giggling as she pulled away and watched for your reaction.

you knew it was coming. not necessarily to you, but you knew that question was coming. it’s always asked. you sighed, regretting not sitting next to deku or momo who probably would have gone easy on you with the questions.

good lord mina, you thought frustratedly, putting your palm to your forehead.

“i hate you,” you said, monotoned, much to mina’s glee. “i need a shot before i answer.”

“here you go, bestie!” she replied, immediately pouring one out for you.

everyone else looked on eagerly, murmuring as you downed the shot, making a face as the alcohol burned its way down your throat.

“damn, what kind of question needs a shot before getting answered?” kaminari asked aloud, watching you with wide eyes.

you took a deep breath, looking around the group and trying to decide on who to choose. but your actions were futile; for you, there was only one answer – and there had only ever been one answer, really.

“... bakugou,” you said finally, hesitating to make eye contact with him.

“oh?” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “shot, raccoon eyes.”

“i already poured one for you!” she said happily, handing it to him. within a second, his cup was empty.

“so? spit it out, y/n,” he grinned.

“who here… would i fuck,” you said the last word with finality, anticipating the hoots and chuckles you’d get from the group.

“this is such a lewd conversation,” iida interjected abruptly, waving his hands towards the middle of the circle. “we shouldn’t–”

“you’d fuck bakugou?” kaminari asked you, his eyes wide with shock. “why?”

“what do you mean?” you felt blood rush to your face, engulfing you in slight embarrassment as you actively tried to avoid the gleaming crimson eyes that were boring holes into the side of your skull.

“i can see it, i think,” momo said, smiling at you. you were sure that what she said was meant to be reassuring, but you weren’t so sure of how helpful it was at the moment.

“so, bakugou, got anything to say?” kirishima asked with a wink, slapping his friend’s shoulder.

he was uncharacteristically silent as the rest of your peers held their breath, waiting for his response.

“tch,” he started, eyes darting to yours. “just that i’m not surprised.”

you held his gaze somewhat defiantly, thanks to the alcohol. sober you would have cast your eyes down immediately, praying for the moment to be over.

“okay, okay! next, next – gotta keep the game moving,” mina said, not wanting you to have to stay in the spotlight for too long. “y/n, ask kaminari something.”

your mind was undeniably foggy with the way you could feel bakugou’s eyes burning into your head, and you weren’t even sure how you were able to come up with a question on the spot. you muttered something stupid about who would be most likely to get robbed, and thankfully, his answer and the following questions kept the game moving along smoothly.

as the night progressed, everyone found themselves drunker and more comfortable with each other, though the questions had definitely gotten spicier. as uraraka rested her head on midoriya’s lap and jirou found herself leaning into kaminari’s arm, you couldn’t help but smile at how cute they looked. your class had come a long way since your first year together.

“i’m going to pee,” you announced, getting up and wobbling as the alcohol rushed to your head.

“oh shit, are you good?” mina asked, getting up to try and stabilize you, despite not being too stable herself.

“yeah, yeah, i’m fine,” you said, waving her off. “bathroom’s right there, i’ll be good.”

you stumbled your way over, stepping delicately over kirishima’s legs as you cut through the circle.

you used your time in the bathroom alone to try and sober yourself up. the sensation of the running cold water on your skin seemed to wake you up, and you examined yourself in the mirror.

fuck… i’m drunk, you thought after a couple of moments, giggling at the realization. disheveled strands of hair framed your face, and your eyes stayed unfocused no matter how hard you tried to get them to focus. you sighed, thinking that that was the best it was going to get, accepting your probable future hangover.

you opened the door, wringing your hands dry when an unfamiliar hand grabbed at your wrist, swallowing it in its large palm.

“bakugou?” you gasped, startled. “what…? is something wrong?”

he continued to stare at you, his large figure slowly backing you up into the wall, his body encaging you.

“did you mean it?” he asked lowly.

“what?”

“don’t be stupid,” he said impatiently. “your answer to raccoon eyes’ question.”

oh.

“i…,” you spoke hesitantly. how the fuck were you even supposed to answer that? “yeah, i guess.”

“you ‘guess’? is that a yes or a no?” he stepped in closer, backing you impossibly closer into the wall. you cowered from his stare, his body suddenly seeming much larger than you’d ever noticed before.

“i mean, yeah, i would,” your voice came out small, despite all of the mock defiance you held in your stare just an hour prior. “happy?”

he paused, holding his breath and searching your face intently. his expression was unreadable; normally, his lips were pulled into a grimace – but now, they sat in a neutral position. his eyes were the only elements of his face that gave away some semblance of emotion.

“... yeah,” he replied finally. “you could say that.”

“huh?” you asked, confused.

“come,” bakugou replied simply, tugging at your wrist and heading for the bedrooms upstairs.

“what? where are we going?” you could barely keep up with his strides. “bakugou, they’ll notice if we’re gone–”

“let them,” he sneered. “everyone’s pretty much knocked out, anyway.”

your heart throbbed in your chest as you followed him up the stairs, still slightly shell-shocked by his actions.

there’s no way this is happening right now, you thought incredulously, the only thing grounding you being the feeling of his hand on your wrist. well, i guess i didn’t lie – i would fuck him, you thought, observing the way his back muscles rippled through his black tank top. you weren’t lying – you just never thought he’d take you up on it.

you rounded the corner, realizing suddenly that he was taking you to his room – his private, secluded room that no one in the class had so far had the privilege of seeing.

“your room, bakugou? what an honor,” you giggled teasingly.

“shut it,” he growled, but you knew that he was all bark and no bite at this point.

his pace was fast and before you knew it, you were already in his room, pushed up against his door with your wrists pinned against it as he towered over you.

“you should have said something earlier, princess, maybe this would have happened a long time ago,” he said, his breath hot on your neck.

you opened your mouth to respond, but were interrupted by his lips on yours, urgent and passionate.

his tongue danced with yours as your teeth gnashed slightly; the both of you were drunk and sloppy, falling into each other as you let your thoughts swirl into nothingness.

he pressed his hips forward into yours, and you gasped slightly at the feeling of his cock stiffening behind his sweats. automatically, you rolled your hips into his, eliciting a low groan from him.

“not gonna last very long if you keep doing that, princess,” he murmured against your lips.

“huh? aiming to be a pro hero and you can’t handle that?” you teased, but were swiftly cut off as his right hand circled your neck, his left finding purchase against the small of your back as he swiveled you around to toss you on his bed.

“oi, don’t test me,” bakugou said, immediately hovering over you, supporting himself with both hands on each side of you and his knee in between your thighs.

he leaned in to suck at your neck, his hand sliding under your shirt to grasp at your breast, rolling your pebbled nipple between his fingers.

a dull ache started to pulse in your core, and you could feel yourself getting wetter, soaking the thin panties you wore. it didn’t help that with his ministrations, bakugou pressed his knee harder into you, as if knowing that you were desperate for some friction.

you arched your back into his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and trying to bring him closer to you.

“desperate slut,” he chuckled darkly, nipping at your neck. “you’re lucky i wanted this, too.”

“oh? is that a confession, bakugou?” you asked smugly.

“you wish,” he replied snarkily, fisting your shirt and tugging it up, exposing your breasts. he moved his head down, planting wet kisses across your chest while pulling your bra down, the soft flesh spilling out of the restraining fabric.

a light buzzing filled your body – anticipation mixed with alcohol, and your mind was blurry, unable to focus on a single thought at a time. you laced your fingers into his hair, tugging softly at the blonde locks as his tongue lapped gentle circles over your nipple.

he brought his other hand down to pull at the waistband of your sleep shorts, and you lifted your hips, making it easier for him. as his fingers met your clothed cunt, he laughed darkly, sending a shiver down your spine.

“this wet for me, princess?”

you inadvertently tried to close your thighs, an attempt to hide the unmistakable dark spot that had formed at the crotch of your panties.

“no no, don’t hide,” he crooned, dipping his finger below the waistband of the lace cloth. “where’s all the brattiness from earlier, hmm?”

“tch,” you scoffed, tugging harder at his hair as you were at a loss of words.

smoothly, he pulled the fabric down, a low moan falling from his throat as he watched the string of slick that connected you to your panties.

slowly, he glided a finger up your entrance, gathering your arousal on it before shoving it into your mouth, forcing you to clean it off. he watched each and every one of your movements – like a hawk watching its prey.

not wanting to be the only one exposed, you moved your hand down to tug gently at his sweats, silently asking him to take them off. he listened, removing them easily and throwing his sweats and boxers across the room.

“you look so fucking pretty under me, you know that?” he asked, enamored by the way your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked his finger clean. “wish we could have done this earlier.”

he slapped his cock on your cunt teasingly before sliding the swollen head up and down your entrance, eliciting small whines from you. you’d never felt more needy in your life – just the mere feeling of his cock near your pussy drove you nearly insane with want, the desire to be filled up.

without warning, he pushed the head in, grinning at the gasp you emitted.

“fuck!” you breathed, eyebrows furrowed as you felt yourself already having to stretch to accommodate him.

“i’ve barely even done anything,” he responded, his grin growing even cockier. slowly, he pushed further inside you, holding back his own moans as he felt your fleshy walls clench around him. “fuck, you’re fucking tight though, princess.”

it burned for a second before the pain dissipated, and you found yourself craving more. you rolled your hips into his again, needing movement.

“tch,” he said, feeling your hips grind into his. “so needy.”

he pulled out slowly before thrusting into you again, hard and fast, ignoring the mewls and whines that had started to bubble up your throat.

you couldn’t even bring yourself to speak, so preoccupied were you with the sensation of being so, so full that you couldn’t form coherent thoughts.

with each thrust of his hips, your breasts bounced enticingly, causing bakugou to chew the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from showing any sign of vulnerability. but it was too difficult – you were just so pretty, a fucked-out mess underneath him.

the sound of skin slapping skin filled the air, to the point where you were sure that if any of your friends on the floor below listened closely enough, they could figure out what was happening.

“baku-gou, too l-loud,” you gasped, trying to choke out the words despite the pace at which he was going.

“so? they’re just extras, let them hear,” he growled, pounding into you particularly hard for good measure.

you couldn’t hold back your moans any longer, all of them spilling out at once, falling upon his ears like music.

“god- fuck, bakugou,” you panted, your nails leaving angry red marks on his back.

wordlessly, he moved a finger to your clit, rubbing small circles into it, sending jolts of pleasure through you.

your legs spasmed around him, and you wrapped them tightly around his hips, slowing his movements but unable to fully stop them. you were dangerously approaching your orgasm, and you could feel your vision start to glaze over – the only thing you could make out was the image of his eyes, red and shining, staring at you, as if willing you to cum.

your nails dug crescent-shaped marks into his flesh as you approached the edge. “‘m gonna c-cum,” you managed, creasing your forehead in concentration.

he pressed his finger harder into your puffy clit, his strokes becoming longer and more deliberate.

“yeah? then go ahead and cum, princess.”

waves of hot ecstasy rolled over you, pure bliss washing your mind blank of any thoughts. bakugou’s own hips stuttered as you clenched around him, convulsing as you rode out your orgasm.

“christ, y/n, feels so fucking good,” he muttered, letting you ride it out for a bit longer before he flipped you onto your stomach, fisting your hair.

“ah!” you cried out, your walls still fluttering around him despite the pain you felt from your scalp.

he pressed a palm into your lower back, forcing you into a deeper arch as he started to pound into you again, his head lolling back in pleasure.

bakugou couldn’t get enough of the way your ass bounced with each thrust, and he grabbed onto your left hip for support, starting to quicken his pace.

“mmnh–, more, bakugou,” you pleaded, your eyes rolling back as your tongue peeked through your parted lips. you gave up on trying to think – you gave in entirely to him.

“more? fucking slut,” he said, but in truth, your mewls and moans went straight to his dick, forcing him closer and closer to his own threatening climax.

you’d started to back your ass into him, too, matching his pace, and it was nearly too much for him to bear.

“shit,” he hissed. “‘m gonna cum, princess.”

“inside, please–!” you gasped, desperate to feel yourself filled to the brim with his cum.

that was enough for him, and he let go, shooting white hot spurts of cum into you, painting your walls white with his seed.

he cursed, feeling his cock twitch inside of you as it softened, despite the way you continued to clench around him, sucking up all of his cum and refusing to let go.

you whined as he pulled out, the sensation of cool air suddenly surrounding your pussy making you sensitive. bakugou watched, entranced, as trickles of cum oozed out from your entrance before he stuffed some back in with his finger.

gently, he helped you onto your back and flopped to your side, quiet, pensive. you lay catching your breath, but suddenly felt the urge to cover yourself up.

as if he could read your mind, he got up and got dressed, leaving the room.

is that… it? you thought, suddenly apprehensive. you, too, wanted to get dressed, but the trickle of cum making its way down your legs was too uncomfortable.

within seconds, bakugou re-entered the room, a wet rag in hand.

“you’re back?” you asked, wide-eyed.

“what? yeah, i left to get this,” he responded, confused and holding up the rag. “did you think i’d leave you like this?”

“... dunno,” you responded, a little taken aback.

he knelt by the bed, cleaning you up gently and sliding your panties back up your legs.

you’d started to become more clearheaded, despite the alcohol still buzzing throughout your system.

“i didn’t know you wanted this, too,” you said quietly, after a few pauses of silence. briefly, you wondered if you would have had the courage to be so honest if not for the alcohol.

“... i always did,” he responded, averting his gaze and instead shifting his attention to finding your shorts.

your heart beat wildly in your chest as you watched his face, pale with a rosy tint to his cheeks, his handsome features illuminated by the moonlight that peeked through his curtains.

“really?”

“yes, shitty woman,” he grunted, evoking a little giggle from you as he finally seemed back to his usual, grumpy self. “‘cause i fucking like you, y/n. got it?”

he what?

did you hear him correctly? you blinked rapidly, your breath hitching in your throat as he made eye contact with you, his stare intense and piercing.

when you didn’t respond, he looked down, embarrassed.

“you don’t have t–”

“i like you, too,” you responded quickly, hoping that he’d look at you again. “for a while, actually.”

bakugou hesitated before getting up and sitting on the edge of the bed. he reached his hand out, stroking your cheek with the pad of his thumb, leaning in to press a light kiss to your forehead.

“sleep here tonight?”

you smiled, butterflies fluttering about in your stomach.

“of course.”

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[awindylife-writes]

Sick

Relationships: 10th Doctor x reader (Not an established relationship)

Summary: the Doctor and you find yourselves on a spaceship in desparate need of repair and you are determined to help the crew (Kaisa, Lincoln and Bressa), but then the ship also gets highjacked. And on top of that, you fall sick.

Warnings: you're in mortal danger but that's it

You were standing by the big metal desk in the middle of the room, reading the numbers to Kaisa so he could type them in.

The digits kept swimming in your vision. They were blurry, everything was blurry, but they also kept moving. And when did it get so hot? You wiped the sweat from your forehead while trying to breathe deeply. You knew that if you looked up from the pad, the room would be spinning. The worst part was the tiredness. It coiled through your limbs and made them so heavy you could hardly move them. The effort to keep connecting letters and sounds, keep connecting thoughts hurt.

You closed your eyes for a second and the ship tilted so far you lost your balance. You stumbled back, eyes flying open and arms trying to reach out for something to hold onto.

Suddenly there were strong hands on your shoulder and the small of your back, steadying you. You looked up and recognized the dark orange skin and curly brown hair that was greying at the edges. Kaisa had caught you.

"Are you alright?" his gruff voice came to you.

"Yeah, yeah l'm okay." That sounded weak even to your own ears. "The ship just tilted."

"The ship's fine, love," he answered in confusion. You could see furrowed eyebrows, and then his dark golden eyes. You couldn't make out the wrinkles around them, or the lines on his forehead. Everything was blurry.

He put one hand around you to hold you up, then felt your forehead with the other. It was blessedly cold and you leaned into it with a sigh. "I think humans aren't supposed to be this hot," his worried voice came then.

You could hear Lincoln and Bressa turn around and step closer. You would have cracked a joke about drinks first if you weren't about to ask to sit down from exhastion. But you all had a job to do.

"I'm okay," you tried to reassure him. "Let's just get back to-" As you stepped away from Kaisa to shake his hands off, the ground rushed up and you barely caught yourself on the table. His arms were back, supporting you, before you could fall further. Shit.

"You're sick," Kaisa confirmed with a voice full of worry. He gently pulled you from the table and towards the wall. "Here, sit down," he told you softly and manouvered you to a stack of crates. He helped you sit on one and you rested your head on the taller pile.

"Thanks," you breathed gratefully and closed your eyes.This is nice.

On the other side of the room you could just hear Bressa order Lincoln, "Go get the Doctor. Tell him y/n's sick." Her voice was grave.

~

The Doctor had just recalibrated the fiberlinks of the navicomputer and was well on his way of taking apart the integral protonic bond when Lincoln reached him. The Doctor didn't even pull his head out of the ship's innards, much less stood up. "What is it?" He didn't have time for this.

"Your friend," the young man's distressed voice came. "She's sick."

That made worry explode in his chest. Ice spread through his veins as he hurriedly pulled himself out of the wiring. He hit his head on the way but that didn't matter, not when y/n was-

"What did you say?" the Doctor demanded in a low voice, eyes scanning the Tirellian crewmate.

"Y/n is sick." The Doctor marked every blink, every twitch, every line. He did not like the worried frown on Lincoln's face. He had gotten his answer.

The Doctor put the sonic back in his inner pocket and demanded, "Where is she?", voice forcibly calm but unrelenting. He picked up his coat as the young man turned to show the way, and off they went.

~

When your eyes were closed, you could almost pretend you were fine, but the fever, the heat in your skin was killing you. The box on your cheek and forehead had warmed up and provided no more relief.

You could feel even the darkness around you spin if you tried to think.

~

The Doctor ran into the room after Lincoln, trench coat billowing around him.

"Where is she?" he demanded in worry with his gaze searching the room.

"Over here." Kaisa stood up from behind the large metal table and pointed at the stack of crates beside the wall. He stepped back towards the others as the Doctor came to kneel before you with his coat scraping the floor. His hands hovered just inches above your skin.

"Y/n," he breathed quietly while looking you over. His hand settled on your arm. Scarlet cheeks, sweat - fever, eyes closed, leaning on the crate - exhausti-

You tiredly opened your eyes but you didn't lift your head. "Doct'r." The regret was already in your voice. "'M sorry. I should've-" Should have known the signs, should have slept more, should have eaten-

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he murmured softly, shaking his head. He rubbed your arm, his expression gentle and reassuring.

He took your hand and found your pulse point, which made butterflies flutter in your stomack despite the sickness. Then he lifted his other hand to your cheek. It was cold so you leaned into it, your eyes closing in content. You breathed deeply but it seemed like there was never enough air.

"You've definitely got a fever, about 39 degrees," he continued in that same soft tone. "And your heart is speeding up. How're you feeling?"

"Evr'thin's spinnin'," you told him tiredly, words a bit slurred. You tried to remember, but the things you were trying to describe made it hard to do that. "Couldn't stand up, Kaisa caught me. Couldn'read anymore, evr'thing was blurry'n moving. My head hurts, my eyes hurt, ever'thing hurts. An'l'm tired," you sighed. "I wanna go t'sleep."

"You will, l promise you will, but you need medicine first," he told you gently yet firmly. "It's the virus Tem, from Polon. We were there about four days ago, it's quite common for the planet, but it's dangerous." His brown eyes were full of worry. "If it's left untreated, as yours was, it can be deadly." He left the sentence hang in the silence after it.

You tried to shake your head but the motion caused more pain and you stopped. "So l'll get the meds and ll'l be fine," you told him tiredly. It didn't seem like much of a problem. You faced death on a daily basis, so what was a little virus?

"What do we do?" Kaisa stepped closer and looked down at the two of you, eyebrows furrowed in worry and hands crossed in front of his chest.

The Doctor moved closer and took you by the shoulders. "C'm on." He smiled encouragingly as he gently helped you stand up. You didn't like it, but the solution to this situation probably required moving.

You leaned against him and put your head on his shoulder as he helped you stay upright. The spinning did not help your stomack.

"Polonians have a vaccine, but it's far too late for that. You though, you three come from Kristella, is that right?" the Doctor looked around the room.

"Yeah," Kaisa nodded.

"So you receaved the whole med package there, including the VC five-six-o-nine."

"Yes."

"Good," he nodded, "bless the Kristellan med care. Your immune system knows the virus so you're not in danger. But you," he looked down at you, gritting his teeth, "are."

Well, that was a bit obvious.

He looked back up at Kaisa. "I want you to get her to the med bay. Give her Triskel two point three with a lot of water, she needs to stay hydrated, and then two shots of Amino when that's down, got it?"

"Yes," the large sailor nodded and stepped closer to take you. "And don't 'Got it' me, young man."

The Doctor opened his mouth to explain the whole Time Lord age thing when-

"I don't wanna go," you mumbled into his chest, pressing yourself closer. The room was spinning, you couldn't see well and you could barely stand. The thought of leaving him (he meant safe and good and you needed him) on this ship where anything could happen to you or him (who would look after him if not you?) made you want to sob.

He pulled away enough to look at you but still hold you. His eyes were soft. "I know," he told you gently and then frowned at the thought of letting you go, "l don't like this either." Every instinct in him flared against leaving you while you were sick and in need of him. He was Gallifreyan, and he protected what was his, even if you didn't know. "But you need medicine, and they need help rewiring the ship," he put it plainly. "I have to stay, and you have to go."

You nodded even though it hurt. He pulled you closer and for a moment, you just held each other.

"Stay safe," you said into his shoulder, almost an order. "Not a hair out of place, you hear me?"

You could feel him smile at the familiar tone. "Yes, ma'am."

It was time to go. You slowly let go of the Doctor as Kaisa came closer. He slung a hand around your waist while you put yours around his shoulders. It worked well, you could stay upright and move at the same time.

Then the whole ship shook like it was being torn apart and you were thrown against the table while Lincoln yelled in surprise. The Doctor and Kaisa kept you stable and unharmed between them, but the room looked like it had survived an earthquake.

"Are you alright?" The Doctor was franctically looking you over for injuries.

"What the hell was that?" demanded Bressa.

~

Kaisa didn't know what to do. You and him were locked in one of the main storage rooms, and they hadn't even let you get medicine. The large Risonians, two out of six who had highjacked the ship, simply came into the med bay and dragged you out before he could find anything to help you. You hadn't even gotten water.

All he could do was put his jacket under your head when you couldn't sit up anymore and hold your hand as you slipped into a restless sleep.

Then he noticed the computer log in the corner behind the crates. He could rewire it, send an altering pulse through the system... He looked at you as your head turned from one side to the other as you gasped for breath, mumbling nonsense in your sleep. Your fever was rising.

"Right then, love. I'm going to get help."

~

When the Doctor noticed Kaisa's message beeping under the log, he'd been momentarily confused. He'd made it very clear to the Risonians that you needed medicine and that he would do anything to make sure you got it, so why would they-

A second later, a pair of the hijacking crew came marching into the room with guns drawn. The Commander was as shocked as him when two of her people turned against her.

This was bad.

~

The Doctor walked into the storage room with his hands behind his head, with Bressa and Lincoln behind him. What remained of the Risonian crew had been locked into a separate room, to keep you all separated. His eyes immediately scanned the space for you.

When he turned the corner behind a high stack of crates, his hearts lurched. You were unconscious, lying on the floor with Kaisa holding your hand.

The Doctor was by your side in a second. Your skin was pale, but your cheeks were scarlet and your forehead glistened with sweat. You were mumbling in your sleep, your breaths laboured. Your head was turning restlessly in the throes of a fever dream. He took your warm hand and held it tightly.

"She was asking for you," Kaisa told him softly, eyes still trained on your face.

"What?" The Doctor's gaze flew to the larger man in confusion.

Kaisa looked up at him, "She was asking for you." He searched his eyes, for what, the Doctor didn't know. "Even after she couldn't answer me anymore, she kept asking for you in her sleep."

The Doctor felt like a hand had squeezed his hearts. It happened again, he did it again, you were in danger and it was his fault. He looked down at your closed eyes and scarlet cheeks. You were helpless, you needed him, and he couldn't do anything.

He brought your hand to his cheek and held it there with his palm as he closed his eyes. He needed you to live, he needed you to be alright. You had to be.

"Doct'r," your voice was barely a whisper.

His eyes flew open and he stared down at your still sleeping form. You turned your head to the side and, "Doct'r," again his name.

It lit a blazing fire in his chest. That was it. That was it, he was getting you out. He was getting all of you out because that was what he was going to do and the universe would bloody listen. He was the Doctor, and you were his. He was not losing you, not ever.

They'd taken the sonic but he was, for all intents and purposes, in a supply closet. Time to find out exactly which supplies he had.

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Fic: Pepsi Raspberry

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Ship: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x Reader/you

Warnings: There's a fight and Reader's ex left her with some issues, but nothing super traumatic. Frankie is super cute (and a little needy). I just threw this together on a slow day at work, apologies in advance for errors.

Summary: You fight with Frankie. That's it that's the plot.

A/N: This was honestly supposed to be a piece about feminism and female independence in a relationship but I can't be trusted around Frankie, he totally bippity-boppity-booped me into forgivance. Dickhead. Also I struggled for two and a half hours with the title and that's why it's shit. I hate titles.

Words: 2,416

A loud noise wakes you up, your heart missing a beat. For a moment, you're completely still in bed, scared out of your mind. That was definitely the sound of the front door opening and closing, and someone crashing into a chair. You're as stiff as a board, your first thought being that this is it, this is how you'll die, by the hand of a home invader who's probably going to assault you first and then kill you, or maybe kidnap you and do god knows what to you…

You hear cursing and as you recognize the voice you also realize that if someone wanted to break in, they'd probably at least try to be stealthy about it.

"Frankie?" You mean for it to be a call but it's just a breathless whimper. You wet your lips, finding your mouth too dry.

Heavy, staggering footsteps bring the unknown visitor to the bedroom door and you reach out to turn on your bedside lamp. Blinking blearily towards the soft light is indeed Frankie, a sheepish smile on his face.

"The hell are you doing?" Your fright-induced stiffness leaving your body, you sit up in bed and glare at your boyfriend who was supposed to sleep at his own place tonight after his night out with the boys. His eyes are unfocused and his face shiny, and it's clearly been a good night. You glance at the nightstand, where the red light diodes of the clock tell you that the time is barely three am.

“Sorry, baby. Did I wake ya? There was… there was a chair in the entry. Did you move a chair? There never was a chair there before. Stubbed my toe.”

He limps over to the bed, trying to look as sober as possible while unbuttoning his shirt – “trying” being the operative word, as he’s clearly lost control of his fine motoric skills. He ends up pulling the flannel over his head, but it gets stuck, and he topples over his side of the bed. You draw back a little, wrinkling your nose. He smells of stale beer and cigarettes and moreover: he was supposed to go home. You had both agreed that you'd spend Saturday night apart for once, him catching up with his friends, you with yours, and he'd go home where he could spend Sunday nursing his hangover while you got some cleaning done in your apartment.

“What you are doing here?” you demand again, anger replacing fear. “Can I send you to the shower or will you drown?”

“I’m not a good swimmer,” Frankie acknowledges ruefully as he clumsily rolls over in bed and attempts the next step of getting undressed: undoing his fly and getting his tight jeans off. “Here, baby, gimme a hand, you’re so good at this…” “You deal with it yourself,” you say sternly, in no mood to help. The whole idea of spending one night apart was to get a good night’s sleep – something you rarely get in the same bed as Frankie as both of you are usually too voracious for each other to think about sleep – and for you not to have to worry about a hung-over boyfriend the following morning. On top of that, you’re furious with him for scaring the shit out of you by stumbling in at three in the morning. You almost regret giving him a key but then again: if he didn’t have one it could have been even worse, he could have gone full on Stanley Kowalski outside your window.

“Ah, baby, c’mon… Don’t be like that. Help an old man out.”

Frankie tilts his head up and looks at you with imploring eyes, upside down from you. Half of him is hanging outside the bed and the rest is slipping off, and he looks like he might fall asleep any second. You might as well help him before he goes limp and ends up on the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter and crawl over to his side of the bed before climbing out. As you bend over to pick up his legs and lift them onto the mattress, Frankie manages to slap your ass.

“Baby. Hey, baby. Let’s have sex.”

“Not gonna happen.”

You unzip his jeans and yank them down carelessly, pulling Frankie down the bed in the process.

“Whoa, wild thing,” he murmurs thickly, his eyes falling shut. “Careful of the joystick, you don’ wanna damage that or you won’ be able to fly anymore…”

You don’t bother with an answer, he’s not going to remember it anyway. You help him off with the t-shirt as well and when you’re about to tuck him in, he grabs you by your wrist with a move much quicker than you had thought him capable of in his state. He pulls you down over him, the other hand squeezing your ass.

“Sex,” he mumbles. “Love you, baby, and I wanna be in you fo’eva.”

You try to avoid the smelly, wet kisses that he keeps pressing to your neck and shoulder. While you can appreciate him being horny for you in any situation, you’re still mad about him being here at all.

“You need sleep and I want it,” you tell him as you squirm out of his hold. Returning to your side of bed, you ignore the puppy eyes look he gives you as you turn off the lights.

“Not sleepy,” Frankie protests weakly before he’s out cold. He starts to snore loudly and you sigh in exasperation.

You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.

You barely sleep for the remainder of the night and when you finally give up and get out of bed, you're in a pissy mood. Not even two cups of coffee and the fancy bread rolls you bought at the bakery yesterday to treat yourself this Sunday morning make you feel better. You down a painkiller to combat the beginnings of the headache you feel creeping up on you before starting on your chore list. The clearing of the closets in the hall is the first task and you get to it, trying to find some satisfaction in the fact that you're getting your things in order.

As the hours pass by, you do your best to work around the tasks on your list that would generate noise, such as vacuuming. You may be pissed at Frankie but you're decent enough to let him sleep for a little while longer. However, you finally face the fact that if you're to get everything done in time for you to actually enjoy the rest of your day off and open that novel you've been dying to read, you're going to have to start the vacuum cleaer. If Frankie wanted to sleep until three pm he should have gone home.

When you turn off the vacuum cleaner, you hear Frankie groan in the bedroom.

“Babe?”

You're not really in the mood to talk to him but you go check on him, just in case he needs help to get to the bathroom. Nursing his hangover is the last thing you want to do today but you also don't want to clean up vomit.

He looks like a wreck with his hair standing out in every direction where it's not plastered to his skull, puffy eyes, and pale face.

“Morning.” Your tone is short but he doesn't seem to notice. He grunts and rubs his forehead with one hand, the other reaching out of bed towards you.

“C'mere. I wanna cuddle.”

“You smell,” you shake your head. “Get up already, I want to change the sheets.”

He groans again and retracts his arm, draping it over his forehead.

“One more minute. Or hour. It's so early and my head is killing me.”

“Not my problem, Frankie.”

Frowning, he looks at you, clearly bothered by the sunlight washing the room in light. You don't offer any explanations.

“Is there coffee?” he asks eventually.

“No.”

“Can you make some?”

“Make it yourself.”

He blinks at you, surprised.

“What's wrong, baby?”

You go to the other side of the bed, grab the pillow and start to take off the pillowcase.

“Just get out of bed. I have shit to do.”

Frankie sits up slowly, his head clearly bothering him when he moves from a horizontal recline to a vertical seat. He takes a moment, eyes closed and hand on his bare, soft stomach, before looking up at you.

“What's up with you?”

There's a hint of accusation in his voice and that does it for you. You slam down the pillow onto the bed and cross your arms in front of your chest as you glare at him.

“You scared the shit out of me last night, Frankie! I thought I was being burglared!”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” he mumbles, his apology meaning nothing to you because you can clearly see that he doesn't understand the terror you felt last night.

“We agreed that we'd spend the night apart, what the hell did you come here for and ruin my sleep and my morning?” you demand, raising your voice a little despite yourself. Frankie hates yelling. “Did you think I'd take care of you, tip-toe around you all day, serve you coffee in bed and junk food on the couch while you get to feel sorry for drinking too much?”

“What, no, what are you – “ Frankie seems utterly confused, the state of him most likely partly to blame. “Can you please keep your voice down?”

You pull at the duvet, stuck partly underneath him. “Move.”

“Jesus...” he mutters as he slowly gets out of bed. He stands still for a moment as if to recalibrate as he adjusts his boxers, before sluggishly dragging himself to the bathroom. You strip the bed and as soon as Frankie's out of the bathroom and heading into the kitchen, you take the sheets to the washing-machine and start it. And just because you're feeling like a bitch, you throw Frankie's clothes out of the bedroom, letting them land on the floor, before vacuuming.

When you're stowing away the vacuum cleaner into the cleaning closet, Frankie confronts you. He's now dressed but that doesn't help his half-dead appearance.

“Why are you being like this?” He's still struggling to understand you. It's typical Frankie: he always tries to talk about things, bring clarity into every issue.

“Like what? What am I like?"” You're being a brat, you know, but you have no desire to be an adult right now. Frankie really doesn't seem to understand: the frown seems permanently etched into his face and he looks so different from his usual soft, easy-going self.

“Mean. You're being mean!” The last word comes out harshly and you can tell Frankie's losing his customary cool.

“So when I have plans to spend a day apart from you and be my own person, I'm being mean?” you spit. He looks at you like you're suddenly speaking in a foreign language.

“What are you even talking about?” The exasperation is plain to see, and it somehow makes you even angrier.

“This isn't your mama's bed and breakfast that you can just check into whenever you feel like it, Frankie!”

“Fuck,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can't deal with this right now.” He pulls out his phone. “I'm getting an Uber.”

“Good!” you quip. “Fuck off home, like you should've done at three in the fucking morning!”

Without waiting for a reply, you stomp into the bedroom and slam the door. A few seconds later, you hear the front door slam as well.

[+++]

Sorry I showed up unannounced in the middle of the night. I just missed you. Didn’t want to go home and sleep without you. Call me, okay? I Love you.

You stare at the text message and feel bad, no, not bad: really fucking awful. It took you a few hours to calm down; hours that you spent playing angry music while finishing your list of chores. Afterwards, you didn’t feel that satisfying sense of accomplishment you usually experience after a good cleaning. Your head still hurt, so you went to your newly made bed which smelled fresh and nice even with the spread on top. You slept until late afternoon and woke up by the beep signaling the text.

You’re conflicted. The fact that he missed you is so sweet but there’s something about the statement that annoys you. He’s a grown-ass man, for chrissakes, and he should be able to be without his girlfriend for one single fucking night. And then guilting you into calling him with I-love-you’s and his fragile feelings? Fuck that noise.

And still. You know what Frankie’s like: physical, devoted, kind. He’s not like anyone you’ve ever been with. Not like your last boyfriend, who would pull shit like this all the time: show up at your place at all hours of the day (or night) whenever he wanted something from you. Sex. Comfort. Sympathy. Who would text and call you all the time when you were out with friends because he couldn’t find his way to the fridge without your help.

Reluctantly, you hit the speed dial button to Frankie, and he picks up almost immediately, saying your name with barely contained urgency.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

“Hi. You okay?” Such a Frankie thing to do, make sure you’re okay after a fight where, technically, he’s the injured party.

“Not really. You?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“You mean the hangover or this morning?”

You hear the smile in his voice. “Both, but I meant the hangover.”

You exhale in an amused little sniff.

“I’m sorry, Frankie. Do you… wanna come over?”

“I’d love to. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. I’ll pick something up. Burgers from that place you like?”

Your stomach rumbles at the mention of burgers but you’re more concerned with the sudden tears that rise in your eyes. Oh, Frankie.

“That would be great,” you manage, wiping at your eyes. Get a fucking grip!

“Parmesan fries?” he queries, but all he gets from you is a sob. “Baby?”

“I love you,” you sniffle. “You’re the best.”

“Aww, babe. I love you, too.”

You draw a deep breath to calm down, a little embarrassed at your emotional outburst. It’s not like you, but it’s been a weird day.

“You still there?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“Pepsi Raspberry for you?”

You start crying.

[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven. ~ eight.

Wordcount: 2.7k

Summary: Being with Miya Atsumu is like chasing a storm - equal parts exhilaration and danger. After all, it’s impossible to tame a storm

Masterlist here 

AO3 Link here

Atsumu didn’t get his name on the National team roster, let alone the Olympic team because of his genius setting skills (unlike dear Tobio-kun),  but because of the stubbornness and determination that he has in spades and figures he might as well deploy these same qualities to win this particular match. Osamu is of zero help here, muttering insults under his breath but fortunately, he has an unwitting accomplice in Shino, who happily babbles about how ‘mama is going to bring her to the park on Sunday’ . 

So armed with onigiris pilfered from Osamu and a box of mochi from her favourite dessert shop, he goes a-hunting for his wife and child at the park on Sunday afternoon and finds them lying on a picnic mat in an open field framed with trees.

‘Oto-san! ’ Shino squeals and dashes into his arms. He lifts her up, spinning her in the air, pressing kisses to her chubby cheeks. 

‘What are you doing here, Atsumu?’ she demands as she sits up. ‘How did you even know we’d be here?’ 

He winks and gives her his most dashing smile. It doesn’t seem to work though - the frown on her face deepens, but he tries not to let her look of distrust slice through the smile on his face. 

‘A little princess gave me a hint that her mama still has a habit of going to the park to watch the birds and clouds in the sky. Right, Shino?’

Shino cheers and waves her arms in reply. 

‘Good girl!’ he laughs encouragingly. 

She folds her arms and is about to retort when Shino demands that ‘Oto-san and Oka-san’ try to catch her - and takes off, barefoot on the grass. Atsumu catches her easily with one hand - because of course he does, a three year old is hardly a match against a national athlete, even with an injury, but Shino pouts when she sees the cross look on her mother’s face, and she has to hastily rearrange her expression into something more acceptable to her daughter. 

He counts it as a point won when they share the onigiris and mochi in silence and watch their little girl chase butterflies in the grass. 

‘What on earth are you doing here?!’ she says, feeling as if she’s woken up from a bad dream to find it actually is her reality. 

Atsumu stands in the foyer of her office building, in the middle of a conversation with Yuna-san, the resident office gossip, who shoots daggers at her when he bounds over to greet her with a peck on her cheek. 

‘I thought I’d surprise my dear wife with lunch,’ he drawls, with an emphasis on the word ‘wife’, passing her a bento box that smells amazing and makes her mouth water despite herself.

‘What are you playing at?!’ she hisses while pretending to tuck his hair behind his ear.   

‘Nothing!’ he answers her, a too-innocent look on his face. ‘And you’re welcome. Enjoy your lunch, sweetheart!’ 

He counts another point won when she’s left gaping at him incredulously as he prances off. 

He pats himself on the back for the stroke of genius that prompted him to pass Shino the three tickets to the Osaka Aquarium. Before she could utter even a word, Shino shrieked in excitement at the thought of being able to see her favourite penguins again, so with gritted teeth, she agreed to bring Shino to meet him at the aquarium on a Saturday afternoon. 

‘Did you know seahorses mate for life?’ he remarks to her as Shino gathers with the other children in front to watch the penguins being fed. 

‘And male seahorses are the responsible ones who bear their young - what’s your point anyway?’ she responds, contempt dripping from her voice. ‘Anyway, never mind that -’ she continues, brushing him off. ‘Have you signed the divorce papers?’

‘I forgot,’ he tells her lamely. 

‘See that you remember to pass it to me next time’, she says, walking ahead to scoop Shino up in her arms. 

Point lost. Time to recalibrate. 

‘Atsumu! What the hell am I supposed to do with FIFTY rolls of toilet paper?’ she shrieks over the phone. 

‘I may have bought a little too much…but there was a great discount!’ he responds sheepishly. 

He’d overheard a conversation between her and Osamu yesterday that she needed to make a grocery run but hadn’t had the time to do so in between endless meetings with her boss. He concedes he may have gone a little...overboard.

‘And how many cans of milk powder did you buy?!’ he continues to hear her scrabble through the cardboard crate outside her home. ‘Atsumu!’ 

‘Gotta go, bye darlin’ - talk to you soon!’, he says, hastily ending the call as she screeches at him. 

Shit. Another point lost.  

He brings out the big guns by buying season passes to the museum of natural history, gambling that a blatant appeal to nostalgia might win him some points. But he knows she recognises his gambit when she corners him while Shino is playing with toy fossils in the sandbox. 

‘Atsumu. When are you going to sign the divorce papers?’ she demands, her grip tight on his elbow. 

Defend. Counterattack. 

‘I’ll sign them after my collarbone heals and my arm is out of the sling, alright? I can’t even hold anything in my right hand, let alone sign anything now’, he says with a false smile.

Hold your opponent off until they start to tire. 

‘Fine’, she mutters, shooting him a hard stare. ‘Make sure you do. I’ll be waiting once that sling comes off’. 

Fuck. He’s backed himself into a corner. This might be a harder match than he imagined. 

He offers to look after Shino on a Friday evening when she mentions to Osamu her boss organised a client dinner that she can’t miss. She’d nodded reluctantly after a moment’s hesitation, and they agreed that he’d drop the little girl off at home around ten p.m. 

He fumbles with the keys pilfered from Osamu, pizza box balancing precariously on top of Shino’s pram and after an undignified struggle, manages to squeeze in through the doorway, finding the apartment completely still. With his one good arm, he lifts Shino from the pram, careful not to disturb her slumber and treads softly to her bedroom, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead as he tucks her in. 

As he returns back to the entryway to fold the pram away, a glint of gold catches his eye, and he forgets to breathe when he realises what it is – the wedding ring he'd deliberately left behind, an act calculated to inflict maximum pain. Wow, he really wishes he could go back in time and punch that stupid prick of his past self - he thinks, holding the ring up to the light, failing to spot any flecks of dust or dullness to the sheen of the ring. She's kept it meticulously clean, sitting in the exact same spot he left it, the sole artefact of their marriage that's been preserved against the passage of time. 

After all, he notices that she’s wiped the place clean of him, that much is obvious when he turns to survey the home he left almost a year ago. There are signs of Shino in the toys scattered all over the worn carpet in the living room, colourful scribbles on the walls that probably makes her fret, and there are little touches that remind him of her - the chipped teacup she insists on using, the set of handmade knives displayed in the kitchen that was always intended by her family as a threat. 

But there are no traces of him - no stray pieces of clothes or volleyballs that he always forgets to put away (that she’d always get on his case for), no picture frames of them, not even the ones from their wedding day that he’d loved because he thought she looked like a snow maiden from a fairytale in her white kimono. 

He’d promised her father that day he’d always take care of her. He wonders when he’d forgotten that. 

‘Tsumu?’ he hears her murmur, and he jumps a little in shock because he hadn’t noticed her curled up on the couch. ‘Have you come home?’ 

Yes – he aches to answer, but does not. 

(Because he knows he chose to turn his back on this little apartment, filled to the brim with happy, golden memories. It’s his fault he can’t call this place home, not anymore.)

‘I brought pizza in case you’re hungry’, he does say loudly – carefully keeping his distance as she sits up and shakes the sleep from her eyes. 

‘Oh. It’s you’, she says, and he can hear cold steel return to her voice. ‘Why are you still here?’ 

‘I brought pizza to share. It’s Friday night, remember?’ he answers, plastering a grin on to his face, gesturing at the pizza box on the kitchen table. ‘I even got pepperoni, your favourite’. 

‘You can’t keep playing this game, Atsumu’, she says, walking over to the switches to flick on the lights. It brings her into clearer focus, allowing him to notice the pink scars stretched across the back of her hand and the front of her knees -  were they always there before? 

His eyes sweep over her form - and oh -  his heartbeat thunders, roaring in his chest because she’s wrapped herself in his old jacket - the same one he’d stolen from Osamu and threw over her trembling shoulders that fateful night when he stole a kiss from her for the first time.     

‘I miss you’. He blurts out, startling himself. ‘I want us to be a family again’. 

‘I don’t’, she answers so forcefully it makes him take a step back. ‘I want a divorce, Atsumu’. 

‘But why?’ he persists, ignoring the spike of panic coursing through his blood. ‘If you give me a chance, we could try to start over again.’

‘How many chances do you think you deserve, because you’ve already left me  twice, damn you!’ she shouts, pulling the jacket tighter around herself, as if to keep herself from unravelling apart. ‘The first time you left me when I was pregnant with our child was enough of a blow – but the second time I fell to  pieces and if it weren’t for Shino and ‘Samu, I would’ve never been able to weld myself back together again. And now after all this time, you want me to take you back?’

‘It’s only been a few months’, he pleads, hating how stupid his excuses sound, even in his head. ‘I should've managed it better, I should’ve talked things out with you instead of just leaving, and if I could rewind time and change what I did, I would, but I can’t, and I regretted it so goddamn much when I got to Milan. I’m back now, I’m begging you - please give me another chance.’ 

‘Why would you even think you deserve another chance’, she laughs, the sound fraying at its seams, sending shivers down his spine. ‘You’ve spent our entire marriage putting your dreams first, Shino a distant second, and me - your fucking wife - dead last. This past year has taught me that I don’t need you, ‘Tsumu, I don’t need your lying, cheating ass in my life when I can manage perfectly fine by myself’. 

‘I didn’t cheat on ya’, he defends himself heatedly, but she levels him a hard glare that makes his gaze slide to the ground. ‘I mean - I thought about it, but I couldn’t go through with it’, he admits, guilt flooding his belly. 

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ she says dryly, rolling her eyes. 

‘Yes - no - I don’t know.’, he answers. ‘Look doll - I know I’ve been an asshole, I know I’ve hurt ya badly, but I know you still love me - you know your face gives ya away when you lie’, he adds, when she opens her mouth to contradict him, and she closes it in defeat. ‘Otherwise you won't be wearing my jacket when you sleep, neither would you keep my ring clean. And if ya love me, don’t ya think you should give me another chance?’

Her face twists in anguish, and there’s a rush of shame in his chest that he tells himself to ignore, reaching forward instead to cup her cold face with his hands. She winces at first, almost as if his touch is scalding, white hot with heat, but soon surrenders when she realises his grip on her is unwavering, lifting her gaze to meet his. 

‘You can’t do this to me, ‘Tsumu’, she says, her voice brittle, echoing with an aching sadness that tears a hole into his already gaping heart. 'You can’t leave as and when you feel like it and return when it suits you – that’s not how marriage or fatherhood works. And it’s not fair for you to try to guilt me into taking you back. Why should I give you another chance only to end up being hurt again? I'm only human, and there’s only so much my heart can take'.

It’s only then that it hits him that while she may have transformed herself in his absence into a woman of iron and steel, her heart is still made of glass, and a single careless touch might shatter her into fragments across the floor. And he knows he shouldn’t strike her any further with his words, but he’s a selfish fool of a man - always has been, always will be - so he pretends he does not see her pain  (looks deliberately away from the fissures in her heart that might cause her to fall apart) and continues to press hard. 

‘Please - just trust me enough not to hurt ya, I just need one more chance. Tell me ya still love me - even now.’ 

‘I do, oh gods, I do, ‘Tsumu-  ’ she gasps, almost as if she’s drowning in a whirlpool of his selfishness, her breath tipping over into a broken sob - ‘I love you, but our marriage is over - it was over the minute you put yourself before Shino and I, and left us behind to fend for ourselves.’

He shakes his head, desperately flailing against the death knell in her words - because it can’t be over, he refuses to accept it’s over, what does she mean it’s over - but he stills when she chokes back her tears to smile, lifting her hand to meet his. 

‘I’ve already paid you with my heart, ‘Tsumu - don’t you think I deserve to be free?’

Her words swirl in his mind as he makes his way back to Osamu’s flat. 

‘Things didn’t go so well, I take it?’ Osamu asks as he lurches through the door with overcast eyes. 

He inhales slowly through his nose. ‘Nope’, he admits, exhaling in defeat. ‘She isn’t prepared to take me back.’ 

Osamu pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and waves him to take a seat, sliding a plate of reheated curry rice under his nose when he does. ‘Eat up’, he says, not unkindly, and Atsumu does, even though the smell makes his head spin and every swallow of food lodges itself painfully in his stomach. 

‘Go on, say what’s on yer mind’, Atsumu says, knowing his brother too well to see through his posture of nonchalance. ‘I know you’re gonna tell me ‘ I told you so ’ and mock me with some insult intended to make me feel worse than I already am’. 

‘I’m not going to gloat, if that’s what you mean’, Osamu says mildly. ‘All I can say is that the heart is a funny, fickle thing, and sometimes it hungers for things it knows will only bring pain. But I think ya know you’ve reached a point where you need to consider whether you can live with yourself for constantly causing her pain.’ 

Atsumu stays silent, fingers tracing absently over the outline of the wedding ring in his pocket. He wonders if he’s imagining the coolness from the metal seeping into his skin.

[whentherewerebicycles]

oh good morning I am still basking in post-project feelings. I feel SO good!!! I am itching to do some some project metawriting about what I learned from writing this story (I LEARNED SO MUCH), but I am trying to gently make myself take a little space and time to enjoy the feelings and breathe for a bit. so much of the writing process for me is emotionally colored by self-doubt and frustration and ‘AGH why is this is so HARD’ feelings. like, I love writing fiction and am obsessed with the intellectual/creative challenge of it. but it is really emotionally demanding and exhausting! and you spend so much time so close to the work you completely lose the ability to tell if anything you are doing is working at all, so for huge stretches of time you are just fumbling blindly in the dark hoping against hope you are making something halfway decent. writing can feel so BAD even if it feels bad in a way I love and crave!! so that’s partly why I want to really consciously take the time to experience these feelings of happiness and satisfaction and pride. they are so hard-earned and (in the grand emotional scheme of writing work) they come so rarely. it feels good to feel good and I am going to savor it goddamn it!

mmkay I can lie in bed basking and doing emails for another 15 min before I get up and shower. I have five meetings today—11, 11:30, 2, 2:30, 4:30. I did not go to get my oil changed this morning (surprising no one!) but I will do it in that 3-4:30 window. I also need to add a bunch of upcoming events to my calendar, follow up with a guest speaker, and block out some time either today or tomorrow to lesson plan. I think I want to take this weekend to do some good post-project head and heart-clearing stuff for myself and my space. I’d like to deep clean the apartment and maybe hang out at the library with Michelle and take Pip to one of the farther away off leash trails he loves. I also want to make some time to recalibrate my eating habits. I always descend into canned soup and frozen meals when I am in the late stages of a big project and I want to kinda get back on track with making real food. I’ll let myself do project metawriting this weekend probably but maybe I’ll do it outside in the big field up the street. mmm okay still feeling lowkey very very sad about liz’s visit getting canceled but I will just have to travel to see her later this spring. it’ll be okay.

[clouds-of-wings]

[During the press conference that followed our private talk], it was déjà vu. More specifically, it was Paris all over again. Gabriel was a changed man. Once again a European social democrat attempted to out-Schäuble Schäuble in public. All the talk about a joint social democratic project for Greece and Europe vanished. The common ground we had established on industrial policy, ending austerity and debt restructuring gave way beneath my feet. The meeting of minds regarding strategies for tackling tax evasion evaporated. All was replaced with aggression towards my government and a harsh lecture on my obligations to our creditors, which were paramount and beyond negotiation. To add insult to injury, he added a reference to the troika’s ‘flexibility’.

With my by-now outstandingly low expectations of Europe’s social democrats further downgraded by my previous night’s experience with Jörg and Jeromin, I continued unperturbed and gave my standard spiel about our government’s quest for sustainability by means of moderate proposals to recalibrate radically the troika’s failed Greek programme. But as we were leaving the press room, I asked Sigmar how easy it was for him to say one thing in private and quite another in public. ‘It is something that I’m finding very hard,’ I added.

He claimed not to understand what I was referring to but did say that being in coalition with the Christian Democrats was constraining. I responded that he should learn the lesson of PASOK, the Greek social democratic party, which had had a similar habit of adapting their narrative to suit their coalitionwith the New Democracy conservatives. ‘They crashed from 40 per cent to 4 per cent. I would not want to see the party of Willy Brandt go the same way’ were my last words to him.

A month later I proposed to the ‘institutions’ the idea of Greece’s tax department employing outside personnel in an attempt to shift Greek social norms away from habitual petty tax evasion – just as I had discussed with Sigmar Gabriel that day. This was just one of many reforms to the tax office that I put forward, the most important being enforced digitization of transactions and a limit of fifty euros on cash dealings. Troika officials leaked the proposal to the press, which went to town. Instead of the serious reforms demanded by the troika (such as raising VAT rates in a broken economy where people evaded VAT), I was portrayed as putting forward foolish proposals involving wired-up tourists and housewives encouraging Greeks to snitch on their neighbours.

Did Sigmar Gabriel or any in his circle defend the proposal that he had seemed so keen to see me implement? The answer may not surprise you. If anything, his office helped spread the propaganda. If anyone wonders about the nature and causes of the general Waterloo now facing European social democracy, this story may provide some clues. Of course, compared to the way Sigmar Gabriel was to behave four months later, during the last week of June 2015, this change of heart does not even register on the Richter scale of cowardice.

-- Yanis Varoufakis: Adults in the Room

[eggtoasties]

dazed bees to honey

Pairing: Shisui Uchiha/Sakura Haruno

Rating: T

Word Count: 6.3k

Better on AO3

Chapter 2

______________________________________

Getting Sakura’s attention had been…difficult at best. Trying to work around his erratic schedule was near impossible given Sakura’s equally hectic schedule and Shisui wasn’t sure how to approach the Hokage and demand that she rearrange his missions to better accommodate his dating schemes.

But, he had never met anyone more alluring—the sway of Sakura’s hips, the creaminess of her skin, the way her eyes lit up when he brought little trinkets he acquired from far away missions. She makes the blood rush to his cheeks when she makes fun of him and he had never known that getting his bones crushed would make him feel like he was the luckiest man on Earth.

She was the sun—bringing him light and warmth like he had never before experienced, and he was the moon orbiting around her. He needed to be closer; he wanted to be consumed by her. She could crack his chest open in two and carve her name in the ribs protecting his heart and it still wouldn’t be close enough.

He just didn’t know how to tell her.

___

Shisui had been idly sharpening kunai at his dining room table waiting for his bread to proof, when he received a summons. Tapping at the balcony door, a small crow was impatiently waiting for Shisui to retrieve the message tied at its foot. Wondering why Itachi sent a crow instead of making the short trip to his apartment, Shisui set his weapon down and ambled towards the sliding glass door, making sure to grab seeds for the summons.

Letting out a squawk, the crow started pecking at his door faster. Alarmed that Itachi was possibly in danger, Shisui shunshined to the balcony and grabbed the crow to get to the message. Puffing its feathers and pecking at Shisui’s hands, the summons squawked indignantly and Shisui offhandedly wondered when Itachi had kept such poorly behaved crows.

Gently releasing it into the air and unfurling the message, Shisui read:

Came back from the mission a few days ago. At training ground 7 if you’d like to join. -S. Haruno

His heart pounded. Sakura was back in the village and she contacted him promptly afterwards to ask to spar? Dough be damned he was sprinting to training ground 7, he thought giddily. He looked down at himself—green fuzzy socks, loose gray sweats, and an old t-shirt—he had to get ready! His cheeks warmed. Wait, he mentally stammered. How did she know where he lived? How did she know where to send the summons to? Did she snoop around his medical files to find his address because for some reason, that made his throat dry.

Running to his bedroom while haphazardly throwing his clothes off, he suddenly stilled again. She had sent him a crow? She had a crow summons? There were a few crow summoners in the village, Shisui reasoned. She could have gotten a contract from Aoba or someone else. But, the thought of Itachi presenting the summoning contract that he had bestowed as a sign of trust and friendship made Shisui frown. As the elder, and the first contract holder, he should have been the one to give her the contract to sign. Or, Itachi should have gone to him and inform Shisui of his intentions.

Nodding to himself, Shisui made a note to stop by Itachi’s house later and question him.

___

Arriving at the edge of training ground 7 in record time, Shisui paused as he saw Sakura and Itachi in their uniforms warming up together. Sakura was in standard uniform sans the flak jacket and Itachi was in his ANBU uniform as always. Shisui fidgeted uncomfortably. He had worn what Itachi rudely called “the douchebag” shirt—a loose black sleeveless top where the arm holes were cut down to the bottom of his ribs. The tank top, Itachi always lectured, could hardly be defined as a shirt since it was so open. Itachi had questioned the practicality of a training top that would leave one so vulnerable to weapons and Shisui at the time, had retorted that he would understand when he was older.

Beginning to wonder if he should discreetly go back home to change, Sakura and Itachi called Shisui over.

“Oh, you came!” Sakura shouted excitedly as she beckoned him towards the middle of the training field.

As he walked slowly towards the pair, Itachi assessed Shisui.

“I see you got my summons,” he said, raising his eyebrow when he took in Shisui’s clothes. “Nice pants.”

Shisui flushed. He had chosen his tightest black training pants. Pants that he knew made his ass look good, thank you very much, but at the moment he was wondering if Sakura would think he was trying too hard. Or worse, he mentally shuddered, a douchebag.

“I was excited when Itachi told me you were in the village. I wanted to work on my response times with you,” Sakura started, interrupting Shisui’s mental torture. His heart fluttered at the thought of her wanting to spar with him and he let out a little breath of relief realizing that the crow was indeed Itachi’s. He crossed his arms in a poor attempt to cover the long slits in his shirt.

“I can dodge pretty much anything,” Sakura continued, beginning to sway on the balls of her feet, pink pony tail swinging with the motion. “But I wanna see how I’ll do against an opponent I can’t hit—or at least that’s what Itachi says,” she said, smiling at him prettily.

The early morning sun illuminated her face and made her green eyes impossibly bright. The faint ring of gold around her pupils winked at him and he swore he could feel his pulse reverberate in his skull. He realized she was waiting for a response. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and all he could muster out was a weak, “Sounds good.”

Sakura nodded happily and walked a few paces away from him, wringing out her arms. Suddenly pulling out kunai from her holster and twirling them around her forefingers, she faced him.

“Taijutsu only. Ready whenever you are, Shisui-san.”

___

She was fast, Shisui noted. He had expected as much given the way she took him by surprise in her office, cutting his shunshin off. He also factored in the fact that she regularly trained with Itachi, Sasuke, and Kakashi who were notoriously quick on their feet. But, not as fast as him.

Flickering in and out of her reach, he studied her movements with his sharingan. He knew that Itachi was on the sidelines, similarly monitoring her, but Shisui wanted to brand the image of her looking at him like he was prey for the rest of his life. Sakura was an incredibly flexible fighter, he noted. Depending on the type of attack, weapon, and opening he left, she would quickly and seamlessly recalibrate.

There were times her movements reflected Tsunade-sama’s—sharp and fast and meant to obliterate. Other times, Shisui realized, she would adopt Might Guy’s Strong Fist technique, Asuma’s melee style, or most surprisingly, the graceful but precise movements of the Gentle Fist technique.

Bracing a chakra enforced forearm against a kick to his head he asked, “Who taught you the Gentle Fist?”

Grunting and trying to strike his open stomach she responded, “My graduating class has two Hyuugas.” He side stepped away from her punch and flickered behind her. Ducking when she swung a kunai to his head and dodging the knee about to pummel his face, he shunshined a little farther away.

“Hyuuga don’t hide their techniques because no one can use it without the Byakugan, but someone would have had to teach you those movements,” he said breathing heavily.

“Kakashi copies them to piss people off and I was—am close to them,” Sakura said catching her breath. He watched as she pressed the back of her hand to her sweaty forehead and picked the hem of her shirt up to wipe at the rest of her face. Her toned stomach glistened with sweat. Little rivulets of perspiration rolled down her abs and Shisui cursed, damn.

“Was it the little Hyuuga genius? Neji-kun?” Shisui asked, remembering Sasuke’s clear distaste for the boy.

Itachi chose then to materialize in Shisui’s line of vision, cutting his view of Sakura. Pouting, Shisui flash stepped in front of Sakura, startling her while Itachi began his commentary on what and how Sakura could improve as well as ideas for them to try out.

The rest of their morning session consisted of Itachi valiantly trying to train while Shisui cast low level genjutsus of himself telling Itachi to leave. Itachi dispelled the genjutsus, but Shisui relentlessly recast them, sometimes conjuring up little dancing animals or mini Sasukes berating him to leave. Tiring of Shisui’s antics, Itachi dejectedly sat on the ground and began his stretches, saying that they should call it a day.

“Are you alright? You seemed distracted today—I definitely hit you more than usual,” Sakura said kneeling in front of him, raising a glowing green hand to his chest.

“Thank you—I’m fine,” Itachi responded tiredly. “It’s just that Shisui,” he said harshly, glaring at him over Sakura’s shoulder, kept telling me to leave.”

Alarm bells started ringing in Shisui’s head and he looked incredulously at his cousin. His cousin who sold him out. His decidedly, least favorite cousin. He glared back at Itachi. Shisui flashed his dimples which made Itachi narrow his eyes further.

“Sorry, cousin,” Shisui started. “I’m just absolutely starving and wanted to eat—you know how I am when I want something,” he said, throwing his arms behind his head and wiggling his eyebrows at his cousin.

“Annoying? Irritating? Childish?” Itachi grumbled, causing Sakura to giggle. “Sakura,” Itachi started. “Would you want to go to that new bakery in the North District? I’ve only heard incredible things about their rhubarb ice cream,” Itachi said excitedly, ignoring the way Shisui was pouting and lightly kicking at the ground.

Sakura finished healing Itachi and slowly rose, dusting the dirt from her knees and wiping her hands against her thighs. “Ooh, that sounds really nice, but I should probably get real food before I start on desserts,” Sakura laughed.

Not to be outdone, Shisui stepped beside Sakura. “I agree, let’s get lunch Sakura-sensei,” he chirped while resting his hand against Itachi’s head, who was still sitting down. Scowling, Itachi yanked on Shisui’s arm, making his older cousin stumble, and jabbed the back of his knee. Pleased that Shisui was now sprawled in the dirt, Itachi rose and said, “Well, I’m also going to get sesame cookies,” he sniffed. “Good luck with this,” Itachi said to Sakura, poking an incensed Shisui with his sandal. “And thank you for the coconut oil.”

With that, Itachi gracefully straightened himself out and walked towards the edge of the clearing, waving back at Sakura.

___

Shisui and Sakura made their way towards the main hub of Konoha. Excited to be alone with her, Shisui asked her questions about her last mission and her work at the hospital. He listened intently as she recalled the mission details, chuckling when she complained about the humidity in Waterfall, telling her he completely understood while pointing to his curly hair. She talked animatedly about her research project at the hospital. Although he didn’t understand about seventy five percent of what she was explaining, he nodded dutifully, lips quirking as he watched her excited hand movements as she discussed…molecular interventions through pathogenic mechanisms of neurocristopathies—he thinks.

Humming at the right times and throwing in a “oh, really—what does that mean?” every so often, he basked in her voice. Her voice, Shisui decided, was his favorite sound in the entire universe. Wanting to sit down together, he interrupted her briefly to point at the first restaurant he saw.

“How’s ramen sound, Sakura-sensei?” he asked.

“And that’s why normal and pathological neural crest cells—” Sakura, paused. “Oh, Ichiraku’s is fine. Did you know this is Team 7’s spot?” she asked, heading towards the shop. “We used to eat at Ichiraku’s a few times a week,” she scrunched her nose in distaste, “when we were genin,” she finished.

“Itachi says Sasu-chan always complains about Naruto-kun’s ramen eating habits but I didn’t realize this was your guys’ place of choice,” Shisui chuckled. “Does he know that the stand two streets over also does a killer ramen? A gal needs variety if I recall correctly,” he threw in cheekily. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he continued. “There’s also this other place that has great ambience and incredible food—you should come some time?” he voice rising in speed and pitch at the end of the sentence.

Her step faltering, Sakura looked up at Shisui. “Huh?” she questioned at his word choice, “What is it?”

“My place,” he responded quickly, smiling sunnily at her and ignoring the rush of blood to his face.

Shisui’s heart thundered at the way her mouth opened in surprise and he felt his bones reverberate when the tips of her ears turned pink. While she scrunched her nose at the cheesy line, she couldn’t help the way her lips quirked up.

“Well—”

“SAKURA-CHAN!” Naruto screamed, running towards her from down the street, waving both hands excitedly. Behind Naruto, walking at a leisurely pace, was Itachi and Sasuke. Sending Shisui an apologetic smile, Sakura faced Naruto as he spun her around in a hug.

Exasperated, Shisui watched Itachi amble towards him and sent him a mental middle finger. Looking pleased with himself, Itachi didn’t even try to hide his smirk behind his massive ice cream cone.

“Me and teme ran into Itachi-nii and he said you and Shisui-nii were around here somewhere,” Naruto exclaimed. Turning to acknowledge Shisui he said, “Oh, dude nice pants, your ass looks great in them—let’s all get Ichiraku!” he shouted, grabbing Sakura’s wrist and running towards a waving Teuchi.

Shisui stood alone in the middle of the street with his mouth slightly open. Itachi joined his side while Sasuke trailed after his two teammates, not before assessing Shisui’s shirt and pants and throwing him a grimace.

“Tch,” Sasuke said dismissively.

“You love this don’t you, Itachi.”

“Ah,” he responded. Itachi angled his ice cream towards Shisui and raised a brow.

“No.”

Itachi pouted.

___

Bounding ahead to Ichiraku’s, Naruto pulled the chair against the wall with a flourish, exaggerating a bow and extending his hand towards Sakura. Easily following the mimicry of their genin days, she giggled and pretended to ignore him. Sakura took the seat at the middle of the bar which Sasuke quietly pulled out for her.

Pouting, Naruto complained, “Aw, c’mon Sakura-chan, you don’t actually want to sit next to teme, do you? He asked, easing in the seat to her left.

“It’s so she can mediate when you eventually say something stupid to piss me off,” Sasuke said, distributing the menus.

Sakura punched him in the arm in response and turned to chat about the menu with Naruto. When Shisui and Itachi settled into the wooden seats next to Sasuke, Sakura asked,

“How long are you two in the village for?” leaning towards Shisui and Itachi.

“We’ll both be local for about a week.” Itachi offered, now nibbling delicately at his cone.

“They’ve both been easing back on their ANBU duties and are doing more stuff for the clan,” Sasuke supplied, absentmindedly picking at a paint chip on the counter.

Whooping in response Naruto added, “Hell, yeah!” he threw a fist into the air. “Now you guys can train with us more! And Itachi-nii,” he started, leaning back in his chair to look at Itachi, “if you could bring more of those rice balls you made last time, they were incredible, dattebayo!”

Smiling, Itachi leaned back to discuss snacks with Naruto.

“And what about you, Sakura-sensei,” Shisui asked, completely pushing Sasuke out of the way.

Grumbling, Sasuke pushed back at Shisui, which the elder responded by trapping a hissing Sasuke in a headlock.

Rubbing Sasuke’s head placatingly, Sakura said, “I should be staying in the village for the next week too—there’s a lot of hospital stuff I’ve got to do.” Nodding to Teuchi as he placed her order in front of her, she added, “I’m glad you’ll be in the village this week, we should train together again—if you want,” she fiddled with her wooden chopsticks. “It was great to spar with you and watch you, I learned a lot.”

Jealous that he wasn’t invited to the spar, Sasuke wrenched himself from Shisui’s grasp and aggressively ripped his chopsticks apart. Noting his little brother’s behavior, Itachi chuckled and said, “I just told Naruto I’d stop by your training this week, otouto.”

“Tch,” Sasuke responded. But, the way his shoulders relaxed and he smiled gently into his bowl made it clear he was pleased.

“Sakura-chan,” Naruto started. “I feel like I never see you anymore!” he said between bites of ramen. “Let’s do a Team 7 get together—you, me, teme, Kaka-sensei, Yamato Taichou, and Sai too!” he slurped noisily.

“Yeah you’re right,” Sakura sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “With all my projects, the hospital, and,” she waved her hands distractedly, “we haven’t hung out in a while.” Frowning lightly she said, “We could do it at my place, but I don’t know if I could fit everyone…” she trailed off.

Sensing the opportunity, Shisui swooped in. “You should invite your friends over, Sasu-chan,” he mockingly admonished.

Ignoring Shisui’s baiting and staring down at his bowl, Sasuke grumbled.

“Absolutely no-“

“Your friends are coming over?” Itachi asked excitedly.

“No-“

“Yes!” chorused Naruto, Sakura, and Shisui.

“They’re,” Sasuke started, pointing his chopsticks at Naruto, “going to make a mess.”

Ignoring Sasuke’s continued rumblings, Itachi started to list off different food and dessert ideas to Naruto who grew more and more excited by his suggestions if his hand waving was anything to go by. Glancing sharply to his right at an extremely pleased Shisui, Sasuke scowled.

“I know you just took advantage of nii-san’s househusband fantasies,” Sasuke whispered sharply. In the background, Itachi was dreamily listing the various courses he thought would best suit Team 7’s tastes while Naruto and Sakura egged him on with ideas of their own.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Shisui responded smugly, leisurely slurping his noodles.

Irritated, Sasuke leaned across Shisui to talk some sense into his brother, but Itachi was staring serenely into space, using his full genius brain to plan out dinner. Huffing, Sasuke hunched in his seat and poked dejectedly at his noodles, missing the way Sakura peered past him.

___

Dinner at the Uchiha household was scheduled that Friday—a few days after lunch at Ichiraku’s. Shisui, conscious to not make another questionable fashion choice, opted for black training pants and a traditional Uchiha top—short sleeved and high collared with the Uchiha fan embroidered on the back.

Arriving at the head family’s home, he was greeted by a tired looking Fugaku who wearily told Shisui that everyone was in the kitchen. Laughing to himself, Shisui figured that Itachi and Mikoto had ran Fugaku to the ground with dinner preparations. Trailing after his uncle towards the kitchen, he saw Sasuke tending to a flower bouquet.

“Why are you here?” Sasuke asked, incensed.

He ignored the venom in his younger cousin’s eyes since he didn’t look very intimidating with carnations in hand. Shisui presented a tin-foil covered pan.

“He made shokupan,” Itachi said breezily.

“They should be here any minute! Sasuke, Fugaku, go set the table and get the plum wine out of the fridge,” Mikoto ordered, putting last minute touches on the pastries she and Itachi were decorating.

In a few minutes, there was knocking at the front door and Itachi went out to greet Sakura and Naruto.

“Come on in,” Itachi said happily. Leading them inside he said, “I ran to the store earlier today and got everyone slippers,” pointing to the neat row along the wall.

“Wow, Itachi-nii. You really got this mom thing down,” Naruto noted, nodding to himself.

“You think?” Itachi smiled serenely and Sakura giggled at his pastel yellow apron with white trimming.

“No one else could make it today,” Sakura said frowning. Handing a wrapped plant to Itachi she said, “Yamato Taichou and Sai are out on a mission, Kakashi said he was…busy…” she trailed off.

Humming to himself while inspecting the healthy green leaves of the plant and the tasteful wrapping, Itachi said, “Sakura, you really didn’t have to.” But the pleased look on his face said otherwise.

“Hey! I helped too!” Naruto interrupted loudly.

___

Settling himself at the low dining room table, Fugaku sat at the head of the table. To his right was Sakura, Naruto, and Sasuke. To his left sat Mikoto, Itachi, and Shisui.

“Wow, everything looks incredible,” Sakura gushed at the spread.

Naruto nodded enthusiastically, eyes gleaming. “Mikoto oba-chan, Itachi-nii, you guys really out did yourselves!”

“I helped too, dobe,” Sasuke grumbled.

“I made the shokupan!” Shisui chirruped.

It was a little too much food for the seven of them, Shisui noted. He looked down to the heaping bowl of white rice in front of him with a hearty serving of stew to its right—steam still emanating from both. Each person also had an individual portion of teriyaki salmon, its sweet glaze reflecting the dining room light above them. Sat on the middle of the traditional table, Itachi and Mikoto also prepared stir fried vegetables, soba salad, fried tonkatsu, mapo tofu, and tempura on large serving plates. The dishes took every space of the dining room table, some of it teetering dangerously close to an edge—the table overflowed with intermingling spices and glistening sauces.

Shisui blanched knowing that dessert was bound to be a similarly overwhelming experience.

Saying a brief thanks to his guests, Fugaku uttered a brief, “Itadakimasu,” and began eating.

___

Between the passing of dishes, clinking of chopsticks, and hums of pleasure, easy chatter filled the room.

“Thank you for the coconut oil dear, it works so well,” Mikoto smiled at Sakura over her glass of wine.

Dabbing her lips delicately after devouring several slices of tofu, Sakura shook her head.

“It was no problem—thank you,” she said, looking at Mikoto and Itachi, “for the dumplings. I ate them all in one sitting they were incredible,” she gushed.

Sasuke grumbled beside her, saying he had helped too and that it shouldn’t be physically possible to consume that many dumplings at once, but his mother cut him off.

“I heard we have Hyuuga Neji-kun to thank for the hair tips?” Mikoto teased.

At the mention of Neji, Shisui slowed his chewing and conceded defeat to Naruto, who was not-so-subtly trying to eat all of the tempura as quickly as possible. Shisui looked discreetly at Sakura to see how she would respond.

Sakura was caught by surprise at the comment and her spoon hovered in midair for a millisecond. Processing the joke, her shoulders shook lightly as she giggled and playfully rolled her eyes.

Naruto, with a mouthful of food said, “Neji does have nice hair, ‘ttebayo.”

Choking a little when Sasuke elbowed him in the stomach he stuttered, “A-ah, not as nice as yours, Sakura-chan!” The table laughed at the duo in response.

“Itachi-nii, you should quit ANBU and become a cook, this is the best food I’ve had in forever,” Naruto said dreamily.

Fugaku frowned deeply into his wine. “Yes, Itachi, when will you quit ANBU and fully take on your duties as clan head?”

Fugaku’s shoulder length brown hair had streaks of gray in it, which Mikoto lovingly said made him look refined although she had hardly aged in the past five years. His face showed years of exhaustion and responsibilities with his heavy brow and fine lines at the side of his mouth. His hands were still rough and battle worn despite it being years since his active duty days. Despite it all, his eyes were still keen, sharp as flint, and just as dark.

The rest of the table stilled with Fugaku’s displeasure—the Uchihas either frowning at Fugaku or throwing Itachi an apologetic glance. Sakura and Naruto ate impossibly quicker.

“Well Father,” Itachi started breezily, taking a languid sip of his glass. “You still have life in you yet.”

Preparing for an even more disgruntled Fugaku, Naruto and Sakura nervously chattered about the incredible food, piling each other’s plates even higher, and Shisui off handedly wondered if Sasuke had ever mentioned that Sakura’s appetite matched Naruto’s.

Surprising his guests, Fugaku wearily sighed into his rice bowl. “Son, please put me out of my misery so I can spend time with my wife.”

Over Mikoto’s pleased giggles and Sasuke’s embarrassed choke, Sakura and Naruto stopped their babbling to stare openly at Fugaku. Realizing that their surprise was obvious, they busied themselves again with food, ignoring Sasuke’s second-hand disgust.

“And Shisui,” Fugaku said sharply, cutting off whatever sly retort he had prepared on the tip of his tongue, “when will you fully accept the mantle as the police force commander?” he questioned.

Ignoring Shisui’s attempt at a response, Fugaku braced his hands on the floor behind his back and looked up at the ceiling. “Why Itachi and Sasuke don’t want to take over the police force is beyond me,” he muttered to himself as Mikoto gently consoled him.

Laughing at his uncle’s tiredness Shisui joked, “Well oji-san, given that Itachi’s biggest dream is being a full-time househusband—” Naruto looked incredibly interested at this prospect. “—and mine is living on oba-san’s food for the rest of my life,” Sasuke rolled his eyes at this. “Maybe we’ll make you suffer a little longer.”

Shisui raised his glass to Itachi, who clinked his glass in return, happily sipping the plum wine at the expense of an entirely spent Fugaku who mumbled to himself about shattered retirement dreams.

___

After dinner, Naruto and Sakura helped clear out the dishes despite Mikoto and Itachi’s protests. While Sasuke and Fugaku were relegated to cleaning the dishes, Shisui prepared the tea while Mikoto and Itachi set the table with dessert.

Surprisingly, dessert wasn’t as overwhelming as Shisui thought it would be. There was sakuramochi at the center of the table, elegantly plated in a neat line on a porcelain plate, the pickled blossom leaf folded meticulously over each cake. Itachi’s eyes crinkled towards Sakura while setting it down. Mikoto placed the higashi towards the end of the table, near Sasuke’s seat. The biscuit-like sweet, Shisui noticed amusedly, had uzumaki swirls pressed onto each biscuit. Shisui’s shokupan was also set down alongside a small pot of honey and jam. The last dessert was Fugaku’s favorite: butter cookies. Each cookie was a perfect circle and slightly browned at the edges. But to Shisui’s increased amusement, a black, three-tomoe sharingan was stenciled in icing on each cookie.

Settling back at the table, Sasuke looked at each dessert in growing exasperation before taking in the sharingan butter cookies. He glanced at Itachi in thinly veiled disbelief, but Itachi was intently staring at his guests’ reactions.

Sakura and Naruto had expressions of awe on their face. Naruto, with one hand on his protruding stomach looked a little nauseous when he said, “Wow…you really went all out on this team dinner…it looks so good dattebayo,” he finished weakly.

Sakura, trying to make up for her teammate’s lack of gusto quickly chirped, “I’m SO impressed with your icing skills,” she gushed, “I tried once and it was a complete failure,” she pouted, running a hand through her ponytail. “I’m so full from that incredible dinner but we’ll,” she quickly darted her eyes to Naruto, “make sure and try everything,” she finished, silencing Naruto’s protests.

As Itachi went prattled on the fine details of piping, not icing, because they’re obviously very different, Shisui idly wondered if Sasuke never hosted team dinners because of Itachi.

___

As everyone forced themselves to eat as much dessert as possible for Itachi’s sake, at the head of the table, Mikoto was cajoling her husband in hushed tones and nudging him with her shoulder.

“Sakura dear,” Mikoto started, which silenced the rest of the table. Mikoto turned her head to her husband. He responded by straightening his back and clearing his throat a few times.

“Sakura,” he started stiffly, not quite looking her in the eye. “Thank you,” Fugaku said, “for your work with the clan medics.

Shisui looked at his uncle, then Sakura in surprise—he hadn’t known just how close she was to the Uchiha clan. Looking around the table, no one else seemed to be surprised with her work, more so surprised at Fugaku’s thanks.

Sakura smiled kindly at Fugaku and Mikoto. “You’re welcome, the sharingans a tricky kekkai genkai and the blockages in the delicate blood vessels are definitely hard to work with, but working with Sasuke and Kakashi gave me a leg up. I’m just happy you allowed me to treat your clan members and train your clan medics.”

“With your instruction, Sakura-chan,” Mikoto began, “nearly every clan member has noted a mental and physical improvement. The Uchiha owe you a life debt.” Fugaku, Itachi, and Sasuke nodded in agreement.

Blushing at the compliment, Sakura shook her head. “Thank you, but you all don’t owe me anything. The payment, as agreed, was fully enough.”

Shisui paused. He hadn’t realized that Sakura had found a way to ease the pain the sharingan brought. Having awoken his mangekyo at an extremely young age, he was used to the near perpetual eyestrain and frequent migraines that came with overuse. He had given up on his clan medics’ treatment for his eyes since they’d been ineffective over the years. Incredibly interested at the prospect of relieving his pain he quickly turned to Sakura.

She was still talking to Fugaku and Mikoto, trying to convince them that they didn’t have to commit to any favors for her, and all of his thoughts stilled. She was talking with her hands, trying to explain that she was just glad to be of service to her teammate’s family, and by extension, the village. That no one should be in chronic pain if there was anything she could do about it. Her cheeks were flushed with the wine, and he was taken by the fullness of her lips. Wet with the plum wine, they glistened in the soft overhead light. Every so often, he could see a glint of her pink tongue as she laughed, or caught the corner of her lip.

Noticing that Itachi was staring at him with amusement, Shisui mentally shook himself out of his stupor.

“Ne, Sakura-sensei, I hadn’t realized you figured out the sharingan. Any chance I could schedule a doctor’s appointment with you?” He smiled cheekily at her, ignoring the way Sasuke and Naruto threw daggers at him.

“See, Sakura-chan,” Mikoto said, “you take such good care of our boys—no matter what you say, we’ll always be in you debt.”

“Mikoto-san—” Sakura looked down at her shirt—a standard issue jounin top—which now had a dark wine stain blooming at her stomach.

Naruto looked sheepishly at her, grabbing his napkin. “Sorry…at least it wasn’t your kimono this time?” Naruto said as he dabbed.

“Aw man,” Sakura complained, “this is one of my last good ones too.” While it was customary for shinobi to keep one or two sets of pristine uniforms for show—if they were on guard duty for a prestigious client, or to maintain appearances for foreign dignitaries—the reality was that most shinobi were running around in repeatedly stained, slightly tattered, hole riddled uniforms until they were unwearable.

Getting up to rinse her shirt in the sink, Mikoto stopped her. “Let me get you something to change into,” she said, rising from her seat. At the same time, Sasuke stood up, saying he’d get something of his, and missed the way Shisui had grabbed the back of his own shirt collar and started to undress. Itachi yanked the hem of Shisui’s shirt down and Fugaku stared at Shisui like he was stupid.

“No, no, sit back down Sasuke,” Mikoto said quickly, “look how pretty Sakura’s hair is today,” gesturing at her pink locks, “I’ll have to get her something of mine.” Mikoto placed a hand at Sakura’s upper back and ushered her along.

Sitting back down, Sasuke stared after his mom and teammate in silent confusion over the correlation of Sakura’s everyday pony tail and clothes.

After a few minutes, Mikoto and Sakura shuffled back into the main dining area. Mikoto walked slightly behind Sakura, staring intently at her sons’ and nephew’s faces. Catching the glint in her eye, Fugaku sighed.

Sakura changed into a loose black sweater with an Uchiha fan stitched on the breast. The sweater itself had a similar cut to the jounin top, and was slightly loose on Sakura’s frame. Seeing his teammate, Sasuke furrowed his brow. He had several shirts exactly like that. Sakura also probably had several shirts like that—it wasn’t particularly nice even—why did it have to be his mother’s, he wondered. What does it have to do with her hair—did ponytails have some significance he hadn’t known about? Deep in thought, he continued to scrutinize while Itachi happily munched on butter cookies. Glancing nonchalantly at Sakura he offered a “Hm,” and went back to cajoling Naruto into eating more.

Shisui was gone. The thought of Sakura wearing his clothes with the Uchiha fan would be forever branded in memory. He imagined quiet mornings with her as he made her coffee as she got ready in the mornings. He imagined how she’d look wearing one of his t-shirts—the oversized fit exposing the cream of her shoulder and him kissing the open space.

He watched her as she spoke. The slender curve of her neck, the peach fuzz on her cheeks, and the irresistible plumpness of her lips mesmerized him. Shisui felt the rush of chakra to his eyes, activating his sharingan, and quickly turned his head.

“Thank you for the meal,” Sakura said, rising from her seat, bowing to Mikoto and Itachi.

“Yeah, dinner was great thank you so much!” Naruto chimed in. “Ne, ne, Sakura-chan,” leaning towards her with a glint in his eyes, “why don’t you stay and sleepover! It’ll be like our genin days!” Naruto cheered.

Lightly grimacing, Sakura responded, “I have a shift at the hospital at six in the morning—maybe next time,” she apologized, although she didn’t look sorry at all.

“It must be exhausting having multiple full time jobs,” Itachi said sagely, still munching on butter cookies.

“Yes.” Fugaku deadpanned. “I wonder.”

Completely ignoring his father, Sasuke got up and heaved Naruto with him as well. Nodding to his mother, he jutted his chin to Sakura then jerked his head at the door.

“God, teme—use your words!” Naruto yelled, swatting the back of Sasuke’s head. Ducking before Naruto could hit him, Sasuke jabbed the side of Naruto’s stomach, grinning when he doubled over and wheezed. “W-we’re gonna walk S-Sakura-chan home,” he managed to get out, glaring at Sasuke from his hunched over position.

Seeing his chance, Shisui shot up from his seat and clapped a heavy hand onto Naruto’s back, forcing the blonde to stay hunched over. Cheerfully he said, “I’ll do it! My apartment’s on the way anyways and you’re staying here!” Squeezing Sasuke’s shoulder forcefully, Shisui grinned at his younger cousin trying not to flinch in his vice grip.

Raising a brow, Sakura looked at Shisui unimpressed, although the corner of her lip was curling. Itachi mirrored Sakura, except he was actually unimpressed. Fugaku massaged his nose bridge and his wife hid her smile behind her hand.

“Sasuke, Naruto, come help with the dishes,” Mikoto said.

Sakura gave once last bow to Sasuke’s parents and waved at her friends before heading out.

___

Sakura’s apartment was not on the way to Shisui’s. In fact, it was on the opposite side of the village.

But, there was no way he’d miss the opportunity to talk to her one-on-one without the intrusion of pesky teammates or baby cousins. They walked leisurely side by side, shoulders occasionally bumping, as he basked in her undivided attention. The walk to her apartment was made in quiet tones, careful not to break the stillness that surrounded them.

Crickets chirping in the background and the moon softly illuminating their way, Shisui, for the first time with Sakura, felt at ease. He wondered if maybe they were meant for this—quiet conversations under the moonlight, with her wearing the Uchiha crest.

[sif-the-tsunami]

When you fall apart

But this ain’t my mama’s broken heart. 

Warnings: Yes, all of them. No smut all angst. and no promise of a happy ending. gallows humor, pregnancy loss, infidelity, self medication, spicy language. 

Summary: Sy is a cheating bastard and his wife has had enough. 

Pairing: Syverson, now a Colonel and his long suffering wife Josephine. (marriage is great guys, I promise.)

Just over 3,300 words.

This might not have been what you were expecting @oddsnendsfanfics​

My mother was a genuine Southern debutante, I grew up with pictures of her on the walls with her gorgeous smile and pretty pearl necklaces. Blonde hair and green eyed, she was the most beautiful little slice of American apple pie. Her daddy was the ‘Old Money’ type, and she was his finest accomplishment, she looked, behaved, spoke perfectly. Never once have I heard that woman raise her voice to a man. Hell, I never heard her pass gas in front of anyone for that matter. She is the picture of privilege, she went from her daddy’s house to her sorority house to her husband’s house. Some how, even though she smokes a pack a day, she still looks like she could pass for being forty instead of almost sixty. The last time we saw each other, my friends told me they didn’t know I had an older sister.

Mama married a gentleman who had the good sense to enlist in the military to help support the lifestyle she demanded he provide for her. He was never around much but he gave her a nice house with a lovely front yard, and two little perfect children. He was another one of the old Southern types, I don’t think he ever outright said “I love you, Josephine,” or “I’m proud of you, girl.” Looking back, I don’t think anyone ever did that for him either, so he probably didn’t know how to tell that to me or my brother Theodore. I’m almost sure that he and Mama loved each other once upon a time. Daddy worked hard, he broke his body serving his country, and when he couldn’t do that anymore he broke his own heart trying to please Mama. She must have been disappointed in how her life turned out. She might have had dreams once, when she was younger. I’m pretty sure the last of them were crushed when Daddy died balls deep in the woman who used to perm my Mama’s hair.

Mama played the grieving widow perfectly, not a single person knew that they had been miserable for years. She has worn black out in public ever since. I think the only thing that has really changed is that she has started day drinking now because she’s lonely. I don’t blame her really. She pushed us really hard to be as perfect outwardly as she is, so it is safe to say that she is really disappointed in your truly.

You might be wondering why this all matters, dear reader. However, I find that it is important for you to know this when I tell you I’m remembering this sitting here in the county sheriff’s office, waiting on my Mama to come pick me up because my probably soon to be ex-husband and I got into screaming match, and I may have drunkenly thrown my bottle of tequila at my probably soon to be ex-husband’s head. The details are a little fuzzy at the moment.

“Josephine Syverson, your mother is here to pick you up.” The Sheriff’s deputy starts in his slow drawl, “Now don’t you go pickin’ no fights with your husband. You’re lucky he ain’t pressing charges. Go sleep it off now, Ma’am. I’m sure you two kids will work it out.”

I wait until he can’t see my face to roll my eyes. And low and behold, there she is, my Mama drove four hours to come and pick me up. She’s in a black vintage driving coat, and her hair is covered by a dark gray satin bonnet. It doesn’t matter that it is half past midnight, she is still the beauty queen she has always been. I drank enough Jose Cuervo tonight that my head is still swimming, but I walk with the grace and dignity she taught me.

“Oh my Lord, Josie, what have you done to yourself?” She asks. “Thank you, officers, I’ll get her back on track.”

We make our way out to the car and Mama unlocks the door for me. I slide in and as soon as my butt hits the leather of her seats, I start crying all over again. She gives me the packet of tissues she keeps in her purse then hands a little make-up bag.

“So, what was is this time, Josie, I swear to Lord Jesus that if he laid a hand on you, your brother and I will bury him in the back yard.” She says turning on her Cadillac. “Get cleaned up, you are coming home with me. Maybe James will be smart enough to figure out where you went.”

“Mama?” Who was this woman? She never talks like this.

“Come on, your mama isn’t as dumb as she looks. Although he evidently is.” She lights up a cigarette and offers me one.

“I quit when we started trying… Even after… well… everything, I didn’t start back up.”

She pats my leg. I unzip the bag to find makeup wipes, mascara, face powder and some brick red lipstick. We might not get along all the time but she is a damn life saver. I have black rivers of my own eyeliner and mascara from earlier today streaking my face. I clean myself up as much as I can and then reapply some make-up. “There, now that you are looking better, tell me what happened...”

“Where do you want me to start? I swear this started after his first deployment.”

“Okay, Josie, start there.”

James Syverson is an Army Ranger, I met him after he finished officers school. Because of the nature of military special forces, they deploy more often than most jobs in the military. I understand that they are under a lot of pressure during these deployments and because he is in a position in leadership I opted to give him as much room as he needed. The other officer’s wives informed me that I needed to recalibrate my expectations of what could happen. They warned me that what happens on deployment shouldn’t be held against him when he gets home. And I didn’t, until a girl barely old enough to visit a bar came up to my door asking for my husband with a hand on her belly. She was just as surprised to see me as I was to see her.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I just looked up Syverson in the phone book, and I didn’t know he was married.”

“Is it his?”

“Ma’am?”

“I can see that you are pregnant. Is. It. His?”

“I… I don’t know…” She said quietly.

“He is still over there. Do not come here again unless you are requesting a paternity test.” And I slammed the door shut. She did come back for the test results when he came home. Turned out that the baby wasn’t his. Small favors, right?

I never faulted the women who fell in love with him. I knew how special he could make them feel, its how I fell in love with him in the first place. After everything he’s put me through it almost doesn’t matter when it is just the two of us. All I have ever wanted was for it to be just the two of us again, but I don’t know think I can wait for him to retire.

“How many times do you think he’s done it?”

“At least once a deployment. The most recent one saw us at the movies last night. He was holding my hand like nothing had ever happened. When he was coming back from the concession stand, a little redhead stopped him and asked who he was here with. When she saw me, she looked like she saw a ghost. He came back up, handed me my pop, kissed my cheek and wrapped his arm around me. He said ‘I promise you, it is not what it looks like.’ but the bitch and her friend kept looking over their shoulders to peek at us. I saw her texting someone and then his phone vibrated, but he didn’t look at his phone until I wasn’t with him.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” She lit up again. “And you’ve just been sitting on this, the entire time?”

“Yeah, I learned from the best, Mama. I didn’t want to let you down. You taught me to never let them see me cry.”

“Oh, my baby girl...”

The rest of the night at the movies, I kept it to myself, I’ve had enough. The boiling, seething hatred I was feeling for both of them. I hate that they are always younger than me. I hate that it always makes me like I’m not enough. When I woke up this morning had a beer in the shower. I always save the last one for him, so taking the last one was a big “fuck you” to him. He tried to climb in with me until he saw me drinking in the shower.

“Woman, what are you doing?” He asked. Like he wasn’t the one who introduced me to the idea of a shower beer.

“I’m going to keep drinking ‘til my heart stops hurting, Sy. I don’t know what else to do. But whatever it is that we keep doing, I can’t keep it up anymore. Get out.” I have never denied him, no matter what he wanted. And up until this morning, I had been an amazing wife to him. In the fifteen years of marriage, he has only had to do his own laundry when he was away from home. And even then, he probable conned someone into doing it for him. I have lost almost every friend I have made from relocating so often. I have started and stopped working on my Master’s degree more times than I can count. And now here I am, mid-thirties with none of my own goals accomplished to show for all of the work I have done over the years. If I had opened my mouth, even once, about his indiscretions, he never would have made it to Colonel. Not once have I complained.

After I dried my body off, I walked into the kitchen, naked as the day I was born and grabbed my trusty kitchen sheers. I needed a change. He paused the game he was playing long enough to watch me walk past him with my scissors and the bottle of margaritas.

“Jo, it’s nine in the morning. Being a little dramatic, aren’t we? We going to church today?”

“Why, James? You’ve been yelling ‘Oh my god,’ between some whore’s legs fairly regularly, I’m sure he knows you are a big fan.” I walked away before he could reply, locking the door behind me to our bedroom. He pounded on the door a few times but got the hint that I was not in the mood to be talked to when I turned up Chris LeDoux as loud as I could play it. Then I went to go give myself bangs.

When the music fades, the house is silent. No video games, no football, nothing. I continue to drink from my bottle and the world becomes a little more tolerable. Now, I am not a heavy drinker. Sy teases me all the time about how cheap of a date I am.

“Josephine!” He snaps at me in his soldier voice and I drop the margaritas.

“Jesus fuck, Sy, why you gotta scare me like that.”

“Oh, you are the one getting scared, woman, I have never seen you act like this before.”

“That’s because you ain’t here every time one of your indiscretions comes knocking on the door of my house. Never once have I expected sainthood from you, James, I learned better after your first deployment,” he won’t look me in the eye, either he’s ashamed of what he’s been doing or he is going to punch a whole in the wall tonight. “You would have seen this if you had been around after my daddy died. This is your wife, Syverson, she goes a little crazy from time to time.

“You know how hard I tried to come home for that, that is not fair Josephine.”

“I’m sure you did try. I wish you would try a little harder when it comes to picking out these dumb sluts who think that you are just going to run away from home as soon as you come back from the sandbox. I have received notes on my car windshield telling me that you were going to leave me for them. How you loved them and you were just suffering with me. That I’m hateful, and spiteful, and they could treat you so much better then I ever could. What have you been telling these girls, James, for them to think I am some kind of monster? Haven’t I been a good wife to you? What did I do to you to make you hate me this much?”

“I had no idea that they were doing that. I don’t hate you, baby. You have been a better wife than I probably could have ever deserved. Is that what you want to hear? I know I’m a rotten bastard. How long have you been holding this in, Josie?” His face darkens, I can see all the rage boiling up in him too.

“Don’t you call me that name, you son of a bitch.” I spit at him.

“How long?”

“Since Cassandra came up holding her belly, waiting to tell you that she made you a daddy. Too bad it wasn’t the first time, or I actually might have been worried that you’d leave. I hadn’t even stopped bleeding yet before she tried to take you.” I snarled back at him. And he face drops. Twelve years ago, we tried. I was seven months pregnant when I lost our son. Sy’s squad was wiped out after a night of heavy combat. He barely made it out alive himself. I got a phone call about his injuries and I must have made a deal with the devil himself. I would put up with the womanizing, the long distance, the heartache, just please have him come up to me. I would give anything to save him, I had thought. An hour after I got the call that he had woken up and was safely on a ship in the Mediterranean sea, I started to go into early labor.

“Oh, fuck me. That long?” He whispers. He rubs his face, the stubble was getting long, unless he was out in the field, he kept himself within regulations. He reached out to hold me but I shrug off his touch. He walked away from me, thinking that maybe he might let me calm down and we would go back to being a picture perfect couple again. He could just do whatever he wanted and I will grin and bare it.

I cleaned up the mess I made then went back to the bedroom to put on something on me other than shame. We gave each other space until the evening came around. He came in to ask if I had any plans for dinner. Wrong question, buddy. I walked to the kitchen in my tight black yoga pants and a tank top, went to the liquor cabinet, grabbed my favorite bottle of tequila and took three long gulps.

“That’s my plan, worry about yourself.”

“You haven’t had any real food today, you need to eat something.”

“Eat my ass, Colonel.” With that he pins me to the wall, the room spins around me and I start thrashing against him. He’s got probably 100lbs on me and more combative training than I can remember, so as you can well imagine this is going super great for me. I stop long enough to see the tears forming in his eyes. “Was there ever anything special between us, did you keep any part of yourself just for me?”

“Josephine, you are the only woman I have ever loved. I never even implied that I had any feelings towards them. They knew from the beginning it was simply recreational. Jo, you know you are my best friend.”

“Then why do you keep hurting me? Why am I not enough, Sy? Why do they keep getting you at your best, and I have to put all of your broken pieces back together again when you finally do come home.” Remember every time he woke up screaming the names of his fallen friends. When we have to leave BBQ’s early on the 4th of July because the fireworks remind him of mortar shells.

“You are enough. You are more than enough. I couldn’t have made it this far without you. It has never been anything other than stress relief with them.” The first tear rolls down his cheek. “I love you, Pussycat, now please lets get some food in you. Are you going to be good?”

“Haven’t I always been good. Been good, but not good enough.” I whine and slide down the wall once his hands are off of me. Good lord, where the hell is my dignity. 

He lets me go gently and leaves to make me a peanut butter sandwich. While his back is turned, I grab the bottle one more time and take another long swig. This is where the rest of my night is very fuzzy until I came to in the back of the squad car.

He evidently tried to take the bottle from me, I threw it at him, it went wide and smashed against the wall. He took me to the ground, just tried to keep me from hurting either of us and I screamed at him every vile thing I could think of until the sheriff showed up. They tried to take him in, seeing that I was a sobbing mess on the floor. I told them I tried to hurt him, so they handcuffed me and took me in. Before they drove off, James brought a sweater and my purse out for me. I watched a couple of nosy housewives standing at the end of their drive ways. I’m pretty sure I flipped them the bird and they looked at me with disgust.

Now I’m sitting here, in Mama’s Cadillac, licking my wounds.

“Why in the name of God have you not told me about any of this?” Mama asks, this is now her sixth cigarette. I think she’s trying not to turn the car around.

“I thought you would have told me to get over myself and save face.” I say as we pull to her house.

“No, baby girl, I wouldn’t have. No one, especially not my daughter, deserves to be treated like that. Ooo I never liked the boy. Your daddy used to say that cowboy was all hat and no cattle. Let’s get some sleep, Princess. We will go get your stuff in the morning.”

I make my way to my childhood bedroom and collapse down on the bed. Before I close my eyes for the night, I finally check my phone. He had been blowing up my text messages.

I realize that I have never apologized to you about my short comings. But I swear to you, I will get out of the army if you want me to. We can move anywhere you want to, we can start over, just the two of us. I’m so sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry that you kept this all from me. I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t love you. These where from six hours ago.

I don’t know when you will get your phone back, I love you. This was from before my mom collected me.

They told me you have been released from custody but didn’t say to who. Who ever picked you up asked them not to tell me. Are you safe?

I love you. Please. Let me know where you are, I’ll come get you. I hope that you are just ignoring me because you are asleep.

I reply to him with a simple Mama picked me up. Get some sleep. We will talk in the morning.

No ‘I love you’ from me tonight although it killed me not to tell him. Tomorrow, I will figure out if what we have can be saved. But that is tomorrow Josie’s problem.

[lailyn]

If you’re taking prompts from that list, would love to see “catching them undressing” for Frostironstrange! 💖 Thanks!

Here ya go!

The first time they undressed each other, it was in the dark. And Tony was very drunk, and not wearing that many clothes to begin with.

Inebriated as he was, he still appreciated Stephen's athletic musculature and the meticulous way with which the Sorcerer Supreme explored every possible pleasurable spot in his body, even the ones Tony did not know existed. 

"I know all the nerves in the human body by name," Stephen had whispered by way of foreplay. "Where they go, what they supply...how it feels when I do this..."

Did Tony mention that he was drunk? What Stephen did then must have been an exercise in neurocognitive recalibration because Tony remembered everything that happened next. The unexpected vigor Stephen displayed was a pleasant surprise too, and made every dollar spent on the custom-made Alaskan king bed worth it. 

As (bad) luck would have it, three months later, they found Loki. 

Or if you're very pernickety about details, Loki found them. 

Tony happened to be hosting the biennial Reformed Villain Resort Retreat (he had no choice, no one else owned cabins in the Adirondacks, cabins he could afford to lose should they end up destroyed by one of the more interactive group activities) and Stephen, being the Sorcerer Supreme, Protector of Time and Reality was one of the esteemed speakers. 

On one of the coffee breaks, they availed themselves to one of the lodges and were in the middle of admiring the matching scars on each other's chest after a quick fuck when one of the shadowy corners moved. 

"Thank you for the show. It was most entertaining."

Tony yelped in surprise, and Stephen, never much of a talker, just careened a fireball at the intruder.

The fireball hit an energy field, sizzled and died out like a matchstick in water. 

"Loki," Stephen growled, as the Cloak of Levitation flew across the room to cover some of his modesty.

"Second-Rate," Loki returned the greeting courteously. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Stephen ground out through clenched teeth.

"Why…" Loki held up a two-inch thick, glossy handout. 'Villainous Personality Disorders: Which One Are You?' By Doctor Stephen Strange, M.D.,PhD.', the laminated cover read. "Reading, of course."

"You are not to tell anyone what you saw," Stephen demanded. "I haven't handed out the feedback forms yet!"

Loki grinned mischievously. "About that…"

A year later, Loki moved in. 

"Two heads are better than one," Tony had whispered in his ear weeks before, and Stephen found himself very eager to concur.

It took longer to convince Loki but with the help of Loki's brother, nothing was impossible, and this included annoying Loki so much that Loki willingly moved out of New Asgard and into their apartment.

"That overbearing oaf!" Loki ranted. "Can you believe he hired a bodyguard for me? Me! A bodyguard!"

"Well...you are a person of political importance." Tony winked at Stephen and poured them all glasses of champagne. "Welcome, Your Highness."

That night Loki was the first to the bedroom but the last to bed. 

"Will he ever get out of the bathroom?" Tony wondered.

"I think he's shy…" Stephen murmured. He called out. "Loki? You okay?"

The bathroom door opened a crack. 

Loki stepped out in a dressing gown made of the finest charmeuse, trimmed with silk as green as his eyes.

"I am not sure if there is room for me."

Tony patted the empty spot between him and Stephen. 

"Try again, sweetheart," he said lightly.

"I have long legs." Loki's throat bobbed visibly. "Really, really long legs."

Stephen ran his eyes up and down Loki's tall, slim figure. Wrapped in silk, Loki looked as delicious as a Quality Street toffee on Christmas morning. "I mean, they're okay."

Loki clearly took that as a challenge and Stephen applauded himself when the dressing gown dropped to the floor, pooling at Loki's bare, white ankles. 

But his smile faltered at the sight of the jagged scar in the middle of Loki's torso. Tony sucked in a breath sharply, and Stephen felt momentarily comforted; Loki had clearly hidden the mark of what must have been a hideous injury from both of them, not just him.

"That looks painful," he managed. 

Loki shrugged. "Barely felt it. It was over fairly quickly."

Tony and Stephen leaped out of bed at the same time; as one, they engulfed Loki in a tight embrace, chest-to-chest, scar to scar. 

"You're not alone," Stephen comforted.

"You have us," Tony promised. 

"You have me," Loki corrected with a voice cracked in places, vision blurred by sudden tears. "And your Reformed Villain Resort Retreat sucks."

"That's your feedback, Second-Rate," Tony teased. 

Stephen laughed, and could not stop laughing, not even when they collapsed onto Tony's expensive bed in a heap, sending eiderdown flying everywhere -

"Best feedback ever."