#ive hardly had any alcohol lately as well
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Return of The Thing
Sort of. By thing, I mean me. But I love this movie and the meme.
Ok, context for this post:
- Where I’ve been
- Why I left
- Whats hip happening
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Where I’ve Been:
Long story short, I’ve had real life matters to deal with. Firstly, my entire household contracted COVID. Well, *almost*. We’ve been through constant testing, quarantine zones, and had the ambulance up numerous times. My parents and 2nd oldest sister were hit the hardest. My 3rd oldest sister was positive and asymptomatic. Now something none of us could predict that I would be completely COVID free despite my compromises. Despite that I was in close contact with them all, including the 2nd oldest who contracted it first and accidentally being coughed on a few times lol. I went through the exact same testing and yet nothing. No symptoms. No presence of COVID. And I took no precaution to isolate from my family as I presumed in our small house we’d all get it, so I was more preoccupied with caring for the sick. Ultimately, I’ve either gotten off scott free this time or there’s a chance I may actually either be highly resistant or even immune. Even then, I WILL be having the vaccine as and when my family are eligible. And we all still follow regulations set.
I’ve also had other real life obligations, much of it either mundane fixing up my living circumstances to more personal matters. Overall, I have been extremely preoccupied.
A mini update, the stray cat Big has been in our porch a lot more in recent times due to the snow as well as being even more affectionate. And Queefster passed away after a good life and a full tummy.
Why I Left:
Aside from COVID, business, and my own health declining, I’ll be blunt. I left because of how disgustingly toxic most fandoms are nowadays, but Hazbin is one of the WORST for it. That includes harassment, death threats, mocking MI and triggering an ED. In fact, I’ve even seen others get rape and death threats. So yes, even if YOU are a decent fan, collectively most of you arent doing any favours. Even some critical blogs seem to be overtly catty in ways no one else seems to pick up on under this ‘look how blunt I am’ look and it’s just... You dont have to be a prick to have your say, to be honest and to disagree with the trending. That’s a few on and off of tumblr, and no one I follow anyways.
In regards to my ‘sensitivities’ - two things: 1) Of course trauma is going to hurt, 2) Im fully aware of kids doing and receiving much of this, which hurts MORE. I have my own lil squids and Im worried of them eventually having to deal with this shit. And no, no one SHOULD have to put up with such rude and poor behaviour. Agree to disagree doesnt live in some people’s realities, but by God harassment and bullying seems ok if YOURE doing it or enticing it. That ISNT ok. Even if it seems like nothing to you it could kill another. I certainly will not take your shit.
On huskerdust I STAND by my words. It’s fucking creepy and there is sexual harassment and obsession. And there are large triggers. I will not go into detail here because Ive done that dance before and I’ll be refining it again. YOU may like it, however it triggers my very real traumas as well as those in my bloodline. Be respectful and keep that shit away from me. And for goodness sake, parents PLEASE dont raise your children to behave as such online. And no, being anon isnt actually fully anonymous. Also to send hate and threats anon is not only traceable but also cowardice. Grow a pair and find a hobby. I avoid my traumas for the most part. I will not allow you to weaponise or diminish my own or others experiences for your fictional based gratification. Likewise, if it becomes canon, I’ll just make an AU where it is not. Simple. You can hate it but Im not your personal circus so go be toxic elsewhere. IF you like HD and follow me, honestly... Youre probably better to unfollow as I am deeply and passionately against it and stolitz, and valvox, and am very vocal on that. Dont mistake my traumas and discomfort as a personal attack - and dont personally attack me over it either. And before anyone claims homophobia, no. This is nothing to do with sexuality. You arent the victim. If you love these pairings with your soul to the point of a ‘stan’, then youre best off unfollowing because I really am too old for extremists and rabid fans more crazed than the infected in REC. Also I never used to hate angel but now... Fans behaviour is abhorrent and hes so over saturated that I honestly really dislike him now. Doesnt mean you have to hate him too, but just bloody respect that angel isnt loved by all, he can be triggering to some as well as toxically enabling [incl. past addicts], a vile homophobic gay stereotype and just overall a lack of knowledge and respect of sex workers as a whole. When you know a lot of the ins and outs and victims, it’s hard to overlook. I respect your triggering ships by avoiding that mess. Respect others.
The problem with Viv - and I will elaborate in the future - is that your audience is often a reflection of your work and it’s message/presentation. And most of the fandom Ive met are awful. Honestly, though lonesome I find more comfort keeping distant from fandoms because yall often extremely toxic and petty. Perhaps others have had better experiences than I however Im drawing a line in the sand. For MY sake. I’m annoyed with virtually anyone I sense great potential in that becomes wasted. Im angry at Viv because she can do so much better but is blocking HERSELF. This is from a creative and business mindset. When someone has potential that gets wasted - especially creatively - it burns me. Im just passionate on artistic fields. It doesnt mean I hate them. I hate the waste of full potential.
I’ll state things here people disagree with but encouraging harassment, hate or just being an overall cunt just aint on- It’s like people charade as being this fair being but its all bullshit. Self improve and sod off, I do NOT have time to parent you online.
And obviously there are RL duties I must fulfil. Some in which I will need the publics assistance for if you can spare it. Overall, Im just... Fandoms behaviour generally disgusts me. Disappoints me. We SHOULD be better than this. It’s like listening to bloomin incels rant on fuckin chad or some bullshit pill theory instead of looking to improve themselves too. Honestly... I do mostly acknowledge my own flaws and faults and try to improve each day. It just feels fewer folk see that in themselves and do the same. And that’s coming from an old cunt whos far from fuckin perfect.
Also, my fuckin laptop broke so I waited a week for a bloke nearby to fix it. What a fuckin lifesaver, he’s the real mvp!
Also Also, one of you did privately apologise and I appreciate that. I certainly hope we agree to disagree and continue to grow as people on our separate ways. Trust me, I dont forget small acts like this. Even the trauma that caused and the aftermath, please dont think I dont appreciate the apology. However you’re also entitled to know that the forgiveness and healing side may take longer for me due to various factors that occurred - much that few are aware of, including yourself especially. I wish you well and safety.
Hip Happenin Now:
Still busy but slowly visiting. I’ll reply and reblog soon, be patient please. Ive still many things to sort which take priority as well as other things. Im trying to get money n shit for a future and whatnot. Health issues are strong in the blood rn and Im spending extended time with both Big and the other pets to keep up harmony, especially now that Big is accepting slowly that our porch is a welcome shelter for him and he’s free to leave and stay whenever. Trust me, overloaded isnt even the word. Im prepping shit early this year and from now on. Also, my God Ive been dealing with more physical issues as well and had to play doctor. May even need medical interference but holy shit I could never see this coming. Still... It’s... An experience- If you could call it that. Staying more active and healthy. Cat’s nearly clawed my eye out in my sleep (to which I can only presume Billy got too close or hyper) but it’s fortunate placement so Im alright. Most of my body is in pain to the point of absolute normality at this rate. And I plan to make space for a better altar.
Future of the Blog:
Errr, it’s my fuckin space so it’s whatever I want really. Ill still have my Viv rants (ie, pros and cons of her work, HH/HB, other shit like that) however I just really dislike most the fandom at this point as well as the poor management and lack of professionalism and attitudes of staff. It’s just draggin me down and making me ill. I also want to showcase more of MY work (from redesigns to projects to some dumb 2am shit), cosplays, fashion, hobbies, spiritual practises - MY. SHIT. I feel like Ive strayed slightly. But I WILL be honest. And damn well will it upset people. And if it does and I’m genuinely ding something wrong/harmful - guide me patiently. Educate me. If it’s like this HD shit where Im not only allowed my opinions but justified on my traumas or mocking my disabilities or features, then just yeet yourself elsewhere. Also some of my gaming shit too. Getting to know folk who interact with my stuff and just... Create my space. For me. Something hopefully others can enjoy. Something that can function as a bit of an art portfolio as well. Critiques and whatnot.
But I will continually not stand for anyone’s shit or poor handling of serious matters. You will not cause me to doubt and invalidate my experiences like you have to others.
For now, Im tottering but slowly returning. For those who I previously and daily interacted with, I will get back to you. And Im sure you’re patient and understanding of my situation - it’s appreciated. But in terms of any fandom, more so if it’s known to be as hostile, I’d rather keep a healthy boundary between us. That’s for newer folk. Perhaps we may bond further and you’re welcome to try, however I do feel far safer not getting involved into other people’s shit any longer. I will put anon back on but any toxic shit will be reported as well as compiled so at least I have a reference on the actual toxic nature of fandoms. Likewise, Im slowly getting there but god theres a lot of fuckin work. So much that not even my closest friend has heard too much from me until recently.
I’ll be returning to the grind for now as I have duties, as well as many demanding felines for my attention. Alongside some physical medical concerns which require additional care, I’ll be popping off now.
Im thankful for those who have checked in on me. I will reply shortly.
Take care
#im fucking tired#ive hardly had any alcohol lately as well#ive snuck some though but not as much for unwind time sadly#also discovered sourz alcohol and it is wonderful#i made someone laugh until literal pissing themselves though so#im taking bloody pride in that comedy so
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nightmares - mike munroe x reader
summary: It was a deal made by two almost-friends in the early hours of the morning after the worst night of their lives, when they realized that all they really had left was each other.
a/n: so this is once again. not my normal content but ive been on an until dawn kick lately and fell in love w the characters all over again. i dont know if anyone still reads or writes for this fandom but. here u go. enjoy
warning(s): lots of cursing, canon typical violence, mentions of graphic violence/death (but nothing too descriptive), mentioned depression, insomnia, and alcoholism, some heavy themes but its hurt/comfort so it ends in fluff
wc: 4.8k
You were running.
You were running, and it was freezing — fuck, it was freezing.
You knew your surroundings; how could you ever forget? Every fucking moment on the goddamn mountain was engraved into your mind for what you assumed would be the rest of your life, an assumption that had since been proven correct.
And now, against your will, you were back. Of course you were back.
A shudder ran through your whole body as that all-too-familiar screech rang out behind you, each second of it like nails on a chalkboard in the worst way. Your lungs burned like all hell but you couldn’t stop — if you stopped, you were as good as dead.
Some part of this fucked up thing was almost funny. Humans were always boasting about how they were the top of the food chain, how they were the height of evolution. There was nothing to keep an ego in check like being hunted by a supernatural creature.
Any thoughts of bullshit philosophy were dashed from your mind as you took a hard right, nearly falling over from the sharp curve of the mountain but just able to catch yourself. Your heart was thundering in your chest, the beats nearly lining up with your sprinting. You felt an intense urge to turn around, try and gauge your chances, but the thought of slowing down for even a second terrified you. It’s not like you needed to anyways — you knew exactly what was after you.
You were nearing the end of your road, both literally and figuratively. You stumbled over a tree root, your hands splayed out in front of yourself at just the right angle to keep your momentum going and, in some feat of luck, stay upright and running.
But your luck had just run out.
Your senses were proven correct as the harrowing cliff edge came into view, and a thousand things screamed in your mind at once as your demise stared you right in the eye. You barely managed to catch yourself, very much aware that the snow falling into the void could’ve just as well been you.
That fucking screech again, even closer than before, and you whipped around as you took an instinctive step back. Your hands patted around everywhere, searching for something to defend yourself, but you had nothing. No gun, knife, even the ground around you was devoid of rocks.
You had nothing. You had nothing to defend yourself from this goddamn nightmare creature, and you were going to die.
Your eyes darted around wildly in an attempt to find something, anything, to save yourself, but there was nothing. You took another step back and felt your foot slip, your breath catching as you barely managed to save yourself with a twist and a lunge away from the edge. The shock of the ground and the cold against your skin was just enough to remind yourself that you were actually alive. Another pile of snow mimicked the fate that seemed imminent as it trickled over the side of the cliff, and you screwed your eyes shut as you tried to shut your mind up.
Think, goddammit, if you wanted to get off of this fucking mountain you had to think—
The screech that pierced through the night sky was far too close for comfort, and as your head snapped back towards the woods you swore that your heart stopped beating.
It had caught up. You were out of time you were going to die but you didn’t have anything and you were going to fucking die—
A flash of white pushed off a tree and lunged towards you, teeth bared as it emitted that horrible screech. You didn’t even have time to scream, completely frozen in place as one clawed hand reached your neck, and you braced for the moment of release.
You shot up in your bed, breathing rapid and unsteady with a barely contained cry on the edge of your lips as your hand instinctively flew to your neck. You heaved an almost strangled sigh of relief to know that your head was still attached to your body (it might’ve seemed obvious, but… your head wasn’t exactly on straight at the moment, all jokes aside) and collapsed against the headboard.
You ran your hands across your face as you tried in vain to calm yourself down, ultimately having to turn on your lamp to ease your troubled mind that there was nothing going thump in the night.
It had been this same routine almost every night — horrible nightmare, wake up crying or screaming or both, and start the day at 3 am because you couldn’t fall back asleep.
It was exhausting. You were exhausted.
You knew you couldn’t go on like this, but what choice did you have? Therapy had been mandated by the police for a certain amount of time after the incident, but… it’s not like it had helped. How could it, when no one truly knew what you had gone through?
Well… that wasn’t completely accurate.
One person knew what you were going through, and you hadn’t said as much as one word to him since that night. You didn’t really… know what to say.
Hey. I know we’re not all that close, but I’m sorry your girlfriend and all your friends were killed by a Wendigo and that I made it instead. Hope you’re not going insane with grief. I’ll send you a card at Christmas!
...yeah. You had no idea what to say to him after months of no contact.
The relationship you had with Mike Munroe was a strange one, to say the least.
None of you were the same after that night on the mountain. The horrors of the mines would be forever entrenched in your head, flashes of the Wendigos appearing every time you closed your eyes. You and Mike were the only ones who made it off, and the guilt you carried everywhere was a burden you knew you couldn’t shoulder. And even after the physical scars had faded, you knew the mental ones never would.
Sometimes you wondered how you had even managed to get involved with the group in the first place — bonds that had been made in your freshman and sophomore years had somehow managed to stay strong enough throughout the rest of high school, strong enough to cement your spot in the friend group and the yearly lodge visits. You liked them all well enough, enough to go up to an isolated mountain with them for a weekend or so, but… yeah. Sometimes you did wonder what the hell you were doing with them.
But now?
Now, you would give almost anything to hear Sam’s laugh or one of her compliments, or tease Ashley and Chris about their very obvious feelings; hell, you found yourself missing Matt’s useless football facts. And even though Emily and Jessica weren’t always the nicest, you still had managed to worm your way into their hearts. Knowing that you would never get Emily’s brutal but helpful advice or get dragged to a football game by Jessica again?
If someone had told you the difference between life-long trauma and a completely normal existence was that blonde girl with the braids in your biology class, you might’ve thought a little harder before accepting that party invite.
The days after you were rescued from the mountain passed in a daze, questions and interrogations from police never sticking for too long. And it didn’t even feel like it mattered, the way none of them seemed to believe you.
They kept you separated from Mike throughout the whole process, and you were only able to catch glances of him when you were being transferred to different rooms throughout the long process. It really was like something out of a horror movie — a group of teens go up to a lodge in the woods, and only two return with a story of unspeakable horrors — and rather than try and work out what had happened, they seemed intent on pinning the deaths on you and Mike.
As if you weren’t dealing with enough after watching your friends get murdered by the monster of another friend, the people that were supposed to be helping you were instead trying to charge you with them. If it wasn’t so fucking infuriating, it would’ve been laughable.
The worst part? You could hardly blame them.
When you took a second to listen to yourself, to what you were spouting to the police, you sounded insane. If you hadn’t witnessed it all first hand, you wouldn’t have believed yourself.
You told them to go down to the mines. That the thing that killed your friends would be down there, and they could see it for themselves.
You didn’t know if that was the right choice. Hell, you might’ve been sending those cops to their deaths. But it was the only way you could think of to get them to believe you.
(You doubted they would go down there anyways. What was the word of two crazy college kids over actual logic? Not much, you imagined.)
You were in that damn interrogation room for what felt like forever until you were finally taken to a hospital to get your wounds treated. But even in the hospital bed, police were by your side asking about what happened every day of your stay. After your discharge, you were forced into custody until they got information that they deemed satisfactory.
By some miracle, you and Mike weren’t charged with anything. The news might’ve gotten hold of your story, but you didn’t know. You didn’t want to know. You didn’t ever look at the news after the tragedy, too afraid that you would see the smiling faces of your friends staring back at you, or pictures of you and Mike with news anchors trying to talk about how involved the two of you were.
If there was one thing worse than going through hell, it was other people trying to make a profit off of your spiral.
Your friends’ families offered their condolences, but not much else. You didn’t hold it against them. Your survivor’s guilt was strong enough to know exactly why they didn’t reach out further.
(You blame yourself for their deaths, after all. Why wouldn’t they?)
It was the same situation with Mike.
Maybe you had purposefully drifted apart from him, trying to build up walls of your own so that he wouldn’t be able to spring it on you first. You assumed he hated you after what had happened, and he had every right to. You might’ve helped each other through the night, but you had no other option. Now, everyone else but you was dead — people he cared about more than you — and you just couldn’t face that.
But as you stared at yourself in your bathroom mirror, you realized that you might have to.
You looked awful.
Weeks of sleepless nights were catching up to you, appearing in the form of
hollow eyes and dark circles, along with a slight discoloration of your skin. The scars from the mountain had mostly healed, but there was a particularly nasty gash on your cheek that was still showing — it wasn’t doing you any favors in the ‘looking completely normal and sane and not severely sleep deprived’ department.
You splashed some water in your face to try and wake up a bit, but the slight drowsiness that followed you everywhere seemed to be a permanent part of you now.
(It was almost funny, in a way. You were so paranoid and alert all the time, unable to fall asleep, and yet it was all you could think about in moments like these. You wondered when irony had become such a staple in your life.)
You had tried talking to therapists, your friends, your family, even searching the internet for advice on what to do after a life changing traumatic event. Nothing had worked.
The simplest solution had come to mind more than once, but you had pushed it aside with the determination to work through this on your own. But now, staring at yourself and seeing how much you had deteriorated…
You had to go talk to the only person who would understand.
~
You had considered turning around more than once on the drive over.
Because, really, what the hell were you doing? Showing up at his doorstep in the middle of o dark thirty because— because what?
Because you had a nightmare?
He had gone through the same thing you had, probably even worse. Losing Jessica right in front of him, having to cut off his fingers to get free, spending countless hours alone, dealing with the nightmare that was the sanatorium, and then…
Well, you had been in the mines with him and Josh when it happened. There was no doubt in your mind that the scene replayed in his head endlessly, just like it did for you.
Showing up… it was going to be a mistake. You knew it was.
For all you knew, Mike had moved on already. He was stronger than you, he always had been. Maybe your presence would send him spiraling once more, or maybe it would just earn you a verbal beating like no other. Mike had always been nice enough, but the trauma you had endured was enough to turn a saint into his own worst enemy.
You didn’t know what would happen. You didn’t know anything, and as you turned down his street you regretted more than ever not keeping in touch with him. Maybe then you wouldn’t be in this situation, scrambling after your last hope for salvation after slowly killing yourself over the past few months.
But there was no chance to turn back now, because before you knew it your knuckles were rapping against his front door.
The pause between your arrival and a response was so long that you considered leaving and pretending like this never happened, but just as you began to step back the door swung open.
You didn’t really know what you were expecting, but… he was there. The only other testament to the horrors of Blackwood Pines, and maybe the only person that could help you through this.
“...hi,” you murmured, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat as you looked the personification of your shame in the eye.
Mike blinked a few times, whether to try and wake up a little or out of surprise from his visitor you didn’t know, but it was a few seconds before he responded in kind. “...hey. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around.”
You chuckled dryly as you nodded. “Yeah. Sorry for the sudden arrival. I’m, uh… I’m kind of surprised you even opened the door.”
He huffed out a short breath in a facsimile of a laugh. “Not getting much sleep these days.”
“That’s something we’ve got in common.” You crossed your arms across your chest and let out a loose sigh, eyes wandering around in an attempt to think of what to say next. It should’ve been so easy, but… but for some reason, it just wasn’t.
“Guess so.” That awkward silence stretched out once more, neither of you knowing how to fill it. Thankfully, Mike continued to take the plunge, but it wasn’t without a slight barb. “What are you doing here?”
“I—” you stopped just as you had begun, because you really didn’t know. You had come here for help, but could Mike really do that for you? He was the same as you — a fucked up teenager trying to deal with something so far beyond him.
“I don’t know,” you admitted as you made eye contact once more. “I… I really don’t know. I’m out of options, and… I can’t keep going like this. So I came here to talk, or— or to try and get some help. I don’t know.”
That same silence filled the air once more, the night ambiance the only thing in between the two of you. You missed when that silence used to be comfortable, but… you could only blame yourself for it.
“So— so, what?” he asked, the beginnings of a frown starting to crease his brows. “You just— we go through all that together up there, and then when we get back down you don’t say a word for months. And now— now, out of nowhere, in the middle of the night, you just show up and ask for help?”
“God,” you muttered. When he put it that way, it was true. It was ridiculous, to expect his help after the way you had just left him to deal with it all on his own for a reason borne of your own insecurity. “You’re right. This was— this was stupid. I’m sorry.”
You had already turned to go when you felt a calloused hand on your shoulder, causing you to stop in your tracks.
“No.” His voice was surprisingly soft as he sighed, stepping back with a shake of his head to make room in the doorway. “No, I—” Mike paused for a moment, as if he couldn’t find the right words to say. “I’m sorry. You can come in. Obviously, you can come in.”
Your eyes widened slightly as you tried to hide your shock at the gesture, but you weren’t about to turn it down. You nodded, and he stepped aside to make space for you to walk in. When you did, you were met with a mess not unlike the one back at your apartment, save for the beer bottles. Clothes were strewn about haphazardly on every surface, so you took a seat on a clean spot on the floor, leaning back against a chair and pulling your knees up to your chest. You actually preferred it this way — it was grounding, in a literal sense. Mike pushed aside a laundry basket and did the same, but pulled one leg up and let the other lay extended.
“Why?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had been accumulating once more. “Why did you just…” he gestured around with his hands to try and get his point across but ultimately settled with a sigh. “You didn’t say anything. You didn’t try to text, or call, or write, or— or anything. Hell, I would’ve probably jumped to get a messenger pigeon from you. But it was just… radio silence.”
You picked at the dry skin on your thumbs as you tried to come up with an answer. “I… I don’t know,” you repeated. “It was stupid, and it was horrible of me to leave you alone. I mean… I don’t know why I did it. I know what I’ve been going through, and I know you’ve been going through the same. So I don’t know why I didn’t try to reach out and see how you were doing.”
He chuckled mirthlessly as his eyes swept over the empty bottles that had accumulated on the coffee table. “I’m not the best with alone.”
“I know,” you said quietly. “I thought…” you shook your head as you looked at the ceiling. “I thought that you hated me. I know that you cared about them all more, you were closer to all of them, and… and I thought you wouldn’t want anything to do with me. That I would just always be a reminder of what you lost. And… and, I don’t know. Maybe it was my way of trying to move on. Was a stupid fucking idea, though.”
That got a genuine laugh out of him as he ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I get that. I dunno why I didn’t try to talk to you either. Maybe since you didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to either. This whole thing fucked me up.” His gaze moved to you. “Fucked us both up.”
“You can say that again,” you muttered as you tapped your fingers on your knees. “I can’t look anywhere without seeing them. I mean, I see that fucking…” you grimaced. “I see Josh, and I see what that thing did to him, and I just— I’m right back to step one.”
He swallowed hard and nodded. “...yeah. That was seven layers of fucked up.”
“You can’t just keep saying everything was fucked up,” you said dryly. “It was shitty, too.”
Mike snorted, some kind of slightly masochistic humor going on between the two of you. “Nothing really gets the point across like fucked up.”
“Guess you’re right,” you finally conceded with a small smile. “This is… this is nice. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to… I don’t know, to talk to someone like this.”
“It is,” he murmured.
Another pregnant pause hung in the air, but the silence wasn’t as uncomfortable now. Trickles of what it used to be like, of your old life, were beginning to poke through.
“I never hated you,” he said suddenly. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and it was like his brown eyes were piercing through you as he continued. “I never did. After it happened… yeah, I was mad. I was fucking pissed, but it was never at you. You were my friend too, y’know? Even though we weren’t that close, we were still… we were still something. And I’m glad you made it. I just wish you hadn’t convinced yourself that you had to go through this alone. Maybe things would’ve turned out different, these past few months. For both of us.”
You nodded, choosing to avert eye contact first because you almost couldn’t handle the sincerity. Your heart sank a bit at the sight of all the beer bottles, and you knew that he was right. Maybe things would’ve been different if the two of you had weathered it together from the start. And so you said that.
“I still can’t help but feel like I’m to blame for—” you gestured around at the mess with a sigh, “for this.”
“Look.” His voice was raspy as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair, and as he met your eyes once more you were able to see how truly exhausted he was. With dark circles that matched your own, scars that were still healing, and a certain hollowness behind his eyes… It was like looking in a mirror. And it made you realize how fucked up the two of you had really become.
Mike had always been good at holding himself together, putting up his signature egotistical-douchebag-jock act in the face of anything that threatened to tear him down, and more often than not he came out victorious. But not even class presidents were immune to the horrors that they had faced, and it was taking more of a toll on him than you had realized.
“It’s not your fault. You— you did everything you could; I know I’m still alive because of you. Besides, we were idiot teenagers — we still are — and none of them deserved to die because of it. Not Hannah, not Beth, not any of them.” Mike shook his head and sighed. “Not even Josh. Man was fucked up even before all of this, but he didn’t deserve what happened to him. He needed help, but instead he got his fucking… god. I can’t even say it. But he didn’t deserve it.”
You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, the subconscious process having stopped because of the weight of his words. It was cliche, but you didn’t know how much you needed to hear those four words: it’s not your fault.
“Maybe you should be my therapist,” you joked weakly. But as you let your eyes trail back to Mike you bit your lip. He hadn’t included himself in that statement, and it wasn’t too hard to figure out why.
“Mike… it wasn’t your fault either. You’re not just saying bullshit to try and make yourself feel better, it really wasn’t your fault. What do they say? ‘Getting through your guilt is the first step to recovery’ or some shit? You deserve to be here just as much as I do.”
“But it was,” he insisted. “It’s easy for you to say that. You tried to stop it, I… I just went along with it. Fuck, I started it all. Hannah and Beth went missing because of me, Josh went out of his fuckin’ mind, and if he hadn’t brought us all back up there for his revenge plot then they wouldn’t have died. How is it not my fault? Why do I get to live when all of them died because of me?”
“Mike,” you sighed. “I… I don’t know. I don’t know why we made it back when none of them did, but it’s not your fucking fault, okay? You— yeah, that prank was fucking stupid, but— but how could you know what was going to happen?” You huffed a laugh that was only slightly unhinged. “People pull pranks all the time. Native American legend cannibal spirit things don’t try to kill people all the time. You can’t keep blaming yourself. It’s not going to help them, and it’s not going to help you.”
That silence stretched out once more as he took in your words. You didn’t know if he believed them or not, but you did. That had to be worth something, right?
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he muttered, breaking the silence once more. “And I… I don’t know. I don’t know why it took almost fucking dying from those goddamn things, a— and seeing what happened to all of them...”
“I don’t know,” he repeated, leaning back against the foot of the sofa. “All the shit that happened, all of them dying — I don’t know how long it’ll take until we’re okay again. Hell, I don’t even know if we ever will be okay again. What happened up there was fucked up in the worst way, and the fact that no one believes us makes it a hell of a lot worse.”
You chuckled darkly as you cupped one hand in the other. “You can say that again.”
His lips twitched for a moment as if he wanted to smile but ultimately thought better of it. “I know we aren’t that close anymore, but the truth is we’re the only ones on this fuckin’ planet that know what really happened up there. We’re the only ones that will ever really understand what happened to us, and… and I think we’re the only ones that can really help each other through this shit.”
He met your eyes once more, something resolute in them. “So the next time this happens, because it will, if you don’t want to be alone… you can come here. Any time, any day, no questions asked. Just knock on that door, and I will be there. No more isolation, no more trying to get through this on our own. We gotta be there for each other, because we’re all we have.”
You nodded gratefully, a feeling of warmth slowly creeping through your body with his reassurance. “Thank you, Mike. You… you have no idea what this means to me.”
“I think I have some clue,” he murmured.
As you exchanged weary smiles, you saw a faint twinkle in Mike’s eyes. He was always the kind of person to help others, even if it was for the wrong reasons, and that was one thing that stuck with him after the disaster. And in that moment, a long lost feeling washed over you — safety.
You hadn’t felt safe in… well, it seemed like forever. Adrenaline and pure instinct were responsible for getting you through those twelve hours, along with an overwhelming wave of numbness and denial. But once all of that wore off, the nightmares had begun. Your friends, the Wendigos, the mountain itself — anything and everything that your mind could use against you, it did.
It was a living hell. You could hardly ever sleep anymore, horrific images always jolting you awake after an hour or two and keeping you awake for the rest of the day. It was no wonder Mike had ended up with a drinking problem — it was probably the only way he could sleep, the only way he could bring some form of peace to his mind. By some miracle, you had avoided that fate, but… you would be lying if you said you hadn’t come close.
But somehow, for some reason, you could tell that things were going to be different. Now that you and Mike weren’t avoiding each other anymore in the name of painful memories… you felt like things were going to be okay. Or as close to okay as you could get these days.
You weren’t alone, and neither was he.
He had saved your life on the mountain more than once. Now, he was saving you again. Just in a different way.
-
perm tags: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77
ud tags: @kwyloz
#mike munroe#mike munroe x reader#mike x reader#until dawn x reader#until dawn#until dawn fic#mike until dawn#sadie writes#i always get so insecure when i post things that arent for atla#then i remember that. this is my blog and i can write what i want#lol
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Cabaret (Might Guy x Reader, Chapter VII)
Synopsis: You can't stand Might Guy. Honestly, how could anyone be so boisterously unaware and sickeningly positive? Your heart sinks as the both of you are teamed up to infiltrate and collect information from the Hidden Sound's gritty nightlife. Maybe losing yourselves in the dark of the underground will help you both come to an understanding.
Word Count: 1,737
Warnings: Alcohol, Foul Language
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIIIChapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI
Notes: Y’all it’s my man MIGHT GUY’s BIRTHDAY TODAY! Damn you know I gotta do some celebratory squats.
Guy woke up in the middle of the night to find himself still on your couch. The lights still lit up the room. Guy squinted at the glare of the side lamps. A weight weighed on his chest and after a few blinks, he realized that it was you. He craned his neck and gazed upon your softened features. The tension of your day had since vacated your face. Your hand bunched up in his shirt. Sparks of chakra pulsed from your hands with every breath you took. Guy watched your chest rise. A burst of chakra came when it fell.
He felt his energy being pulled from his network and swiftly replaced by fragile warmth. Every exhale felt like a slow heartbeat. From your fingertips came a puff of fiery spirit energy. It traveled up Guy’s chest, resolving itself in front of his nose.
Guy slowly pushed himself from the couch and weaved a finger through your balled up fist. Placing your hand in your lap, he maneuvered his forearm under your knees. He picked you up with ease. Guy unconsciously held his breath, careful not to wake you as he made his way to your bed. He placed you in the unmade nest of blankets, turning the nightstand lamp off as the covers enveloped you.
Guy made his exit swift, turning off all of your lights before allowing that partitioning door to softly close.
***
When you woke the next afternoon, you felt more rested than usual. Suspiciously so, but you hardly paid any mind. After all, you had a date.
You looked at the clock. It’s blinking neon slots showed 2:47pm. You groaned and stretched, silently cursing what hostessing did to your sleep schedule. The covers were thrown aside with laziness. You might as well get used to staying up and sleeping in late if this mission was going to last as long as you assumed it was going to.
You studied your wardrobe with disinterest before plucking out a few articles of clothing that you guessed that your date would like. You frowned at your reflection in the mirror as you considered that this would be the first time you went out of your way to dress for a man. The feeling lessened at the prospect of not having to wear an evening gown for a few hours of the work day, but it did not lessen by much.
Making your way to the subtle door, you gave it a light knock before letting yourself in. As you figured, Guy had been up for quite some time. You made your way over to the kitchen where he leaned over the sink. He donned workout gear. Guy gripped a water bottle in his hand as he panted. Red overtook his face. Small beads of sweat he wiped away with a small rag.
“I didn’t get a chance to brief you last night.” You told him as you leaned on the other side of the counter. “I should probably fill you in before I go.”
Guy took a breath and another swig of water.
“You’re not going.” He exhaled. You rolled your eyes.
“Guy, just let me brief you.”
“There’s no shame in taking something you can’t handle off of your plate.” Guy placed down his water bottle. Both hands gripped the counter firmly. You almost laughed. He was kidding, right?
“I can handle myself just fine. Just let me-”
“That’s not what I got from last night.” He looked into your eyes. You kept waiting for a signature Might Guy smile or for him to break and tell you that he was just joking, but it never came. You faltered, unsure of how to answer.
“Well fuck, I’m not going to confide in you just so you can throw it back in my face.” You snapped, more disappointment in your voice than you wanted. “Let me tell you what kind of information I got yesterday-”
“It’s not safe. I can’t spot you. I can’t make sure that you’re safe the whole time.” You crossed your arms, heat rising hotter and hotter to your ears.
“I don’t know why you won’t listen to me right now. Yesterday-”
“It doesn’t matter.” You blinked, a smile of disbelief fighting onto your lips.
“Guy, what the hell?” He came around the kitchen island. You recoiled at the hand that Guy tried to place on your clothed shoulder.
“There will be other opportunities. We don’t even know if this one will help us.” You slapped his hand away. A momentary shock rippled through the two of you.
“It’s not a big deal. I don’t understand why you’re making it a big deal.”
“If it’s not a big deal, then you don’t have to go.”
“What the fuck happened to ‘We are on a mission together’?” You stepped closer. “‘Whether you like it or not, that was Lady Tsunade’s call’? Or does that just apply when I’m the one throwing the fucking tantrum.” Guy stayed silent as you challenged him. You puffed your chest out, face in close proximity to his as you glared. “I’m the point of contact so I get to call the shots.”
He spoke your name with a sigh. But you were out of the room before another word fell out of his mouth.
***
Your date rented out a whole private room for your date which made you wonder just how much more the ninja of the Sound were paid. He had taken you to a relatively nice restaurant too: a traditional place where he spoiled you with half the menu. Surely you were sore about being bought as nothing but an expensive ornament, but you couldn’t muster up the rage to be angry at free food (at least for the moment).
It was at that chabudai where you learned that his name was Shou, a Jonin-level ninja.
“Wow, that must mean you’re pretty strong, then.” You sighed, gazing with wonder into his eyes. Chiasa taught you that one. Shou looked to the side with a bashfully prideful smile.
“Well, I mean yeah, kinda.” He feigned modesty. “I mean, I’m kinda gonna be a big deal.” Your date shoved a piece of teriyaki into his mouth.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You crooned. “You gotta tell me everything! All this ninja stuff is so fascinating.” The ninja chuckled, diving into his rice.
“Top secret, missy, I can’t tell you everything.”
“Oh who’s a girl like me gonna tell?” You giggled, leaning with your elbows propping you against the table. The Sound ninja hesitated.
“Maybe later, beautiful.”
You frowned inwardly despite the coy expression plastered to your lips. You weren’t about to push it right now.
***
It became abundantly clear that perhaps Tsunade put you in the right position as a host girl after all. You stared at the empty glasses on the table, then back at your date. The Sound ninja roared with laughter, once again, in a private booth at the club. You laughed along with him, showering him with flattery as you fed him drink after drink.
“The three L’s,” You remembered Yuzuki telling you. The memory reeked of cigarettes. “Liquor Loosens Lips.”
You snuggled into your target’s side, his arm loosely around your shoulders. The rim of your glass met your lips. A gaze lingered on your skin. Your eyes narrowed and your attention immediately snapped towards the bar.
Guy stared your direction, a cup in his hand and cloth in the other. His leer raked across you and you nearly shuttered under the intensity. Guy put the clean glass with the other. You kept waiting for a look of reassurance or a subtle wink to remind you that he was there for you, but he tore himself from your connection. His diverted eyes hit you like a door slamming in your face. A pang of hurt erupted in your chest. You scoffed. Your date didn’t notice.
You grasped the bottle of scotch by the neck and refilled the ninja’s drink.
“So, Mr. “Big Deal”, how did you manage that?” You shifted in your seat, laying a hand on Shou’s chest.
“It’s not exactly legal, sweetheart.” You toyed with his robes as you pouted.
“Clients tell me these sorts of things all the time.” You glanced back to the bar. Guy was already looking your way. “I doubt that anything you could say could surprise me.”
Your hand came over his as you grasped his drink. Your breath hitched as you trained your focus on your kekkei genkai. You let a spark pass which transformed into a trickle of controlled energy. The scotch met your lips. The drunken Sound ninja studied you, tongue wetting his lips as your head came to rest on his shoulder.
“I don’t know much about it,” He began, persuaded by nothing but your touch, “But some opportunities have come up among the ninja. Some serious cash is involved I know that.”
“How cryptic of you.” You glanced down, then back up. “Cash for what?”
“Information of course.” The ninja tapped his drink and you reached for the bottle, but someone grasped it before you did.
“Having a good time, Shou?” The unfamiliar ninja in front of you mused, reading the label on the side. Your date lifted his cup with a silent nod. Wasted. You focused on the chakra flow, making the information exchange as small and undetectable as possible.
A group of them stood in front of you. Two went around to help their comrade from his seat next to you. They tipped handsomely. You recognized them from your first night of work. The rest of the group patted Shou on his back and rustled his hair, helping him as he floundered to the back room. A woman trailed behind the main group. From your recollection, she usually stayed behind. You watched as they went, disappearing behind the curtained doors to the left of the bar.
You frowned at the table. They took the bottle of scotch with them. You began to neatly gather the empty liquor glasses onto the tray, but were interrupted once more. The unsettling feeling of a man standing to close sent a shiver down your spine.
“Excuse me, Yakushi-san. Let me clear this booth and I’ll be right with you.” You attempted a pleasant exterior. The uneasy presence lingered closely behind you. A hand made its way to your waist.
“Of course.”
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#might guy#might guy x reader#might guy relationship#Maito Gai#maito gai x reader#maito guy#Maito guy relationship#gai sensei#guy sensei#naruto#naruto x reader#x reader#x you#naruto x y/n#naruto x you#naruto imagines#naruto imagine#naruto headcanon#naruto headcanons
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Okay so I'm super nervous to post this but I wrote this one-shot for the #trikey fandom. Ive had this idea for awhile but I finally got around to writing it. It's based off the song Lips of an angel by Hinder. I think its perfect for Michael and Trevor lol so please let me know what you think and I hope you enjoy!
Honey, why are you calling me so late?
It’s kinda hard to talk right now
Honey, why are you crying, is everything okay?
I gotta whisper 'cause I can't be too loud
Michael woke up to his phone ringing on his bedside table. He knew who it was before he even looked. He didn’t know how or why because it could have been a number of people. He reached over and grabbed the phone. His eyes squinted from the bright light. Trevor. He was both glad and disappointed he was right but he supposed he might have willed it to be. His thoughts had been filled with his crew mate, best friend and sometimes more, but that was before Amanda and the kids. Well that wasn’t entirely true. Every time they went on a job together, they fell into each other as soon as they were alone in their hotel room. Michael just couldn’t help himself.
It had been a few months since he had seen Trevor though. He tried to put distance between them. He knew that Trevor had a hard time just sleeping together on occasions and understanding Michael had a family to go home to. Michael wanted nothing more than for his friend to be happy but he just couldn’t be the one to give it to him.
He stared as the phone rang and debated answering but he pictured Trevor’s face the last time he had seen him with tears rolling down his face, begging Michael to stay. His heart clenched and he answered.
“Hello?” he whispered. He looked over at Amanda still sleeping. He had to be quiet. He didn't want to wake her and have her find out who he was talking to. He didn’t feel like fighting tonight.
“Hey." Trevor’s voice rang out on the other side of the phone.
“Jesus, Trev. Do you know what time it is?” He flinched as the words left his mouth. He didn’t mean to sound upset but he did.
Trevor laughed dryly.
“Oh I’m sorry, Princess. Am I interrupting your beauty sleep? I thought I might call my best friend who hasn’t talked to me in months” he said coldly.
“Trevor, if you want to talk you can call and you can call during the day.” Amanda moved next to him. He had to be quiet.
“Works both ways. If you wanted to talk you would have called. But you didn’t.” His voice cracked and ended in a broken sob. Michael hated himself a little more.
“T, why are you crying? Is everything okay?” he whispered. He wished he was there with Trevor right now. He would pull him into his arms and hold him until the tears stopped like he always did.
“Speak up M. I cant hear you"
“I have to be quiet or I’ll wake up-" he let his sentence go unfinished, trying to be careful not to set T off.
“Ah, of course. Wouldn’t want to wake the Mrs. I’ll let you go." He could hear the anger, the jealousy, the sadness, and the pain in Trevor’s voice.
“No!” he said rather loudly. He snapped over to look at Amanda, who just turned over on her side away from him. He sighed. “Don’t go. Just- Hang on.” He got out of bed quietly and snuck out the room. He grabbed his cigarettes off the counter and sat down on the couch, lighting one up and taking a deep inhale and exhale. He wasn't supposed to smoke in the house, but fuck it.
Well, my girl's in the next room
Sometimes I wish she was you
I guess we never really moved on
It's really good to hear your voice saying my name
It sounds so sweet
Coming from the lips of an angel
Hearing those words - it makes me weak
And I never wanna say goodbye
But, girl, you make it hard to be faithful
With the lips of an angel
“Now tell me what’s going on, Trev. I can't be too loud. Mandy and the kids are in the other room asleep" he explained.
“I-I don’t know. I just needed to hear your voice.” Trevor replied quietly, his voice soft and tight like he was trying to stop himself from crying. Michael wondered what had him so upset. He had heard he had a boyfriend of sorts from Lester and apparently they’ve been doing jobs together for L since Michael saw T last. When L told him, he saw red. He got wasted and wound up outside screaming and crying at the night sky. Trevor was his, but he wasn't and he never would be. He didn’t want to but he hoped Trevor was calling to tell him he left that guy and to ask when Michael was coming back to work, to him. There was also a chance Trevor was calling because he was drunk and cranked out. Either due to said guy or something else or even for the hell of it. He might be in trouble or lying somewhere drugged out.
“Is it that guy you’re with?” Michael realized how incredibly jealous he sounded but maybe he was. Maybe he missed being on the road, never staying in one place too long. Maybe he missed the thrill of the job, and maybe he missed looking over in the middle of a heist and grinning at Trevor who was grinning just as hard back. Maybe he missed pulling Trevor into a hard kiss as soon as their hotel door shut and having the most passionate nights of his life, and then falling asleep in his lover’s arms. Maybe he even missed the times they just sat on the bed and talked for hours about any and everything. Maybe sometimes he wished it was Trevor who was in the other room, waiting for him to come back to bed.
“How-how do you even know about that?” Trevor asked, sounding surprised.
“Lester.”
“Of fucking course. Well not that it’s any of your business but he's asleep. It ain’t like he’s my boyfriend or anything. You know I ain’t they settling type. There’s only one exception. Fuck. I miss you, Mikey.” He sobbed.
“Trev-"
“It's okay. I understand. It’s just so good to hear your voice, Mikey.” There goes that nickname again. A nickname only Trevor called him. A nickname that sounded so sweet coming from Trevor’s lips. Like an angel. A fallen angel maybe.
“It's really good to hear your voice too T. Mikey. That’s a name I haven't heard in awhile” he said fondly.
“What, too good to be called Mikey anymore?” T said annoyed.
“No, not at all. Although you are the only one who calls me that, but I like it.” He felt his cheeks flush and his heart flutter as he spoke.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Now tell me what’s going on please."
“When are you gonna do a job? It’s been months. We miss you out there. I miss you. I-I need you, Mikey. Please come back to me. I can't stop thinking about you. You haunt me every waking moment, and even in my dreams. Do you dream of me?” Hearing those words made Michael feel weak. He almost told Trevor he was on his way, grabbed his car keys and left without a second thought, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t leave his children. He might do a few jobs now and then but he wouldn’t choose that life over them. No matter how bad he craved it, craved him.
It's funny that you're calling me tonight
And, yes, I've dreamt of you too
And does he know you're talking to me?
Will it start a fight?
No, I don't think she has a clue
“Trevor, I-I want to be there. You know I do, but I got Tracey and Jimmy to think about, but I think about you too. All the time. Especially lately. It’s funny you called. And yeah, I’ve dreamt of you too T.” He didn’t know why he was being so open about this, about whatever it was between them, but hearing how broken Trevor sounded and how it matched how he felt inside, he knew they both needed to hear it. To hear that Michael cared about him, that he missed Trevor just as much as he missed him.
“Oh yeah? What’d you dream about, cowboy?” he asked and Michael could picture his thick eyebrows wagging. He laughed, genuinely laughed. Something he hadn’t done since the last time he saw Trevor.
“It wasn’t like that. Well not all like that.” Now it was Trevor’s turn to laugh.
“Tell me.” He told Michael.
“We were in a nice house, our house. We were happy.” He whispered, afraid of the way his dream made him feel. He didn’t want to dream of Trevor, of their future that would never be. He wished he could let Trevor go, but he didn’t think he ever fully would.
“It doesn’t have to be a dream, Mikey. The kids can be in your life, our life.” Trevor pleaded. Michael had to change the subject before he agreed.
“What about that guy you've been seeing? Does he know you’re talking to me? Won't he get mad?”
"I told you he's not my boyfriend. I don't care if he gets mad, but no, he doesn't know I'm talking to you. He doesn't know anything about you except you're the great Michael Townley, expert thief. He actually wants to meet you." Trevor laughed dryly at that. "What about Amanda? Does she know you're talking to me? Does she know anything?"
Does she know anything, meaning does she know when Michael goes away to work he all but forgets about her? Does she know that his nights with Trevor are filled with more passion than their whole marriage has ever seen? Does she know that Michael's heart will never fully belong to her?
"No, no I don't think she has a clue, Trev." He sighed. The guilt constantly ate at him and he tried so hard to be the husband she deserved, the father his children deserved, but he never would me. He belonged to the game, to Trevor, but it didn't matter. How he felt didn't matter, couldn't matter. He would push his feelings down to the bottom of his heart with a smile.
"Mikey. I miss you so much. So much it hurts. I can't get you out of head, out of my heart. I've tried drugs and alcohol. I've tried fucking anyone in sight and even getting a wannabe you, but nothing works. I've tried telling myself you're better off with her, but you're not. You're miserable and so am I. Please just do the best thing for you, for us." He begged through sobs. Michael could hardly make out what he was saying.
He felt tears rolling down his face. He felt Trevor's words stab his soul. He tried to drown Trev out too. He drank so much even he was worried. He smoked several packs of cigarettes a day. He went to strip clubs almost every night and almost every time he brought one of the girls to his car or a hotel for a quick fuck. He just wanted to feel numb, to never know the pain of loving someone you could never be with. What was that saying? It's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. He wasn't sure if he agreed, but inevitably he did. He would feel this pain a thousand times just to know what it was like to love and be loved by this man. What it felt like to lay in his arms as he rubbed his back and kissed his head. He couldn't give that up. He wasn't ready for that.
"I'm gonna call Lester tomorrow and get a job set up. I'll let you know where to go. Everything will be okay. I'll see you in a few days. I promise. Okay?"
"Yeah okay, but what about-" Michael cut him off.
"We'll talk about everything then." He knew he was lying and Trevor probably did too. They both knew he would never be able to leave his family and that pretty little white lies would have to suffice them.
"Okay Mikey, I'll see you in a few days. And you better show up" he threatened, half jokingly.
"I'll be there, Trev. And Trev?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time call me during the day" he said chuckling.
"Yes princess. See ya soon Mikey." He said before hanging up.
Trevor just makes it too hard to be faithful and Michael was weak.
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five times touched for anastasia 😛
send me ‘five times touched’ for a drabble about five times my muse touched yours.
i. “ You will get yourself killed, one of these days. ”
Pieces of the cotton bandage scattered around the bathroom vanity, a bottle of alcohol settled next to the scissors, thin yarn and the curved needle all taken from the pharmacy two blocks down in a hurry. Dim yellow light that illuminates the small bathroom flicker, and Bianca doesn’t know if it has anything to do with Anastasia’s clenched jaw and displeased look in her eyes, hand clutching her bicep, but the blood seeps through her thin fingers. Unusually silent, but considering the situation they are in, she can hardly blame the young woman for it. She’s here for help, not for judgement, so she abandons her questions and the desperate need to reproach from a place of care, and picks up a piece of cotton, soaked in alcohol. She turns to Anastasia, but the daughter of Zeus doesn’t seem to intend on moving.
“ Let me see it,” Bianca asks, calm and steady with a tone of well-intended exhaustion to make her relent, but Anastasia sits as still as she could, gaze carefully settled on Bianca, watching her with the weight of something Bianca can’t place.
“ ‘Tasia.” She speaks slower, softer, and reaches out, her fingers remaining just an inch away from hers, gaze locked. “ Let it go, it’s gonna get infected.”
It takes a few seconds, but her death grip eases, and Bianca replaces it with a gentler touch of hers, palm sliding beneath the bony elbow and tilting her arm to take a better look at the cut. It’s not a clean one, which makes Bianca grimace, letting the dark hair cover her expression. “ How bad is it?” Is the first thing Anastasia asks, teeth gritted through the pain she is trying to confine, and it is alone for Bianca to turn her hold into a reassuring one, thumb gently rubbing the inside of her forearm. “ Not so bad,” She hums in return, thoughtful as she studies it briefly to come up with a clearer answer. “ It needs to be cleaned up, then stitched and covered.You’ll be good after some rest and nectar.”
Anastasia considers, then nods slowly, which prompts Bianca to slowly start working. She proceeds to clean the wound and stitch, neither of them speak in the silence of the night except for muttered apologies with each painful gasp.
ii. “ Do you call that an attack? How did you even survive for this long?”
“ Gods, shut up.”
Bianca gasps for air, breathless as she tumbles down to the scorching sand of the deserted arena with the foot Anastasia hooks right behind her ankle to pull, strong and combined with the swift push on her shoulders the fall becomes inevitable. She doesn’t know if the taunt she hears in Anastasia’s voice is real or if it is just an imagination of her damaged head ( with the amounts of hits she took) , but knowing the daughter of Zeus, the possibilities of being mocked is high. Especially after a defeat so easy, which paints Bianca’s face crimson with embarrassment, the effort of sparring on and off for a few hours now making it easy to dismiss, which she is thankful for.
“ Get up.” Anastasia pokes her with the tip of her blade, clearly not expecting the hard swing of Bianca’s leg, right on the pit of her knees. Anastasia joins her on the floor with a yelp, and a second later it is Bianca’s blade that rests on the hollow of her throat, one arm wrapped around her shoulders to avoid letting her turn around. “ Any better?” She asks, breathless, frustration clear in her voice after being slammed to the ground one too many that day, determined to cling to this small victory.
Maybe she’d get that satisfactory feeling, if Anastasia would’ve responded- responded in any way but the chuckle that is quick to turn into a laughter. For a second, Bianca stands there frozen, thinking if she’s missed something, if she’s made a fool of herself, but she cannot see any blank points she’s forgotten to fill when she looks back in her moves. “ If I knew a dagger in your throat would make you laugh, I’d put it there sooner.”
“ Sorry, I can’t help it,” The woman’s amused apology is more frustrating than her laughter, which Bianca responds with a roll of her eyes. “ If I knew you had such swift moves, I’d go harder on you.” Anastasia continues with selling Bianca’s words back to her, and the blade lowers with the hand that wraps around her wrist, pushing it away with no effort. “ Well done, Bianca. Let me go.” She hums nonchalantly, and Bianca doesn’t know why she lets her, and it occurs to her that she did after Anastasia steps away freely. “ Well, that was fun,” the daughter of Zeus fixes her shirt, still just as careless. “ Do you want to go another round? You need to win like nineteen times if you want to settle the debt, you gotta’ start somewhere.”
Bianca shifts her stance with exhaustion. “ You’re so hard to like sometimes.”
Anastasia smiles.
iii. “ Where have you been?”
“ Relax, I got busy-”
“ No, where the fuck have you been?” It is rare Bianca talks to her this way, voice heavy with an anger she finds hard to contain, bright eyes burning with even brighter flames. The silence stretches between them as Anastasia probably tries to see the reason behind this unexpected greeting. “ You’ve been gone for two months,” Bianca continues, hand rubbing her face as an attempt to relieve some of the tension. “ Two months, no calls, no texts, no news, no nothing. Do you enjoy leaving me in the dark like this? Leaving me wondering if you’re okay nor not? ”
Anastasia’s gaze softens in contrast to Bianca’s bottled up rage, and she leaves her coat in the entrance as she walks inside. “ The job in Mediterranean went south, some kids of Hermes hijacked the ship, all communication went down to the bottom of the ocean.” She sits in the arm of the couch as she carefully watches Bianca, calmly explaining the situation. “ We had no contact with anyone, we got to the land two days ago, got into the first plane we could find.” She opens her hands to the sides, a gesture Bianca thinks meant to soothe her. “ I came here straight from the airport.”
Bianca doesn’t know if it is the straw fire of her anger that makes it easy to soothe, or if it is seeing Anastasia well after months of wondering if she had been okay, but Bianca’s shoulders eases, and she breathes shakily, burying her face in her hands and focusing on her breathing to slow down her heart. “ Okay,” She mutters, mostly to herself. “ Okay, yeah. I just...”
Anastasia doesn’t get up from where she is, but she doesn’t close her arms either, instead making a small gesture with a tilt of her head. “ Come here.”
Bianca doesn’t have the time or the patience to hesitate, so she closes the distance between them in a few wide steps, and next thing she knows her arms are thrown around Anastasia’s neck, forehead rested on her shoulder. The pair of arms that goes around her to pull her closer almost makes her fingers curl around the soft fabric of baby blue shirt. They don’t speak for a while, and Bianca lets her eyes close, Anastasia’s hands pressing to her back. “ Were you worried?” She asks eventually, and Bianca answers with a nod, mostly without thinking. “ That’s so embarrassing,” Anastasia mumbles, and Bianca responds with hitting her in the shoulder, a relieved laugh escaping her. She doesn’t have to look at Anastasia to know she’s smiling, hearing it in her voice: “ What? It’s embarrassing.”
“ Stop talking, I’m still angry.” Bianca replies with a barely audible mutter, and Anastasia takes her time. “ There’s nothing to worry about,” She says. “ I’m back, now.” There is not a promise of it not happening again, since they both know it might, but Bianca is willing to settle for this, so she does. She rests her head on Anastasia’s shoulder, and let’s the rest of the evening go unspoken.
iv. “ Hey, I brought you some tea.”
Bianca pads into the living room with a cup of tea, deciding to finally get out of bed after a day spent beneath the covers in her room after her last shadow travel to San Francisco, needing the sleep. Anastasia didn’t say anything when she returned, only getting her something to eat and tell her to get some rest, so they haven’t gotten a chance to speak yet, especially between Anastasia’s busy work and Bianca’s on and off drifting. But as the clock hits midnight, she’s had enough rest to get up and function, and was hoping that Anastasia would be finished with a big part of her work as she usually did by now, so she thought a cup of tea would give them some time to chat.But she realizes it is too late for that day, since Anastasia is passed out curled against the arm of the couch, disorganized paper in on the coffee table and open pens clearing stating that it hadn’t been a voluntary sleep.
Bianca thinks if she should wake her up for a moment, then upon realizing how tired of a day she must’ve had to fall asleep like this, she decides against it. She grabs the thin covers from the armchair, and brings a pillow from her bedroom to set up the couch. “ Tasia,” She calls with a whisper in the meantime she touches the Anastasia’s shoulder, but there is no reply. Bianca sighs quietly, then carefully places an arm beneath the woman to shift her, making her lay down comfortably instead of spending the rest of the night in a half sitting position, an invitation for a never ending backache. She waits for a moment to see if Anastasia will wake up, but she doesn’t, mumbling something in her sleep as she turns to her other side instead, and Bianca slowly drapes the blanket over her. She stays there for a second, to see if there is anything else she needs to do, and eventually leaves the cup on the table, then closes the lights and gets back to her bedroom for the rest of the night.
v. “ You’re looking at me like you don’t know me.”
Bianca doesn’t even know what prompted her to say it, especially in the midst of a such heated moment, with so many hurtful things said in ways that will never be forgotten. She can feel them on her skin, the familiar sting and burn of a thousand paper cuts, knowing exactly where they hurt but unable to show it, with no blood and no visible wound. She isn’t sure if it would make any difference to Anastasia, who has a look so cold in her eyes that makes Bianca question her very own existence, questioning if she was here at all, if the memories still vivid in the back of her head are a cruel diversions of her mind or if this is all Anastasia’s refusal to acknowledge them. Nevertheless, it hurts.
“ I don’t,” The reply burns, but Bianca shakes her head, glancing away with a bitter smile that curls the corners of her lips, vision blurring only for a moment with a sharp exhale. “ No, you’re wrong, you do. I know you do, stop lying to yourself. Pushing me away won’t make you forget me.” She turns back, and the defeat that darkens her visage with somberness is enough to make Anastasia stop for a moment, and even that moment gives Bianca a spark of hope. “ Why are you doing this?” She whispers, continuing with how confused and hurt she is, as she takes a few steps closer. “ I thought- I thought everything was fine,” Her voice cracks, and she gets it back under control with a heavy sigh that shudders in her chest. “ I don’t know where this is coming from. ” Anastasia doesn’t respond, doesn’t look at her either, gaze locked away out of the window, and Bianca finally reaches out, fingertips brushing against her knuckles as an attempt to both get her attention and soothe her. “ Tell me what’s wrong.”
“ Get out,” Is not the answer Bianca expects, but it is the one she gets alongside a few steps away from her. “ Get out, leave me alone.”
I’m not gonna cry, Bianca promises herself, and purses her lips together into a thin line to avoid letting it show in her expression. “ Didn’t you hear me? Get out! ” Anastasia repeats herself, louder this time, and Bianca knows there isn’t anything left for her to do. She turns around, grabs her jacket from the chair, and doesn’t spare another glance at the daughter of Zeus as she walks right into the shadows and let them embrace her. It is the the last time they see each other.
#she's so hard to please‚ but she's a forest fire. —— ⚜ bianca & anastasia ⊱ godbanes.#this will be my last confession. —— ⚜ answered.#hello was this fast yes it was#but consider: i love angst#blood tw#long post tw
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Pre-Games: Olu and Mal
I. the big day
Mal shifts at the back of the crowd and picks at the pants she’s wearing.
“Don’t fidget,” Olu reprimands quietly.
“Easy for you to say,” Mal snaps under her breath. “You like wearing pants.”
“So do you sometimes. Why did you choose the suit when you’d rather the skirt?”
Mal scoffs. “It was hardly a choice. Barely more than tatters now.”
“My condolences.”
The reel ends, and the Capitol representative’s heels click as he moves back to the microphone. He’s saying something, but Maluka’s mind is still turning over. With such long hours in such different parts of the district, she hasn’t seen Olu in months. Now, today, in such close quarters, Olu stands at her side.
They’re just as tall as Mal remembers, which would be comforting if not for the fact that it just means their hand is close for the taking.
It wouldn’t be that weird, would it? Reaping days are exceptional, in the sense that they are exceptions to everyday life. Maybe Mal can’t see them every day while she’s busy with administrative work, and maybe she can’t hold their hand when Olu’s hands are raw from the rough scythes, but maybe today—
“And now, our first name.”
Crushing stray thoughts like dead leaves beneath her heel, Mal holds her breath with the rest of District 9.
II. the reaping
Olufemi prays.
They don’t know who’s listening. They’ve never known. It’s never mattered. Someone is, and that’s what matters.
With their eyes never straying from the glass bowl full of names, Olu prays.
Please, keep us safe. I know that two must be taken, but you have kept us from the jaws of death for so long. To your purpose, I’m sure of it. Let us serve that purpose still.
After all, the families that refuse to take tesserae subsist on the grain bars Olu sets aside for them. A monthly reprimand when the yield is lower than projected, for “unknown reasons,” is a small price to pay to ensure that District 9’s citizens do not starve.
It is a good purpose, and one that Olu intends to continue doing for as long as possible.
“And now, our first name.”
The man covered in green sequins and peacock feathers plunges his arm into the bowl, up to the elbow, and retrieves a scrap of paper.
Please. Your will be done.
“Maluka Samale, please come to the stage.”
The crowd begins to part, and the cameras begin to turn, but the only reason the name sinks in is a quick, brief squeeze of the hand. It is this moment of contact that triggers the realization: Mal—their Mal—is on her way to the stage.
Olu cannot breathe. Everything freezes up at once. Is this punishment? A prayer recognized for its selfishness, and thus realized through the taking away of their only companion in life?
By the time they think to volunteer, and ensure Mal’s safety, she is on the stage.
I’m too late.
Tears threaten to dampen round cheeks, but there is still one tribute to call. Then the visitation hours will start, and one last moment can be had between them.
A seed of resolve hardens in their heart. I will not let Mal away from me again.
The Capitol peacock already has his second slip of paper.
“Nora Collins, please come to the stage.”
Despair replaces resolve. The Collinses were the first family to approach Olu begging for an alternative to tesserae. Any other granarist would turn them in for attempted theft, they said, but Olu had a kind heart, they could tell. Would it be possible to spare some of their next harvest?
Nora, the Collins daughter, had grown up hale and strong as a direct result of the system they had devised together. She matured from a dead eyed child into an adolescent with the quickest weaving fingers around, and Olu watched it happen.
I cannot let her go to the Games.
Before the girl can take even her first step towards the stage, Olufemi fills lungs that call out over entire fields with the last free air they may ever know.
“I volunteer as tribute.”
All eyes turn to them, and they feel the weight of the crowd once again. An intimate knowledge of procedure and an increasing anxiety to escape the mass of people drives them forward.
“An unexpected twist here in 9!” the Capitol man narrates. “Here comes our lovely volunteer now—and just look at those shoulders! I think we have a contender here, folks, I daresay we do.”
He offers a hand to help Olu onstage, and they accept. Holding it delicately, he guides them both over to the microphone at center stage.
“What’s your name, tribute?”
“I am... Olufemi Abdalla.”
Turning away from them smartly, the Capitol man gestures for Mal to take his other hand. He lifts the two hands he has up in the air, though Olu’s slips out due to their height, and makes one final announcement:
“The tributes from District 9: Olufemi and Maluka!”
III. the visit
If I could have leapt off that stage and tackled Olu to the ground when Nora’s name was called, I would have.
As things went, all I could do was watch. They never even hesitated—as soon as her name was read, their voice spoke up. Credit where credit is due; they sounded strong. All confidence, no weakness. I’m not surprised the Capitol dude called them a contender.
That initial impression won’t last very long, though. There are no cameras in the visitation room, so nobody seems them hug the Collinses and put on a watery smile for Nora, but I don’t think Olu has it in them to be anything other than what they are: a good person.
Settling against a wall opposite their little gathering, I try not to be bitter. Unfortunately, I knew it. I knew that dumb heart of theirs was going to get them in trouble eventually, I knew it from the day I discovered their haphazard attempt to smuggle grain foodstuffs from their quota to the needy.
Their stupid “production” never would have gotten off the ground if it wasn’t for my insider access to the records, fudging the numbers to make sure they weren’t missing as much as they actually were. Olu would be stuck with the hard labor of the fields—there’s no chance of promotion with those numbers—but they also wouldn’t hang.
And now we’re tangled in another mess.
Maybe they could have managed it on their own if it were just the Collins family, but Olu never figured out how to say no to the other folks that approached them. People took to calling them Angel as a codename: “Go and see the angel if you’re in need of food.” “The angel will help you.”
If they’re an angel, what does that make me? Hiding in the background, covering tracks, lying on every paper I fill out every day?
A shadow falls over me, and I look up to see Olufemi approaching.
I drop my arms out of their somewhat aggressive position across my chest. “What?”
They freeze, a minute tic I’ve seen before that means I’ve completely misinterpreted the situation.
Hesitantly, they answer, “I... they just left.”
“So?”
“So, wouldn’t you like to trade spots to afford you a bit of privacy, as you did for me?”
I smile and shake my head, but I can’t force myself to put any warmth into it. “Nobody’s coming to see me off, Olu. My people are long dead, and I’ve pissed off everybody at work at least once before.”
They shift their weight back, now awkward with the weight of what I said. “Ah.”
“Yeah, I know. At least it simplifies things, right?”
“Of course,” they say delicately.
Letting myself slip down to sit on the floor, I sigh. “God, I wish I had a drink.”
Olu folds their long legs and drops to the floor, as well. Perfect posture, as always.
“I’m sure they’ll have alcohol on the train.”
“They better.”
IV. the train ride
Unfortunately, my prediction regarding the train’s alcoholic stores is an accurate one.
Mal proceeds to get “properly plastered” over dinner. I’ll admit that the wine is incredible, the finest I’ve ever tasted, but I sip at it only to complement the meal. She downs cups of it like its sole purpose is to intoxicate her.
As a result, I am the one to take her to her quarters. I suppose the Avoxes could, or perhaps the Peacekeepers, but I can’t convince myself to find either of those appropriate. The Avoxes have enough cleaning to do in the dining car, and the only danger Mal presents in her current state is to herself.
The doors slide open smoothly, to reveal a room decorated in dark tones. The bed has a dark grey duvet and its posts are made of dark wood, and the rug is a plush navy blue color. Even the lamps and lights along the wall are muted.
“Finally, a place that isn’t so fuckin’ bright,” Mal mutters as I guide her towards the bed.
“I didn’t think the rest of the train was too bright,” I say by way of making conversation.
“It was,” she says, with all the confidence of a child. “This is nice, though. Like you.”
I’m unsure whether she means that I am nice, or I am dark, but I suppose she is right either way. Regardless of meaning, it seems an appropriate moment to withdraw my hands from her arms. After a brief pause to ensure she doesn’t immediately fall over, I start setting aside extra pillows and pulling back blankets.
“You takin’ me to bed, angel?”
I huff out a laugh at the codename turned nickname. “In a sense.”
“Awesome,” she mutters. “You’re sexy as fuck.”
I could handle the first comment, but this second one prompts heat to my face. “Sorry?”
“Ah, don’t apologize. I’m just glad you’re finally actin’ on it.”
I’m running out of pillows to keep busy with. “On what?”
“On our undeniable chemistry,” she answers, using a tone that implies I should have known this already.
“I mean, fuck,” Mal continues, “I’ve been trying to hold your hand for, like... years. Figures I’d have to get reaped for it to happen.”
This last sentence is muttered, and the sorrow that overwhelms me over our circumstances closes my throat. All I can do is step back and gesture an open arm to the ready bed.
Mal dutifully crawls in, brushing a hand against the skin of my arm in thanks as she goes. Perhaps it is just her recent words echoing in the room, but the touch does incite nerves in my stomach and chest. Hasn’t it always, though? Or is that her point?
“Olu,” Mal mumbles, one arm up in the air. “Stop thinking.”
This command, at least, is familiar ground. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to sleep with me,” she promises. “I’m clearly not all... here.” A yawn interrupts her speech.
“Clearly,” I say gently.
“But I wasn’t kidding about sleeping with you. I mean—”
She buries her head into the dent of the pillow for a second, and a frustrated noise is muffled by it.
“I do want you to sleep with me, but like, sleep next to me. I don’t... want to wake up alone like I have every day, for years. This place already sucks. I don’t need that on top of it all, you know?”
It appears that Maluka has forgotten that I also live and wake up alone, but all that means is I understand the loneliness she is speaking from. And as such, I can hardly deny her.
Adjusting the blanket she is under one last time, I circle over to the other side of the bed and crawl in beside her.
next
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Feel (BruAbba oneshot)
Warnings: PART 5 SPOILERS, angst, death
A/N: ok hi so i wrote all of this in like 2 hours so im sorry if its trash. ive been hardcore vibing with bruabba lately, and ive needed to vent, so this was sort of a 2 in 1 combo haha. also uhh part 5 spoilers so if you havent gotten past like episode 28 then leave unless you want it spoiled for you.
Dealing with loss was always something Bruno was good at. He had to be; not only for himself, but now that he was promoted to capo, he had to stay strong for Passione- well, what remained of it.
Narancia had finally tired himself out. He was inside of the turtle now, leaving only Bruno and Giorno outside on the boat. They were on their way to the Colosseum, where the man in the computer told them to go. He still didn't fully trust whoever it was, but it was a hell of a lot better than sitting back and doing nothing. Worst case scenario, it turns out to be a stand user.
He didn't want to admit to the others that he didn't trust the man. He didn't even want to be around the others. Usually, dealing with the loss of a loved one, he'd been alone. He'd been able to pick himself back up and grieve fairly easily. Now that he was the sole guardian of literal children, it wasn't exactly the same. Not only did it hurt to watch them grieve over someone closer to them than their own families, it hurt to lose the man he considered the love of his life.
Bruno always considered him an attractive man. Leone Abbacchio, one of the most esteemed police in Italy. He and Bruno never interacted during Abbacchio's days as a cop, but Bruno always found himself admiring him- from his work ethic, to his sense of justice, and even his looks. But as everyone knows, as beautiful as Italy is, everyone in charge was cruel and corrupt- and willing to kill. Soon, Leone became what he hated the most. After his partner died, he retired. His life went down the drain, he became an alcoholic, and he gave up on everything- including that sense of justice that Bruno loved so much.
Eventually, Bruno decided to shoot his shot. He only had one man on his team, and that wasn't enough to achieve his main goal. Besides, he'd always wanted to talk to him anyways, so why not start then?
He was a little hard to convince at first. He wouldn't even open the door. Bruno would've thought he was dead if he hadn't seen the curtains beside the door move.
Every day for almost two months, Bruno would come by to check on him. Sometimes he would bring fresh food, other times he would simply listen to Leone, allowing him to vent to someone who wouldn't judge him. Eventually, he decided to join Passione, and he moved in with Bruno.
It was only meant to be platonic. Sure, Bruno did find him attractive, and he may have developed a crush. But it would pass, he kept telling himself. Abbacchio relied on him, he trusted him. What would he think if Bruno turned around and shoved all of his feelings down his throat? Bruno didn't even know if he felt that way about other men, let alone himself.
One night, though, that changed. He'd been living with them for around 4 months by then, and it was around two in the morning. Bruno was awakened by Fugo and Narancia shaking him firmly.
"What's wrong?" Bruno yawned. It wasn't until he heard the screaming that he got up and ran out of the room, the younger boys trailing behind.
"Narancia, search the area! It's late, so nobody-"
"Bucciarati, I already have!"
"Well do it again, damn it!" He growled, bursting into Abbacchio's room. He was screaming as if he'd been stabbed, flailing wildly about his bed.
"Go!" he yelled at the boys. Narancia summoned Aerosmith, running back down the hallway, and Fugo glared at him.
Bruno kneeled down beside the bed. He looked for any blood on the sheets, any sign that someone had broken in, but he found nothing. He wasn't hurt- he was having a night terror.
"Leone," he said, lightly shaking the older man's arm. "Leone, wake up."
He sat up immediately, his silver hair clinging to his neck and forehead. He coughed, loudly, clutching his sweaty t-shirt.
"Fugo," Bruno called, "I need a glass of water!"
He didn't bother to listen for his footsteps down the stairs. Instead, he only focused on Abbacchio. He was silent, except for his heavy breathing. Bruno sat on the bed beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Abbacchio trembled under his touch. The expression on his face could only be described as pure emptiness. The tears in his eyes began to fall down his cheeks, trailing some of the leftover eyeliner from the night before with it.
Bruno wiped them away with his thumb, then pushed his stray hairs behind his ear. Fugo appeared beside them with the glass of water, holding it out for Abbacchio to take.
"Grazi," Bruno whispered, as Abbacchio grasped the cup. "I'm sorry for being so rude earlier, I hope you and Narancia can forgive me."
"It's alright, sir," Fugo sighed. "Should I tell Narancia to go back to bed?"
"That would be great," Bruno smiled. "You go ahead and get some rest too. We'll have an easy day tomorrow, so you can sleep in as long as you'd like."
"Thank you, Bucciarati."
Fugo trudged out of the room and called for Narancia. Bruno turned back to Abbacchio, who'd drank most of the water. He sat the glass down on the bedside table. He wasn't as sweaty anymore, and his breathing had returned back to normal, but he was still shaking.
"I thought something happened to you," Bruno sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what the hell I'd do if you got hurt-"
"Bruno," Abbacchio whispered, his voice hoarse and shaky. "I'm so sorry. I'm okay."
"No you're not, Leone."
"It's been so long…" his voice broke. He began to sob, his quiet tone slowly getting louder. "It's been months since he died and I still have nightmares about it! Every fucking night all I can see is his face. It's all I can fucking think about!"
"Leone, it's alright-"
"No, it's not fucking alright, Bruno!"
He buried his face in Bruno's chest. Bruno embraced him, taken aback by the sudden contact. Abbacchio was not a hugger. Hell, he hardly even spoke unless it was with Bruno.
Fugo and Narancia peeked into the doorway. Bruno waved them off, hoping they would just go back to bed. They gave in and left, still eyeing the two older men suspiciously.
"Bruno," Abbacchio whispered, "Please don't leave me."
"I won't."
"I just… I just need you with me. You're the only person that understands."
"Leone," he sighed. "It's okay to hurt. It's okay to feel. I'll always be here for you."
Abbacchio sat up and his eyes met Bruno's. Bruno stared in awe. He never noticed how beautiful his irises were. They were golden and rimmed with a light purple, almost like a ray of sunlight shining through the darkest storm clouds you'd ever seen. It was beautiful- he was beautiful.
It's okay to feel.
His own words repeated in his head. Bruno leaned back on the bed, Abbacchio joining him. After some adjusting and moving around, they found themselves in a comfortable position. Abbacchio laid his head on Bruno's chest, his long hair flowing around them like a waterfall. Bruno ran his fingers through the silver locks, and Leone almost immediately relaxed.
Bruno stayed up to make sure Abbacchio fell asleep. Eventually, his breathing evened out and he began to lightly snore.
And it stayed like that. That's how they slept almost every night until today.
"Bucciarati."
He was pulled out of his trance by Giorno. The blond was now sitting beside him, a hand on his shoulder. Mista was on the other end of the boat beside the motor, feeding the pistols some chips. He was silent, which was new to everyone. Mista always had a smartass comment waiting to come out, but he wasn't even looking up at the other two.
"I think you should go into the turtle. Mista and I can keep watch."
"Why do you say that?" Bruno asked. "I'm fine."
"Sir, please," Giorno sighed. "I know how it feels to lose someone close to you. You need to rest, you've been working hard enough as it is."
"I'm fine," Bruno snapped. "I'm not going to take orders from someone lower in the gang than me- especially someone who only joined this gang three days ago."
"I-I'm sorry, sir, I j-"
"Don't 'I'm sorry' me! You don't even know how I feel right now. You'll never understand this!"
"Sir-"
"I lost someone who I'd planned my entire future with! I lost the love of my life, and you don't even understand how I feel! You don't understand how any of us feel. If it weren't for you, I'd still have him here! He hated you! I should've listened to him!"
Giorno sat in silence, staring down at his shoes. Bruno knew he'd regret saying all of that- his and Abbacchio's relationship had been kept private from the other members, and for a good reason, too.
"I'm going into the turtle," he mumbled. He decided to get in before either of them could say anything about his rant. He knew he had to get it together before the others woke up. He couldn't act like this in front of them- he was their capo, they looked up to him, they respected him. He couldn't feel this way around them.
Then, he heard those words running through his head that he'd told Abbacchio all those years ago-
It's okay to feel.
#jjba#jojo no kimyou na bouken#jojos bizarre adventure#golden wind#vento auero spoilers#vento aureo#bruabba#bruno buccellati#bruno bucciarati#leone abbacchio#bruno x abbacchio#abbacchio#angst#jjba fanfiction#fanfiction#fanfic#jojo
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The Prince in the Wood, Part 5
Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part Six.
Approx. 1450 words.
Content warning for a mentions of hospitalization, medical tests, blood pressure, and one mention of of underage drinking.
So I kept it to myself. Chalked the bruises up to an uncomfortable sleeping position, and the scratch something that I must have done by accident in my sleep. Of course, I wasn’t one to stir -- hardly ever had to make the bed, I moved so little -- but it was easier simply to ignore it. After all, it never happened again. I always made it to my own bed before I fell asleep, and Mary stayed up late with a little flashlight, reading or drawing or doing whatever it was she busied herself with long after I’d fallen asleep.
And life continued. Frail, fragile Mary remained home more and more, now a regular at the doctor’s office for all the tests they were trying to run. The doctors never found anything beyond the usual -- anemia and insomnia and, occasionally, low blood pressure -- but they kept an eye out all the same.
My remaining teenage years resembled something almost normal. I got a girlfriend, then broke up with her the week before prom. I went out to parties where some of the kids drank alcohol. And I applied to colleges, both local and prestigious, just to see where I could get accepted. Mary applied as well, but we all knew she’d be going to the nearby community college to stay close to home. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t make it into anything more noteworthy than a state school that offered generous scholarships to local residents, but it was still a good few hours’ drive away -- further than I’d ever gone from home without my family, and our trips had never lasted longer than a weekend.
The idea of so much change terrified me as much as it drew me in. I loved my family, but my life had always revolved so closely around them, and a part of me was desperate to see the sort of person I would be if it was just me. No crazy sister who’d run out into the woods and spoke weird languages into thin air, no fathers obsessed with security and locking us up like prisoners. As normal as our life had become, the shadow of the past still hung over us in a way I could never truly escape without leaving home.
Mary thought it would be a great idea. We were studying one afternoon, going over guides and notes for an upcoming exam when I presented the idea to her, and she smiled at me instantly.
“You could do anything you wanted,” she said, eyes bright in a rare moment of energy. “Join a rock band. Write a movie. Become one of those goth girls that old people are scared of.”
I laughed. “Some old people are already scared of me.” I put on my best smirk a la Norman Bates, and said, “Would you like to buy some girl scout cookies?’
Mary laughed as well, and threw an eraser at me, which I promptly put in my pocket.
“Mine, now,” I said.
“Hey, wait, I need that.”
“Too bad. It’s coming to college with me, now.”
We both laughed then, arguing over erasers and supplies and forgetting to compare our notes.
The day after the exam, however, Mary had another episode. She woke up paler than ever, dark circles under her eyes, and we had to rush her to the hospital. Alarmingly low blood pressure, with another bite, this time on her wrist. It looked like it had healed up overnight, nothing more than two faint scars on her skin, but there was nothing else that seemed connected to it.
I sat with her while our dads spoke with the doctor in the hall, reading opinion columns out of yesterday’s newspaper out loud. The IV beside her bed dripped slowly, replacing the blood that had been lost seemingly overnight, and she frowned up at the ceiling, only half aware of the world around her.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and looked up to see Mary’s hand reaching out to mine. I took it and gave a gentle squeeze, hoping it would ground her in reality at least a little bit. “I’m here,” I said.
“Promise not to forget me?” She spoke so quietly, I almost missed it.
“What?”
“When you go away and have an exciting life on your own. Will you remember me?”
I didn’t understand. She spoke as if my future had already been decided, as if she knew what I would choose when I barely knew myself. “Don’t say that. You’re my sister. How could I leave you behind?”
She just smiled sadly at me, and then looked up at the ceiling again, eyes misting over like they had so often before. Nothing else I said would reach her, and I gave up before even thinking of trying again.
But she was right, in the end. I accepted a place at the state university, and by the end of that summer, half of our bedroom was packed up in suitcases and loaded into a borrowed SUV. We made it a family trip, spending a few days in the city just exploring before I moved into the dormitory officially. It was a tearful week, though the city life seemed to do Mary some good. She filled out some, a bit of color coming to her pale face as we explored and sought out hole-in-the-wall shops and restaurants.
I slept fitfully while we were there, nothing like the deep sleep I was used to, but I wrote it off as nerves. Everything was changing all at once, after all, and I hadn’t a thought to spare for anything else.
My roommate, Shannon, was a girl from out of state who was here on both swimming and academic scholarships, and she terrified me at first -- at least until she put up video game and movie posters on her side of the wall. She introduced me to all her favorite pieces of media, as well as the best places and tips on how to study without burning yourself out. We became fast friends, and I found myself more than a little excited, even when the day finally came to say goodbye to my family.
I hugged them all tightly as I could -- even Mary, fragile as she was -- and swore to write as soon as the week was up to let them know how things were going.
“Remember your promise,” Mary said through tears, her little hand gripping mine.
“I’m not gonna forget you.” I’d lost count of how many times I had said it over the past few months, but I still said it again. “I promise. I’ll write and call, and I’ll be back home before you know it.”
She nodded, dubious, and hugged me again, before shuffling into the car and letting Pop start the long ride home.
I did write them, by the way. I remembered at the end of the week, and every other week after that for the first month or so. But school was -- busy. Occupying. I joined a club, I went to parties, and Shannon always had something to do. My letters and phone calls home became less frequent, and I thought about my family less and less. My sleeping patterns never improved, but Shannon introduced me to the world of coffee, and we spent plenty of countless nights awake, playing the latest games until dawn.
I was living a life free of my old worries and nightmares, even going so far as to spend one weekend in the nearby woods with a few friends, close enough to a campground to be legal, but far enough from civilization that we could almost forget the world beyond.
Someone had brought an electric lantern that could flicker like a dim campfire, and we sat in a circle around it, daring each other to come up with the best ghost story. Everyone came up with the cliche scary stuff -- skinwalkers, deranged murderers, and the ghosts of their victims.
And then it was my turn. Everyone looked at me, and I froze.
I’ve never been that creative. I couldn’t come up with imaginary monsters that hunted us down or things that had once been human. That had always been Mary’s gift, not mine.
Mary.
Her name struck me oddly, and guilt began to press down on my chest. How long had it been since I’d given my sister any thought? There was so much else in my life that I could barely stop to think about anything beyond the university’s campus, much less my sister, convalescing in a bedroom hundreds of miles away.
Someone said my name, and I looked up, suddenly brought back to the present.
“It’s your turn,” they said.
I nodded. I had an idea.
“These woods are alive, you know, and they have a prince. When the leaves rustle, it means they’re going to invite us to visit him for tea.”
#writeblr#horror fiction#short horror fiction#short story#original fiction#lgbtq fiction#theres like no horror in this part or like any real mentions of it but. gotta contrast the normalcy to the big climax right?#writing#mystuff
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five times kissed
five times kissed
i. you look down at your hands and marvel at how they shake. it was your idea. the date with jackson lingers at the edges of your mind and you know what he’s like. but your mother is excited and you had no idea how to say no. even though he doesn’t excite you. but you can’t bear the thought of sharing your first kiss with him because it’ll end like that. or he’ll come back and call you a frigid bitch. you’ve heard them call you that behind your back for months now and you can’t handle it anymore. you hate it because you aren’t frigid. maybe you’re built differently. something inside you is wired wrong. but you’re okay with that because you’re barely fifteen and what does it matter. no one has it all together. you witness it everyday.
but still, you’re tired of the name calling. so you’ll kiss jackson and he’ll brag about it. probably lie about what you allow, but it’s expected. you’ll let him tell his friends that he stole lena luthor’s first kiss. but it’ll be a lie and that secret is enough to make you smile. so, your fingers settle because your first kiss will be with someone who matters.
you reapply your chapstick, the one she always asks to borrow. when you look up, kara’s staring at you, eyes wide. you can tell she’s just at nervous and for some reason that calms you down. you’ve both seen plenty of romantic comedies. you’ve seen shows with kissing. and perhaps you even spent hours in the library attempting research, not that you’d ever admit that. but you want it to be good or at least not terrible – better than it would be with jackson.
shifting closer, you lift a hand to touch her face. it almost always starts like this. you have the data to prove it, but you won’t ramble about it now. a soft, “hey,” follows with a chuckle. her skin, as always, is impossibly warm and you wonder if her lips are just as warm. this makes sense. she’s your best friend and she would never hurt you or spread rumors. with an inhale, you crowd her space and leave your eyes open for a few extra seconds to make sure she hasn’t changed her mind. but her face softens and she lingers closer to you, shifts a little and then – maybe not fireworks, but she’s warmer like this. her lips taste like you imagine yours do and all you know is peace. it’s not anything like you imagine, but you feel safe. you feel at home. and when you look back you realize this was the beginning.
ii. the alcohol makes you clingy as it always does. and like always, kara only pulls you closer. she never asks you to stop or tells you that you’re too much. you’ve heard both of those things before. but your best friend never stifles you. she encourages the warmth. she encourages the affection because she knows how long you went without it. how all of that changed when she landed on this planet and you made a point to sit next to her at the lunch table when she was labeled a pariah. since then, you’ve known affection and warmth and you know you’ll never tire of it. the alcohol only makes you openly crave it and kara, well, she gives. she gives and she gives until you’re dizzy with it.
she’s tipsy too. you made sure to get her favorite alien alcohol – the one that makes her cheeks go all rosy. you think she’s never looked more beautiful. the thought rocks you, as it often does lately. you had a fun night out, dancing until your ankles and feet hurt. until she practically floated you out of the bar – both of you giggling obnoxiously loud. you’re not drunk, no. but you feel light. you are tired of the boardroom and your pristine office. you love l-corp. you love the work you’re doing. but you’re still young and people forget that. but not her, never her. she forces you out because she know you need it. you’ll always be grateful.
you don’t know how exactly you got home. you were too busy laughing with her, so hard that your sides now hurt. but you’re home in the penthouse apartment you both share. it was easy enough to move in together, four years apart was far too long. and even though she came to visit you as often as she could, it wasn’t the same as this. because you’re sitting on the counter kicking your bare feet as you watch her putter around the kitchen. you feel light like this. work doesn’t matter. in fact, it’s not even on your mind – a rare thing. college was worth it, obviously. but now you’re home once again.
you’re not sure when it shifts. not exactly. just that the kitchen feels a little heavy, not in an uncomfortable way. it makes your stomach twist. this has been happening more often. you swear it has, but both of you pretend it hasn’t because how do you explain it. how do you venture into the what if’s? but then kara’s stepping between your swinging legs. they stop moving when a hand settles on your thigh. it’s pure flames that lick up from where her fingers extend. you’ve never felt something like this – all encompassing. not from one touch. but kara’s not everyone else; she’s in a category all her own.
when she lifts up on her tiptoes to kiss you, it’s different than the first one almost ten years ago. it’s more sure. the warmth is still there. she still feels like home. but the flames are now consuming you from the inside out. your stomach twists and you feel your chest explode. kissing has never felt like this and with crystal clear clarity you know it never will again. not with anyone else. when she licks into your mouth, your hands come up and grip the front of her shirt. you grip so hard you swear you’ll have to buy her a new one. you never want this to end. it’s been second and it feels like an eternity.
a sound escapes your mouth and it breaks the moment. she stiffens and moves back, an apology already on her lips. lips that are swollen with the memory of you. your eyes train on them as your cheeks burn. you can’t hear what she might say, voice perhaps filled with regret. so you slip off the counter and rush to your room. you close the behind you and rest your forehead against it. you can’t hear anything, not over the racing of your heart. your eyes prick because everything’s changed and you aren’t sure how to shift it back. you aren’t sure you’d want to.
iii. you both pretend the kiss never happened. you’ll both blame the alcohol and move on. even though alcohol hardly played a part. it only allowed you both to stop thinking and just feel what’s been there for years. you felt it when you got your first tattoo and she touched your collarbones so reverently. you felt it when you gave her your mother’s ring and her eyes filled with tears. you didn’t understand it then and you barely understand it now. but you can’t stop thinking about her. you can barely look at her in the mornings. it feels too heavy and too much. so you throw yourself into work. work makes sense. work doesn’t make your stomach flutter with butterflies.
you work until you can’t. you work until she clouds your entire mind. you work until you start to crack.
you come home early. you come early and you pace. you pace until you swear you wear down the italian marble. you wait. you wait until you hear the personal elevator churn up. she’s home. your heart flutters wildly and you know she can hear it. you find you want her to hear it. you need her to know you’re home. and when the door opens, her eyes are frantic. she’s ready to rush and make you’re okay. she drops her bag as soon as she enters the apartment, but you’re already moving towards her. your feet have a mind of their own.
a question lingers on her lips, but you ignore it. you lift up on tiptoes just as she had. you lift up and place a hand on her cheek. you guide her down and kiss her. you initiate the kiss and that flame erupts inside you again. ignorance didn’t make it dampen. it only allowed it to smolder waiting for ignition. and here it was. salvation was always painted on her lips.
when you can’t breathe, you pull back. it takes you a few seconds to remember how to work your body. your eyes flutter open, but hers are still closed. your arms stay wrapped around her neck and her hands are steady on your waist. you press a soft kiss to her chin.
“i can’t pretend i don’t feel it anymore.”
iv. it’s been months since the kitchen incident. it’s been months since you both decided to stop fighting. it’s been months since you decided to lean into the way you both feel. because it feels right with her. it’s not because she’s the safe choice. yes, kara will always be home. she’s been home for as long as you can remember. but this is the scariest thing either of you have done. all you want is to protect her heart and all she wants is the same in return. failure isn’t an option. it could never be an option when all the stars in the sky depend on it.
life’s been complicated lately. lex makes sure to cause enough drama that it keeps you impossibly busy with work. which in turn makes things at catco busy for kara. and you try. you try to make it work because it has to or the world doesn’t make any sense.
you feel yourself fraying at the edges. you feel the irritation wrapping around the base of your spine and stay there. it’s a snake waiting to lash out. you feel it, but there’s nothing you can do about it. sleep comes in fits and spurts because it mostly happens on the couch of your office. you can’t remember the last time you woke up beside her and that makes it far worse. because when you both are home, she’s typing furiously into her laptop and you, you’re allowing yourself to be pulled in fifteen different directions.
when you crack, when it comes out sideways, you regret it immediately. you snap at her, voice ringing into the vaulted ceilings of your living room. and everything goes deathly silent. regret cracks you in two and your eyes fill with tears. you’ve never snapped at her before, not like this. not with venom. not when she’s the most important person in your life. it hurts. you can see it on her face. you expect her to run because she does. when things get hard, sometimes she slips out onto the balcony and flies off until she can think clearly again. you don’t blame her. and you wouldn’t this time either. you wait for it. you wait for the alarm to beep signaling that she’s gone.
except.
except.
except.
she doesn’t.
she crosses the living room towards you and cups your face. she frames your face and crowds your face. the hurt on her face dissolves into worry. “i haven’t been loving you right,” she says it so devastatingly soft that you break. your tears cloud your vision and almost as if she’s not there, she kisses you. she kisses you for what feels like the first time in a long time. she kisses you so warmly that everything melts away. because this is what you’ve been missing. work can wait. lex can wait. you’ve been depriving yourself out of self sacrifice. you both have. but now that she’s here and kissing you over and over, you vow to never allow this again.
when she pulls away, your heart hammers wildly and you mumble out an apology. but she doesn’t let you finish. she only kisses you again, lifting your body into her arms as if you weigh nothing. she carries you to the couch and when you settle into her lap, you kiss her again. you kiss her until you can’t. you kiss her until each wound is fixed. you kiss her until you forgive yourself.
v. when she asks you to introduce her at the ceremony, you’re hesitant at first. it isn’t about you. it’s about her and you don’t want to shift the focus away from that. she’s gotten here on her own merits. you’re proud of her. more proud than you’ve ever been about anything. she works hard and finally recognition. recognition that’s been years in the making. but she insists. she assures you that no one else could do it the way you could. so you agree and the way she picks you up and twirls you makes you dizzy with glee. you realize, not for the first time, how crazy in love you are with her. you realize that when she landed on this planet, you found your home.
so you practice. and practice. and practice until you can recite it backwards and forwards. you practice because this matters more than any other public speaking event you’ve had. not even your TEDtalk made your insides twist like this. but when it comes to kara, you want it all to be perfect. so, you practice again even though you know she’ll be happy either way.
then the day arrives. you wear her favorite dress and heels. you do your make up in the soft way she likes, bright red lipstick rounds out the look. you do these things because you secretly love the way her eyes linger on you. you love how her eyes meet yours from across the room and you know she’s stopped paying attention to conversation. because the same happens to you. she’s never looked more beautiful ( even though you tell yourself that exact thing every single day ). you wear her favorite things and you go over the introduction in your head a few times – until it’s time.
you don’t miss a word. your eyes tear up as if on cue. pride swells in your chest. you know you should look around the room, but you can’t take your eyes off her. you tell the room about her heart and her worth. you tell them about her work ethic and her brilliant mind. you tell them so much and when you sniffle, the room does it with you. near the end, you go a little off script, unable to help yourself.
then you’re calling her to the stage to accept her pulitzer. you go to hug her, but she pulls you into a soft kiss. your lipstick stains her lips. your fingers come up to smear it away, but she kisses them instead. you both trade whispered i love you’s and then she’s at the podium. all you can do is turn to watch her. all you can do is fill yourself with her love and sink into it. because you were right about the first kiss. she was home then and she’s home now. everything else was irrelevant.
#moralstood#{ right in front me } meme#{ wasted youth } verse#{ my hands are shaking from holding back from you } kara (moralstood)
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IDK if this blog is even active but how about a part 4 to that series of Yamoto with the crush's drunken confessions.
THIS BLOG IS ACTIVE BABY. I’ve just been rather uninspired lately and tired. Working for a living suckssss. Anywho, so glad you requested this and this is the final segment of this scenario. Please let me know what you all think of this whole piece.
Part I Part II Part III
Reader confessing to Yamato: Part IV
You were awfully skeptical about going on this blind date that Aoba had suggested.
He told you how there was this one guy that was super interested in you and wanted to take you out on a date. You were intrigued about this mystery admirer, but your friend refused to give up the man’s identity. He told you the only way to find out was to agree and meet the man yourself.
You were reluctant. Mystery dates could go horribly wrong.
What if you never met the guy before? There could be an awkward conversation if you both didn’t hit it off. Or what if the feeling wasn’t mutual once you met him? There were too many scenarios running through your head that made you uncertain, but Aoba was adamant that you should give the date a shot.
His persistence was curious. Aoba was typically a laxed person, unless he was on mission. You knew him well enough to know this was slightly out of character for him, but you did trust him. How bad could this date really be if Aoba was willing to back them and assure you that he knew the guy?
Plus, if the date was crappy at least you had Aoba to blame instead of yourself this time. You snorted. No matter how hard you tried, you could not get that night with Yamato out of your head. You were so stupid to confess so drunkenly to him about wanting to smooch him. You were afraid you might live with that embarrassment the rest of your life, even though you tried to push those thoughts down consistently.
Perhaps, that’s why in the end you agreed to this blind date.
You had made a fool of yourself with a guy you were interested in. Why not try your luck with someone that you did not have an emotional attachment towards? There would be no chance of making a fool of yourself on this date and you wouldn’t have to touch the booze either, because you wouldn’t be nervous.
You could settle for an easy meal and decent evening. That was what you told yourself as you dressed some what properly for this date and had arrived before your suitor at a quiet restaurant. The hostess was friendly enough as she led you to a secluded booth at the back of the restaurant away from the chatty customers. She gave you a menu and a few minutes for your date to arrive.
You were indeed shocked and dubious the moment you saw Yamato appear in a nice button up shirt and black slacks. He slid swiftly into the booth across from you without a word or greeting as he was trying to gauge your reaction. His eyes were wary as he matched your gaze. He seemed ready to bolt from his seat if you were about to get up. You quickly tried to collect your thoughts on what the hell was going on at the moment.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You stated point blank. Your back falling against the leather backing of the booth as you crossed your arms. “You’re my date? So what, now you like me all of a sudden? Is this joke? Its not funny,” you mentioned defensively. You narrowed your eyes suspiciously and suddenly feeling a nervous twinge in your belly.
“It’s not a joke,” Yamato clarified. His voice was smooth as he continued apprehensively. He didn’t want you shutting down like last time. “And its not that I like you now. I have liked you prior to that night we both had too much to drink.”
“Pfft. You have funny way of showing it,” you feigned disinterest, lowering your gaze in embarrassment about that night. You didn’t buy what he was selling, but a small part of you hoped it was true.
“I was stunned, okay? I didn’t know what to say when you told me is all. Plus, I was drunk almost as much as you were that night. I wasn’t thinking clearly and when you had confessed to wanting to kiss me, I have to admit, in my mind, I was confused. I thought you had liked Aoba,” Yamato explained, his story captivating you to look at him again.
“Aoba?!” It was your turn to look perplexed. “Why did you think I had feelings for him? He’s my friend… Wait…You asked him to set this up, didn’t you?!”
“Yes, I asked him for his help. I always knew you had a close friendship to Aoba. You were always around him, training with him, and workingbwith him more than your other two teammates. I thought you two had a thing for each other, or at least I thought Aoba had a thing for you.”
“A thing for me, what?” You looked at Yamato as if he grew a second head. You and Aoba together? You couldn’t see it, but you were starting to understand why Yamato felt confused.
“He gave me the same look when I asked him,” Yamato mentioned briefly with a flat smile before going on. “I talked with Aoba. I told him what went down between you and I that night we got drunk. I told him how I blew my chance with you and asked for his help to get you to come meet me so that I could explain all this, and we could talk about that night.”
Your stomach began to twist as you bit your lip. “So, what about that night then?” you hesitantly asked.
“I would kiss you, if you gave me another chance to. I like you, Y/N. I had faltered the first time because you are so charming, and brilliant, and beautiful, and sweet that my mind couldn’t wrap around the fact that you liked me too and I hope I’m not too late to make it up to you.”
You heart was pounding, and your cheeks were red. You felt like a deer caught in headlights. Your silence was making Yamato unsteady. He swallowed nervously as he called your name out softly for an answer.
You stuttered, feeling embarrassed all over again, as you tried laughing off your reaction. “I guess I’m a little stunned this time,” you joked, smiling.
Yamato matched your nervous smile, chuckling. “Happens to the best of us.” He mentioned as he settled more into the leather seat. You noticed him wringing his hands over his pants like he had more to say.
“Y/N will you be my girlfriend?”
Butterflies erupted in your belly as a grin spread across your lips. You nodded happily. “Yes. I would love to.”
Instantly, Yamato released a shaky breath he was holding as he smiled freely. You were hardly nervous anymore, now that you knew your feelings were mutual.
When the waitress returned for your orders, you were both confident enough not to request any alcohol. You two enjoyed your first real date together as a couple and soon fulfilling that wish you made to the stars as both of you kissed before the night was over.
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sweet lies // gang fic pt. 1
"i can't believe im going to be the third wheel, again!" hwayoung complained as she slipped her heels on and threw a light coat on her bare shoulders, untucking her hair out from under it and huffing.
"hey technically you won't be a third wheel the entire time, jisung said he'd introduce you to his friend who's throwing the party if you're interested." soomin replied, putting her masquerade mask on.
"how do i look?"
"sexy." hwayoung purred, making soomin crack up.
hwayoung then put her masquerade mask on and struck a pose, making eye contact with soomin.
"how about me?"
"eh." soomin shrugged, acting indifferent.
hwayoung gasped dramatically.
"i'm only kidding, you're a big dad." soomin joked.
hwayoung smiled and wiggled her eyebrows.
"now that's what i like to hear."
before the two could crack any more jokes the doorbell rang, signaling that soomin's boyfriend was here to pick them up and drive them over to the masquerade party his friend was throwing at a fancy hotel, seemingly for no other reason than he could.
soomin answered the door and flashed her boyfriend a big smile.
"you're here!" she said enthusiastically, eyeing him up and down before speaking again. "right on time."
jisung flashed hwayoung a friendly smile before smiling lovingly at his longtime girlfriend soomin.
"i sure am," he said before taking his masquerade mask out of his pocket and putting it on.
"now," he said, adjusting his watch, "should we get going?" he asked.
soomin nodded and walked out of the front door, linking arms with jisung before beginning to walk down the steps of her and hwayoung's apartment to where jisung's car was parked.
hwayoung sighed and followed after them, being sure to turn the lights off and lock the door.
once she reached the car the two lovebirds were already inside so she climbed into the backseat and mentally prepared herself for what was about to unfold.
for nearly twenty minutes hwayoung endured hearing soomin and jisung aggressively flirt with each other, as well as soomin freaking out about jisung putting his hand on her thigh, which made hwayoung laugh a bit.
they were quite a cute couple, at least that's what hwayoung thought.
"finally we're here," hwayoung said, almost as if she were out of breath as she climbed out of the back of jisung's car, taking in the sight of the fancy hotel not far from where they were currently parked.
"oh please it wasn't even that long of a drive." soomin replied, getting out of the passenger's side of the car as jisung held the door open for her.
"maybe for you." hwayoung joked, causing soomin and jisung to chuckle.
as soon as the three of them walked into the party room of the hotel, soomin and jisung hand in hand and hwayoung walking slightly behind them, their noses were filled with the scent of heavy alcohol.
"hell yeah!" soomin exclaimed excitedly, pumping her fists up into the air as she took in the atmosphere, causing jisung to laugh and pump his fists into the air.
"I'm going to go look for my friend so I can introduce him to hwayoung, then we can get some drinks, sound good princess?" jisung asked soomin.
she nodded and blushed at the nickname, blushing even harder when jisung pecked her lightly on the cheek before disappearing into a crowd of masked people all bumping against each other, drinks in hand.
soomin turned to face hwayoung with the biggest grin imaginable on her face.
"isn't this great?" soomin asked, nearly shouting so hwayoung could hear her over the loud music.
hwayoung nodded and smiled slightly.
"it's been a while since we've gone out together, I've missed it," hwayoung replied.
"it has." soomin said with a tinge of sadness laced in her voice.
"i've been going out with jisung so much lately and you, well, you're not dating sooyoung anymore but when you were we hardly ever saw each other."
"yeah," hwayoung said softly.
"oh sorry, I forgot about the no more mentioning the breakup thing." soomin explained.
"no it's okay, I'm over her."
soomin smiled comfortingly at hwayoung.
"that's good I mean, you can do better than her so."
hwayoung chuckled and smiled back at soomin.
"i guess so huh?" she asked, followed by a nod from soomin.
suddenly jisung appeared out from the huge crowd of people with a taller man following behind him.
once they reached where soomin and hwayoung were standing jisung introduced the man to the two of them, mainly hwayoung since soomin had more of an idea as to who he was since she'd heard about him a few times before.
after everyone had been introduced jisung slung his arm around soomin and whispered something in her ear before disappearing with her to go get drinks- at least that's what hwayoung assumed.
hwayoung sighed and watched the two walk away until they were out of sight, that's when she felt jisung's friend youngho move slightly closer to her and slowly raise his arm, stopping once she turned around to face him.
"could you show me what you look like under that mask?" she asked, squinting her eyes at him.
he had a familiar voice and she was curious as to whether or not she'd seen him before somewhere.
youngho cleared his throat before speaking.
"i suppose i could show you." he said before grabbing a hold of hwayoung's hand and beginning to walk somewhere, taking her with him.
on the way to wherever youngho was taking her, hwayoung spotted soomin sitting with jisung at the bar and as soon as soomin made eye contact with her she winked and shot her finger guns to which hwayoung laughed and shook her head.
"you know you could've just asked me to follow you." hwayoung said once they finally stopped walking. they seemed to be in a closed off corner of the party room where there were very few people.
"if i take off my mask and show you what i look like could you by any chance take of your mask too?" youngho asked, ignoring her previous statement.
"depends." she replied.
"on what?"
"if ive seen you before or not."
"and if you have?"
"then no."
youngho sighed before shrugging his broad shoulder and reaching up to unmask himself.
once his mask was off he ran his fingers through his hair and hwayoung's jaw dropped.
she had definitely seen him somewhere before, but she couldn't pinpoint where.
she squinted her eyes and took a step closer to him, staring at his facial features very intently.
"i definitely do recognize you from somewhere." hwayoung whispered quietly, slowly reaching up to touch his face.
youngho stopped her halfway by reaching up to hold her hand.
hwayoung felt her heart beat quicken and she immediately let go of his hand.
"i need to go use the restroom." she peeped out before ducking into the crowd and running out of the part room.
he stood there in awe for a few seconds until he saw a few men leave the party room as well, walking in the same direction hwayoung was walking in which gave him an odd feeling.
he immediately began to speed walk to the door of the party room to go make sure the men weren't trying to do anything to hwayoung.
as soon as hwayoung left the party room she realized she had no clue as to where the bathrooms were, she just knew she needed to get away from everything for a moment so that waa what she did.
she continued to walk until she reached a dead end, and at that point she realized she had been hearing footsteps behind her for quite some time.
she slowly turned around to see three masked men staring at her.
"uh h-hi?" she stuttered.
silence.
"do you guys know where the bathrooms are?" she asked nervously, backing herself into the corner.
"grab her." the guy in the middle commanded.
"im sorry wha-"
before hwayoung could finish her question the two men lunged at her and she let out a loud scream, only to have her mouth covered immediately after.
she tried to wriggle herself out of the grips of the two men but was unsuccessful and very scared about what they were going to do with her until she heard frantic footsteps approaching her and the men.
she heard the trigger of a gun click and her eyes widened, she began screaming and biting away at the large hand squeezing her mouth.
a shot fired, and another, and another, suddenly the men let go of her and she was on the ground, blood pooling around her.
she looked up to see youngho standing over her with a gun in his hand and immediately passed out from the shock of seeing him as well as having other people's blood touching her.
"shit…" youngho muttered under his breath as soon as he saw hwayoung's head hit the ground.
he quickly concealed his gun in his pocket and whipped out his phone, dialing jisung's phone number and tapping his foot on the ground as he waited for him to pick up while also trying to kick the bodies of the men out of sight.
he didn't know if they were dead and he didn't care, as long as they were out cold for now.
finally, jisung picked up and youngho was quick to speak.
"jisung, we have a problem."
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The Song Remains The Same
chapter thirteen, just as i promised! also, to keep everyone updated, ive started uploading all my stuff to ao3. my plans is to post everything here first, and then the next day put it up on ao3.
Once the words left her mouth, Calypso glanced back at Jonesy. It wasn’t like she expected a no. She’d snuck a glance at Bonzo, and he still seemed a bit nervous. Jonesy might want a few seconds alone to brace him. Or, even just to steal a few seconds alone with his long lost friend. Calypso couldn’t blame him. Might as well steal it now, because no one was likely to get any alone time once they were all together. She couldn’t help but wonder what she had managed to get herself into.
“Of course. They’ll be anxious to know the answer. I just wanna prep Bonz,” Jonesy said.
What would this meeting even look like? There was no saying. Jonesy didn’t even have a real clue, and he knew them all pretty damn well! All she was picking up was nerves. The tension was high in the car, and she just wanted to get away from that. The faster she got in the house, the faster the meeting would happen, right?
“Who’s they? I just wanna know who I’m facing,” Bonzo said. His tone was a bit hopeful.
The anger Calypso had felt coming off him in the graveyard was gone. Not for long, she was sure. One glance at Jimmy was likely to set him off again. Calypso just hoped he didn’t take it out on Robert first, still thinking it was a joke and all. She’d like to think they were past that.
It wasn’t that Bonzo was emotionless, though. He looked anxious. He looked like he was nervous and sad and worried about what was going to happen. Sadness didn’t quite touch it, none of those emotions did. It was something akin to them, something much deeper. Calypso didn’t know the word for it. She doubted there was a word to explain this exact situation.
“Robert, Jimmy, and John’s wife,” she answered with a soft smile. She made eye contact with him for the first time. “They were anxious about you, if you were back and all. They’ve missed you. I’m sure they’ll be excited to fill you in,” she said.
“So Pat’s really not…?” Bonzo asked softly.
“We don’t know, Bonz. Don’t think the worst before we check off the best,” Jonesy said softly.
Calypso didn’t know where to go after that. Her heart ached for him, really. To suddenly be brought back to life, and not be able to see your loved one? “I’m just gonna let them know you guys are here, to prepare them too,” she mumbled after a moment.
Bonzo just nodded. He didn’t look like he was really there for a moment. Just an outline of a man who receded back into his own mind to escape his hurt. She hoped Robert would hide any alcohol he had in the house.
“Alright, thanks,” Bonzo mumbled. Calypso just nodded and got out the car. All she wanted to do was beeline it right to the front door.
Once she was out of the car, though, she wasn’t too sure about that. She wasn’t too sure why she had offered to run ahead. What was she going to say?
It was too late to head back into the car. Not that she wanted to. That was the opposite of what she wanted, actually. It was tense and uncomfortable. There was no guarantee that Robert’s house would be less tense. She really was taking a gamble with the evil she didn’t know.
She took a deep breath before knocking on the door. She waited a few seconds before curiously trying the door handle. It was unlocked. Of course Robert wouldn’t bother to lock his door. Probably never even thought to. Why would he, way out here in the country? That’s something that might need to change, and soon.
None of them had moved from the living room. Calypso noticed that the second she closed the door softly behind her. Hell, it didn’t even look like they had moved from the spots they had been in. All three of them fell silent when they heard the door, and snapped to look at her.
She immediately looked to Robert, and watched his face fall. It told her everything he was thinking. It wasn’t a sad drop, though. It was yet another emotion that Calypso couldn’t place. All three of them had swirling emotions that seemed beyond her understanding.
“He’s in the car with John,” was all she could manage to say. It was all she could think to say. What John did she even mean? It didn’t matter in the end, though. Even in this moment it would hardly matter. The confusion could mean only one thing; John Bonham was back in the flesh.
Calypso hadn’t bothered to look away from Robert, and she was glad she didn’t. The way his face lit up… It was like nothing she had ever seen, every sort of miracle on Earth put together in one. For Robert, this was the best miracle to ask for.
They all stood, seemingly at the same time. There were voices coming from outside the door. Calypso scurried to stand next to Robert. She didn’t think she was anything that special in Robert’s life. At least, not yet. The spell might suggest something to the other, but they themselves hadn’t gotten there yet. In her mind, she was no different than any other girl he had picked up along the way.
By standing next to him, she hoped to off him some sort of support. Ground him to the real world a little. From their talk in the car, she could tell Robert’s emotions had to be running rampant. Anyone would be. But, Calypso had just a glimpse, more than most did, into the hurt that Robert felt.
Robert leaned over to kiss her forehead and grabbed her hand. “Thank you,” he mumbled against her skin. She just smiled and shook her head at him. There was no need to thank her, just as there had been no need for her to thank him after their car ride.
There was a knock on the door and Calypso grinned. “It’s unlocked!” Robert called out.
John Paul was the first in the door, though Bonzo was clearly and obviously visible behind him. “Some things really don’t change, do they Perce?” Jonesy asked with a chuckle. Robert, apparently, always had this issue. Calypso would have to talk to him about that. It wasn’t 1976 anymore, he’d have to start locking his door.
Jonesy quickly stepped to the side once he was in the door. Bonzo’s face was already a slight shade of red, and he seemed to focus in on Jimmy. Calypso, for a moment, was very afraid of what was going to happen.
“And you, Mr. James fucking Patrick Page the god damn fucking third!” Bonzo shouted once he was fully in the doorway.
His eyesight wasn’t the only thing making a beeline toward Jimmy, Calypso realized, as he stalked toward Jimmy. Calypso shrunk back a little and Robert squeezed her hand. Robert shot her a glance, as if to say that she was okay, that his anger wouldn’t turn to her.
“What in the unholy fuck have you done? What you think all this is? What is this shit!” Bonzo’s hands motioned wildly between all of them. Jonesy shot an apologetic look to Jimmy.
“Would you mind fucking telling me what right you think you had! Did ya ever think to fucking tell anyone mate?” His face was beat red. With every word, he took another pounding step toward Jimmy.
Bonzo’s face was bright red. Jimmy’s face showed no emotion what-so-ever. The tension in the air was thick as silence fell over them for a minute. Bonzo was clearly waiting for his answer, for any kind of response from Jimmy. Calypso, and everyone else, knew that he wasn’t ever going to get one. Not the one that Bonzo would really want. Now he was just angry and confused, channeling that into the one blamable person.
A few minutes passed, and the anger only rose in Bonzo. It seemed to reached a new critical breaking point, because he closed the gap between himself and Jimmy. “You just though you could fuck with us like this?” Bonzo roared. His pointer finger was jabbed into Jimmy’s chest, and every word he said almost threatened to knock Jimmy down.
“Huh? Thought you could just fucking move the world around? Fuck with shit beyond you, beyond any of us?” Bonzo’s face was almost pressed up against Jimmy. Still, the only reaction he gave was the sway in his body caused by Bonzo.
“Who in their fight fucking mind does this? You fucking Pete Townshend now and don’t wanna get old? Jesus fucking Christ Jim! I knew you were vain, but to fuck us all like this?”
Calypso was truly amazed with how well Jimmy was just taking it. This wasn’t how she thought a fight go down. Jimmy Page didn’t seem the type to turn the other cheek and forgive. There wasn’t an ounce of emotion on his face. Calypso didn’t understand it, didn’t understand how the frail guitarist was just standing there and taking everything thrown at him. Calypso would have been in tears by now. She was half ready, and she wasn’t even being yelled at! She inched a bit closer to Robert.
“Fucking around with everyone’s lives! What about everyone’s kids, Jimmy? What about your fucking kids? What about my fucking wife! What the bloody fuck were you thinking? What do you have to say for your fucking self!” Bonzo demanded. He wasn’t asking anymore; he wasn’t even looking for an answer. He was demanding that Jimmy say something, anything to explain his thoughts.
For the moment, it seemed as if Bonzo was done. Calypso was grateful. Everyone else in the room felt a little relieved that his outburst of rage was done. Calypso was especially grateful that he didn’t get violent. Instead, Bonzo just stood in front of Jimmy, heavily breathing and face a deep red, with his arms crossed on his chest.
“I would like to think this whole thing,” Jimmy motioned around the room, “worked out best for you. Do you not agree?” He had a coy smile on his face once he finished talking. The feeling in the air changed, the mood dropped into something else.
Calypso managed to shoot a look at Jonesy and she couldn’t help but notice his shit-eating grin. This had been expected, hadn’t it? Thankfully, Bonzo had his back to Jonesy and his wife, so he couldn’t see the smile. Bonzo’s face, on the other hand, dropped. A different emotion was hitting him now. Any anger that had been left in his body, waiting to build up for another release, was gone. It vacated his body completely.
It was obvious that Jimmy was right. No one would ever fight the man on that. Bonzo had been lost to time, lost to a terrible, painful addiction. And now here he was again, in the flesh and breathing. It was a miracle. No matter how anyone else felt about this, they were at least grateful to have their lost friend back, to have all those pleas and prayers finally answered.
Bonzo’s mouth opened for what Calypso assumed would be apology. It would never leave his tongue. It never had the chance to. Jimmy raised both his hands up and shook his head. Things were fine between them. Of course Jimmy understood the outrage. Or, at the very least, he didn’t intend to hold it over his friend and cause another fight.
Robert dropped Calypso’s hand, and she only smiled. He took long strides to cross the room. All he wanted to do was close the distance that he now could. “Bonzo, my boy, it’s been too long, much too long,” he said. His voice wavered as he spoke and he wrapped his arms around Bonzo. Without seeming to think, Bonzo reacted and embraced Robert.
“Percy, my lad,” he said with a smile and a tear in his eye,” never again, my word.”
They both stayed like that for a few moments. The rest of the world could have exploded, and they wouldn’t have been any the wiser. Calypso had always assumed there was an incredible bond between them. They’d met before fame. They’d gone through fame and the motions of it together. With everything they had lived through? There was no other option.
Calypso had never expected to see the reunion. Couldn’t have even dreamed of what it would have looked like. She felt a small tear well up in her own eye before she wiped it away. If she had a room to run too, Calypso might have just let herself sob like a little baby. It was beautiful.
They separated, but Robert kept his arm around Bonzo. It felt right. Hell, it looked right. No one said anything, though. They all just looked around at each other.
“Looks like the band’s all back together,” Jonesy said after a moment. Everyone chuckled a bit. The silence fell back upon them.
It finally got too much to be for Calypso, though. She couldn’t just sit in this silence. Maybe they were all aware of what they were thinking. Did they all have a bond that went that deep?
“So, not to break this up, but where do we go from here?”
#the song remains the same#robert plant fanfiction#robert plant fanfic#led zeppelin fanfic#led zeppelin fanfiction
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surveys 047.
What was the last thing to upset you?
just kile changing. it shouldnt upset me, it’s obvious we are changing and growing apart. it just bothers me, nonetheless.
How’s the weather been today?
It’s going to be a high of 76 today
What was the first tattoo you got or what would be the first tattoo you’ll get?
when I was younger I wanted those white tattoos. I don’t want anything now. I’m good with au-natural skin lol. I do wonder if Kile will ever get one.
What was the last store you went into and did you buy anything?
I can’t recall what store I last went to
Have you ever been late for school or work?
never for school. Work I was one time because of an accident ahead of me but that was nbd.
Do you prefer to shower in the morning or at night?
morning typically if I want my hair to be decent.
Do you dip your pretzels in anything?
gosh I miss pretzels.
What is your favourite kind of fruit cobbler?
uhhhhhh no real preference
Is there a basement in your house? If so, what is it used for?
yep yep. its got a spare bedroom, a laundry area, a bathroom, and a storage closet. It also leads out to the garage.
When was the last time you were intoxicated?
my birthday
Have you been swimming today?
No. I really would give just bout anything to swim.
Is your phone fully charged at the moment?
No, it’s at 81 percent
Have you driven a car today?
yes
When was the last time you felt extremely nervous?
tonight when waiting for responses from kile regarding questions.
When was the last time you cried?
Tonight. I hard sobbed, which I thought maybeeee, maybe just maybe I was past this stage with Kile but I’m so not. He maybe?? thought or realized I was genuine about leaving, given the fact I am more and more and more withdrawn. So he asked about us talking, since that’s the big thing we could tackle instead of just harshly cutting ties. He has avoided talking about this since I found out about everything.. I think it gives him a lot of anxiety to unpack just how much hurt he’s caused. I can empathize with that. But I can’t just gloss over this huge trauma like it meant nothing. So we talked a little bit and he assumed I was judging (which is one of my absolute least favorite things he accuses me of) and then when I explained I wasnt, he said he was just being sensitive and he was sorry. for whatever reason, I just.. i feel like a balloon that’s been popped. my heart just desires him so badly but he has these barriers and now I have a million of my own barriers and I hate having barriers with him. ive worked so hard for so long to break those down and now theres more than I can count and I just.. i want to understand. I want to stop the feelings that I’m not worth the truth. Like i’ve been kept in the dark for 6+ years and now that I’m told some things, I’m still kept in the dark. I just can’t win. there’s nothing left for me and it just wrecked me. I sobbed, I couldn’t breathe. my heart hurtssssssssss. i just want him to be here and fix it and he can’t. what do you do when the one person who could stop the hurt, causes it?
Do you have a small, medium or large bedroom?
My room is extremely small. I have hardly any room on either side of the bed.
Where was your first job and how old were you?
nannying at 15
Have you eaten soup this week?
no
Have you ever made your own survey?
years ago
Do you know your birthstone and if so, do you have any jewellery containing it?
ruby. I have no ruby jewelry sadly.
What colour is your hairbrush?
uhhh black and blue
Do you hear any other people talking right now?
max just proposed to lorelai in gilmore girls.
Are you a fan of The Office?
yes. I just have no desire to watch it rn cus I am not in a humor mood and I think it would ruin it for me.
When was the last time you started a new medication?
years.
What is your favourite type of nut?
pistachios
Where did you eat the best pizza you’ve ever eaten in your life?
aurelios in homewood
Do you know what year your parents married?
if I stopped and did the math.
Did you ever watch The Rugrats when you were a kid?
only when I was at someone elses house. we didnt have cable til i was 17
Would you ever shave your head to raise money for cancer?
maybe
Did you watch Breaking Bad as it aired or did you catch up later on?
never watched
Is there anything you’re looking forward to at the moment?
i would give just about anything to repair things with kile but that looks like its over.
Do you know anyone who doesn’t have a middle name?
Yup. my brother, nephew, dad, and his late dad all have the same name and it contains no middle name.
What is your fast food place of choice?
buona
How close is the nearest Starbucks from your house?
like 5-6 mins
Have you ever played in the snow?
errrr year
Do you know anyone who was adopted?
mhmm
Do you write shopping lists on paper or just remember it in your head?
paper. I would never get all the items for all three of us without visuals
Have you put your phone on silent today?
yeah. so this is embarrassing but hey, it is what it is. I changed kiles notification tone to something loud and noticeable so I would be alerted that it wasn’t just another blah text. but then I would be devastated to not hear it. so now for my own sanity it’s on silent. just as well, i’m not hearing anything from him.
Can you name all 50 US state capital cities?
MANY of them. if not all.
Have you been to the mall today?
I don’t think i’ve been to the mall since maybeeeee.. 2016?
Have you ever watched Scrubs? If so, did you like it?
no
Do you prefer loose leaf tea or teabags?
Teabags.
How often do you check your emails?
like every day or every other day.
Do you read John Green novels?
I’ve read a few of his books.
What was the last thing you purchased at a supermarket?
diabetic socks lol
Have you ever used a lawnmower?
yes
Have you ever played QuizUp on iOS?
I don’t have apple.
Have you ever consumed so much alcohol that you vomited?
once. it was worth it tho
Have you ever been to Thailand?
No.
Have you ever been to Universal Studios?
Yes.
Have you had a bath this week?
no, our bathtub is broken.
Do you like pumpkin pie?
very much so.
Do you know anyone who smokes in their car?
Yeahhhhhhh. blegh.
Have you ever seen a shooting star?
I have
Can you tie balloons?
I can. I can do it quite fast, which is convenient. every year we blow up these enormous balloon arches for the kids bdays, its about 200+ balloons and i hand tie every single one. my fingers ache for days, but hey.
What is your favourite place to get Chinese food?
number 1 chop suey or pf changs
When was the last time you were at a pet store?
its been a minute. i would give my left lung to get a golden retriever puppy.
Do you do a big weekly shop or just shop for groceries as you need them?
it usually is weekly.. ish?
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Ghosts Pt IV: Face Paintings
Masterpost
Previous | Next
Sakura’s first mission in years is estimated to last less than two days, but she still finds herself heated in anticipation. She hasn’t traveled since she was in ANBU, excluding diplomatic conferences. But she hardly remembers much of it. She hardly remembers much of anything besides the death tolls, the adrenaline, and the clandestine despair.
Their mission is a simple rescue one and she is placed in a team of four. There’s one sensor, two combat nins, (one of which had just been on the last mission with the nin they were meant to retrieve) and her, the medic. The team leader is monstrously tall with sleek black hair and hard features—an intimidating shinobi named Enra. Sakura can tell the kunoichi was from Root. Stone faced as shinobi often come, there is something about the stiffness in which Root members spoke with that gave way to hardness that other shinobi couldn’t quite emulate.
They are being sent to find two nin who have been separated from their team along the border of Tanigakure. One of the missing nin is a Hyuga, and Sakura morbidly wonders if a team would be sent out in the dead of night with such haste had it not been for the threat of losing a nin with a kekkei genkai. It’s no secret that certain shinobi are valued over others. If there is one thing being introduced to the shinobi world alongside Naruto and Sasuke taught her, it is that.
The squad is silent when they meet at the gate and Sakura can feel each of them momentarily study her. Whether it’s because of the unruly cotton candy on her head or because they recognize her as Tsunade’s apprentice, she’s not sure. But she’s that much more thankful that they are quiet.
They head out towards Tani, leaping from branches of Konoha’s thick oak. There’s the incessant rattle of crickets and the occasional hoo-hoo of an owl. It’s frigid at this time of night and the air stings Sakura’s flesh more than she cares to admit. She hopes she isn’t as out of practice as she feels.
They run for long hours before their sensor stops. “Wait!” His cry comes from her left, deep and boyish at once. Her feet ground into the branch she lands on, toes curling with the momentum of her forceful plant. The sensor is quiet for a moment, head tilted to the side. He’s the only chunin in the group and with his scrawny build, bronze skin, and viridian hair, Sakura can’t help but admire how beautiful he looks amongst the trees. It is as if he hails from forest nymphs.
“Well?” A teammate, Haru, impatiently asks. He is much bulkier and has long blonde hair, tied back into a braid. He is the nin who had been with the squad they are meant to save and his excessive agitation is forgiven for the sole fact. He looks tired and anxious and horribly guilt ridden.
Sakura knows that shame—feels it every time she sees the red. But she’s learned to keep her mouth shut and mind focused when she can help it. Panic attacks can’t bring the dead back to life, even if the heart doesn’t know any better.
“I think...I think I can feel them. It’s faint. But I’m picking up a chakra that matches the Hyuga’s description,” the sensor says. Kaito. Sakura remembers. She studies him closer and she could have sworn that she’s worked with him before. She remembers green hair and almond eyes behind a rabbit mask. But this sensor is only a chunin and Sakura was insane during her times in ANBU.
“Is he alone?” Sakura asks. Are we too late?
“No. There’s one other chakra signature,” he says. “It’s so faint, I can’t tell if it’s rival nin or not.”
Sakura lets out a shaky breath. They’ll probably be stumbling upon a body soon. She didn't expect any less, but she often hopes anyway. She suspects it’s a trait she’s retained only because of Naruto’s influence.
“Which way?” Enra speaks this time, and the fixture of her lips even as the words come out unsettles Sakura.
“Left of here. About 60 kilometers,” Kaito says.
“We’ll follow your lead,” Enra says. And then they’re off.
It’s daybreak by the time they arrive, the sky warmed in hues of oranges and pinks, undisturbed by the strifes of nin below.
The first thing that hits Sakura is the smell. It’s heavy, and sharp, like someone shoved incinerated coal right against her nostrils. Her gloved hand smacks over her mouth and nose, stomach protesting violently. Katon, she thinks horribly. The squad was burned to death. Just like Kakashi in her dreams.
Then they finally come upon three leaf shinobi by a river, and only one is visibly conscious.
The first is nothing but a charred corpse with several limbs missing, the obvious source of the combustion wafting in the air. Another is unconscious, his legs are bloody stumps beneath wet bandages, plasma oozing through. The last is the Hyuga, propped up but barely conscious. Maybe it is just the way he is curled up and shaking, but he looks far too young to be a shinobi. Sakura spots charcoal in his lap, and it’s only then that she realizes his right hand had been severed too. She shuts her eyes to take a deep breath through the leather of her gloves. Then she rushes forward.
His pearl eyes pass from Haru and then to Sakura. “Oh,” he squeaks, arms spasming around his knees. “I d-don’t—Please—”
Sakura is already kneeling by the nin with their legs missing, and swallowing her horror at the puddle of blood. The skin is purple, then black and red and she thinks the nature of the burn may be the only reason why he hasn’t bled out. An explosive she thinks. It wasn’t a katon. It was a blast. Shit. He’s definitely going to be hemorrhaging.
She slides her palm onto the nin’s chest, pumps chakra into the nin’s chest. She treats the lungs first, sewing injured tissue back with the snaking of her chakra into the nin’s body. Decompression. Higher oxygen flow. Fluid management. Sakura wishes there was another medic, or at least more equipment. But all she has is her chakra so it will have to do.
“My hand,” the Hyuga boy croaks. His voice is the most miserable thing her heart has heard all week. But the blood is oozing, smearing against ash, and she needs to remember triage.
She’s ripping off the bloody bandages and fastidiously pushing chakra into the stubs with one hand while the other disrobes what it can. And the body is so black. And any flesh not covered in charcoal is swollen red. At once, she sees muscles spasm to life, and she tries to analyze where the decay begins and ends. Please. Please make it.
Sakura sees green creep into her peripheral then. “Sakura-san,” Kaito says. “How can I help?”
She is speaking instantly, nods over to the Hyuga. “Blood replenishing pills. Give him two. And one blue and yellow pill in my pouch.” He moves quickly, and Sakura is grateful, feeling him wrestling in her pouch in methodical haste. “I’ll see if he needs more. Start disinfecting his wound with the alcohol too.”
“Who did this?” Enra asks.
Sakura’s eyes dart to the boy, who’s trembling, his muted lips set in a straight line. It’s usually a bit hard to see where a Hyuga’s iris begins and ends, blending nearly perfect into the sclera. But his are bloodshot, lids swollen, and cheeks tracked with the line of his tears. He makes a noise low in his throat, gazr flitting around like he’s not really sure where to look.
“A bandit,” Haru responds then, since the Hyuga couldn’t seem to.
Kaito scoffs at that. “You’re joking. Bandits did this to you?” He places pills in the Hyuga’s remaining hand.
“Not ordinary bandit.” The boy finally says, before sliding the pills in his mouth with quivering fingers. He tries to swallow the water Kaito hands him too, but it ends up splashing most of it around his face and clothes because of the tremors.
“There was only one?” Sakura asks, scrunching her nose, trying not to inhale too deep. The air alone is so charred; she can’t bear to look at the body of the last teammate just yet.
“J-just one,” the Hyuga responds. His voice sounds like his throat has just been freshly sanded.
“Is he dead?” Enra asks.
“She,” the Hyuga corrects with a crack in his voice. Kaito brings the canteen to his lips, helping him drink this time. “Yes,” he says, his voice marginally steadier before Sakura sees his face turn towards her. “Please. I—I found my hand for you. Please put it back.”
Sakura turns her head to face him. His eyes are white and red and haunting, glazed with desperation. “I’m sorry,” Sakura says with an apologetic frown. “I can’t reattach it. It’s been burned too badly.”
“It’s my right. I need it,” the boy replies, as if it didn’t matter. Gods, he looks so young.
“This bandit was a shinobi?” Enra asks, carrying on as if he isn’t having a breakdown. Sakura has to turn her head to look at the kunoichi, because she can’t tell if it’s the question or her mind that’s misplaced right now. But Enra is nonchalant, and she gazes an exterior too cool and analytical. No, Sakura decides. She’s not the alien here. Enra is. She eyes the burnt corpse they’ve all been purposefully neglected—except Haru, who just keeps staring at it.
“Yes,” Haru answers this time. His voice is calm despite the hellish look in his eyes. “She had to have been. She used explosives. Out of thin air. No tags.” She wonders how long he’s been watching the body.
“And you ran!” The Hyuga squacks suddenly, the sound high pitched and so tense it snaps everyone’s eyes towards him. And the gaze he pins with Haru is belligerent, his lips peeling back to show white, clenched teeth that looked like they would snap from the sheer force behind them. Sakura can see the thin blue lines by his eyes begin to protrude. He looks like madness. Fuck. Fuck he’s going to kill him, she thinks. “Just left us for dead!” Kaito is rigid next to him, nimble arms cocked like he’s about to pin him down.
Sakura intervenes, speaks with a controlled calm while pulling out a syringe and filling it with fluid from the bag on her back. “He just went to get help,” she defends. She slowly inserts the needle into the unconscious nin she is still tending to. She needs to work fast. He needs attention. He’s just a boy. “If he didn’t leave, then—”
“Me! She came for me!” the Hyuga screeches. He lifts his bloody stub, pointing it at Haru accusingly, his shaking more violent than ever. “And you ran! Left me for dead. I’m a Hyuga!”
“I came back!” Haru’s cry is too vehement and awkward, though he tries to school his features into something more composed.
“It’ll be alright,” Sakura says, imitating a professional medic who hopes to placate their patient. But she feels like an imposter. “You’re still alive, don’t worry. We’re here, we’ll take ca—”
“Fuck you!” the Hyuga spits, and Sakura tenses beneath his vitriol, caught by the way his veins and eyes pop out of his small head. His face is ghastly, and his arm is spasming with the surges of his trauma. “Hiashi-sama—He will kill you!” His cry is shrill and his head swivels in jagged motions to look ahead, veiny white fixed on something not there. “Will kill Rokudaime! Kill all of you for this!” He looks rabid, and deluded, and starved for justice. Sakura doesn’t blame him.
“Watch your fucking tongue, brat!” Kaito seethes, grabbing the dark locks and yanking them down, his other hand tightening around the Hyuga’s wrist so hard his knuckles turn white.
“Stop,” Sakura says, her voice hushed and soft, veiling the panic and guilt for the boy’s upset. She should have given him something that would tend to his anxiety faster. Instead she’s riled him up. I’m disappointed in you, Okaasan would say sometimes, though not always with words. Sakura nods with a hard swallow because she’s disappointed too.
Sakura places her hand on one of Kaito’s, gently prying it away from the boy’s hair and he lets her. “It’s okay, he’s just in shock.” She cups the Hyuga’s trembling face, who looks at her wide eyed and then suddenly so sad. He looks like he’s about to cry. She pushes her warm chakra through him, tracing his chakra pathways down to his brain. His shaking quells just a bit and his web of veins gradually grow faint beneath the white of his skin. “Be gentle. This isn’t easy.” Her hands wrap in green and she surveys his wounded stub delicately. This one wasn’t blasted off, it was cut. She needs to cauterize the wound.
Kaito acquiesces, relaxing his grip on the Hyuga’s wrist until finally letting go. Still he remains fixed beside her, hoving over the boy as if he expected him to snap any minute. Haru finally goes to make himself busy, taking out a scroll to seal the charred corpse so they can take it back to Konoha. Sakura could not be more thankful when the malodorous fumes dilute in her lungs.
“Where is the body of the bandit?” Enra asks then. “We should take it back with us too.” Sakura wishes Enra would just shut up already, even though her questions are essential to protocol.
“Exploded,” The Hyuga boy mumbles, a hitch in his breath. “And took Nohmi’s legs.” He gasps a breath and the shaking gets a little worse. Sakura pushes more chakra in. She wants to run her fingers through his hair like when otousan did when she was scared, but she would just stain him with blood.
“Where was this encounter?” Enra asks. Sakura chews her lip, glancing up at the boy only to find his eyes pasted to her work. He doesn’t look like he heard Enra at all.
“Please put it back. I was looking for a long time,” The Hyuga says, and he doesn’t even look at Sakura—just stares at his bloody stub like it’s not real. “Just try. Please. It’s my right.” He’s shaking so hard, Sakura has to hold his wrist to continue healing him.
“Let’s put off the questions right now,” Sakura decides. She quickly bandages the wound. “Just look around for it. It’ll be hard to miss if there were explosives.” Sakura pushes his shirt up to search for other wounds. “He couldn’t have carried the bodies far either.”
“Fine,” Enra agrees, and she sounds neither annoyed nor pleased with the suggestion. “I’m taking Kaito in case there’s an ambush. Will you and Haru be okay?”
“Yes,” Sakura says, before she starts to fish in her medical bag for a vial. “Just don’t take too long. I’m worried about this one,” she nods her head towards the nin who had their legs blown off. “He lost a lot of blood. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.”
“Will fifteen minutes do?” Enra asks.
“That’s fine.”
Enra nods, then her and Kaito take off. Sakura tries to engage the Hyuga, asking questions about his family and Konoha to ease his tension and keep him conscious. She takes pains to be gentle when she touches him, and her heart aches when he responds with a despondent “Oh.” when she explains that she’s sorry but he won’t be getting his right hand back and he’ll just need to use his left from now on.
Haru stays silent throughout, caught in a trance. Sakura shoots him a question every now and then to gage his mental state. He was looking at the body too intensely for her not to be worried. She’s sure he knows what she’s doing too, because his responses are terse and laced with cynicism. Still, they’re sweet relief in comparison to the crippling panic in the Hyuga’s eyes.
When they run back to Konoha, Sakura is the one to carry the nin with their legs missing. The weight makes her slower than it should, but no one notices except for her. She desperately tries to forget they’re carrying a corpse that has been blown to black.
The Hyuga manages to stay conscious for it all, and he asks her to reattach his hand two more times before he finally realizes it’s gone for good.
The retrieved nin are deposited in the hospital before Sakura’s team reports back to Shikamaru—Kakashi himself is stuck in a meeting. Enra finishes explaining the details of how she gathered very little from the remnants of the battle.
“It was done with intention,” Enra says. “The enemy wasn’t trying to kill our nin with her blast, she was trying to make sure she left no remains before she died.” Sakura’s stomach curls in. She should be used to this by now—a nin choosing death for a grander cause—but she’s not. She can’t help but think of Enra’s word choice. The enemy. She thinks of Sai, of Danzo, of the rigorous brainwashing that was upheld Root. But it doesn’t matter what fancy rhetoric they slap on, she knows; they’re all the same—pawns on the chessboard.
“I guess that means we can expect more to come,” Shikamaru surmises. “And the Hyuga is missing a hand.” He sounds genuinely tired rather than apathetic like usual.
“I couldn’t reattach it,” Sakura explains, and her voice is soft in apology. “It had been too badly burned.”
Shikamaru sighs, his hand coming to cradle his chin. His eyes slant off to the side, thoughtful. “This isn’t good. Hiashi will be upset.”
“At least he only lost a hand. If he lost his legs or ended up dead like the other ones, the Hyugas would have Hokage-sama’s head on a platter,” Kaito says, and there’s a faint amusement in his tone that makes Sakura cringe.
Haru’s discomfort is more audible than hers, a sound slipping out that he tries to cover with a rough cough. When she looks over at him, she can see a steadfast guilt at the mention of his mutilated teammates. It makes her heart expand in her chest in a painful way, like it’s been punctured on her own ribs.
“They’re both shinobi,” Sakura says, her head swiveling towards Kaito and Shikamaru in what is likely misplaced vehemence. But she doesn’t care. They need to know. Everyone needs to know. Her head is throbbing with upset. “All of us are. And all of us could be dismembered or die in the line of duty every time we walk out on a mission.”
“Yeah, but he’s a Hyuga,” Kaito responds, and there’s a look of disbelief in his features. Something that she’s sure is meant to mock her intelligence. “And a young one at that.”
“So?” Sakura challenges sternly, and she can feel her heart speed up. “What are you implying?”
There’s a flash of realization across his face. “N-nothing,” Kaito sputters, and his expression contorts in such genuine alarm that Sakura instantly feels guilty for lashing out. “I-I’m sorry, I just—”
“Really? Aren’t you a sannin?” Haru asks, his tone so haughty and demeaning, her anger is pushing right back against her forehead. “You can’t actually be this stupid.”
Sakura is snapping before she can think. “You got something to say, asshole?” She took pity on him for most of his outbursts, with his eyes perpetually wide with the gore of the day. But now all she wants to do is grind his bones into the tower walls, consequences be damned.
“Yeah, I do,” Haru sneers right back, hot red in the face. “A couple of things, actually.”
“Fuck off, Haru,” Kaito spits. “You’ve been nothing but unhelpful this entire mission, all you’ve done is bitch and—”
“I’m still here,” Shikamaru says, looking every bit as unimpressed as he sounds. “Just thought I’d remind you.” There’s an awkward, explosive pause as the three struggle to flatten their emotions for the sake of formality. But they’ve been with singed bodies all day, they’ve found nothing concrete to the cause, and Shikamaru’s nonchalance is hardly motivating for anyone.
“I think you misunderstand, Haruno,” Enra says, so monotone it grates Sakura’s head. She huffs, turns away from Haru to look at the towering kunoichi. Her expression is empty and mute, and Sakura feels her anger wafting away in the face of it. She doesn’t know what to feel when her gaze falls on that mask. “Nin with kekkei genkai get priority,” Enra says flatly, like it’s a matter of fact—a rule of physics itself rather than the result of a flawed system.
It almost pricks her, the way they’ve collectively misinterpreted her upset. But Sakura is not articulating herself well and she knows it.
And all she can think about is how she told Naruto that she’ll get better so she can speak to Sasuke. Like she owes him that. Their precious, beloved Sasuke. Special. Like Naruto. And unlike her.
“Exactly,” Haru says. Then he shoots her with a glare that’s paved in a new distress—envy. Sakura is overcome with the horrible sensation that she’s looking at her reflection. “You should count yourself lucky. If you hadn’t been trained by Senju Tsunade, the greatest honor someone like you could ever achieve is dying by a shinobi with a kekkei genkai.”
Sakura averts her eyes, inhaling sharply as her mind spins with the revolutions of red soaked stars and the madness of a beautiful boy who lost everything. She fights the urge to place her palm over her chest, the place he shot his hand through once upon a time. She shouldn’t know what it’s like to die by chidori. But she does.
Ductus arteriosus. Pulmonary artery. Pulmonary vein. Superior vena cava. Crista dividens...
“Or dying to protect one,” Kaito’s voice smoothes through her head, determined and full of revere. Sakura exhales as her mind puddles into the calm cerulean and glowing grin of a beautiful, knuckleheaded boy. When she finally looks at Kaito, she finds his gaze delicately soft and distant too. She wonders who put the sun in his sky.
Shikamaru crosses his arms and shakes his head. “I don’t have time for this,” he sighs, bored. “Go mope about being a nobody somewhere else. And have a written report submitted by Thursday morning.” He dismisses them with a turn of his heel.
“Sakura-chan, you have to see Sasuke,” Naruto says, guzzling down ramen at a nauseating pace.
Sakura turns her head to avoid the display, and tries to block out the wet sound of his slurps. “Not this again, Naruto.” She thinks she’s going to be sick.
“You don’t understand. He was so drunk the other night. And he—”
“Can we please talk about something else?” Sakura asks, fingers tight around her glass of water. She forces a breath, before swirling the liquid with tilts of her hand. She hones in on the clang of ice against the glass, then takes a sip. It’s pleasantly cold, and helps abate the queasiness, just enough for her to meet Naruto’s dramatic pout.
“Oh fine,” He says, begrudgingly, before proceeding to inhale his ramen like it’s the planet’s only cure for bad company.
They had decided to check out a new ramen stand on the outskirts of the main village, right by the civilian area where Sakura’s parents used to live. And this didn’t unsettle her as much as she thought it would, mostly because they’re dressed so casually. The ramen isn’t as good as Ichiraku, but Naruto still ate six bowls. Sakura has only eaten a quarter of her first before placing her focus solely on her water. She’s sick of ramen.
“How’s Hinata?” Sakura asks, eager to steer the conversation away from the cause of her nightmares.
Naruto takes the bait easy, his face lighting up in that way it always does when he thinks about her. “Amazing, as always.” He sighs sweetly with rose speckled eyes. “She sings a lot more these days. In the open too! Not just when she thinks I’m not paying attention.” Naruto’s gaze is whistful, and proud. “Her voice is so beautiful, Sakura-chan. She’s just so...I don’t know.”
This tender part of Naruto, soft and yearning, is not new concerning Hinata. But it’s been amplified since the pregnancy. Sakura can’t help but to think of how lucky they both are to exist as nothing but themselves in these moments. It’s such a rare thing for shinobi. “I can’t believe you’re going to be a father,” Sakura says.
“Me neither.” His smile is gentle, a different kind of honest than the usual loudness of his grin. “I still can’t believe I even have her. And now a baby? It’s crazy, it’s…”
“Everything you’ve always wanted,” Sakura finishes. Putrid smells forgotten, Sakura is melting beneath his warmth.
“Yeah,” he rasps. Sakura is happy for him. Endlessly. Naruto deserves the world he saved.
“Have you thought about names yet?” She asks then, her finger trailing along the seam of their wooden counter. She suddenly remembers young girls asking each other that long ago, and she recalls herself thinking It doesn’t matter. Sasuke-kun can pick. Her nails leave white lines along the grain.
Naruto’s smile dampens too, although more with a wobbling uncertainty as he scratches the back of his neck bashfully. “I mean, I have a couple but Hinata didn’t seem to like them.”
“Really?” Sakura asks, intrigued for more reasons than one. “Like what?”
“Well...okay, okay, hear me out on this…” Naruto says, clears his throat, and looks her dead in the eye with a twinkle in his. “Ichiraku Uzumaki.” Her anticipation splats flat on the ground.
Sakura rolls her eyes. “Of course you would.”
“Don’t give me that look! It’s a good idea!”
“Well, I guess you’d keeping the tradition of bland names centered around food,” Sakura mutters, unimpressed before taking a sip of her water, wondering how he could be so obsessed with ramen while she’s trying to avoid getting sick from the smell alone.
“Hey!” Naruto scowls and folds his arms. “You’re one to talk. A pink haired girl named Sakura?” He rolls his eyes, mockingly. “Gee, wonder where your parents came up with that!”
Sakura’s eye twitches just slightly. Yes, it was her father, known for his self indulgent humor, who had named her. He thought it was brilliant and fitting, which is just so like him. She doesn’t agree with the sentiment, but she loves her name anyway simply because he gave it to her.
Sakura fists her hand in the thick fabric of Naruto’s collar and violently pulls him close, lips twisting in a slightly humored but mostly maniacal smirk. “I dare you to say that again, you little orange shit,” she whispers. Naruto mock cowers on cue.
“Dickless! Ugly!”
They snap their heads to the left to see Sai and Ino approaching the booth. “Oh,” Naruto says, his smile larger than ever. “Hey you two!”
“Hey Forehead,” Ino takes a seat next to Sakura, unmoved by the scene she had stumbled upon. She helps herself to Sakura’s barely touched ramen. “How was the mission?”
“Fine,” Sakura spat reflexively, turning to face Ino after releasing Naruto. She examines her friend, at once spotting several shopping bags she had dropped by her seat. When Ino only quirks a brow, inquiring for more, Sakura takes a moment to contemplate her thoughts. Horrible. Traumatizing. “Suspicious,” she picks.
“Suspicious?” Ino echoes, slurping the ramen into her mouth in a manner much more eloquent than Naruto could ever manage. The sight must inspire the jinchuruuki though, because she hears him ordering another bowl.
“Yeah, it was ...strange,” Sakura says, pensive. She thinks of the young Hyuga and tries to swallow the memory of his radiating panic with the cool of her water. “I was meaning to tell you about it,” her voice is somber.
“What happened?” Ino quirks an eyebrow and Sai sits next to her, setting down a few bags of his own. He wraps his arm around her shoulder and Sakura watches as his fingers rub tentative. At once, Ino turns her head to her boyfriend and her fingers come to wrap around his own. Her voice is soft, and Sakura imagines her expression is even softer. “Split a bowl with me?”
“Of course, Beautiful.” Sai returns her smile with a natural cadence, and Sakura is bewildered by the ease of it. How far Sai has come. She forgets he used to be as awkward and empty as Enra. He orders a bowl of ramen for the two of them.
“Yeah, you didn’t tell me you had a mission,” Naruto chimes in, voice coarse with slight offense. “What happened?” Naruto asks, starting on his seventh bowl.
“We’re in public,” Sakura responds. The four of them had long discarded any notion of secrecy concerning missions between each other. Still, they keep discretion while in open areas. It was dangerous to talk out in the open.
“There’s no other shinobi around for at least 20 feet,” Ino informs, her voice slightly hushed as she pulls apart a new pair of chopsticks. “You can keep it broad.”
“Wait, how do you know?” Naruto quirks a brow, squinting at Ino in suspicion.
“She is a sensor, Dickless.” Sai supplies, and Sakura can almost hear the slight offense in the statement. As if Ino’s prowess is an obvious adornment she wears for everythone to see.
“Oh. Yeah.” Naruto grins then, ear to ear and blinding. “Sorry, it’s been awhile since I’ve been on a mission with you, Ino.” He scratches the back of his neck bashfully. “I guess I forgot.” Ino waves it off with her hand before urging Sakura to continue with an insistent look.
“It was a retrieval mission,” Sakura says, voice low. “We rescued a squad that was nearly decimated by a single bandit. And there was a nin with a kekkei genkai on that squad too.”
“Wait, a bandit?” Ino asks, maintaining her whisper. Ino and Sai look at each other then.
“What is it?” Sakura asks, gut twisting. She hates the idea of needing to revisit the scene. Amputations are commonplace, but there is little medics can do when explosives are involved. Nothing can be recovered that way.
“This job sounds awfully similar to our mission,” Ino says, then carefully takes a mouthful of ramen, chewing thoughtfully. “We had self proclaimed bandits, too. I mean, they were totally defected nin but they said bandits.”
“Our mission?” Naruto repeats, and Sakura is almost astounded he remembers to keep his voice down.
“Mine and Beautiful’s,” Sai clarifies, before reaching for Ino’s chopsticks.
“Wait, what!?” Naruto loses all discretion in a beat. “You two go on missions together!?”
“Keep your voice down. We’re in the middle of a civilian market, you moron.” Sakura crosses her arms, shooting an discomforted glare at her blonde-headed teammate.
“Yeah, and?” Ino says, eyeing Naruto before sliding carefully woven noodles into her mouth.
“What the hell!” Naruto growls, ignoring Sakura’s pleas. “Kaka-sensei never puts me on the same squad as Hinata! And I actually ask too!”
“Naruto, you idiot, shut your trap,” Sakura reprimands, shrinking into herself as she spots a few heads turning in their direction. She wishes she could wash out the pink of her hair. It’s bright and revolting and everyone will know it instantly.
“Perhaps it’s because you are unprofessional,” Sai says with so much certainty that Sakura would have laughed if she wasn’t busy being mortified by the stares. She doesn’t know if they think of her as Kizashi's girl or Mebuki's. And she can't tell which is worse.
“What!? Unprofessional my ass! I’m the best shinobi there is!” Naruto proclaims loudly, zealous as ever. Sakura’s skin crawls with something heated, and it grows exponentially with every turn of someone’s head. She feels their eyes sizing them up and down, and notes the looks of disapproval, fear, anger. They’re talking about the war. About fucked up shinobi that kill before they protect. “I’m Naruto Uzu—”
Sakura smacks Naruto’s bowl of ramen in his face and she almost wishes the porcelain cracked on it too. “Will you shut up?!” She hisses, shifting uncomfortably. She hears Ino choke on her ramen from the side, before she starts to giggle. Sakura whispers again, unrelenting. “Sensei just probably knows you’d sloppily compromise a mission or other teammates if it came to Hinata or something,” She huffs, watching the bowl slide off his face with a clang while wet noodles slip off his dumbfounded expression. “Sai’s right, you are unprofessional.”
Naruto licks the side of his chin, slurping a loose noodle into his mouth before wiping broth off with his sleeve. “Oh please!” He growls. “Like Sai and Ino wouldn’t do that for each other too.” He pouts, before accusingly pointing his finger at Sakura. “And you owe me another bowl of ramen!” Sakura scoffs.
“We would,” Sai agrees with a nod. “But we have more…” He searches for the words with a single finger to his chin, and Sakura almost needs to hold back a smile because she knows he picked up that mannerism from Ino. “...discretion about the matter.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Ino agrees with a haughty smirk. “Kind of helps to not be an overly passionate blockhead that blurts everything that comes to mind sometimes.”
Naruto whines. “Aw, c’mon! I’m not that bad.”
“Beautiful,” Sai calls to get Ino’s attention, holding the last clump of ramen in their bowl between chopsticks. He leans the piece forward towards her lips.
“I mean, just look at that!” Naruto exclaims, his hand gesturing out as Sai feeds his girlfriend.
Sakura sighs, tries to force the tension of nearby people away. They probably don’t even remember, she reasons. No one ever does.
“Just leave it alone, Naruto.” She turns her head to face the man she’s come to look upon as her brother. Adopted, of course—different parents. “She’s pregnant anyway, it’s not like she’s even able to go with you right now.”
Naruto grumbles under his breath, arms crossed in defiance. “Yeah, whatever.”
“Well, now that we have the whole market staring at us, and Naruto is thoroughly coated in ramen, how about we head to the training grounds?” Ino asks with a smile. “I want to hear more about your job, Sakura. You two are free, right?”
“I’ll take a raincheck,” Sakura says before she finishes her glass of water with two last gulps. “I have a shift coming up in thirty minutes.” And she needs to get the hell out of this district.
“Damn.” Ino snaps her fingers. “Forgot you’re on nights this week.”
They pay for their meals, Sakura taking it upon herself to pay for one of Naruto’s seven bowls of ramen. Naruto thanks her with a wide grin.
“I’ll see you two around. We’ll figure out plans soon, I want to finish that conversation.” Sakura promises with a nod of her head to Ino and Sai.
“And me too!” Naruto says with a sunny, boyish smile. Sakura takes a short pause to admire how he managed to maintain that youthful expression despite how they’ve all aged.
“And you too.” She smiles.
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"Ivan the Terrible as Renaissance Prince"
by Michael Cherniavsky. Slavic Review, 1968, 195-211
The image of the "Terrible Tsar" struck the imagination of his contemporaries with such force that it continued to tower in Russian consciousness until quite recent times. In chronicles and tales, folk songs and stories, and in historiography from Karamzin on, Ivan IV remained alive, more vivid even than Peter the Great. And the impact was not restricted to Russians; beginning with the Dutch, English, Italians, Danes, and Germansяadventurers, diplomats, merchants, prisoners, mercenariesяwho visited the Russia of Ivan IV, the Tsar left an impression in West European minds such that today men who know nothing about Russia or its history will know the name of Ivan the Terrible.
The essence of the image seems to be conveyed by the epithet earned by Ivan. Certainly in modern Western Europe der Schreckliche, "the Terrible," "the Dread," le Terrible, or il Terribile evokes endless executions, tortures, arbitrary and overwhelming terror, a historical landscape bathed in blood and ruled by a monstrous tyrant. And, in the final analysis, for Russian historians, too, Groznyi meant the same things. Debate and discussion about the significance and direction of Ivan's policies, and of his reign in general, are still going on, more vigorously than ever before, but from Karamzin in 1818 to Veselovskii and Zimin today the historians have tended to stumble over this epithet and then hold on to it; whatever one fails to explain about Ivan or any of his actions, there is always that personal epithet to fall back on, the epithet which symbolizes sadism, or pathological fear, or sheer madnessяbut in any event, the irrational, beyond or outside cultural or social patterns.
It would be foolish to argue that the personality of Ivan IV is irrelevant for an understanding of his reignяthat is, his actions and policies. Recently, in fact, we have come into possession of very concrete evidence which may explain the monstrous aspects of Ivan's personality; the results of the study of Ivan's skeleton, removed from the tomb in the Arkhangel'skii Cathedral some three years ago, show that he must have suffered horribly for many years from osteophytes, which virtually fused his spine. But the personality of Ivan does not explain sufficiently the image of the "Terrible Tsar," for at least two reasons. First, the epithet Groznyi, the Terrible, did not have the meaning which is assigned to it now. And, second, Ivan the Terrible seems to have lived in an age of "terrible" rulersяRichard III and Henry VIII in England, Louis XI in France, Philip II in Spain, Sigismondo Malatesta in Rimini, Cesare Borgia and his father Pope Alexander VI, Christian II of Denmark; all of them were monstrous and terribile, and all of them, virtually at the same time, seem too much of a coincidence.
The philological problem is simple. While groznyi, grozno, groza were used to indicate "horror," the chief meaning of groznyi, particularly in the context of rulership, was "awful," that is, awe-inspiring. To rule one's principality with "awe," grozno, meant to-inspire awe, and to implant fear in malefactors, as early as the fourteenth century. In other words, groznyi originally had the same meaning as did "awful," in fact, terribile, the epithet of Pope Julius II, il Papa Terribileяnot the bad pope, but the awe-inspiring one. Certainly this is the meaning of groznyi when it was occasionally applied to Ivan III, the grandfather of Ivan IV. To go further back, groznyi might be applied to the great images of Christ in Majesty, Christ Pantocrator, stern and even angry, awe-inspiring so as to force the onlooker down to his knees; for example, the fourteenth century icon of Spas Iaroe Oko, the Saviour of the Angry Eye, now in the Tret'iakov Gallery in Moscow. Hence our focus can shift from the particular personality of Ivan IV to the image of the "terrible tsar" as ruler, from an interpretation of the epithet as a personal one of Ivan IV to a brief description of a society in which groznyi meant a certain style or function of rulership rather than merely a pejorative.
It would not be difficult to list all the aspects in which sixteenth-century Russia differed from both northern and southern Europe. The similarities, however, have been largely overlooked, and, for our purposes at least, they are more interesting. Let us start with a catalogue of superficial impressions. In the eyes of European travelers Moscow was a great city, much larger than London, though built of wood and paved with logs. The Kremlinяits walls, its great cathedrals, the imperial palaceя was mostly built by Italian architects at the end of the fifteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth century. Italian artists and interpreters and German craftsmen and doctors lived in the Moscow of Ivan IV in considerable numbers without attracting much attention; certainly there is no evidence of the kind of violent reaction that the presence of foreigner evoked in the time of Peter the Great, a century and a half later. The testimony of Western travelers concerning Russian clothes, customs, and manners reveals surprisingly little awareness of any great differences from those of the West. Of course, the Russians were called barbarians and characterized as a nation of alcoholics, but we should remember that this was the great age of national name-calling in which "drunkard" was a mild epithet. Some of the Westerners described Russian men's clothes (referring to those of the nobility only, of course) as Oriental яTurkishяin style. Others, correctly, identified them as Hungarian or Polish. The clothes worn by women in Russia were so much like Western dress as to evoke no comment. The court of the Tsar impressed the visitors with its enormous luxury and display, and none of them found Ivan IV himself or his court in any way exotic or strange. They felt honored to be allowed to kiss his hand, and the only criticism made by a number of observers is that Ivan had truly terrible table manners.
All this amounts to at least a probability that the Moscow of Ivan the Terrible had many similarities with Western cities; in architecture, style of dress, and court etiquette it presented aspects which were familiar to the numerous travelers from the north of Europe. These features are rather superficial, of course; let us look a little deeper. Daniil, Metropolitan of All Russia, wrote many sermons during the 1520s and 1530s castigating Russian aristocratic mores. From these sermons it is possible to put together a summary portrait of a Muscovite dandy. Formerly he shaved his head, but now he wore his hair long, had it curled, and sometimes went so far as to wear a wig. Grand Prince Vasilii III, father of Ivan the Terrible, had shaved his beard, but the true dandy plucked out each hair so that his face would be really smoothяthen he could apply the pomades, the powders, the eye shadow, and the lipstick which so outraged the Metropolitan. The dandy kept his body supple by endless grooming, perfumes, oils, and massages. His collar was so high and stiff with precious stones that he could hardly turn his head. He wore so many rings that his fingers would not bend. His boots were so light and high that he had to practice walking in them, and on them he wore a king's ransom in jewels. Worst of all, all this finery and beauty were designed to seduce not so much women as other men; time and again Daniil thundered against the homosexuality of the young and old members of the Russian aristocracy. Instead of the "traditional" Russian boyar, hairy and heavy, crude and stiff, we see a mignon of Henri III at the height of the French Renaissance.
This too, "the dandy," is comparatively superficial. But it does suggest a mood, which we may call the "Russian Renaissance," and which does not seem too dissimilar to that of the Renaissance in northern Europe. And the list of comparisons can be extended much furtherяwitchcraft, alchemy, astrology, heresies, exotic Oriental medicine, all appeared in Moscow as they had appeared, somewhat earlier, in England, France, the Low Countries, and Germany. The mood that these aspects of the northern Renaissance at leastяreveal is one of insecurity, of a breakdown of old forms and relations and a search for new values in an unstable and apocalyptic world fu;l of mysterious forces and dangers; and we may posit such a mood in the Russia of Ivan the Terrible as well. The reasons for this mood in late fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Russia are, fortunately, far beyond our concern. But, now, focusing on the image of Ivan the Terrible, we should keep in mind a certain Renaissance flavor of the society which, in effect, created and fed this image.
To start, let us compare it with another figure of rulership, that of the traditional medieval Russian prince. The Life of Grand Prince Dmitrii Donskoi, victor over the Tatars in the great battle on the Don in 1380, may serve as our model. Written in the early fifteenth century, it provides a succinct definition of the Christian ruler: as ruler, Dmitrii was an emperor, a tsar, ever victorious, just, and all-powerful; as man, he lived like a monk, ever praying, ever conscious of his human insignificance. The prince is pictured within the framework of Christian political theory, best known to the Russians in the formulations of the Byzantine writer Agapetosя"In his power, the ruler is like God . . . as man, he is but dust." All that Grand Prince Dmitrii tried to do, according to the Life, was to live up to this Christian principle expressed in the dichotomy tsar-monk; as ruler he was godlike, and as a man he was the humblest of the humble, a monk, so humble, in fact, as to be angelic and to be sanctified for his pains.
The image of the medieval ruler was a consequence of his functions, and these, ideally, were quite simpleяto render justice and defend the faith. His justice depended upon his closeness to God, and his defense of the faith upon his piety. Hence the formal epithets: crowned by God, beloved of God, chosen by God, most pious, most orthodox, God-loving grand prince, and so on. And these formal epithets still attached to Ivan the Terrible, reminding us that he remained a Christian ruler, just as the Renaissance princes of Europe were Christian rulers. Yet the image of the Terrible Tsar resembles little the image of the saintly Christian prince.
What were some of its components? Again starting with the superficial, we find general agreement of Russians and foreigners alike on Ivan's extraordinary erudition and intelligenceяso much so that most historians take it for granted that Tsar Ivan was the best educated Russian of his day. The point isяwhether Ivan was truly erudite or notяthat learning, education, and wisdom were new virtues for the Russian ruler. Wisdom was an old virtue, but in the sense of spirituality, rather than of intelligence and knowledge. And if the Kievan or Muscovite grand princes were well educated, we learn nothing about it from the zhitiia and the chronicles. These virtues of education and wisdom which we associate with the Renaissance were expressed, for Petrarch, Poggio, or Pico della Mirandola, by rhetoric--a conscious style in speech or writing which revealed a man's style of thought and his control of meaningful erudition. Hence it is interesting that Tsar Ivan was the first Russian ruler who tried to be a writer. The main monument to his rhetorical skill is his correspondence, particularly his first epistle to Prince Andrei Kurbskii, formerly Ivan's trusted general and councilor who betrayed the Tsar and fled to take service with Ivan's great enemy, the king of Poland and Lithuania. From his refuge Kurbskii wrote to Ivan, and the Tsar answered him, pouring out a flood of invective, of rhetorical devices, of historical disquisitions, of, virtually all literary forms except poetry. The quality of Ivan's rhetoric is not at issue here; suffice it to say that the Tsar was consciously trying to be rhetorical and literary in style, though rather defensive about it: "You will say that no matter how much I turn it about and around, I am saying the same thing over again." And Kurbskii, although upholding the old order and the idea of the pious and Christlike ruler, knew how to hurt Ivan most; he was most sarcastic and most effective when denigrating Ivan's skill as a writer, accusing him of writing chaotically, mixing metaphors, being verbose and repetitive, giving irrelevant examplesяlacking control, in other words, over both the form and the substance of his intellectual expression.
The rhetoric, nevertheless, was only a means, no matter how important,. to convey ideas. For our immediate problem, the meaning of the "terrible tsar," let us start with the most obvious source, Tsar Ivan himself. For Ivan himself characterized the "terrible" ruler. The general mood is somewhat defensive; Ivan was answering Kurbskii's accusations against his reign of terror and trying to justify his position.
In the body of his argument, by endless repetition, Ivan made three main points. First, the necessity and legitimacy of autocracy. The Russian tsar was samoderzhets, autocrat, and this was the proper and natural form of rulership for the whole universe, and particularly for Russia, which had always been ruled by autocratsяIvan's ancestors. Kurbskii blasphemed when he argued in effect that slaves should rule their masters, and Ivan would be betraying his sacred trust if he were to accept Kurbskii's advice and obey his councilorsяact like a slave instead of a tsar. By betraying his natural sovereign Kurbskii had lost his immortal soul, and Ivan would endanger his own soul if he did not carry out his divine function. But not only was autocracy legitimate and sanctified; it was absolutely necessary. The absence of an autocrat meant the weakness of the state, of Russia, or Rome, or Constantinople, and this in turn meant its devastation by enemies and its ultimate ruin. Only under an autocrat could the state prosper, and Ivan measured prosperity by military power, used defensively, to guard Russia, or offensively, to conquer Kazan, Astrakhan, or the old Russian lands under Polish Lithuanian sway.
Autocracy was necessary for the defense and aggrandizement of the realm (and these purposes are traditional enough in medieval thought), but it also had an internal function, that of rendering justice. And while this, too, was the traditional medieval duty of the ruler, Ivan's conception of justice (his second point) was significantly different, in emphasis if not principle. "See you, even the apostle orders [us] to save through fear. Even under the most pious tsars one can find many cases of the most severe and cruel punishment. Do you really think, in your madness, that the tsar must always act in the same manner, irrespective of the times and the circumstances?... Then all the realms will fall apart because of disorder and internal strife.... Remember the greatest of tsars, Constantine, how he, for the sake of the empire, killed his own son! And Prince Fedor Rostislavich, your own ancestor, how much blood he shed in Smolensk, during Easter time [at that]l And yet they have been canonized. And what about David, the elect of God? When he was re fused entrance to Jerusalem, he ordered the slaying of the inhabitants, of the halt and the blind." Over and over again Ivan hammered at this aspect of the autocrat. "At all times tsars must be cautious and reasonable: sometimes gentle and sometimes cruel, merciful to the good and cruel toward the evil ones. And if this is not the case, then he [the tsar] is not tsar." The tsar ruled through terror reasonably, that is, deliberately, and through terror saved men, both their souls and their bodies. He had to do so even if he was averse to acting in this way. Sometimes, Ivan asserted, he did not wish to punish, but had to carry on with his duties for other wise the state would fall and ruin overtake Russia. To repeat, the principle of strict and even severe justice, expressed in medieval political theory by the doctrine of the two swords, one - spiritual, the other secular, was nothing new. What was new was the emphasis- on the power of fear, the conscious and deliberate use of terror as an instrument of policy and of justice itself. One could argue that even this conception derived from the medieval tradition, for God and even Christ should appear terrible to the wrongdoer. - Hence, the third point that Tsar Ivan made appears the more curious: the autocratic tsar, ruling with godlike terror, underpinned this terror with a frail and purely human nature. Ivan started out in a perfectly canonical way: "If I did commit some small sin in spiritual and ecclesiastical matters, it was because of your treason; besides, even I am a man, and there is no man who is without sin, only God is sinless." Time and again he pointed out that he was human, only a man; but then he went on to accuse Kurbskii of demanding from the Tsar, "who is a man, more than human nature permits." Finally, Ivan even accused Kurbskii of heresy: "I do not consider myself immortal . . . Even though I wear the crown, I know that, by nature, I am as frail as all men. And that you in your rationalizations wish that I be above the laws of natureя this is heresy."
Ivan's answers were ambiguous. He did things which he did not wish to do but which he could not help doing, both out of his imperial duty and the demands of his human nature. The causes were contradictory: to be cruel as tsar was to be good, to rule well; to be cruel as man was to be sinful, though naturally so. But both imperial duty and human nature contributed, together, to good rule by punishing the subjects, who were also sinful. The Agapetan dichotomy of the ruler as god and man was reinterpreted by Ivan into a dramatic tension in which the worst in the man contributed to the best in rulership. Ivan felt this drama personally and most sharply, but it is reflected, in subdued form, by his contemporaries. Jacob von Ulfeld, the Danish envoy to Ivan. in 1575 wrote about the unjust rumors concerning the Tsar that he was so strict and cruel to his subjects and had enslaved them so much that they obeyed; the rumors were unjust, however, in that they implied the wrong motives for Ivan's cruelty. He was cruel be-, cause "otherwise they [his subjects] are obstinate, disobedient and lean to all vices." Jacob Reitenfels described Ivan as a tyrant and a monster of cruelty, but one who read the petitions of his subjects, heard out the complaints of people of the lowest class in person, persecuted corrupt officials, and was a patron to foreigners, carriers of civilization. Daniel Printz wrote that, even as a youth, Ivan had planned great deeds, wishing to conquer the whole of the East and then to turn and conquer the North and the West. He admitted that Ivan was a tyrant, but this was because of the Tsar's "passion for ruling." His cruelty was a personal trait, caused by his nature and by the malitia, the badness, of his subjects.
The English visitors were even more enthusiastic about the Terrible Tsar. Jenkinson wrote that "this Emperor useth great familiaritie, as wel unto all his nobles and subjects, as also unto strangers which serve him. .. And by this meanes he is not onely beloved of his nobles and commons, but also had in great dread and feare through all his dominions, so that i thinke no prince in Christendome is more feared of his owne then he is, nor yet better beloved.... Hee delighteth not greatly in hawking, hunting, or any other pastime . . . but . . . in two things: First, to serve God. . . and the second, howe to subdue and conquere his enemies." A similar image of Ivan as the great and ambitious conqueror was drawn by Sir James Horsey, though Horsey wrote his memoirs after the death of Ivan, so that he could end with the thought that "unrestrained ambition and human wisdom are, apparently, madness before the allmighty power and will of the AllMighty." The portrait of the Terrible Tsar drawn by these Western accounts had some very pronounced featuresя he is terrible, cruel, and stern, because of his nature, his overweening ambition, and the wickedness, the malitia, of his subjects. But, monster and tyrant that he is, he is both feared and greatly loved because he renders justice to all, inspires awe in all, and guards and increases his state.
Because these accounts are Western (or, more precisely, Northwestern) European, one might argue, of course, that they are irrelevant to the problem of the "Russian Renaissance." Though they reveal the picture of a sixteenth-century Renaissance ruler, the portrait is a Western one. So much the more striking, then, is the fact that when we compare these western observations with Russian portrayals of the Terrible Tsar (particularly in the histories written during the Time of Troubles), we find so little difference. The Russians are not as articulate, and the terror is closer to home for them, but their acceptance of the just tyrant was the same as Horsey's or Reitenfels'.
Both the Russian and the foreign accounts, however, were descriptions of Ivan IV: that is, they were, in a sense, rationalizations after the fact, attempts to explain something that was actual or had actually taken place, and they were depictions of a particular individual, Tsar Ivan Vasil'evich. This does not make them less revealing, for what matters is how they saw any particular individual and what values they applied in judging Tsar Ivan. But was the "terrible tsar" only Ivan IV, or was this the accepted image of the ruler at the time?
One answer to this question is provided by two sources: one, the essays of Ivan Peresvetov, a member of the service-gentry class, which he presented to Ivan in 1549, when the Tsar was nineteen years old; the other, the so-called Valaamskaia Beseda (Valaam Discussion), written in 1551, during the meetings of the Stoglav Church Council, when Ivan was twenty-one years old. In other words, both of these works were programmatic, describing not what the very young Tsar Ivan was doing, but what he should do in order to be a true and great tsar (and, of course, please the writers).
Peresvetov represented that service gentry which was a correlate of the new centralized monarchy, and the fulcrum of his political theory was his anti-aristocratism; the aristocracyяautonomous, unruly, corrupt, and selfishяwas responsible for the decline and ruin of great states; hence, the great monarch was one who abolished all aristocratic privileges and pretensions. In Peresvetov's thought there is a certain historicistic fundamentalism similar to Ivan's: the framework is Christian but historical. Hence the primacy of the Bible, of Christian history (with the obvious emphasis on the Old Testament), and the lack of any references to theological authority.
The chief function of the ruler was pravda, justice, according to Peresvetov. Justice, however, meant more than judging quickly, impartially, and sternly all those who come to seek it. It was not just legal but also social; it meant protecting the poor against the rich and powerful, it meant the extermination of corruption, it meant rewarding the worthy, those who served the state well. And Peresvetov placed it completely outside the traditional medieval Christian context: His example was the Islamic sultan, Mohammed the Conqueror in the "Tale of Mohammed," who was made to say, "God loves justice above all things"; Peresvetov went even further when he made a Christian prince, Peter of Wallachia, exclaim, "God does not love the faith [of the prince] я[He] loves justice."
Justice, then, was no longer necessarily a function of piety or Orthodoxy or even Christianity. Indeed, its worst enemy was krotost', mildness, kindness. Kindness was what led to the ruin of the state, for it meant that the guilty were not punished, the powerful were not restrained, the corrupt were forgiven. Over and over again Peresvetov associated pravda with groza, that is, justice with terror, or awe. He flattered the young tsar: "Men wrote of you . . . you are a wise and terrible sovereign," and "Doctors and philosophers write of the pious great Russian Tsar and Grand Prince Ivan Vasil'evich, that there is such great wisdom and justice and terror for the unjust . . . in his tsardom." The Sultan, Mohammed, after exalting justice as most beloved of God, was made to continue: "It is not possible for a tsar to rule his realm without terror thus Tsar Constantine [Emperor Constantine XI, last emperor of Constantinople] gave free reign to his grandees and rejoiced their hearts . . . while the whole land and the realm wept and bathed in misfortunes. And for this the Lord God grew angry against Tsar Constantine . . . with His sacred and holy anger."
It is apparent that Peresvetov, in writing about the poor and abused people, was not thinking of the masses of poor peasants or townspeople. The oppressed, for him, were identical with the worthy ones; they were the soldiers, the warriors, whose numbers and skill measured the strength of the whole state. Peresvetov was obsessed both with what he called military science and with the morale of the warriors. The main accusation against the aristocracy was that, through license and evil flattery of the ruler, it tamed, made gentle, the army. "And how shall an earthly tsar manage without the army? The tsar is great an(l glorious through his warriors.... The tsar's munificence toward his soldiers is the measure of his wisdom." The function of the army was ~o protect the state both externally and internally, for "when the land is enslaved, in that land all evils are done, murder and robbery and injury." But the army did not play only a defensive role. In the Life of Dmitrii Donskoi, as a great general he was compared with Joshua or King David. Peresvetov suggested to Tsar Ivan a different ideal: the glory of living up to the image of Augustus and Alexander the Great, men whose "fame is immortal" (slava veliia voveki).
This whole complex of ideas is enormously suggestive, but, for the moment, let us deal with one aspect of them. It would be unfair to describe Peresvetov as an advocate of modern imperialism. But his ideas did reflect what we may call the imperial conception, the idea of glory through conquests, so widely spread in Renaissance Western Europe and expressed in Western account of Ivan. In Russia itself Peresvetov was not the only one to hint at it. The traditional slogan of the Muscovite grand princes in their foreign policy was the "gathering of the Russian lands," their reconquest from the Lithuanians, the Poles, the Livonian knights. Ivan's conquests of great Tatar territories in the east required a different justification; and, in the History of Kazan, celebrating the young tsar's conquest of that khanate, one finds the new, imperial conception of conquest as a fulfillment of glory and power, owed to the Russian tsar against a traditional enemy, just as for Shakespeare, Henry V's conquest of France was the legitimate fruit of English imperial prowess and glory.
How was the ruler, the tsar, to build up and maintain his army, how was he to attain all this glory, and how was he to render terrible justice? For Peresvetov the answer was clearяthrough wisdom. The nineteen year-old Ivan's wisdom was certified by "Greek philosophers and Latin doctors." And Peresvetov-revealed the nature of this kind of wisdom by offering to the pious and Orthodox Russian tsar the ideal image of the rulerяSultan Mohammed, an infidel. In other words, wisdom was purely secular, autonomous of faith and piety, so that Greeks, untrustworthy in Russian eyes, and Latins, schismatic in Russian eyes, could certify it because they were scholars, and an Islamic infidel ruler could exemplify it. Wisdom was an inborn quality, but it could be increased: "The Turkish tsar, Mohammed Sultan, was himself a wise philosopher because of his Turkish books, but then he read the Greek books [of the philosophers], translating them into Turkish word for word, and thus Tsar Mohammed's great wisdom was increased twofold." Wisdom was the ability of the ruler to understand the true nature and needs of his realm. Thus Mohammed was able to reject bad advice, while Constantine XI, who died on the walls of Constantinople, read the books written by his perfidious grandees and hence, ruling without terror and neglecting the army, ruined the state. The path to wisdom was philosophy, learning, even for the Christian Emperor Constantine. For Peresvetov, then, the confrontation was not between the Christian saintly ruler and the infidel philosopher-sultan, but between a good philosopher and a bad one on the throne. The truly wise ruler was successful in his chief task, the preservation and prosperity of his realm; the unwise ruler was defeated. Hence the novel nature of Peresvetov's explanation for the fall of the Eastern Roman Empire in May 1453, when Constantinople was taken by the Turks. In the fifteenth century, Russian reaction to this cataclysmic event was extraordinarily subdued precisely because the reasons were so very clear: according to the chronicles, the Greeks had betrayed the Orthodox faith by the Church Union of Florence when they accepted Latin heresies, and some years later came the divine punishment for their sins. For Peresvetov, Constantinople fell not because of sin but because of bad policyяdisorganization of the state, dissatisfaction and poverty in the army. If sin this was, it was against the realm, not against God, and Peresvetov pleaded with Ivan not to commit this new and dreadful sin.
Peresvetov's ideas were so novel and vivid that they can compete with the passionate rhetoric of Tsar Ivan himself. Possibly Peresvetov picked up many of them during his lengthy travels in Eastern Europe, though what matters to us is that they were heard, understood, and shared by others in Russia
The Valaamskaia Beseda is far more modest. First, its main purpose was to attack the principle of ecclesiastical property. This purpose in itself belongs to the complex of Renaissance-Reformation ideas, but it also determined the emphasis on state-church relations rather than on the nature of rulership. And second, written by clerics, it is more traditional in its conceptions. Thus, though the tsar must be just, his justice must be tempered with mercy: "A merciful man is the tsar, showing mercy to the world, in this way being like the merciful God." The mercy of God was not the only quality of divine justice, of course, and the Russian tsar was given his autocratic power, for which he was answerable, by the "just and terrible heavenly tsar, Christ our God," but this kind of terribilita is the traditional medieval one of Christ Pantocrator. In the Valaamskaia Beseda the merciful tsar turned terrible in another context. As for Peresvetov the tsar had to be terrible in order to give justiceя restrain the nobles, drive out corruptionяso for the Varlaamskaia Beseda, too, the tsar must be terribleяto subdue the Church, drive monks out of the government, rescue the population from the power and corruption that property gave to the Church. "And if, in this temporal world, there will not be on watch the everlasting imperial terror, then... men will not repent and will obey priests." This terror was to serve many purposes: "The tsar. . . should decree, by his imperial and humble terror, in monasteries and elsewhere, that [men] should not shave their beards and moustaches, should not pluck them, should not betray their calling . . . and so forth.' Renaissance fashion of fashion of shaving and plucking found its way even into Russian monasteries. More important is the "humble terror," which appears to be a conscious attempt to combine the old and the new, to synthesize the terrible tsar and the pious and Orthodox tsar.
But the synthesis did not work very well; the balance between humility and terror was not maintained, because, for the author of the Beseda, the greatest threat to the well-being of Russian society was the tsar's prostata--which meant "trusting others," being "kind and simple toward people." This was the quality that brought ruin and destruction: 'And for such monkish sins and for the tsar's trustfulness does God release his righteous wrath even against the just, in order to save some and to punish others for having lost their souls."
**
We can now start to pull some of the strands of Russian Renaissance thought together. Why should the tsar's trustfulness and kindness be so dangerous Why did he have to rule through fear, with terror? For Peresvetov it was because the aristocracy was evil, and so it was also for Tsar Ivan; for the Valaam author it was because clerics were evil. The common denominator emerges if we recall the words of von Ulfeld, for example: the Tsar was cruel because his subjects were "obstinate, disobedient and lean to all vices." And this, indeed, sounds familiar, for he have all read that "it may be said of men in general that they are ungrateful, voluble, dissemblers, anxious to avoid danger, and covetous of gain.... And the prince who has relied solely on their words, without making other preparations, is ruined; for the friendship which is gained by purchase and not through grandeur and nobility of spirit is bought but not secured. Men have less scruple in offending one who makes himself loved than one who makes himself feared; for love is held by a chain of obligation which, men being selfish, is broken whenever it serves their purpose; but fear is maintained by a dread of punishment which.. never fails." This could be a summation of Russian political thought; it is from Machiavelli, The Prince, Chapter 17, Of Cruelty and Clemency..." The prince must be terrible because Renaissance thought was premised on the idea that men were selfish, cowardly, and evil: the medieval solution of divine grace in the world above was not relevant to the politics of the world below. For Machiavelli this premise was so major and so obvious that he did not bother to discuss it. Yet, given this premise, a question remains: Why would the ruler wish to be terrible if it meant that he had to perform acts which were evil and would endanger his own salvation if he was a Christian? And, after all, Ivan of Russia, the Italian despots, West European kings, and Machiavelli himself were Christians. Again Machiavelli can be used to summarize the thought of Ivan the Terrible, Peresvetov, and the Valaamskaia Beseda:
I know that everyone will admit that it would be highly praiseworthy in a prince to possess all the . . . qualities that are reputed good, but as they cannot all be possessed or observed, human conditions not permitting of it, it is necessary that he should be prudent enough to avoid the scandal of those vices which would lose him the state.... And yet he must not mind incurring the scandal of those vices without which it would be difficult to save the state, for if one considers well, it will be found that some things which seem virtues would, if followed, lead to one's ruin, and some others which appear vices result in one's greater security and well-being.
These conclusions are central in Machiavelli's work, and they, in turn, can be summarized without adducing the numerous instances available in the writings of the Florentine statesman: If kindness, a Christian virtue, leads to the ruin of the state and the prince, and if cruelty, a vice, leads to unity, strength, and prosperity, the prince must choose to be cruel.
This does not mean that Renaissance thought was immoral or anti-Christian. It does mean that Renaissance political thought was autonomous. Machiavelli was not concerned with attacking Christian virtues; his purpose was the preservation and prosperity of the state, and this purpose was an end in itself, autonomous of God and individual salvation. Hence, it possessed a morality of its own, based on the achievement of the supreme purpose, and also autonomous. It appeared to contradict and undermine traditional Christian morality only because it used the same terms as traditional morality did. For Machiavelli, however, it had nothing to do with Christian individual morality. Policy was autonomous; this meant that policy and God were of different worlds, totally separate, and it was meaningless to measure either one by the standards of the other. Both kindness and cruelty could be a virtue or a vice, and ruin would ensue if they were to be confused with their Christian parallels:
Cesare Borgia was considered cruel, but his cruelty had brought order to the Romagna, united it, and reduced it to peace and fealty. If this is considered well, it will be seen that he was really much more merciful than the Florentine people, who, to avoid the name of cruelq, allowed Pistoia to be destroyed. A prince, there fore, must not mind incurring the charge of cruelty for the purpose of keeping his subjects united and faithful; for, with a very few examples, he will be more merciful than those who, from excess of tenderness, allow disorders to arise, from whence spring bloodshed and rapine.
The ruler must not confuse the two kinds of moralities, which were quite independent of each other. His duty was to concentrate on that which was primary in the autonomous world of policy and statecraft, Machiavelli insisted: "A prince should therefore have no other aim or thought, nor take up any other thing for his study, but war and its organization and discipline."
The ideas of Machiavelli, Peresvetov, and Tsar Ivan seem to coincide. It is most unlikely that Ivan, for instance, had even heard of the name of the Italian philosopher. Yet, in common with Machiavelli, the tsar and Peresvetov held a belief in the primacy of the army, of force, in the necessity of severe and even cruel administration and justiceяin short, in the Renaissance conception of human nature and the Renaissance conviction of the autonomy of human activity such as politics.
Nevertheless, if the premises were held in common, there were differences in the way these premises were accepted and assessed. For Machiavelli, and for Italian Renaissance political thought, the autonomy of politics and the nature of men were matters of fact, evoking little tension or discomfort. Men were selfish and cowardly, and therefore they acted evillyяsuch was the reality of this world, and Machiavelli drew the proper consequences for politics from it. To a large degree this was the attitude of Peresvetov. For Tsar Ivan matters seemed to be more complicated. The tension he felt and expressed was because, for him, the cause of men's evil actions was human sinfulness, inevitable and tragic, rather than selfishness, human and natural.
That Tsar Ivan remained more traditionally theological and medieval than Machiavelli is understandable. Medieval political theory continued to exist in Russia through the sixteenth century and well into the seventeenth, during which, in some ways, it reached its apogee with the Most Gentle Tsar Aleksei. At the same time, this awareness of sinfulness and evil and the resulting feeling of tension and drama existed in Ivan's contemporaries such as Luther and Calvin. Hence it may be useful to distinguish between the modes of thought of the northern Renaissance, ill preoccupied with sin, and the southern, Italian, Renaissance. Whatever the nature of these distinctions, however, one might say that our chief task is done--in having suggested that the image of the terrible ruler was a renaissance one, exemplified by Ivan the Terrible in Russia, by The Prince of Machiavelli in the land of the Renaissance. The ideas of Machiavelli himself, of Peresvetov, and of the Valaamskaia Beseda may be summed up thus: The duty of the prince is to recognize the true nature of men and to use and control human selfishness, weakness, and cowardice through terror for his own autonomous political goals. Within this schema the prince cannot be quite like all men. He can afford to be selfish, for his interests coincide with those of his state, but he cannot be weak, cowardly, or stupidly kind, for then he will fall, and the state with him. Above all else, he must be rationally terribleя"prudent" is the word used by both Machiavelli and Tsar Ivanя controlling himself and his subjects.
But this does leave one final problem, that the image of the terrible tsar included not only rational political terror but also the irrational, the personal, humanly monstrous aspects of Tsar Ivan's natureяthe savagery, the incredible, blasphemous cruelty, the vengefulness. Machiavelli provides no answer to this. Yet if Tsar Ivan was mad, he was not alone in his madness, for close to him in time, if not in space, were, to repeat, Richard III, Louis XI, Philip Li, andяperhaps the prototype of them allяthe late fifteenth-century ruler of Wallachia, Tsepesh, called Dracula, the Dragon. Before he became the vampire of B~ Stoker's nineteenth century novel, Tsepesh was the dragonlike ruler, surviving in the legends of Southeastern Europe for centuries as a "monster of cruelty and justice." This figure occurs time and again both in the oral and the written traditions, and always in a specific sense: the cruelty of Dracula was inhuman, obscene, but it was through his unspeakable cruelty that he established the reign of total justice over his principality. Hence the image of Dracula lived on, strong in its ambiguity for, though the cruelty was monstrous, it also resulted in monstrous, that is, exaggeratedly great, justice. And the legend of Dracula was put into literary form, simultaneously and independently at the end of the fifteenth century, by the Russian ambassador to King Matthew Corvinus of Hungary, Fedor Kuritsyn, by the Italian humanist at the court of the king, Bonfino, and by the German poet Michael Beheim (it also got into the writings of Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini). One can argue (as the Soviet medievalist Lur'e does in his brilliant study on Dracula) that the ambivalent image of cruelty and justice was in response to men's hopes that in an age of many small feudal dragons, one great dragon would provide justice and peace. Yet the question remains, why a Dragon, a monster, a Tsepesh, or an Ivan?
The conception of the northern Renaissance would allow us to construct a sort of explanation. In a world which was evil, where all men were sinful, any human action, precisely because it was human, could only result in evil; this is the tragic dilemma of Hamlet, and it is hinted at by Tsar Ivan when he pleaded his frail humanity, subject to the "laws of nature," to Prince Kurbskii. If human acts were evil, then, tragically, the acts of an autocrat were likely to be monstrous, though, and because, human. Yet the ruler must act and, hence, do evil. But to push Tsar Ivan the Terrible and Hamlet together may be really going a little too far.
Still, monstrous rulers were not restricted to the north and the east of Europe. Italy had its full share of rulers who were terrible, but who overstepped Machiavelli's standard of rationality: Cesare Borgia and his father Pope Alexander VI, whose poisonings and other crimes shook
even Renaissance Italy; Sigismondo Malatesta, called the Monster, desperately trying to think up new blasphemies to perform in the lovely church built for him by Alberti; or, somewhat earlier, as Burckhardt tells us, Gabrino Fondolo, tyrant of Cremona, unable to forgive himself for having passed up the chance of his lifeяto kill the Emperor Sigismund and the antipope John XXIII. By the time he realized that he could push both emperor and pope off his castle tower and gain immortal fame for an absolutely unique crime, the moment had passed and his forelock was out of reach.
The motives of these princes were different, at least on the conscious level, as they were also different from those of Ivan the Terrible. Yet one may suggest a common denominator. It is provided by the notion of terribilita as it appeared, for example, in Petrarch, associated with his idea of the hero. The hero was awe-inspiring, terribile, because he had both the need and the right to live and act beyond the boundaries of human laws and rules. Petrarch picked up the antique conception of the hero as one who by his own deeds overcomes his human limitations and state and is deified, and applied it to his own times. In the Christian Renaissance, however, deification was not possible or meaningful; its equivalent, for the hero, was immortality through everlasting fame. For Petrarch, of course, "heroship" could be achieved in all realms of human activity, but our concern is with the implications of his thought for political activity, for rulership; namely, that the terrible ruler is not only terrible in his function, as for Machiavelli, but in his . person as well, for he has broken through human limitation and cannot be judged by human standards.
Petrarch was manifesting, then, in yet another way, the problem of human autonomy which was a mark of the Renaissance mode of thought. And, for the Renaissance political man, for the ruler, Petrarch suggested a new goalяimmortality through fameяwhich provided yet another moral structure, as different and as independent of the traditional Christian structure as that resulting from political autonomy. Everlasting fame, no matter how attained, was, after all, what Malatesta and Fondolo sought. But this also was what Peresvetov suggested to Ivan of Russia when he evoked the immortal fame of Augustus and Alexander the Great. And, according to Daniel Prints, Ivan felt this appeal, for he was tyrannical out of his "passion for ruling."
Few Renaissance thinkers liked or approved of tyranny, of course, and Petrarch, himself crowned with the wreath of laurel, saw the poet as the epitome of deification. But the poet, deified through his genius, raised the moral or emotional conflicts, and his gift did not evoke the fascination that power did and does. The problem with the political man, the ruler, was that he often strove, and had to strive, for the ideal of terribilita, by terrible means. On the one hand, one could, and did, condemn the crimes of a prince; on the other hand, by being terribile he escaped the framework of human morality and achieved a human ideal which had to be admired. Hence the monstrous ruler evoked a curiously ambivalent reaction among the intellectuals of his time, and this is significant for the atmosphere within which such rulers lived. Dracula is not condemned out of hand but is seen as a monster of cruelty and justice. The first to deal with this theme, Alberto Mussato, in his "Eccerinis" in the fourteenth century presented Ezzelino de Romano as a genius of evil, conscious of what he did but, above all, a genius, of nonhuman, colossal stature. And, closer to home, the scholar Giles Fletcher, Protestant and English, whose work "Of the Russe Commonwealth" is considered the best account of late sixteenth-century Russia, condemned Russian habits, barbarism, religion, and form of government. The tyranny of Ivan the Terrible had been such that Fletcher, in 1588, predicted the civil war which came about fifteen years later. The introduction to his work, addressed to Queen Elizabeth, praised her reign of justice, as contrasted to the horrors of tyranny. But the same Fletcher wrote a poem "The Rising to the Crowne of Richard the Third, Written by himselfe," in which Richard tells his own history, his successes, crimes, and defeats, and ends with these verses:
Nor speake I now, as if I did repent, Unlesse for this a crowne I bought so cheap. For meaner things men wittes and lives have spent, Which blood have sowne, and crowns could never reap. Live Richard long, the honour of thy name, And scorne all such, as doe thy fortune blame.
Thus have I told, how I a crowne did win, Which now torments me, that I cannot sleep Where I doe end, my sorrow did beigin, Because I got which long I could not keep. My verse is harsh, yet (reader) doe not frowne, I wore no garland, but a golden Crowne.
Fletcher certainly did not like tyrants, because they transgressed human (and divine) laws. But was not this very transgression the mark of the awe-inspiring hero? Fletcher's Richard, tyrant and usurper, displayed all the traits: the human madness of paranoia, the contempt for men, the obsession with glory, the arrogance of standing aloneяimmortality within reachяbeyond pity and beyond judgment. He flung this challenge to the world at large and to poets (who only wore garlands) in particular.
What I am suggesting, then, is that Ivan the Terrible as Renaissance prince reflected a Renaissance fusion of two strands of thought and feeling: the idea of the ruler, terrible in his function as ruler, guaranteeing through cruel terror justice and order in a world of weak and evil men and of evolving strong centralized monarchies; and the ideal of the awe-inspiring free personality, autonomous of old standards, above human law, and independent of divine law in a world where any means to gain immortality could be considered and utilized. But the fusion was explosive, for it combined political autonomy with an autonomous ego. It legitimatized in one person absolute political power with no limitations except his own interests, and the untrammeled human personality fulfilling itself by exceeding all human limitations. The result frequently was awe-inspiring and monstrous.
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PERSONALITY:
Equal parts logical and emotional, pragmatic and wild, cold but incredibly soft beneath the ice – Gale is a walking study in contradictions. Her head and her heart are constantly at war. From a distance, she’ll approach any problem she’s given with cool, clear logic. But catch her on the spot, in the heat of a moment? She’s prone to acting before her head can fully catch up to her, all fire and adrenaline. Gale calls it trusting her gut when it works out, and letting her emotions get the best of her when it doesn’t. Whip-smart and determined, she lacks the silvery veneer of the other Adairs and prefers blunt, straightforward communication that’s as efficient as the computers she spends so many hours with. She knows she’s the smartest person in almost any given room, even among the highbrow politicians her parents keep company with, and she enjoys watching other people squirm, scrutinizing and picking them apart because she’s never felt it was her job to make other people feel comfortable. Suffocated in a giant house where she was ignored no matter how large she made herself, Gale holds herself to an even higher standard than her brother because it’s the only way to prove she’s better, even though that still falls on deaf ears. Part of her thinks she owes much of her success to her family, as much as she begrudges them for it: it’s spite, after all, that has driven her all these years. Spite and the knowledge that she must look out for herself above all else, because no one else is going to do that for her. At least, that’s what she tells herself. At her core, however, is nothing more than the overwhelming desire to be accepted and loved, but she’s learned to bury her softness under sharp edges, used to being disregarded now matter how much she does to prove herself. She just isn’t sure who she’s even trying to prove something to, anymore.
HEADCANONS:
i. As if she wasn’t already suffocated enough in a home where her sole function was to be a glaring reminder of Sophie’s only mistake – homeschooling kept Gale even further confined, separated from other kids her age. Her parents told her it was because she was so advanced; she’d be miserable sitting in a classroom with kids years above her, girls in training bras and boy sprouting facial hair while she stood feet shorter. They were probably right. Gale always preferred the solitude of her room and speaking to people through a computer screen as opposed to face-to-face interactions. But it didn’t matter that they were right. What mattered that their reasoning was a lie. Gale was something to hide as her mom’s political career was taking off, a mistake swept under the rug for as long as possible until they knew she and Charles could both be trusted not to spill the family’s secret. Until they couldn’t keep them under their roof any longer, more like. With a high school diploma and a slew of AP scores under her belt at 16, Gale left for college only two years after her half-brother (and determined to graduate at the same time). Stanford was the obvious choice; one of the nation’s top schools in both computer science and mathematics, it was also the farthest Gale could get from D.C. without leaving the country.
It was hardly a surprise when she found herself thrust into a boys’ club, the smallest and the youngest and the low man on the totem pole. But this wasn’t like her home. Here, Gale couldn’t be ignored, not when she so easily surpassed everyone else in her classes, when she was the first to answer questions or provide a sarcastic response whenever a classmate or a professor got something wrong. She quickly realized that she didn’t mind being resented so long as she was being acknowledged., and in no time at all she was thriving at school, all her free time spent hunkered down in her dorm room working on a code of her own development and ignoring her roommate’s requests that she please stop typing until 4 am.
ii. It was during those late nights in her room that Gale stumbled upon the thing that would make her truly Great. It started as a project for a coding class, something she might simply have abandoned after receiving perfect marks had her professor not told her he believed she was on to something. So it was that she started to pour herself into Walkie-Talkie, a messaging app that allows users to send a voice message as easily as a text. She threw in all the capabilities of other popular messaging apps and an option for highly sophisticated encryption, and suddenly she had a hit on her hands. With a bit of hard work and marketing, Talkie (as it’s commonly referred to by end users) blew up, and Gale brought on a team to help manage its success and look to the future. She didn’t want to be limited by one app, to be a one-hit wonder that faded off to the background. That wasn’t enough, at least not enough for her mother to take notice. So she kept working. She built up an entire tech company, making money off data aggregation and predictive analytics along with marketing and advertising. She created a dating app that build off of Talkie. She leads philanthropic efforts to help connect villages in third-world countries to the Internet. Three years after graduating Stanford and she’s a millionaire on her own merit, and Knot47 is a contender in the tech market right alongside Alphabet and Apple.
Gale put a lot of thought into the name of her company. It had to be something catchy but not cheesy, something with her stamp on it without just sticking her name on it and making some pun about gale force winds. Not that she necessarily hates that comparison. In fact, Gale prides herself on how much she’s lived up to her name, an unstoppable force that nearly always indicates a storm coming. She took her inspiration from that, from the fact that she and her company are going to take the world by storm. It’s a bit obvious for a metaphor, but Gale’s skill set has always been for numbers and computers, not flowery writing. Still, she wanted it to be something harder to decipher. Something people would have to think about (and hopefully not be able to understand, even then). Thus, Knot47 was born. 47 knots, the strongest gale force wind, and a name that says nothing about what her company does. Because Gale knew she’d make it big enough everyone would simply know.
And she’s done a good job of it. Two years in and she had a corporate headquarters based just outside D.C., in Silver Spring, Maryland. The campus consists of three buildings connected by indoor skywalk, complete with nap rooms, a cafeteria that provides free breakfast, lunch and dinner, game rooms, and state-of-the-art tech. Everything required to keep her employees at work as long as possible. She’s not an easy boss to work for, but Knot47 is a tough company to get a job at, pays extremely well, and looks great on a resume.
iii. As much resentment as she has toward her mother, there’s also some admiration there as well. Sophie Adair has never been one to take no for an answer, never let her gender or the color of her skin define her, and that’s a mindset Gale embraced as well. A feminist who tries her hardest to hire qualified women whenever possible – she now boasts the highest number of women in development and management positions of any tech company, though that percentage still isn’t anywhere near her liking – she prides herself on how far she’s come in her industry. That isn’t to say, however, that she always identifies as a female. It confused her for a long time; weeks or months where she identified strongly as a woman, especially when she found herself surrounded by men who tried to put her down for it. But there were also times where she felt decidedly unfemale. Not male, not female – just other.
Genderfluidity wasn’t something she knew existed until extensive googling at the age of fourteen, and there was a sense of relief at the realization that she wasn’t alone in what she felt. For the most part she prefers feminine pronouns to define herself, if only because she wants the world to see a strong woman making success for herself in a male-dominated field. But she slips easily between identifying as female and agender. She’s not giving anyone the excuse to claim her success in the industry has anything to do with her not being female at all times. Some days she’ll show up to her mother’s events in a nice dress or skirt and makeup; other days she’ll show up plain-faced in dress pants and a button-up, with no qualms over how the inconsistency gets to her parents. If anything, that just makes her enjoy herself more. For the most part, she doesn’t give her gender much thought anymore, not since she figured herself out. She does and dresses what she feels from day to day, and that’s that.
iv. Raised in a household that demanded perfection in all things – from her, if not from Charles – perhaps it’s a wonder Gale didn’t go off to college and seek out the wildest parties she could find. But teenage rebellion was never her MO, and quite frankly the idea of getting within a hundred feet of a room full of drunk, sweaty, horny Ivy League students sounded like something out of a nightmare. No, Gale explored her newfound freedom in the same way she did everything; her own way. Namely, by forgetting everything her parents had ever taught her about healthy eating habits and the dangers of sugar. Where her much older peers indulged in drugs and alcohol, Gale indulged in candy, and its a habit that’s stuck with her. She’s a sugar addict, plain and simple, and it’s just one more way she sets herself apart from her family. With as much going on in her life as Gale has, she lives on coffee, mixed with sugar and cream until it’s so light in color it’s unrecognizable, and then adding a little more just for good measure. There’s an entire drawer in her office her assistant is responsible for keeping stocked with candy bars and gummies, and she always has at least one package of watermelon sour patch kids in her purse. It’s not uncommon to see her munching on them at a press conference, wiping the sugar off her fingers on Charles’s pants.
v. Gale has never dated. Being homeschooled meant few opportunities to meet other kids, and those she did all reminded her too much of Charles: spoiled, pretentious, more obsessed with their images than anything else. No, thank you. She was perfectly happy left to her own devices, focusing on her studies and the various coding and chess competitions she was involved in. Once she got to college it was much of the same. Significantly younger than the rest of her classmates, Gale was hardly in a position to be dating at Stanford and she much preferred to stay dedicated to her classwork and on track to graduate early. And nothing has changed for her. A young professional, she’s much more interested in her work than she is in going on dates. Not to mention – the thought of going on a date with anybody makes her more nervous than she’d like to admit, even to herself. She’s always been better with screens than with people, and she’s perfectly happy to remain that way.
vi. Naturally energetic and with an affinity for sugar, Gale is nearly constantly fidgeting. Tapping her foot or fingers, clicking a pen, fiddling with the ring she wears on her right hand or picking at her nail polish, she’s always been bad at sitting still (perhaps the one area where Charles has always bested her). She’s also almost always got her cellphone in her hand – Android, not Apple – typing away as she shoots off emails and messages to her assistant and employees whenever she’s not at the office. Even when she’s in the middle of a conversation, it’s not uncommon for her to stop talking (or listening) to pull out her phone and type out a quick note for herself, be it something she’s said she wants to remember later, or a new thought she wants to look into further. Her mind is always moving and she’s learned to jot down the significant thoughts if she doesn’t want to lose them later. If it’s not recorded somewhere, it’s not real.
vii. Gale adores brain teasers and strategy games, anything that lets her work her mind and encourages her to think creatively. Chess was perhaps the one activity that bonded her to either of her parents, though she only ever got tips for improvement when she started to beat them, while Charles was praised constantly despite his losses.
viii. Gale technically still lives in her parents’ home for now, as much as she’d prefer not to. It’s not because she needs to save the money. It’s certainly not because she likes it there. But for as much freedom as she has, she knows her parents hate the idea of her living out from under their watchful eyes during the election season. She’s always been the wild card of the family, and the last thing either of her parents need is for Sophie’s dirty little secret getting out. So at home she stays, for now, only because she isn’t finished taking all she can from her last name. It’s the only thing her parents gave her, after all; Gale isn’t above using their connections to further her own success, at least until she gets to the point where she doesn’t need them anymore. But this isn’t to say she’s home frequently. More often than not, Gale can be found crashed over her desk at Knot47 HQ after a late night of work, enough so that she finally put a loft in her office and started leaving some clothes there.
ix. Years of homeschooling and private tutoring left Gale which a handful of extraneous skills. She speaks spanish and french fluently, plays the tuba and the piano, and even has a few (painful) years of ballet and tennis under her belt.
#about#hc#i am garbage at graphics but here u are anyways#more than u ever needed to know about gale
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