sporades

To love her takes courage, compassion, and strength
Her nights are sleepless and actions confusing
Her words may be hurtful and mood may be sporadic
Emotional ups and downs, highs and lows
This is when she needs you the most
Sit, talk, listen, and learn

She is hiding away, scared to reveal herself
Afraid of the lashings that come with being herself
Feeling trapped in a cage, she wants to be free
Tear the chains from the wall and remove the shackles from her hands

In the end, she chose this, a bitter end
Now knowing, her heart was open and her love pure
She wanted freedom, to live and love with you, not without you
Seeking acceptance, love, courage, compassion, and trust

To love her, you must accept all of her
Overlook flaws, forgive mistakes, and let go of the past
You do this because you want to, because you love her, because you give her your heart

I haven’t talked to middle school/freshman year best friend in so long and lately it’s just been sporadic chit chat about really brief subjects but we’ve altogether stopped hanging out. it took me a while for me to get it through my head that we weren’t best friends anymore and after a lot of anger and sadness, I finally had to accept that we drifted and it wouldn’t ever be the same. just the other day I was thinking about how we never talk anymore and how sad it is, and it’s 1am where I am and I get birthday text from her – she was the first person to text me, no reminder from any other source, and damn it made me feel really really good. maybe she’s not my best friend anymore, and our friendship is frozen in time, but there’s a special place in everyone’s heart for a childhood best friend

Arranged

Summary: Arranged marriage in the twenty-first century might have been uncommon, but not unheard of. “You’re mommy’s special little snowflake, aren’t you?”

notes:

i) Inspired by Goong, 1% of Anything, Incomplete by the terrorist, and the Pakistani drama; Ume Kulsoom.

ii) The only workings of the hospital system I am aware of are from watching a LOT of grey’s anatomy, house and the sporadic case studies of the local hospitals for architectural puposes.

-

“Checkmate!” she smiled broadly.

Disarmed by that last move, the King fell for her.

-

The first thing Mikoto noticed about her was the pink hair, then the delicate, lean frame, and those eyes—oh she wanted grandbabies with those eyes. So as she lay down, and let the pretty thing do her annual test’s, she decided that this young woman, if she turned out to be the princess Mikoto knew in her heart she must be, was going to marry her Sasuke.

“May I ask your name, young lady?”

It took her a moment to be not distracted enough by her scans. Then she looked up right in Mikoto’s eyes, and her eyes crinkled in a smile. “Haruno Sakura.”

-

It didn’t take much effort after that. Turns out, if you’re a person of means, there is very little in this world you can’t accomplish. Mikoto had never in her life abused that kind of power, but she had her heart set on something—someone—and this time, no one was going to stand in her way.

-

There was very little Uchiha Sasuke was not willing to do for his mother. And it wasn’t exactly a closely guarded secret. He loved his family, and he wasn’t afraid to admit it. He had never exactly made a production of his feelings, but those who mattered knew, and that was more than enough.

For her part, his mother had never asked him for much. Just trivial, inconsequential things; things that could be bought with money, time that would be willingly offered, love that was readily doled out without even asking.

So when she sat him down one afternoon, face completely void of expression, but eyes glittering with hope, Sasuke knew that his mother wanted something. He was completely unaware of the extent of that wish.

“Hello, darling,” Uchiha Mikoto stood on the very tips of her toes to deliver his cheek a kiss. He leaned down to receive it graciously.

“Mother,” he nodded with a slight smile.

She beamed at him, noted his slightly awkward posture and admonished him for working too hard, all in a single breath. Then she sat down across from him and her expression flickered off. That was his first clue.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” she started.

“Oh,” he said, settling down beside her, a little wary, but not too concerned. “How can I help you?”

She was silent for a few moments, staring off behind his shoulders, mouth turned into a contemplative frown. “I would never,” she started, “put you into a situation that would make you unhappy, Sasuke-kun.”

He sat up a little straighter. “I’m aware, mother.”

“So what I’m about to ask of you…might come off as selfish, and very…backward. But know that I have your best interest at heart, darling.”

“What is it, mother?”

“It’s…” she started, frowned, and fidgeted a little. “It’s this girl, Sasuke-kun,” she said, finally.

His brow furrowed into a frown. “A girl?”

“Yes,” she said, and the smile on her lips made her eyes sparkle. “A beautiful, kind hearted, amazing girl.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I want you to marry her, Sasuke-kun.”

“…What?”

The silence that followed that exchange was brittle as thin ice. Sasuke leaned back into the high end sofa, and stared unblinkingly at his mother. It took him a few minutes to comprehend the severity of the situation, and another few to finally form words to express his discontent.

“I…don’t understand, mother?” The tail end of his sentence turned into a query.

Mikoto sighed, feeling apprehensive. “Do you have anyone you like, already?”

“No…”

She let out a relieved breath. “Okay,” she continued, eyes bright and steady, “Then I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but would you please do your mother the incredible favor of meeting this girl?”

Sasuke prided himself for being a rational being. And rationality told him that whoever this girl was, whatever spell she’d put on his mother, was not to be trusted. The Uchiha name came with its own heavy burdens. It was not only a name with pedigree and prestige, but also hundreds of years of history, of blood and violence and treachery. It had taken a lot of sacrifice and surrender before his family had claimed the peace it so deserved. So the Uchiha not being the trusting lot might have been an understatement.

As his slowly functioning brain began to creak, he figured that this girl might have been able to dupe his mother, but she was never getting to him.

There was very little Uchiha Sasuke wouldn’t do for his mother. And as he nodded his reluctant accent, he vowed to put this person in their place.

-

It was during her second year of residency that Uchiha Mikoto visited their house. She never knew how, with her unpredictable schedule, she had been able to figure out exactly how to time her visit so as to run into Sakura.

All she knew was that her life would never be the same again.

There was a clinking of fine china and the sound of muffled conversation as she entered the house. As she threw her keys in the bowl by the door and went into the living room to investigate, her eyes widened with surprise.

“Um…”

Sitting languidly on their couch was the lovely lady she had examined a few days ago. As she turned to look at her, her eyes shone with smile, and Sakura felt an uneasy pinch in her gut.

Her parents on the other hand were frozen in alarm, their eyes wide and varying degrees of trepidation in their expressions. There was an atmosphere of panic in the room, an air of confusion not at all alleviated in the least as Mebuki and Kizashi started speaking simultaneously, cutting and talking over each other so that she couldn’t understand but a few words.

“You should go to your room—“

“WHY would you send her to—“

“We will handle—“

“This is her LIFE and she should—“

“Of course it’s her—“

As Sakura stood in the doorway looking back and forth between her parents, there was a small, dainty cough. That small noise was enough to distract the Haruno’s. All eyes on her, Mikoto smiled beatifically and said, “Why don’t I explain the situation to Sakura-chan?”

“Yes, why don’t you,” said Mebuki, an allegation in her tone Sakura couldn’t quite understand. At the same time, her already blaring suspicion radar began to detonate in her brain. Red lights were practically flashing in front of her eyes, screaming that this woman was up to something.

“Would you mind giving us a minute, please?” she asked politely.

Sakura gave her parents a reassuring look and nodded. They left and she sat down opposite Mikoto. “How can I help you?”

“My dear,” she said in turn, “You are exquisite.”

“Um,” she moved back a little, “Thanks?”

When she laughed, Sakura felt an uneasy pressure build in her chest.

“I am Uchiha Mikoto,” she said, flashing a brilliant grin, “and I’m here to ask for your hand in marriage for my son.”

The ensuing pause was tangible with Sakura’s astonishment, until it was thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Yooou’re kidding, right?” Sakura said, finally.

“I’m afraid not.” Mikoto’s smile was good natured.

“Are you crazy?”

“No, dear.”

The frown lines on Sakura’s forehead could’ve rivaled the Grand Canyon for depth. “I think you should leave.”

“That’s incredibly rude, but given the situation I understand your…less then accommodating behavior.”

“Less then—what—hand in marriage!” Sakura sputtered incredulously. “What century do you live in? I don’t even know you!”

Mikoto’s eyes softened compassionately, and as she stood up and sat herself down next to her, Sakura scooted away, and resisted the hand Mikoto reached out for her’s. “I know this may seem like a bolt out of the blue,” she said in a warm tone, “but please, would you consider just meeting my son once?”

No—“

“I swear,” she promised, “If you do not take to him even a little, I would never bother you again. Ever.”

“Is this a joke?”

“I assure you it’s not.”

“Is your son—” a psycho, she wanted to say, but stopped herself. What person in their right mind would go to another person’s house and ask for their hand in marriage, she wondered. On the other end of the couch, Mikoto was looking at her hopefully. “Is your son,” Sakura started again carefully, so as not to offend “in any, way or shape, you know—indisposed?”

“Oh, no dear,” Mikoto smiled. “He might be a little prickly, to be honest but he’s not in any way, indisposed, as you put it.” Her eyes lit up as she continued. “In fact, he’s quite handsome, if I say so myself. Also,” her grin was conspirational, “his financial backing might surprise you.”

Sakura felt a sudden stab of fury, and she took a deep breath to reign it in. “Do you think I’ll be swayed by money?” she said slowly, deliberately, through clenched teeth.

“I’m counting on you to not be,” was the cheery reply.

Sakura let out an angry breath, and rubbed a hand on her forehead, suddenly feeling very tired. “You’re crazy.”

“Now that’s just plain rude, young lady.”

“Please go away?”

“Not until you agree to meet him.”

Sakura gave her an incredulous look. “You do know that this is actual harassment, right? I can file a report against you. I can file for a restraining order against you!”

That made Mikoto back up a little. “I—apologize,” she said, shoulders slumping. “I realize that I might have come off a bit strong, but—“

“A bit?” Sakura’s laugh was hysterical.

“But,” Mikoto continued, “I would be very, very grateful if you would meet my son for lunch tomorrow. Please?”

Sakura gave her a contemplative look. “Will you go away if I say yes?”

“Only if you mean it.”

“You’re crazy.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Look,” said Sakura, holding on to the last tether’s of her patience, “I’m sure your son is a wonderful person, but this is not the middle ages. You don’t just go to someone’s house and ask them to marry your son, okay?”

“I admit that I might have—jumped the gun, I guess,” Mikoto admitted, “But now that I’m here, I can do nothing but ask you to give him a chance.”

“Are you for real?!” She let out a frustrated breath, then rubbed her face angrily. “Okay,” she said, having no intention on following through on her word, “Fine, I’ll meet your son!”

“Great!” Mikoto’s smile was a bright, beaming super nova. “He’ll be at The Arcadian, at 1 o’ clock on the dot, tomorrow!” then she snatched Sakura’s hands and held them to her chest, “I promise you won’t regret it.”

If only she knew.

-

Standing on the brilliantly polished steps of The Arcadian, Sakura stared unblinkingly at the sophisticated calligraphy of the minimalist billboard. Then she took out her pager, and willed for it to beep with an emergency.

She had never intended to come. Just that her brain had imaginative ways of conjuring exactly the kind of psycho Mikoto’s son was going to be, and she’d wanted to see in person.

She looked one last time at her pager, and when the screen still didn’t light up, she heaved a breath. Filled with dread she walked inside.

A blast of air conditioning hit her as she entered and when she gave the maître d the name, she was led to a secluded table in a private alcove, where the most beautiful man she’d ever seem was waiting for her. His face was all sharp lines and angles, his lips full, with just the right amount of a pout. His shoulders were stiff and his posture was perfection. His eyes were the blackest she had ever seen—and considering she peered into people’s eyes for a living that was saying something. Right now, they were looking at her steadily as she walked closer to him.

She almost stumbled out of the chair as the maître d pushed it in, felt an embarrassed heat crawl all the way up her neck to her cheeks and cleared her throat awkwardly.

For his part, the man sitting opposite her looked just as uncomfortable.

They squirmed in perfect hemorrhoidal harmony. A moment of pain, and then he said, “Sakura?”

The way he called out her name made her bristle—like she was his own personal servant, one he was particularly fond of tormenting. He smiled, and she saw the Evil. It was coated with class, pampered with elegance, but very real. She knew in that moment that her decision to come, had been the right one. Her smile was almost a snarl.

-

Sasuke sat at the table, his spine ram-rod straight and his eyes burning with intensity. She was late. It bothered him that this person, who’d so flawlessly spun a magical web around his mother, was so assured, so confident of her hold, that she was willing to test it out on him. He grit his teeth in frustrated anger, then exhaled slowly to calm his churning mind.

Then he saw someone being led towards him.

She was in her mid twenties, with an intelligent face, a full sensuous mouth, sparkling eyes—that he would later find out, could change from a soft moss to a dark jade in moments—a trim athletic figure. But what made his hair stand on end was the color of her hair—a soft, corral pink that was perfectly in tune with her creamy complexion. She looked, almost like spring personified.

And as she stumbled into her chair, and he called her name, the look she gave him could’ve made a grown man cower. To him, it was mildly irritating. His mother had been clever. She’d only ever given him one name—and a generic one at that. Sakura. Just how many Sakura’s were there in Konoha? Too many to filter on the internet. All he knew about this woman was all his mother had told him. A beautiful, kind hearted, amazing girl.

He rolled his eyes grandly, and made a show of sipping his wine. He’d learned that the more imposing one’s façade was, the more malleable the subject became. “I suppose,” he drawled, voice menacing, “that you think you’ve won a prize here.”

“Oh,” her smile was sharp like a knife.

He frowned, set down his wine glass, and said, “I think we should get on with business.” He pulled out his check book and a confidentiality contract from his briefcase. “I give you money, and you disappear. Never show your face to my mother.”

He said it with such conviction that she had to blink once, slowly, to understand the direction of this conversation. Then her eye brows shot up and she let out an unbidden tinkle of laughter.

He looked up at her, baffled and a little miffed. “Is something funny?” His voice was deadpan, as were his eyes.

Her smile was disdainful and her eyes were flinty. “You’re mommy’s special little snowflake, aren’t you?”

He had to grind his teeth to keep from snapping back at her. He felt his patience wearing thin. “If you think,” he ground out, “that just because you’ve tricked my mother into believing you’re some kind of saint,” he spit out, “that you have an automatic in, with my family, then I can assure you, you are sadly mistaken.”

Her fury was a palpable thing. “I didn’t ‘trick’ your mother into believing anything!” she snapped. “I was just checking out her MRI and the next thing I know, she’s at my house asking for my ‘hand in marriage’!” She was breathing hard now, her face contorted in rage, her eyes alive with it. Her narrowed eyes reminded him of steel sharpened to killing point.

“So you’re saying,” he said in an uncanny juxtaposition of incredulous and frigid calm, “that it was my mother who approached you?”

“Yes!”

“That is absurd.”

“Your face is absurd!”

For the first time, a glint of humor touched his finely sculpted mouth and arrogant dark eyes.

She let out a breath. “Listen,” she started, “the only reason I showed up today was because I wanted to see in person just what kind of a fuck up needs his mother to set up a date with a perfect stranger.” She flashed him a sweet, fake smile, telepathically telling him to eat shit and die. “Now that I’ve met you, I want you to know that I completely understand.”

Over the course of her tirade, his expression had closed off. Now, he was burning holes into her face with rage-fuelled acid rays from his eyes, and she could swear he was on the verge of scraping his hoof across the ground before charging at her like a wounded bull and tossing her out the window to the streets below like a rag-doll.

“And I suppose,” he grit out, “that now that you’ve seen the full extent of…funding, behind this impromptu set up, you might be regretting your decision.”

Sakura bristled. She understood now, that this man was a study in ego, and didn’t take humiliation well. “Does it sound like I’m regretting my decision? And is that your roundabout way of calling me a gold-digger?”

“I suppose it is.” His tone was frigidly polite and pompous.

The look she gave him could’ve sunk the titanic. He was stuffed with so much pride she was surprised he hadn’t actually burst at the seams. And it wasn’t the good kind of pride either. It was the kind that made you look like an ass. “I think we’re done here,” she said, then got up, grabbed her purse, and turned around to leave.

“Please,” Sasuke called out behind her. His voice was impossibly condescending, and against her better judgment, she stopped. She heard a soft rip of paper, a scrape of chair and his footsteps stopping right behind her. “Why don’t I reimburse you for your time?”

She whirled around, the fury in her eyes as dangerous as a cocked gun.

“You arrogant, conceited, cold blooded, son of a bitch!”

It was admiration, pure and simple that burst through him as he was forced to catch her fist before it smashed into his face.

He wasn’t expecting a foot to ram into his instep. As he staggered back, grimacing in pain, she spun around and stomped out of the restaurant.

He shut his eyes against the pain, and sat back in his chair. For a five foot nothing stick figure with no soul, she certainly had the strength of a hundred linebackers.

-

“What did you do, mother?” Sasuke rounded on Mikoto as soon as he entered the Library.

The Uchiha Estate was vast; an enormous sprawl of land on the very periphery of Konoha, a quarter of it used as a ranch, and a small chunk housing the abode Sasuke had grown in. It was, had always been, in a perpetual state of preservation; grass clipped to within a millimeter of uniformity, semi-ancient Mahogany door polished to perfection, the buffed porcelain floors and the humongous gables inspiring a sense of home. And as he stormed up the grand stair case, past the portrait of great grandfather Madara and down the hall to the Library, where his mother sat in perfect mid-afternoon serenity, his mind churned with impossible aggravation.

“Sasuke-kun!” Mikoto smiled, surprise rendering her tone soft. “I didn’t expect you to be here so soon.” She shut her book close and stood up to put it back on the shelf. “Regardless, how did it go?”

Suddenly losing all his steam, Sasuke went and flopped down onto the golden chaise lounge. He could never stay mad at Mikoto.

“By the look on your face, I’d say it went badly.” Mikoto’s voice was slightly resentful, and it made Sasuke bristle.

“Of course it went bad!” he snapped, and promptly regretted it at the hurt that flashed in Mikoto’s face. His face softened. “Mother,” he started again, calmly, patiently, “you went to her home and demanded for her hand in marriage?”

Mikoto had the decency to blush. “I’ll admit, that might have been a bit bold of me, but—“

“A bit?”

“That’s what she said—“

“You didn’t tell me about it. I thought—“ he stopped, sighed impatiently, “I thought she conned you. Or something.”

“Oh Sasuke-kun!” Mikoto cried. “You didn’t say that to her, did you?”

“…I might have.”

“That’s horrible!”

Sasuke felt a stab of guilt, and his cheeks colored in embarrassment. “Who is she, anyway?” he mumbled.

Mikoto sighed, her shoulders slumped in discomfiture. “I’ll tell you who she’s not,” she muttered. “My daughter-in-law.”

“Well, I’m sorry, okay?” he snapped, testy and disgruntled. His mother had a way of burying him in mounds of guilt he didn’t deserve.

Mikoto flipped her hair, then leaned back into the chaise, her shoulder’s slouched impossibly low. “She’s a Surgical Resident at Konoha Memorial. Second year. Brilliant, bright and amazing. She will go a long way.”

Sasuke observed the starry eyed admiration in his mother’s face, and felt his pride give a little. “Why would you set her up with me?”

“I don’t know. I had a feeling,” she explained, waving her hands about helplessly.

“You had a feeling,” he repeated, voice dry as the desert.

“Yes.”

“You do realize you sound ridiculous, right?”

“Sasuke-kun!”

He laughed, a soft breathy sound that made Mikoto’s heart light up.

“Does Father know?” he asked.

Mikoto hesitated, then shrugged. “A little,” she mumbled guiltily.

Sasuke sighed, shifted, then put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his embrace. “Does Itachi know?” he asked, resting his cheek on a shock of raven hair so much like his own.

“Of course!”

“And he approved?” Sasuke asked, disbelieving.

A guilt-ridden pause.

“He’s coming around.”

“Oh, Mother.” He shook his head.

“You should at least apologize to Sakura.”

He knew this was only the beginning of the relentless prodding his mother would subject him to if he didn’t agree. And if he were to be honest with himself, he felt a slight twinge of regret in his chest every time he thought of the last of their exchange. Offering the check had been petty of him. And he was nothing if not honorable.

-

“Complete and total prick,” Sakura stated, popping a cherry into her mouth.

Naruto laughed. He had a happy laugh—contagious. It made his eyes sparkle and crinkle at the corners. Sakura determined he was going to have crow’s feet by the time he was thirty. Across the table Hinata took his hand, and the two of them smiled each other, disgustingly in love. They were sitting at Ichiraku’s, the best Ramen place in Konoha and Naruto’s daily lunch haunt.

“Ahem.” Sakura cleared her throat, deliberately. “Making me feel like a third wheel, guys.”

“Sorry, Sakura-chan!” Naruto grinned, rubbing a hand at the back of his head.

“’s okay,” she said. “Anyway, what did I expect, right?” she asked rhetorically, “The mom was a complete crazy. Why should the son be any better?”

“Eh, I don’t know, Sakura-chan,” Naruto drawled. “I’ve seen these people a couple times. They don’t seem so bad.” Hinata slurped her Ramen in a non committal way.

“Where did you see them?”

“This charity thing.” Naruto’s father was the ex-mayor, and a mentor to the one next in running. All his life, he’d been running around in elite circles, and his dream, was to one day, lead the City himself. They’d met in their second year of College, in a Food and Nutrition minor, which she’d taken as a hobby, and he’d taken because there were no more vacancies in any other classes and he’d desperately needed the credit hours. It was the start of a beautiful friendship. In their third year, they’d met Hinata at a party at one of the frat houses. She’d been terrified and tripping. They’d delivered her home. Somewhere along the way, numbers had been exchanged and well—the rest was history.

Now Naruto and Hinata were engaged to be married, hopelessly in love, and the three of them were an inseparable team.

“Well, looks can be deceiving,” she declared, closing the lid of her lunch box and slipping it into her bag.

Naruto made a face. “Augh, when will you stop eating that crap?”

“It’s called a salad. And it’s healthy!” she snapped, leaning across the table and bopping him on the head. “Hinata, would you please make him eat healthy for me?”

Hinata smiled, unsure, and pink. “Um…”

“Don’t bring Hinata-chan into this!”

“Then don’t mess with me!”

“Guys…”

They all smiled at each other, then Naruto burst out laughing again and Hinata’s eyes got all soft. Sakura beamed at them with pride. It was a good lunch.

-

What Sasuke knew of hospitals, he knew from his annual check up’s, and those, he avoided as best as he could. As if apologizing was not excruciating enough, there was the added agony of figuring out where, when and how to find her.

The receptionist was busy fielding calls all over the station, and his boot was tapping impatiently on the floor. After what felt like an hour, but was only a few minutes, the lady behind the desk finally turned to him. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like make an appointment with Dr. Haruno Sakura,” he stated.

The woman raised her eye brows, then consulted a digital tablet propped up on the side. She was a stern faced lady, probably in her fourties, and the way she held herself demanded respect. “Are you sure, she’s the one, honey?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll have to wait a while. You can’t make appointments with residents and they don’t get a break until their Attending’s say so. And this one will be in the OR for a while.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know what to do. He definitely wasn’t going to wait on her. Aside from the fact that his pride would take a considerable bruise, he had a company meeting to attend in an hour. This tête–à–tête was supposed to be nothing but a bland apology anyway; he might as well have a fruit basket sent in his stead. He decided to do just that. “Would she be able to receive a delivery here?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you.”

-

Sakura stared at the gorgeous fruit basket waiting for her at the Nursing Station. Behind her, Ino let out an impressed whistle. Sakura rubbed at her eyes tiredly. “Who sent it, your Grandma?”

“My grandma is dead.”

“Oh. Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. Sakura had met Ino, her first day at KM. Ino had promptly declared them rivals. And over the years, from their rivalry had blossomed something akin to friendship. Ino was flippant, fierce and incredibly beautiful, with eyes the color of mountain mist and hair like the winter sun. Sakura loved her like the sister she’d never had.

“Who’s it from?”

“No one.”

“Come on!” Ino whined.

She was also incredibly nosy.

“It was misdelivered, probably,” she shrugged. “Who would send out a fruit basket. No one in my family died.”

Ino looked dubious.

“I’ll send it back to the return address. Wanna come?”

“No way. Got a hot date.” Ino grinned, then looked at the clock behind the Station. “Which, I’ll be fashionably late to,” she winked. “See you later.” She gave Sakura a slap on the back, and ran off.

As soon as her footsteps died, Sakura fished out the note she’d crumpled up into her Scrubs. One word, written in a neat cursive that made her want to punch a crater in the floor.

Apologies, it read, signed U.S. Uchiha Sasuke. Apologies, along with a fruit basket. All she saw was a fat check and a figurative slap on the face.

She sent it back to the return address.

-

Itachi was there, when the basket got delivered to his apartment. The once magnificent fruit it carried was wilted and sad looking. The note he’d so meticulously attached was crumpled up and carelessly tossed inside. He picked it up, smoothed it out and frowned.

Fuck you, it said in an untidy scrawl.

Itachi, who’d been reading behind his shoulder, chuckled softly. “Who?”

“The girl mother set me up with.”

“Mmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Obviously not,” he snapped. “Spit it out Itachi.”

“How did it go?”

“Awful.”

“Then why did you send her…that?”

Sasuke closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. “I may have—unintentionally—offended her.”

Itachi didn’t ask how, and Sasuke was grateful. The two of them moved to the living room. “Mother told me about this girl,” said Itachi.

Sasuke threw him a wounded look. “And you let her?”

Itachi gave him half a smile. They were both silent for a while, Itachi looking intently at the TV screen and Sasuke at the note.

After a lengthy pause, Itachi said, “Sasuke?”

“Yes?”

“Do you—have you—thought about who you would marry?”

Sasuke gave him a strange look. Itachi had come out to their parents during his last year of high school. Things had not at all turned out as he’d thought they would. Itachi was the kind of person who planned ahead—he had contingency plans for contingency plans, so when Mikoto only giggled and Fugaku patted him on the back awkwardly, to say he was a tiny bit blindsided and a little shell shocked would’ve been an understatement. He’d only ever planned, keeping in mind the conservative side of the Uchiha.

Now, years later, he was working at the Uchiha Corp, and living downtown with his boyfriend, Deidara. Things had been strained between them.

“No,” he replied. “I haven’t.”

“Then, please do,” Itachi said courteously. He had always been impossibly polite.

“Why?”

“I—Sasuke,” he sat a little straighter, “I think, that soon, Father might give you—a choice.”

Sasuke raised his brow. “For?”

“A marriage.”

“Oh.”

“And I believe,” he continued, “that if you have as little choice as you do in the matter, you should consider Mother’s option.”

-

Sasuke thought about what Itachi had told him.

On one hand it didn’t matter, because no matter what happened, the bottom line was that he didn’t have a choice. On the other hand, his mother’s alternative wasn’t exactly attractive. But he knew that if—when—Fugaku gave him a choice, it would be for a marriage of convenience; where convenience was the betterment of the company.

What it came down to was, whose judgment he trusted most. Mother or Father. While he counted on his father to understand what life was, he knew his mother understood what love was. 

He’d always been more of a mama’s boy.

-

tbc

A elderly man looks on as he stands amid burning tires during clashes between Palestinian protesters and Israeli security forces on a street leading to Duma village, on August 1, 2015.

The July 31 arson attack in Duma, which killed a toddler and critically wounded his parents and brother, stoked running tensions between Israelis and Palestinians, sparking protests by hundreds of people and sporadic clashes. (Jaafar Ashtiyeh/AFP)

7

!!money problems!!

i have some very very bad money problems at home! and a job at a restaurant with sporadic hours is not very helpful! what does that mean for you guys? emergency commissions! very cheap! 

$5 for: cute little stuff, like those tiny pokemon up there! 

$8 for: bust shot! digital coloring and all! what a steal!

$13 for: character from the legs up! all colored and nice, bg optional! (though it may ramp the price up if it’s complicated!)

my email is: taylorkaye777@gmail.com. email me or message me on here if you’re interested! if you have a different idea in mind than what’s listed, message me and we can work something out! and if you reblog this post and get the word out, well, you’re just the bee’s knees.

squishyfeelsprincess asked:

Vernon: crush, chemistry, confession <3 oh my ga

1/?
choi vernon // crush, chemistry, confession
535 w.

Originally posted by 7teans

01 : crush

He sees you around sometimes, walking through the halls with a certain flair in your words, satirical and sarcastic, giggly and giddy, a smile imprinting itself onto your face in the presence of friends.

You see him around a lot, a bandana around his head as he tries to be a bad boy, failing horribly when the teacher raises and eyebrow and asks what exactly he’s trying to do. Everything about Vernon is boyish; from the adventurous, hair-tousling splash of life in his eyes, to the childlike innocence of his smile. He’s curious in every sense of the word, sporadic and unbelievably wise for his age.

You’d be lying if you said you’ve never daydreamed about passing notes to him, post-its of every color stuck over old journals, all scrawled with the words ‘Mrs. Choi Vernon’, and God he makes you feel like a fucking fourth grader when you’re supposed to be a grown-ass adult.

Realizing you zoned out for a solid fifteen minutes, you start out by thanking your mind for killing almost half of class off, but the you notice someone looking at your paper.

“S-sorry.” Vernon coughs, neck a blazing red, and when you glance down to see what’s wrong, you’re met with your name and his written in a drawn-out heart, written in rather nice cursive.

Well, this is great.

02 : chemistry

It’s just your luck to get partnered with him for chemistry class. What else would you expect?

“Um, I think we’re supposed to put these two together.” He says while bringing a test tube filled with blue liquid towards the one in front of you, accidentally brushing his knuckles against yours. Your face heats up at the touch, and to make matters worse, he’s so, so quick to pull his hand away. What Vernon doesn’t realize until after the action is that he’s successfully knocked down and broken several measuring beakers and droppers, costing him his grade and several tens of dollars.

“Sorry.” He pouts, and you nearly laugh because you’ve known him, or of him at least, for three weeks solid, and still, that’s the only word he’s said to you.

“It’s okay. I’ll bring my grade up somehow.” Yes, you’re honestly more worried about your academic security at the moment.

03 : confession

“Um.. so are you going to that dance? The one this Friday.” Your eyes widen and your throat catches, and you really want to punch your principal in the face for ruining the moment.

“Just try to be more careful next time.” She sheepishly tells you before dismissing you, waving you off because hey, it’s the first month of school, all the stress hasn’t cracked her yet.

You and Vernon walk to class together, hands dangling at your sides, silent all the while. Soon enough, you reach the door, and before you can open it, he stops you.

“Ireallylikeyou.” He says it faster than you can process, and you finally understand why he’s a rapper.

“I-”

He enters the class, not giving you a chance to answer.

Oh, well. You’ll just have to break another set of test tubes to get the chance to tell him you like him back.

Thelma and Louise '14

Do you remember how we used to say that someday we would turn out to be Thelma and Louise?

But tell me, Louise, where did you go?

We professed the sinister vows of our stingingly feminist mission of massive rapist genocide abolition, all too often, through the faded whispers of our hushed nocturnal giggles smothered demurely beneath the chipped cherry lacquered slices of Venetian blind fingertips swathed in the beige cocoons of adhesive peeling butterfly bandages

calluses freshly pricked and penetrated with the sharpened tip of a borrowed embroidery needle in the ritualistic interweaving of our perfectly damaged souls in a perfectly chaotic,

perfectly imperfect blood pact transfusion intended to eternally bind the cells of our injured, ruptured molecules and sporadically misfiring synapses of our agonizingly tortured, textbook case minds like those flimsy, ironclad anchors of nickel sized promise rings we furtively exchanged in the rare lapses of conversational silence during our nightly drives homes, religiously wearing those asphyxiating wannabe wedding bands until the bones of our interlaced knuckles swelled into blackened shades of emerald green

with envy

like overwatered patches of chokeweed sprouting through the concrete gaps of urban parking lots, til betrayal do us part, and on some rain soaked noons when I am hurting throughout the dissonant melody of my pulse, that dullish, aching, throbbing, reverberating Good Friday hymn coiled in my ribcage like an elegantly contorted boa constrictor longing to be regurgitated through a vitriolic waterfall of maladaptive vomit,

loosed from the boiling compartments of my veins through rust stained razors and broken bits of plastic knives,

I still bring your cobweb veiled Easter cards to the pinnacle of my forehead like a Hallmark crown of thorns still warm with the friction of your writing, so that I might remember every intonation of your lost world voice swallowed and silenced like ingested pieces of Scripture, the compass that stopped whispering directions to quell the tradewind Sirens that rocked the fragile, unsteady framework of my bipolar masted boat, blindfolded and stumbling over the stepping stones littering my errant path,

tell me, Louise, where did you go?

We had it all planned out, don’t you remember?

Last year, we were burgeoning bandit legends still undiscovered by the bleeding drowning pool of a painfully misogynistic society, two separated sisters born of lacking nuclear families, imploded violently, viciously in the confinements of our suburban petri dishes until we melted homogenously into the corridors of the same soft walled asylum, chainlinked and bound inseparably by the ingloriously mirrored abuses of our pasts, scalded and burned, spurned and mistreated, reduced to hairless anorexic skeletons and dorsal scarred bulimics,

our bodies resembling topographic road maps of textured spider leg scars creeping stealthily upwards onto the undersides of our abdomens like lattice laced fences leading to Hades, stapled and stitched and sutured injuries so wonderfully symmetrical in proportion

that all too often,

 I wondered if the sluggish bradycardia symphony of our heartbeats had grown easily attuned and syncopated as we recovered in each other’s trembling, soulful arms that bitingly bitter winter of ‘14, the arsenic of our thoughts leaking into one another’s bruised palette like cheap watercolors flooded and eroded with the currents of artfully flowing tears,

our canvases shellshocked and frostbitten, our darkly lined eyes as unrevivably dead as the discarded corpses of leaves or as shaken, stark snow globe forests mercilessly barraged and silently covered by a thousand fragmented pieces of traumatized flakes falling in a January numbed microcosm, crystalline saliva drifting from cumulus clouds 

we exchanged grievances, swapped stories of our rapes hanging to the drooping, sighing nooses of every lonely pine bough that we eagerly shared like the flannel skin of empathetic blankets, finishing the prose of one another’s sentences with such astounding brevity, that perhaps our tongues had somehow fused into a single cult like projectile fork of infected reasoning, we were one and the same, snipped erroneously from the same skien of mottled cloth,

but tell me Louise, where did you go?

Are we still partners in crime?

I’ve been waiting here for you with my cocked shotgun pregnant with silver bullets of the highest caliber, and I know with every oxygen starved arrhythmia of my once malnourished, schizophrenically thumping heart that you’ll be driving the beaten skeleton of your daddy’s mud coated Chevy around that blind corner any moment now, and I’ll accept the strains of that overdue, sweetly melodramatic oration of your apology that I know you have been aching to offer up unto my soulfully awaiting ears all of these months in which our pulses languished, and the roads of our ceaseless communication froze over, and I will affectionately welcome your prodigal son embrace between the open void of my arms that your abrupt departure left in its menacingly cold wake, and with a full tank of gasoline and our bubblegum aspirations, we can make it to the border by sundown.

Do you know where the winding rivers go, Louise? I think we’ll survive as long as we keep driving faster than the aneurysms of our repressions can rise in the road like swollen snake belly reminders of why I burned your beaded necklaces and shoved the tattered photographs of our indistinguishable faces beneath the loose floorboards of the bed, a malicious wonderland where my innocent references became lurid insinuations and the mistrustful darting of your eyes ran along the length of my striated wrist,

but I still love you, Louise. I do. And as we travel through the sunburned sands of the vacancy sign desert, we can euphorically regurgitate every splinter of every story of every millisecond that we tragically lost to the swift turning of your broken glass knife as it plunged and twisted and ejaculated venom into every innocuous vertebrae of my prostrate back, brutally piercing through the wrapping paper fragility of my battered skin, subject to the callous cocktail heresy of your shifted abuses, a cookie cutter prototype of victim turned aggressor, suddenly slandered and loathed, bleeding into sudden metamorphosis,your once kindred eyes flashing blankly, repetitively like the quiet faces of digital alarm clocks after power surges, pensive lips pursed as Judas about to kiss the Savior,

and are we still partners in crime?

We had it all planned out, don’t you remember?

Our stingingly feminist mission of massive rapist genocide abolition, and how we used to say how we would find our offenders, and that we would turn out to be Thelma and Louise? And I am still here.

 Waiting. Waiting with a shotgun.

But tell me, Louise, where did you go?

shelomit-bat-dvorah asked:

Good to see you on my dash again, friend! Have your technological troubles been satisfactorily resolved?

Still unclear. : /

As of now, the computer works sporadically, and I just did a reset on it, so…hopefully I can get some more life out of it? IDK.

It’s pretty old as computers go these days, though, so I’m pretty sure it’s on its last legs either way. But it would be nice not to have to spend money on a new one right away.

Anyway, we’re back for now.

Please Help!!

Are your old toys sitting around gathering dust? Still tripping up over your teenagers ancient barbies and action men? Come along to The Rye, High Wycombe on Thursday the 6th of August and donate your toys to a better cause, The Army Welfare Service. The AWS helps children and families who have a parent or partner in the armed services by providing much needed rest for parents by looking after children, allowing the children an opportunity to develop essential social skills. Across the course of the past week, our NCS group have been spending time with the children at the AWS centre in Windsor and it became apparent that attendance at the centre was very sporadic due to lack of toys to evoke interest in the children, therefore we are campaigning to raise awareness for the centre. We are holding a toy donation to collect more toys for the children to make the centre a more exciting place to be so that the children want to spend time there which would give their parents more time to relax and release stress to ensure that they are not under any stress or too tired when they’re around their children.


Even if you don’t live in or near High Wycombe, please could you share this post and the two Facebook pages down below, thank you so much!

There will also be a donation page on the first page from Monday the 3rd Of August, so if you can donate anything to help us fundraise for the AWS it would be appreciated so much, thank you.


https://www.facebook.com/AWStoydonation?ref=bookmarks

https://www.facebook.com/events/101773153508570/

✨ATTN MIRKATS✨

Hi friends I hope you’re all doing well!
As my trip is winding down I’ve been really busy and with sporadic Internet/laptop access so I apologize for letting my PBB duties fall behind.
I will be sending out resource emails, beta check ins, and addressing your concerns ASAP (like by Tuesday the very latest) and will keep you updated on when I do so you can check your emails. In the meantime, feel free to contact me with any questions or anything and I’ll get back to you very soon.
Thanks for being patient with me 💗

- Michelle

Hey followers! :) There’s quite a number of you who are new here and I just wanna say, if you’re new or if you’ve stuck with me for a longer time, thank you so much for finding something worthwhile in this blog. I appreciate you all.

I’m off to Thailand for a month-long course. Got a queue running but it’ll last probably a week? I’ll come in sporadically, if time permits. Otherwise, real life happens and wish me the best? 

lavendergoomsltd, ship-picky, kalena-henden, queenclarkegriffine: Thanks for all your input on the meta series name thing. Looks like Dynamic Duos is the winner of that one! I’m also really feeling Bellamy/Maya, Bellamy/Miller, and Clarke/Lincoln so yes, I’ll explore those! In…time… :)

Have a good month ahead folks! 

lil writer things: making up an original word to call a fantasy creature or world u made and then havin to check google and make sure it’s not a word that already exists as like some obscure slang for a terrifyingly unsanitary sexual maneuver or the name of an outlet mall in nebraska