#God forbid your child has to drink out of a glass bottle instead of a cheap plastic one that you'll throw out in the next ten minutes

[beaft]

so the cafe i work at is a vegan joint that's big on sustainability, which means we don't use plastics, and the amount of people who get weirdly rude with me about this is just. unreal. literally i had a mum come up today and ask if we sold mineral water, and when i said yes and asked if she'd like it in a can or in a glass bottle she was like "you don't have any normal plastic bottles?" i told her no, she was all (bitchy eyeroll) "oh. okay. fine." turned to her kid "come on, looks like we'll have to go to tesco for your drink instead." like hello???? ma'am??????

[annwrites]

tell me i'm your national anthem. part one.

— pairing: homelander x collegestudent!reader

— type: part of a series

— summary: homelander comes to your college as a guest speaker. uninterested in him, or anyone of his ilk, you pay him no mind, while you're all he's able to focus on, due to your disrespect.

with a bruised ego, he goes to the dean of the school afterward with a made-up tale about wanting to repay you for kind words & is then allowed to go through the student roster.

that evening while making dinner, unexpected company arrives on your balcony, refusing to leave until they're let in...

— tw: non-con, misogyny, obsessive behavior, stalking

— tags: f receiving oral

— word count: 2,857

— a/n: series preview

You are the utter image of disrespect. Here he stands—Homelander—the savior of America, and there you sit in your seat staring down at a tablet. Doing, presumably, schoolwork.

Every pair of eyes is on him except yours. As if some goddamn essay or worksheet is more important than him and the wisdom—scripted or otherwise—he has to bestow upon all your young, moronic minds.

And when he closes his speech—your classmates immediately swarm, eager for ‘selfies’, and autographs, and to ask ignorant questions.

But you? You’re the first one out of the goddamn room.

You don’t even spare him a glance.

He makes up a story, which he feeds to your university’s dean, and he drinks it down like the smoothest cup of milk.

“I didn’t manage to get her name, but I’m sure if I look through your student roster that I’ll be able to identify her. It’s just that what she said…” He gives a dramatic pause, a melancholic smile, with a small shake of his head. “It went straight to the heart. So, I’d just like to send her something to say thank you, since I most unfortunately didn’t get that opportunity today. Maybe an edible arrangement, or a new computer for her important academic pursuits.”

There’s a loud thump on your balcony and you jolt, nearly dropping the spatula in your now-shaking hand.

You set it down upon the spoon rest, grabbing a knife instead, and with a pounding heart, and trembling limbs, step to the side—toward the glass doors of your balcony and the knife slips from your hand, clattering against the hardwood floor.

On the other side stands Homelander, a sinister smile on his face, his knuckles rapping against the glass, an expectant look in his eyes.

Your mind detaches from your body as it begins to race.

You’re hallucinating. You’d bought a new bottle of seasoning from the grocery store down the street for dinner tonight. Maybe you were having a reaction to it. Or maybe he really is here and he needs help. He doesn’t get hurt, though, does he? You don’t know much about him, in truth. He’d been at your college this morning. Does him being here now having something to do with that? You’d not spoken to or even acknowledged him, so how could it?

Does it have to do with Emma, then? She worships the ground he walks on—had apparently been one of the first people to ask for his autograph this morning, from what she’d told you. Maybe he’s looking for her? But she doesn’t live with you…

You turn the lock, then the handle, and you stare up at him. “H-Homelander?”

It feels pathetic to call him that. Some manufactured name that you’re sure a marketing department came up with so many years ago, but no one knows his real one. As if that’s not another measured choice made by Vought—someone learns it and then digging into his past begins. God forbid he’s no longer America’s plastic darling—an overgrown action figure. And he looks the part now just as much as he did this morning. Does he never get tired of the ridiculous costume?

“I came for an apology,” he states matter-of-factly, smile fading as he steps inside your apartment, staring down at you.

You shuffle back. “I—uh—how—”

“See,” he starts, raising a finger, wagging it at you like you’re a petulant child that’s about to receive a lecture. “I take precious time out of my day—we both know how important my time is. I mean…it’s far more valuable as compared to someone like yours—someone inconsequential and worthless, that is—to come to your little ‘institution’ of academics to bestow wisdom upon all of you morons, and instead of you giving me the respect I’m owed, you couldn’t be bothered to so much as look in my general direction.”

You merely stare up at him in fear, your heart hammering away—the sound causing his lip to twitch in satisfaction.

“Are you fucking stupid?” He asks lowly.

“Speak!” He shouts.

You jump. “I—I’m sorry?”

He purses his lips, shaking his head. “Mm, see, that wasn’t very convincing.”

He takes another step toward you, then another and another, while you stutter and shuffle your feet, desperate to back away from him, until you’re pinned between his broad frame and a kitchen counter.

He takes your face in his solid grip, squeezing your cheeks so hard that it hurts. If he wanted to pop your head like a cherry tomato right now…he could.

You fear that you may loose your bladder at the thought.

“Did mommy and daddy not teach their little girl respect?” He asks with a raised brow.

You continue to stare in terror.

He shrugs, brushing his gloved thumb over your lower lip. “I could always just make you get on your knees. To either suck me off or lick my boots. Maybe both,” he finishes with a grin.

You shouldn’t be surprised by this. In truth, you half are and aren’t. They’re all egotistical monsters. The smiles and kissing babies and playing the hero on live TV is all an act. This is the real him.

Not a hero. A villain.

And he wants to know why you didn’t give him an ounce of your attention, as if it should be some great mystery.

“I—I’m not doing that. I don’t…I don’t understand why you even care. What… Why you’re here, I mean. How you even—”

He sneers. “Do you not like me? I’m a fucking hero! I am the face of this country. Yet you treat me like any other insignificant schmuck on the street. I deserve some goddamn respect!”

Tears sting your wide eyes. “I dislike all celebrities the same. Please, just—”

He raises a brow. “I am not just some ‘celebrity’. I protect you. I look out for you. And this is the thanks I get for it? Some sniveling little bitc—”

It’s just then that you remember.

You shove him away from you, flipping the stove off, your burger now just a hunk of charcoal.

You throw the pan into the sink, turning the faucet on and steam begins to rise as the pan sizzles.

You groan in irritation, shoulders slumping forward.

“That was my dinner,” you mumble.

Homelander smirks. “Y’know what? That does seem like a good start at fixing things between the two of us. You can have the honor of making me dinner. Maybe we play house for the evening.”

You turn back around with furrowed brows, sure that he must be joking. This entire experience feels like a bad trip. You have the world’s strongest—most famous, even—man in your apartment whining over hurt feelings and asking you to make him dinner like you’re some obedient little housewife.

He takes a step closer.

“Go on, start cooking. Before I make you,” he says, tone low and threatening.

Your eyes flit between his for just a moment before you turn slowly back around, turning the burner back on, having no idea what to even prepare for him.

That’d been the last of your hamburger meat…

You glance to your bread box, while Homelander seats himself comfortably at your small dining table.

“How does a grilled cheese sandwich sound?”

He’s pleased with that offer—something a mother would make for her little one, he thinks.

“I’ll take two,” he replies with a chipper tune.

You nod, retrieving a plate from a cabinet, then open the fridge to grab a small tub of butter.

“I’d like a glass of milk,” he says, interrupting you.

You grab the jug, pouring him a glass as requested.

Your hand shakes as you hold it toward him, but he merely takes it from you with a smile. “Thank you, sweetie.”

You stay quiet, turning back to the stove, Homelander watching your every move.

“Would you mind cutting the crusts off?”

You do as he’s asked without complaint, even if he’s being utterly juvenile right now.

He’s just trying to get under your skin, you’re sure. He’ll eat the sandwiches, then go. And the only time you’ll ever see him again will be on TV. Like normal.

Maybe it’s not such a good thing that he knows where you live now…

You grab the edge of the plate and he speaks again. “And can you cut them each into triangles?”

You raise a brow, but he can’t see it with your back still turned.

“I always thought that was so…charming,” he says with a grin.

So the God of America is a giant manchild, it turns out. Great.

You finally turn around, settling the plate in front of him and then he holds his empty glass toward you.

You give him a refill, silently sliding it back to him, seating yourself across from him.

You fold your hands nervously in your lap.

“Just going to sit there and watch me eat?” He asks, taking his first bite.

You swallow thickly. “I’m…not hungry anymore.”

He leans back, chewing, then swallowing. “What’re you in school for, then?”

This entire experience feels completely surreal. You’re sure at any moment you’ll wake up.

Wait.

What if you have a gas leak? Your stove is electric, but this apartment complex probably has a gas line somewhere, right? You make a mental note to check on that later.

“Creative writing,” you reply quietly.

Not even you could’ve crafted a story this ridiculous and far-fetched.

“Read me something you’ve written.”

You shift uncomfortably and he notes your heart skipping a beat. You’re insecure about it—the things you create. He relates to that—being insecure about that which you’re most passionate about. How strange a dichotomy it is.

“I don’t…I don’t want to.”

He leans in toward you. “Well, it’s either that, or, once I’m done with my dinner, I carry you over to your bed and have my way with you. Whether you want to or not.”

He can’t possibly be serious. He’s not…he’s a not a rapist. Right? Then again…he’d already threatened to force you onto your knees.

You stand, padding across the room and retrieve your laptop from atop your bed—swiping tears from your eyes—returning to him.

You turn it on and begin browsing through your documents—trying to find one that’s both innocuous, but interesting enough.

And then he shakes his head. “Nope. Give it here. I get to choose which one,” he says, motioning for the device with his hand.

You do as instructed and begin to feel just a tad nauseated as you watch him peruse your computer for a story.

And then he smirks, clicking, turning it back to you.

Blood rushes to your face.

He takes another bite of his sandwich, then a sip of his milk. “Go on then. Almost done. Or don’t. I win either way,” he says with a slight shrug, taking another bite.

He had to choose the one document that is a story of pure smut.

You clear your throat nervously, knowing you have no other choice. Fighting against him would be futile. Him overpowering you would take no effort on his part whatsoever. You’re sure that’s what he wants anyway. And you’re not about to just hand yourself over to him.

This embarrassment will be temporary.

The memory of him…you'd never forget. Nor would you ever be able to tell.

“He—” you pause, sighing, straightening your spine, then tell yourself just to get through it.

You’re not the first person to have ever written a sex scene before.

“He eases her slender legs over his shoulders, kissing her inner thighs gently, enjoying the lovely sounds that slip from her beautiful lips, begging for him. Her lover, her soulmate, her entire world—wishing for the two of them to finally be joined as one in this final way. And then he kisses her lips—her most intimate ones.”

John’s lip twitches. Not just at the mortified look upon your adorable face, but the delicious fucking smell of your arousal.

He wonders if the story is written as mere fantasy or from memory.

He intends to find out.

Tonight.

You gently take Homelander’s empty plate from him, your face flushed—now slick between your thighs—but you stay quiet, feeling humiliated. You want him to leave. Want to never see him again.

You’ve never felt so disrespected.

But that had been the point, hadn’t it? To make you feel how he thinks you made him feel that morning.

You hate him.

And now you’ll have to live with this. Knowing what he’s really like, and unable to tell anyone while the rest of the country—the world—continues to worship at his altar that’s built upon countless lies.

You put his plate in the dishwasher, then his glass, and it’s when you straighten that you feel large hands coming to rest firmly atop your shoulders.

You freeze, heartrate quickening once again.

His gloved hands then slide down your arms and your chin wobbles.

“So, was it just fantasy, or reality?”

Your brows furrow. “W—what?”

“The story. I’m asking if you’ve ever done that before.”

You swallow nervously. “I—no. I haven’t.”

His cock hardens, a feeling of satisfaction filling him at your pleasing answer.

He takes your breasts in each of his hands then, gently kneading them.

You swing around, a tear slipping down your cheek. “You can’t—”

He wraps a hand firmly around your throat, cutting your protests short.

“Oh, honey,” he says, stepping closer, his erection pressing against your upset stomach. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

He grins. “And I think you’re going to like it.”

He leans down, crushing his lips to yours, forcing your mouth open and he plunges his tongue inside, making you gag on it.

He slips his hands beneath your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter, gripping the waistband of your shorts, as well as your panties, and he pulls them both down your legs in one fell swoop, ignoring your mewls and squeals of protest.

You shove against his chest, panicking, ready to begin screaming, until he pulls back—his eyes going bright red, tightening his hold around your throat. “Hold the fuck still or I’ll kill you right here and now, sweetheart.”

You stare at him for only a moment before nodding slightly.

He releases his hold around your neck and you gingerly wrap your own hand around it.

And then he kneels, gripping your hips, grinning up at you, even winking and then he shoves his face between your thighs, throwing your calves over his shoulders.

You sit there in complete shock for only a moment before he begins lapping at you with his tongue, spreading your labia with his fingers, flicking his speared tip against your clit and then your body jerks and you draw in a ragged breath, slamming your head back against the cabinet behind you.

He smirks between your legs, doing it again, and you moan quietly.

You’re supposed to be fighting back—should be jumping off this counter and running out the door and screaming rape.

But you can’t. Not unless you want to die.

So this is your only choice. To sit on this counter and wait for him to finish. But he won’t be finished until you are, will he?

And the fact he’s recreating what was in your story—the fact that he’s on his knees giving you oral…oh dear God this situation is a nightmare.

Or so you think, until he begins sucking on your clit and your eyes go wide and your breaths become shallow.

You tangle your fingers in his hair then, unable to help yourself as you pull him closer and he moans into your slick, hot core.

He’s utterly satisfied with the fact you’re dripping for him, desperate for more. For him.

He flicks his tongue, spells his goddamn name—his real name—marking you as his. Even if you don’t fucking know it yet…you will be. His. You belong to him. So help him God if you even think about talking to another man at your little school after this he’ll laser him in half while you watch.

“Oh God,” you whisper and he knows you’re close when your heartrate begins to climb impossibly higher—fluttering like a hummingbird—fingers tightening in his blond strands.

He kisses your cunt, flicks his tongue, fucks you with it—spells the word ‘mine’, and it’s as he finishes his ‘e’ that you begin to cry, your hips squirming beneath his grip as you orgasm right against his mouth, his tongue lodged firmly between your pulsating walls.

And then he stands—eyes trailing along your flushed cheeks and neck and chest, your eyes hooded, limbs relaxed, and your legs still spread wide—the counter, your thighs, and his face are all slick from your arousal.

He crushes his lips back to yours one last time, letting you taste your own sweet American honey before he pulls away, lips hovering over yours as he smirks.

“Now we’re even,” he mutters.

He heads back toward the balcony.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he throws over his shoulder before launching into the sky, leaving you sitting there half-naked and ashamed of yourself, tears gathering in your eyes as you begin to sob.

[handwrittenhello]

(edit made by the wonderful @ghostinthelibrarywrites!)

Summary:

Yennefer stops, sinking into a crouch so that they’re on eye level. “Jaskier. You have a spell placed on you and I need to break it,” she explains.

“A spell?” Contrary to what any sane person would think when told they’ve been bespelled, Jaskier is wide-eyed and excited, the same look he gets as an adult whenever he senses a good story coming on. “What kind?”

“A dangerous one.” She hates to squash that light in his eyes, but it’s true—she doesn’t know what other side effects it might have. She needs to reverse it sooner rather than later—gods forbid it becomes permanent. “Now will you please come here? I’m a sorceress, and I can help.”

Spell after spell after spell she casts, getting more and more complex as she goes, but none work. “Fuck!” she roars as her latest attempt fails, once again.

“Madame Sorceress?” Jaskier asks, brow creasing, worry creeping in. “Is it—did it work?”

“No,” Yennefer replies, and sighs, because she knows what she has to do. Who better to break a curse, after all, than a witcher?

My entry for quick fic this week! Geraskefer, 3k, featuring deaged jaskier—read it here on ao3 or below!

It happens like this: Geralt so rudely decides he’s better off without the company of his very best friend in the whole wide world, and Jaskier thinks, well, fuck this, and goes to find the nearest tavern.

And then—because the gods love to hate him, it seems—he sets one foot inside, sees raven curls and expensive clothing, and immediately turns around and leaves. He’s had enough rejection for one day, thanks, and he’s not sure his poor, sensitive, bardic heart can handle any more barbed words, be they in unlikely jest or not.

“Where are you going, bard?” Yennefer calls, and every eye in the place turns to him. Shit. Well, he knows how to play a crowd, at least.

“Well, you see, I—I’m due a visit to my, um, my elderly grandmother, she—she needs my help, um, corralling her chickens—”

Or not. Why do his stunning intellect and quick tongue always disappear when she’s around?

Yennefer snorts. “Sure you are, and then I assume there’s a cat on a stove somewhere that you need to go save?”

Were it not for years of barding training every and all sense of embarrassment out of him, he’s sure his face would be aflame by now.

“Come have a drink. You’re better company than anyone else in this shit town,” she grumbles, and it’s then that Jaskier spies the numerous empty wine glasses on the table before her.

Misery loves two things—company and copious amounts of alcohol. And if she’s offering…

“You’re buying. I left my coin pouch with G—well. You’re buying,” he says, but he’s already sliding into the chair across from her and flagging down the barman.

A drink turns into two turns into ten, and shit, he can’t even remember why he ever thought maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Yennefer turns out to be much more tolerable when her inhibitions are lowered by drink, uncharitable though it is to think, but really, she’s so much more open, and her cheeks flush so prettily in the candlelight, and she even laughs—not the mean, bitter laugh she does whenever she’s mocking him (which is frequently), but a small flash of teeth, a breathy thing that turns into full-on cackling as it goes.

“I never knew—is this what Geralt sees in you?” Jaskier muses, running a finger along the rim of his glass. Then he pales, realizing what he's just said, and looks up to see that every trace of amusement in her face is gone.

“Whatever he felt for me, it wasn’t real,” Yennefer says harshly, pushing her chair back so fast that it tips backwards and falls to the floor with an audible THUD. She starts towards the stairs, presumably to her room.

Jaskier winces and follows after her, still a bit unsteady, but sobering up quickly in the wake of his gaffe. “Yennefer, wait—”

She’s too fast, and he only barely manages to stick his foot in the doorway before she can slam the door in his face. “Ouch,” he complains, and knows he’ll be feeling it much worse in the morning.

“Go away,” Yennefer hisses. “Don’t you know when a woman has had enough of your company? Or is that why Geralt had to scream it from a mountaintop, to get rid of you?”

Ouch. He flounders, every possible retort dying on his lips. “That’s not fair,” he almost wants to say, except that hurts even worse, so he says nothing. He does withdraw his foot, though, and she’s quick to slam the door, the lock clicking audibly into place moments later.

He thunks his head against the door. Why does he do this? Every time he thinks that someone might tolerate him, might actually want him around, he sticks his foot in his mouth and fucks it up.

“Fuck me,” he mutters to himself, then gathers the strength to peel himself away from the door. He debates for a moment just sleeping right here in the hallway, curled up in front of her door, rather than facing the mortifying ordeal of begging for a room with no coin to promise. But he's just as likely to get hexed as he is thrown out, and, well, at least if he’s thrown out he can sneak into the stables or something. He shudders to think what sort of nasty spells Yennefer could cast on him if she were to trip over him on her way out in the morning.

He sighs and turns to leave, only to hear the lock click again, followed shortly by the knob turning. The door swings open on its own, and, half fearing for his life, Jaskier peeks inside. Yennefer is sitting at a vanity, taking her makeup off, her back to the door.

Her eyes meet his in the mirror, and he yelps, tripping over himself in his haste to retreat. Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Are you going to come in, or are you going to flail around like an idiot?”

“Are you going to harvest my organs and use them for your magicks?”

“No.” He feels a bit better at that, only for her to immediately follow up with, “Your organs aren’t anywhere near good enough.”

He pouts, but edges inside, the door shutting itself behind him. “My organs are perfectly harvestable,” he argues, and then feels quite ridiculous, and shuts up before she actually does harvest them.

“Gods, this was a mistake,” Yennefer mutters under her breath, finishing with her makeup and pulling back the covers on the bed. “You can have the floor. Don’t touch my stuff.”

He gleefully sets his lute case down to claim a space before she can change her mind. He’s touched, really, that she cares enough to offer him this. “Can I have a pillo—” he starts to ask, sneaking a hand up towards the bed, only to yank it away when she smacks it.

“No. Good night, bard.”

Never mind, he’s not as touched.

He sighs and lies down, curling around his lute case like he does on the road. It’s warm, at least, the heat from the kitchen below rising up to warm the floor beneath him. He falls into a deep sleep, hastened by the alcohol, and stays that way for several hours, before his bladder makes its needs known.

Upon waking to see the moon still high in the sky, he groans, reaching a hand up onto the vanity to pull himself up. His questing fingers brush against a vial—whoops—and in his blind fumbling to catch and right it, he ends up knocking over several more bottles. Fuck.

“Sorry, sorry,” he hisses, when Yennefer stirs in bed. Gods, if he's just spilled something important, she really will hex him.

Something important begins to drip onto his hand. Gods fucking damn it. He tries to scrub it away, only for it to begin tingling and burning, quickly spreading up his arm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

It’s encompassing his entire body, now, itching and prickling like his skin is too small. “Bard? What are you doing?” Yennefer asks sleepily, sitting bolt upright when she spots the overturned bottle and him scratching frantically as if that will make the sensation go away.

“I didn’t mean to,” he pleads, suddenly very scared, and not just of her. Whatever this enchantment is, it’s spreading fast—will he survive it?

“Is that my fucking anti-aging serum?” Yennefer demands. Jaskier, who has no idea what an anti-aging serum looks like, continues to panic. Even his insides feel weird, guts writhing and bones aching. It’s becoming more and more painful, too, until he can’t stand it anymore, and his vision narrows and darkens and his back hits the floor and then he knows no more.

--

That fucking idiot. That stupid, fumbling imbecile! Yennefer should have known better, really, should have known that the blundering, blithering bard would immediately find the only potentially dangerous thing in the room and spill it all over himself. Really.

She rolled out of bed, a headache already pounding behind her eyes—partially the wine’s influence, yes, but more at the sight in front of her: Jaskier, no longer a long-limbed adult, instead a small, slight child, swimming in silks.

“For the love of fuck,” she sighs, pinching her brow. Her anti-aging serum—which is meant to be used in small doses, one or two drops at the most—she never knew it would have this kind of effect. And now she has to play babysitter to the most annoying person on the Continent, all because he couldn’t keep his hands to his fucking self.

“Wake up,” she orders, refraining from kicking him like she might if he were an adult. She’s mean, but not mean enough to kick a child.

“Hm?” he hums, eyes blinking open, only to freeze when he sees her towering over him. “You’re not Mama,” he says, voice trembling.

Oh, shit. It’s taken his mind as well. For a brief moment, she dares to hope that perhaps he’ll be less trouble like this.

Then he scrambles to his feet and tries to dive out the window.

“Oh no you don’t, you little shit,” she curses, and sends a small spell to trip him up before he can escape. “Stop that.” He stumbles, little palms meeting the wooden floor when he tries to catch himself. She finishes by flicking a finger and latching the window shut, same with the door. The last thing she needs is a de-aged, runaway bard.

Well, if he were to run away, technically he wouldn’t be her problem anymore…

But that’s too heartless, leaving a child on his own like that—and Yennefer can’t deny that her hardened heart has always held a soft spot for children.

That soft spot grows a little softer when Jaskier scoots back against the wall and bursts into loud, messy tears.

She doesn’t know what to do, really, doesn’t know how to comfort him—she can’t remember when she last comforted anyone. “Stop crying,” she orders instead. “Those tears won’t get you anything.”

Incredibly, it works. Whether it’s the shock of being spoken to so harshly, or they were only crocodile tears, she doesn’t know, and doesn’t care. What matters is that he’s finally stopped, and she can actually try and fix this mess now.

“Where’s my mama?” he demands, glaring at her distrustfully. Good, that’s an instinct that will keep him alive someday. “If you want a ransom, then—then Papa says that he won’t pay. Says I’m too much trouble, so you should—you should really just take me home, or else—or else he’ll come here and he’ll kill you.” He lifts his chin defiantly to punctuate his statement.

Well. That’s a lot to unpack, but she’s going to go ahead and shelve that for now. “I haven’t kidnapped you,” she says irritably, then considers the best way to break it to him.

…There is no best way, so she decides not to.

“Then where am I? And who are you?”

“That’s not important. Now come here,” she says, advancing on him and readying a spell that will hopefully reverse the effects of the serum.

He shakes his head, shrinking back further against the wall. His eyes flick between her and the door, and she’s guessing he’s about to make a run for it.

She stops, sinking into a crouch so that they’re on eye level. “Jaskier. It’s very important that I do this. You have a spell placed on you and I need to break it,” she explains.

“A spell?” Contrary to what any sane person would think when told they’ve been bespelled, Jaskier is wide-eyed and excited, the same look he gets as an adult whenever he senses a good story coming on. “What kind?”

“A dangerous one.” She hates to squash that light in his eyes, but it’s true—she doesn’t know what other side effects it might have. She needs to reverse it sooner rather than later—gods forbid it becomes permanent. “Now will you please come here? I’m a sorceress, and I can help.”

He nods, pushing away from the wall and coming to sit in front of her, legs crossed.

“You might feel a tingling, or even a bit of hurt,” she warns, and he nods again, his face creasing in worry and determination.

She’s just about to start when—“Can I hold your hand?” he blurts out. “Mama lets me hold her hand when I—”

She takes his hand before he can launch into some inane explanation. His hand is warm and delicate in hers, no trace of lute callouses to be found. He brightens immediately, gently squeezing their fingers together.

Her eyes, traitors, are getting misty. She angrily clears her throat and begins to cast—the sooner she can reverse this, the better.

Yennefer tries a simple reversal, first. Generic, easy, and evidently not likely to work. No matter. She lets it go and pulls forth another—a spell of speed, to hasten his aging. It fights against her, like drawing a bow, getting more and more difficult as she progresses—she lets that one go, too, lest it snap in her hands like a bowstring rebounding.

Spell after spell after spell, getting more and more complex as she goes, but none work. “Fuck!” she roars as her latest attempt fails, once again.

“Madame Sorceress?” Jaskier asks, brow creasing, worry creeping in. “Is it—did it work?”

“No,” Yennefer replies, and sighs, because she knows what she has to do. Who better to break a curse, after all, than a witcher?

--

“You’re shitting me,” is the first thing Geralt says after Yennefer explains the situation.

“Does it look like I’m kidding?” Yennefer yells, while Jaskier cringes behind her skirts. Despite his excitement at getting to meet a real life witcher, the actual experience has since proven to be a bit much for him. “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other choice, believe me,” she bites out, and Geralt winces, but wisely chooses not to comment.

“De-aged, then?” Geralt asks, sinking down onto his heels. “You can call me Geralt,” he says, and Jaskier peeks out at him.

“Julian,” Jaskier answers, and Yennefer remembers him introducing himself as such to the dwarves. “You’re a witcher?”

“I am,” Geralt nods. “I’m here to help. Did Yennefer explain what’s going on?”

“She said I had a spell on me. But I don’t feel spelled.”

“Mhmm. They can be tricky like that,” Geralt offers.

“Can we get on with it?” Yennefer asks. “This is all very nice, but we still don’t know what the side effects may be.”

“Fine,” Geralt says, standing up and holding out a hand to Jaskier. “Julian, why don’t you come meet my horse.” Jaskier lights up, latching onto Geralt immediately. Yennefer tries not to mourn the loss—why would she? She’s glad to be rid of the annoying little shit, she tells herself.

Geralt gets him situated with Roach, petting gently over her neck and mane, before returning to Yennefer. “I’ve only ever heard of this happening once before,” he begins. “Woman walked into the woods on An Skellig, came out a little girl.”

“And what happened to her?”

“Locals were stumped, until they remembered the old songs. Tír na nÓg.”

Yennefer scoffs. “Skellige fairy tales? That’s all you’ve got?”

“It’s not just a tale. They took her to the bridge during fog season, let her walk across, and she returned three days later all grown up, and no memory of it.”

Yennefer closes her eyes. It’s the only lead they’ve got, and they both know it. “Skellige it is, then. I can’t portal us all and Roach there, though.”

“Good. I hate portals. We’ll head to Novigrad, catch a merchant ship.”

Setting out on the road together is surprisingly easy. Though the fiery passion between them has simmered down, Yennefer still finds she enjoys Geralt’s company, when she forgets to be angry at him. It helps to have Jaskier there as a buffer, oddly enough—Geralt seems to sense her moods keenly, and often makes himself scarce, taking Jaskier with him to identify herbs as they walk, or carrying him on his shoulders as Jaskier tries to reach the lowest branches of the fruit trees they pass.

And sometimes she finds herself alone with Jaskier when Geralt is off hunting, or tending to Roach, or doing whatever the fuck it is he does when he’s alone. He proves to be, if not a scintillating conversational partner, very eager to learn, especially when she explains magical theories to him.

“When I grow up, I want to be a sorceress!” he proclaims one night, and she can’t help but smile.

“What about a witcher? Last I recall, you wanted to be a witcher yesterday,” she teases.

“I can do both!” Jaskier insists. “A witcher-sorceress. They’ll write songs about me!”

He never really has changed, has he?

--

The journey to An Skellig is largely uneventful—there’s one exciting moment, when they spot a blue whale off the bow of the ship, but other than that, it’s a monotony of rolling waves and bouts of seasickness for Jaskier.

They’re all glad to set foot on dry land when they finally do. They’re so close that Yennefer can taste it—though she can’t deny that young Julian has grown on her, and she’ll almost be sad to see him gone.

She swallows her feeling and continues on, trekking through the woods as Geralt leads them to the bridge to Tír na nÓg. The temperature drops as they go, until Jaskier is shivering atop Roach. Yennefer conjures a cloak for him with hardly a thought, and he throws a grateful smile at her.

They keep on, the forest growing darker, and just when she’s about to demand that they stop for the night and continue on tomorrow, the trees before them break, revealing a breathtaking view.

An arched bridge spans a perfectly placid lake ringed by trees, a fine mist overlaying the whole scene. This must be it—the bridge to Tír na nÓg, the land of youth.

Geralt has instructed Jaskier on what to do over the course of their journey, of course—for neither of them can accompany him. He has to face this trial alone. “Are you ready?” Geralt asks, helping Jaskier down from Roach. Jaskier nods, little face screwed in determination.

Anxiety flutters at Yennefer’s throat as she watches him cross the bridge, and she’s about ready to call it off, but Geralt holds her back. “Let him go,” he says quietly.

Jaskier disappears into the mist, and they begin their wait.

--

It turns out to be not very long at all. The sun is just only beginning to rise when Geralt rouses from his meditation, waking Yennefer as well. He looks out across the bridge, witcher senses focused on something Yennefer can’t.

And then Jaskier appears, back to his normal, adult self, grinning brightly. “Geralt! Yennefer!” he shouts, and breaks into a run. Geralt catches him as he leaps, drawing the witcher into a tight hug. It only lasts a few seconds, and then Jaskier is turning to Yennefer and pulling her into a hug as well. She stiffens, but doesn’t pull away.

“Thank you both for taking care of me. I know I couldn’t have been the easiest child,” he says wryly.

“You were fine,” Geralt says, at the same time Yennefer replies, “I don’t know, you might have been preferable as a child.”

“Rude,” Jaskier pouts, but he’s still hugging her.

There’s still so much they need to talk about—that damned mountain, for one—but right now, it doesn’t feel nearly so important. It’s enough to have this moment of peace, the three of them all reunited and as they should be.

[lilacmoon83]

Dreaming Out Loud

Dreaming Out Loud

Chapter 34: Friction

"Dad…" Emma started to say, as they walked back to the cruiser. He stopped and turned to her and surprised her by cupping her face in his hands.

"Emma...I'm so sorry…" he cried.

"Dad...you didn't know. They lied to you and Mom. I know we're both feeling a lot of things right now, but if you think any of my anger is at you and Mom, don't…" she replied. He sighed.

"We trusted them...I mean, Regina caused all this, but it looks like we still put our faith in people that didn't deserve that," he said bitterly.

"I know...of all the people I thought he might be, Pinocchio wasn't one of them. Though the lying thing makes a whole lot more sense now," she mentioned.

"It does?" David asked in confusion, not quite making the connection.

"Oh well...the story that this land tells about Pinocchio is that he was a wooden boy and the only way he could become a real boy is to be selfless, brave, and true. But for most of the story, Pinocchio lies. But he does the right thing in the end, so the Blue Fairy makes him a real boy. That's where the story ends, but I guess we know he didn't go on to keep that promise in real life," Emma explained.

"And these kind of stories are designed to entertain children?" he asked. Emma smiled. Her father was still very much trying to figure out how this world worked.

"Well...in the movie his nose grows every time he lies," she replied. David chuckled, suddenly getting the same mental image she had of August's nose growing.

"Okay...that does make it better," he agreed, as he put his arm around her.

"How do you think Gold will take it?" she asked.

"Probably better than I did, at least on the surface. He doesn't exactly betray a lot of emotion, except anger maybe. I think he'll disappointed though. I get that...I wouldn't know what to do if I couldn't find my child," he replied, looking at her.

"August is wrong too...about you helping Gold. As wary of him as you always told me to be, I really do think he just wants Belle and to find his son, for the most part," she reasoned. He nodded.

"August isn't wrong about the power part...I just hope love will be enough in the end. Believe me, back in our land, I never thought I would have anything to do with him willingly," David added.

"But things are different here," Emma surmised.

"They are...he is or seems that way, I don't know. There's no magic here either. I used to think he was raving mad back in our land. Trusting him might be a risk, but it's one I have to take," he explained. She smiled.

"August is wrong not to look up to you. Everything you've ever done has been for Mom and me," Emma mentioned.

"All I've ever wanted was to be with my family and we're going to have that, Emma, I promise," he assured. She smiled, as they got into the cruiser and headed back to town.

Flashback

Fourteen Months Before the Dark Curse

The thundering hooves of horses echoed through the forest, along the dirt pathway. In the near distance stood the Dark Castle, a place to be avoided. The people on horseback headed for this castle with purpose must have been brave or desperate, for no one willing went there. The horses slowed and revealed a man and a woman, in riding clothes that spoke that they were of importance. The handsome man swept his long cape out of the way, as he dismounted and offered his hand to his beautiful companion. They laced their fingers together in an intimate gesture, as they approached the Dark Castle. They found it open and went inside.

"Rumpelstiltskin!" the man shouted. They were met with a high pitched giggle.

"Well, my, my, my...to what pleasure do I owe a visit from Snow White and Prince Charming?" he asked in a sing-song voice.

"Information...about an encounter we had with a bloodsucker," David answered. Rumple had known this day would soon come with his foresight and all. The heathen he had reluctantly assisted had encountered Snow White and while neither of them knew why, he was drawn to her. Rumple could only imagine the depravity in store in his warped mind for the child of Persephone.

"There are no more bloodsuckers in existence. Zeus saw to that centuries ago," Rumple stated, as he appeared suddenly before them. He looked them up and down and was a bit disappointed. No Savior yet...but he had no doubt that it would be very soon, especially given the way these two seemed hold each other so close. True love and all its physical wonders, indeed.

"Then he missed one, perhaps," Charming suggested.

"Or perhaps he only appears vampire-likeon the surface," Rumple countered.

"Then you know the being we speak of?" Snow questioned. He giggled.

"Oh yes...Snow White, the being that has become so captivated by the fairest of them all is none other than Deimos, God of Terror...or at least he was," the Dark One answered.

"Was?" Charming asked.

"After trying to overthrow Zeus, he was punished and stripped of his immortality. However, being a valuable minion to Hades, he ingested ambrosia leaves and restored his immortality," Rumple replied.

"And the part where he drinks blood?" Charming asked impatiently.

"I was getting to that…" Rumple snapped.

"To maintain the effects of the ambrosia, he must ingest blood at least once a month, every full moon or his immortality will be null and void," he continued.

"But the ambrosia warped his mind and instead of obtaining only the small amount of blood he needs, he favors killing his victims instead, always female, after he's done rather depraved things to them," Rumple added. Snow visibly shuddered and instinctively, Charming put his arms around her.

"He said things to me...that he wanted to keep me," Snow stammered, as she recalled the frightening memory.

"Do you know why he would hone in on Snow? Why he's become obsessed with her? We've had several very close calls," Charming said, his face showing how frightened he was for his wife.

"His strength...it's inhuman. Without Red…" Charming started to say, but Snow clutched his leather jerkin and he didn't finish his sentence.

"Yes…" Rumple said, knowing where he was going and theyshared a long gaze, with Charming seeing a flicker of understanding? He recalled once that the Dark One spoke of a love that he had lost. This man, as twisted and dark as he was, understood the fear that plagued him. But just as quickly as the flicker flashed in his eyes, it was gone.

"And what is it that you want from me?" Rumple asked.

"Answers...a way to defeat him...something! I cannot let such a monster stalk and hunt my wife. His terror has to end...I would rather die than see her tormented and Gods forbid taken by that animal," Charming implored passionately, as she clung to him.

"And if I perhaps had some information...then what would you give me in return?" Rumple inquired.

"Anything...name for your price," the prince responded.

"Charming…" Snow whimpered, fearing for what this imp might want in return.

"No price is too high for your safety, my darling," he told her.

"Defeating a being such as an immortal is not easy...but nor is it impossible. This one, in particular, has a weakness that can be exploited on the next Harvest Moon. And since it is autumn, you shall not have to wait long," Rumple stated.

"What happens on the Harvest Moon?" Snow asked.

"On this one night, his immortality is null and void due to this particular phase of the moon and astrological alignment. On this one night, you can battle him in hopes of winning and kill him," Rumple stated.

"With his immortality gone, so will be his superior strength," Charming said, hope in his voice.

"Yes...but he will still be a formidable opponent. You must bring your wolf friend. You must tear him to shreds...quite literally and burn the remains. Only then will he die. Accomplish this before first light or all your efforts will be vain," Rumple warned.

"And what's your price for this information?" he asked. Rumple stared at them with scrutiny. He had everything he needed from them so far. He already had bottled their true love with their hairs and it was safely hidden away for a rainy day. The next thing he needed from them would occur soon enough on its own. In fact, telling them this information benefited him, for it wouldn't do well for his plans if Prince Charming was killed and Snow White became a possession of that depraved creature, never having conceived the Savior. No...he needed these two very much alive and together. But he had a reputation to keep, so he had to make something up.

"You'll owe me a favor and I can call in this favor at the time of my choosing," Rumple decided.

"Deal," Charming agreed, as he led Snow out of the castle. Deimos was a complication to his plans that he didn't need. Unbeknown to them, they were actually already doing him the favor by eradicating him from existence. He was certain it would happen soon. The Savior would be conceived and then the curse would come, taking him to the land where Bae was...

After going back to the station, David set out on foot for Gold's shop and entered through the back way as usual, careful to make sure no one was following or watching him. Sidney Glass always seemed to be lurking somewhere and he had learned quickly how to spot the weasel. He had been distracted obviously on his and Mary's wedding night, but knew that's how Regina found out so quickly. His meetings with Gold and Jefferson, however, needed to remain secret. Regina suspected they were already working together, but if she learned the things they discussed, it would not bode well to their advantage.

"You don't look happy," Jefferson commented, as he joined them in them in the front of the shop. David pulled the dagger from his inside jacket pocket and placed it in front of Gold.

"You got it back...then you confronted him," the Hatter said.

"I didn't think it was part of the plan for you to confront him alone," Gold replied, though he was relieved to have the dagger back. He pocketed it inside his own jacket pocket.

"Things changed. Our friend on the motorcycle invited my daughter to take a ride with him earlier...so I followed them," David explained.

"What did you find out?" Jefferson asked.

"A whole lot more than I ever imagined," David replied, as he took a deep breath, trying to calm his temper.

"He took Emma into the woods...to a well. At first, he kept trying to lead her into the conversation about the curse with his vague riddles, but she wasn't having any of it. My daughter isn't exactly one for beating around the bush," he commented. Jefferson smirked.

"Like her father," he agreed.

"Anyway...I think he was expecting to have to convince her that the curse was real. Only Emma shocked him when she revealed that she knew everything. She was done with his crap and demanded to know how and why he knew about the curse. And what his interest in her and Henry was. Something I wanted to know as well," David continued.

"So...who is he? Is he Baelfire?" Jefferson asked impatiently.

"No...he's not. I'm sorry," David replied, looking Gold in the eyes. The older man remained stoic, though his emotions raged inside in a myriad of varying degrees.

"But it's probably best he's not, because I think you'd rather not have a liar for a son," the prince added bitterly.

"Okay...so who is this guy? If he isn't Baelfire, then how the hell does he know so much about the curse?" Jefferson asked.

"Because he's actually Pinocchio and his lying father put him through the wardrobe before I put Emma through," David growled, as he gripped the counter top so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Wait...so it took more than one?" the Hatter asked. David smiled bitterly.

"Yep...and if they had just told us the truth, Snow and I could have gone with her!" he shouted.

"So the woodworker put the boy through...and what? Just expected him to take care of an infant?" Jefferson asked.

"I think the old man counted on Snow going through while still pregnant with Emma. I'm not really convinced he cared either way. I mean...I get he was trying to protect her child. But Emma needed us…" he lamented.

"I guess I'm still confused as to how he fits in all this. I mean...where's he been?" Jefferson asked.

"Oh, that's the best part. They ended up in the same foster home, but he left Emma. I know he was a boy, but he still left her. And now he's back, not because he cares about any of us or my daughter, but because he's turning back to wood. And he's determined that my daughter break the curse to save his worthless skin," David said.

"Well...not that it's much comfort, but there is a chance the curse breaking won't fix him anyway," Gold offered.

"What do you mean?" David asked. Gold gave a small shrug.

"The magic used to turn him into a real person was given to him by the Blue Fairy. If he broke her conditions, then the curse breaking or not may not help him. His selfishness will be his own undoing," Gold surmised.

"Serves him right. The only reason he even bothered to come here was to use my daughter," David said.

"That still doesn't explain why he took my dagger," Gold stated.

"I think he either might know there's a chance the curse won't fix him or he was hoping there was magic in it. I think he hoped to use it to force you to fix him if all else failed," David deduced. Jefferson snorted.

"Yeah, because that plan wasn't going to blow up in his face or anything. At least the lying thing makes sense now," the Hatter commented. David scoffed.

"That's exactly what Emma said," he agreed.

"So what now? Emma believes, you and Snow are together, even if she doesn't have her memories. Happy endings are slowly being restored...what are we missing?" Jefferson wondered.

"I wish I knew," David responded.

"It will come. Regina will soon take drastic measures to regain a stronghold on the town and Emma will face her. Not even I've been able to see how she will break the curse, but she is the product of true love and that is key," Gold stated. David sighed.

"I just wish there was more I could do to help. I don't like that it's all on Emma," he mentioned.

"You are helping her...by being there. Don't take for granted that you can actually do that. I only wish Grace knew the truth," Jefferson said bitterly. David looked at him.

"I'm sorry...sometimes I forget that you get it," he apologized.

"It's fine...like he said, we have to be close. Everything seems to be coming to a head, especially since we know for sure that Regina knows that Emma knows," he mentioned. He had reluctantly informed them of Emma's slip after assuring her that he wasn't angry that she did. It was a mistake, after all, and he was pretty sure Regina had already figured out who she was.

"I guess we'll just have to be ready for whatever she throws at us and have each other's backs. I think we can agree on that," the prince stated. He received a nod from Jefferson and nothing from Gold, but knew he would do what needed to be done when it came to furthering their cause.

"I'm going to go pick up Mary," he said, as he left, slipping out the back. At the forefront of his mind was the moment he would eventually have to tell Snow about the lie they were told by people they trusted. He knew it was going to devastate her as much as it had devastated him. He would need to tell Stephanie too and knew her reaction would be about the same as his. For now though, he was going to be with his family and mentally prepare himself for the battle he knew was coming. The battle he could practically feel humming in his veins.

Mary walked around the room, quietly observing, as her students worked on the latest art project she had assigned. The evening before, she and David had gone on one of their evening walks with Wilby as they often did, and the night had been so clear, they had been able to see a sky blanketed by stars. That gave her the idea to work in a basic lesson into their time allotted for science that week about constellations. And now her students were happily sketching drawings of their favorite constellation. As she returned to her desk, she happened to glance out the window and jumped in fright, causing her to almost trip over her chair. Damon Tromera stood outside her window with a smug smirk on his face. Her heart raced and she almost didn't hear Henry when he asked her a question.

"Miss Blanchard...are you okay?" the boy asked in concern. She turned her head and looked at him and then glanced back at the window, this time finding no one there now.

"Um...I'm fine Henry, just clumsy," she replied. He didn't look convinced and looked to the window, wondering what she had seen to startle her so badly. Mary was wondering, however, if she had really seen him or if her mind was playing tricks on her. But she had a sinking gut feeling that he had been there and was intent on seeing to her torment. She took a deep breath and that was the moment the bell chose to ring.

"You can put your drawings in your desks and we'll finish them tomorrow," Mary called to them, as her students gathered their things and she watched them file out. As they did, she saw her husband peak in and smile at her.

"Hey…" he greeted, as he came into the room once all her students were gone.

"Hey yourself handsome," she greeted in return, as she welcomed his strong arms around her. She surprised him by eagerly pressing her lips to his in a kiss, of which he gladly returned.

"Yeah...hello to you too," he purred, as their lips parted. She giggled, as he pecked her on the lips again.

"Are you ready to go home?" he asked. She nodded and glanced at the window again, shuddering slightly at the memory and he frowned.

"Are you okay?" he asked. She nodded.

"Yes...especially now," she replied.

"No...something's bothering you. What's going on?" he asked.

"It's nothing...I think I was just imagining things," she replied, trying to brush it off as nothing.

"My darling...you know that you can tell me anything," he implored. She sighed.

"I happened to glance up and out the window a few minutes ago and I thought I saw him there. But I looked away briefly and then when I looked back, he was gone. I think my mind was just playing tricks on me," she assured him. But he wasn't convinced. This was just like that monster. He'd done this too, back in their land. He'd pop up in the gardens, just below their balcony in the castle, just to frighten her. He'd be there one minute and gone by the time he came, enjoying toying with her and forcing her to constantly look over her shoulder.

"Maybe I better go take a look around outside," he suggested.

"No...please, let's just go home. I don't want to waste anymore thought or energy on him," she pleased. He kissed her hair.

"Okay…" he relented, as she gathered her things up and they left for the day, hand in hand.

Emma locked up the station for the night, after forwarding the phones to her cell and headed out to the bug. About that time, Archie was walking by with Pongo and she gave him a friendly nod.

"Emma...I was hoping I could speak to you for a moment?" he inquired.

"Uh sure...I guess we can go back inside," she replied, as she unlocked the station and he followed her in with Pongo.

"What's up?" Emma asked, glad they weren't still standing out in the cold.

"I'm afraid this is a bit difficult for me to ask, but I recently became aware of your history with being seen by a psychiatrist," Archie replied gently. Emma's jaw clenched and she felt her blood boil.

"The only way you could know about that is if Regina gave you my file...the file she had no right to gain access to!" Emma shouted.

"I know...I know, what she did was so wrong and completely unethical. I'm not even sure how she got into your sealed records. But I promise I'm only asking out of concern for Henry," he pleaded.

"What you do mean...you read my file!" she exclaimed.

"Regina told me about your brief sessions when you were about Henry's age. I only looked at it to see the actual facts for myself without her opinions or scrutiny," he explained.

"I can't believe this...she was bad enough...I expect it from her. But you...she threatened you again, didn't she?" Emma asked. The ginger haired man looked down in shame.

"I'm so sorry Emma...but I do want what's best for Henry and now his inability to distinguish fiction from reality makes a lot of sense! Often time...mental illness can be hereditary," Archie stammered.

"Mental illness? Henry has an active imagination...so did I!" Emma shot back.

"Emma...let's be honest. Your trauma of being abandoned on the side of a road led to you creating this dream world for yourself that you told the therapist about. The one where your parents were Snow White and Prince Charming. It's not your fault...not with the situation you were in. Nor is it Henry's fault...in fact, knowing your history will help me properly treat him," Archie stated.

"Treat him? You don't mean like medication?" Emma asked in horror.

"No...no...that would be a last resort," he assured.

"But I can tell there's something else," Emma retorted, as she crossed her arms over her chest. He looked down, unable to look her in the eyes.

"Look at me," Emma snapped, as he looked up.

"Henry's not really getting better. In fact, since you came to town, his talk of curses and fairy tales is even more prevalent," Archie stated.

"He's happy!" Emma cried.

"You're enabling him, Emma and I'm afraid it is my professional opinion that any time you spend with Henry should be supervised," Archie said regrettably. Emma's mouth dropped open in shock.

"I don't believe this…" Emma uttered.

"Emma…" Archie started to say.

"She did it...she actually did it. She's found a way to keep Henry from me," Emma muttered. She clenched her teeth and her green eyes were stormy.

"Emma…" he tried again.

"Get out…" she growled. He hesitated for a moment though.

"Get out!" she shouted. He jumped and hurried Pongo along, as he exited. Deep down, Emma knew it wasn't really his fault, but she was too blindsided to care about his feelings at the moment. She angrily swiped some papers off her desk.

"If you think you've won, Regina...you've got another thing coming," she hissed.

[helloyukimura]

Chapter 4 - Jung Daehyun

Hi guys,

I've finished this chapter very quickly as it was fun to write it. Daehyun is such a tease sometimes that I couldn't leave his teasing actions out of this chapter. Hope you guys enjoy it~ 

Here are  the links for the other chapters:

Prologue

Chapter 1 - The B.A.P Castle

Chapter 2 - Bang Yongguk

Chapter 3 - Kim Himchan

Admin S

The first one to take action was Daehyun when it comes to the human blood he loses his mind. He showed his fangs to you like he was ready to bite you. He was an inch close to your hand and inhaled the scent of your blood. Himchan was protecting you while Yongguk was holding Daehyun.

YG: "Daehyun stop!"

HC: "Jung Daehyun! Behave yourself! You're scaring her!"

You were trembling in Himchans arms. Daehyun turns into a monster if he smells blood, just like the others with bloody red eyes. You finally realised that a scratch can be dangerous if you're living in a castle full of vampires. Maybe you should have listened to Himchan if it's going to turn out like this. You glanced at Yongguk. His eyes were bloody red too, but he was holding Daehyun tightly.

YG: "Himchan-ah I'm going to calm Daehyun down. Can you stay with (y/n)?"

HC: "Thanks, Bbang. I will keep an eye on her. Youngjae can you take Jongup and Zelo to the living room. I don't think they can resist this scent. I will cover it up as soon as possible."

YJ: "Yes hyung."

Yongguk push Daehyun out of the room and took him out to calm down as Youngjae brought Jongup and Zelo out.

DH: "Rwaaah Yongguk hyung! Why can't you let me smell her blood some longer? Just one lick was enough to taste her blood! Aish!"

YG: "Daehyun-ah I know it's hard to resist her blood. But if you had seen the way you pushed yourself on her. You would have been scared as (y/n). You resemble a monster."

DH: "I did not!"

YG: "Yes you did. Keep in mind that she is still human and that she is fragile."

Daehyun was frustrated.

DH: "Aish when is she going to choose her partner? It's driving me nuts when she has no owner!"

YG: "Daehyun-ah be patient. She will choose tonight at 12 o'clock."

DH: "Hyung don't you feel frustrated? Her scent is everywhere. It makes me hungry."

Yongguk rumbles in his pocket and found a little bottle filled with blood.

YG: "This is animal blood. Take it for now. It's not as delicious as human blood, but it's eatable."

DH: "Thanks, hyung."

Daehyun drinks the bottle in one shot.

DH: "Ugh this is disgusting hyung. How long did you keep it in your pocket?"

YG: "Let me think about it."

DH: "OH MY GOD! Did you gave me old blood from a few days ago?"

YG: "I'm just joking. It's from this morning."

DH: "Huh? But it tastes horrible. What kind of animal did you kill?"

YG: "A pig."

DH: "Eww gross. Never give me that again please."

Yongguk laughed like a sadist.

DH: "Yah Yongguk hyung~ this is not funny. You gave me pig blood. Do you really drink it yourself?"

YG: "Yep when I'm hungry. This is better than nothing."

DH: "Are you still drinking animal blood only? Why don't you steal some blood at hospitals or something? I do it all the time."

YG: "No I don't want people to die due to lack of blood. People stand their blood off to help others."

DH: "You kill animals instead. That doesn't sound any better..."

YJ: "Ah there you guys are! I was searching for you."

YG: "What's wrong Youngjae?"

YJ: "Yongguk hyung, Zelo and Jongup are acting weird. Do you have some blood for them?"

DH: "What?! Are you asking Yongguk hyung for pig blood?"

YJ: "Why? Is there anything wrong about it?"

DH: "It taste horrible! You can't do that to Jongup and Zelo."

YJ: "Why not? At least you can feed them with it."

YG: "Youngjae-ah here are three bottles of them. Use them good."

YJ: "Thank you Yongguk hyung!"

Youngjae went after Jongup and Zelo.

DH: "I seriously can't believe how pig's blood can be good to you."

YG: "Blood is blood. If I can live with it then I'm fine with it."

DH: "Have you ever tasted human blood before?"

YG: "Hmm... never."

DH: "Really?! Omg (y/n) should really choose you as her partner. How could you never had any human blood before?"

YG: "What's the problem? I can live with animal blood. Why should I bother to take human blood?"

DH: "Because it taste better and you feel more satisfied with human blood."

YG: "I never really care about food anyway. So it doesn't matter to me."

DH: "You don't know what you are talking about. If (y/n) chooses me I will give you some taste of it."

YG: "How will she choose you? You scared the hell out of her."

DH: "I- I have the feeling that she likes me the first second she saw me. I'm sure of it. She was captivated by my handsome face."

YG: "Yeah you're right..."

On the other hand, Youngjae was running after Zelo.

YJ: "Junhongie stop running around and come here. Take this bottle blood from me, it will make you calm down."

JH: "Hyung I want human blood~ I don't want animal blood anymore. I don't like the taste."

YJ: "If I count to three you are here in front of me or else you are in big trouble."

JH: "Catch me if you can~ Nah~nahnahnah~nah~"

YJ: "YAH you are in so much trouble!"

At the same time, Jongup went back to the room where Himchan was. His eyes were not red anymore. He looks at you smiling like an angel. Himchan smiled back at him.

HC: "Jongup-ah that trick doesn't work on her."

JU: "Aww man how did you know that I was doing a trick on her."

HC: "Just give up. You're still a newbie. Learn everything slowly step by step. I was like you when I was a little child. My sister taught me how to be a vampire."

JU: "Aww man... I feel stupid for even trying."

HC: "It's okay. Take your time and learn from us, your hyungs."

JU: "Himchannie hyung I feel hungry."

Himchan took a red tablet of his pocket.

HC: "Here take this tablet put in with some water in a wine glass. It's animal blood tablets. My professor friend made this."

JU: "Woah daebak! I'm going to try this quickly."

You were sitting next to Himchan. You wonder about those animal blood tablets and his professor friend.

You: "Himchan oppa is your friend a vampire too?"

HC: "Yes he is. He is still improving to make those tablets for me."

You: "How does animal blood differ from human blood?"

HC: "Hmm good question. I guess you can compare it to eating vegetarian meat and real meat from an animal for the human taste."

You: "Ah... that really is a good comparison."

Himchan giggled. You find his giggle really cute and giggled too. Why is this guy so cute as a teddy bear? He doesn't seem scary anymore. The scariest vampire should be Daehyun.

HC: "Is there anything you like to do?"

You: "Hmm I like to watch drama's."

HC: "Ah! I know a good drama to watch. You should watch the "Descendants of the Sun".

Himchan runs to his room to pick his tablet. He left you alone in the kitchen. A second later you saw a shadow in front of the door. Something made you feel scared.

DH: "Hello beautiful~ why are you here alone? Where is Himchannie Hyung?"

You: "He went to pick up his tablet."

You stood up and try to walk away from Daehyun. He was way too close you thought. Where is Himchan or Yongguk if you needed them.

DH: "Don't be scared. I'm a gentleman. I will treat you with all respect."

You: "I don't even know you. How can I trust your words?"

You walk backwards keeping a distance from him. Daehyun was closing the distance between you two. You gulped. He pushed you against the counter. He leans in and whispered.

DH: "I know you will choose me the second I saw you. You were born to be mine."

Then you feel his hand caressing your cheek.

You: "W-what are you trying to do to me?"

Daehyun smirks playfully.

DH: "Nothing. It seems that someone is shy for me."

You: "I'm not!"

Daehyun puts both hands on the counter. His face one inch from yours.

DH: "Have you ever kissed a vampire before?"

You: "A what?"

He is inching his face closer and closer. When you closed your eyes tightly he stopped moving.

DH: "If you choose me I can make your wish come true my love."

You: "You!"

DH: "What? Did you expect me to kiss you? I wouldn't do that~ because I'm a gentleman."

Daehyun smirks again. He was playing with your feelings. You pushed him away just to be pulled against his body. You gasped. You couldn't get used to their body temperature. How can their body feel so cold? You stared at Daehyun. The mole under his eye made him special, it looks so cute. And his plump lips made you wonder how it would feel if he had kissed you. He licked his lips. When you made eye contact you feel your cheeks blushing. You looked away.

HC: "Jung Daehyun! I'm forbidding you to make any moves on (y/n) for the next several hours till she chooses her partner."

DH: "But hyung that is not fair~"

HC: "No buts you made enough moves on her."

Himchan pulled you away from Daehyun and stood protectively in front of you.

HC: "Youngjae-ah! You can keep an eye on (y/n) for me. I'm going to teach Daehyun a lesson."

DH: "Woah! See you tonight my love! Bye~"

HC: "You're so going to regret your actions today. If I catch you, you are in big trouble mister!"

The End of chapter 4!

[nettleandfriends-blog]

Going Herbal: First Steps

OK, we’ve been through WHY and HOW to go about foraging for herbs and plants. Today it’s about WHAT: what you need in a way of equipment and what to do with your herbs once you’ve collected them.

Considering the equipment, there are two sets of things: the stuff you need for the actual collecting of plants and the ingredients – other than herbs – used in various recipes.

The equipment for foraging

You don’t need much, and what you need you probably already have anyway:

A basket: in my experience, a plastic carrier bag causes leaves and flowers to wilt rapidly, and roots or bark to sweat. You need something which will not keep humidity. Ideally, you’d have a wicker or rattan basket and you’d line it with paper (newspapers are the best, though you can use paper towels). If you don’t have a basket like this, you can use any smallish plastic basket (you can get these in any pound shop) and line it well with newspapers. That’s Yorkshire for you – we still talk about good ole days when fish ’n’ chips were sold in newspapers (so you can get sustenance and information simultaneously) instead of this faceless white paper we have to use by law.

Gloves: although, to be honest, I rarely use them, they are very useful for protecting your hands. If you have sensitive skin, they are definitely a must. Thin garden gloves are the best, but if you don’t have them any gloves will do (well, not boxing gloves, obviously).

Small sharp knife for cutting flower heads and peeling bark. I say “small” for the reason of practicality as well as the reason of legality. I mean, if you want to walk around like Crocodile Dundee it’s up to you, but in the UK you’ll get arrested for carrying a monster knife in public. I use those cheap yellow Stanley knives and pruner (high technology, me). BTW, when peeling bark, make sure you don’t damage the trunk or main branches - get the bark from the smaller side branches.

A hand-held small spade to help you dig roots. You can use an old cutlery knife.

That’s about it. With these few things you’re all set to go.

A few bits of advice for foraging:

Do not pack your herbs too densely – you should avoid bruising leaves and flowers

Check the plant before you place it in the basket – there might be some bugs on it. If there are, just gently remove them (shake, flick or blow off). If you’re not a bug aficionado and normally deal with them using slippers or rolled newspapers etc. – refrain please. Whatever squishes a bug squishes a flower as well. In addition, if you’re big on karma – you’ll sleep better knowing you spared a bug’s life.

After you dig out a root, wipe it or brush it gently to remove as much dirt as you can

Once you’re back home, don’t leave the stuff in the basket for later. Allow yourself a quick cuppa and then sort the herbs straight away. If you’re using fresh ingredients, get to the first stage of the recipe straight away. If you’re drying stuff, set it to dry as soon as possible.

Let’s look at the most common non-herbal ingredients used in various recipes:

Paper bags / boxes to keep dried ingredients. I use shoe boxes lined with tissue paper. The lid keeps dust away but does not hermetically seal the box

Jars and bottles.

I use glass ones because glass is sterilised easily by simply boiling it in water for a few minutes. If you happen to have a baby-bottles steriliser, then you can use plastic ones as well. As long as they have a good lid and can be sterilised, they’re fine. Don’t use metal, though. If you want to use wooden or terracotta vessels, you can sterilise them with lye, rinse with freshly boiled water and dry in a warm-ish (not hot) oven. For lid use waxed paper, tightly tied. Terracotta should be glazed inside.  As I said – lots of hassle; glass is easy.

Oils

Traditionally, either cold-pressed olive oil or hemp oil has been used, as they were the most available oils. Meanwhile, more oils became readily available, such as coconut oil, which has turned out to be great, especially for skin creams. It is great on its own, as you might know, having antifungal, hydrating etc. properties. If you’re out of any of these, you can use sesame or sunflower oil. I don’t know about palm, corn or canola – I’d have to do some research to find out a bit more about their chemistry. Whichever oil you use, it should be cold-pressed.

Lard

Ointments are often made with lard. Lard needs to be perfectly clean – when it is, it’s snow white. If you get lard from a pig farm to use in cooking, chances are it might be slightly yellowish or ivory in colour. This lard is tastier, but to use it with herbs you need to wash it. It’s easy enough: fill a bowl with cold water, put the lard in and then play with it (think Demi Moore in “Ghost”). You might need to do it a few times, using fresh cold water every time.

If you’re getting lard in a supermarket, it’s perfectly clean anyway. I don’t use it, though, because I have this niggling thought at the back of my mind that supermarket meat comes from animals fed with hormones (to grow faster) and antibiotics (to keep them from infections). I’m probably just a bit paranoid… or am I?...

If you’re vegetarian and find the very thought of using lard revolting, or if your religion forbids anything of pig origin – well, I’m not sure what to advise. I don’t know of any veggie substitute that has the same consistency, melting point, stability etc.  

Honey and bees wax

This is probably the most expensive ingredient you might need. The honey needs to be real honest-to-God-pollen-only honey. Lots of large-scale-produced honey is made by bees largely fed by sugar. That honey is much cheaper, but also lacks majority of goodness coming from pollen. Also, like with whisky, honey can be “single malt” or blend. If you get honey that just says “honey”, it is probably a blend (this is not necessarily a bad thing, as long as it’s real honey). If it says, for example, meadow honey, it is kind of a “natural” blend – bees have fed in meadows where a variety of different wild flowers grow. My favourite honey is chestnut honey. It is quite dark and has a slightly bitter undertaste, like when you make caramel and sugar gets just a tad burnt. My son, on the other hand, swears by acacia honey, which is very pale and mild. In any case, it might be a good idea to find a bee keeper around you and get in touch. Then you’ll know where your honey comes from, don’t have to be worried about queen bees having their wings clipped, and you’ll be able to get some real bees wax when you need it. Oh, by the way – if your honey starts to crystallise, there’s nothing wrong with it. You can still use it as it is, but if you want it get smooth again just heat the jar a bit in a bowl of hot water.

Alcohol

“Hmm, I might get into this herbal malarkey,” I can hear you say. However, this might be a bit tricky for using my recipes if you don’t live in the Balkans. You see, in the UK you can make your own wine and beer to your heart’s desire, but hard liquor – that’s illegal to make at home. In the Balkans, whoever has fruit trees makes at least one batch of rakija per season. Rakija is a kind of fruit brandy; it has a minimum of 20-25% alcohol (anything below is basically a milkshake) and, if anyone ever tries to make home distilleries illegal in Balkans, they will see an uprising compared to which Spartacus merely lodged a complaint. I don’t know how it is now, but when I was a kid, people were practically ashamed of giving a shot of shop-bought rakija to a guest. As a matter of fact, there was usually a special bottle or two for a very special guest or occasion. Some people used to bury a small barrel of home-made rakija in the garden on the day a male child was born. The barrel was dug out on the child’s wedding day and the whole wedding party would get sloshed on top-notch stuff. Rakija is always made of fruit (as opposed to for example, whisky, which is made of grain, or tequila, which is made from agave, or rum, which is made from sugarcane). The most common rakija is slivovica, made from plums (there is actually a sort of plum, oval in shape and not much bigger than a walnut, which is especially appreciated in rakija and jam making). In various parts of the Balkans other fruit is used: apricot, quince, pear, apple and Cornelian cherry rakijas are quite common. Besides slivovica, rakija called loza (made mostly in Montenegro and Dalmacia) is best loved – it’s made from grapes and is a bit like Italian grappa. Rakijas with a lower alcohol content are called “meka” (meaning “soft”), and really strong ones (50-70%) are called “ljuta” (meaning both “angry” and “hot” – as in taste).

Then there’s komovica. Komovica is made from “kom”, which is the name given to leftovers – basically dregs - in wine making (remains of wine mixed with solids). Although some people actually like to drink it (no comment) it is widely used for home-made medicinal concoctions, either by itself (e.g. for lowering fever) or mixed with various herbs. If you can’t get your hands on komovica, see if you can get grappa, or Spanish/Portuguese aguardiente. If all fails, you can use a good, strong vodka. I never tried, but maybe tequila would work as well. By the way – if you ever decide to try to be a rakija connoisseur, and your usual is whisky with beer chasers, be very careful: whisky and beer are both made from grain, but mixing fruit and grain is best left for breakfast cereals. Many a westerner came to the Balkans and decided (against all advices from local folk) to have rakija with beer chasers. This is commonly known as “armoured concrete” and usually results in gaining consciousness three days later, after numerous IVs in A&E.

Emulsifier

If you’ve heard the word before, chances are it was in a bad way. It is a very common additive in ready-made food. Some emulsifiers caused lots of hubbub when it turned out they were harmful. Worry not, young Padawan, leading you to the Dark Side I am not. Emulsifier is simply a substance that makes emulsions stable. Emulsion is a kind of mixture, made from stuff that normally would not happily mix (like President Trump and Mexican immigrants; or, if you’re easily offended, then think oil and water). If you’ve ever had a jar of mayo separated to yellowish dregs at the bottom and layer of oil at the top, you know what I mean. Now, when you know that virtually all the creams, shop-bought or home-made, are emulsions, it makes sense that there are some emulsifiers in them, simply to make them last longer. There are a lot of natural emulsifiers, some of them with their own beneficial properties. For example: calcium carbonate (calcium supplements sold in health shops; its code as a food additive is E170), vitamin C (E300), vitamin E (E306) or magnesium carbonate (E504) which is both health supplement and the chalk that gymnasts use to keep their hands dry. Another natural emulsifier is soy lecithin (E322). If you don’t want to use emulsifier, it shouldn’t be a problem - just make a very small batch (small jar or so) because its shelf life might be short.

So, you’ve got all you need, you had a nice stroll through woods and meadows and you’re back home with a basketful of stuff. Now what?

Obviously, it depends what you want to make. If you’re making a preparation that calls for fresh ingredients, prepare everything you need before you actually set off foraging and get on with the first stage of making your recipe as soon as you’re back. If you want to dry the stuff, spread it out for drying straight away. OK, allow yourself a cuppa, but otherwise don’t delay.

If you collected plants for drying, this is how you go about it:

Whole plants: you can just tie them in a bunch and hang upside-down

Roots: tie them with a strong thread or string into a necklace-like contraption and hang to dry

Leaves and flowers: cover a flat surface (table, couch you can do without for a few days…) with paper and thinly spread leaves/flowers. Check from time to time and turn if needed. Depending on a plant, temperature, air humidity etc. it will need on average 3-7 days for leaves/flowers to dry. It might need longer, but make sure they are completely dry. If they are not, any preparations made with them will have a drastically reduced life.

Important: regardless of whether you’re drying whole herbs or the parts, make sure that the stuff is NOT in direct sunlight and that there is a good air circulation. The best temperature for drying is 20-30°C (approx. 70-80F)

Well, I think this is more or less everything you need to know about the topic. In my next post I’ll introduce you to the benefits of one of the most hated weeds: common nettle. If you (or someone you know) have problems with prostate, liver, bowels, profuse nose bleeding or period bleeding and, most definitely, if you want something natural to give strength and shine to your hair – nettle’s the thing to go for.

[accordingtonics]

To all my ladies – listen up.

I’ve been struggling putting into words what I’ve been feeling lately, so I’m going to throw it right out there. After careful consideration, I’ve decided that we women are failing each other. That’s right ladies, I said listen up.

Let me explain.  

Yes, there are millions of women around the world who do a wonderful job of motivating the female kind and for those boss-ladies, I’m eternally grateful. Your mom is probably a woman who acts as a great source of support, guidance and after whom you’ve likely modeled much of your life. I’m sure you can provide me with a list of coworkers who inspire you on the daily with the way they kick ass in the boardroom and in life. Yes, your best friends are likely the ladies who encourage you to continue chasing your dreams despite the setbacks that leave you feeling like the only answer is to put on your yoga pants and drink a liter of wine to yourself. (Let’s be real, if she was your best friend she would toss on her best lulus, stick two straws in the bottle and chalk it up to emotional support. But maybe that’s just how my best friends roll.) I want to be clear – these aforementioned examples of female solidarity are not the scenarios against which I have a particularly sharp axe to grind.  

The bone I have to pick is with EVERYTHING else.  

I’m talking about the countless moments in our daily lives when we have the opportunity to leave a positive mark on the life of another woman and we miss it. Instead we’re caught up in a tornado of our own making - mentally comparing ourselves to one another, feeding into a false sense a competition, and judging every life, career, wardrobe and makeup decision made. Leaning too quickly towards criticism instead of towards love, encouragement and acceptance.

Older and wiser so the saying goes. I turned 30 this year. I’m not sure whether it’s cliché to say that I’ve had some life changing revelations in the past few months, or whether it’s fitting that after years of searching for something I feel as though my vision is clearer. Either way, my eyes, my mind, my heart and most notably my mouth are wide open. All of which I have no intention of shutting anytime soon. This moment of enlightenment did not occur on a remote hillside somewhere while I sat on my yoga mat basking in the warm afternoon sun and peacefully coming to the conclusion that the female kind was in need of a gentle helping hand. Not even close. The moment my perspective shifted was alternatively filled with an all-consuming fiery rage.

Let me paint the picture for you.

I recently attended a social engagement at which I felt the strong urge to result to physical violence. It started off as any “word that rhymes with hour” would – a group of well dressed women, lively chatter filling the room, perfectly concocted signature drinks being held in one hand while ladies used the other to point out certain cute, funny, and adorable photos of the guest of honour and then take a stab in the dark at how old she was in the each of the snap shots. I’m a seasoned professional at these shindigs; I play the games, I eat the cookies, I listen to the speeches and for the most part I enjoy taking the time to celebrate what is an important milestone in the lives of my closest friends. I was happy to be a part of this moment, to see my friend surrounded by her loved ones, looking forward to what the future held for her life and most importantly being able to see how truly happy she was. Overall, it was a lovely afternoon. That was until the “word that rhymes with hour” took a drastic turn for me.

Amongst the chatter a woman seated across the table from me leaned over, and in what I can only assume was an attempt to get to know me better, decided to open her line of questioning with, “So are you married as well?”  Now to be fair, I was sitting among a group of married or engaged women (which is my reality 99.9% of the time), so I can understand why one may ask that particular question. Being one of the only remaining single girls in my group of friends, trust me when I say that I’m extremely familiar with this territory. So just as I have millions of times before, I let the married/relationship question quickly slide off my back.

So when does the rage filled hammer drop you wonder? We’re about to get there.

It wasn’t her opener that got me all hot under the collar, but her follow up question that flipped my switch from happily sipping on my cocktail to annoyed as fuck. Apologies - I should have started this piece with a warning that explicit language would likely be heavily used throughout my commentary. For all those with an aversion to swearing, I suggest you step away from the screen.

Needless to say, I answered the nice lady’s question by explaining to her that no, I was in fact single and not married. What happened next can only be described as the atomic bomb of responses; it was merciless and destroyed everything in its path in a matter of mere seconds. After hearing of my singleness, the woman tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, crinkled up her nose a wee bit, shot me a “poor single girl” smile and said, “Ohhhhhhh, well that’s okay too.”

She side head tilted me into a heaping pile of single shame.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

What followed were the toughest 30 seconds of my life, because instead of flashing her a fake smile and responding with, “Thanks, it’s been working out pretty well for me so far,” what I really wanted to do was jump across the table and throat punch her.

As the afternoon continued and I replayed the incident that will from this moment forward be referred to as the side head tilt heard round the world, my rage grew. Here I was, an intelligent, strong, creative and successful woman who has built a life for myself that I’m rather proud of and the only piece of intel that this lady was interested in was my marital status.  

She didn’t ask me if I lived in the city, whether I had travelled anywhere recently, if I had any hobbies, and God forbid she even think about asking me what I did for a living. All she wanted to know was whether she could place me into a tiny box labeled “figured out” that society dictates women of a certain age are supposed to be in. Married, with a house and 2.5 children.

Now, I understand that this is my story and it’s told through the unmistakable lens of a young single woman, but the fact is that EVERY woman has their own struggles, their own daily battles and their own set of circumstances that can sometimes feel overwhelming. No one is perfect. The lenses might be different, but with some effort we can make an attempt to TRY and see through them a little more clearly. How do we do that? I believe it begins with empathy.

Recognizing, appreciating and celebrating one another from exactly where we are.  

While I’m a single woman, my world is filled with couples and babies and families. It would be the understatement of the century to say that my friends who are married with children amaze me. These are women who work, who make time for their friends, who hit the gym everyday, who accomplish the millions of items on their to-do lists, all the while taking care of and shaping the lives of tiny little humans. While I can’t personally understand the amount of energy, dedication, and sheer will that it takes for them to do what they do on a daily basis, what I can do is empathize.

Empathy is key.

Empathize with the young girl who decides to wear only a sports bra to the gym instead of a shirt. What we might be quick to judge as a shallow attempt to garner attention from the opposite sex, could simply be a young girl living out the image what of society has told her a woman should look like in order to be viewed as attractive. She might just be in need of a better role model. That role model could be you.

Empathize with the single girl who is constantly bombarded with questions about her relationship status. What you might perceive as a polite answer to a harmless question, is really an attempt to hide her rage, because in her mind you’ve insinuated that her accomplishments to date are not valid unless accompanied by a man. She might just be in need of someone to tell her “fuck what society thinks and keep being your badass self.” That someone could be you.

Empathize with the mother who spends all day taking care of and reasoning with tiny humans who have the capability of exploding into outbursts of epic proportions simply because you gave them the wrong colour sippy cup. What you might view as a daily life that is filled with cute baby smiles and adorable outfits that never get dirty, most definitely also includes moments of frustration and utter exhaustion. She might just need someone to let her vent OR even better, to watch her children for an hour while she takes a minute for herself. That babysitter could be you.

Whatever the case may be, I beg of you ladies, let’s save the judgment, the analysis and the scrutiny for someone else and instead celebrate each other. For as far as we have come, these are still not easy times for women. We have glass ceilings, pressures to conform to unrealistic body image standards, and wage gaps to deal with; not to mention leaders of the free world thinking it’s okay to run around grabbing us by our lady parts. Need I say more? Women have serious issues to battle against in modern society, “other women” should not be an action item on that list.

I don’t have all of the answers, but I know that we need to start somewhere. Take the time to inspire the women around you. Help to build their self-confidence instead of tearing them down to boost your own. Whether it’s surviving the day with a newborn child, making it through yet another stressful workday, or deciding not to settle for anything less than they deserve.

Recognize, appreciate and celebrate one another from exactly where we are.

Do it fiercely and without question, because only a woman knows what it’s like to walk in a woman’s shoes. I believe that I speak for more than just myself in saying that I for one would love to know that I have a tribe of sisters in my corner as I step out the front door each morning in my pursuit of taking over the world.

Empathy ladies, let’s try it on for size.

According to Nics…