#astringency verse

[nectardaddy]

BITTER . . . kyotani “mad dog” kentaro + f! reader

                     𖥔    CHAPTER TWO : FLAME    𖥔

warnings : 17+ to read, language, addiction, illegal activities, brief allusion/mention of sex work

She can't remember the first time she got arrested in its totality; it comes and goes in pieces.

A party, neon lights, and a back room with white powder on a table. She remembers to a tee what it felt like before she blacked out: scared. Remembers her hands were shaky, sweaty, her heart pounded out of her chest, and she bit her lips so hard they bled. She remembers the pressure behind her eyes when the people around her looked at her in anticipation.

“Just one line, like old times.”

So she did.

She picked up the rolled up piece of paper and did it without a second thought.

One line turned to two, and two turned to three. Then at some point she blacked out.

She gets bits and pieces of a police raid, but she was too high to recognize the severity so she stayed put with her head on a table. She remembers the police yanked her up, pushed her around, and screamed at her for answers. She thought they were speaking another language, and her heart thumped out of her chest - she threw up on a cop's shoes before they shoved her in a car.

She woke up in a drunk tank in the police station, her head hurt and the bright lights overhead made her feel nauseated. She could barely open her eyes without a painful sting, her mouth was dry, and her makeup was smeared.

She was a failure in the span of six hours. A dire attempt at fixing her life, and putting it back together again completely down the drain.

She stopped trying to get sober for some time after that.

Pills was where she started, snagging them from her foster parents' medicine cabinet here and there. They never noticed - so called dad was always on the road, “work” or so he said, and so called mom was out and about with another man, and didn't give a fuck about her anyway. Her older sister had aged out of the program, but she would've been the one to save her if she was aware of the gravity.

No one knew just how bad it was. Not even her.

She was introduced to Kuroo Tetsuro in high school by Yaku. Tall guy, charming, with a devious business - party drugs. From ecstacy to lsd, she tried it all, but fell in love with cocaine.

From there, her life spiraled into dime bags and failing grades until she barely graduated with a rotten gpa. She learned to only blame herself; it wasn't Tetsuro or Morisuke's fault, they wouldn't have shown her the world if it meant she would ruin it for herself. But she only learned that in the sanctity of a circle.

She only had herself to blame.

Addiction was woven into her dna, and no matter how much pulling and yanking she did, she could never get it out.

Addicted to cocaine, addicted to attention, addicted to caffeine, addicted to pulling others down alongside her so at least she didn't burn alone - a laundry list she kept hidden next to the skeletons in her closet.

She used to blame her biological parents, though she never met them. She found out both were addicts - blamed it on shitty genes - and was never the same since. She pointed the finger at everyone else for her transgressions, until she found herself airing out woes to those just as fucked up as she was.

Her neighbor, who took xanax from his son, blamed his ex wife. The barista, who popped oxy, blamed her shitty boyfriend. The high school boy blamed his friends for getting hooked on ketamine. And the preacher's wife blamed god for creating heroin to begin with.

She blamed it on a shitty hand at life and a stupid decision.

The phone on her nightstand won't stop buzzing, perpetually on vibrate because the ring tone annoys her. After the tenth buzz, she finally opens her eyes with a loud groan and picks it up.

“What?” Her voice is gravely, annoyed, as she flops back down in the comfort of her covers.

“Watch it, asshole!” It’s Morisuke, and she groans upon realizing that he was in a mood. The man was testy, flighty, and a terror - if he pulled the pin to his anger, truly no one was safe. “Last time I'm a good friend if that's how you answer.” He emphasizes the words ‘good friend’ like it's supposed to mean something, a jab at her. But she's used to it, and rolls her eyes.

A complicated relationship: her and Yaku. Each other's biggest supporters, but natural born enemies; they toed the line of toxic more often than not.

He called her when he needed something: drugs or a connection. She called him when she wanted an escape, for someone to tell her she wasn't the problem, or simply to get off. And they both would meet in the middle on their psyche - completely and utterly fucked.

Sleep deprivation is starting to get to her because she doesn't think of the consequences of the blonde when she out right ends the call after his statement. She tosses the phone beside her and closes her eyes once more. Her bed is warm, cozy; she just did laundry the other day and she feels halfway normal.

But her phone buzzes again, and this time it won't stop at all.

She grits her teeth and pushes herself to sit up, grabbing at the phone in anger just to get it to stop buzzing. It's still Morisuke, and part of her wants to chuck the phone across the room and watch it shatter. “What the fuck do you want, Yaku?”

“Either get your ass here or have fun in jail again!” The call ends just as quickly as it began, and she finally sees why it's Morisuke's third time in anger management.

She tosses her phone down again, and it takes a moment to process the words in her mind, still groggy from sleep. But her eyes flicker over to the green tinted numbers on her phone, and her stomach lurches to her throat.  

8:20

“Shit!” Suddenly she's scrambling out of bed and grabbing any article of clothing off the floor. She worked well into the early hours of the morning the past few nights, and she has nightmares when she does finally close her eyes. The past haunts her, the things she remembers at least, and she just can't seem to escape it no matter how much she kicked or screamed.

Last night brought her down the memory lane of awful things she did for drugs.

She sold her car, now she walks everywhere. Sold possessions, now she has nothing. She begged, borrowed, and stole. Now she's got a criminal record and a list of friends with their names crossed out. She always wakes up when it gets to the worst of it, and she'll never look at herself in a clean lense anymore. Forever dirty, forever unclean - forever a junkie.

Her hair is a mess, her socks don't match, her clothes are wrinkled and smell like cigarettes. But as soon as she's dressed, she's out the door.

She sold her car for a quarter of its worth all to get high “just one more time” so she runs.

It's cold, and she feels pathetic. Already out of breath and she hasn't even made it a block. But the fear of being incarcerated again makes the burning feeling in her chest dull. The walk usually takes her fifteen minutes, but the street signs blurring past her makes her think she can get there in time.

She doesn't feel the crushing weight on her shoulders when she swings open the door of the community center. Doesn't feel that same sense of dread from last time as she runs down the hallway. She's too focused on the crisis at hand: going back to jail. Not a good look to her parole officer if she skipped only the second day.

She comes to a full stop in front of the door, panting and wheezing for air with her hands on her knees. Her phone is in her pocket, grabbing it alongside her cigarettes in a rush out the door, and she checks the time.

8:35

Five minutes never killed anybody. So she walks in when she finds her breath and keeps her head down.

They're looking at her, she can feel it. Everyone's eyes bore into her so sharply she hisses when she closes the door behind her. Morisuke is on the far side of the room, he didn't save her a seat. Even if he did, she couldn't find it in herself to walk in front of everyone. He knows that.

But there's an open seat tucked into the back, cramped next to the wall. Next to the guard dog, her accountability partner, that guy who called her stupid over a lighter. She bites her cheek hard, she'll have a sore later on but she doesn't even care, she hates the thought of having to sit next to him.

She sees his eyes glance over to her, he's hunched down in the seat with his hood up and his hands in his pockets, and suddenly she feels small - miniscule. He looks at her as if she were nothing, not rude, but unimportant as his eyes move to look forward again.

“You look like shit, Weezer,” he doesn't even look at her when he speaks. Instead, he's got an intense look in his eyes. It looks like he's listening, but really he was completely checked out.

He's got this hard ass look to him that makes her want to scoff. Narrowed gaze and furrowed brows; a perpetual irritated aura that was sharp and burned at the touch. He has a bruise on his chin, black and blue as if he just got it, and she wonders who put it there - she wishes it were her.  

“Says the jackass who got punched in the jaw.”

There's a hint of a pull at his lips, like he enjoys the back and forth. The harsh whispered exchange amongst near strangers felt like a game to him, but pissed her off to no end. She can't put her finger on the exact reason as to why. Maybe it's how he holds himself, standoffish and cold. Or how he speaks to her like she's nothing but a pawn, a means to an end just to get a rise - to fuel his own ego.

She believes it's another reason though. He was an asshole and she was a loose cannon.

He doesn't say anything in response, doesn't give her the satisfaction. Instead, he cuts his eyes to her. Looks her down like a predator sizing up prey, and his gaze lingers, until he looks away entirely.

The boiling feeling in her blood starts again, and she feels like adding another bruise to his jaw right then and there. She grits her teeth, she feels hot and downright pathetic. But one thing about self loathing is that it always made her wallow, and wallowing meant she craved.

So she counts.

She taps her foot with every number in her head. It's quiet, a gentle rap against the dirty tiled floor, and she focuses on the numbers and her breathing. Once she reaches twenty, and the feeling hasn't subsided in the slightest, she feels like getting up from her chair and screaming. Like yelling into the void just so someone, anyone, would hear her. But she doesn't. She stays put and counts faster.

“Cut that shit out.” The guard dog looks at her in annoyance, he can hear the taps and it's starting to pluck a cord.

She doesn't look at him this time. And if anything, his statement makes her bounce her leg even more. “Fuck off, Mad Dog.”

“Quit it.” His eyes narrow and his jaw tightens, if she looked at him she might very well have been scared. There's something about the man that screams something awful, something terrible, something not worth poking a bear to find out.

“No.”

He grimaces, and she's none the wiser. But her stomach drops when he reaches for the back of her chair - she shouldn't have poked the bear.

Her numbers get all jumbled when he pushes the chair forward. It's sudden and jerky, moved with a force only caused by anger and annoyance. There's a loud screech when he moves her chair, it cuts through any conversation or lesson the therapist was having, long and drawn out, slow enough to grab everyone's attention - for everyone to look back.

“Then do that shit over there, not around me.”

He sounds almost proud of the way the words drip from his mouth, callous and to the point. Snarky and laced with venom. She doesn't even have it in her to look back, to even catch his eyes anymore, because she knows the deep settled feeling of hate in her gut is overbearing. If she looked back, she'd add more than just a bruise to his jaw - she would kill him if she could.

Her cheeks and ears are hot, and the therapist asks a question that goes unanswered by her. She can't even hear it over the blood roaring in her ears; the churning feeling in her stomach is the only thing she's able to focus on. Her eyes are screwed shut and her hands ate balled into fists - everyone is staring, she knows it, so she keeps her head tucked down.

“Go to, fucking, hell.” Whispered between gritted teeth, just loud enough to be within ear shot. She doesn't hear his reply, she doesn't want to, she doesn't care.

She doesn't count for the rest of the class. She sat there in white, hot, sticky anger until it was time to leave.

She couldn't get out of the room fast enough. Cramped, stuffy, and anger ripping at her every seam. She felt like she was drawn and quartered, pulled limb from limb by the suffocating feeling. She swallows hard when she finally gets outside, the cold nipping at her face and cooling her down. Like ice on a stove, it melted quickly.

She doesn't remember the last time she'd been this angry; maybe a time that she was arrested, or maybe for something as simple as dropping her phone. (She'd been through three already, there was something satisfying about watching the plastic and glass shatter.)

Her hand reaches for the cigarettes in her hoodie pocket, she got a new pack the night before. Mevius, with some shitty new flavor, but she's smoked enough that the lighter now fits in the pack. She puts the cigarette between her lips and flicks the lighter, but groans when it doesn't ignite.

Her hands are shaky, from anger or the cold but she couldn't tell which. She flicks it again. And again. And again.

Nothing.

There's a moment where she pauses, and things seem to slow. Like the world around her decelerates and calms. She can see her breath in the air, uneven and ragged. The woeful emotion of stupidity washes over her, and she feels at a loss when her eyes flicker to the lighter in her hand.

She's craving, she's cold, she's angry, and she can't even light a god forsaken cigarette.

There's a soft breeze in the air, it makes her shiver. But then she snaps. Like a twig being cracked over a knee, and throws the lighter to the concrete. The action was unexpected and rough; a high tower crumbling out of nowhere and rubble falling wherever it may.

The white lighter cracks, splinters - shatters. The butane in it, or what was left, soaked into the cement and into the cracks. The shards of plastic feathered out around her - a circle, and she feels like heaving.

“You need a light?” The voice spooks her, and she turns quickly behind her. It's the guard dog. He's got the same expression as before: forever angered by something, but his eyes aren't as narrowed as before. Aren't as sharp when he looks at the remnants of the lighter around her.

She wants to spit at him. To tell him off, scream, hit him - something. But she can't find the fight she once had seconds ago. Anger was testy, and tricky, it came in waves. Hit her like a wave until it spit her back out into sorrow; a fucked up pathway created by drugs and frying her brain.

“No.” She's lying through her teeth, she wants a smoke more than anything right now. He can tell.

He already has his own cigarette between his lips, and she hears him light it. She's too caught up to even look him in the eyes anymore; she feels like a dog with its tail between its legs - ashamed and scorn.

He doesn't pass her the lighter, doesn't make the effort to give her something of his - the sneaky habit of swiping lighters was something he assumed everyone had.

He ignites it and holds it out to her.

She looks at the flame and her breathing staggers. The cigarette between her lips almost falls, and a sinking feeling washes over her. He gives her a look to hurry up, to not waste his lighter or his time. So she caves and leans into the flame.

She breathes in and the world goes back to normal - back to shit. Everything is at its normal pace once more, but the sinking feeling just won't stop. “I didn't need your help.” More so to convince herself as she said it aloud.

“Yeah you did.” He sounds sure of it, and she scoffs.

“No, I-”

“A thank you would suffice.” He's blunt and to the point. He's settled back into the same dick head attitude from before.

Her eyes flicker over to him - he's taken a few steps back from where he originally stood - and he keeps his eyes forward as he takes the smoke from his lips. She doesn't say anything in reply, but her gaze lingers for a moment before returning to the ground.

He's nonchalant and brash, cold, and callous. But he offered her a light despite the obvious need she felt of tearing his throat out. It makes her feel sick, so she pushes the thought to the back of her mind and keeps smoking.

“Why are you really here, Weezer?” His words cut through the thick silence, but she keeps her eyes to the ground all the same. She debates on even answering, but sighs as she ashes the cigarette.

“Because people like you piss me off.” She feels as if a fuse in her brain short circuits, the neurons she fried with cocaine fire out of order and scramble her emotions. She doesn't know what she feels anymore, but she cuts her eyes up to him like she's got all the confidence in the world. “Arrogant and rude.”

His eyes meet hers at the statement, and for once she can see the brown in them through a narrowed gaze. “Yet we're in the same class, so what does that make you?” 

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@moriyaku

[moriyaku]

which astringency verse character are you?

were you curious as to who you resonate the most with in amber 44? or maybe you're reading bitter and you really want to know.. who are you in this story?

well! now you, too, can find out who in the astringency verse you are!

are you amber 44's y/n? maybe bitter's mad dog? or even the mysterious grey-haired bartender!

find out today!

ft. @nectardaddy

click here to read amber 44 | click here to read bitter

[mxchineherald]

What flower(s) do you associate with Viktor? Any/all verses you wanna yap about.

𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂

meaning :: transformation from within, spiritual enlightenment, psychic awareness, intuition, sensitivity, divine energy, new chapters in life, letting go of the past uses :: meditation and aromatic. treating insomnia, anxiety, digestion issues, and respiratory issues.

𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓

meaning :: single life, hope in love, refinement and poise, pious seclusion, focus and intention, reliability, life and fertility, freedom uses :: enhancing psychic abilities, mediation, protection, and grave decoration. natural antibiotics, diuretics, purgatives and astringents

𝒐𝒙𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔

meaning :: spiritual transformation and growth, adaptability, change, balance, harmony, unity, good luck, happiness, prosperity, love, compassion, forgiveness uses :: treating fever, cough, digestive issues. aromatherapy for anxiety, stress, pain. promoting relaxation and sleep.

[prvtocol]

@badtrigger : “ You are speaking out of fear. ” // santi, any verse | * 𝐅𝐀𝐑  𝐂𝐑𝐘  𝟑. ( accepting ) ᠂ ⚘ ˚

The recessed lights dotting her bathroom’s ceiling illuminate the two in harsh artificial brightness. Santiago sits at her vanity. The med kit is open on the marble countertop. The sharp spell of astringent fills the air. Small hands are busy, gently dabbing the wounds on his bruised and swollen face with a cotton gauze. 

Since opening the door, since the moment she saw his busted face, anger darkening his brown eyes, her heart sunk in her chest like a stone and there it remains. Gang politics, the mystery surrounding the officiation of this new president, a secret big boss, and the unexplained disappearance of Vaas, it continues to confound. Better to not know anymore — but now, it’s cycling back. Of course, she asks too much.

“Because I am afraid.” Admittance comes with a pause to her motions. The gauze is set down, and her hands go to rest along the outline of his jaw. Glossy eyes beseech his; she doesn't care if she appears weak in front of him. “He could have killed you.” A shudder rocks through her thin form; the one thought she cannot shake. Vaas is gone. She has to accept that. But him... “I can’t lose you, Santiago.”

[clinicss]

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[firesagafae]

A QUICK SMIRK DISPLAYS ACROSS FEATURES, though not in any way that would insinuate judgement. She appreciates anyone's willingness to try something new and she offers a soft shrug to a single shoulder at first with a little hum. ❝ No, actually, they aren't the same. Mulled wine is stronger in comparison, with a higher alcohol by volume whereas the cider is significantly less and much sweeter. It's more… astringent: bitter, palatable and easier to drink for most. ❞ She doesn't mean to come off as a pretentious know-it-all, but she does own the local bar and restaurant so she's well-versed in these types of details primarily for selling purposes.

❝ Let me know what you think. ❞

open @ the christmas markets

"You know what? In all of my many years, I don't think I've ever actually had mulled cider before." Clementine chuckled, brought she brought the cup to her nose to smell, "It smells good." She mused. "I've had mulled wine plenty of times - is it like that? Is it strong?"

[dragonmuse]

So Olu in "I may be bad". Is he like,,,, cool with everything? Is he in too deep to back out now? How is his and Jim's relationship different in this verse (aside from the most obvious differences)? He performs at The Revenge and knew Eddy from when she worked at the business, does he feel any conflicting emotions about (spoiler)?

He finds out very very slowly. He meets Jim at the Revenge and they like him immediately. They go out on dates and Jim clearly has money, pays for everything, but doesn't make a big deal out of it. Oluwande kind of asks questions around things. Jim is very good at turning those questions away, but not in a way that leaves him unsatisfied.

At first.

But he falls in love. Jim is still Jim, after all, and everything with Oluwande is still new to them. They've never really dated before or found someone they like this much. So Jim is also invested.

And then things start to add up. The way Jim owns a company that Oluwande knows nothing about. He meets Lucius and finds him...interesting. He likes him, he clearly knows Jim well, but he's also got this slick hard exterior and he bartends like he knows how and also thinks it's hysterical that he's doing it at all.

It's the way Jim throws money at problems and they do actually go away. It's how Jim thrashes in their sleep sometimes and wake up with a scream on their lips, that melts into a laugh as they wake up.

"What do you dream about?" He asks, putting an arm around their shoulders.

"Hell," they rest their head on his shoulder.

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But I don't think we really get punished like that. Seems cruel."

"I don't dream of burning in it," they say distantly. "I dream I'm ruling it."

"And that...scares you?"

"Oh yes," Jim kisses his shoulder.

Time goes on and there are things Oluwande can't ignore. Lucius has a partner, an older man, who barely talks. When he does it's always in accord with Lucius or about some point of housekeeping. This hardened, tattooed guy seems like he might've been Stepford Wife'd. Sometimes though, he catches Oluwande's eyes and he could swear, he's trying to tell him something.

Jim comes home with dead eyes and scrubbed so clean that they smell astringent. They climb into bed and he has to move close to even catch their breath, they're so still.

So he realizes. Slowly, so slowly. By the time he realizes the swamp he's walked into, it has sucked him up to the waist.

"Jim," he says quietly one fall afternoon. They're in an antique store, picking through things.

"Mm?" They look up from a pile of records. They smile at him and it's playful and warm and he feels entirely wrong-footed for an instant. He's got to be wrong.

"I-if I ask you something. Something direct. Would you lie to me?"

Jim considers the question, then says, "Do you want me to lie?"

Oluwande's hand shake so hard that he has to set down the teacup he'd been inspecting. It rattles on the table.

"I want the truth."

"All right," Jim straightens, the smile falls away.

"If something goes wrong one day, will it be the FBI that shows up to tell me your dead?"

Jim's eyebrows go up, just a tiny fraction of an inch. They smile again, smaller. Sadder.

"That's not how I thought you'd ask," they look over his shoulder. "Gives me a lot of room, doesn't it? Because I can say no and mean a lot of different things."

"Jim..."

"You asked me not to lie though, so you don't really want that wiggle room," they nod. "If I die, then the person who tells you will be Lucius and you should just say 'thanks for telling me'. Then close the door, gather your shit together and go to the address that I put in the Notes app in your phone under 'September grocery list'. "

"You...what?"

"It's a safe place. He doesn't know where it is. It's my only secret from him, an agreement. He has his one single one, something similar if I had to guess. Anyway, there's instructions there for you. Money. You'll be safe and well-kept the rest of your life."

"What if-"

"If it's not Lucius" they went on, that sad smile not budging. "You do the same, but you do it five times faster. You don't pack, you don't even take your phone. You write down the address and you go."

"How bad is it?"

"That depends on your definition of bad," Jim took a step forward. Oluwande had a split second. Just a breath. To step backward, to stand his ground or to meet them halfway.

He loves Jim. He always knew they were a little different. That they were doing something that smelled off. He could've run at any time.

He takes a step forward. Jim's smile brightens again and they lean in to kiss him.

"I'll always take care of you," they promise.

"Then I'll take care of you."

So that's what he does. He figures out why Izzy just talks about cooking and woodworking. Oluwande has more in his life than that, but if he didn't already have friends, have a job, have a million hobbies, how easy it would be to become passive. Let it all just pass him by.

Instead, he meets it with his eyes wide open. Washes Jim's body when they come home dead-eyed and don't ask what runs rusty down the drain. Feeds them when they wake up ravenous as though they haven't eaten in days. He even extends it out to Lucius, asks him easy questions so he can give easy answers.

Oluwande compromises. And maybe someday, he even puts his hand around the hilt of a pretty gun and learns how to aim it himself.

[unusual-raccoon]

Underdog by Unusual_Raccoon

Fandom: Daredevil (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock

Characters: Matt Murdock, Frank Castle

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Omega Verse, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Frank Castle, Omega Matt Murdock, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Bonding, Enemies to Lovers, Catholic Guilt, Past Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios, Dry Humping, Come Marking, Coming Untouched, Suicide Attempt, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Episode: s02e03 New York's Finest

Word Count: 5,402

Summary: Waking up bound on a rooftop with a cold-blooded killer seemed like a dismal situation, but Matt quickly realized waking up bound on a rooftop with a cold-blooded killer who happened to be an Alpha, while sweating through the tail end of his scent blockers was way, way worse.

Link

The first time Frank recognizes something off about the flamboyant Devil of Hell’s Kitchen isn’t during their first fight, but rather halfway through their second. Water from a busted tank soaked into their clothes, glass turning back to sand beneath the pressure of their feet, hissing against the ground.

A mouthful of his own blood dribbled down his chin as Frank sucked down a greedy inhale, smiling knowingly at the fused fissure rippling like scar tissue up the protective casing of the other man’s mask. Then it hits him, amongst the taste of copper in the air, and lingering tang of sulfur and gunsmoke, is a scent so abrasively sterile it’s nearly tear-inducing. It stings his throat like bleach, stripping the skin raw where it begins to weep through the cracks in the Devil’s armor.

Frank had never paid much mind to the status of his opponents, criminals were criminals. Something about the scent, so flagrantly scrubbed clean of any sweet or sour notes, still manages to tickle that primal part of his hindbrain.

The realization rumbles in his skull as he staggers forward as the other man scents the air, head twitching and soft, red mouth parted in ragged breaths.

Omega.

--

Amidst the heatwave rocking the city and his own rigorous vigilante activity, Matt was burning through his usual dose of scent blockers in about half the time they were supposed to last him. It was annoying but manageable…mostly…usually. Usually he didn’t wake up in his current position.

He arched his back against firm stone, everything was aching, his head, his back, he was sure even his hair follicles were stinging with pain. Beneath the astringent aroma of his own waning adrenaline, and the salt of itchy drying sweat on his skin, nausea roiled in his stomach at the first tickle of sweetness polluting the air…

No, no, no.

Consciousness seemed to flood him in full force then, his working senses snapping into brilliant clarity as he moved to spring to his feet; the grating screech of metal, chainlinks grinding on chainlinks greets him too loud - too much. His feet and uncomfortably bent ankle scrape against the concrete beneath him.

He pushes harder, the sound, the scent of the metal, drowning everything out.

Then came a quiet exhale, rubbed raw and curling with amusement in Matt’s ears. The pouring of liquid, something hot, even in the sweltering summer heat. Cheap, strong coffee assaults his senses, the almost acidic tang of it scratches at the back of his palate. His throat tightens and his stomach lurches. He’s thirsty.

His binds seemed stronger, his own scent in the air more glaring with the addition of company. Matt knew the hard, steady rhythm of his assailant’s heartbeat, he’d picked up on it the first time they fought; it rang in his head like a war drum.

The man’s scent hung in the air like a fog, heavy and unavoidable, like a scent that was so unbearably toxic yet pervasively enjoyable; Matt was reminded of the scent of cigarettes that used to migrate through the floorboards in his apartment growing up, or the scent of gasoline that would linger on his father’s clothes after gassing up their beat up Datsun. This man’s scent was different than that, nothing close to nostalgic, but just as addictive - it was copper, but not like exposed wiring or oxidized pennies, it was blood, and the grit of gunpowder. It made his mouth water more readily than the coffee had, but just as easily overpowered his senses. It made every ache more vibrant and every passing breeze more pleasant.

“Mornin’ sunshine.”

Something primal slides through Matt’s clouded senses like a hot knife. He had felt it earlier, with the prickle of broken glass beneath their feet, blood and water dripping from them. The brief distraction had probably been the reason the lunatic was able to catch Matt by surprise, even as he tried to ignore the stupid, biological cry in his brain: Alpha, Alpha, Alpha…

This time was no different, Matt’s body could identify where he was, bound, and who he was with. Worst of all, with each passing moment he struggled against his binds, his scent churned thicker and unbidden in the air, joining the scent of copper and gunpowder.

--

The kid was annoying, frustrating, like an itch ya just can’t scratch, and maybe having him bound and within reach only made it worse for Frank. The Devil’s scent was sweet as heaven where it bleeds into the air. Pristine in its newness, almost virgin in its purity without the chalky obscurity of blockers masking the scent.

Unlike before the scent didn’t make his eyes water, but his mouth, aggravating animalistic parts of his brain and his biology. It poured over his senses like nectar, sort of sticky sweet.

He tries to wash down the wave of drool gathering in his mouth with a swig of stinging hot coffee. The heat of it scalding his tongue doesn't bother him as much as the scent of the squirming Omega hijacking his olfactory senses does; it bleeds across his tongue, battling with the acidic coffee. It’s a waste of coffee, but he still splashes it across the rooftop like it offended him, like it occupied the space on his tongue that was better served hanging out of his mouth to sample that heavenly scent in the air.

They argue -  it's a stalemate, Frank didn’t make any headway, but he refused to give an inch to the Devil too.

It had felt like a piece of him,  pieces, the good pieces, had died with his family…and all that was left was this, this vestige of a person. This rage, this indignation, this mission. No mission was as important to him as this one was, but lately he couldn’t take a step without noticing the pretty, red thorn in his side. The thorn dug deeper and deeper, and Frank wasn’t sure there was enough goodness left in the man that had clawed out of a coma, to combat the darkness in him. He hadn’t been ready to meet the Devil in the park that day when that round ripped through his skull…but maybe he was now.

The kid’s ideology was flawed, there was no mistaking that, but he had meant the words that had left his lips, I think you and me are the same, the sentiment had gotten buried under their zeal, but he had meant it nonetheless. The kid was tough, Frank’s busted nose and the residual tang of blood in his mouth was evidence of that. The only thing holding him back, really and truly, was that one line he wouldn’t cross. The irony of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen being some soft-hearted Omega certainly wasn’t lost on him. Sad part was, the kid could make a difference, a real difference if he wasn’t so hung up on the hope he clutched to his chest like a bird with a broken wing. Frank sucked in a breath tainted with their mingled scents and his head swam; his rage dulled to a smokey smolder in his chest and the void left in its wake triggers an ugly heat inside of him, invisible as it burns like a chemical fire. His Smith & Wesson has competition filling out the front of his jeans.

A question the Omega asked had taken root in his mind, What am I doing here, Frank?

Staring down at the welded front of his mask, the inviting shape of the other man’s parted mouth, the heat in his groin surged uncomfortably with desire. It was in his scent, and there was no point in pretending it wasn’t. Want, hunger, arousal, they bled into his scent thickly with brisk notes of pine and sap, amidst copper and gunpowder. He had never been particularly pious growing up, but the reality still felt like an epiphany when it dawned on him. The ugly truth of why he dragged a formerly unconscious Omega to a secluded rooftop and tied ‘em down. The thorn was so deep in his side it had become a part of him, the only sign it was still there was the persistent throb it inspired in him.

The reality urged breathless words from the Omega’s pretty, pink mouth.

“You’re unhinged.”

Frank licked the swell of his lower lip, he’d always had a thing for the underdog.

--

The gunshot is still ringing in his ear, so loud Matt was worried it might be the last thing he’d hear as he felt his chains fall away. He staggered to his feet before charging headlong at the man who had put him in this godforsaken position.

He’d been given an ultimatum, both choices were ones he wasn’t sure he could’ve lived with. Shoot me, or shoot him.

There was no lesser of two evils in the situation, no justice in it. So he aimed and pulled the trigger. Frank had lasciviously added some things just feel right in your hand, the gun felt wrong in Matt’s hand, clunky and cold, and he dazedly wondered with adrenaline pumping through him anew, what would feel right?

They collided, but not before Frank could pull the trigger on Grotto himself. This shot was deafening and nearly brought Matt to his knees in his pursuit of toppling the Alpha to the ground.

The impact kicked up dust and shared groans, the mingled scent of them made Matt’s movements sluggish as he brought his unoccupied fist down on his assailant’s face. The clash of skin and bone, lavender and crisp linen meets blood and gunpowder, pine and sap, honey and salt bleeds traitorously into the air. At some point it felt like he wasn't only fighting Frank, but his own body too.

He felt the warm vibration of a growl reverberate from the solid body beneath him, he nearly leapt at the contact, at the startling nearness. Frank’s hard hands no longer hurt him, but rather held him. It inspired a flicker of chemical, pacifying want through him and a rolling wave of subsequent nausea followed from his rational mind.

He staggered to Grotto’s body, gathering the dying man in his arms despite the way his legs began to cry out in protest, too buttery soft with biological desire, he continued on. Not even Grotto’s bloody protests to put him down are enough to slow his trudge across the rooftop, not in the same gun-punching, breathless way a single word does.

“Stop,” Frank snarled the command, it locked up his legs before Matt could think to fight against it.

“Atta boy,” Frank rasps with pride that sends a surge of heat through Matt’s body, the echo of his footsteps paints the broad shape of his body in alarming clarity in Matt’s mind. His lack of autonomy is beyond degrading, but Matt let indignation instead of shame flood his scent, oozing from his pores.

He focused on Grotto’s stuttering heart, on the last few beats as he managed a staggering, stubborn step forward, a spit in the face of the command he had been given, before an arm curled around Matt’s abdomen. There’s less give in Frank’s hold than the chains he had bound Matt with. And Matt hated that he didn’t hate it. He wanted to hate it, god, he wanted to.

“So fuckin’ stubborn,” Frank gritted out, though he sounded quietly amused beneath the chastising, the words were too close, breath too warm. Grotto’s corpse had grown heavy, leaden, and so Matt attempted to lower his former client to the ground with as much tenderness as he could muster.

Frank didn’t allow for much. Matt’s choices were limited to falling to the ground with Grotto’s weight and letting Frank’s heavy body crush the pair of them, or to drop the corpse and let Frank maintain his iron-clad grip around Matt’s body.

Matt feels a part of his soul wither when Grotto’s body slaps against the concrete, blood and bone making an ugly splat that is branded into his mind.

His arms are free, so he elects to bring his elbow up sharply to collide with Frank’s face, it earns a sort of wet thump and a snarl. He tries to ignore the notes of honey and salt in the air, the way the scent of his own damning desire bleeding from his skin hangs tauntingly in the air.

He kickstarts a fight, because it’s easier to consider than the alternative. It becomes glaringly obvious Frank won’t turn down a fight, but he’s not actively interested in this one either.

Matt slams his head against Frank’s, and winces, feeling his hearing peter in and out for a fleeting moment, shaking off the way his equilibrium is shifting.

“Godammit, Red, you really wanna do this, huh?” Frank asks through red-slicked teeth.

“Told you I was gonna take you down,” Matt slurs, his words sounds stupidly broken to his own ears.

“You also said you weren’t gonna stop comin’ for me, figured we could get a jump on that part.” Frank says with no small amount of smugness, his gaze flickered down to Matt’s legs, but he shifts his stance to make the way his knees want to give out less noticeable.

Frank’s bleeding nose scrunches up in a snarl that gives way into a sharp smile.

“C’mon then,” Frank goads and Matt charges headlong into the bait, knowing nothing good could come of, but somehow the delineation between ‘nothing good’ and ‘something bad’ never seemed so clear.

--

The blood on Frank’s clothes is still wet, when the Devil lurches into consciousness with a gasp and a groan. The lights in the den are sparse, but he doesn’t mind it, folks like them belong in the dark.

“We gotta stop meetin’ like this, kid.” Frank greets, as the younger man swallows a breath, before what parts of his face that are visible twist in a grimace.

“Where are we?” The Omega asks, pink tongue dipping out of pinker lips to tease the clotted cut on his plush lower lip. Frank looks around at the spent shells and coagulating blood pooling around the mess he’d made of the Dogs of Hell.

“Frank,” The other vigilante huffs, it hedges on a whine. He’d gotten what he wanted, that piece of shit Grotto was dead, and the Dogs of Hell had gotten put down too…he’d gotten almost everything he wanted.

“Used to be a biker clubhouse.” Frank supplies calmly, shrugging. There’s a pause, a shaky breath. His breathing stuttered and the Devil’s scent seemed all the sweeter when locked in a closed space.

“Used to be?” The Omega asks, his voice seems close to breaking.

“Not many Dogs left to call it home.”

The Devil mutters a weak curse, body swaying like he was flirting with passing out.

“What are we doing here, Frank?”

This time, the answer is hanging promptly on Frank’s tongue.

“You were right earlier, whatchu said, ‘bout getting in my way twice already.” A sour note drips into the Omega’s otherwise intoxicating scent, and it sits uncomfortably on Frank’s palate.

“We can’t keep doin’ this song and dance, Red.” Frank watched as the other man sat up a little straighter, sternly so.

“So, I gotta make sure you won’t be an issue anymore-”

“-Frank,” The Omega’s voice splinters on his name, “You don’t have to do this.”

Frank ignores the plea as he moves to the chair he had dropped the other man into, his scent is going haywire, slingshotting from emotion to emotion.

He makes it to the chair, standing staunchly before it when he feels the dig of the revolver’s barrel through the kevlar of his vest. Even in the murky dark, the tears escaping the front of his mask are still visible where they gather on the pretty tip of his nose.

“Don’t wanna kill ya, Red.” Frank says, feeling the barrel of the gun tremble against the front of his vest.

“Frank-” His voice is shattered, lower lip sucked between his white teeth as another sob rolled out of him. He begins seizing the Omega by the front of his suit, the durable material has a bit of give as he hauls the man to his feet. The man feels surprisingly boneless against Frank’s chest.

“I’ll make it quick,” Frank promises, despite the way his mouth feels overencumbered with drool and with teeth that want to dig into the Omega’s sweet smelling skin. The stink of an unmated Omega wasn’t so obvious, but after years of working in Black Ops, in assassination and interrogation, detecting one became easier. Rationally, he knew what he was about to do was just a means to an end, but that didn’t stop his hindbrain, flush with pheromones, from lighting up at the prospect.

“I’ll make it quick,” He said again, he loathes the promise.

--

I’ll make it quick, Matt knows what it means the first time it’s uttered, the second time only solidifies it, impacting like a bullet to the skull.

The scent of pine and sap grows thick and heavy in the air and Matt tries to fight against the silly drowsy response his body begins slipping into, his legs struggling to stay in any position that wasn’t open, inviting.

He weakly swings the gun still taped to his hand, feeling the dampness of his gloved palm against the grip of the weapon. He doesn’t strike anything, just manages to burn what energy he has left as Frank hauls him around like Christmas ham he’s prepared to devour.

Matt fights for a little while longer until he collides with something solid. The position knocks the air from his chest and he wheezes a wet breath against the felt, and realizes he’s been thrown over a pool table. It’s demeaning, and he tries to roll over, but Frank holds him still. The air smelled like death, and like Frank.

“Please…” The word is a whine that clings to the back of his throat. He isn’t sure what he’s pleading for, but he pleads nonetheless.

His whole body throbs when a brutish hand digs into his nape through the coarse material of his suit, and a groan echoes from above him. He can feel the heat of Frank’s body behind him.

“Holy hell, I love hearin’ you beg, Red.” Frank utters thickly, a deeply satisfied growl building in his chest. He wishes the admission made hate burn in him, disgust even, but it inspires neither.

Matt doesn’t want to want what’s happening, but he can feel slick begin to trickle down the back of his thighs. It’s aromatic, the core components of his scent made tangible; lavender and linen, honey and salt.

He pressed his head more firmly against the felt of the table, eager to distract himself, listening to the quiet rattle of billiard balls in the pockets underneath. He breathed deeply and found notes of a comforting scent, the tart sweetness of strawberry jam, and the warmth of a worn leather-bound book, it smelled like his best friend…

The pool table smelled like Foggy, and so Matt breathed the scent in more deeply, faint as it was.

His legs tensed at the press of a broad palm to his lower back. His senses coil and snap, becoming fuzzy and frayed as the scent of the Alpha’s desire washes over him.

Another breath and he thinks of Foggy again, thinks of his best friend, what would he think of Matt bent over a pool table, surrounded by stinking corpses with an unhinged Alpha lording over him? Nausea burned in him, self-loathing and shame just as well.

He surged back weakly against the palm pressed to his back, renewed urgency giving a last-ditch sprinkle of adrenaline, panic, the barrel of the gun taped to his hand peels at the felt on the table as he struggled for a shred of control back in his favor.

His body feels too heavy to move, too heavy to fight, a biological complacency urges him limp but Matt refuses to be cowed by it.

“‘Nuff of that,” Frank growls in annoyance, his words aren’t a command, just plain exasperation.

There’s the click of something metallic, sharp, his senses skirt over the cool caress as it draws too close to his skin. Each push of his body, sluggish and dazed and too stubborn to quit, Matt whines at the sudden press of the hard outline of the Alpha’s imposing erection against his rear; the material of his boxer-briefs had since grown tacky with slick.

Frank urges his hips forward amidst Matt’s thrashing, a snarled sound lodged in his chest as the scrape of friction sends Matt scrabbling against the table. The glitter of heat between their bodies is nearly agony where it bites through the thick denim of Frank’s jeans and Matt’s suit. A second lazy thrust, through their collective clothes and Matt’s drooling against the felt. A sob struggling to escape with a whine ever present in his throat.

He shivers against the motion, his body rolling effortlessly, a malleable, boneless heap with each thrust.

The painfully large swell of the Alpha’s cock digging against him has Matt panting against the damp felt, every sense screaming and shredded as his hindbrain seized his body like a puppet on strings. His hips urged back, breathless, ugly sounds dripping from his mouth, as he chased the blissful grind of the Alpha’s want against him.

“Good boy,” Frank slobbers the praise between a long groan, and Matt tries to ignore the way it makes his whole body glow in depraved delight. He repeats the motion, urging his hungry hips back to earn a harder, meaner thrust, firm hands holding Matt still to drag the heavy weight of the Alpha’s cock against his warm body. The material of his suit is clinging uncomfortably to his skin, the textured weave of the durable material stinging worse than cotton on his skin.

At some point, his tongue had lolled out of his mouth, the stink of the dead should be nauseating, tear-inducing, but it’s easily diluted by the haze of sweat and overpowered by the muddy way their scents mix together. Louder, brighter.

This time when he begs, he knows what he’s begging for.

“Please…”

He omits the word, Alpha, lets it shrivel and die on his tongue, he refuses to say the word of his own volition. Matt had never been particularly fixated on finding an Alpha, on settling down, on being beholden to anyone but himself or his work. Perks of being raised by a dirt poor Alpha who had wanted a better life for his son than he had, had. Still, the urge had come and gone in his life, something he had written off as a distraction. He had been in college when it hit hardest, when he’d been swept into a whirlwind romance, when he’d found someone he finally thought understood him. An Alpha who could love him enough to bond with him, but he hadn’t been so lucky then, and he wasn’t so lucky now. Frank was a cold-blooded killer - this wasn’t love, it was convenience. The realization made him feel dirty, and clinical, and dispensable but heat still burned in his belly anyway.

“Please…Frank.”

--

The kid looks somewhere between half-dead and half-asleep beneath him, even still when Frank pushes, the Devil pushes back.

Frank wasn’t stupid enough to think the fight had been kicked out him, watching the Omega squirm around the table, bent over like a cheap whore. A growl rumbles in his throat like an engine turning over.

Frank fumbles around the suit looking for a zipper or something, but he had neither the time nor the patience to look particularly long or hard. So, he contends to continue as they were, rutting like a pair of animals. The kid doesn’t complain.

Sex wasn’t strictly necessary when bonding with someone, but Frank was old fashioned, and believed the wives tale that fuckin’ made the bond stronger.

He pinned his hands atop the other man’s wrists, the coarse bite of the fabric making his calluses itch as he lays his weight more fully onto the body beneath him. His cock is swollen thickly between his thighs, knot unbearably plump as he rubs the length of his erection, drooling sticky, fragrant pre-come, against the slick-soaked rear of the limp vigilante.

Frank is drunk on the scent of the Omega, lavender and linen clouded thickly with honey and salt.

His hips hammer forward, grinding their bodies together in an unrelenting rhythm. His mouth froths with drool as he noses at the obscured scruff of the other vigilante’s neck. A cold kiss of a blade near the Devil’s neck makes the man buck and writhe, a yelp straining in his throat. They both knew where this was headed, Frank grinding against his rear.

He poises the blade against the softer looking fabric beneath the cracked mask.

“Don’t-” He begins, but Frank urges the blade to cut through the thinner material, watching it split. He tugs at the durable black and red ensemble, uninterested in removing the mask. It’s damn near impossible to cut through so he pulls the material as far down as it’ll allow. Drool clings to his chin as he admires the unmarked pale flesh between the man’s neck and shoulder, the muscle is dense and wiry, skin pale and fragrant and damp with sweat.

He leverages a white-knuckled grip against the bunched up fabric to keep it from springing back to its previous position, hips slamming forward in that same, hard rhythm.

They share a strangled sound, as Frank lowers himself back over the other man’s body, saliva dripping against the window of available flesh. They resume their motion, the jagged, coarse push and pull, heat tightening in Frank’s belly just as he feels the body beneath him go tense. He presses his nose against the naked skin, feeling the subtle terrain of a bonding gland, he runs his lips over it - hips pumping - when he clamps his mouth around the pristine little gland. He digs his teeth into the sculpted sinew and through the pale skin with a low, long growl. He feels the Devil in his arms, the Omega is swaying like matter changing states, he’s solid then he’s liquid, a quivering mess beneath Frank’s mouth.

The sound of his lover coming undone is a spiraling primal sound in the Alpha’s ears, before going devoid of tension. Frank feels blood, metallic and warm cling to his chin as he flexes his jaw, grip still steadfast. He waits until he feels like he’s on the verge of exploding, sensations becoming louder, sweeter, brighter. Being bonded was otherworldly, so alien, yet so unbearably intrinsic, so right.

Loosening his grip on vigilante’s shoulder, his tongue lingers over the pinpricks of blood that rush to the surface in the absence of Frank’s teeth.

He grunts out a deep sound, undoing the clasp of his belt without ceremony. His tugs at his cock, the thick tip is an aggressive shade of violet where it juts out of his open jeans.

“Turn over,” The Devil makes a vague attempt, so Frank turns the man over himself. It's not gentle or particularly kind when he lands on his back, the eerie red lenses of his mask stare up at Frank. The blank stare is devoid of identity, lacking in humanity, a martyr with no name.

Frank grips his cock with bruising strength, giving himself a few, hard tugs to his monstrous erection. His closed fist brushes the painfully sensitive swell of his knot twice before he’s coming with a roar. It’s surreal, yet grounding, his spend splashed across his bondmate’s face. It streaks thick and musky across his chest, soaking into the torn underlayer of cloth near his neck, gathering on his full lips, a healthy ribbon of come painted between his horns, on the welded reminder of their first meeting.

It goes quiet, quiet as the city allows the passing moments to be. There’s nothing but their ragged breathing filling the air, the Devil tries to wipe at the mess Frank had left on him but all he succeeded in doing was conking himself with the gun still taped to his hand.

“Leave it,” Frank suggests and the other man’s mouth twitches in indignation before he listens.

--

Matt’s bonded, he’s bonded, he’s bonded. It rings through his head because he doesn’t believe it, can’t fathom it, but he can feel it, god, he could feel it.

He’s filthy, physically, spiritually, he feels tarnished, feels like Lucifer cast out of heaven. He feels.

He’s not sure he has the energy to cry, to mourn, to loathe. He feels the drying slick and spend on his skin. He feels the weight of the gun still taped in his hand. Matt considers the weapon, then considers himself.

He tries to lift it once and feels like the weight will snap his wrist with how tired he is, he attempts a second time and the barrel kisses his temple. He flexes his fingers around the rubber grip, it’s unnatural in his palm still.

He surprises even himself when he wrings out a few tears, the weight of the weapon shaking in his hand when a firm grip nearly breaks his hand pulling the weapon away. The bones in his hand and wrist grind together under the pressure before they’re released. The sting of metal doesn’t scare him, maybe he’s beyond being afraid, as his bondmate cuts the tape away, and hurls the weapon across the room. He hears it clatter distantly.

Frank’s arms come around him and he’s too tired to fight, “I gotcha, I gotcha,” He huffs, even as the horns of Matt’s mask dig into his chest where the vigilante slumps forward. He listens to his voice, drinks in his smell, and feels a relief like no other spill over him. It was a quiet to silence the chaos in his mind, calm to soothe the turbulence in him. When he cried this time, it was a dry sob that made his chest ache with relief.

“There ya go, that’s it,” Frank mumbled, each quiet intonation scrubbing Matt’s mind blissfully clean.

“Just breathe, Red,” And so Matt did, he breathed, he breathed the scent of death and decay and Frank.

“That’s my boy,” Frank hums, he’s oozing Alpha pride and Matt feels like the words alone have him on the verge of another orgasm. Frank seems to know because he just laughs a deep, hungry laugh.

His brain deliberates, the jury’s hung, undecided on whether being Frank’s anything fills him with more hate or joy.

He can feel Frank’s eyes on him, can smell the fresh notes of pine and sap in the air, already so dense with their scents.

“You gonna stay outta my way now, baby?”

Matt wants to dissect the words, run his fingers over every inch of them, but instead his mind stutters on the fondness that seems ill-fitting leaving Frank’s mouth, but feels so right. A fondness so sweet it nearly feels sincere, Matt isn’t naive enough to believe it’s true. His hindbrain turns to mush at the pet name. Matt doesn’t want to nod, but fighting against the urge was actively painful, so he stopped fighting it.

“Good,” Frank hums in approval, and a part of Matt glows at having pleased his Alpha. It’s a dizzying thought, one that swishes around in what’s left of his rational mind, the part of him that believes in right and wrong, unable to lump what had transpired into either category.

Frank was an unhinged killer with little to no regard for human life, but now Frank was his unhinged killer…

The thought was nauseating and exciting. A warm hand taps his cheek, thick fingers heavy with calluses scrape across Matt’s stubble. Those fingers migrate beneath his chin urging Matt to lean his head up, the angle makes the bleeding bondmark weep anew.

His brain pulsed as his overworked senses painted a picture of the man in front of him, the strong, rugged silhouette, the crook of his mouth fragrant at the corners with Matt’s blood. A shiver runs through him, hard and unavoidable.

“Be seein’ ya, Red.” Frank said finally as he moved to exit the Biker’s den.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Matt is worried about.

[foreficfandom]

The Arcana - Taking Care Of Sick MC

(Minor trigger warnings for: mentions of the in-game plague, fear of sickness, medicinal bugs)

– Asra –

Asra notices your cold the same time you do. Right when he wakes up next to you and sees your pallid complexion, he immediately knows you’ve got the bug.

He usually takes any chance he can get to sleep in, but not this time. First a gentle word of assurance, then quickly to the kitchen to heat up some water for a medicinal tea mix. As the water boils, he feels your neck and face - not too hot. Thankfully it’s not serious, just inconvenient. 

Expect a lot of home remedies. Healing magic is too ostentatious for a simple cold, and it’s not a field Asra’s familiar with, anyways. He insists you eat some porridge, and drink lots of honeyed water. There’s lots of mugs of various teas, some awfully bitter but Asra insists you bear with it. You get a very pungent astringent balm on your chest for congestion, and he can’t hold in his giggles when you complain about how much it burns.

A lot of these remedies are trusted green witchery. Asra isn’t super skilled at making tinctures, but it’s enough to help a cold. Some he learned while studying magic, some he actually did invent.

He’s gonna manage the shop while you sleep. He lights lavender incense and mint candles, and Faust also stays upstairs to keep you company. Every hour he does a quick check to make sure you’re doing alright, or not sneaking out of bed. If he catches you, he bodyblocks you with a smirk until you sheepishly crawl back under the covers.

When there’s a lull in the shop, Asra hangs out at your bedside with a book, or some small chores he can quietly do with his hands. If you’re awake, the two of you chat a bit, mostly he does to save the strain on your throat. 

His herb teas do make a difference, and by evening you feel better. Bit more porridge and a hot bath, and your fever’s waned a lot. Asra drags out the comfiest blankets to wrap you tightly. Unfortunately, you’re gonna have to sleep alone tonight while Asra takes the couch, just to be safe.

Once you feel better, you finally get kisses. The best reward for recovery.

– Julian –

You’re in luck. Julian may have been described as a ‘hack doctor’ by certain bitter individuals, but in truth he’s a trusted physician well versed in internal medicine. All he’s gotta do is see your watery eyes and red nose, and he’s on the case. 

His clinic has some of the top-of-the-line medical technology, including a spiffy glass stick with a line of liquid mercury encased inside, which expands according to temperature. He has you sit on a patient bed and checks the inside of your throat, feels your face for lumps, uses a magnifying glass on your eyes and ears, lays his head on your chest to hear your lungs, all the things he does as a working doctor. 

It can even be a bit weird to see Julian switch into ‘professional’ mode while handling you. He’s got impeccable bedside manners, keeping you cheery and comforted as he pokes and prods, but you’re not just some patient, he’s your boyfriend and it’s kinda odd (or sexy???) to be sitting in his clinic like this. 

Nevertheless, he eventually diagnoses you with “a godly beauty and shining soul - oh, and also you have a cold”. He actually has you take up one of the beds in the clinic rather than go back upstairs to the apartment, and voila, an assistant registers you on the roster as an inpatient. There’s a reason for that, other than to make you blush - this way, he can prescribe medications. 

You get four servings of this awful tar-like tincture made out of lungwort, crab’s eye, snail venom, and other obscure ingredients. Assistants come by to wipe your face with a cold towel, and check your vitals. They don’t acknowledge your relationship with Julian, only treating you with the gentlest of respect. Jokes would be inappropriate, and Julian’s clinic values professionalism. They care about your health more than embarrassing you. 

The next morning, you wake to Dr. Julian announcing you nearing recovery already. But he doesn’t actually dismiss you until the fever’s completely gone, which means being stuck in the clinic for a couple of days and witnessing firsthand how strict Dr. Julian can be when it comes to his patients. At least it’s an excuse to see him more often. But you’re thankful to finally escape the role of the patient, and back to being Julian’s partner. Your bill? Several kisses!

– Nadia –

It’s just a cold, but Nadia immediately calls in the court doctor to perform a full physical. A hidden part of her normally-rational brain balks at any indication that someone she cares about might be sick. Blame the plague. 

Luckily it’s just a minor fever, so you’re prescribed lots of liquids and bedrest, along with some immunity-boosting citrus lozenges. Within a few minutes the servants retrofit the bedroom to be warm and invitingly dim, place heated bedpans under your feet, light sheh smoke, and deliver a large tray to your bedside. A teapot of water is kept hot over a miniature coal burner.

Nadia takes as much of her free time to dote on you. Which, unfortunately, isn’t a whole lot of time, she can only help you drink some ginger tea and wipe your face before she’s due for Countess work. But she positions a guard at your door with instructions that they’re to wait on your every whim. 

She spends the whole day thinking about you in the back of her mind, hoping you’re at least comfortable and healing properly. She finally gets a break for lunch, and rushes to the bedroom to check on you; you’re sitting up and reading, and she’s happy you’re well enough to enjoy yourself but you should be sleeping! Did the servants bring up your broth yet, have you taken your lozenges and tea, is your bedpan too cold, is the fire stoked too high

You try to calm her down through your stuffy nose; rarely do you see her so flustered. Nadia and you have lunch, and she’s eating the same thing you are because she’s not gonna eat delicious roasts while you’re stuck with broth.  

Duties again call her away until evening (she had dinner with dignitaries), and she gets the servants to run you a bath with rosemary and mint to help open up your sinuses. The two of you spend the night in separate rooms which makes you whine and her tempted to abandon decades of royal dignity to join you.

But before too long, you’re all better and life resumes as normal. She promises to dote on you no matter the state of your health.

– Muriel –

He hears you cough and says bluntly, “you have a cough”. You’ve known him well enough to know that in Muriel-speak, that translates to “I recognize that sound, and I’m going to help you take care of it”. Living in the forest can be hazardous to one’s health, and Muriel has a lot of experience with colds, fevers, and infections.

First step is to stoke the fire to blazing temperatures, then heating lots of clean water for tea and soup. He wraps you in multiple furs until you’re a pile seated near the hearth. He props the door open to let in fresh air, which offsets the uncomfortably sauna-like heat of the fire. A bundle of lemongrass is thrown into the hearth to smoke a citrusy scent throughout the hut, soothing your headache.

Whenever Muriel would get sick, he’d just plow through the day and hope he can sweat out his fever through chopping wood. But you deserve better than that, so you’re let off of chores until you’re better. Muriel balances his duties with nursing you, which is a little tough ‘cause he’s gotten so used to having an extra set of hands. But it’s definitely worth it, if you’d get better. 

He comes back from checking the rabbit traps to feed you a salty bone broth, and brews his green-magic tea brew (that he and Asra invented together) that has elderflower, willow bark, and ginseng. After lunch, he needs to leave again, so urges Inanna to cuddle you while he’s gone.

Finally, the chores are (largely) done, and he can finally afford his full attention to your pitiful, coughing self. He pulls out his rare ingredients - albatross feather, dried glowshroom - and charges them with magic before making it into a bitter powder he urges you to eat. Effectively a magical antibiotic, just in case of infection.

By night, you’re well enough to walk around and eat a bit more, and he’s feeling reassured. You spot one of his tiny smiles. But he pushes away your kisses until you’re for sure all cured. 

A couple more days of his tried-and-true forest witchery, and there’s no more coughing. Finally the two of you get to cuddle in the furs like you usually do! It’s felt like ages, you say, and Muriel can’t help but agree.

– Portia – 

First step upon hearing your raspy voice? Portia rushes to the kitchen (with Pepi hot on her heels because running time!! Yay!) to cook one of Mazelinka’s fever soups. Portia unfortunately lacks the ingredients to make Mazelinka’s more magical dishes, but there’s enough here for a nutrient-rich, hydrating broth, perfect for a cold.

She sends a pigeon to the castle to call in a sick day, so Portia can take her time in feeling up your forehead, heating water, and hauling out the thick winter quilts to sweat out your fever. You don’t look too bad, but it’s a shame Julian’s on a cruise right now. Otherwise, she’d drag him over right quick to do a check-up.

She mixes up a pot of ginger honey tea and leaves you with Pepi while she visits Mazelinka to request a remedy. Before too long, Portia comes back with a large jug of this thick, grassy-smelling stew with rice and various herbs. She insists on feeding you while you’re laid up in bed, which isn’t necessary but it makes her giggle so you indulge her. It tastes delicious, and you finish a large bowlful while Portia chats brightly and cracks jokes, making sure your spirits are high - the most important when it comes to recovery! 

You’re not sure what was in Mazelinka’s soup (although you’re pretty sure the ‘rice’ was actually scuttlebug larvae) but your fever’s waned a lot by the time you wake up from your nap. Portia’s right there when you open your eyes, knitting and humming to herself. She sees you awake and can tell you’re feeling better, which makes her smile. 

Dinner is the second half of Mazelinka’s soup, and then Portia fills the wooden tub for a nice, hot bath. Even your voice is less raspy now, so she and you chat while you soak. You’re so much healthier now that you don’t have to be in separate beds come nighttime, which truly is a blessing.

The first thing you do when you’re fully recovered is beg Mazelinka for her soup recipe. She relinquishes it to you, on the promise you won’t monetize it for your shop or anything, and you swear you won’t. Portia’s puppy-dog eyes probably wasn’t a necessary tactic, but appreciated none the same. 

– Lucio –

You wake up feverish and Lucio’s first step is to arrange the things he’d like to do on his sick days. Hot mulled wine, a giant bath of citrus oil and lavender, and the best doctors of Vesuvia to wait on him you hand and foot. You have to stop him before he goes too far, which is easier said than done with a sore throat versus an ex-Count on a mission.

You turn down the huge platters of petit-fours, but Lucio insists on the doctors, who come in and do a thorough check-up per Lucio’s strict orders. But it doesn’t take a full physical to ensure that you’ve just got a simple cold, and all you really need is water and rest. 

Lucio calls off all his plans so he can dedicate the entire day to keeping you company. He asks if you have a headache, if your sinuses are clogged, if your muscles are sore. You say yes to anything, he’ll try to call the doctors back and insist they give you some sort of medicinal relief. After lots of hemming and hawing, you get a walnut and cherry-based tincture to reduce inflammation, and also a peppermint lemon tea. 

He looks at your meager medicines and asks if you’re sure you don’t want anything more. He could call his pets up if you want some cuddles? Maybe we can take one of those baths? What about some dessert, just because? Or we can call up the troubadour to play some music - 

Lucio seems strangely contrite when you say that all you need is some rest. He’s very hesitant to leave you alone, so you kept feeling his gaze as you tried to nap. Finally, you asked what was his deal - you appreciate his attention, but something’s obviously wrong.

He’s not someone very in tune with his emotions, so it takes a while before you’re able to mine Lucio’s tremulous inner thoughts; when he was dying of the plague, Lucio hated being alone in his huge room, and ordered company whenever he could. There was no medicine that offered proper relief from his pains, and all he could do was wait and fear the inevitable. 

Seeing you sick, even with just a simple fever, brought back those memories. He’d do anything to make sure you never experienced that. Especially knowing what you’ve already been through.

You gently hold Lucio’s hand and assure him that things like fevers and sickness, they’re part of the living experience and they’re made much better with good company. Actual, good company that offers love and support. Which you have, with Lucio here.

He’s always struck dumbfounded whenever you describe him with noble attributes. He feels like he’s the one recovering from … something, rather than you. 

A few more nights, and you’re as fit as a fiddle. To celebrate, Lucio orders a large spread of your favorite foods to make up for all the bland mush you had to deal with. He’s back to being good ol’ Lucio, but you know that an inner part of him has changed for the better. 

[friend-crow]

Hmm... I should warn you that I'm not super well versed on the science aspect of this stuff, but some spicyish options that I believe to be capsaicin-free would be horse radish (clears your sinuses and makes your scalp tingle), ginger (raw for more spice, but the flavor can get pretty overpoweringly astringent), mustard, black pepper, and Sichuan pepper (makes your mouth kinda numb).

Cooking Substitution Question!

I'm about to visit R & Loki for the weekend and want to cook for them, but the dish I want to make includes gochujang, and Loki is allergic to capsaicin (and almost all alliums).

Thoughts on to replace it?

After an internet search, it seems like a mix of miso & tomato paste might be a good base, but I'm not sure what to use to get it at least a little spicy/hot... Halp?

Paging @upthewitchypunx & @friend-crow, because it seems like y'all might know?

[prophetrick]

I don't think I've ever gone into depth about Yasuhiro's birthplace, and the only inference we get is that he's got some trace of Tohoku in him by his dialogue; in the NISA version, it's harder to pick up on that, much less any difference in accent. I don't remember seeing any English-translated notes, but the Project Zetsubo/Oren LP specifies it: "Hagakure ends a lot of his sentences with -be, a feature of the Touhoku Japanese dialect. This is so prominent in his speech that I chose to make it “‘right?” in English. It doesn't carry the exact same connotations but somehow sounds just right to my ears." In the Japanese voice-clips, you can hear how nasally he can be, and that's a trait with Tohoku-ben. One of those “lost in translation things” to some extent. There's only one other character that shares such a trait that I know of, and that's Teruteru Hanamura. Tohoku-ben is also called Zuuzuu-ben, because it sounds like buzzing, or someone with a terrible cold. The accents are on the thick side. A few ways that Tohoku tends to be interpreted (that I’ve seen) are American Cajun/Texan/Southern, since the stereotyped attitude towards Tohoku speakers is that they can be dumber than a bag of hammers and lazier than molasses. Tokyo-ben, then, is what a Tohoku-speaker might hide behind. Like Mad Moxxi from Borderlands. So here’s a long headcanon about his birthplace I’ve been brewing. This will, of course, change with different verses. But the constant will be, for the most part, a coastal city that's going to be considered stick country.

I headcanon that he was born in Happo in the Tohoku area, right on the border of Happo and Noshiro to be exact. He'd tell you that when he was a kid, those two places tended to blend in. He'd compare them to having two provinces on the same street. As much as people might rag on him about being a backwater bumpkin, Happo does have shrines, colleges, schools, and plenty of parks to run around. Hot springs were a delight for him in the winter when he was old enough to go. In fact, it even has a Pokemon center: X When his family was "whole", as he'd tell you, food wasn't so hard to come by since it could be fetched from the farmer markets.While most fruits get his vote, pumpkins, strawberries, and pears. Since persimmons are more expensive, he's exceptionally fond of them. He likes both types of persimmons; the more astringent has a "kick" to it. Fruits weren't quite as expensive in Happo as he remembers it compared to getting them in city areas, since they were practically homegrown. If Yasuhiro likes you well enough, he'll sometimes think of a nickname for you relating to food. One of the nicknames he'll give to Chihiro, for example, is Stringbean, because he thinks that Chihiro's skirt looks like a basket and his shirt is the "stringbean" coming out of it.

Things that Yasuhiro tell you about his time in Happo that will make him wax nostalgic: -The petting zoo/farm where he would sometimes visit. -Running around barefoot around the hills. -Fishing trips with his father. -Scaring his mother with beetles and one candy snake--it was only once. -Making a seasonal clubhouse with trees and dirt, with his friends (and in particular, his closest friend Kurihara Masabumi at that time). -Learning about hanakotoba, regional flowers, and herbal remedies from his grandmother, despite their rocky relationship. He also thinks he got his lack of social filter from her, too. -And some more memories, of course.

Of course, Yasuhiro might want to bring you to Happo if he's exceptionally keen on you romantically or platonically before The Tragedy hits. He swells up with pride when people talk about the Akita-inu, since that's a dog from his prefecture--and don't tell him otherwise. After The Tragedy, assuming that he'll make his way over there to begin with, he'll have mixed feelings about being in Happo again; he'll tell you that he felt some emptiness when his supposed friends never reached out to him after he moved to Ueno. Underneath his happiest moments in Happo, there was far more strife that's made his time there less enjoyable. A man can't go home twice, he'll say. One of the ways he'll show that he's matured since he's come back is to tell you that he'd much prefer to make better memories with you.

[nectardaddy]

what character are you in amber 44 and bitter?

ft the wonderful amazing @sojusprings

see: bitter and amber 44

[dustedmagazine]

Bevis Frond — Little Eden (Fire Records)

Little Eden by The Bevis Frond

For freaks of a certain age and inclination, the appearance of a new record by the Bevis Frond is a sort of life event. They’re the same sort of freaks that can index the Anglo-American cultural gestalt of whole decades in relation to Bevis Frond releases: the fuzz-drenched insularity of the early records (Inner Marshlands or Triptych) quaked with the 1980s’ inbent socio-political horror, and the clutch of subsequent pro-studio-made recordings (the excellent New River Head or Sprawl) shimmered and gleamed in the 1990s’ little bubble of plenitude. And so on. So, what about this latest record, also a polished product of professional studio tech, made with an experienced backing band? Like our current conjuncture, Little Eden is a sharp mix of contrasting tones and messages. Record opener “Everyone Rise” has the warm ebullience of other upbeat, hook-rich Bevis Frond songs, from the magisterial “Down in the Well” (1990) to “Silver Dart” (2002). But then “And Away We Go” downshifts to a grim, doomy pace. Nick Saloman, who essentially embodies the Bevis Frond, sings, “Peace made? / No / Debts paid? / No / Regrets? / No / Thought so.” By Saloman’s standards, the lyric is laconic, bordering on silence, and its negations intensify the song’s bummed-out mood. Four minutes later “Brain Fatigue” bounces out of the gate, with nearly cartoonish energy and a pranksome melody. Saloman chirps (inasmuch as his North Londoner’s voice can produce a chirp), “I’m covering the hits / I’m dancing in the street / I’m looking like a true Renaissance man.” What gives?

Not to be glib, but: 2021. Little Eden pulls off one of Saloman’s best tricks: the record is unerringly faithful to the Bevis Frond aesthetic, a stable sonic construct for some 35 years, and it’s also cleverly responsive to our collective cultural moment. 2021 is giving many of us serious brain fatigue, but the song is even more precisely in tune with the current weirdness; Saloman sings, “I’m working for the State / I secretly enrolled / I’m heading up an undercover ring.” Is that you, Q? For sure, the hyperbolically enthused tone of Saloman’s singing dramatizes the fizzy psychological space of conspiratorial paranoia. That feels like 2021, and so does the brief bit of darkness in the opening verse of “Everyone Rise,” in which we are warned of dire consequences if we don’t “behave politely and obey the scary clown.” Is that you, Boris? 

Those socio-political gestures are engaging, but the most substantial pleasures on Little Eden result from listening to Saloman, now in his seventh decade, write so clearly, sing so evocatively and play so emotively. The voice is a touch less strong, and the fretwork is a wee bit less fleet (but only a wee bit; Saloman can still play). Those small shifts in the sound of the Bevis Frond map onto Saloman’s place in life’s arc, and he occasionally nods to his age with characteristic pathos and wryness. On the yearning, ardent “They Will Return,” he sings, “Now you’ve got grown-up children / With children of their own / They live in distant places / With no time for the folks back home / They don’t really want to listen / To much of what you’ve got to say / But you still find yourself wishing / They didn’t live so far away.” The isolation and alienation suffered by many older people during the pandemic is hinted at, but mostly the verse feels like Saloman reporting on the push and pull of family dynamics from an elder’s perspective. That’s not a commonplace instance in rock, and the simplicity of the lyric and the sincerity of his singing give the song surprising, gutty force. Counter to that are the hard-psych intensities and cranky snarl of “Start Burning,” which celebrates astringencies both attitudinal and artistic. The song includes some of the record’s prickliest lyrics (“I keep my glass half full but there’s something dead / Floating in it”) and sharpest soloing, sounds of Bevis past that demonstrate what Saloman’s hands can still create. 

His sense for how to structure and sequence a record is just as smart as ever. At the exact midpoint of Little Eden — the tenth of its 20 songs, of which many are flat-out great: those already mentioned above, the title track, “Do Without Me,” “Pasted All Over,” “There’s Always Love,” and so on — he hits us with “As I Lay Down to Die.” The song is as elegiac as its title sounds, and it’s a grim experience, all things considered, and Little Eden would be a very different record if that was its last song. Instead, at the record’s close, he gives us “Dreams of Flying,” ten minutes of what feels like urgent cheerleading for the world’s dwindling resources of goodwill and wild, joyful reverie. We get some patented Bevis Frond dual-track soloing, featuring some of record’s freest playing, and a near-breathless refrain: “Hang on to your trust in star signs / They may help you through the hard times / Hang on to your dreams of flying / Don’t you ever give up trying.” Saloman surely hasn’t — and thanks, man. In these sick, sick times, the Bevis Frond is a gift for the ears, and balm for the soul. 

Jonathan Shaw

[mxvladdy]

Dinner for Two

Hello again! Hope y’all are doing just groovy. 

Here’s another fic! It can also be found here ! 

I got some WIPs in the works so it’s back to the coal mines for me. 

Chapters: 1-2-3 

The world spun again, more forceful than before. Reaching out blindly you grasp for the closest thing to you. This time it was your friend Genji. Cool metal wrapping around your forearm helping you steady yourself as you breathe through the wave of nausea.

“Doctor! Are you alright?” His scarred brows raising in worry looking for a place to let you rest. He leads you slowly to a nearby bench and away from your workstation.

You wave off his concern resting your fevered brow on your knees taking steady gulps of air in hopes to alleviate the sick feeling. “I'm fine. I'm fine. It's just exhaustion, haven't been able to sleep well of late.”

“Hmmm.” He sat nodding knowing the feeling all to well. “Missing your bear?” Genji joked releasing his hold on you to give you some space, his tone still laced with worry.

You chuckle dryly emerging from your ball to lean back, resting on the metal wall behind you. You did miss Jesse. It would have been a down right lie to say otherwise. His warm body encased around you, shaggy chestnut hair fanning out on his pillow. The whiskey smoke smell of him, an oddly comforting scent.

He was halfway through a six month mission with Soldier, Winston, and Angie to America looking into a Talon lead. As an infiltration mission, it requires time to build trust and connections. Meaning it was a pain in the ass for everyone.

I've been missing ya somethin’ fierce doll. Can't stop thinking about ya. Bed’s too cold nowadays. I wish ta god you could have come along. But can't be puttin’ all our medics in the field. His low timbre reverberating through the tinny speaker of your phone. Everytime he called it was a double edge sword, you were overjoyed that he was alive and safe. Yet it made the miles apart feel even longer.

You look up at Genji's patient expression. “I do.” You admit accepting the ninja's help getting up, the sickness passing as quickly as it had come. Genji nodded sagely heading back to your station where you had been working on an upgrade for his respiratory system. Your work was on par with Angie's, making the head medic feel comfortable dividing her workload with you.

“Perhaps you should take a break for the rest of the day? I'm not going anywhere and the upgrade isn't critical yet. Why not join Reinhardt and myself for lunch?” Genji nudged, placing his hand between you and your work. You agreed hoping a break would make you feel better.

It did not. Instead you retired to your quiet room curling around Jesse's pillow and drifted into a dreamless sleep stomach tossing and turning . This was your day to day life for the next three weeks. But it was only getting worse. Nausea, bloating, headaches, and fatigue plagued you as sleep evaded you. You hid;  brushing off concern with the same line.

“ It's just stress .” You sigh dismissing Ana's hand on your shoulder but graciously accepting the hot mug of tea. Enjoying her company in the common room after getting fed up with sitting in the spare medical lab all day.“I don't know how Angie does this.” You sigh dramatically.

“I sometimes wonder about the both of you. If I didn't know better I'd say you and Ziegler are secret masochists.” Ana chuckled. You flush, skin darkening as Ana levels you with a knowing smirk. “Ahh~Thought that was more you and Jesse's shtick.”

“What's more my shtick?” A deep southern drawl purrs behind you. A deep purr you thought you still had another two months before you could hear it in person. You didn't get a chance to turn before two strong burly arms wrapped around you. He smelled of sweat and gun oil. The staleness of the airship hung over him telling you more than anything that he just arrived.

Ana rolled her eye at your sequel when he lifted you into his chest spinning you around to capture you in a soul stealing kiss. “I was under the impression I still had another six weeks of peace.” Ana joked, raising to pat his back as he lowered you to the floor. His attention not wavering from you.

“You know me Ma’am, can't be kept away from ya.” Jesse winked his smile damn near blinding. “But the mission went off without a hitch, got all the data we need to put a hurtin’ on the next Talon operation.”

“Good,” Ana nodded curtly, looking at her com. “Ah… Soldier wants us all at the debriefing in five. Best be heading over.”

You both watch her leave arms still wrapped around each other. Jesse breaks first brushing his lips down your throat pulling a giggle from you as his beard hairs tickle you. Your good mood doesn't last long though as your nose seems to really pick up on his scent. The pleasant sweat and gun metal smell from earlier now astringent and overpowering. You gag choking back the bile in your empty stomach.

“Damn,” Jesse pulls back watching you cup your hand over your nose and mouth. “I smell that bad doll?”

“No. Sorry I've just been under alot of stress of late. My body is protesting.” You cough forcing yourself back into his arms.

He coos sympathetically rubbing your back. “M’ sorry sunshine, let me make it up to you tonight huh? Hot bath- a few drinks. Hell I'll even sneak out an’ get us some food from town, your choice. Maybe a movie if I can keep my eyes open long enough. Just gotta get through this damn debrief,” He looks at his com cover your shoulder checking for messages. “which we are ‘bout to be late for so let's get gettin’.”

You arrived only a few seconds late. Reinhardt holding the door for you and Jesse beaming brightly at you both. You took your seat next to Angie and Ana while Jesse sat by Genji and Lucio. Nodding politely at the two women you settle in listening to the monotone drone of Winston's debriefing scrolling through the file in front of you. He took an hour before Soldier started.

“Is it hot in here?” You whisper leaning over to Ana when 76 had his back to them. Ana frowned, shaking her head noting a slight sheen of sweat gracing your dark skin.

“Not really. Do you need to step out? This many bodies in a room could heat it up.”

You shake your head thinking maybe you were just overreacting. Instead you pour yourself a glass of water sipping slowly, losing focus. Ugh, that pesky nausea was back making the room swim. You could feel it at the corners of your vision. Had you eaten today? It wasn't abnormal for you to miss a meal or two. You ate ridiculously late last night, a sudden craving as you watched Hana play video games. So skipping breakfast shouldn't have been that bad an issue. Besides Lena had needed assistance with a nasty sprained ankle.

“You are looking a little under the weather my friend!” You jump glass shaking in your hand. Reinhardt sounded so distant, like though water. How odd…

You try to speak but your tongue seems to be cemented to your mouth. The room's axis tilts dangerously as you try to steady yourself. The swimming wasn't just at the corner of your eyes anymore. A blonde blob took up your vision. The blob speaking softly trying to take you with it.

A bad choice. Your knees buckled the moment you rose, the swimming in your vision turning violent. The water in your ears turned to crashing waves disorienting you as your vision went black.

You woke in darkness a faint light to your side illuminating flat white tiles above you. Your vision was steady but blurry as you took in your surroundings. It was the medical wing. You could tell that much by the stiff mattress and scratchy sheets covering you. A pressure in your arm gives you pause. Shifting in the sheets you touch at it recognizing the tug and pull of an IV drip.

“Ah! You're awake!” Angie chipper voice emerging from thin air to your side. “Gave us a fright back there.”

“What happened?” You asked, rubbing your eyes in exhaustion trying to focus on her uncharacteristically tight smile. She hums bringing up your charts.

“Low blood sugar. Very low blood sugar. Bordering on coma inducing, you banged your head rather hard when you passed out; but it's fine. Everyone is fine.” She friendly tone turning professional and curt, her hands busy adjusting your IV and raising the lights in the room slightly. “Are you too hot? Too cold? What was the last thing you ate? You should have come and told me sooner.”

Angie helps you sit up adjusting the bed and pillows to your comfort. “Angela I'm fine. I have been just so caught up in work, you know I get stress sick sometimes. I'll be more careful.”

Your friend stopped midway into checking your vitals. “Are you- I had thought as much. It's unlike you to be so reckless.” She finishes jotting down a quick note before handing you your medical records.

The words hit you like a ton of bricks. You scroll through blindly feeling ill for a whole new reason. How could you have been so stupid to have not picked up on all the subtle changes. You backtrack the past months counting the days. Your period, while erratic and hard to chart was never this late.

“How…” Your voice cracks lowering the tablet to your knees. Angie waits putting a supportive hand on your leg watching you process. “I'm a fucking doctor, and I miss that I'm pregnant!” Your laugh was empty, on the verge of hysterics. Shaking in a mix of awe and panic you place a hand  against your midriff. How could you miss this?

Fat is soft and malleable when you gain it. It grows in multiple areas at once, not collecting in one area growing steadily for so long. Dread fills you. You had been foolish thinking you were eating too much, so you cut back, taking up walking with Mei and hikes with Lucio. You had been starving yourself. Your child.

“Don't,” Angie cut into your downward spiral of guilt. “I'm not the most well versed in this but I did as thorough a check as I could and everything looks fine. You're underweight for the start of your second trimester but other than that you're fine,” She squeezes you leg reassuringly. “ they are fine .”

Falling back on the bed you bury your face in your hands groaning out. “Angie how did I fuck up this bad.”

She chuckled against her better judgement, but knowing you the worst had passed for now. “I can take some of the blame. I did dump a lot on you before I left. I knew I could trust you to stay focused on our work. I guess I underestimated how focus you would get. We are much in the same on that front. Stress does strange things to the body, as we both know. I, if I was in your shoes, would probably write it off as stress too.”

You gripe folding your arms defensively over your belly remembering Ana's comments from early. Jesse. “What do I tell Jesse? Did you say anything to him?” You snap rounding on your friend.

“I have kept everyone out including him till I could assess what was wrong, as per protocol. No matter what that man says otherwise.” Angie frowned looking towards the door. “You haven't been under for more then three hours. But I doubt he has left his vigil at the door. Do you want me to get him?”

You shake your head vigorously wrapping yourself over your stomach defensively. You had never discussed children. Anything really outside of dating. How would he react? What would this mean for you in the newly reformed Overwatch? “I need some time. I have to think this over.”

Angie rose nodding in agreement. “Let me know whatever you decide. I'll be there anyway I can.” She helps you lower the bed and turns off the lights again before leaving. You hear her exit and immediately start talking with someone on the other side of the door.

It was two days before you allowed visitors deciding to spend those days cramming as much knowledge and food into you all while talking things through with Angela. You had decided to tell Jesse and go from there, notifying Winston you could do nothing but wait to see what this meant for you for work and living on base. Angie was adamant she would pressure him to let you stay on as a medic on base until you were ready to take leave. As for housing well; maybe you could find a nice flat off base if it was an issue. You didn't think your shared room with Jesse was large enough for three. If there would be three.

As if beckoned by your thoughts Jesse was there knocking softly on your door not a few minutes after Angie sent out a notice that you would be allowing guests. He flashed you a crooked smile raising a plastic bag with a little smiley face on it. “I promised ya a hot bath and food...bath might be later but I thought maybe you would like some non-Angie approved food.” He fidgeted holding back his want to dash to you, his fears threatening to overflow. Watching you just drop at that meeting almost took him down with you. You looked ill when he greeted you but he didn't think it was that bad. Angie said it was low blood sugar from lack of food and sleep. But he knew better, there was something else on top.

He waited watching you shift the massive amount of blankets around you, burying yourself further in their warmth before smiling shyly. Boots thumping loudly on the floor he approached his grin freer this time pulling up a chair and your floating tray. “Oh. Did ya already eat doll? I can come back later if you want. Ang’ been saying your still feelin’ a little green ‘round the gills.” He frowned, noticing the scraps of foods on your discarded plate. It looked like the remains of something he would eat. Fattening and full of greasy meat, a few half eaten fries were left.

“I could always eat more. That's why I'm in here.” You laugh reaching for the bag while Jesse placed his hat and wrap on a nearby coat rack. You groan loudly pulling out a take out box of sweet and sour chicken, sticky rice and dumplings. Jesse watched shocked as you dove in stuffing a dumpling whole into your mouth only noticing his stares after you crudely stuffed another in your mouth “Wha?”

“Nothin’ sugar. Glad you're eating. Though I didn't think you would take my box. I got you a healthier one… you and Angie always watch what ya eat.” He smiles fishing out the other box. “But I guess we can switch every once and awhile.” He winks toying with you not expecting the look of horror on your face, a stock of broccoli halfway to your lips. “It ain't a big deal! ‘sides you are always on my case about eating better. Eat up! Can't have my sunshine starving. ” He jokes taking a bite out of the baked fish in front of him.

“Ya.” You chuckle nervously lowering your fork. Turning your face from his. You spoke so softly he barely heard it. Your words slipping out like a ghost.

Since I'm eating for two…

It caught him like a sucker punch, the world moving at half it’s normal pace. Surely you didn't mean… “I- I don't think I'm getting the joke doll.” Jesse muttered mind reeling for an explanation for your comment, other than the obvious one. Because that one didn't make sense. Right?

You turn back fist gripping your blankets, knuckling white and hands shaking. “Every symptom has a cause. I fainted and I thought I was suffering from just exhaustion and fatigue. Turns out they were just symptoms too.” Brushing aside the quilts you touch your stomach gently refusing to look at him.

“Are… how long?” Jesse asked voice no louder then your ghost like whispers.

“Angie said four months give or take a few weeks.”

Jesse leaned back quietly. “How long have you known?” Why didn't you trust him to tell this? Had he done something to make you think otherwise? You never brought up children but never talked negatively of it either. His heartbeat ecstatically thoughts flashing a mile a minute.

“When I woke up. I didn't realize until then,” You finally turn trying to fight back the tears of panic threatening to break free. “I swear. I would never have been so foolish if I had known. I would have told you.”

Jesse rose whipping a stray tear from your cheek and wrapping you in a tight hug, shoulders trembling from unshed tears himself. “I know, I trust ya. Jesus baby meeting you was the blessing I never deserved.” He kissed you then, peppering little kisses all over your cheeks, your nose and lips never settling for one place for long.

“You want this? Jesse I won't force this on you.”  You ask, starting to realize your fears may be unfounded.

“Whatca’ mean ‘if I want this’? I love ya, every bit I can get! I mean I would have done this a bit different. A cute little house with a cute little dog.” He paused licking his lips debating for a moment before continuing. “The nicest damn ring I can afford… But what's life without a few curves?” He smiles warmly a soft flush gracing his cheeks.

You couldn't help but laugh in shock. The words warming you completely making your heart flutter. It was a sweetness that made you feel good, feel safe when he pulls you in tighter murmuring hopes and promises into your ear. You smile snuggling in close, kissing his cheek and rubbing his broad shoulders wondering why you worried in the first place. This could work. You knew he would try and you wouldn't back down either. You loved him too much to not at least try.

[spirit-science-blog]

Eye of Newt became a popular ingredient in witches' spells from the Shakespearean play “Macbeth.”

There are only a few different theories on these Shakespearean ingredients. Only a small number of people are convinced it represents a real eye of a salamander or small fish, most people today believe that it is, in fact, an herb. In fact, most of these items in the incantation are herbs.

Most Herbalists believe that Eye of Newt actually refers to a Mustard Seed. This is the most common understanding of Shakespeare’s words. However, there are those who believe it is actually the red berries of the belladonna plant. It is a plant in the same Solanaceae family as tomatoes and has a long history of being both a poisonous narcotic and very useful medication.

But what about the rest of them? The rest of the incantation is as follows.

“Eye of Newt, Toe of Frog Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.”

And, of course… Their meanings:

Toe of Frog, a Bulbous Buttercup Leaf, Known for its ability to inflame and blister the skin! The wool of Bat – Holly Leaves – A Medicine known to ease hypertension or high blood pressure. (Note, the berries are poisonous, so be careful!)

Tongue of Dog – Houndstongue – While toxic when dry, the roots were used for treating shortness of breath, and it was said that boiling the leaves and applying the liquid could preserve hair from falling and ease the pain of burned skin.

Adder’s Fork – Adder’s Tongue – This plant has 2 versions, the European and American types. The European version is said to be good for treating eye problems and making ointments for wounds. The leaves of the American plant can be applied to the skin to treat skin ulcers.

Lizard’s leg – Ivy – Not poison Ivy mind you, this plant can be used as a Diuretic, Astringent, Tonic, and gentle stimulant. Also good for Kidney diseases and indigestion.

Owlet’s wing – Owl’s Clover – To be honest with you I couldn’t find any botanical information about this plant, or what it was used for historically. Other clovers, however, are often used as Antispasmodics.

The only one of the group from Shakespeare’s verse that actually related to a real animal was the Blind Worm’s Sting. This referred to the Venom of an Anguis Fragilis Worm.

In the dark ages, “witches” also known as “pagans” and the like would use names like these to scare common-folk so that nobody would really know what they were up to. It was a means of protection to practice Herbology in a time when you were considered evil for doing as such.

Good things times have changed, right?

Sources:

http://people.howstuffworks.com/is-eye-of-newt-real-thing.htm

http://www.mysteryarts.com/magic/articles.php?coldpot

[spikyhairedsilhouette]

NAME:  shikamaru

NICKNAME(S): spiky/spike/rain man/cunt licker (those last two apply to modern verse only)

THEIR PROFESSION:  shinobi/strategic planner/analyst/hacker/drummer

WHERE THEY CAN BE FOUND: sunny meadows, moonlit trails, skyscrapers/rooftops, hammocks, dive bars, underground clubs, libraries, curiosity shops, gas stations, motels, hookah lounges, abandoned buildings, subway tunnels, his bed, the floor of his apartment. 

FAVOURITE FOOD TYPE: bitter + astringent flavors such as coffee and crabapples (how apropos). 

FAVOURITE ALCOHOLIC DRINK: vodka neat, unless it’s a hard day. in that case, whiskey. neat. 

FAVOURITE TRAIT: wit, intelligence, and their lovechild -- sass. 

WHERE THEY WOULD GO ON A DATE: diner, amusement park, planetarium, museum, cemetery, drive-in, coffee shop, his bed, the floor of his apartment.

IDEAL GIFT: a worthy adversary. 

WHEN WILL THEY DRINK ALCOHOL: any time after 10am (including after 10am of the previous day)

HOW MANY DATES UNTIL THEY GO TO BED: anywhere between 0 and 100. dates for him aren’t really “dates” in the conventional sense, and sex according to spiky is either completely devoid of emotion or incredibly personal and intimate, depending on the candidate. he never does the deed in exactly the same way twice, therefore the journey there will be via a different pathway each and every time. 

TAGGED BY: STOLEN FROM: @chakrastring TAGGING: @inotheflower @theirnindo @tenacitybred @quiet-kunoichi @ladytsunadehime @akatzombie