#but get inflated and dried simultaneously as they come out

[cloudofspacedust]

heres a spearmaster

[p-taryn-dactyl]

Laser Tag and Donuts (game night 2)

a/n: heyyyyy :) count this as an apology for a Soul For a Soul continuation of these two fics: Burnt Toast and Vodka + Game Night (1) this addition has more one-on-one time with our favorite Bestie: yelena warning(s): ...this sucks, my apologizes; i have never been to a laser tag place in my life - no clue what inspired me; honestly not that proud of this one...definitely rushed; all spelling/grammar errors are compliments of me finishing this around midnight

word count: 1.9k

taglist: @coolbeans32 @youralphawolf72 pairing(s): all platonic (for now); yelena x reader, kate bishop x reader, natasha romanoff x reader, bucky barnes x reader, sam wilson x reader, clint barton x reader, tony stark x reader, spiderman x reader ([name] doesn't know his identity yet)

You sighed as the hot water soothed your muscles. The steam rose around you in a swirl, probably fogging up your mirror. It was a peaceful moment, where you could relax your body and not have a worry in the worl-

"[Name] have you ever gone laser tagging?" your shower curtain was pulled back, revealing Yelena who was scrolling on her phone. You shrieked, embarrassment flooding your cheeks, "Stop screaming it's just me - now have you?"

You grabbed the curtain from Yelena, using it to cover your body, before looking at your best friend, a shocked look on your face. Yelena shrugged.

"What? You were taking too long and I want to do something fun." She said nonchalantly, showing you a website for a laser tag place. You rolled your eyes, snapping the shower curtain shut. You huffed, washing out the last of the conditioner from your hair.

"Fine!" You could practically hear Yelena's excitement. Rushing your once comfortable shower, you turned the water off and stepped out of your shower. A towel was thrust in your face, surprising you.

"Ack!" You slid around for a few moment before being able to balance yourself.

"Come on! If we want to be able to do anything today, you need to hurry up!"

You dried off and wrapped the towel around you. Yelena was practically bouncing on her heels. You raised your eyebrows at her as you washed your face.

"I didn't think you would be this excited about something like laser tag?"

"Oh come on [name]! You get to shoot people, without the problem of blood, and you don't get put on a watchlist and held in some Bulgarian prison!" You turned around, prepared to fire a million questions. Yelena looked at her nails.

"What? It happens to everyone." You were about to retort but ended up just shaking your head and laughing.

"Ok, I'll get dressed and then we can-" you walked out of your bathroom and paused, Yelena also pausing next to you. You both looked at each other before looking back at the sight in front of you.

"How the hell do you keep getting in?" You exclaimed. Sitting on your counter, cereal bowl in hand and wrapped in at least seven blankets, was the feared Winter Soldier. Bucky smiled hesitantly, shoveling cheerios into his mouth. You dragged a hand down your face before shaking your head and making your way towards your closet.

"What are you doing here?" Yelena asked, her tone a little on edge. As you were pulling on a giant sweater, tucking the front into your pants, you heard Bucky's answer.

"I'm hiding from Sam. Apparently, putting him on an inflatable mattress in the middle of a lake wasn't his favorite way of waking up." You and Yelena simultaneously scoffed humorously. As you walked out the door, you pointed your finger at the assassin.

"If anything is broken when I come back, I will sell your arm to the racoon."

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Ah yes, your favorite kind of place. Dark, with occasional bright flashing lights, people's voices echoing around, and the smell of sweat filling the air. You definitely weren't panicking. Not at all.

You and Yelena had been playing for over an hour, up against young children (having to explain to Yelena that yelling Russian curses at the seven year old was a good way to get kicked out wasn't the best time) and annoying couples alike (stop making out against the wall- actually don't. Makes you an easier target). But twenty minutes ago, you had lost your best friend in the chaos, and now you were pressing yourself against the wall. The adrenaline in your system, fueled by the anxiety filling your head, had helped you rack up a steady number on points. You heard a group of teenagers approaching and you kept your gun close to your chest - as if you were an action movie star. You somersaulted to the side and hid behind a pole, only revealing yourself to hit your targets. One by one, the teenagers groaned as their chest plates turned red. You did a little dance as you watched your nickname rise higher on the score board.

"Who's a Black Widow now?" You muttered under your breath. A hand grasped your arm, causing you to jump around and fire.

"Oops." you said sheepishly as Yelena looked down at her vest, then back up at you, then down again. You laughed as she dramatically placed her hand on her forehead and fell backwards, grasping her chest.

"So, this is what betrayal feels like," she said, faux solemnly, as she crossed her hands over her chest like you would in a coffin, "go on then. Leave me to die..alone." She gasped out the last part, letting her head fall to the side.

"You are such a drama queen. Come on, let's go, I'm hungry." You whined out. Yelena groaned.

"Oh come on, one more round?" She wiggled her eyebrows at the innuendo. You pursed your lips, desperate not to laugh.

"Yelena, you interrupted my shower, to go play laser tag, before I even had breakfast and now it's lunch time." Yelena sat up, chin high as she jokingly retorted.

"Oh come on, can't you wait a little longer? We're having fun!" You fired your gun at her vest again before turning around and walking out.

"Rude. Though this could be a fun way to die."

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"Hey do you like donuts?" Yelena asked as a hotdog was viciously devoured by you, ketchup sticking to the side of your mouth. You tried to reply, but all that came out was a bunch of gibberish. Yelena mimicked your reply with a laugh.

"Well that clears it up..thank you!" You finished your bite, wiping your mouth with a napkin before playfully glaring at your best friend.

"I do like donuts, but not the fried ones, I prefer the cake ones." Yelena raised her eyebrows, a jokingly condescending expression on her face.

"Oh and do you have a specific sprinkle color you need, oh queen of the cake donuts?" You swatted at her with your ketchup stained napkin, making Yelena flinch out of the way, almost falling out of her chair. Snorting, you took a drink of your Sprite. Yelena brushed off her jacket in a flair.

"I don't like you." she joked, sticking her tongue out.

"Ditto." you responded, causing Yelena to blow her straw trash in your face.

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When you made it back to your apartment, you were glad to see everything was still in place and not broken all over your floor. You sat down on the couch, curling into a blanket that hadn't been wrapped around Barnes. Yelena jumped to sit next to you, bouncing on the cushion and knocking both of you to the side. Laughing, you grabbed your remote, content to spend the rest of the day watching bad reality TV and Vampire Diaries reruns. Bucky walked out of your room, more blankets wrapped around him.

"Ooo what are you guys watchin'?" he asked, sitting on the floor in front of you and Yelena.

"Well, currently, a dark screen because we haven't actually turned it on yet." Yelena remarked sarcastically, swatting Bucky's head playfully. You snorted, turning the TV on. The three of you were comfortably watching a cooking show when knocking sounded. You paused the TV and got up, opening your door but confused when you saw no one there. The knocking started getting rhythmic, like someone was tapping the beat of an...AC/DC song? You slowly turned around, looking out your window. You were stuck between staying frozen or hysterically freaking out. How many Avengers knew where you lived? Hovering outside your window was Ironman, his red-and-gold armor casting a mirage of light onto your floor. Hanging off his shoulder was Spider-Man, who was frantically waving at you, like he was the one meeting his favorite hero. Tony knocked on your window again, snapping you out of your shock. You finally noticed in his hands he carried a brightly decorated box, a donut emblem flourished on the lid. You went over to your window, wondering how you were going to let them in. Yelena sighed.

"You're taking too long." She got up and...unlatched your window? You practically doubled back in shock, how did you not notice that your windows open? Gasping, you swung around, pointing at Bucky.

"Is this how you get in?" Bucky just tightened the blankets around his body and innocently looked in the other direction.

"I must say, I wasn't expecting to actually be let in through your window, I just wanted to look cool. God, that is such a safety issue. An opening floor to ceiling window in a 15th floor apartment? Wow." The unmistakable voice of Tony Stark shocked you. Yes, of course you knew Tony was Iron Man, you didn't live under a rock but, holy crap he was in your home. Tony set the donut box on your counter, his suit dissolving with the help of nano tech. Spider-Man hung from your ceiling. The Winter Soldier breaks into your apartment to snuggle your blankets. Your best friend is the sister of an Avenger and a Black Widow assassin. What was your life?

Tony was rambling about how he hoped he got the right donuts, saying he bought one of every cake flavor, but you were to busy smiling like an idiot to pay attention. You just nodded your head to his words, a goofy look on your face. When Tony noticed, he laughed under his breath, carefully placing a hand on your shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

"You're Tony Stark-"

"Iron Man, yes I kno-"

"I love your hair." You whispered, snapping back to reality at Yelena's loud snort, a mortified expression taking over.

"...That was out loud wasn't it?" Tony bit his lip, holding in his laughter. After hours of phone calls from Natasha telling him how great you were, how you were the best thing to happen to her sister, and how much she saw you wanted a family like support system, Tony finally saw your hype. Of course, he never doubted Natasha, but he was glad that you weren't too good to be true. Tony grabbed a chocolate and maple treat from the box, handing it in your direction.

"Donut?" He asked, with his signature eyebrow raise. You merely nodded, took the cake, and made your way to sit down next to Yelena on the couch. You face planted into her lap, donut safely in your hand.

"Why did I say that-" you complained. Spider-Man jumped down from your ceiling, flipping to sit on the back of your couch, making you yelp as you fell off said couch. The masked hero rubbed the back of his head apologetically.

"I mean, he does have nice hair. At least you formed a sentence."

For the next ten or so minutes, you and your strange growing friend group ate donuts, laughed at cooking fails, and Tony even offered to build you a suit. Yelena protested, saying she also wanted a suit.

Your phone buzzed, a message from Kate illuminating your screen.

Kate: hey why are you having donuts without me?? and with IRONMAN? (is spider-man older or younger than me i have a bet with Clint)

You laughed, responding to Kate's text, a fondness growing in your chest. The warmth moved up to your neck as you, for some reason, tried to hide your response from the rest of the group.

Yelena noticed, though, sharing a knowing smile with the others in the room - well she didn't know if Spider-Man was smiling, mask and all.

But what she did know, was that you had a growing crush on the young archer, and being the amazing best friend she is, she planned to help you get with Kate. And possibly recruit the help of Earth's Mightiest Heroes.

a/n: ok the ending sucks im so sorry but my mind quite literally died. zero thoughts. zero. ik this addition is disappointing and i am so sorry but is the idea of Yelena getting the avengers to help her "parent trap" reader and kate on a date hilarious to anyone else?? i mean i am sleep deprived so anything is funny to me rn. i hope someone enjoyed this! good morning/afternoon/evening/night to everyone! <3

extra a/n: ik i just nose dived straight into the whole 'crushing on kate' thing but i am planning on posting drabbles and one shots of [name] and kate getting closer after the events of Burnt Toast and Vodka along with Game Night (1) so that it seems less...abrupt?? maybe send in ideas/prompts for said drabbles?? plz *insert that one emoji with the guilt trip eyes*

[pink-flame]

Like You Could Love Me

So...the Angry Flower Squad was making me SO soft over gifs and @mamirugbee wanted porch fluff with kissing and I remembered that @thedeathdeelers and @missjoolee liked my idea of using this post as a Juke prompt and here we are. I wrote this from 12-2am so it’s quite possibly incoherent and I’m not checking for mistakes until tomorrow so take it for what it is, a late night labor of love. Enjoy! 💜

Julie hadn’t slept for almost 48 hours. 

Her school was hosting a Los Feliz High After Dark event for the lower grades who didn’t get to attend prom. It was pitched as being just as exciting as the dance but in practice was known to be little more than a glorified sleepover in the school gym with PTA members for chaperones. Flynn had been determined that that year would be different, and had talked Julie into joining her on the planning committee. 

The good news was that Flynn had a real flair for party planning and decorating when she was actually invested (see the difference between the dance they tried to forget and the way she had helped Julie’s dad throw together an epic garage party in less than 24 hours). So by the time Julie and Flynn and the other volunteers were done the gym was fully immersed in a carnival theme full of cute booths filled with potential activities and cute backgrounds to take pictures in front of. It was definitely an improvement over the year before which had been an under the sea theme which had consisted mostly of a few blue streamers and Mr. Weaver walking around in an inflatable Nemo costume. 

The bad news was that it had taken a lot longer than they had anticipated and they hadn’t fallen into bed the night before the event until close to 2am. Julie hadn’t been able to sleep even after she slipped into bed next to Flynn and heard her best friend start making the small whistling noises that indicated she was out cold. Julie had been kept up with thoughts of what her bandmates were up to without her and if they had lingered a little longer on what Luke in particular was doing right then, well that wasn’t that surprising. 

She loved Alex and Reggie but neither of them had attempted to hold her hand and remarked on their “interesting little relationship” or suddenly developed the ability to touch her and instinctively joined her in reaching out to gently cradle the other’s face. 

No, Luke was different, not that she wanted to say that in front of him unless she was sure he felt the same overwhelming feelings she did Oddly enough she was much more concerned about the possibility that he didn’t than she was about the fact that he was still..well, a ghost. It wasn’t that she was unaware that his ghostly status could lead to heartache for her later on, of course she was. It just didn’t seem so important suddenly. After what had happened with her mom, what had almost happened with the guys only a couple of months ago...anything could happen at any time. Tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed anyway so why deny herself happiness now if she could have it? If she could have it. Because that was still the question. 

Because Luke obviously liked her but did he like her? That sounded so juvenile but to call it anything else...well, that was really scary. Evil ghosts and the looming possibility of their return had nothing on the insecurity that came with not knowing exactly how the boy you lo...liked felt about you. 

So Julie didn’t get much sleep that night, Flynn’s alarm seeming to go off only moments after she finally drifted off. She had dragged through school that day, trying to match Flynn’s excitement for the night’s upcoming festivities though her own enthusiasm had quickly drained out of her altogether along with her energy. In the end it had been as fun a night as it could be with Julie spending most of it in a semi-exhausted haze. She and Flynn had played some of the games they had set up, and danced to the music they both agreed would have been better if it had been either DJ’d by Flynn or performed by Julie’s band, and when Carrie had sneered something about how tacky the theme was even that had been half hearted and without any real bite. 

So it was a pretty good night all things considered and Julie was in a good mood despite her complete exhaustion by the time Flynn’s mom dropped her off early the next morning. Ok, so maybe part of her good mood was actually because of her exhausted state by that point as she found herself feeling giddy and her mind had gone sort of pleasantly fuzzy. That was her excuse for how she found herself half-skipping up the path towards her front door, singing to herself. 

We create...perfect harmony 

“Somebody had a good time.” 

Julie’s head snapped up to take in the figure of the boy who leaned against the pillar of the porch in front of her, a small smile bordering on a smirk tugging at his lips. 

Luke.

What was he doing there? 

Was he waiting for her?

She had to play it cool. 

She had to be normal. 

She had to not give away all the feelings that had been swirling around inside of her for the last couple of months since they first gained the ability to touch each other whenever they wanted and promptly both became too awkward to touch each other at all. 

She had to…

“I missed you,” She blurted. 

One of Julie’s hands flew up to cover her mouth as she took the last few steps up onto the porch, trying and failing to ignore the way Luke’s eyes widened even as that vaguely infuriating smirk grew larger. 

“I didn’t mean that,” She insisted once her hand had dropped back to her side. “I mean...I didn’t not mean it but...I just meant it would have been fun if you could have come. Any of you. All of you. Um...yeah.” 

Luke let her dig herself deeper, waiting until her stream of words had come to a complete stop. When they finally dried up he pushed off of the pillar with one of his signature little bounces, letting his momentum carry him to within a step of where she stood awkwardly on the porch. 

“Did someone spike the punch at this dance?” He asked her, amusement clear in his tone. 

Julie shook her head a little too fiercely, indignant despite the fact that she couldn’t exactly blame him for suspecting that she was drunk. 

She felt a little drunk. 

Not that she knew what it was like to be drunk but she was pretty sure it was similar to this. 

Not the point. 

“It wasn’t a dance it was a school sanctioned slumber party,” She corrected, focusing all of her energy on not slurring her words or otherwise embarrassing herself. “And nobody spiked anything. And actually nobody drinks punch anymore. Just so you know.” 

Luke held up both hands as though he were surrendering but that smirk of his was impossible to deny at this point, a fact that both made Julie incredibly irritated and simultaneously fighting the urge to lean up and kiss it right off his stupid face. 

Ok, that was not helpful. 

“Not a dance, no punch. Got it,” Luke said, his voice just soft enough to keep her annoyance more or less at bay. 

“Why are you out here anyway?” 

Julie hadn’t meant to ask that but it felt like any filter her brain generally had was long gone at this point. 

Luke tilted his head slightly and reached up to scratch at the back of his neck. 

“Oh, you know, just taking in the view.” 

Julie frowned skeptically. 

“Taking in the view?”

“Yeah,” Luke said, gesturing out at the plant filled yard. “Just communing with nature you know? Honestly, I forgot you were even out last night.” 

“Oh.” 

Julie dipped her head a little so she didn’t have to look directly at Luke as disappointment rushed through her. She was pretty sure she was too tired to keep the evidence of that emotion from being completely visible. She was so frustrated with herself for caring at all. He wasn’t her boyfriend after all. Why would be be waiting for her?

“Julie.” 

She reluctantly raised her head to meet Luke’s gaze which was fixed insistently on her. His smirk had fallen away leaving behind a look at once more open and somehow harder to read at the same time. 

“I’m kidding,” He told her as he took a half-step closer to her, so close that she had to tilt her head up further to maintain eye contact. “I was waiting for you.” 

“Oh,” She said again, very aware that she seemed to have lost the ability to say anything else. 

She reached deep down inside and mustered up the strength to pull out one further word. 

“Why?” 

His eyes somehow managed to soften even more and his voice was oddly breathy when he answered. 

“Because I missed you too.” 

And Julie knew that the most prudent thing to do was tuck that phrase away as something warm, and happy and precious to examine more closely when she had slept and had the mental prowess to actually determine what it meant for their interesting little relationship. 

She knew that. 

But she was exhausted not only from lack of sleep but from months spent questioning where they stood. She was happy to hear him say that he had missed her, of course she was. But she also found herself feeling strangely...angry. 

How dare he look at her with those big soft eyes and stare at her like that if he wasn’t ever planning on actually putting her out of her misery by telling her how he felt or didn’t feel?

“I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that,” The words burst out of her without her permission. 

Luke was clearly taken aback by her words, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know,’ She hesitated, just enough awareness seeping back in to make her realize what a truly stupid thing she was about to say. “Like you could love me.” 

She watched as a whole range of emotions rushed over his face too quickly for her to decipher exactly what all of them were. 

“Julie…” 

“Forget I said anything,” Julie interrupted, turning towards the front door with every intention to flee the situation. “I’m just really tired.” 

“Julie!” 

He said her name more forcefully that time and she froze. She didn’t turn back to face him though, the pounding in her chest and the heat spreading across her face giving her all the incentive she needed to keep her head facing away. 

Luke wasn’t having any of that though. 

He reached out to gently tug her back towards him, one hand settling on her cheek while the other rested on her waist. 

If she hadn’t been blushing before she certainly was now. 

“Do you not want me to look at you like that because...because you don’t feel the same?” 

Luke’s voice shook a little as he gave voice to that question, his thumb seeming to stroke across her cheek without his permission. 

Julie was reeling, everything feeling surreal and dreamlike anyway because of her lack of sleep but when combined with Luke’s gentle actions it felt more and more unreal. She couldn’t help but remember the last time he had touched her face, how they had clutched at each other thinking it was the only chance they would ever have. Now they had new chances every day and they had been wasting them. 

Why had they been wasting them?

“Wait...feel the same as what? Feel the same as who?” She asked as her brain finally caught up with what he had actually said. 

He visibly swallowed and she took some comfort in the fact that apparently he was nervous too. 

“The same as I feel,” He paused. “About you. I...I love you, Julie. And if that makes you uncomfortable I never have to say it again, ok? But it’s how I feel and I just wanted to say it. Once or whatever.” 

“But…” Julie felt a giggle rising up inside of her as exhaustion and the pure absurdity of the moment settled in. “But I love you too.” 

Luke’s thumb froze on her face as his eyes lit up with something close to hope. 

“You do?” 

Julie nodded, the giggle finally bursting out of her only to be met with a grin from Luke so radiant she wished she could capture it in a photo to look at later. 

“You love me,” Luke said again as though he needed to confirm beyond any shadow of doubt. 

“I love you,” Julie repeated agreeably. “And you love me?” 

Luke nodded, bouncing a little on his heels as he somehow managed to step even more into her space. 

“I love you.” 

“Well…” Julie sighed happily. “Well, that’s great then.” 

Luke let out a bark of laughter that probably would have been loud enough to bring her dad to the porch if anyone but her had been able to hear it. 

Before she had time to remark on how obnoxiously loud he could be he was crowding her back until she bumped into the pillar he had been leaning against when she got home. The moment her back made contact with its firm surface he was bringing his other hand up until he was cupping both of her cheeks. She barely had time to adjust to that very much welcome sensation before he was lowering his head and aligning his lips with hers, pressing them together in a chaste peck that was still enough to send her heart racing. He started to pull back as if to gauge her reaction but she was having none of that. She had been waiting for this for so long and as previously established she had absolutely none of her usual ability to deny herself what she wanted. 

And what she wanted was her hands on Luke Patterson right then. 

She reached up and latched one hand on the back of his neck and the other threaded deep into his hair giving it a little tug just because she could. She had been wanting to touch him so badly ever since that night in the garage when she’d almost lost him and she’d been wanting to touch his dumb, messy hair ever since “I’m Luke by the way”. So she did. 

He let out a little pleased sound that was cut off when she stretched up to press her mouth back to his, this time with twice as much force and no intention of separating anytime soon. To his credit he took the hint pretty fast, his hands dropping from her face to wrap around her waist tugging her body to press against his as he moved his lips insistently against hers. And wow...that was something, the sensation of almost all of her pressed up against almost all of him. 

He wasn’t warm, not exactly, but he wasn’t cold either like she had feared he would be. It was more like his body was mirroring back exactly her own temperature, leaving it hard to determine where one of them began and the other ended when her eyes were closed as they currently were. 

Or maybe that was just them. 

Maybe it was like that quote she always saw floating around online about souls being made of the same stuff. 

When she was well rested and thinking rationally she had always rolled her eyes a bit at stuff like that but now...she was beginning to see the appeal. 

Julie massaged absentmindedly at the back of his neck as she drew his lower lip into her mouth, the sound he made in response enough to have her pulling back with a giggle. 

“Come back here,” He mumbled, his lips chasing hers even as she turned her face away leaving him to press soft, wet kisses to her cheek. 

“Now you sound drunk,” She told him, turning back to face him and looping both arms around his shoulders. “My dad will be up soon and I have no idea how I’d explain...this...when he can’t even see you.” 

Luke groaned as he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. 

“You’re right.” 

“I’m right,” Julie echoed. 

It was true but that didn’t mean she was happy about it. 

They stayed like that for another minute or so, just enjoying being this close to each other with nothing to hide. They might have stayed like that longer but Julie suddenly let out a yawn she couldn’t contain directly into Luke’s face. 

Luke pulled back sharply but the soft smile that seemed to always be reserved just for her remained in place. 

“You need to get some sleep,” He told her firmly. 

She wanted to argue but all that came out was another yawn. 

Ok, so there was no arguing with that. 

“Goodnight,” She told him, suddenly feeling shy as she backed towards the front door wanting to keep him in her sight just a little longer. 

Luke gestured around them to the soft light spilling around her yard. 

“Good morning,” He corrected with a grin. 

Never one to let him have the last word, certainly not when she was too tired to be embarrassed, Julie leapt forward to press one final lingering kiss on his lips, retreating before he could do more than return the pressure.

Julie backed towards the front door, the grin now firmly on her face and a rather dumbstruck one adorning his. 

“Band practice later,” She reminded him. “Don’t be late.” 

Then she slipped into the house and up to her bed, incredibly tired and pretty sure of exactly  what she would be dreaming of. 

[runenc03]

Ready

Writing date: February 2021

Genre: fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff

Warnings: none! I personally really like this one :)

Word count: 2.2k words

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It is rare, but there are moments in life in which you are aware, with every fiber of your being, that you're making a memory that will last forever. For you, one of these moments was right now. It was a late summer evening, the sun had been down for quite some hours now, but you and your friends were still very much awake. The entire afternoon, you'd prepared for this. You'd collected blankets and pillows in all of your houses, hung up a white sheet between two trees in your friend's backyard and installed a beamer in between the giant pillow fort and the trees. Your backyard cinema was born. At first, you'd been obsessed with the aesthetic of it all, your attention solely focused on the film that was playing in front of you, but soon, your gaze had drifted off to the fantastic people around you. Your friend group was made of all kinds of people, diversity was really the key element here. Apart from all sorts of skin colours, religions, and ethnicities, you had the funny friend, the mum friend, the one who shared all their food, the really intelligent friend, the geeky friend, the enthusiastic friend. Regardless of all these differences, there were a lot of things that kept you together too, like a mutual respect for each other and the world. It was a mix that allowed you to be the most at ease with yourself you'd ever been. 

"You're missing the plot." 

You looked next to you, where another friend of yours was seated. In your head, he was the sweet friend, the cute friend, the butterfly friend. He was the friend you were in love with. 

"Shut up. I've seen it like..thirteen times already." 

He grinned at that, lifting his arm as an invitation for you to crawl closer to him, and you did. It was something typical of the two of you. While you hugged all your friends, you were particularly clingy with him, and he was very physical with you, too. You never discussed it, it just happened, and it was absolute bliss. You nestled yourself closer to him, smiling as you felt his hand rub on your upper arm, tugging you even closer. You sighed in contentment. This was nice. And it sufficed for a few minutes, until you realised you weren't as comfortable as you could possibly be. Yet. 

Should you? 

You'd been as close physically as you were now before, but hadn't gone further than this, his arms around you and your sides touching. You really risked making it awkward, or even worse, one of your friends making a suggestive comment- God knows they all ship you like crazy, and you didn't want to face the consequences of your action not being welcomed with enthusiastic encouragement. But a light breeze reminded you of the magic of this moment, and a gentle squeeze on your upper arm gave you the confidence you needed. Carefully, you wrapped your own arms around his torso, lifted both of your legs so they could rest straight over his right one, and finally laid your head against his chest. For a few seconds, you were rooted there, waiting for him to react. He didn't say anything like you'd expected him to do, but then you slowly felt him release the air from his longs, his entire body becoming more relaxed once he realised what had happened. The arm that had previously been resting on your upper arm was now laying on you waist, and you found that you might like that even better. You were about to protest when he lifted it, but smiled once you felt him sweep the hair out of your face.

"I'm repeating my comment: you're missing the plot if your head is laying sideways on my chest." 

But there was something joyous in his tone, and you couldn't help the butterflies from fluttering inside of you. 

"Then I'll repeat my answer: shut up." 

After all, you'd seen it thirteen times already. 

---------------------------------------------------------

"Does anyone want some more strawberries?"

You were in the park, enjoying a well-deserved early afternoon picnic with your friend group. All your friends were there, and then there was a new face. One of your friends had recently gotten together with a girl you'd never met before, and you had decided that she could come on this picnic with you, you were all dying to meet her, after all. You'd been in the park, telling stories and sharing food, for about an hour now, and it was wonderful being able to just relax. You'd been a bit nervous to meet your friend's girlfriend, as you always were when meeting new people, but she'd turned out to be really nice.  You were sure you'd continue to get along and maybe even have a thriving friendship in the future. Closing your eyes, you leaned backwards and basked in the bright sunlight. This is what happiness felt like. 

"Hey, you have something on the corner of your mouth, here..." 

You burst with laughter then, opening your eyes and facing him, his eyes squinting against the sun, dimples in his cheeks. There was nothing on your mouth, it was his way of making fun of the cliche romcom you'd insisted on watching with him last week. He’d cringed particularly hard at that part of the story, and you'd thrown a pillow at him, entirely too engrossed in the movie to be annoyed with him. Because how could you ever be annoyed at him? Even now, the way he looked at you made you feel like you were melting, and not just from the sun. Okay, so maybe you had watched too many cheesy romcoms. The point was, you felt so utterly at ease with the way you were around him, and vice versa. It was so easy, so natural. 

"Hm, do you want to wipe it off for me, please?" 

You were trying to keep a straight face, but definitely failed as he ceremoniously picked up a napkin from the middle of your blanket and started to precisely poke the corner of your mouth, and then your cheek, nose, the arch of your eyebrow, a spot right under your hairline. Between fits of giggles, you managed to make him stop. 

"Hey, you're hurting me!" He knew you weren't actually hurt, and so his voice was still filled with amusement as he answered in the fakest posh accent you'd ever heard. 

"I am so sorry darling, let me kiss it better for you."

And so he came closer, quickly kissing all the places he had poked with the napkin, apart from the corner of your mouth, of course. Something inside of you twisted in disappointment at that. 

"They are so cute, what the he-" 

It was your friend's girlfriend, whispering to your friend, but they cut her off. 

"They aren't together though." 

"Wait...they aren't?" 

You saw from the corner of your eye how her eyes widened in surprise, and your own did too, because the breeze of satisfaction that had blown through you at the girl's words had taken you by surprise more so than what she'd actually said. 

"Nope. But they will, or at least I hope so." 

The smile on your face grew as you overheard their conversation. 

"Hey, are there any strawberries left? I actually wanted some but then I got attacked!”

------------------------------------------------------------

It happened in the late afternoon of one of the hottest days of that summer, at the beach. Your friends had gotten together and, packed with beach towels, inflatable beach balls, and what was probably an overload of snacks, you drove to the sea, to spend the day swimming, sunbathing, and desperately trying to keep the sand out of every small crevice even though? it would creep in anyway. You were definitely done swimming for today though, and had retreated to a quiet, shady area of the beach, to just lay down and listen to some music. You'd closed your eyes, your mind travelling back to the moment all of your friends had immediately shed their clothes and dived into the sea, while he had stopped you from doing the same, insisting on covering your back in sunscreen lotion first before you sought refreshment in the cool water. It's not like you minded having him rub your back. You'd done the same to him after he had been done, taking your sweet time making sure his entire back was glistening from the sunscreen, and by the time it had dried, your friends had already come out of the water, teasing you that applying sunscreen had never in the history of sunscreen lotion taken such a long time. You'd hid your face in his bare chest while they were laughing, and discovered that that did nothing to diminish the blush on your cheeks. 

"Hi...you okay? You were so far away all of a sudden." 

You opened your eyes, staring up at him, and nodded your head, smiling at his thoughtfulness. 

"Yeah, just… a bit too much sun. And I like how quiet it is here." 

He hummed in agreement, crouching down to offer you one of the snacks he had brought from your "headquarters" on the middle of the beach, and then went to lay beside you. You'd expected him to just fully lie down, maybe take your hand like he had done more and more during the last few weeks, but instead he turned so he was laying on his side, facing you, his left arm propped to hold his head up. You lifted an eyebrow in surprise, getting ready to make a dry comment, when you saw the way he was looking at you. It wasn't like he had done when you'd first arrived at the beach, the way his eyes had raked over your body while simultaneously looking like he wanted to chastise himself for doing so. You hadn't minded, not with him. If you were being honest, you had done exactly the same. No, right now he was looking at you as if he was ultimately fascinated by you. It was as if he was looking through you, or maybe he was just looking right inside of you. His eyes held a certain emotion you couldn't completely decipher, but you felt so worthy, so enveloped in him even if no part of him was touching you right now. It was in this sudden moment of clarity that you realised that this was it. There would be no other moment, you had to do it now. You felt as if on a crossroad, deciding right now what the rest of your life would look like. You felt it in every fiber of your being, in the way the cool breeze of the shadow swept over your overheated skin, in the way there was a smudge of sand covering his cheek for one reason or another. "Now. Now. Now!", your heart seemed to be chanting, but your head was so full, you were so acutely aware of your own body, and of his, and of all the things surrounding you, and- 

"You're doing it again." 

Your heart was pounding. Now. Now. Now. 

"Doing what?" 

He could hear it, he knew, you were convinced of it.Now. 

"Overthinking it." 

So why not be completely honest while you were at it? 

"And how can I not? You're...you're one of my best friends." 

His eyes held yours. He understood. 

"I know, and I'm not trying to be impulsive or rash, but don't you think it's time to let go of the thinking, and just...finally do it? Finally be honest with ourselves, each other, heck, with our friends? If you don't want to, we don't have to, you know full well that I don't care about labels anyway. But I like to think that I know you very well, and I think you want to put the label on. I- worrying about it is the only thing that's holding you back from being honest that this...us...was always loving in a romantic way." 

You let the words hang between you, letting them sink in your soul. He was right. You would love nothing more than to love him, officially romantically, for the entire world to see and to know. You were just worried. You didn't really know why. It was in your nature to be worried, it was the thing you knew how to do, the easy way. But you continued to look into his eyes, and it was like looking into a mirror. For the first time, your cloudy vision was clear and you saw the way you'd been living before, and the life you could've lived if fear hadn't held you back. It was in that moment that you started truly living. Tears started brimming in your eyes, and you closed them, letting out a choked sob that was audibly filled with relief, and an emotion so raw and pure that it took your breath away.   Laying one of your hands on his cheek, you finally placed your lips upon his, and you felt your heart let go of the heaviness of your worries. It was time. Your time. You were ready.

[inexpensiveprogress]

V.E. Day

 Keith Vaughan - An Orchard by the Railway, 1945

Here is an account from Keith Vaughan’s diary of his Victory in Europe Day. As many in the cities danced and cheered in the streets Vaughan was on the fringes and knew of the news too late. From Keith Vaughan - Journals, 1939-1977:

They had no wireless in the cottage where I had supper, so I didn’t hear the nine o’clock news. Walking back to the camp afterwards, the first sign of anything unusual I noticed was a string of small triangular flags being hoisted up across the road by some workmen. The flags appeared quite suddenly out of the leaf-laden boughs of the chestnut, crossed a patch of sago-coloured sky, and disappeared in the dark foliage of another tree. They looked surprised to be there. They were not new flags. They had flapped for a jubilee and a coronation and numerous local festivals, and now they seemed to be getting a little tired of it all. They were faded and grubby and washed-out looking. They hung languidly in the bluish evening air. The workmen tapped away at the trees and thrust ladders up into the ripe foliage, bringing down showers of leaves and a snow of pink and white blossom. Further on there was a cottage with two new Union Jacks thrust out from the windowsill. They hung down stiffly to attention. Against the mellow sunbleached texture of the stone their strident colours looked ridiculous and, because they were there on purpose to disturb the familiar contours, they gave a feeling of uneasiness. From there onwards all the little cottages were sprouting flags.

There was no one about to see them, and no very clear reason how they came to be there. Menacing each other across the road with their shrill colours they were like a flock of rare and fabulous birds which had alighted suddenly and without warning, clinging to chimney pots, windowsills and door posts. They were of many different sizes and shapes and attitudes corresponding partly to the income levels and patriotic fervor of their owners and partly to a certain capriciousness which they seemed to acquire on their own. Some of them, having been unfurled, had hitched themselves up again shyly over the poles. Others had a narrow strip of wood fastened along the extreme edge, so they were forced to suffer the maximum exposure. The large houses had older flags sewn together with pieces of silk with white painted poles and sometimes a gold tassle. The cottages all had new flags; the pieces of calico dyed with raw-looking colours. And when it rained they would run.

Outside one cottage an old woman was standing in a black dress with folded arms. She stood there most evenings, and I had passed her a hundred times without either of us taking any special notice of the other. But to-night she seemed to be standing there for a special purpose, as though expecting something to happen. As I passed her she smiled broadly at me. It was an indescribable smile that lay right across the road blocking my way and demanding an answer. I acknowledged it and hurried past, feeling guilty and uncomfortable and afraid that I might suddenly be called to play some part I had not rehearsed.

 Keith Vaughan - Army Medical Inspection, 1942

On the dung-crusted door of a stable a V had been made with red, white and blue ribbon, and inside the V, hurriedly chalked as an afterthought, a red E. In the little window of the grocer’s was a newspaper cutting of the Prime Minister. It was stuck on the window with four large pieces of brown tape like a police notice. In the window that has bird seed and bottles of sauce was a gold frame with a reproduced oil-painting of two exceedingly mild and dignified lions, and in the bottom left hand corner the words ‘PEARS.’ In front there was a photograph of the Royal Family in sepia, with the word ‘CORONATION’ underneath and round circle of rust from a drawing pin. All the familiar and reliable things had suddenly disclosed a secret and unsuspected threat, though it would be impossible to say exactly what it was they threatened. But when the last house was passed and there were only fields and hedges and ditched frothing with tall white cow-parsley, there was a feeling of relief and reassurance.

Where the road swings sharply to the right before reaching the camp I crossed the little footbridge and sat down on the stile to smoke a cigarette. Between the layers of high lead-coloured cloud and the horizon, a narrow margin had been left in which the sun burned an enormous liquid orange disc. The air was like a thin violet fluid. In the further field was the boy who drives the tractor every morning past the camp. He was shooing some geese under a fence and into the straw-strewn yard if the cowhouse. He walked slowly forward towards the geese and at each step brought both arms up simultaneously above his head as though he were lifting something large that had suddenly lost all weight. His skin and clothes were soaked with the orange liquid from the sun. When the geese had gone he went out of sight behind the barn.

The near field was full of sheep. The full, woolly forms with sharp accents of light against the dark grass, the alternation between light-coloured sheep and dark ones, small and large, had that air of carefully-planned accident which one sometimes sees in paintings, but not often in nature. They glowed a deep gold colour like lumps of phosphorescent substance, and there were little pools of violet between their legs and in their ears. Two sheep had strayed down on to the steep bank of the ditch and were tearing ravenously at the thick, dark water-grass which met over their backs. They had pushed their way through gaps in the hedge and seemed to be expecting at any moment to be driven back. They were gulping as much as they could in the time, their eye wide with anxiety. Standing almost vertically faced downwards, they seemed to be in the most disadvantageous position both for eating and for coping with any sudden emergency that might arise.

The grass in the field was lighter in colour and had already been grazed down to a short turf like the thick pile on a carpet. Each sheep was eating with a sort of desperate concentration as though it had not seen grass for some time. They just kept their heads down and moved slowly forward, one foot at a time. But some, perhaps, because their necks had got stiff, had bent their front legs and were kneeling on their little fluffy knees with their black hoofs tucked up off the ground so as not to soil them and their backsides sticking absurdly into the air. The rams had hardly any wool and their skins had that grey, flatulent look that dead sheep have. They seemed inflated with eating and walked about painfully and awkwardly as though they were pregnant. They seemed just able to eat and transport their cumbersome genitals and excrete the little shiny damp balls of dung from time to time. That was a complete existence. The only sound was the crisp tearing of grass and an occasional low grunt and from the nearer sheep the muffled reverberations of some digestive process and blowing out of wind suddenly through the nostrils.

This, then, I thought, was the beginning of it all. This was perhaps the oldest thing on earth. Before cities and civilizations men had sat and watched sheep graze. In Canaan and Galilee and Salonica and Thrace, on the mountain slopes of Olympus and the Caucasus, on the plains of Hungary and the shores of the Black Sea, in Lombardy, Burgundy, Saxony, along all the routes where men had fought and followed, searching for a home and a pasture, sheep had grazed and men had watched them. Daphnis, Hyacinthus, Thyrsis, Corydon and the famous and anonymous shepherds of Galilee. And I tried to remember all that had gone on as an accompaniment to that watching, the immense architecture of hope that had been built up round sheep. The burnt offerings and symbols of love and innocence; the preyed-upon, the lost and the helplessly young. Sacrificed, worshipped, or just eaten, through mankind’s long adolescence sheep went on being sheep, somewhere in the background of every picture, greedy and silly and perpetually anxious. And each year the same disappointing story of promise and unfulfilment. The tiny wet thing with enormous legs first learning to kneel in the winter grass, as awkward and dangerous-looking as a child with a deck chair. The insolent butting at the udders. The entirely beautiful and unnecessary prancing of lambs, movement purely for the sake of movement, only to be forgotten in a few months in a complacent and woolly middle age.

Out of the north a flock of Fortresses came flying high. It was time for them to come and they crossed every night. The slowly-mounting noise focused the uneasiness in the air. Then I realized that tonight they would not be carrying bombs; the meaning of all the little flags suddenly became real. It was as if one had dreamt the noise: the approaching impersonal menace, the indiscriminate individual death and obliteration of cities, then at the climax of terror, walking, recognized the cause of the dream – after all, only airplanes flying. A sense of absolute security closed over every thing.

The sun has gone and over the horizon was left a stain of dried blood. The air was the colour of watery ink. At the camp the German bugler was blowing lights out. The sheep had finished eating and sat with folded feet, looking without concern on the first night of peace.

[h3llostrang3r]

Guardians of the Heir (TRH)

Liam x Sophie Word Count: 2,064 Warning: Just a bit of fluff.  Summary: Pregnant Sophie spends some time with Maxwell, Hana, and Drake. Note: This idea stemmed from “The Queen's Throne.” Here we see what Sophie did during the day. 

The Fun Uncle: 

“Hi there Maxwell Jr.! This is your favorite Uncle… Maxwell! I’ve decided that not only will you have written documentation of your mom and uncle on their great adventures, you will also get to see it first hand via video!” 

The camera is zoomed in close on Maxwell as he attempts to vlog and walk alongside Sophie and her corgis, Lord AppleSeed and Lady AppleBottom, and they make their way to the menagerie. In the background, Sophie laughs and can be heard saying, “Names are still up in the air until the baby comes.” The camera is still on Maxwell, huge grin on his face, he mouths, ‘Maxwell Jr.’ 

“Alright baby, here is your beautiful mommy, Queen Sophie, but you call her Queen Mommy.” 

He pans the camera to her and she waves, her smile bright and freckles highlighted by the sunlight. 

“Aaaand here are your fur siblings! They will give you lots of kisses and hours of entertainment when your Uncle Maxwell isn’t around.” Lord AppleSeed and Lady AppleBottom wag their tails and bark their “hellos” to the camera.

 As they approach the menagerie the two corgis run off in search of Milo and Sagwa, Sophie’s red pandas. The picture is slightly blurry as Maxwell chases after them to catch their interaction.

Milo and Sagwa yawn as the corgis’ barks wakes them. Sagwa untangles herself from her brother’s cuddling embrace and the two climb down to greet their visitors. Sophie reaches out for Milo and he happily embraces her in a hug, while Sagwa circles around the corgis. 

“Alright everyone, are we ready for the most amazing dance video the world has ever seen?” 

All the animals tilt their heads as they watch Maxwell set up the camera on a tripod and adjusts it so everyone is seen in the video. Sophie gets the music ready on her phone, and connects it to the portable speaker they brought along. 

As soon as the music starts playing Maxwell gyrates to the beat and makes his way to group. Sophie laughs infectiously at the site and sways from side to side with Milo still in her arms. He grabs treats from his pockets and uses them to encourage the animals to dance on their hind legs. At the sight, Milo jumps from Sophie’s arms and joins the others. 

“Aww, there goes my dance partner,” she dramatically pouts, but as soon as the words leave her lips she feels the baby kick.

 “I was kidding, baby love, I know you’re still dancing with me.” She cradles her belly as she continues dancing and feels the baby moving around. 

Maxwell begins popping and locking with an occasional spin, while Milo and Sagwa hop on the backs of Lord AppleSeed and Lady AppleBottom. He then makes sure his space is clear before he performs and lands a backflip.

“I am the master of the dance!!” He shouts as he raises his arms in the air. 

The corgis respond with an, “ARooOoOoo.” 

“ArooooOoOoOOo,” Maxwell joins in, then looks to Sophie. 

“Maxwell, a Queen doesn’t howl.” Her face is stern, and her full lips transition into a thin line. 

He doesn’t blink as he continues to stare at her, while simultaneously shimmying his shoulders. 

A smile creeps up and she shakes her head in defeat, “ArooOoOOoOoOooo.” 

As soon as their dancing ends the two corgis and pandas run off with each other, and Sophie finds a quiet spot to sit. 

“That is going to be the best dance video in Cordonia history. Do you think Liam will let me upload it?” 

“Not a chance, Maxwell.” Sophie said, slightly out of breath. “But, it will be a great video to show the baby when they’re older.” 

She places her hand on her belly, the baby still not done dancing.“Maxwell, feel this.” 

She takes his hand and places it on her stomach.“They loved dancing with their fun Uncle Maxwell.” 

His face lit up with joy as he sat next to Sophie, “don’t worry little one, we’re going to have plenty of dance parties together.” 

**** 

The Loving Aunt:

The weather outside was warm with a cool breeze, the flowers were in full bloom and the air was filled with their sweet scent. Sophie and Hana were on the grass adjacent to the gazebo, paint easels set-up, and a picnic blanket laid out with an assortment of goodies they prepared earlier. Sophie wasn’t much of a painter, but she enjoyed the feel of the paint gliding across the canvas. She found herself reaching out for the finger foods as she mindlessly swirled her paintbrush. 

“Sophie, I’m almost finished. How about you get some plates started for us, and I’ll join you on the blanket when I’m done.” Hana giggled, she knew Sophie had been excited to eat since she put the basket together in the kitchen. 

“Oh thank God.” Sophie cleans up her hands then scoots onto the blanket and grabs their plates; adding dumplings , spring rolls, and fruit. From the picnic basket Sophie pulled out two small cups and a thermos. It was filled with an infused tea made up of oolong, and hints of apple and cinnamon.

“Alright, finished. Are you ready to see?” Hana looks over from the canvas, spotting Sophie with a dumpling halfway into her mouth. 

Sophie nods her head with anticipation as she takes a bite of her food. Hana carefully rotates the easel and displays it for Sophie to see. The portrait was filled with bright shades of red, orange, and yellow. She had painted Thornwood’s sigil, the ever rising Phoenix.

“What do you think? I hope the colors are alright, I tried my best to match the ones that you have throughout the duchy.” 

Sophie swallowed her bite, and brought her napkin up to her mouth; attempting to wipe the crumbs and hide that she was about to cry. Sophie was never one to hide her emotions, but since the rise in hormones she found herself crying a bit more than she wanted to. 

“Hana,” the tears started to form, stinging her eyes as she attempted to fight them off. “It’s absolutely gorgeous.” She chokes up, trying to compose herself, but in the end the hormones always win. “It’s going to look fantastic in the nursery.” Her tears begin to fall, and Hana quickly scurries to her side. 

She lovingly wrapped her in a warm embrace, “Please don’t cry. I accept payments from you in smiles only.” Hana squished her cheeks to Sophie’s hoping she would get her to smile and giggled, “you’re going to get salty tears in your tea.” Sophie squeezed back and a gentle laugh replaced her tears. 

Sophie could feel the pressure in her belly shifting to where Hana was. Once she realized what was happening, she grabbed Hana’s dainty hands to where the baby had moved. She chuckled at the sensation, “the baby wants a hug too, Hana.” 

Hana’s smile glowed at Sophie’s words, she found the baby with her hands and leaned down to give it a kiss. “Sweet little baby, I can’t wait for you to see your painting in person. Oh, and for us to have cocoa-parties, I promise to make you my best treats. We’ll have so much fun.” 

“I think they’ll like that very much, Hana. If we’re best friends, I can only imagine the joy and happiness you’ll bring them.” 

“Aww, Sophie.” They embraced again, this time the tears belonged to Hana. 

****

The Whipped Uncle:

“Alright, let’s see what we got here,” Drake grunted as he bent forward reaching for the portable air pump. 

Earlier in the month Sophie ordered new inner tubes for her and Drake. She loved that he would take her around the lake in the row boat, but with the warmer weather she wanted to relax in the cool water. She handed him her inner tube first, as she sat with her legs crossed on the grass she carefully watched his reaction. It wasn’t long before he dropped his head and shook it, when he looked at Sophie he gave her a smirk. 

“Thorn, what the hell did you buy? I thought we were going to be relaxing in the water. Not… role playing the Crown and the Flame.” 

Sophie’s smile lit up as the inner tube inflated more, it was a blue dragon with fire that came out of its large mouth. She bought it off of the show’s website, she always wanted to have a dragon. Sure this one was plastic, but it would do just fine. 

She called out, “Your turn,” as she chucked his inner tube in his direction. He squinted his eyes at her as he turned on the pump. It definitely wasn’t the same as hers, but it wasn’t a plain one either. 

“What should I be expecting, Thorn?” 

A coy smile crept upon her lips, “You’ll see!” 

Drake ran his hand over his face as he came to realize what she bought. He shook his head furiously as he glared her way and shouted, “No way, Thorn. I am not getting in this.” 

“Yee-haw, cowboy!!” She cried out as she pretended to wave a lasso in the air. It was a float in the shape of a horse, a saddle as the backrest, and functional reins.

“Yee-haw, my ass” he grumbled to himself. 

“C’mon Drake, it’s totally you! And it has a cup holder for your whiskey.” She giggled at the sight of his face, he was irate, but she knew he would still sit in it. “Help me up, I’m stuck.” She reached out her hands playfully and with his head still shaking he made his way towards her. 

 His large, calloused hands carefully held on to her soft, small ones and he lifted her up with ease. 

“Why thank you, kind sir. Now let’s grab some drinks and ride off into the sunset!” 

In a small cooler, Sophie had two insulated tumblers - one filled with whiskey, and the other with a virgin pina-colada. They made their way to the lake and she handed off Drake’s drink as she wiggled into her inner-tube. He took a long sip of his whiskey as he stared at the inflatable horse. 

Sophie pushed herself off from the shore, happily sipping her drink as she watched Drake contemplate getting in. “C’mon water buddy, I am floating away and Liam is going to be pissed if I’m stuck in this water all night.” 

He hollers back, “I’m fine with just walking away right now.” 

“Draaaaake, please!” She whines, as she splashes her feet in the water. He takes another sip as he gets onto the tube. 

Time passes as they savor their drinks, and Sophie occasionally singing off-key, “If you like pina-coladas.” They talk about anything that doesn’t involve the royal council or any sort of politics. Just relaxing, laughing, and enjoying the simple moment.

“I’m so excited to take them camping, and fishing, and horseback riding.” Drake’s smile is wide as he helps Sophie to shore and out from her seat.

“They’re going to love it too. I really want them to be able to step away from court from time to time. Just because we’re royalty doesn’t mean we’re not human, we should be able to take pleasure in ‘commoner’ activities.” 

Sophie suddenly wraps Drake in a hug, he’s startled at first, but hugs her back. “Thanks for doing this for us, Drake.” She steps back and rubs her hand over her bump. 

“Any time, Thorn.” He looks to her questionably and she nods in approval. He reaches his hand out to her belly, “Any time for you too, Little Thorn.” He feels a strong kick to his open palm, 

“Hey, Little Thorn’s first high-five.” 

****

The moon and stars were out, Sophie had taken a long and steamy shower, then a delightful dinner with Hana. She discussed tomorrow’s plans with Gladys and responded to a few emails before she started to feel a bit nauseous.

She finally decided it was time for bed. Her feet ached, so one by one she slipped off her shoes. Her hair had been up all day, so down it came. Her breasts were sore, so off came that restraining bra. As she made her way to her bedroom a light peeked out from Liam’s office.

“Oh look, baby love, daddy’s home.”

[istheresomebodywhocanimagine]

Tomorrow Never Came PT. 3

You have one job - time travel decades into the past and save your mother from a horrible future. You can’t fail or you’ll have to start over again completely, and you have to act on your own. But your roommates/friends have quickly taken you under their wing, and you begin to wonder just what the stipulations of ‘alone’ mean, and what danger lies in wait for you now that you’ve involved yourself in their lives.

Read PT. 1 here

Read PT. 2 here

(a/n: wow another small fluff piece?? lots of platonic friends bullying friends moments in this. small ‘holy shit roger is hot’ moments. roger is getting more interested hehe. next part will be fun if i write it the way i have it planned)

“Oh, Ms. Waitress, may I have some more coffee?”

You straightened up from where you were cleaning off the booth directly back to back with Roger’s, and he was looking over his shoulder at you, grinning ear to ear as he waited patiently for you to comply. Sighing, you went and retrieved the coffee pot, coming back over to where he was seated before refilling his empty mug. He watched you, a pleased expression on his face as he said nothing, just enjoying the fact that you were waiting on him. When you were done, you mussed his hair with your free hand and returned the coffee pot to its original spot on the burner as he whined.

“Watch the hair!” he complained as you went back to bussing the table behind him. The early morning light coming in through the windows made him look almost ethereal as he leaned over, checking his reflection in the window and fixing his hair. Trying not to stare, you dropped your gaze to the table, wiping up the last spot of dried coffee.

You were one month in, and adjusting to 70’s life came a lot easier than it seemed on paper. You remembered reading about the era and mildly panicking before you’d came here. Problems with unions, the IRA, and inflation plagued the earlier years – since you’d been here, unemployment had hit its high since WWII.

But you still managed to find a job at a café down the street, one that Freddie and Roger enjoyed quite a bit, so they were always coming in to see you at work, Roger more often than Freddie. He claimed it was because of the food, but you had an inkling that he had something to do with the way he stared at you while you waited tables. This morning was no exception. It was simultaneously exciting, yet terrifying – Roger’s interest in you could easily spell trouble once next March came around, if not sooner.

Despite Roger coming around more, you had actually become sort of a pet of Freddie’s, and you considered him your closest friend. He was always bringing in new salvaged clothing for you to wear, changing your style constantly, bringing you along to the market stall, and testing the limits on what could be considered fashion and what could be considered downright appalling. You were like his living, breathing mannequin. Mary would have been, except she worked at Biba Kensington and had to dress appropriately for her job – at least, that’s what she said.

You didn’t mind, though. Freddie’s insistence on commandeering your fashion sense made it far easier for you to blend in during the 70’s. Roger also quite enjoyed Freddie’s test drives with your fashion – he actually pitched in quite a bit, suggesting pieces and combinations that Freddie might not have thought of. Freddie operated purely on aesthetic appeal at most times, while Roger paid closer attention to textures and cuts of material. They worked as quite a team, despite how much they argued over literally anything – not unlike the same afternoon, once you’d got off the morning shift and headed over to help them with the stall.

“Fred, listen to me!” Roger yelled, probably pissing off your stall neighbors for the twentieth time that day as he held up a corduroy skirt next to black, crushed velvet trousers. He was testy today, and so was Freddie, as they were both eager to get the hell out of the stall and go out tonight. This was actually what started the argument – Freddie wanted you to wear velvet trousers, while Roger insisted on a burnt orange corduroy skirt. You were perfectly fine just wearing the outfit you had on, but it wasn’t good enough (even though Freddie had been the one to pick it out in the first place).

“I refuse to listen to your stupid spiel one more time, Rog, you are wrong!” Freddie fired back, snatching the velvet trousers and practically shoving them into your arms. “Y/N, if you’ve got any sense, you’ll wear these tonight. Mary would love them.”

“Mary would love what?” Brian appeared from around the corner, ducking his head as he made his way through the cramped room they called their stall. “Those trousers look nice. Is Mary wearing those tonight?”

“No, Y/N is,” Freddie quickly said, making you hold them as you turned to face Brian. You’d only met Brian a few weeks ago, so you were both relatively new to each other and didn’t operate on the same level yet. Roger reveled in this, mainly because he loved teasing Brian almost more than he loved drumming, and Brian continued to be awkwardly reserved around you as he tried to figure out where you were coming from.

“No, she is not!” Roger shouted, snatching the trousers from your grasp and replacing them with the skirt before stepping between you and Freddie.

Brian raised an eyebrow at you while cocking his head to the side, but you could only shrug in response. You watched Freddie try to take the trousers out of his hand, and Roger quickly jumped out of his reach, backing straight into you and nearly knocking you over before you caught yourself on the wall next to you, giving Roger a questioning look as he smiles sheepishly. “Real smooth, Roger,” Brian taunts, and Freddie laughs in contempt as he crosses his arm.

“I’m sorry, are you okay?” Roger asked quietly, turning so that the boys couldn’t see the horribly guilty look on his face. His usually soft, unblemished features were riddled with worry lines as he looked you up and down quickly, making sure you hadn’t hurt yourself. When you nodded, a wave of relief crashed over his face and he nodded while giving you a reassured smile. Then, it was gone as fast as it had appeared, and Roger turned again, barging past both Freddie and Brian as he approached a woman who was in the front of the stall, eyeing some of the clothes there. You were baffled, the small moment of sincerity from him throwing you wildly off track as Freddie tried to figure out what Roger’s game plan was here.

“What is he up to?” Brian wondered, mainly to himself, and you walked up to stand at Brian’s side so you could peer around the racks of clothing at Roger. He was posed casually next to the woman, smiling charmingly and showering her with praises that were making her genuinely red in the face. A small twinge of jealousy picked at the back of your brain steadily, but you tried to ignore how quickly Roger had flipped the switch. He was just a roommate. Remember why you’re here.

“Fred, can we get some change for this lovely lady? She’s buying our beautiful velvet trousers.” Roger was practically oozing with smugness as he turned to all of you, and there was an air of self-satisfaction as he strolled back to the money bag, getting the change himself. Freddie was too busy steaming at the ears, standing rigid in his place near you as Roger returned to the front and gave her the proper amount of change, sending her off with a toothy grin and a playful wave. As soon as she was out of sight, he dropped the act and turned back to you all, shrugging. “They weren’t her size at all, but who’s problem is that now?”

“Roger, you-“ Freddie cut off, clenching his fists as he struggled to verbalize the amount of annoyance he was feeling at this very moment. He dearly loved Roger, but right about now, it was taking everything in him not to rip him to shreds. “You absolute bitch! I never-“

“Hey, hey, hey,” Roger cut him off, holding up his finger as he put the empty hanger in a box under their small table. He then walked around the table, coming straight over to you and carefully linking his arm through yours. “If you can’t say anything nice, say it about Brian.”

The irritated look that quickly made its way onto Brian’s face made you laugh, and you whispered a quick, “Sorry!” as Roger started dragging you off, tossing the keys to the stall on the table with his free hand.

“Close up, will you, Fred?”

He didn’t hear an answer, or rather, didn’t wait for one as he led you along the crowded hallway of the market, headed directly for the stairs. You tagged along as fast as you could, clutching the corduroy skirt to your chest and trying to figure out how you’d apologize to Freddie/plan revenge later. When you both got out onto the street, greeted by a mild, temperate April evening, Roger hailed a cab for the two of you and let you climb in first, following suit before giving the driver your address.

“Fred’s going to be livid,” you pointed out once the driver had left the curb, but all you got was a satisfied smirk in response. Rolling your eyes playfully, you tossed the skirt down on the seat between you. “What am I supposed to wear that with anyways, Rog?”

“I’ve got a few ideas.” He picked up the skirt, giving it a full look-over before glancing over at you. “Might need to raid Freddie’s closet for it, though.”

“I think we’ve already done enough to poor old Freddie today.”

Roger was amused, the corner of his petite lips curling up into a smirk as he raised an eyebrow at you. “Poor old Freddie? How come you’re never the slightest bit concerned about overdoing it when you two are railing on me?” It was a good point, and you shrugged slightly before giving him an apologetic smile. “But I suppose you’re right anyways. We can take a look in my closet and see if there’s anything that catches your eye.”

The only thing that was catching your eye in Roger’s closet 30 minutes later was Roger himself. He was far more invested in making sure your outfit was perfect than you are, and this focus gave you the perfect opportunity to ogle at him, only part of you ashamed for being so enamored by him.

He was flitting through his clothes quickly, holding the sleeves of certain shirts up next to the skirt, taking them out, comparing them, and then moving on as you watched him. His long, wavy hair was sticking up in odd places from all of the rummaging and deep digging he was doing, and his shirt had become untucked as the time went on, riding up and exposing more of his slim, fair-skinned torso as he reached for things and stood on his tiptoes to grab things off the shelf.

You were conflicted. While you knew you were here for a purpose, you couldn’t help but wonder why you had a whole year to prepare for one night. Also, how had your uncle passed this time with Freddie and Roger? Considering your uncle’s personality in relation to them, you found it hard to believe that he’d been best friends with them, so you figured he was definitely an absent roommate. Going along with that, considering that he wasn’t a young girl who was trying to keep her hormones in check around an equally virile young man who exuded charm, it was probably a lot easier for him to be absent too.

As much as you didn’t want to be around these two all the time out of fear for their safety, it was hard – Freddie was a wonderful, caring friend who absolutely adored you as much as (if not more than) your friends back in the present day. And Roger? Roger was charming, intelligent, and well-spoken, a real triple threat to your heart and mind. This wasn’t an obstacle you’d expected to have when trying to save your mom, but it wasn’t necessarily an unwelcome one either. The real obstacle was going to be leaving when it was time to leave. How could you leave these two?

“I’ve got it!” Roger exclaimed, pulling your attention out of your thoughts and into the present again. Turning to you, he held out the skirt and a silky blazer of his that was a snake skin pattern, orange-ish in hue. Although 2018 you was definitely not a big snake skin person, it was honestly quite a look. You stood up and took the ensemble from him, frowning when you realized a big part was missing.

“I need an undershirt,” you pointed out, and Roger immediately clicked his tongue as he shook his head.

“No, no. Just go change into that and I’ll show you what I have in mind.”

You stared at him. “Roger-“ you started, but he was already ushering you towards the bathroom, ignoring any protest that you had as he shut the door for you, his footsteps going away from the door and leaving you to your business. Sighing, you unbuttoned the trousers you had on, shimmying out of them and tossing them to the side before sliding into the skirt. It was a bit snug, hugging every curve you had from your thighs up to your waist, but it buttoned up as it should, so you continued on.

After your shirt was off, you stared at the blazer, then looked down at your black bra. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it certainly wasn’t ‘show it off in the club’ material, so you were baffled as to what Roger planned on doing about that. Pulling the blazer on, you wrapped the small jacket around you and hugged yourself, walking out of the door and almost running straight into Freddie, who had returned in a huff while you were changing.

“Oh!” Freddie was surprised by your sudden appearance, and he took a moment to look your outfit up and down before cursing. “God damn it. Roger was right, the skirt was the right choice. I hate that.”

“What did I just hear?” Roger called out, emerging from his room as Freddie gave him a nasty look, storming off to his room to get ready for the night. Taking one long look at you, Roger smiled smugly at his handiwork, then waved you back into his room. You reluctantly followed, leaving the door open behind you since it was just the three of you and you didn’t mind Freddie peeking in on whatever the hell Roger was about to do.

He pulled you over to the mirror, stationing you in front of it before standing behind you, looking you up and down in the mirror. “What’s your plan, Project Runway?”

“What?” Roger asked, furrowing his eyebrows at your reference. You nearly smacked a hand to your forehead when you realized your slip up, and you quickly shook your head as you tried to recover from accidentally referencing a show from a decade that hadn’t actually happened yet.

“It’s like you’re making me a runway project,” you lied lamely, but he seemed to buy it as he chuckled, letting go of your arms and walking over to his bed, picking up a black, lacy bra that looked like it had come out of your drawer. In fact, it had. “Roger, you son of a-“

“Are we bullying Roger in here?” you heard someone asked, and you were surprised to see Brian peeking in through the doorway. He couldn’t help but curiously glance between the two of you, Roger clearly standing there with your bra in hand while you hugged a blazer to your chest, trying and failing to cover up the lack of a cover-up underneath it. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not really, Roger’s just went through all my knickers,” you grumbled, snatching the bra from him and pushing him out of his own room before reluctantly changing into the ensemble. It was cute, but you also felt a bit like a cheap whore as you buttoned up the blazer in the mirror. Even that action still left little to the imagination, hardly covering up tits at all. But that was probably Roger’s point, anyways.

You emerged out into the main apartment where all three of them were milling about, waiting for you. When Freddie saw you, he clapped in pure delight. “I hate to admit when Roger is right, but tonight you might be the only one sexier than me in the club,” he practically gushed, lifting himself up off the couch and coming over to hand you a pair of heels you’d bought on the first day here and never worn.

“I’m a genius, it’s okay to admit it, guys,” Roger complained, eating a pretzel from a bag that he’d just opened as he leaned over the counter, all-too-smug in the way he looked at you.

“Who said that?” Freddie asked, playing innocent, and you laughed as you pulled the heels on, not even bothering to try and win Roger’s favor for laughing at that one. He’d been enough of a pain tonight as it was, so you didn’t mind giving him some hell with Freddie, and Brian was a great addition if that was the purpose of tonight. “I don’t think anyone here accused you of something that drastic.”

“I’m so unappreciated in this household.” Roger pouted melodramatically, stomping off to his bedroom as the three of you watched, unmoved by his theatrics.

“Oh, crazy old Roger – you can’t live with him, you can’t live without him,” Brian remarked as the door slammed, looking down the hallway in that general direction. You made your way into the kitchen, scooting around him as you went to grab the bag of pretzels and tossing a few in your mouth as Brian went back on what he said. “Wait, let me rephrase that – you can’t live with him. Pass the pretzels.”

PT. 1 PT. 2

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[ifisitsitfits-archive2]

(Under the Spray --- Hraezlyr [rayz-leer] & Serkalem, who belongs to @nest-of-roses​! <3)

(Read it on AO3!) (Buy me a coffee!) (Follow my NSFW twitter!)

(tags: magical body modifications, kissing, neck kissing, anal fingering, anal sex, hand job, orgasm, gratuitous ejaculation, fluff, hurt/comfort, massage, biting, hickies, tenderness, shower sex)

Hraezlyr stood under the shower’s spray with his eyes closed and head slightly bowed forward. He tried to will away the soreness in his muscles caused by both the recent breed change from earlier that week, and yesterday’s mild sparring session with Serkalem that was meant to help relieve soreness and test his motor skills — as well as provide a distraction.

What unnerved him the most about the shift was the fact that his genitals now permanently sat on the outside of his body — made the potential for them to be targets when he was hunting that much greater. His cock, still the same length and thickness, limply hung off his trunk, and his balls hung just below it.

One of his favorite permanent alterations caused by the change was the new thickness of his hair; the weight of it was perfect.

Lost in his thoughts as the water pounded against him and the stone floor of the shower, he didn't hear Serkalem come in, oddly didn’t sense his presence.

Rae startled when a pair of arms wound around his waist, raised his hands as his instincts had him twisting around to face the intruder. He blinked up in surprise at one of his lovers through wet bangs plastered to his face, who was unfazed by Rae’s reflexes.

“Hello to you, too,” Serkalem greeted, amusement plain on his features as he brushed wet hair out of Rae’s face. “I figured you were here when I didn’t see you in bed,” he continued, hands idly sliding down Rae’s sides to rest at his hips. “How do you feel?”

Rae tried to hide the involuntary shiver as Serkalem’s thumbs caressed the nerves over his hips. He sighed as he wrapped his arms around Serkalem in return, absently realized then that he was naked, too. “Everything’s still sore."

“I know,” Serkalem soothed, his second pair of hands already lightly rubbing his back. “I can help you with that.”

Rae groaned low as Serkalem sought a knot in his lower back and set to work with massaging it out, already began to feel better as the tension left him.

He didn’t think much of the hand in his hair until Serkalem grabbed a fistful and tugged his head back. “I love how the alterations from that scroll look on you,” he purred. “It’s the perfect choice.”

Serkalem’s lips were on his as soon as the words left his mouth. Rae reciprocated without hesitation as his body rapidly stirred to life, and he instinctively wrapped his limbs around Serkalem’s neck and waist when he felt himself be lifted.

With Serkalem’s slender, skilled fingers, and their regular quickies in the training grounds, Rae was ready to take him within minutes.

Trusting that Serkalem wouldn’t drop him, he tilted his head back when the kiss broke to gasp for air as Serkalem’s mouth traveled down his neck, generosity peppering it with bruises of different shades. His breath hitched when Serkalem bit down at the junction of his neck and shoulder, simultaneously felt Serkalem’s cock slide into him.

Rae clung to Serkalem as if a last resort. Between the heat from the shower, and Serkalem’s uncanny ability to distract him with ease, to lower his walls, the discomfort he had been plagued with all week had all but dissolved. His eyes fluttered closed as the sound of their love-making echoed off the small room’s stone walls, mingled with the shower’s thrum and his unrestrained moans.

He whimpered and squirmed when a hand curled around his still too-sensitive cock, sensed Serkalem’s lower set of arms shift to better support them as his back was pressed into the closest wall. When Serkalem spoke, his tone was soothing, somehow able to be clearly heard over everything else even as a whisper. “I know. I’ll be gentle.”

Everything seemed to speed up as soon as Serkalem began pumping him. Rae arched into the hand, keened whenever it twisted over or squeezed one of his new knots just right. His head swam as the impending orgasm rapidly took precedence over the pain, and when his knots abruptly inflated, he shuddered, clenched around the cock inside him as he generously coated himself, and Serkalem’s hand, purple.

It noticeably took him longer than usual to empty himself, and when he finally went slack, the cock inside him pulsed. He felt Serkalem sink to his knees, all four arms holding him close.

Serkalem tenderly kissed him as his cock slipped out, continued until both came down from their highs, until the long-forgotten shower had rinsed them clean.

“Let’s get you dried off and in bed, hm?”

Rae felt a warmth in his chest as he wordlessly tugged Serkalem back in for another kiss.

[namesnot-rick]

Johnson and Gilligan’s “Two Weeks in Hell”

(And Other Strange Purchases from the Dream Marketplace)

“Excuse me, is that a Boeing-737?”  I say, shuffling my feet toward the sun-bathed creature at my direct far-left.  She looks puzzlingly; examiningly, I may say.  The hiss and growl of machinery crawl in my ear and scream me deaf.  I point the ample-titted Mary toward the hulking plane which soars just overhead and nearly rips my head in two.

“I said- is that a Boeing-737!”

“I can’t hear you over this Boeing-737!”

“What!”

“I said-”  Useless.  The woman-species has proven futile in the quest for a simple inquiry; not the first, nor the last time.  The beastly idiot-mother - she which has denied the relinquishment of her youth for twenty years beyond her prime - those which should sag, perpetuated unnecessarily by the vanity of the grotesque, obscene, leech-brained Mother of the illiterate and the neurotic.  I dream of heaving those mammaries-in-denial straight into the sky - sending them through a jet engine, shredded upon contact, clogging the deafening mechanical beast with silicon and sending it spiraling into the Atlantic abyss!  What a glorious lark, what a plunge, what a-

“Excuse me, is that a Boeing-737!” says a blind fellow, whose grasp encompasses my shoulder.

“What!”

“I said, is that a-”

“Is that a Boeing-737!”  He shrugs and falls away.  Signs read, ‘Florida Man mauled to death poking alligator with stick down in the bayou’, and then flash green, and bathe under the sunlight for two hours, and then melt away.  It is silent now except for the radiating humidity and a hose attached to an extinguisher, whirling in the air and spouting ocean-water until the water goes back in the ocean.  The ocean is next to the road and the road is next to a highway and the highway is next to three buildings; one looks like Miami and the other looks like an airplane and the other looks like a hit disco nightclub, in bright blue neon script, “Havana.”  Vehicles zip through the interstate route, six lanes of terrifying speed and inhumanity, the road threatening to jump up and and strike my elbow bloody and pull me down; litter-infested industrial non-sentient rats screaming by at eighty miles an hour and blowing down palm trees as they go by,

All standing between myself and the hit disco nightclub, “Havana.”  Threat levels rise as I inch forward with a single-toe, testing the dangerous and rabid white-foaming waves, biting back, and

I close my eyes and hold my breath and plunge into the polychromatic midnight-indigo entrance of the hit disco nightclub, “Havana”; there’s another doorway and I’m in a dimly-lit waiting room.  A bouncer stands before me, an immovable palm tree of a man with laser-show pink stealing through the cracks and reflecting against his massive white shoes.

“Tell me the business,” I say.  He nods and steps aside.  The beat rises like heat from the pavement, the funk pours in as the doorway proceeds open, lights dazzle epileptically across the purple-checkered dance floor, littered with inflatable tube men embracing and assaulting each other; simultaneous and communal and chaotic, stuck in their single inflatable spot and reaching across and then up and falling down, to repeat the process.

“A sight to behold,” a voice comes over the PA.  I nod.  Four non-inflatable men, apparently Puerto-Rican or Dominican, donning green-striped zoot suits, dart their eyes my way.  Two drop their shades, like Risky Business; one spills his drink all over himself and blushes; the other, long and handsome, hair slicked all the way back, pulls me forth on an invisible rope, stringing me toward the floor and dancing away.  I feel my bones give way to the liquid-

“Feel your bones melt into the radioactive beat, my sweet child,” says the PA.  I am amid the chaos of dozens of inflatable men and four zoot-suited Dominicans, shoulders and waist in unison; the disco-flavor is ingestible, and open my eyes to see that I, too, am donning the slick-sly-livin’ green-striped zoot suit.  This is the moment; I am the moment; I am not me; I am- I am- I am-

“You are the child of a new funk,” says the PA; euphoria emanates from my core, stings my extremities; I feel alive and dead and passed on to a higher groove.

“Florida Man mauled to death,” says the PA, and a beat drop.  “Poking alligator,” the voice melts into the music, “down in the bayou.”

* * *

“We may have to commit violent crimes,” says the slick green zoot to his friends, over a radioactive yellow drink that spills over the side and melts through the wood floor.

“I don’t think.”

“We could, but the logistical processes are immense.”

“Is she prepared for-”

“Of course she-”

“The island is a horrible dangerous venue, complete with razor blades on all corners of the mountain, and such a trek could not possibly be expected of a mere-”

“Are you in?”  The zoots pause their quibbling; they shoot expecting glances toward me.  “Are you in,” he repeats.  Anticipation motors overhead, lingers in the air like silicon-shredded tits behind a malfunctioned jet engine.  The inflatable tube men lean closer.  The music ceases; the frogs no longer croak; the world is at a stand still.  “Are you-”

“Well, is this Havana?” I reply.  It remains still for a moment; the men then throw their collective arms up with all the inflatable tube men, and a ‘huzzah’ the size of Tampa overtakes the “Havana.”  I relish briefly in the sweet moment and three of the zoots melt into the floor; the remaining one follows me toward the backroom.  There stands another palm-tree bouncer with huge white shoes.

“It is Tuesday,” he tells me.

“Now it is Thursday,” I reply as Christ himself, shattering the previously accepted bounds of time and space.  He complies.  The zoot hurries alongside my epochal steps, which surpass thousands of documents in a mere instant.  The room we enter is dark, noir-esque; my zoot suit turns monochromatic.  The room is heated, dry like baked ceramic.  It pervades my lungs.  It smells of vast conspiracy.

“We’re looking for a book,” he says.  I slant my eyes and light a cigarette, and look about the room.  A small office, blinds drawn, entirely black and white.  A coat rack in the corner is bare; papers are strewn hectically across the desk in front of dozens of filing cabinets.  The door reads, backwards, ‘FITZGERALD, M.D.’  I remember being here before; scheming of some sort, and the overwhelming existential dread of a plan gone awry.  I clear my throat, compose myself, exhale smoke from my nose, and speak from the far corner of my mouth:

“What kind of book… fiction?”  The zoot falls silent and looks suspiciously at the oncoming shadow; he hides behind the coat rack.  A dame staggers in and falls drunkenly across the desk, failing to notice me standing there with a cigarette frozen to my lips.  An incoherent tune passes through her messy red lipstick in heaving, inebriated sighs.  Some sort of old jazzy standard, mixed with a cheap perversion of the Star Spangled Banner.  Her sweeping, bare leg knocks a stapler across the floor, and she looks up with the expression of a junkie whose stove has caught fire.

“Who are-” she burps, the words falling from her slacken jaw.  “You’re not supposed- this isn’t your office.”

“Dammit, Johnson, get this whore out of here!” the zoot exclaims fiercely, storming out from behind the wall with a ‘FITZGERALD, M.D.’ nametag sewn to his shirt.  “This is no time for games; I, the owner of this fine establishment, have pressing matters to attend to.”

“I don’t understand-”  the zoot knocks her unconscious with a swift and gruesome blow to her painted cheek; the whore goes flying into the back wall, and the zoot turns away with the look of a prize fighter, shaking his hand painfully.  He rips off the nametag, crushes it beneath his foot, and spits on the remains.

“My name’s not Fitzgerald, anyway.”

“Who’s Johnson?”

“We’re in too deep now, Johnson.”

“What about the book,” I reply.

“Yes, of course; nonfiction.  Island based.  Look for the volcano with razors,” says the zoot.  I drag the befallen whore across the floor to get to the ‘I’ filing terminal.  Behind her is a pool of dried blood; her lipstick has turned a shade of grey.  Sunlight, peering through the drawn shades, strikes obliquely across her exposed cleavage.

“What a mess,” I comment.  The zoot spins his detective hat around and removes a magnifying glass from the front of his pocket.

“We’re in too deep now,” he says.

“We haven’t much time.”

“We’ve committed a violent crime, Johnson.  Barbaric, illegal, striking at the very core of man’s depraved soul.  The question is: whether you, a capable man but surely one of a decent moral fibre, maybe a tinge of childhood innocence lurking in your soul - whether you are willing to confront those demons when the inevitable day comes.”

“Volcano with razors,” I reply.

“This is not a game.  The stakes have been raised infinitely.  This poor woman, probably a mother, certainly a daughter - her blood is on our hands.”

“Volcano with razors.  Volcano with razors.  Volcano with”

“That is the owner’s daughter which you’ve so ruthlessly struck down, Johnson.  Notice the dark-grey appearance about her; lifeless! just as every other god-forsaken item in this room.  Gone.  Dead.  Sunken into the earth, receded into a dark and timeless void beyond our solar system.  She, whose demise is a mere infinitesimal speck on the blood-stained shirt of humanity’s graveyard!”

“Volcano with razors.”

“Murder, Johnson; goddammit, it’s murder!”

“Got it!  Volcano with razors.”

“Delightful!”  The zoot rubs his fingers across my cheek affectionately, burns my temple with a wet kiss, and removes the book from my grasp.  He rotates it thrice, and sifts through the pages hastily.

“Aha!” he exclaims.  “This is it.  You’ve done it again, Johnson!”

“Volcano with razors.”

“Yes, Johnson, very good.”

“Volcano with razors.”

“We must first attain a million dollar boat; inflatable, preferably.  And then we may proceed to the next step of our plan.”

“What is the next step,” I inquire.

“We may have to commit more violent crimes, Johnson.”

“It’s Tuesday now,” I reply five days later.  The zoot has crowded himself into the back corner, five o’clock shadow stuck indelibly to his chin.  He gnaws hungrily at the cuff of his suit, struck by the vanity of it all.

“Johnson, we’ve killed the owner’s daughter.”

“Have we yet attained the million dollar boat.”

“I cannot stand to look anymore at these grey walls.  A man needs color in his life, Johnson.  A man needs sexual gratification.  Will you make love to me, Johnson?”

“It is Wednesday now.”

“Have you any idea what it is like to starve oneself of physical intimacy and nutritional sustenance for nearly a week, Johnson?  I could eat my own suit.”

“You already have,” I reply.

“That is correct, yes.  I remember yesterday quite clearly.  The pain is immense, but my memory is still sharp.  I say, Johnson, the digestion of that seersucker cotton has certainly been something of a struggle.”

“Yes, it has.”

“Oh, the defecation, don’t mind that.  Merely the sign of a healthy and functioning digestive system.  In the black and white you cannot make out the entrails quite so clearly.”

“It is Sunday now.”

“The Lord’s day on Earth, Johnson.  Perhaps this time he shall save us from this noir-influenced hellhole.  Johnson, are you going to eat that suit anytime soon?”

“I am quite full, courtesy of the dinners brought to us by the owner’s secretary.”

“May I have that suit?”

“It is Thursday now.”

“One week and nine days, Johnson.  An insufferable experience, surely; but there is no man I would have rather spent it with than you.”

“I’m a woman.”  The phone rings.

“Yes,” the zoot says.  “Killed the owner’s daughter, yes.  Banned from the club, you say?  The most expected route of action, undoubtedly.  I am truly sorry for going through your things, sir.  Yes, I will let Johnson know.  Yes, yes.  No, no.  Perhaps.  Well, I would not say I was discourteous in refusing the secretary’s dinners, but I was quite full from the suit; you could understand.  Mmhm.  Repulsive, you say?  Well, I have not exactly kept my body in peak physical condition, but that seems a bit harsh.  Get the Hell out?  Surely, sir.  Thank you for the extended stay.”

“Johnson.”

“Yes?”

“Check the phone, please.”

“But you’re holding the phone.”

“Not this phone; the computer… no, not that computer; the printer.”  There is a letter, in color, designed much in the way of a diploma.  It reads: ‘We hereby grant the deed of  ONE ONE-MILLION DOLLAR INFLATABLE BOAT  to a Mr. D. Gilligan, courtesy of the Avalanche Holding Company.’

“Who is D. Gilligan,” I inquire.

“Avalanche Holding Company… where do I know that name?”

“Who is D. Gilligan?”

* * *

“I tell you, I’ve had plenty of fine meals in my lifetime, but nothing in life compares to the pop! of the reds and blues and yellows after two weeks and two days in that monotonous hellhole.”  Gilligan has one hand on the steering wheel of his classic convertible sportcar, and the other is chomping on the blunt end of a thicket of seersucker cotton.  His teeth gnash expertly through the various tightly-wound fibers, and sit dryly at the back of his throat.

“Johnson, grab me a glass of water, will you?”

“You haven’t any water in here.”

“Grab it from the ocean, Johnson!  The coastline is your proverbial oyster!  Nothing can stop us now; ‘tis but a dreamland!”  I do exactly so, and he thanks me kindly while removing his other hand from the wheel to suck down the musty ocean water.  “Doesn’t it feel good to be alive once more, my friend?”  Johnson throws the glass across the interstate pavement, and places a pair of sunglasses at the tip of his nose.  “Miami Vice, Johnson!”

“I suppose it feels positively enlivening to be alive, Gilligan.”

“You know, Johnson, I’ve grown quite fond of you over these past two weeks in Hell.  You’ve danced with the inflatable, committed violent crimes, graciously surrendered your suit to my digestive tract, and then watched me strain and yank that very suit from my bloody asshole.”

“I suppose I have, Gilligan.  I’d like to think of us as partners; quick-thinking, detective types.  Struggling immensely through the hard times, and, as of now, enjoying the fresh and colorful breaths of a life on the run.”

“Indeed, Johnson, a positively liberating lifestyle.  That was very well put; have you considered writing the next great American novel?”

“I fancy a working class tale myself, Gilligan.  One which speaks to the fiercest plights of our downtrodden peoples; the chilling battle cry of a hundred million in unison, calling upon Marx’s inevitable ascent and ushering in the calm and slumbering twilight of man’s existence.”

“Yes; yes!  That which shall tickle furiously at the very pudenda of the working man’s discontented soul!”

“A tale of sound and fury, Gilligan, though told by an idiot it shall not be!  I envision the vanguard of a new and permanent order, under which our people shall at last flourish in material and intellectual prosperity.”

“I have always desired the stately mustache of an absolute ruler, Johnson.”

Perhaps I shall entitle it: Gilligan and Johnson’s ‘Two Weeks in Hell.’”

“Try this on for size: Johnson and Gilligan’s ‘Two Weeks in Hell.’”  The flattering sentiment hangs in the air, accompanied by a coastline peace and the low whirring of a well-functioning motor vehicle.  Before us, the sunset twists into deep blues and reds, the palette of God’s own improvised brush for the enjoyment of a few appreciative mortals.  The highway breeze spindles delicately about my bonneted hair; I feel like Elizabeth Taylor from the movies.  No - Thelma and Louise.  No - Bonnie and Clyde.  Outlaws on the run, mired in chaos; forced by our respective low upbringings to commit violent crimes, and finding in the process that we love the thrill of it all.  And what better place

“What better place,” I look over at Gilligan, “than sunny Miami, Florida.”

“I tell you, Johnson, I am not set at ease by this whole Avalanche Holding Company thing.  It feels like a classic ploy from the movies.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, what the hell would an avalanche be doing all the way out here in the sun and bayou?”

* * *

Feeling several miles beyond the civilisation of the metropolis, Gilligan and I look about the shipping yard with squinted eyes.  Silent apprehension creeps toward and festers under our fingernails.  It is thick with flour.  It pervades like bacterial mud-soup.  It leeches at the sides of our matching leather platforms; unties our premium polyester shoelaces; discolors the bottoms of our four-hundred dollar green-striped zoot suits.

“Tragedy strikes,” says Gilligan, “in the muddiest of crevices.”

“Vanity is not a luxury afforded to the working class,” I reply.

“Even Tony Montana had to dirty his shoes every once in a while.”

“Montana, you say?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t they have avalanches in Montana?”

“My God, Johnson!  Where is our  MILLION DOLLAR INFLATABLE BOAT????”  In pure shock and revulsion, I turn to see a strange man charge Gilligan with a crowbar and strike him twice across the skull!

“The zoot man is dead!” he exclaims in an Eastern European accent to his charging accomplice, a table-sized pizza box with eight menacing legs extending well over a foot into the air.

“O zoot está morto!” responds the beastly creation, its pizza-box mouth flapping triumphantly.

“You fucking bastard!” I shout, pulling a four-inch dagger from my green-striped zoot suit and promptly jabbing it several times into the side of the wicked Bulgarian swine.  He falls to his side wheezing, splattering mud across my green-striped zoot suit; he convulses erratically in the desperate fashion of an inflatable tube man.

“It is the tube man!” I respond horrifically, the full weight of this conspiracy before my disbelieving eyes.

“Ah, veja, ele é o cara do metrô, mas eu sou o Avalanche!”  The arachnid pizza box rears his back toward me, and reveals the letters upon it, spelled across the cardboard in faded ink: ‘COURTESY OF THE AVALANCHE HOLDING COMPANY.’

“It cannot- no, it cannot be!”  I fall back several steps as the table-board-eight-legged-freak inches toward me, cackling heinously, deafeningly, each leg stabbing inexorably into my predestined fate.  I hold to my dagger in trembling fear; the beast’s shrills grow nearer.

“A avalanche atinge o pior ao amanhecer!”  With a single crow-barred blow, the revived Gilligan collapses the monster in the stew-thickened mud.  The beasts transmutes immediately into a vile, Portuguese conquistador, whose twirling facial hair and fragile, South European frame are caked in the bayou earth.

“O sofrimento; O sofrimento,” he whispers despairingly.  Stimulated by the violent crime and the near death of my closest companion, I throw myself onto the useless conquistador and jab my dagger into his belly repeatedly.  Entrails spill out onto the tip, which I promptly wipe across his teary, dirt-plastered cheek.

The imperialist cunt cries aloud, pleading for mercy, claiming his innocence in the vain last breaths of the desperate and pathetic; in his infantile hysterics, I derive a cold and unfeeling pride, that of the unchallenged victor, forgetting the presence of my faithful companion for the briefest moment.  With a swift one-two, I pull his blood-suffocated tongue from his throat and cut horizontally, leaving a long gash which flows exceptionally across quivering lips.  Pulling the tongue apart, I peer in as one might at a piece of seared pork, to make sure it is of an acceptable internal temperature.

“O, ye sweet red-milk of the soon deceased, ye tender flesh of the befallen conquistador!”

“Johnson.”

“O, ye convulsing body of the sick Portuguese whore!  O, ye bloody triumph and arousal!”

“Johnson!”

“My Lord, Gilligan; when did you arrive?”

“Johnson, we must make it to the sea; the great pangs of our journey lie ahead yet.”

“A volcano with razors?”

“Indeed, my dearest friend.  Now, that  MILLION DOLLAR INFLATABLE BOAT has got to be around here somewhere.”

“Could it be near the sea?”

“Genius, Johnson!  Simply stupendous, on the ball, on top of one’s feet, thinking on the balls of your feet, Johnson!”

“It is Friday now.”

“That it is, Johnson, and the shallow Everglades are nearly behind us.  Phone for you, Johnson.”

“Hello?”

“This is your mother; when will you be coming back home to Nebraska?”

“Whenever; I have new a new friend now.”

“The meatloaf is almost cold,” she responds in a heaving sigh.

“I’ve committed serious violent crimes, Mother.”

“You’ve what?”

“And I’ll commit them against you if you’re not careful, you crustaceous, obscene, darling bovine cunt.”  I drop the phone in the water, and a stillness permeates the air.  Gilligan continues chewing on the sopping ends of a thin slice of seersucker cotton, stabbed through on the end by a wooden prod.

“Easier for bayou dipping,” Gilligan explains, to which I nod agreeably.

“Say, Gilligan?”

“What’s the word, Johnson.”

“I’ve been thinking.  We haven’t quite confronted the nature of our violent crimes, have we?”

“Death toll of three, Johnson.  Such is the life of crime-detectives on the run; we who’ve lived an extensive two weeks through the fiery plight of Hell, endured hardship and near starvation in the depths of a noir-influenced catatonia.”

“Well… what will I tell my kids?”

“Have you any children, Johnson?  This is pertinent information, you should’ve warned me sooner.  Kids carry diseases, Johnson.  Swampy diseases.  Dysentery, chlamydia, influenza, schizophrenia, the like.  Have you dysentery?”

“No; nothing of the sort.”

“Then get to the point, you sentimental bastard.”

“Well, provided I do.  How do I look them in the eye and tell them I murdered a table-sized, pizza-box, Portuguese, arachnid conquistador in cold blood?  That I truly enjoyed slicing open his tongue like a pan-seared pork fillet?”  Gilligan mulls over the question pensively for several moments, seeming quite perplexed by the potential moral quandary of our actions.  Looking ahead toward our destination, he responds:

“That is something you’ve got to confront, my dearest amigo.  In the meantime, we’ve a volcano with razors on our mind.”  Gilligan, finishing his piece of seersucker, looks about himself, and has tragically run dry of the digestible fabric.  He clutches impatiently at his stick, slaps it against the side of his boat to the tune of Smoke on the Water.  Smoke rises from the water; something sinister stirs beneath the surface.  “Say, could I get a slice of your shirt, Johnson?”

“Why, you’ve ate it all alread-”

“Johnson, look - a beastly gator; a dirty swamp-toothed reptilian of the sea!  Perhaps I shall poke it with this handy stick!”

“Gilligan, no!”

[mydazeenthusiast]

Balloon Inflator Pumps: The Definitive Guide to Choosing and Using them.

This article will present the definitive guide to choosing and using balloon inflators as you prepare to create your next masterpiece balloon decoration.

Inflating balloons can be a tiresome activity if you are inflating more than two balloons with air from your lungs. Fortunately, manual balloon pumps and electric balloon inflators make this process a breeze.

The Old Way of Inflating Balloons

So you are having an event, maybe a party and you want to decorate using balloons. As you consider inflating tens of balloons with your lungs, you may be dreading the consequences: sore cheeks, painful jaws, tired arms, aching lungs, and chest, just to name a few. The old method required time, people, patience, and determination.

The solution to the problem of inflation

A solution to your problem is here. Thankfully it is the dawn of a new era; balloon inflators have now become extraordinarily cost-effective and accessible to the DIY person or balloon decorator. These devices exponentially reduce the time and effort required to inflate a large number of balloons. It takes approximately 10 pumps on a double-action balloon pump to fully inflate a balloon and about 3 seconds to do the same using an electric balloon pump. So now, you are free to create your balloon arches, garlands, stands, centerpieces, and backdrops for your special events.

What is a Balloon Pump?

A balloon pump or inflator is a device that makes filling balloons with air faster and more efficient. Balloon Pumps are either manually or electric balloon pump. A balloon pump is designed with a special nozzle that can securely hold the balloon in place during inflation.

Types of Balloon Pumps

There are various types of balloon pumps, they are primarily separated into manual and electrically operated pumps:

Manual Hand-operated Balloon Pump/Inflator

A manual hand inflator is a cylindrical device with a handle connected to a shaft. The shaft is attached to a disc that extends to the edges of the tubular body of the pump.  The pump is operated by using the handle to force air through the connected nozzle. There are two additional categories of manual inflators:

Single Actions Balloon Pump

A single-action balloon inflator will only push air through the nozzle into the balloon on the forward stroke. The reverse stroke will refill the pump with air. This is great for a small number of balloons.

Dual or Double Action Balloon Pump

A Double action manual balloon pump can inflate a balloon on both the forward and reverse stroke. Making the process twice as efficient for the same amount of energy you put out. This is great for inflating an average number of balloons for a small event.

Electric Balloon Pump(AC air pump, DC air pump)

An electrically operated balloon pump uses a motorized pump to quickly send high volumes of air through its nozzle to fill the balloons. They deliver significantly more air in a shorter time when compared to a manual pump with practically no effort. Many are even outfitted with as many as four nozzles to support the inflation of multiple balloons at once. This is great for a large number of balloons and a big event.

When choosing between manual and electric balloon pumps, you have to take several things into consideration.

How much are you willing to spend?

An electric balloon pump can be more than 5 times the cost of a manual inflator. That price does not include the professional balloon pumps that can pump all ballons to the same size, adjust pressure settings, or the ones that come with a portable battery. Those can go upwards of 20 times the cost of a manual balloon pump.

How Many Balloons do you need to inflate?

If your balloon arrangement has more than 200 balloons, it may make sense to get an electric balloon pump. At this many balloons, it becomes a physical workout to use a manual balloon pump. However, if you have the time and the energy, you can consider it your arm workout for the day. You can even share the task between more than one person to lighten the effort.

Is this a one-off activity?

If you are planning to create large, multi-hundred balloon arrangements regularly. It will probably make more sense to invest in a reliable electric balloon pump. Not only will it require less time and effort, but most manual ballon pumps are made of plastic; frequent usage can cause the pump to become brittle, and the handle tends to break from overuse. This can be mitigated if you have multiple hand pumps, but for efficiency, an electric pump is more advantageous.

Will you have access to an electrical outlet.

For outdoor balloon decoration setups that are far away from an electrical outlet, a manual hand pump is the most ideal tool for the job. You can pull it out on the spot and inflate as many balloons as you need without going back and forth to an electrical outlet. Even though it is the most convenient way to inflate balloons for outdoor use, it is by no means the only way.

You can use large garbage bags and inflate your balloons ahead of time then transport them to your outdoor location. You can invest in a very long extension cord that will provide the reach you require. If you have a vehicle nearby, you can use an electrical inverter to power your balloon pump from your vehicle. You can also utilize the long extension cord there as well. The final method is to invest in a battery-powered electric pump. Battery-powered electric inflators are rechargeable and portable and can cost a pretty penny for these extra features. However, sometimes the investment may be worth it if you need the advantage of portability and the power and ease of an electric pump.

Is your environment noise friendly?

Electric balloon inflators are noisy. This is due to the powerful motor it uses to inflate balloons quickly and at high pressure.  If you are setting up a balloon arch at daycare during nap time, you might want to opt for your manual balloon hand inflators.

How fast do you want to work?

In the time it takes to inflate one balloon using a double-action balloon pump, you can inflate 4 using a two-valve electric balloon inflator. Electrical inflators are fast and powerful. If you need speed and power, electric battery air pumps are the right choice.

How many people are working along with you?

If you have multiple people working on your balloon decoration project, you can choose between a electric or a hand air pump. Various people using their own hand-operated balloon inflators can work out well in terms of a balance for the cost and speed you may need. This is the least expensive and most efficient use of a manual balloon inflator.

Electric rechargeable air pumps can also use multiple people at the same time. Depending on your pump type, electric balloon pumps can have as many as 4 active valves used to inflate balloons simultaneously. This will increase your efficiency.

How strong are you?

Manual balloon inflators require an average amount of physical strength to inflate a large number of balloons. A good quality hand-held balloon pump will be well lubricated. It should not provide much friction when pumping air into the balloons. However, if this is not the case, or if the lubrication has somehow dried up, it will take added energy to inflate balloons with a manual pump.

Children should generally have little to no problem using a manual balloon inflator if it is well-lubricated. An electric balloon pump takes limited effort more than the strength to hold the balloon in place as it is inflated.

Multipurpose usage

Due to the design, portability and lightweight of the hand balloon pump, it can be easily used to inflate other inflatables such as pool float toys, exercise balls, inflatable toys like the Rody Horse, and even small sleeping mattresses. Manual Balloon pumps can also be used to blow dust from hard-to-reach crevices instead of purchasing a can of compressed air.

Helium Balloon Inflator

Helium balloons do not require a balloon pump since helium is usually stored in a cylinder in compressed form. Balloons are then simply inflated by opening a valve attached to the cylinder of compressed helium.

Where to buy

The cost of balloon inflators has reduced over the past couple of years. You can get professional level pumps, such as high pressure air pump, for a fraction of the price.

Inflatable paddle boards are typically quick and easy to inflate, and many of them come with a manual pump that can inflate a SUP in about 10 minutes. However, younger or much older SUPers might find inflating them difficult, while others just want to spare themselves from the strain and sweat that comes with manual pumping. Alternatively, if you’re heading to the lake to get some yoga or meditation in, having to put so much time and work in inflating a SUP electric pump doesn’t exactly put you in a peaceful mindset.

That’s why our number one recommended accessory for all inflatable paddle boarders is an electric pump. An electric pump can inflate your paddleboard just as fast as a manual pump, but without the effort of having to do it yourself. Electric pumps can also help finish deflating your iSUP for you, making sure all the air is out and it can be packed up super tight at the end of the day. Some electric pumps are also smaller and weigh about the same asn traditional manual pumps, making them easier to pack and carry as well. Some electric pumps even come with an integrated or portable battery, meaning you don’t even have to be near a car to use them.

An electric pump is better than a manual pump in almost every way, with many of them available for less than $150. However, just like SUP pump, there are a ton of electric pumps to choose from.

[simmos-blog]

Mark sets a new record

Friday 21st May

It rained all night and was still raining as we stepped out of the Station Inn after a substantial and excellent breakfast. Mark had doubled up on the black pudding which he thought would give him the extra energy to power up hills.

We caught the train with time to spare and after a very short train ride were walking down the very steep hill we came up last night. Shame we didn’t have an inflatable dingy as we probably could have floated down the road there was so much water flowing.

There was water everywhere. The paths were now streams, the streams raging torrents, the roads were like rivers or lakes and the rivers were awesome with powerful water surging madly past.

It was still raining but not as hard, the wind had gone and it was significantly warmer so we were comfortable though it was tricky and treacherous underfoot. We generally walked along the River Dee which was thundering along, it looked perfect for high octane white water canoeing.

After a couple of hours we stopped in Dent ( crazily over 5 miles from Dent Station) for coffee and cake or in my case a heavily burnt tea cake. The owner was mr grumpy and asked Mark not to spread his stuff out so much in case other punters came in. There were about ten tables and just two people so unless he was expecting a coach trip it wasn’t going to be an issue. Mark being ex army is a trained killing machine so I feared for the owners life at this moment but instead her just said sorry and sheepishly gathered up his belongings. He did however give him a real dirty looking when he wasn’t watching.

Our return to the river bank brought some excitement. We had to cross a fast flowing stream but the water was now two feet above the stepping stones. Mark came up with an acrobatic solution of leaping onto a handrail and then shuffling along it on your hands whilst simultaneously holding your feet above the water. He demonstrated the manoeuvre successfully but unfortunately it called for rather more upper body strength than I possessed ( the back pack wasn’t helping). The result was me half way across the stream with me feet inches from the fast flowing water but unable to move in either direction. Mark was helpfully (not) shouting directions which I knew made sense but was unable to execute. Eventually there was no alternative but for me to drop into the stream briefly upto my knees and then to climb out the other side. To say this amused Mark would be an understatement.

We then squelched along the path which was wet, very muddy and very slippery. Mark had experienced several slides which we classed as near misses but he then went one better and slid on to his back side with poles clattering in all directions. In fact over the day he fell three times and near misses were probably in double figures. He had been raving about his Merrell Goretex GTX Pro boots but I think they should come with a warning notice “slippery when wet” and perhaps some padding to stuff down his trousers to protect from his many falls. Three falls in one day is I think a record on my walks hence today’s title.

As it turned out my walk in the stream didn’t really matter as we both had numerous boot submersions afterwards. Some of the roads were flooded perhaps 18inches deep and often to get through gates at the end of fields were had to paddle through deep water.

We reached Sedbergh at 2pm and dived into a cafe for lunch. The town is dominated by the very grand private school and we passed several cricket pitches (under water) with fancy pavilions. Mark then caught a taxi back to Hubberholme to pick up his car and drive home. He won’t be home much before 9pm so a long drive and I really appreciate the effort he made to join me for two wet days walking. They have been great fun and we’ve had many laughs.

We had walked 11.3 miles to this point and I decided I would return to the Dalesway to do a bit of tomorrow’s walk which is scheduled to be a 16miler. It took longer than I thought and I walked 3.6 miles to save myself half a mile tomorrow so in total today’s mileage is 14.9miles.

I’m in the Dalesman hotel and have just had an enormous portion of fish and chips at the exorbitant price of £17. Still it was good. Getting my clothes washed and dried has been a challenge and I fear I might be stepping into wet boots again tomorrow. Just two days to go now and I’m still feeling strong if perhaps a touch stiff in the legs.

[veronica-rich]

a meme during work downtime

5 things you can find in my blog


1. Red Dwarf


2. Political reblogs and original rants


3. KITTIES


4. In the spirit of #3, the occasional farm animal photo


5. Contempt for willful idiocy

5 things you can find in my room


1. A stuffed Wishbone dog dressed in his Sherlock cape and hat that I bought sometime 20 years ago during the Great Holmesian Read-Through


2. One of those new memory-foam-type mattresses that witches must have invented, that comes in a flat, light roll and you cut it open, and it self-inflates to a firm regular mattress. WITCHCRAFT, I TELL YOU


3. A pool cue I have never used to play pool


4. An original lava lamp my mother purchased circa 1972 that has not been plugged in in probably 30 years


5. The rolltop desk my grandma had when she was the age I am now, that I used to sit under and read her Erma Bombeck books when I was about 6

5 things I always wanted to do



1. Finish writing a novel of original characters


2. Finish getting my pilot’s license


3. Open a fandom-themed B&B geared to small-sized fanfiction collaboration groups of friends to vacation and discuss/write (this is an idea I’ve had for 20 years and I’m never going to afford it, so there’s no use being all secretive about it, LOL)


4. I still wouldn’t mind meeting Michael J. Fox. I’ve liked him for over 30 years and he’s done a lot of good philanthropy and public policy work for Parkinson’s too


5. Figure out my ideal career and GET it

5 things that make me happy

1. Finding new podcasts I really like


2. SLEEP


3. Traveling, when I have time and money


4. The fact I live in a time when I can stay single and it not be a big deal in society (born 100 years ago, I would have murdered someone trying to make me get married or keep house)


5. People I like, i.e. my sister, friends, Dad once in a while, etc. LOL

5 things on my to-do list


1. Finish writing one of my books someday


2. Catch up on all the sleep I’ve given up in my adult life to work and, when younger, a social life (when I’m dead maybe - HA)


3. Get a job that pays better and I can learn new things


4. Come up with more goals just in case I win the lottery someday


5. Play the lottery more than twice a year

5 things you might not know about me


1. When I was a sophomore in college, I took as one of my few free electives a night class on aviation (I tried to join the Air Force at 17 upon graduation from high school, but I was too fat for their requirements). I passed the FAA Pilot Ground Test with a high score, but only ever took a couple of air lessons because they’re incredibly expensive (you need about 35-40 hours of in-air training to take the test, and each lesson is about 1-1.5 hours and, at last count close to 20 years ago, cost anywhere from $70-$120 an hour).


2. When I was a young reporter, I wrote a series of articles exposing an incompetent D.A. trying to undo the violent rape conviction his predecessor had secured after much trouble against a guy who super-duper deserved it - this guy was sentenced to 30-some years for raping the woman AND was picked up later going to intercept her for an unwanted “date” with a backseat full of weapons. The rapist was set free on a technicality and I spent the next 18 months I worked at that paper with weapons literally in and by my bed because I started getting you-can-hear-them-breathing hang-up calls at all hours, since my name was on those articles (and when the guy was originally sentenced, he’d threatened the other women then associated with the case, including the then-D.A., the victim, and a couple of witnesses). The pool cue mentioned above in my room was given to me by one of those witnesses who owned a bar, to protect myself.


3. One of my phone interviews with Aaron Sorkin for an article I wrote about his show “Sports Night” was done while he was on the set of filming one of the first episodes of a new show that hadn’t yet premiered, “The West Wing.” There was speaking and noise in the background the whole time and he finally asked at one point, “Is it noisy here?” When I said yes, he laughed. “That’s just Martin recording a speech back there for one of his scenes.” It was Martin Sheen.

4. My now-dead Grandma R. was simultaneously one of the most old-fashioned and most progressive women I knew. She probably had the most to do with my personality. She always used to say of girls in the local high school who got pregnant “there all sorts of birth control we didn’t have when I was their age, why don’t these kids USE it?” But if she heard a pregnant girl was marrying the boy, she’d say “why compound one mistake with another?” She was also not anti-abortion, taught me to read at the age of 3, and never discouraged me from reading anything from her shelves or the library, whether it was smutty romances at age 10 or Stephen King at age 11. She wasn’t exactly liberal, but she would have pronounced Donald Trump a complete idiot, as well as those who voted for the charlatan.


5. I once was pulled in tow around a mall with Ed McMahon and his assistant and this three-girl singing group (who could’ve been the Knowles sisters for all I remember), which was one of the odder celebrity interviews I did. He was promoting some "Next Big Star” talent thing, which went to malls across the country. I just dropped by to get a couple photos and talk with the man for 5-10 minutes, and ended up being pulled along for near to an hour as he talked, they talked, I tried to get away, and people stared. Ed was a LOT taller than he looked on TV, and a lot less affable - he was, at the same time, kind of a jackass and oddly friendly. I still have a magic marker he loaned me and forgot to take back, that I used for years until it dried up, and the photo I took with him for Grandma R.

[sere22world]

What is a vertical packing machine?

In smartweigh we fabricate a wide assortment of vertical form, fill and seal machines know as vertical baggers, VFFS or VFS machines.

At a macro level, a vertical form, vertical packing machine uses flat roll stock film onto a roster and forms which picture into a cylinder subsequently sealing the back (vertical seal) and top seals (flat seal) to a pouch.

Firms often choose and utilize vertical packing machine for several reasons: Purchasing roll stock film instead of pre-made pouches is the least expensive way to package as you're no more paying for a value added product.

2. vertical packing machine tend to be very streamlined

3. vertical packing machines are usually easy to use and need little maintenance.

4. Packaging vertically with gravity allows for higher manufacturing rates which is why this kind of packaging is very typical in packaging product like merchandise.

To get a vertical form-fill-seal the movie approaches the rear of a long hollow conical tube, which can be known as the tube. After the middle of this plastic is near the tube, the outer edges of the film form flaps that wrap around the conical forming tube. The film is pulled downward around the exterior of the tube and also a vertical heat-sealing bar moves onto the edges of the movie to make the"fin Seal", bonding the film by massaging the seam edges together. 

To begin the bagging procedure, a horizontal sealing bar creates the"Bottom Seal" by clamping round the bottom edge of the tube, bonding the movie together, and cutting off any picture under. This sealing bar can be on a predetermined height, which is known as an irregular sealing procedure. Quicker systems incorporate a sealing bar that moves down with the bag whilst sealing. This is referred to as a continuous process. The item is either pre-measured by a multi-head weighing system or the sealed tube finish is then lowered onto a precision weighing table along with the item to be bagged is dispersed through the extended conical tube in the center of the bag. If the gross weight of this product-filled bag is reached, filling stops, and the horizontal sealing pub seals the cover of the bag, simultaneously forming the bottom of the following bag over. This bag is then cut away by the tube and is presently a sealed package, ready to progress onward into the product boxing and shipping procedures.

Throughout the final sealing process, the bag may be filled with air from a blower or by an inert gas source like nitrogen. Inflating the bag helps reduce the crushing of fragile goods like potato chips, while inflating with inert gas aids drive oxygen out and retards the development of bacteria that would spoil the item. Other product finishes like hole punching for retail hanging racks will be accomplished concurrently or just after the"Top Seal" is made.

The feeding of cutting and material of this bag/pouch can be decided either by pouch length or by subscribing into an eyespot (photo registration markers ), which can be detected by a visual sensor. While single internet systems are popular for meals programs, the dual web four side seal process is often popular for IVD and Medical device products. Closely related is the flat form-fill-seal machine, which generally uses more floor space compared to the vertical system. Modern improvements in pouch forming technology have enabled for smaller and smaller Vertical pouch forming methods.

Lots of food stuffed packages are full of nitrogen to prolong shelf life. Food manufacturers are often looking for ways to improve their geographical reach or extending the shelf life of their product without using chemicals. Nitrogen filling is the natural means of prolonging shelf life. More and more manufacturers are deciding to create and control their own nitrogen supply by using an on demand nitrogen generators.

Today's vertical packing machine (VFFS) can serve effectively in a huge array of businesses, and fulfill any manufacturing and packaging demands determined upon them be those unique businesses. When it comes to packaging products with high volume efficiency, manufacturers in the following industries understand the Substantial role VFFS machines may perform in their production lines:

Hard candies, snack and confection industry

Dried meat industry

Pet food and pet treat industries

Coffee along with other floor, powder food products

Liquid and chemical businesses

IQF (frozen food) product businesses

[themoneybuff-blog]

The forever fallacy

Last week, Ben Carlson from A Wealth of Common Sense published an interesting article about how staying rich is harder than getting rich. He writes: Research shows over 50% of Americans will find themselves in the top 10% of earners for at least one year of their lives. More than 11% will find themselves in the top 1% of income-earners at some point. And close to 99% of those who make it into the top 1% of earners will find themselves on the outside looking in within a decade. Its great that so many people get to taste what its like to earn a lot of money, if only for a little while. Whats not so great is that as most people earn more, they spend more. But if you spend all (or most) of what you earn as youre surfing an income bubble, you can find yourself in trouble when that bubble bursts. Carlson quotes a story about a couple that lived a lavish lifestyle because they were making a lot of money. When the income dried up, they realized they had nothing left. They were broke. Says the husband: The money was just coming so fast and so easy that my ego led me to believe that, Oh, this is my life forever.' Ive been thinking about that last line for a week now: This is my life forever. This couple fell for a common (but seldom examined) mental trap: the forever fallacy. The forever fallacy is the mistaken belief that you will always have what you have today, that youll always be who you are today. The Forever Fallacy Its easiest to see the forever fallacy at play in extreme cases. Take professional athletes, for instance. In a 2009 Sports Illustrated article about how and why athletes go broke, Pablo S. Torre wrote that after two years of retirement, 78% of former NFL players have gone bankrupt or are under financial stress. Within five years of retirement, roughly 60% of former NBA players are in similar positions. Fundamentally, the problem here is the forever fallacy. Athletes (and popular entertainers) tend to enjoy a few years during which they earn great gobs of money. The challenge is to figure out how to make five years of income last for fifty years. This never occurs to most of them. As the money is rolling in, it feels like the money will always be rolling in. When the income stops, the pain begins. [A pro athlete] cant live like a king forever, says Bart Scott in ESPNs Broke, a documentary about pro athletes and their money problems. But you can live like a prince forever. [embedded content] The forever fallacy doesnt just trap athletes and entertainers and lottery winners. It snares average folks like you and me too. Im sure weve all had friends who found themselves flush, whether from a windfall or from a raise at work. They succumb to lifestyle inflation, spending more as they earn more. They buy a bigger house, a new car, a boat. Then, without warning, something awful occurs and theyre no longer rolling in dough. It felt like the good times would last forever but they didnt. The forever fallacy manifests itself in lots of little ways too. When you choose not to keep an emergency fund because youve never needed one in the past, youre succumbing to the forever fallacy.When you take out a large mortgage, one that pushes the limits of your earning power, youre giving in to the forever fallacy.When you fund your lifestyle through debt, youre living in the forever fallacy. The forever fallacy doesnt apply only to positive expectations. People also give in to the forever fallacy with negative expectations. Theyre trapped in a minimum wage job and project that theyll always be working minimum wage. Theyre in a shitty marriage and let themselves believe that theyll always be trapped in a shitty marriage. And so on. The key thing to understand is that everything changes. You change. Your circumstances change. The people around you change. Nothing is forever. The challenge then is to balance this concept everything changes with living in the present. You must learn to enjoy today while simultaneously preparing for possible tomorrows. Negative Visualization One way to protect yourself from the forever fallacy is to play what if? games. In A Guide to the Good Life by William Irvine, the author advocates a psychological exercise he calls negative visualization. Learn to ask yourself, Whats the worst that could happen? The Stoicsrecommended that we spend time imagining that we have lost the things we value that our wife has left us, our car was stolen, or we lost our job. Doing this, the Stoics thought, will make us value our wife, our car, and our job more than we otherwise would. Sounds a little gloomy, right? Irvine says thats not the case. Youre not meant to dwell on these things, but to occasionally ponder them as a thought exercise. In my own life, I used to imagine what it would be like if I lost my job. I could always go to work at McDonalds, I thought. And I grew up in a run-down trailer house. Worst case, I could always live in something like that again. This line of thinking drove my ex-wife crazy but gave me comfort. I knew that if disaster struck, Id be fine flipping burgers and living in a trailer park. Ive done it before and can do it again. Nowadays I challenge myself by thinking about what might happen if the stock market crashed or our house burned down. What would I do if I lost everything? Where would I go? How would I earn money? The Stoics took this exercise even further. Seneca the Younger encouraged followers to live as if each moment were their last. But thats not to say that he wanted people to descend into debauchery. Heres how Irvine explains it: Living as if each day were our last is simply an extension of the negative visualization technique: As we go about our day, we should periodically pause to reflect on the fact that we will not live forever and therefor that this day could be our last. Such reflection, rather than converting us into hedonists, will make us appreciate how wonderful it is that we are alive and have the opportunity to fill this day with activity. This in turn will make it less likely that we will squander our days. Negative visualization is useful because it forces you to look beyond the here and now, to imagine other possible realities. It encourages you to consider that the future might not be a linear projection of the present. I think it can also help nudge a person to think about whats truly important in their life. Too many people squander their days and their dollars. They spend their time and money on things that dont matter, not even a little. When you die, will you be glad you watched every episode of Game of Thrones? Or will you regret not having used that time for something better aligned with your passion and purpose? Be Prepared

Perhaps the best way to protect yourself from the forever fallacy is to become proactive. Like a Boy Scout or a Girl Guide, be prepared to do the right thing at the right moment. In the realm of personal finance, there are plenty of things you can do to be prepared. Get out of debt and stay out of debt. As somebody who was deep in debt for almost twenty years, I now see that carrying debt is a classic expression of the forever fallacy. Its blind faith that youll be able to repay what you owe in the future.Maintain an emergency fund to handle unexpected problems such as car accidents and broken bones.Start an opportunity fund so that you can take advantage of the unexpected good things that come along, such as a chance to travel with friends or a great deal on a used pickup truck.Carry adequate insurance to protect yourself from catastrophic loss like earthquake, heart attack, or giant fire-breathing monsters from the sea.Boost your saving rate, the gap between what you earn and what you spend. This has a two-fold effect. A high saving rate helps you set aside more for the future, but it also makes you more resistent to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune today.Build social capital by creating a web of friends, family, and colleagues that you trust and support and who trust and support you. The truth is youre never going to beat the forever fallacy and neither am I. Not completely, anyhow. Its simply human nature to extrapolate our present and past into the future. The best we can do is mitigate the trouble caused by this tendency. Be Like Bond Recently, Ive been reading the original James Bond novels by Ian Fleming. I like the books because the literary Bond is more realistic than the cinematic Bond; hes less of a superhero and more of an everyday person (who happens to be a secret agent). He eats too much, drinks too much, and can be a bit lazy at times. Where Bond excels, however, is preparation. Hes always thinking a move or two ahead of his foes. He tries to anticipate what might go wrong so that he can take steps to prevent trouble. This doesnt mean that he always evades trouble thered be no drama if he did but his dedication to preparation helps him avoid some scrapes while also allowing him to sometimes survive certain death. Bond does not suffer from the forever fallacy, neither in the short term nor the long. (He often wonders if hes near the end of his career, too old to continue working as a spy.) Wed all have greater success in life if we were more like James Bond, if we took precautions, if we didnt give in to the forever fallacy. Accept the inevitability of change. Prepare for an uncertain future. Plan the best but be ready for the worst. Dont obsess over what might go wrong, but be aware of potential problems and plan for what youll do in a worst-case scenario. https://www.getrichslowly.org/forever-fallacy/

[sere22world]

What is a vertical packing machine?

In smartweigh we fabricate a wide assortment of vertical form, fill and seal machines know as vertical baggers, VFFS or VFS machines.

At a macro level, a vertical form, vertical packing machine uses flat roll stock film onto a roster and forms which picture into a cylinder subsequently sealing the back (vertical seal) and top seals (flat seal) to a pouch.

Firms often choose and utilize vertical packing machine for several reasons: Purchasing roll stock film instead of pre-made pouches is the least expensive way to package as you're no more paying for a value added product.

2. vertical packing machine tend to be very streamlined

3. vertical packing machines are usually easy to use and need little maintenance.

4. Packaging vertically with gravity allows for higher manufacturing rates which is why this kind of packaging is very typical in packaging product like merchandise.

To get a vertical form-fill-seal the movie approaches the rear of a long hollow conical tube, which can be known as the tube. After the middle of this plastic is near the tube, the outer edges of the film form flaps that wrap around the conical forming tube. The film is pulled downward around the exterior of the tube and also a vertical heat-sealing bar moves onto the edges of the movie to make the"fin Seal", bonding the film by massaging the seam edges together. 

To begin the bagging procedure, a horizontal sealing bar creates the"Bottom Seal" by clamping round the bottom edge of the tube, bonding the movie together, and cutting off any picture under. This sealing bar can be on a predetermined height, which is known as an irregular sealing procedure. Quicker systems incorporate a sealing bar that moves down with the bag whilst sealing. This is referred to as a continuous process. The item is either pre-measured by a multi-head weighing system or the sealed tube finish is then lowered onto a precision weighing table along with the item to be bagged is dispersed through the extended conical tube in the center of the bag. If the gross weight of this product-filled bag is reached, filling stops, and the horizontal sealing pub seals the cover of the bag, simultaneously forming the bottom of the following bag over. This bag is then cut away by the tube and is presently a sealed package, ready to progress onward into the product boxing and shipping procedures.

Throughout the final sealing process, the bag may be filled with air from a blower or by an inert gas source like nitrogen. Inflating the bag helps reduce the crushing of fragile goods like potato chips, while inflating with inert gas aids drive oxygen out and retards the development of bacteria that would spoil the item. Other product finishes like hole punching for retail hanging racks will be accomplished concurrently or just after the"Top Seal" is made.

The feeding of cutting and material of this bag/pouch can be decided either by pouch length or by subscribing into an eyespot (photo registration markers ), which can be detected by a visual sensor. While single internet systems are popular for meals programs, the dual web four side seal process is often popular for IVD and Medical device products. Closely related is the flat form-fill-seal machine, which generally uses more floor space compared to the vertical system. Modern improvements in pouch forming technology have enabled for smaller and smaller Vertical pouch forming methods.

Lots of food stuffed packages are full of nitrogen to prolong shelf life. Food manufacturers are often looking for ways to improve their geographical reach or extending the shelf life of their product without using chemicals. Nitrogen filling is the natural means of prolonging shelf life. More and more manufacturers are deciding to create and control their own nitrogen supply by using an on demand nitrogen generators.

Today's vertical packing machine (VFFS) can serve effectively in a huge array of businesses, and fulfill any manufacturing and packaging demands determined upon them be those unique businesses. When it comes to packaging products with high volume efficiency, manufacturers in the following industries understand the Substantial role VFFS machines may perform in their production lines:

Hard candies, snack and confection industry

Dried meat industry

Pet food and pet treat industries

Coffee along with other floor, powder food products

Liquid and chemical businesses

IQF (frozen food) product businesses

[themoneybuff-blog]

The forever fallacy

Last week, Ben Carlson from A Wealth of Common Sense published an interesting article about how staying rich is harder than getting rich. He writes: Research shows over 50% of Americans will find themselves in the top 10% of earners for at least one year of their lives. More than 11% will find themselves in the top 1% of income-earners at some point. And close to 99% of those who make it into the top 1% of earners will find themselves on the outside looking in within a decade. Its great that so many people get to taste what its like to earn a lot of money, if only for a little while. Whats not so great is that as most people earn more, they spend more. But if you spend all (or most) of what you earn as youre surfing an income bubble, you can find yourself in trouble when that bubble bursts. Carlson quotes a story about a couple that lived a lavish lifestyle because they were making a lot of money. When the income dried up, they realized they had nothing left. They were broke. Says the husband: The money was just coming so fast and so easy that my ego led me to believe that, Oh, this is my life forever.' Ive been thinking about that last line for a week now: This is my life forever. This couple fell for a common (but seldom examined) mental trap: the forever fallacy. The forever fallacy is the mistaken belief that you will always have what you have today, that youll always be who you are today. The Forever Fallacy Its easiest to see the forever fallacy at play in extreme cases. Take professional athletes, for instance. In a 2009 Sports Illustrated article about how and why athletes go broke, Pablo S. Torre wrote that after two years of retirement, 78% of former NFL players have gone bankrupt or are under financial stress. Within five years of retirement, roughly 60% of former NBA players are in similar positions. Fundamentally, the problem here is the forever fallacy. Athletes (and popular entertainers) tend to enjoy a few years during which they earn great gobs of money. The challenge is to figure out how to make five years of income last for fifty years. This never occurs to most of them. As the money is rolling in, it feels like the money will always be rolling in. When the income stops, the pain begins. [A pro athlete] cant live like a king forever, says Bart Scott in ESPNs Broke, a documentary about pro athletes and their money problems. But you can live like a prince forever. [embedded content] The forever fallacy doesnt just trap athletes and entertainers and lottery winners. It snares average folks like you and me too. Im sure weve all had friends who found themselves flush, whether from a windfall or from a raise at work. They succumb to lifestyle inflation, spending more as they earn more. They buy a bigger house, a new car, a boat. Then, without warning, something awful occurs and theyre no longer rolling in dough. It felt like the good times would last forever but they didnt. The forever fallacy manifests itself in lots of little ways too. When you choose not to keep an emergency fund because youve never needed one in the past, youre succumbing to the forever fallacy.When you take out a large mortgage, one that pushes the limits of your earning power, youre giving in to the forever fallacy.When you fund your lifestyle through debt, youre living in the forever fallacy. The forever fallacy doesnt apply only to positive expectations. People also give in to the forever fallacy with negative expectations. Theyre trapped in a minimum wage job and project that theyll always be working minimum wage. Theyre in a shitty marriage and let themselves believe that theyll always be trapped in a shitty marriage. And so on. The key thing to understand is that everything changes. You change. Your circumstances change. The people around you change. Nothing is forever. The challenge then is to balance this concept everything changes with living in the present. You must learn to enjoy today while simultaneously preparing for possible tomorrows. Negative Visualization One way to protect yourself from the forever fallacy is to play what if? games. In A Guide to the Good Life by William Irvine, the author advocates a psychological exercise he calls negative visualization. Learn to ask yourself, Whats the worst that could happen? The Stoicsrecommended that we spend time imagining that we have lost the things we value that our wife has left us, our car was stolen, or we lost our job. Doing this, the Stoics thought, will make us value our wife, our car, and our job more than we otherwise would. Sounds a little gloomy, right? Irvine says thats not the case. Youre not meant to dwell on these things, but to occasionally ponder them as a thought exercise. In my own life, I used to imagine what it would be like if I lost my job. I could always go to work at McDonalds, I thought. And I grew up in a run-down trailer house. Worst case, I could always live in something like that again. This line of thinking drove my ex-wife crazy but gave me comfort. I knew that if disaster struck, Id be fine flipping burgers and living in a trailer park. Ive done it before and can do it again. Nowadays I challenge myself by thinking about what might happen if the stock market crashed or our house burned down. What would I do if I lost everything? Where would I go? How would I earn money? The Stoics took this exercise even further. Seneca the Younger encouraged followers to live as if each moment were their last. But thats not to say that he wanted people to descend into debauchery. Heres how Irvine explains it: Living as if each day were our last is simply an extension of the negative visualization technique: As we go about our day, we should periodically pause to reflect on the fact that we will not live forever and therefor that this day could be our last. Such reflection, rather than converting us into hedonists, will make us appreciate how wonderful it is that we are alive and have the opportunity to fill this day with activity. This in turn will make it less likely that we will squander our days. Negative visualization is useful because it forces you to look beyond the here and now, to imagine other possible realities. It encourages you to consider that the future might not be a linear projection of the present. I think it can also help nudge a person to think about whats truly important in their life. Too many people squander their days and their dollars. They spend their time and money on things that dont matter, not even a little. When you die, will you be glad you watched every episode of Game of Thrones? Or will you regret not having used that time for something better aligned with your passion and purpose? Be Prepared

Perhaps the best way to protect yourself from the forever fallacy is to become proactive. Like a Boy Scout or a Girl Guide, be prepared to do the right thing at the right moment. In the realm of personal finance, there are plenty of things you can do to be prepared. Get out of debt and stay out of debt. As somebody who was deep in debt for almost twenty years, I now see that carrying debt is a classic expression of the forever fallacy. Its blind faith that youll be able to repay what you owe in the future.Maintain an emergency fund to handle unexpected problems such as car accidents and broken bones.Start an opportunity fund so that you can take advantage of the unexpected good things that come along, such as a chance to travel with friends or a great deal on a used pickup truck.Carry adequate insurance to protect yourself from catastrophic loss like earthquake, heart attack, or giant fire-breathing monsters from the sea.Boost your saving rate, the gap between what you earn and what you spend. This has a two-fold effect. A high saving rate helps you set aside more for the future, but it also makes you more resistent to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune today.Build social capital by creating a web of friends, family, and colleagues that you trust and support and who trust and support you. The truth is youre never going to beat the forever fallacy and neither am I. Not completely, anyhow. Its simply human nature to extrapolate our present and past into the future. The best we can do is mitigate the trouble caused by this tendency. Be Like Bond Recently, Ive been reading the original James Bond novels by Ian Fleming. I like the books because the literary Bond is more realistic than the cinematic Bond; hes less of a superhero and more of an everyday person (who happens to be a secret agent). He eats too much, drinks too much, and can be a bit lazy at times. Where Bond excels, however, is preparation. Hes always thinking a move or two ahead of his foes. He tries to anticipate what might go wrong so that he can take steps to prevent trouble. This doesnt mean that he always evades trouble thered be no drama if he did but his dedication to preparation helps him avoid some scrapes while also allowing him to sometimes survive certain death. Bond does not suffer from the forever fallacy, neither in the short term nor the long. (He often wonders if hes near the end of his career, too old to continue working as a spy.) Wed all have greater success in life if we were more like James Bond, if we took precautions, if we didnt give in to the forever fallacy. Accept the inevitability of change. Prepare for an uncertain future. Plan the best but be ready for the worst. Dont obsess over what might go wrong, but be aware of potential problems and plan for what youll do in a worst-case scenario. https://www.getrichslowly.org/forever-fallacy/