#but i remember the day I learnt all the black cuts were commercials

[tenrose]

Breaking the fourth wall by mentioning the commercials cutting the show is hilarious. Even more hilarious considering I'm illegally streaming it and have not the said commercials.

[believe-that-you-can-my-friend]

Summary: Jughead Jones, facing the reality of having nowhere to stay anymore when the Drive-In gets shut down, finds temporary shelter at the Blue & Gold office. But what happens when an upset Betty Cooper catches him on the act?

Read on AO3

(Sooooo, I’m watching Riverdale and my feels about Bughead are over the moon!! And now that we learnt some bits and pieces about his life and that he doesn’t have a house anymore (my heart is broken, I just love Jughead) I had no other choice but to write this, hope you all like guys!!!)

Jughead knew the routine by now. Scrunched down and trying to make his trademark combat boots as soundless as possible, the raven haired boy cautiously popped his head from the corner he was hiding, icy blue eyes scanning the empty corridor in from of him. A quarter to nine, the great clock over the entrance of Riverdale High informed him and he slightly frowned, biting anxiously on his down lip and drumming his slender fingers on the tiled wall next to him in anticipation. Radio commercials along with the icky sound of track soles stepping on wet floor could be heard faintly inside the now lifeless school building, a tell-tale sign that his misery for the day will soon be over and Jughead could be nothing but relieved about it. He was tired and even more so mentally tired, with all the small town drama and its joke of residents as well as his spiraling thoughts about his novel and the newfound reality he had to adjust to, that being his current situation of well, yeah, being homeless, plus the here and there thoughts about a certain girl next door, a girl he knew all his life and a girl he always knew belonged to his best friend, that lately seemed to invade his mind an awful more lot. Yeah, Jughead needed a place to lie down, even if that was the dusty floor of the Blue & Gold.

The characteristic sound of the janitors’ trolley could be heard rolling down the linoleum floor and the old man came into view, Jughead letting a soundless “finally” as he watched him tuck away his gear inside the small room at the very entrance of the school, minutes before walking away and locking the large grey doors behind him with superb choices of curse words under his breath at how much he hated his life. He didn’t blame him, he hated his life too, Jughead thought as he made his way to his and Betty’s headquarters in his usual apathetic manner, unlocking the wooden door with the spare keys his blonde “coworker” had given him once he had said yes to her proposal of brining Blue & Gold to its former glory, and he let a sigh of content once the door clicked behind him. Maybe it was the fact that he spent almost his entire days in this office the last couple of weeks that made him feel so at ease being there. Or maybe it was the way her perfume still lingered in the air, all vanilla and sunshine, that brought calmness to his chaotic mind. He truly didn’t know.

He threw hastily his bag and his black denim jacket at one of the chairs and got to work, unburying the small backpack of his belongings from a rusty cupboard at the very end, along with a thin rolled up mattress – choosing that very cupboard because it was old and dirty and he knew Betty wouldn’t have any business going near it – and set his makeshift bed next to the huge wall bookcase, amongst old dusty computers and long forgotten paperwork. He sat down and rested his heavy head on the wooden drawers behind him with a sigh, his eyes focusing on the florescent light of the table lamb next to the brand new stationary Betty had brought over from her parents’ newspaper. A yellow post-it note was attached to the black metal of the lighting source and Betty’s calligraphic letters were decorating it, listing the “rules” of their so called partnership, the first one being “It’s not mandatory to always look at a computer screen, Juggie!”. His chapped lips cracked a small smile at that and Betty Cooper popped on his thoughts once again, bringing something on his chest, a nervous excitement as he would describe it from his author point of view, but a sinking feeling as well. Because Jughead Jones felt bad; bad that he had to be so secretive with her, especially now that they had grown closer, because, Lord forbid, if she found out. He would die of eternal humiliation. But seriously, how could anyone hold anything back when coming face to face with those blue Bambi eyes? He didn’t know that either.

Jughead groaned at the mess his life had become overnight and a palm came to rub down his face, in an attempt to vanish any thought of the bubbly blonde that seemed to fog his mind. Of course he knew better than to get tangled in something as idealistic as the mere thought of her ever thinking him as a possible option but that didn’t seem to restrict his mind from going there. And regarding how many times Betty Cooper has conquered his thoughts these last couple of days, Jughead knew he had it bad. He needed a distraction and his best one was getting lost inside his world of words but as he made a move to grab his laptop from inside his bag, the air was sucked out of his lungs by surprise and by the scent of vanilla that overwhelmed him and the atmosphere around him.

“Pop was renovating over the weekend.” An upset Betty Cooper spat like an accusation in front of him and Jughead shot up in shock to meet her height.

“Um Bet-Betty…” he tried to form words but the shot of embarrassment in his system was forming a lump on his throat. He moved in panic to try to cover any of his stuff lying around but failed, shifting on his weight like a stupid deer in the headlights. God, he hated himself. “What are you doing here?” he finally dared to ask, momentarily meeting her angry stare.

“Do I look like an idiot or, I don’t know, am I that plain and naïve that nobody seems to trust me with what is happening in their lives?” the raised octave in her voice was something that Jughead found surprising and somehow really affective in making him feel like he had disappointed her.

“Betty, no! I’m…Please, let me explain!” he tried, feeling the cold sweat running down his spine.

“You were acting sketchy, Jughead!” she cut him off with the spank that he liked in her but really dreaded right now. “And unlike what some people say, no, that’s not normal for you, so yeah, I followed you and you never went at Pop’s and I’m assuming you didn’t even go all those other nights that we parted ways after working here?” she narrowed her eyes and frowned, wanting an explanation, praying that he’d better have a good excuse about all that, cause really she was sick of people treating her like an accessory in their lives.

Technically, it wasn’t a lie. Jughead spent most of his time at Pop’s and his first thought in finding work and residence was his favorite burger shop but since the newly into town Hermione Lodge had filled the last serving position and the shop did stay shut over the weekend for a ridiculous renovation – of course Jughead knew that, he just hoped Betty hadn’t heard – his dreamy plan was thrown out the window, which led him to find temporary shelter inside the Blue & Gold. He just kept this part of the truth hidden from Betty, which by the looks of it now was a bad idea.

“I was never at Pop’s.” Jughead admitted in defeat, in a small voice that Betty never heard him use before, and with his blue eyes focused solemnly on his boots.

Betty’s face fell and he felt her disappointment, even though not looking at her. “Can I ask what are you doing here? And please, I want a honest answer.” She said in all seriousness, heart heavy in her chest cause Jughead was her friend, these couple of days even growing to something more than that, something she couldn’t really pinpoint, and he had given her the impression that he was gonna treat her way better than that.

Jughead sighed; it was now or never. It was better for her to be disgusted by his joke of a life than believe that she did something wrong, that she is not good enough for people to stick around. So he sucked his pride and decided to be dead honest, even if that would cost him his chance with her forever.

“You remember how pissed I was about the drive-in?” he dared to raise his eyes to look at her and saw her nod in confusion. “It wasn’t just ethical, about how everything gets demolished under the spell of the American Dream” he scoffed at that “nor was it just the fact that I lost my job.” He took a breath and exhaled with a sigh and closed eyes, trying to gather the courage because Jughead never admitted defeat or, God forbid, asked for help.  “That place was also my home. Like my actual house.” He hesitantly looked at her, her frown lines still in tack and those eyes still watery, but he could see the wheels in her mind turning, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt and understand him.

“What?” she huffed in confusion. “I thought you and your dad were—”

“My dad has long gone out of the picture, Betty.” A frown appeared to his forehead now, Jughead suddenly feeling the need to examine his fingers, too scared to see the pity in her eyes. “I don’t have a place to stay.” He admitted finally with a melodramatic smirk, Betty opening and closing her mouth at a loss of words, taken aback by this revelation. “I understand that I can’t be here” Jughead sobered up and faced her, serious now “and I’m really sorry that I betrayed your trust. Here’s the key” he fished the small silver chain from the front pocket of his jeans and left it on the desk that separated them “I’ll see myself out.”

Betty watched in shock as he threw his backpack over his shoulder in a swift movement and snatched his bag and jacket, not really believing that this guy was beating himself up for things that clearly weren’t his fault. She straightened her back and shook her head at his stubborn ego; she wouldn’t let him walk away like that. Just as he was about to pass her by and get lost in the night like a tragic hero of yet another sappy novel, head dropped to the floor in embarrassment and guilt, Betty grabbed his wrist and he stilled, not facing her still but raising his eyebrows in confusion at her actions and at the pinch of electricity that small touch offered to his heart.

“Juggie…” her voice was candy cane sweet, like the Betty he always knew, and her eyes felt soft upon his profile, something that made him find some of his snarky self back. “Do you seriously believe that I’m mad at you right now?”

“You’re not?” he questioned with a tilt of his head to her side.

“Well, yes, for not telling me the moment it all happened.” She took a step back and stood her ground, releasing him before curling her arms over her chest. “Does Archie know at least?” she wandered.

Jughead just looked guiltily to the ground again and then back to her eyes.

“Oh, Juggie…” her heart broke for him and she whined his name adorably, because seriously this guy was being a martyr for no reason. “We are your friends! Why are you insisting on piling all those things inside you instead of sharing them with the people that love you?” she spoke softly and he looked at her with such intensity and awe that Betty felt a flush run to her cheeks for no reason.

“I just like getting out of my mess alone.” Jughead admitted and let a small smile, not at the statement, but because he did notice the blush and for some weird reason he found her even cuter. Gosh, this girl knew how to bring peace and havoc in equal amounts to his deranged mind.

“I know that.” Betty offered him a lopsided smirk along with an eye roll, because he did know him and his stubborn, prideful self, which made him crack a small, adorable smile and Betty thought that as an achievement. “But asking for help once in a while isn’t any sign of, I don’t know, weakness or false male ego or whatever society is piling up against you boys” she spoke in exasperation and with her usual Betty hand gestures to underline the ridicule of it all and he chuckled, he actually chuckled, making her mentally pat herself on the back for succeeding to cheer him up even for a moment. “so use us and our services sometimes, please?” she let a chuckle of her own and he hesitantly nodded, feeling a lot more light and optimistic now that he had confided in her.

Her eyes left him and scanned the room, taking in the small and definitely uncomfortable mattress on the floor. “How long has this been going on?”

Jughead rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Ah, a week or so.”

Betty shook her head in disbelief. “I’m not gonna ask what happened with you dad; it’s your deal and if you don’t wanna share it with anyone, I respect that.” Jughead just nodded, grateful for this girl and her discrete manners and overall amazing personality. “But you need a place to stay.” She advised softly, almost lovably and Jughead couldn’t remember the last time he felt so cared for before.

“I know, I’m working on that.” He quickly answered. “I’m not gonna stay here, it was stupid on my part to do that and I don’t want to get you into any kind of trouble—”

Betty cut him off again. “I’m not worried about me, Juggie.” She smiled and he lost his train of thought again, because that girl was unpredictable and he was seriously digging that. “I’m worried about you here. And you can’t keep on sleeping on the floor!” she pointed the obvious and gestured at the makeshift bed on the side.

“It’s just Archie has a lot on his plate right now…”Jughead started to rant away, focusing again on his fingers cause he didn’t really like the position he was right now “and Pop… Pop! Who would have guessed that Pop is turning his back at his most loyal customer not to say future author of Riverdale’s very own In Cold Blood, which I mean seriously Bets, people are going to pose for selfies at my booth in a couple of years’ time, and Pop is going to beg for me to autograph it but I’ll refuse and I’ll show him---“ he ranted on and on and Betty shook her head in amusement, because she knew what he was doing, he was trying to pretend to be aloof and funny although he was in deep ends but clearly he wasn’t fooling her.

“You’re staying with me.” She ended his word vomit in a blink, with a satisfied smile and a raised eyebrow, once seeing him choking a breath.

“As in…” he cleared his throat “as in the Coopers’ household?”

“The one and only.” Betty sing-sang.

“Bets, I thought I was your friend. Yet, you’re sending me in a suicide mission against Alice vigilante Cooper.” Jughead snapped in disbelief, thinking that was the craziest thing that might have come out of Betty’s mouth all the years he knew her.

Betty laughed. “You’ll be fine. What Alice Cooper doesn’t know, she won’t hurt her.” She shrugged.

Jughead narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re going to hide me!”

“Well, I’m not going to abduct you, Juggie, you’ll just be restricted to the grounds of my bedroom and maybe sometimes you’ll have to leave the house way early in the mornings, that’s it.” She proposed and pushed her lips together in thought, trying to persuade him.

“No.”

“Juggie!”

“No! That’s way out of line!” he drew the word to underline the impossible of the situation. Not only her mom was able to murder them on spot if she came into realization of what was happening in her house but also him and Betty in the same room sleeping? That was a terrible idea on a whole other level.

“Well, what do you propose?” she challenged him, knowing that eventually he had him. “Or maybe you would like to sleep on a bench and then have to explain to the sheriff and the whole town your little situation.”

He scoffed, knowing that she had a point but not willing to admit it. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Jughead, stop being stubborn!” Betty demanded. “You’re coming with me, end of story.”

He opened his mouth to say something but her raised eyebrow stopped him and instead he groaned. “Fine!” Jughead snapped grumpily and Betty squalled in delight. “But just for tonight.” He pointed a warning finger and she faked an agreeing nod, smile bright upon her shiny colored lips.

“And one last thing.” Betty spoke, taking the key he had previously abandoned on the desk before opening his palm and closing it around it. Jughead watched her curiously, his eyes focusing on her slender fingers as they brushed softly over his fist, before they were gone and he was left with that strange feeling she brought to his chest every time she was around. “I trust you, Jughead. And I believe you; don’t ever doubt that.” She smiled sweetly up at him and the air left his lungs involuntarily, Jughead catching himself thinking that there wasn’t someone quite like her in whole wide world, before he heard her say “let’s go” and led the way, him following hypnotized behind her.

Jughead Jones the Third was indeed putty for Betty Cooper.

The walk to her house was filled with idle chat and bunter, as if there was just another usual night escorting her home after leaving Blue & Gold or grabbing a bite Pop’s, as if the events of the previous hour had never occurred. But they did and Jughead was actually going to stay the night in Betty Cooper’s very own room, something that frightened him to no end, but also excited him, even if he didn’t dare to admit it.

Her parents’ car was in the driveway, meaning they weren’t that lucky, but that didn’t faze Betty at all, something that surprised Jughead. He knew she could be bold and up for a dare but not to that extend. She just directed him to stay quiet and unlocked the door slowly, checking first inside and then motioning for him to follow her. That flight up the stairs and into Betty’s room was something that Jughead strongly believed could have potentially given him a heart attack.

He remembered Betty’s bedroom. Even thought when they used to hang out as kids they went either to Archie’s house or his treehouse, he had been to her bedroom a fair amount of times to remember all the pink on the walls and the princess like decoration. Seeing it now after so many years there wasn’t much of a change, just the upgraded double bed and the plethora of posters on the wall, but other than that it was still just like in his childhood memories.

“Alright” Betty spoke softly and closed the door behind her, locking it just in case. She may have been pretending to be fearless in front of Jughead – for the sake of wanting to keep him out of trouble and worries – but still she knew her mom would actually start World War Three if she caught him, or any boy in that case, inside the room of her perfect daughter. “Make yourself at home.” She instructed with a sweet smile and went to close her blinds.

Thankfully Archie’s room was dark, meaning the boy was either sleeping or somewhere else in the house, and Jughead felt relieved at that because seriously he didn’t need a repetition of what happened tonight at school with Betty and in Archie’s case with more demanding questions. The raven haired boy shifted his weight from one leg to the other, clearly unsure of what to do, cause seriously that was the first time he was alone in a bedroom with a girl, that girl being Betty Cooper, possibly the girl he wished from time to time to be alone with, and even thought nothing remotely like that was going to happen, the situation was rather nerve-racking to say the least.  So, he stood there like an awkward fool, glancing around her room and fiddling with the strap of his backpack which was still attached on his shoulder.

Once she was done, Betty turned to face him, catching a glimpse of how nervous he was being, something he was never before with anyone, licking her lips to hide her amused smile. “Well, I didn’t know you sleep standing up.” She teased him and allowed a smirk to curl her lips, Jughead offering a sarcastic ha-ha back.

“Humans are behavioral beings and need time to adjust. I’m adjusting.” He shot back and she raised her hands in fake surrender, walking around the room tucking away her text books and kicking her sneakers by the door.

Jughead walked to the spot he previously occupied, leaving his belongings under the window, kicking off his own combat boots and dropping his jacket and flannel over his backpack, standing there with a plain black t-shirt and his jeans. He buried his hands on his pockets and leaned a shoulder next to the window, watching her. He liked seeing her in her own space, being relaxed and domestic, just twirling around tiding things, fixing her school bag for the next day, emptying her bed from all the decorative pillows, snooping around her cupboards for more blankets for the both of them. Betty knew his icy eyes were on her and she didn’t mind, she kinda liked the weird flush of the skin under his gaze, and only when she sat on her vanity to get rid of her light make up, she let her eyes connect with his through the mirror, sea of blue meeting sea of blue, offering him a smile like the ones that always brought foreign trouble to his mind. And then she raised her hand and got rid of that elastic thing that got hold of her hair in her preppy trademark ponytail, letting a stream of golden locks fall loose over her shoulders, and Jughead was sold, gone out of his freaking mind, as he watched her sway them from side to side to relieve the tension on her sculp. If he thought she looked beautiful in a ponytail, then now she was certainly a vision to look at.

Jughead didn’t even notice her standing up and snooping through her drawers, until she was facing him again, swaying some kind of garment from one hand to the other.

“Um, I need to change into my pajamas sooo…” Betty trailed off and blushed adorably, motioning for him to turn away, feeling a tingling feeling low on her stomach cause she was alone with Jughead in her room, and he wasn’t Kevin, he was Jughead pretty-hot Jones, but she wasn’t Veronica, mysterious and confident and experienced in the boys field, so yeah her nerves where on the code red side at that very moment.

“Oh, yeah, right, I’ll, I’ll, I’ll just turn around, sorry, yeah…”Jughead stuttered awkwardly, clumsily turning around with full force and knocking his knee on the wooden end of her bed with a thud, Betty biting her lip not to burst out laughing and him mentally cursing himself and flinching at how much of a fool he made himself once turning to face the window. He could hear pieces of clothing being taken off and he brought a palm to rub at his forehead, feeling suddenly the air of the room getting hotter by the minute at the mental images the teeny-tiny sounds were forming in his way too creative mind. He forced himself to think about something else, anything to tame his stupid teenage hormonal outrage, and he started reciting Macbeth in his mind, which surprising took his mind a little off things.

“All set.” He heard the two little magic words and sighed in relief, turning hesitantly around, but that didn’t help with the situation, since there she was in a white t-shirt and a pair of grey cotton shorts, her long legs as if they were going for miles. Jughead cleared his throat and dropped his head to the ground, ashamed about his thoughts, making Betty fidget with the hem of her shirt, feeling suddenly insecure.

 “Um, I should actually get started on my bedspread.” Jughead awkwardly joked, leaning down to retrieve the thin mattress from his backpack, wanting to ease the situation and his nerves.

“What are you doing?” Betty raised her face to look at him, making him halt his movements.

“Getting ready to fall into bed like you suggested?” he titled his head in confusion.

“Well, yeah, you said it yourself; bed. That hardly seems like a bed to me.” She said matter-of-factly, her eyes going between him and the double bed on the center of the room.

“You’re kidding right?” he said, deadpanned.

“What? Am I that repulsive to even lie next to?” Betty scoffed with a shake of her head, curling her arms over her chest in defeat.

“What? No!” Jughead huffed, not believing that she actually said that, or worst, believed that for herself. “It’s just…”he fought to find the right words “not right.” Amazing choice of words, Jughead, really.

“Well, we have slept together before numerous times.” the blonde pointed out cleverly.

“Yes! Up until we were eight!” he shot back in exasperation. “We’ve…changed since then.” He struggled to get his point across; he really didn’t want to feel more tortured than he already was and a night spent on a bed next to Betty would certainly do the trick. They weren’t kids anymore. And even though those – maybe – feelings he had for Betty existed back then too, they were nothing but platonic, as all elementary crushes are, as opposed to now that he dreaded to even take a second look of those gorgeous legs in front of him.

“Yeah, we did.” Betty agreed softly, in barely a whisper, and he could see she was as disappointed and confused as he was, so she let the subject go. “I’m just saying that it’s a pity for me to have such spare room and you to be sleeping on the floor. It’s not even polite.” She shrugged and passed him a thick blanket and a fluffy lavender pillow, giving him a pointed look under her eyelashes that had him restraining himself with difficulty.

“Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine.” Jughead finally assured her with an adorable smile, brushing lightly his thump over her hand as he accepted the linens, earning a small smile in return.

They got settled into their own beds and Betty turned off her bedside lamp, leaving only the moonlight and some faint fairy lights over her bookcase illuminating the room. Both of them facing the ceiling and getting lost in their thoughts, they enjoyed the blissful silence of the night and the presence of each other, thinking about their lives and how they had changed over only one summer.

“Bets, you’re sleeping?” Jughead’s almost whisper broke into the silence of the room, Betty grimacing a small smile at the ceiling.

“Nah…”she whispered - sighed.

“The thing with my dad…” he started and Betty’s brows frowned at that, the girl titling her head slightly to her side over her pillow. “It’s not something I’m proud of, ok?” he sighed and blinked in the dark to arrange his thoughts. “I know people don’t expect much from me, I mean how could they I’m just an outsider stuck in fantasy worlds and a computer screen, my father is all I’m ever going to be and I love him, I do, but…”he licked his lips trying to find the right words but Betty bet him to it.

“But that’s not who you really are.” She concluded his thoughts perfectly, like she was reading his mind and Jughead nodded into the dark, even though she couldn’t see him. He heard her moving over the bed and he saw her slid at the edge of her bed and turn on her side to fully face him, where he was lying on the floor.

“Are you really telling me that with my mom being Alice Cooper and having Polly Cooper as my sister, you have it bad?” Betty joked with no humor in her voice and Jughead turned up to look at her. “If anything, crazy runs in my family, Juggie. That’s what people expect me to be. But I’m not predictable, I refuse to be. And neither are you.” She spoke with so much certainty, with eyes that shined against the moonlight, and in that moment Jughead felt he could do anything just because she said so, just because she believed in him.

“You have galaxies inside your mind, Jughead Jones the Third.” Betty said with an adorable frown, feeling so angry and frustrated that people like Reggie or Chuck or other unmannered jerks were making someone like Jughead feel lesser or not worthy enough, someone that was actually way more worthy than all of them combined, and not only in her eyes. “Stop letting people tell you, you cannot shine.” She smiled in the dark and he did too, feeling something unique in his chest since nobody ever believed in him as much as this girl right in front of him. Her hand came to caress lightly his cheek and Jughead stopped breathing for a moment but eventually relaxed, Betty’s thump brushing lightly over the fading dimple his awestruck smirk created.

“You really are turning into some author, Betty Cooper.” He whispered with an adorable smirk, his eyes locked with hers, thinking that anyone who passed by the fact of how amazing she was could only be a fool.

“I’m really glad you of all people say that.” Betty gave him a content smile, a bright genuine one, and retrieved her hand, much to his dislike. She just rested it under her pillow and sighed, closing her eyes. “I get that you want to find a solution on your own but I don’t want you wandering around until you do. Please stay here.”

Jughead sighed, watching her slowly drift to dreamland. “I don’t think I can walk away now.”

[ravenhowl-in-shipland]

Happy Birthday Yurio (>*o*)><(*o*<)

I absolutely wanted to do something on this special day so here is a little Yuriyuu fanfiction about my favorite character of the show. Thank you Kubo-sensei for creating such a beautiful and complex character. It takes place between “One step at a time” and “Pork Cutlet Bowl”

Title : Octakaideca (Eighteen in Greek)

Rating : Explicit

Pairing : Yuri x Yuuri

Disclaimer : The characters are not mine sadly. They are all the property of Kubo-sensei !

A pout appeared on his pale and delicate face, covered by a bunch of blonde locks that he placed behind his ears every now and then, incomprehension clearly visible in his bright green eyes as he climbed in the passenger seat of the luxurious black car, and he grumbled under his breath, a bit annoyed, when the person who sat next to him, in the driver seat, wasn't the one that he expected on this special day. Not the least.

He didn't understand what was actually happening. Why was he even here ? Beside him, there should have been his beloved, the one person that made his heart beat so fast that it was too painful to stay calm and not kiss him wildly, the only soul that could shook his entire body with just a simple laugher, true and full of feelings, he who looked like an adult and sounded like a child, the man that inspired him during all these years of skating, his Agape, and they should have enjoyed a date without caring for what others could think of them, not like their first one.

However, fate seemed to think otherwise and on his left, turning the key to start the engine, stood Viktor Nikiforov who had been his spiritual rival on the rink during all his competitions since the very beginning but also, to win the heart of Yuuri Katsuki, the most beautiful and kind person he had ever met. Hopefully, even though the tiger Russian had been really mean and hurt him in many ways on their first talk, he had apologized in his own manner after that and had claimed the older man as his, stealing a precious thing to the silver haired skater. But, as if he wanted to get some kind of revenge for what he did, the five times champion took the lead on this important day and didn't explain why Yuri couldn't spend it with his lovely boyfriend.

After all, today was supposed to be his eighteenth birthday, the most important one in his young life, and he had waited for it since they had begun to go out with each other, hiding their relationship to everyone so they wouldn't be in the middle of a scandal because he was still a minor. Their group of friends had learnt about their situation just a year after his confession and all of them had easily accepted the truth, especially Chris who was hoping for it since the trio had formed in Hasetsu, and only Otabek had been shocked by the revelation, going back to Kazakhstan right after that to assimilate the information. Yuri didn't blame him and had been ready to face rejection since he had developed these feelings, but he had had a hard time to cop with his loss. One of his friend had left him because of one decision he had taken and it was difficult to endure.

The ravenette had comforted him for one whole week after the event, saying that Otabek needed some time to get used to it, and had taken care of the youngster until he had felt better, kissing him all over his face and pampering him like a child, proving him how much he loved his partner. That's why, the blonde had thought that this day would also meant something to his boyfriend. Maybe he was wrong ?

Shaking his head to chase those bad thoughts away, the Russian boy bit his bottom lips before opening his mouth, to ask the question which was burning inside of his head, and turned to look at the guy next to him.

"Where are we going ?"

"Shopping of course ! I have to buy a few things for Makkachin and I wanted to have my hair cut a little. It's getting long again" the adult answered with a cheerful smile, the ones Yuri didn't like at all.

"And why do I have to come with you ? You could have just go alone !" He groaned as the car moved onto the main road, toward the commercial district.

"You would have left me ?! You're so heartless my little Yurio ... I'm hurt"

"You're so annoying."

The blonde put his elbow on the window sill, his right cheek against a closed fist, and sighed heavily, hoping that this day will end quickly so he could hug his katsudon and whine about the fact that he wasn't with him during this important event.

For more than five hours, when he had imagined himself curled up against his beloved, watching some dumb movies on TV, Viktor dragged him in different kind of shops to buy random clothes or toys, talking nonsense while trying a brown shirt with a tight jean, showing him cat plushies that almost made him squeal in happiness, pulling him toward the same pet store he had gone for his first date, taking a lot of time to choose something for his poodle, hesitating between a collar and a cute pillow to lean on, and if he wasn't used to give such efforts during his training, he would be panting hard by now.

Not knowing why the five times champion would take the youngest of their group with him, except for sharing his taste in terms of clothing and crying on his shoulder when he couldn't get what he wanted, the blonde Russian tried to enjoy their trip throughout the city, also looking for something to buy to his lover, in hope to thank him for what he did for the youngster the past two and a half years, and was relieved when they entered the hairdresser at the end of the afternoon, the last trial before they could go back to Yuuri's apartment.

"Good afternoon ladies, I have an appointment at 4:45 PM" Viktor said in a flirty manner, wearing his best smile to impress the two women behind the counter.

"O-oh right M. Nikiforov, come this way. Let me take your bags, I'll put them in the wardrobe"

Her answer was so sweet and sugary that it almost sounded false to the eighteen years old Russian, making her look like any other of his fan, and he wanted to puke when he heard her talk with that high pitch voice all of a sudden, when she had spoken normally to the rest of their customers. Hypocrite, he mumbled to himself while the silver haired man followed the person who was going to take care of his hair.

"Pardon me but, this little one needs a new haircut too !"

"What ?!"

"You can't look like that on your own birthday Yurachka ! If you don't want to cut them, then let her styling your hair at least !" He answered with a grin.

"You piece of ..."

Yuri held back the curse he had wanted to throw at his face, remembering that his katsudon didn't like it at all when he talked this way to people, and grunted when the second girl came next to him so she could lead him toward a chair. During these two years, his hair had grown quite a bit and he had added fifteen centimeters to his height, catching up with Yuuri who was now smaller than him by five. And to be honest, the blonde was happy to be bigger so he could take him easily in his arms and put his chin on the other's shoulder when they were cuddling, smelling that calming sent of his.

"So, what haircut do you want me to do M. Plisetsky ?" The hairdresser asked behind him, holding a comb and a scissor.

"Could you just ... tied them up in a ponytail ?"

"You don't want me to cut them ? Even a little bit ?"

Yuri shook his head and she shrugged before starting his work. The moment her hands touched the scalp of his head, he thought about the different times when his boyfriend would braid his hair, caressing him gently while doing it, brushing them with care so he wouldn't hurt him, and understood one thing during the next thirty minutes.

He didn't like it when someone else touched his hair.

And Yuuri's hands were softer and kinder.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, the woman finished to do her job, spraying some hair spray on the ponytail so it would stay like this until he removed the elastic band, and showed him what she had done with a mirror. Even though he didn't wanted it at first, it was pretty satisfying and beautiful to look at. He thanked her quickly and waited for Viktor to end the annoying conversation he had with that stupid girl. When the adult finally decided to stop his incessant chatter, he went to the counter and paid them, laughing at the one who had taken care of him because she had a bit of his hair on her sweater, making her blush vigorously.

Disgusted by all this, Yuri exited the building first and began to walk away, toward the man's car, without turning back to be sure that the driver was following close behind. Actually, the silver haired adult was waving at the women with a smile, holding his coat under his arm, and joined his friend who was standing next vehicle, an impatient expression on his face. He couldn't wait any longer. The younger Russian needed to see his katsudon. His body suffered from his absence and lack of contact.

"That was an incredible day, don't you think ?" Viktor said before turning on the engine.

"Remind me not to go with you on a shopping trip in the future ..."

"Aww ~ Yurachka ! I wanted to be with you for your eighteenth birthday. After all, it happens only one time in your life ! And I'm sure that Yuuri is ... Oh !"

"What ? What is it ?" He questioned, eyes growing wide in anticipation.

"Never mind. You'll see when we'll arrive."

With just that, the oldest of the two drove back to the Japanese's apartment and didn't say anything more during the ride, making his companion anxious. What was going on ?

*

When the car stopped in front of the block of flats, Yuri opened the door in a hurry, running through the corridors, climbing three steps at a time, and didn't have the patience to knock, entering the vestibule without being invited. He didn't announce himself and just removed his shoes, advancing until he was in the living room. What he saw before his eyes, confused him at first and then, brought a shaking smile on his pale face. The table was covered with a bunch of decorations, a large cake placed in the middle, eighteen candles standing proudly on top of it, and he could smell the delicious fragrance of katsudon being prepared by his beloved. His stomach grumbled a bit at the thought of eating a good meal after this exhausting walk in town and he searched for his boyfriend in the little place, not seeing him in this room.

"Happy eighteenth birthday Yurachka !" Screamed different voices behind his back.

When he turned around to see who were those strangers, Yuri couldn't help but jump in surprise at sight of all their friends at the entrance of the apartment, Yuuri standing in the front with a heartwarming expression. Next to him, there were Chris, Viktor and Phichit, who was taking some pictures with his phone, and they seemed to hide something from him. He could see it because it was moving slightly. The blonde didn't have the time to ask what it was because a pair of lips sealed his mouth shut, and two hands came to caress his cheeks. The black haired man pulled away after ten seconds and hugged him tightly against him, his head resting on the youngster's shoulder.

"Happy birthday Yurio ! Thank you for being born !" He murmured so he would be the only one to hear it.

A burning blush appeared put of nowhere, making him look away so no one would notice, and his heart began to beat faster than usual beause of the japanese's declaration.

"Thank you piggy. It's the best surprise I have ever had !"

They kissed again. Just a simple peck but it was full of passion and love. They heard the Thai skater squeal like a fangirl, snapping another set of pictures, and the Swiss let out a small Aww before coming to greet their cadet. That was at this moment he noticed it. Just between Phichit and Viktor, the moving thing he saw just a minute ago, was actually a person that he thought he would never see again, and he almost tackled him into a powerful embrace, hearing Yuuri complain about it.

"Calm down Yurachka ! You'll smother him if you keep tightening your grip like this." The five times champion told him with a pat on the back.

There. Inside his arms. There was Otabek. His only friend. Even though he had been grossed out by their relationship, the man had come to celebrate his eighteenth birthday, forgetting about the actual situation, and he looked happy to be able to see him again after almost a year.

"Happy Birthday Yuri ... I'm sorry I didn't contact you earlier. It was, well, not a good time for me to ..."

"There is no problem. You're here, that's what matters the most for me."

"I'm sorry for leaving you like this ..."

They exchanged a bunch of apologies for almost five good minutes before letting go of each other, the other watching the show with soft smile on their face, Yuuri putting his little jealousy aside, and they went to the table so he could blow the candles and the host could cut the cake in twelve slices, giving one to each of their guests. In the beginning, they just talked about nothing and everything, the blonde Russian telling to his best friend what had happened during the last year, the other listening to him with a new interest, and the arrival of Mila and Yuuko, brought a new warmth to the party, where there wasn't any woman. The redhead girl had come all the way from Russia to celebrate with them, explaining to Yurio that his grandfather wanted to come but was too weak to make the journey, so he sent him a letter to wish him a good day, and true to herself, she couldn't come without a stupid gift to give him.

As for Yuuko, she had formed a solid bound with the young man when he came for the first time in Hasetsu to take Viktor back to Russia, and had asked Yuuri if she could come on that important day, the other agreeing without a second thought. After all, the more we are, the more we laugh. So, here she was, teasing him about the way he looked at his boyfriend while the latter was cooking the katsudon pirozhki for dinner, talking to Phichit, and even though he was way taller than her, she continued to bother him like she did so three years earlier.

At 7:25 PM, everyone removed the dishes from the table to place new plates on the tablecloth, the black haired man bringing what he had cooked during the day, and Yurio understood why he didn't want him near the kitchen this morning. There were all sort of Japanese and Russian meal. Everything that the eighteen years old teen loved and had discovered with his lover during their dates. It was beautiful and touching.

Just before they sat down, those who had brought a gift, gave it to the young Russian and a lot of expressions appeared on his face during the opening of his presents. Mila had come with a sweater on which there was a tiger printed on it and also, a cap with cat ears on top of it. To thank her, he punched the woman on the shoulder. Phichit and Chris offered him a new pair of skates. Otabek placed a beautiful silver chain around his neck, earning a joyful grin from his best friend. Yuuko gave him a black t-shirt on which was written You can't beat me and Viktor went to his bag to take out all the accessories he had bought at the pet store, saying it would pleased his little Svetia, the feline his grandfather had adopted when he was a child. The black haired male didn't mention or show his own gift but the blonde paid little attention to it.

"Thank you for coming today. I know that you were really busy with the new championship but it means a lot to me that you've come to celebrate with us." Yuuri commented with a brilliant smile and the other applauded him.

"Yura, where is your speech ? We are waiting for it." Viktor said while taking a sip of his glass of champagne.

"W-what ?! I don't want to do that !"

"Oh come one Yuri ! It's nothing. We've all done it before you" The Thai said, trying to ease the tension around him.

"No ! I won't do it !"

"Pretty please."

"Stop it guys" The Japanese adult laughed. "If he doesn't want to do it then, don't force anything on him."

"You're no fun Yuuri-kun" Phichit whined, bitting down on his pirozhki.

They all burst out in giggles at that, forgetting immediately about the speech, and enjoyed the rest of the evening without any incident ruining the mood. After drinking a bit too much, Chris and his best friend began to sing without minding the fact that their host had neighbors, and soon, the tan skinned skater joined them in the fun, the two girls filming their prowess with their phone.

Otabek preferred to stay by Yuri's side, even if his lover wasn't far away, and continued to talk to catch up a bit, mocking the oldest men or looking at pictures on their phone. It was obvious that he didn't want to let go of him. But when it was time to leave the couple, the Kazakh skater seemed quite sad, staring at the blonde like he was some sort of love interest, and his best friend reassured him by saying that they would see each other again. Then, the hardest thing was to call a taxi so Phichit, Chris and Viktor could go back to their hotel without causing any problems, the latter being quite drunk at the moment, and the Thai promised he would take care of them and call if anything happens during the ride.

And now, they were alone in the quiet apartment.

Yuuri was actually washing the plates and storing what was left of the food in the fridge, humming quietly for himself. The sight was really pretty and the Russian was enjoying it from afar, chuckling silently, his arms crossed against his torso, eyes shining with a lustful glow. Now that he was eighteen, he could overcome the limits between them and decided that it was time to claim what he thought was his. Walking discreetly behind him, Yuri placed his hands on his lover's hips, caressing his skin under the blue long sleeves t-shirt he was wearing, putting his lips on his exposed neck, repressing the need to mark him, and pressed their bodies together, earning a little sigh of pleasure from the Japanese male.

"We are alone at last. Thanks for today. It was ... incredible."

"That's nothing. You are the one I should thank" the black haired adult answered, leaving his chore aside to turn back and embraced his beloved. "You grew up so much and became so beautiful."

"Stop flattering me piggy. You are the one whose beautiful ..." he muttered shyly, hiding his face in the other's neck.

"That ponytail suits you !"

"But yours are better. I thought she was going to rip them from my skull ..."

Exchanging soft and lovely compliments to each other, the two men drowned into their passion, closing the small gap between them, sealing their feelings with their wet lips, their tongues engaging a furious fight for supremacy, lost this time by the older skater who was distracted by his lover's fingers on his back, searching greedily under his cloth, and the youngster let his need for contact swallowed him completely, forgetting that they were still in the kitchen.

While he explored Yuuri's mouth, making him moan inside their kiss, his hands traveled along his spine, tickling his katsudon a little, and soon, he was approaching his firm butt dangerously, lifting his pants so he could enter easily. The ravenette shuddered under his touch, trying to focus on what was happening up there, his own members getting tangled with his hair, and whimpered when the other squeezed one of his butt cheek. He pushed the russian far enough so he could catch his breath, eyes wet with tears and pleasure, and he put his forehead against his torso to ask some support.

"You want it that badly ?" The Japanese asked, panting.

"I've waited for that day since I fell in love with you. So, yes."

"I thought that you would be patient enough so I could give you your present when we would have been in the bed but if you are that eager ..."

"Wait ! You were going to ... offer me your virginity as a gift ?" The blonde half-yelled in surprise, looking seriously into the brown eyes in front of him.

"D-don't say it like that ! It's really embarrassing !"

A burning sensation spread through Yuuri's body, his face going red from it, and the cat lover couldn't help but laugh at the sight. It wasn't a secret that this little piglet was a virgin and that he never had any experience in love, but it was adorable coming from him. Plus, Yurio was in the same boat so, he couldn't feel superior to him.

"If it's not to your liking, I-I can think of something else !" The black haired man stuttered in despair.

"No no no ! I'm happy ! I really am. You're just so ... cute when you're blushing like that. I want to eat you slowly, my present."

At that, the pork cutlet lover freed himself from his powerful grasp and led him in the bedroom, that he wanted to call "theirs" from now on, his hand trembling from apprehension. Yuri knew that his boyfriend had some issues with anxiety, not loving his body at all even if he had gone back to the way he was before, giving him the nickname "Fatso" and "Piggy" not helping at all, and he was sure that it would be a problem when they would begin to undress. The ravenette wasn't fat anymore. He had the perfect silhouette to skate and was quite handsome to be honest. So, he will have to appease his fear as soon as possible before a panic attack comes to ruin the mood.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, the blonde pulled his beloved gently by the wrist, forcing the oldest to kneel on top of him, and he admired the man he cherished so much, stroking his thighs with one hand while the other was busy with his cheek to reassure him about what he had guessed, was some kind of anxiety. Yuuri didn't say anything, bitting on his lower lip to hold back his stress, and leaned in his touch, searching for comfort in this cold palm.

"If you're not ready, I don't want you to force yourself ! We can do it another time and ..."

"No ! No ... I w-want to do it. It's just that ... I'm not too sure about what my body looks like" the adult answered, looking down as if he was ashamed of the way he was.

"Listen to me carefully, you're the most beautiful man I've ever seen in my entire life and everyone who say otherwise, are just jealous about you. Yuuri, you are kind, intelligent, fun and attentive to everyone's needs. My feelings for you won't change even if you gain some weight. I'll love you no matter what !"

Hearing those words seemed to help the ravenette a lot, a sigh of relief escaping his parted lips, and tears flowed behind his glasses, falling on his t-shirt, showing how much pressure he felt. Yurio wiped them with his thumb, murmuring soft compliments to his lover, and pulled him into an innocent and pure kiss that lasted for almost a minute.

Without saying anything more, the Japanese began to remove his clothes, throwing them at the end of the bed without any care, ignoring the sight of his belly which was magnificent in the blonde's eyes, and put his glasses on the nightstand next to the couch, closing the distance between them so he would be able to see his face.

"You're my most precious treasure, Katsudon ..." He breathed next to his ear, licking his earlobe to tease him a bit.

"And you're my everything Yurachka !"

Then, everything went very quickly.

Overcoming his fears with all his might, the twenty seven years old man helped his lover to undress as well, leaving them in just their underwear, and they started to make out while the Russian was playing with his locks, tracing a line to the top of his head to the end of his back, slipping one finger inside his boxers. Moans echoed in the room as their kiss became more heated, their tongues intertwining like two snakes, and when they separated, the youngster sucked on his skin at different places, biting on his shoulder to claim his whole being, and the other whined in displeasure and need, running his hands through his beloved's hair.

"Aaah ... Mmh ! Yu-Yurio ... Ah !"

A wave of lustiness hit him like a truck when he felt one finger enter his butt-hole, preparing him for what was coming next, while the Russian kept kissing every part of his body, licking his pink nipples like he was some kind of hungry baby, using his other hand to play with the second one. Never in his young life, Yuuri had been so happy and excited to do something with someone, and if it had scared him a little at first, everything had been forgotten along the way, giving him just plain pleasure and satisfaction.

Soon, the space in his underwear was reduced to the point that a bump had formed, some precum showing as his cock rubbed against the material, and if it wasn't for the finger thrusting in him, he would have moved a while ago to the next level.

But the cat lover seemed to enjoy his game, letting another finger in to join the fun, and when he had finished to torture the hard nipples in front of him, Yuri got down to his lover's navel, using the tip of his tongue to explore that place, snatching a bunch of moans from his katsudon. Against his own crotch, the younger male could feel the hard on of his boyfriend, smiling at the thought that he was feeling good, and he left his hair to come and take care of this little one.

"Mmph ! Mmh ! Nnh ! Aah ... Y-Yurio ! How do you k-know all this ?" The Japanese asked between shaking breaths.

"I had dreams about you during the last two years so, I'm just doing what I saw in them."

"W-what ?! Aaha !"

He had spoken without thinking about his words first and that was embarrassing when he realized that he had just revealed one of his most shameful secret. It wasn't weird to have wet dreams about his boyfriend, but saying it bluntly like that, and to the subject of his fantasies. The sex was making him say things he wouldn't have admit even if he was drunk. That was surprising.

After removing the last piece of cloth that prevented them to go all the way, a condom being placed skillfully on the Russian's dick, Yuuri propped himself on his shaking knees to be above the erection of his partner, a third finger preparing him to welcome that new presence, and lowered his body slowly so it would penetrate him without hurting. It took a minute or two for the adult to accept that unknown but wanted member in his hole, and when he was fully accustomed to it, he began to rock his hips forward and backward, putting his palm against his mouth to muffled his groans.

"Don't hide yourself Yuuri ! I want to hear your voice ..." the blonde requested, standing in a sitting position, hands on the oldster's back to support him.

"B-but ... aah ! The n-neighbors ... mmh !"

"Why do you care ? It's not like we are friends or something." He growled like an upset animal.

"W-what are you doing ?! Ahaa !"

Not wanting to hear anymore of this, Yurio pushed him back on the bed, placing his legs on his shoulders, hands on both side of his head, and moved in a sustained rhythm, the other letting small gasp of pleasure coming out of his mouth.

"How does it feel ?"

"I-it feels good Yura. Mmh ! Nnhn !"

Taking his cock between his long fingers, he stroked him until he reached his climax, kissing him on the lips while doing that, and looked at his lover, panting and covered in sweat, black hair all messed up because of their movements. He was so beautiful. If he had a camera, the blonde would have take a picture to immortalize that moment. But he could just appreciate it and engrave it in his memories.

It wasn't long before Yuuri came from all this pleasure, the youngster hitting his prostate more than one time, moaning loudly inside his boyfriend's mouth, cum spreading on his torso, and at this very moment, the cat lover understood that it was the expression only him could see. His privilege.

"Ahaa ... aaha ... I'm sorry ... I couldn't h-hold back"

The Russian didn't reply and thrust in him again, until he exploded in a wild groan, bitting his shoulder again to show to everyone else that he was his property. Then, they kissed again to link their bodies and souls, and parted with a heavy sigh, Yurio taking off the condom to throw it in the trash can of the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel to wipe the sweat off of their skin, taking care of the marks he had put on him, and when they were clean enough to go to sleep, the blonde covered them with the blanket, snuggling up against his lover, tangling their legs together.

As he was putting his hand under the pillow to support his head, something brushed against his fingers and he took the paper out of his hiding place, looking at it with a raised eyebrow. The ravenette turned around to see what was going on and was almost as surprised as him, before recalling what it was about.

"I wanted to give it to you before, you know ... but you were too impatient so I forgot about it !" Yuuri explained while putting his palm on the other's hip.

"What is it ?"

"I know you love cats a lot so, I was thinking we could take one in the apartment, now that it's yours too. I'm sure Svetia would be happy to have a friend !"

At his confession, the cat lover almost jumped out of the bed to hug him tightly against his torso, squealing like a little girl who just received the last version of his doll, and he covered the man's face with little peck, thanking him again and again for this. When he looked at the picture on the paper, his green eyes lighted up and the Bengal he saw, was just too cute to be real. He read quickly what the document said before placing it on the nightstand next to his lover's glasses and cuddled with him more to show him his gratitude.

"When are we going to adopt it ?" He demanded with a cheerful smile on his face.

"Tomorrow if you want. The pet store gave me all the documents already and Viktor bought a lot of accessories for it to be comfortable on day one" he said, thinking that Yurio might be eighteen now but he was still a kid in his head.

"I'm looking forward to it."

And with that, they hugged each other like there was nothing else that mattered in the world and let sleep overtook their exhausted bodies, eyelids closing after only ten minutes.

That was the best birthday someone could hope for.

[piarou-neelix]

I want to share a story written by a good friend of mine

Teddy Bear || Original Short Story By Priscilla Kint

I remember the day I was new.

Bought in a commercial toy store with three floors where I was seated next to the pogo sticks and the window decoration stickers for not much more than a day before I was picked up and taken to the counter. I was quite excited, unbothered by the wrapping paper that smothered my mouth or the shop assistant, who unapologetically shoved my leg up to my ear in order to make the package smaller. She was new, like me, so it wasn’t very hard to forgive her.

Hours later, the tearing of paper was followed by a small gasp, and then I saw his face for the first time. It was as new to me as I was to him, and it smiled with the few teeth it had grown. Seeing me brought him joy, that much was clear, but I do wonder whether it would have mattered if I had been some other toy. Would the same excitement have lit up his eyes had I been a wooden miniature train or a painted X-men doll instead? I think so. It wasn’t about me or what I represented – not yet. It was about getting a present and opening it and discovering what was inside. Excitement. A new possession. I wasn’t much more than that.

I remember the day I was playtime.

Hours were not yet filled with school, but there was a time for television, a time for dinner, multiple times for bed, and one horrid, horrid time for bath. I was playtime and we both loved it. I became a knight in shining armour, a peaceful monster that destroyed a city of Lego before helping to build it up again. I was named Jenny, after his favourite aunt who always brought him pieces of fruit that were somehow so much tastier than his mother’s carefully cut up apple slices. I was called Poo, because that was a word that was always followed by giggles and a small smile on his father’s face that we had learnt to spot through the scruff on his cheeks and chin.

He held me, my boneless paws leaning on top of the kitchen table, where I would drink tea that was merely air. He dropped me on the ground when the dragon – a green pillow smudged with that morning’s strawberries – almost defeated me, and he raised me up on his shoulders after I saved the city and became the hero. He ran around the living room, nearly tripping over the folded corner of carpet his mother had warned him about three times already. His roars of laughter found their way into my being like silk threads being sewn into the rims of my heart. I wondered whether it was that way for humans as well, that they could feel more whole, more themselves, as they were being built by others.

I remember the day I was home.

When his mother had other places to be that weren’t by his side – food needed money, and money needed to be earned, but what proper kid would really understand that, anyway? – she handed me to him as a renewed gift. Of course, this was not the day I was new, so he didn’t crack that same surprised smile. Instead he cried. He cried when the car drew to a halt in front of the crèche and the tires squeaked and crunched the gravel. He cried as he took his dinosaur-decorated backpack in his one hand and me in the other. He cried even when Miss Lola, a woman with a youthfulness that didn’t match her age but was wonderfully extraordinary, took his hand and promised him he would have fun that day and all the days to come.

On that first day, he sat on a yellow plastic chair in a corner of the room. He watched the other children play and draw and laugh and fight amongst each other without feeling the slightest urge to join them. I was in his lap, his one hand clutched around my arm, the other on top of my head. It was quite nice, being the only thing in the room that interested him. I was what was familiar. I was what was known. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t be new again. New was not what he needed.

He needed home, if only for a little while. Because the next day, from where I sat, leaning against his backpack with my head tilted to the right, I saw him ask a girl called Alexa whether she wanted to share her tin soldiers with him.

I remember the day I was comfort.

When daddy arrived home from work early with his phone in his hand, the shoulder strap of his leather bag dangling down, dragging over the dusty floor. It was the first time we met Death, and he didn’t understand why Aunt Jenny couldn’t simply visit and give him her pieces of fresh fruit and make his parents smile again.

There was never a real goodbye for him. The funeral was on a school day, and Lola made sure to keep him occupied. He made a puzzle, sixteen pieces, and was proud of himself for finishing the image of a spaceship that seemed to come to life once he’d pressed the final piece in place. Still, he felt lonely at night, when his mother didn’t spent as long reading him a bedtime story. When she didn’t tuck him in as tightly as usual. So he wrapped his arms around me, pressed me to his chest, which was getting broader than I was, and cried his tears into my coat of hair, where they solidified the strings of laughter.

The next morning, when I still tasted salt that now mixed with morning sweat, his father sat at the breakfast table with his head in his hands, nothing but a cup of black coffee in front of him. And his son, my dear human, walked up to him and handed me over. The Dutch word for hug is knuffel, as is the Dutch word for a stuffed toy. Perhaps he saw more similarities between the two than most adults do.

I remember the day I was broken.

It started out as a minor tear at the base of my belly, but quickly grew to a disaster that made me snow all over the house. His mother told him I was old, and I felt another one of my stitches snap as I realised what that might mean. I was not old. I didn’t want to be discarded, exchanged for another new.

But that never happened. He clasped me to his chest, refusing his mother and her calls to let me go. He sat in the corner underneath the ironing board, where he would always make tents with the cleanly washed duvet covers and bedsheets. Hiding in plain sight.

It shouldn’t have worked, but it did. Although I was getting slimmer every day, his mother promised to fix me. She spent an entire evening, her feet up on the couch as she watched three different crime series with similar names and the same fake blood, pricking the tips of her fingers with a needle. She wasn’t very good at sewing, but that didn’t stop her. She’d even bought special thread, metallic, so that, afterwards, there was a shimmering line across my stomach whenever I was out in the sun. A line that was a promise, a quick-fix that was not quite beautiful but beautifully loveable.

Three weeks, it took, before I ruptured once more. There was a puff of stuffing onto the kitchen table, a fight, tears that stuck to his cheeks instead of dripping onto my coat, and then his dad took me away.

It took his grandmother little more than fifteen minutes to fix me up with a thread that matched my chestnut brown and a knot that made me feel confident as my life was in her hands.

I remember the day I was shame.

I’m not sure how it happened, and why it happened so quickly, but I’m pretty sure that Andy was at least partly to blame. He was a short boy in year five that looked like a mouse, with ears as big and protruding teeth. He was good at football, and he always spoke up first in class and made jokes, so all the other boys liked him.

And he told us that only babies carry around stuffed animals.

That evening, my human let his carrots grow cold and his chocolate ice cream grow warm. He did his homework without trying to trick his mother into letting him watch an episode of the Power Rangers. She asked him what was wrong, and he told her that he didn’t need me anymore.

It stung, and I am pretty sure the couch swallowed me ever so slightly as those words travelled around the room.

His mother asked him why, and whether he really meant it, whether he needed to think on it. He sucked his lip and bit the skin around it until it was cherry red. His cheeks and eyes reddened as well, and once more his tears didn’t find a safe haven in my coat.

The following morning I was left at the foot of his bed, where hours felt like centuries when he wasn’t there. His mother came to open the window, and later to close it and make the bed. I could’ve sworn she cast me a pitiful smile that I wasn’t sure I liked.

Once he returned from school, he rushed up the stairs, the thomp-thomp of his feet muffled by the carpet on the steps, and let himself fall onto the bed, onto me, as he hugged me fiercely. He told me he wouldn’t leave me alone again. He told me he’d missed me. He told me he didn’t mind being a baby, as long as the other boys wouldn’t see.

From then on, I travelled with him in the bottom of his backpack, where his bottle of milk and his apple and his lunch box took turns flattening my legs and creasing my ears.

I remember the day I was forgotten.

When the bedroom cupboard and the LEGO helicopters were exchanged for a desk with a lamp too bright for sleeping. There had been a lot of nerves in the weeks before, and he’d held me close every night. He wondered about the new friends he’d make, the different classrooms he’d be seeing, all in one day. He was afraid he’d end up taking the bus alone, since most of his friends would go to other schools. I comforted him as best I could – and then I was stuffed in the back of a drawer. The words he told his mother when she asked him where I was were ‘I don’t need it anymore’.

Nights were spent alone, by him and by me. He changed his breakfast from bread to cereal. He ate dinner someplace else every other day. His voice deepened, and for the first time I felt my biggest fear wasn’t that I was going to grow old, but that he was going to grow up. I could handle needle and thread and the tumbling round and round in the washing machine. But if he could not find the time – would not find the time – to cuddle me and miss me and think of me, then I had no purpose.

My coat became greyer and dirtier more quickly than it used to when I shared his bed. A spider passed me by once, not minding me while it spun its web and waited and waited. Much like I did. I quickly feared that the chance of a fly finding its way into that drawer was as equally slim as him opening it and taking me out. He was done with me. He was a growing boy who did his history and math homework – or didn’t – and considered buying coins to be able to spend more time on that week’s most popular app.

I barely slept, even though I did little other than rest in the back of that drawer. What kept me awake was the fear that I was being selfish. Was it egocentric, pathetic, to think it unfair that my life was over while his was changing and expanding so much without me?

I remember the day I was a memory.

A meek morning sun that caught my eye as the drawer opened. A small intake of breath, and I was being pulled out by my hind paw. Remember this one, his mother asked with a smile in her voice. He stood next to her, taller than she was, although I didn’t recall having seen that happen. He smiled a sad happy smile, his hand almost completely enclosing my belly, and placed me in a cardboard box.

His room at college was a small one, but there was a place for me on the top shelf of his bookcase, where my feet dangled just above the works of Derrida and Said. I leaned against his favourite science-fiction novels, sitting back leisurely as I took my time taking in the double bed – black frame with red covers – and the desk that was flooded with printed articles covered in orange and yellow marker. I smiled as I realised that the pots and pans in his small kitchen spent more time being dirty in the sink than being clean in the cupboard.

And I liked her the moment she entered.

She had long dark blonde hair that was up in a bun. Occasionally, it spilled her locks like a waterfall. There were dimples in her cheeks that showed more clearly when she laughed, which was nearly every second she spent with him. She wore a sweater – his sweater? – when she visited the first time. It took her less than five minutes to notice me, as he was doing his best to calculate the right amount of pasta for two.

What’s that, she asked. He turned, his glasses fogged up from the cooking water on the stove. He’s a childhood toy, he told her. She nodded, then tilted her head. He’s adorable.

I felt elated. I enjoyed being taken off the plank and looked at for real for the first time in years. I liked being part of his life again, especially since I suspected that that particular part of it was going to become quite important quite quickly. But the best thing of all was that he had seen me as a ‘he’ again after years of being thrown aside as an ‘it’.

Of all those days I do remember, I don’t quite remember the day I was love.

Perhaps it is my faulty memory or my cotton brain. Still, it must’ve been there, that day. It must have.

Could it have been one of the moments he crushed me in his hugs until I could hear my fibres groan? Or one of those times when the family would go out for the day and he had thought he’d packed me into his bag, but hadn’t, and then his mother would turn the car around to pick me up? Perhaps it was the day he put me on that top shelf, seeing some worth in me when I thought he never would again.

Or maybe – just maybe – it didn’t matter. Maybe it was a whole life of small moments that spelled it out in a language like that of the Ents he used to be such a fan of; slow, all-encompassing, and simple.

By Priscilla Kint

[lighthouseofthewanderess]

Language

(Noun): alphabets strung into words, strung into sentences, that differ from region to region.

As a senior writer in an advertising agency, it would be a joke that English never came easy to me. Every day I play around with em dashes and window words, answering grammar questions for my team of 15.  In fact, my family doesn’t come from an educated background. My grandmother didn’t get schooled. My mother, whom you’ve seen braving new lands, was a merit student in all her classes, conducted in our native tongue -- Tamil. It wasn’t until she went to the US that she really picked up English, spoke it fluently, and introduced some of my very first words in the ‘global’ language. Pen. Paper. Words. Never was it with the 26 characters, but always 216 … until I had to change. So yes, it’s irony that I’m writing all this in English. The news about going to the US to live with my mom didn’t hit me. There were too many things going on in my life, things I would later understand were toxic and abusive. I call this part of my life the ‘repressed memories’ and chant to myself that, that’s all those years were. When my father learnt my mother wasn’t going to be the cash cow for his family, his anger flared more than ever. In a haste, he dragged me to the men’s barber and got my thick, black (albeit unkempt) hair cut off at one go. I now looked like a boy.

“Why did all my hair go?” I asked him on the way back home.

“That’s what they look like where your mom is. This is the style there. You have to dress like this and not speak a word in Tamil.” I nodded and let it go. I would regret my short hair once I got there, but this one is about the funny language called English.

On my first day of school, in the school’s carpark, my mom spent a good hour talking me through the absolute essentials. You see, learning a language theoretically and never finding the need to speak it for the base purpose of communication is a flaw in education. That’s why even though I understood commercials on TV, and read hoardings, I wasn’t inclined to make a sentence in English in my head. And that’s also why my first Spoken English class was happening right now.

“Don’t say toilet. Say restroom. I need to use the restroom.” she made me repeat that sentence for a while, stressing on words with me.

“When someone smiles at you, smile back but not too wide.”

“My name is Priya. I am from India.” Gosh. It all sounded dreadful. My knees were weak, I could feel them even without standing up. Did I really have to go to school? Yup, you have to.

I waved bye and watched my the car slowly make its way out. My stomach knotted up. It was going to be a very long day. I looked around me. Why didn’t others have short hair, I have been sorely lied to. And what’s with the pink and blues? America is so weird. I will never forget the first sentence I had to utter. I had to go pee. Usually, I just stand up and teachers in India assume you want to go to the loo. They will shoo you off. No words required. I stood up following the same logic. Didn’t work; she just looked at me blankly. As I tried to recall all the words my mom used earlier, I suddenly went blank. There was something about ‘use’ and ‘toilet’. Wait, no. She asked me not to say that. It had ‘room’ in it. But it felt so wrong, a toilet isn’t a room. It’s a toilet! I decided to walk up to the teacher and whisper the words instead. On the way I was still turning words around in my head. When I got there, I was still blank. I needed to say what I had to. I panicked and said, quite loudly “I want toilet!”.  What a funny language. There it was. The wave of insecurity and shame because I couldn’t express myself in a ‘required manner’. Because people from India speaking in English was too funny, no matter the situation. The class cracked into laughter, all 11 faces gleefully guffawing while I was still waiting for my answer from my teacher. She pointed to room within the classroom, and walked away. Hey, at least I got my point across. That, in my eyes, was what communication was about. A few minutes before heading back out, I gave myself a pep talk. This wasn’t going to happen. Ever.  

“They don’t know any better. I am going to learn this stupid language and get past this.” This was 100% true. Unlike me, they have never known any other language to get confused in the first place. It’s always been easy because this is their native tongue. I am the one who has entered their space and therefore I am the one who must adapt. There is no point being ashamed; this is who I am and when I master this other language, I’ll be better than them.

Unapologetically, I went about my second grade class. I looked at their lips when they spoke; sometimes they spoke too fast and especially too loud when with me. Possibly because they believed an increase in decimal was directly proportional to an increase in my understanding. Wrong. I created a bubble and put myself in the middle. For a year, I will not hear what they have to say about me. I am not what this phase may make me look like. I was so stubborn with my attitude that my teacher called for a private PTA meeting. My mom duly came, expecting funny stuff. The number of episodes we’ve had and why she finds it funny is a must-tell story. (Mental note: save for later)   “You daughter…” the teacher hesitated. “...she has trouble adjusting to classes here.” I never understand why they say every negative thing like it may break a person. Just rip the bandage, won’t you? My mom smiled and moved her chair closer.

“That is expected. It’s not even been a month. Can I know what trouble you’re referring to?” thickly accented, but accepted. Sitting next to her, I felt like saying. “Well, here’s my spokesperson. Say what you want to say now.”

“Priya is… I’m sorry to say… embarrassing herself a lot. She puts her hand up for all the questions and answers them all wrong. She jumbles her words and the other students aren’t mixing with her well.” Embarrassing. I tasted the word. I got stuck with the Rs. Probably because here you roll them a lot and I wasn’t used to it yet. The teacher droned on the minute my mom chuckled at translated it to me.

“I would like to move her back to 1st grade. Your Indian system is a year early anyway, she wouldn’t lose a thing.”  When my broke that sentence down for me, I was annoyed. Here’s a woman whose only job is to teach me, and she’s brushing off her responsibility. I could be her pet project, her star student if she succeeded. What a loser.

I looked at her and asked slowly “You. Embarrassed?”

“What? No my dear.” she was red and shocked. How can some seven-year old be so cocky.  The rest of what I had to say I told my mom because I couldn’t find that many words to express.

“Priya says that she’s not a bit embarrassed or hurt with the way the class and you treat her. She would like to stay in your class.” I smiled proudly. Now it’s a challenge. I’m gonna stay here and take my revenge on this poor soul. I would -- I was interrupted by a change of events.

“And as her mother what I’m saying is, I’m taking her out of your class. Not because you requested. But because this attitude shows what you lack in a teacher that my daughter needs.

Have a great day!” My mom signaled to me and we left; we weren’t stopped.

I wouldn’t understand what my mom meant with that one line till I actually moved grades and met my first real teacher - Mrs. Rodgers. She was such a kind soul -- even thinking about her now makes me think of warmth and bunnies (don’t ask me why).  She had three children, all girls, who also studied in the same school as me. Unlike the other teacher, Mrs Rodgers didn’t call on me in class to answer; well knowing I wasn’t ready yet. Instead, she worked on my confidence. She picked out the little things I did do really well and praised me in front of the class. She took me out on weekends with her daughters and got them to help me speak casual English. Gonna. I wanna. Waterr. The more I hung out with them, the more I walked around the corridors hoping to bump into someone and start a conversation. She enrolled me in spell bee and I made it to the top three.  I remember some of the things Mrs. Rodgers used to tell me.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to talk this fast. I know some of us do and you want to get out everything in your head before they walk away. But remember, no one is walking away from you. Hold their attention. Speak slowly and clearly. They will stay.”  How did she know! Is this what makes people teachers, reading children’s hearts? When I finished my first grade (all over again), there was a whole family that was proud of me. Now when people saw me, they didn’t see an awkward Indian girl. They saw a fully, adapted-to-environment individual, with her own history. In Mrs. Rodgers I found a second mom, and never wanted to let her go. We would learn later that she had cancer and the last time I met her was the yellow, happy phase before things started to go down. She quit teaching the very next year to look after her health. Mom and I talk about her, to this very day.

“If we decided to keep you with that other teacher, if we were just a year late, we wouldn’t have got Mrs. Rodgers. Angels keep crossing our paths, right ammu? And always at the right time.” Couldn’t deny that, I got super lucky with this teacher. A lot of what I understood about American schooling was set by her. She was a great example of how teachers shape and influence the decisions a child makes, once an adult. I can’t get thank her enough for standing by me when the rest of the class was singling me out. And that’s when I learnt the power of standing by someone. It changes so much. I told myself I will do what Mrs. Rodgers did for me the next chance I get. And it did come, more quickly that I expected.

Marico was a Spanish exchange student who joined my second grade class. He had a square face, two missing teeth, and was super shy. When he spoke English, I found a bit of me in him. It was thickly accented, words tripping over each other, trying very hard to be real and be understood. I spoke to my teacher, got my seat moved next to his. We giggled over words others didn’t find funny and sat during recess with nursery books. By the end of the year, he had a whole class who was proud of him. Marico was the one who put the word into my dictionary with his own meaning. Language: Words you borrow from the place you’re in to communicate what you feel. Another set of words for your mind and mouth to get used to, to express in a way others understand. How true. Language isn’t what you pick up to fit in with the others, it’s what tool you use to make sure they understand you.

[salutethepig]

Curing & smoking (& sundry other diverse arcana)

In my quest to learn everything there is to know about the art of charcuterie (an impossible task, I know, but this is after all, a voyage of mystery & discovery, not a race to finish at some well defined ending), I’m constantly reading different guides and recipes and books and articles.

One of the ones that I keep going back to, reading & re-reading it constantly, is “Curing & Smoking” by Steve Lamb, of River Cottage fame. It’s detailed, passionate, fun, informative and pretty much a (secular) bible for people interested in the craft and history of charcuterie.

So, the chance to spend a day learning at the feet of the master, with Steve at River Cottage HQ in Dorset came up and I jumped at the opportunity.

After a bone-shaking trip down to the farm in the back of a tractor-drawn trailer (the normal short meadow walk being blocked by a large bull), the day started with a small but gorgeous snack of “face bacon*” & maple syrup, on small Scots pancakes along with a glass of Kingston Black apple brandy.

Face bacon & other great cuts ©Root of NOLA 2014

(This image isn’t from River Cottage by the way, but it’s explained below)

* And what is “face bacon, I hear you ask? Here’s a great description from Chef Phillip Lopez, of Root in New Orleans (a restaurant that wasn’t there when we were working in the Crescent City, but reason enough on its own to go back. I’m going to ask if he’d let me apprentice with him):

I gotta say the face bacon. By far, it’s my favorite. It was a crazy idea I had before coming to Root, and I started experimenting with the face. I spent a long time defining this technique. And we utilize the the face bacon in different ways. Of course, it’s on the board, but when we were serving marrow bones, we would make a face bacon jam to go with it. And we always have scraps leftover from slicing, so I asked the bartender for ideas. We came up with this – well, we would render the fat from the face bacon and add it to Bulleit bourbon and sous vide it for 24 hours. Then we’d freeze it, so the fat could be easily separated. Take the fat off, and we have face bacon bourbon! Voila, face bacon manhattan. It’s a little smokey and it’s pretty freaking awesome. The demand for it is so high that we’re making like five bottles of it a week.

And so to work…

A delightful piece of meat, half of a 9 month old, rare breed Oxford Sandy & Black (I’ll be writing up a history of this great breed shortly, for the History pages) is what we all soon started working on. Remember that commercial breeds go to be butchered at only five months. Madness.

Bred on their farm, slaughtered close by a day or so earlier, this couldn’t have been more local or fresher. A lovely piece of meat, with great fat depth & even marbling (as we were to find out) although not quite at the Wagyu beef level but then this is a pig after all, not a cow that’s been raised for close to 36 months before being slaughtered. Anyway, enough, I’ll be doing a piece on Wagyu beef elsewhere at some point.

½ a pig at River Cottage

In the background, you’ll see (a) Steve in whites and (b) the meat grinder. The former started work straight away, the latter only came into play an hour or so later. With only half a dozen other people there, it made for a great atmosphere and gave everyone the chance to practice their knife & butchery skills when it came to breaking down the carcase.

Nothing was going to be wasted – “respect the animal” in action.

So with some cursing (certainly on my part when I was asked to remove the skin from a huge side) and much furious knife wielding & regular sharpening by everyone, the carcase was broken down, cut by cut, under Steve’s guidance.

Remembering that “nothing wasn’t to be used”, meant that whilst none of us could claim to have reached Master Butcher standards at any point, that wasn’t important. What was important was that we learnt what the cuts & muscles were and that every piece of meat & bone was to be utilised, either by us in the charcuterie or by the chefs for stock & sausages.

I’ve no ‘photos of the resultant pieces, sorry, far too busy listening to Steve describe what we’d be doing with them later.

We ate everything that we worked on — thank the deity that I’m not doing this course every day or I’d be the size of the side of a house within a week.

This rather attractive grouping of salami was produced by everyone. The first one was actually produced by me, although how you’d know, I’ve no idea.

Salami. That’s it.

And here, courtesy of Steve & River Cottage, is how we went about the first part of this process:

To get the right texture, it’s very important that the back fat is diced extremely finely. It does take time, but it’s worth it. It’s a good idea to freeze the fat first, which makes it easier to cut.

Ingredients: Makes about 15 salamis

6 metres of beef runners or beef middles

2.6 kg lean pork from the shoulder, minced on an 8mm plate

400g back fat, cut into 2mm dice

1-2 cloves of garlic, peeled and very finely chopped

Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

1-2 glasses of red wine

60g salt

Malt vinegar and olive oil, to finish

Before you get to work on your salami mix, put the beef runners to soak in a large bowl of fresh water. Slosh them about to rinse off the salt then leave them to soak overnight. When they are slippery, flexible and completely rinsed of salt, they are ready to use.

Mix together all the other ingredients (except the vinegar and oil) – with your bare (but clean) hands, if you like – so that the salt and fat are well distributed throughout the mix. Load up your sausage-making machine with the mix, slide a length of beef runner on to the nozzle, and tie the end of the casing into a knot, as you would tie a balloon. Then tie a short length of butcher’s string in an ordinary granny knot inside the knot. Make a loop with the string so you can hang the sausage up, and tie it again with a second knot in the same place. Stuff the casing with the mix until you have a filled a length of 40–50cm. As you work use a very sharp pin to prick the casing all over. This allows any air to escape and ensures you get a nice, tight salami. Cut off the runner, leaving enough unfilled runner at the end to tie another knot.

Hold up the filled casing with the knotted end at the bottom and squeeze the mixture down the casing gently, so it is nice and tight. Prick it again with the pin as you do this. Then tie another knot in the top of the runner and make another loop with string, just as you did at the other end. The compacted sausage, tied at both ends, will now be 30–40cm long, although you can make shorter ones if you like. It’s useful to have two people on the job for an efficient production line: one to do the filling and cutting, the other to do the knots and hang up the filled runners.

The salamis should be hung individually by the string loops in a cool, well-ventilated place where the temperature is not likely to rise above 12°C. Make sure they are not touching a wall, or each other, and they are not in direct sunlight. Over the coming weeks, a number of moulds, ranging in colour from grey-green to white and even orange, may form on the casings. None of these should worry you but you can wash them off with a cloth soaked in malt vinegar if you wish.

The salami may take anything from 4 to 10 weeks to mature, depending on the conditions and, indeed, on how you like them. They can be tried as soon as they are fairly firm to the touch and dry-looking, but they will continue to dry out and harden until they are practically rock hard. When they reach the stage you like, wipe off any mould from the outside with a cloth soaked in vinegar. Rub the salami with a little olive oil and transfer it to the fridge. Serve your salami in slices 2–3mm thick. If you prefer, peel off the ring of casing from each slice before eating, although it is perfectly safe to eat.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of various cuts, techniques (inc. brining, dry rubbing hot & cold smoking) and flavours and textures. I’d be typing for another day or so to cover everything that Steve showed us. Suffice to say that you need to (a) buy his book (and he signed my copy, that I’d brought along that day, with a smile) or (b) book a day on his course. Or (c) — which is what I’d really recommend — both of these options.

Curing & Smoking: River Cottage Handbook No.13

He’s a hugely passionate, committed and interested tutor and I can’t praise him too highly or underplay just quite how much I enjoyed this day. I came away even more confident that charcuterie is what I love doing and also that there’s nothing to be scared of in either the techniques or in recipes given — just a case of practice, practice, practice and experiment, experiment, experiment. Think of your own additions to the the mixes and rubs and brines and see what they do. They may well work.

And finally? Finally, a shot from inside their temperature & humidity controlled hanging store. If this doesn’t have you drooling over the page and wanting to do your own charcuterie, then nothing will.

Inside the temple of River Cottage

And finally, finally, a quick shout out to The Whole Hog in Lyme Regis for their dedication to producing just one thing, but that one thing extremely well; a hefty portion of pork pulled off the joint, accompanied by crackling, apple sauce, reduced onions & gravy inna white bun. Kudos guys. It’s great.

Me? I’m off to start work on a 12-month Prosciutto cure. Wish me luck.

Curing & smoking (& sundry other diverse arcana) was originally published on Salute The Pig