#how to cure chapped lips fast

[chaotic-good-vampire]

Recuérdame 

Pairing: Jack Russell (MCU) x FemReader (she/her) | SoulmateAU!

Summary: After losing his soulmate a little over a century ago, Jack has long forgotten about love, unable to move on. One night, in a nightclub, life gives him a second chance.

Warnings: Age gap (I mean, the man is 357 here), if you squint your eyes there are some sexual innuendos at the end, mentions of death, non-descriptive reader (but reader does drink tequila at some point)

Translations: Corazón (endearment term) - Heart | Mi vida - My life | Amor mío - My love | Querida - Dear | Por favor - Please | Te amo - I love you

Inspire by: "Recuérdame" cover by Natalia Lafourcade ft. Carlos Rivera

Tags: @littlenosoul | @bitchyglitterfox | @lilpunkrock | @kingtwhiddleston

«How terrible it’s to love something death can touch», especially if one is immune to it. Jack knew from the moment their eyes locked with each other's that he was bound to lose her eventually, that someday he’d have to watch her die, and there was nothing he— or anyone else— could do about it. He convinced himself he'll be prepared for it, let her go in peace when the time came. But heavens, did he underestimate how cruel destiny could be. 

She started coughing on Monday morning, and by Wednesday night, she was gone. Jack couldn’t understand how it all happened so fast and why life had been so vicious with them both. The doctor, the best money could pay, said it was just the flu and that she’ll recover in days without further problems; yet, Jack could feel her slipping through his fingers with each passing hour. The cough gave place to a burning fever that forced her to bed, and by the next morning, she had trouble breathing as she came in and out of consciousness. 

Desperate, he called every doctor, nurse, and healer in town and begged them to save his dear wife's life in exchange for whatever riches they desired. They tried everything their knowledge and skills allowed them to cure her and, at the very least, ameliorate the symptoms, but it was useless. He could see it in their faces, in the way they avoided certain words around him and their worried glances towards her. 

Wednesday afternoon, everyone was sent home at her request, leaving them all by themselves in the mansion they had shared for seven blissful years. Enveloped in the darkness of night, the halls and rooms felt cold and devoid of life, the only sign of their presence coming from their bedroom: The faint light of a candle. It stood up by her bedside table, lighting up her wan face as he sat on a chair next to it, his head resting on her abdomen. 

“I’m sorry.” Her voice came out as a breathy whisper as her tender fingers scratched behind his ear. “I’m terribly sorry, my love.” 

“Don’t be; it’s not your fault.” It took everything in him not to break down into a puddle of tears and a mess of sobs. “You’ve been nothing but good to me.” 

"Promise me you'll find another to keep you company." The request caught him off guard, his teary eyes turning to her in disbelief. "You're too pure for this world, my love. I'm afraid to leave you for all those terrors out there to feast upon you."

"Corazón, mi vida..." He took her hands between his to kiss her knuckles, his heart shattering into a million pieces inside his chest. He couldn't believe that even in her last moments, she was worried about him, the utter devotion and love she had for him. "I... I can't. I could never..." 

"Jack, please, please." How could he deny her anything when she looked at him with such profound despair? "I want... No, I need you to be happy. I'll always be with you, no matter what; whenever you may be, I'll follow... But you can't be on your own for who knows how long, my love. I don't want you to be alone."

"Alright." He kissed her chapped lips delicately as he nodded. "I promise I won't be alone; you don't have to worry about me no more, amor mío." 

"I love you." 

"I love you too. You're the most beautiful thing that could ever happen to me." 

He couldn't hold it anymore: a sob escaped from his lips as the first tear slid down his cheek. She was quick to dry it, and while he leaned against her palm with closed eyes, she softly stroked his hair. 

"There better be a sea of marigolds and tequila on the altar this November, or I'll haunt you for the rest of eternity." She tried joking in hopes of seeing his smile one last time. 

«Haunt me then! Be with me always— take any form— drive me mad! Only do not leave in this abyss, where I cannot find you!» Never had he understood Heathcliff's pain as much as he did then. Still, to avoid disturbing her further, he smiled and hugged her waist tighter. 

"Whatever you desire, querida." 

They remained silent after that, her loving touch and faint breath lulling him into sleep not long after. It was the rays of dawn that filtered through the closed curtains that woke him up hours later, the candle far extinguished. He didn't even need to look; her cold and stiff hands revealed that his greatest fear had come true. 

"Vuelve a mi, corazón. Por favor, por favor..." He'd never cried so hard in his entire life, his face pressed against her chest as he repetead as a chant: "Te amo, te amo, te amo..." 

Jack buried a part of himself with her, but the truth is, all he wanted was to end his misery and lay with her three feet underground. The first few weeks after the funeral, he found it impossible to get off their shared bed in an aching attempt to hold onto the lingering scent of her in the sheets. But when it vanished, along with all the remains of her presence in the mansion, he sold it and moved as far as he could. As for his promise, he couldn’t keep it; he couldn’t find it in himself to even look at any other, no matter how much time passed. He carried her deep in his chest, in that corner of his heart where he had built her a perpetual altar. 

Years, decades, and a whole century passed, but the sorrow never truly disappeared; he just learned to live with it. Still, if one is observant enough and looks at him closely, one would find an ever-present mourning in his eyes. 

In the darkness of this club, though— he thinks— you won't even be able to see your own shoes. 

Every year since he met him, Ted will drag him and a bunch of other monsters to this particular nightclub in his town for Halloween. It's the only night of the year in which they can easily blend in with the humans without fearing the hunters, and a dark, crowded club is an excellent place to hide in plain sight. Typically, Jack would never set foot in a place like that, but for his friend, he'd withstand all the noise for some hours. 

"Why is it that with every year, it gets stinkier in here?" Simon asks as they make their way to a table, the neon lights flashing them occasionally. 

She's right; it reeks of alcohol and sweat, but it isn't even that bad. Besides, something sweet and pleasant is hiding among the crowd, luring Jack deeper into the place; it's familiar and welcoming, but he can't identify why. 

"What is it, doggie?" Shiklah questions him after noticing his distracted demeanor, his eyes scanning the place. "Too much for an old wolf?" 

"No, it's just... Can't any of you smell that? There's a weird scent in here." 

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." Satana mocks him, making the others laugh. 

As they sit and start catching up with each other, Jack finally identifies where he had smelled that aroma before, making his heart stop for a second. 

An interesting thing about humans (and monsters, too) is that each one possesses a unique scent, and while their noses cannot identify this, his canine nature allows him to easily make the distinction. This is why he believes to be hallucinating when his brain finally puts a name and face to the aroma currently invading his nostrils. He knows that scent to its core; it's embedded in his skin and memory like a scar, one he had pushed to the back of his mind long ago for survival. It lights something within him, a part of him he believed to have been buried in a faraway land beside the one and only woman he's ever loved. 

Jack jumps out of his seat, looking around him in confusion and longing. Whoever smells like that is getting closer, approaching their spot as he circles the table and tries to locate them. 

"Yeah, I'm fine, don't worry," He answers Ted, who asked him if he's alright as the others look at him baffled. "I just need to..." 

Distracted and blinded by the darkness, Jack bumped into a woman as he tried to excuse himself away from his friends, something spilling on his shirt. 

"Chin! I'm terribly sorry!" 

"Oh, no, don’t be; it’s not your fault!" The voice makes him freeze in his tracks, hands trembling. "I didn't see you there; it's too dark in here." 

His gaze slowly lifts from the dark floor to the face of the woman in front of him, her face slightly illuminated by neon blue light. Her eyes lock with his, the faintest sign of familiarity in them, and god was he convinced for a moment to have died. Before him, there's a ghost; literally, she's dressed up as one: flowy white dress and dark makeup. Even in the dim, he can recognize all the marks and lines he'd traced so many times with his fingers, the curve of the lips he'd kissed endless times, and the irises he woke up to for seven years in what seems like a lifetime ago. 

She looks just as when he first met her, her tone and movements are identical copies of hers, and she scents the exact fucking same. It drives him wild; it makes him hot and needy. He just wants to jump at her and hug her, smell her, kiss her, taste her... 

"Lucifer!" Shiklah's voice wakes him from his trance. "You are the walking portrait of..." He steps on her foot to shut her up, earning a yelp from her part. The others turn to check on her, allowing Jack to apologize without feeling their stares on them. 

"Damn it, I think I stained your shirt." she points to his chest, where a big wet spot lies: tequila, the smell tells him.

"It's nothing, really; I was distracted as well... Could I offer to buy you another?" 

"You know? There are better ways to approach a woman than spilling her drink, pretty boy." His cheeks immediately burn; heavens, did he miss her coquetry. 

"It worked, didn't it?" She laughs, a sound that crosses directly to his death-hollow heart and reanimates it from his century-long sleep.

"I usually don't accept drinks from strangers, but I think I could make an exception for you." 

"I'm Jack Russell, at your service, señorita." Slowly, he took her hand and kissed the back of it, his gaze fixed on hers. "And you are...?"

She gave him the same name his lips were used to pronounce as a prayer in another life, one his tongue rolled off with such naturalness it seemed tailored to it.  

"Not so much of a stranger now, eh? Now, how about that drink?" 

"The bar is over there." She pointed to his left. "Want me to lead you, Jack?" 

His heart fluttered as she looped her arm with his, guiding him across the floor with a seductive smile on her lips. 

[thisisthehardestthing]

Between Heaven & Hell (Hawks x fem!reader x Dabi)

Description: You’re in an underground techno warehouse party sandwiched between Hawks and Dabi. Inspired by the ragers I go to whenever I visit Paris by Myst Paris 

Rating: M for Mature, NSFW.

Word Count: 1.6k

Trigger: Drugs. (”tw drugs” for blacklist if you follow me from now on!)

Sweat. It’s dripping down your chest, jumping with each vibration of the speakers. Glistening bodies surrounds you becoming one with the music. The warehouse is unassuming from the outside, all broken windows and grey concrete. It started at midnight, now it’s 4 am. Most of the world is resting, asleep, dead. Yet, you’ve never felt more alive.

The bass pumps through you, oscillating in your bones and veins as it syncs with your heartbeat. You’ve forgotten where you end and the music begins. It’s all encompassing. It’s constant. Eternal. And your feet stomp in time, hips moving, hands reaching up to the sky, through your hair, down your neck, hugging yourself.

The music slows and the lights darken. There’s electricity in the air as contorting flesh still and moan against the absence of beat. You sway as you wait. Getting lost in the echoes of pleasure. Alcohol dampened concrete crunches under your boots as you crumple the flyers, cups, syringes underneath.

There’s a breath. It ghosts over your skin, warm and moist. It’s a question. There’s an unspoken rule in place, one that no matter how far someone’s gone, stays. You agree. Instinct takes over as you lean back, sliding across a chest, in sync. You’re melting together as your hands reach up behind your head to grip shoulder, neck, hair. Your shirt is missing; it has been for hours when you decided to take the second half of that bitter pill. Shoulders bump against yours as you’re pulled tight against muscle, soft and warm and wet. Your nipples prick up as you arch, feeling finger tips glide over your waist, stomach, ribs, before settling on your breasts. There are lips at your ears, and when the beat combusts, they begin to suck.

For a second you wonder who it is, before deciding you don’t care. You’re lost in feeling. You don’t want anything else. Your moans come out with the beat, in short successions. Your eyes are open and glazed over as the lights strobe. You see bodies in fractions, and beyond, the master puppeteer. You push away from the chest, feeling a call to move closer and be ensnared. A hand grabs yours and you look back. All fades away as you take in their chest, lips, hair, face. The black lines on the inside of his eyes dance around as the air changes and charges up.

An exchange of smiles, and you pull him after you as you step between moving mountains of skin. Fingers interlock as you reach the metal barrier, cold against heated flesh, sardined with other entranced figures. You pull water from the bag around your waist, taking a sip before offering it to him, grateful fingers take it before screwing the cap back on. Another unspoken rule. You zip it back up, as you begin to bounce once more to the beat.His arms wrap around your frame and hands grip the rail, pressing flush against your body and pinning you in place.

“Hawks,” He whispers against your ear.

No real names, not tonight. You sigh in a greeting as those lips come back to your neck. Teeth gently nipping and scratching down the side of your throat. Fingers come down to your thigh, feeling up the side of bare flesh, tracing the hem of your skirt, now soiled and full of grime. When he squeezes, you turn to face him. Honeyed eyes staring into your own. The hand grabs your ass tentatively, until your arms wrap around his neck, and then they bruise. There’s a moment when your hearts are louder than the music, reminding you of the earthly binding you possess, before they’re shed and your lips crash together.

There’s no stillness as your mouths glide with one another. The barrier is shaking as hands around you tug against it, forearms ghost over your bodies as the spell continues its chant. You’re turned sideways so that bodies press to your back, sandwiching you closer together. His hands pull apart the flesh under your skirt, before moving up. The thought that the fabric is flipped up flashes through your mind as the white light hits his face. You see his features in all their sweet glory, and then he’s under your skin as your fingers dig through this scalp, steamy and damp.

A harmony travels through the air and it seems as though your moans are echoed in the music as the bass trembles beneath your feet and chest rubs together. All too sudden, his lips are wrenched away and fingertips pry his chin to the side.

“You keep disappearing, Hawks.” The husky voice is low yet thunderous as it reverberates down your spine, directed at the man wrapped under your arms. “I might have to clip your wings.” His arms pull you tighter into his wet chest. Not registering or caring if theres a conflict, your lips start leaving trails of kisses against muscled skin.

“I found a little bird, Dabi.” His words are hummed, equally as low yet like lightning.

Your eyes are open and staring at the newcomer, but you can’t focus on them. The bodies behind him, next to you, above, beneath, are moving too fast and you’re all too aware that you’ve stopped. Being motionless feels like drowning and you reach a hand out to grab at anything. A chuckle shakes you as you spin to pull textured skin closer. If the one that found you was the gates of heaven, this man was the river to hell. You were surrounded by golden light and black night, poison and its cure.

The beat changes once more, dropping octaves. The world is spinning, picking up pace. There’s too much on you, grabbing you, invading your eyes and ears and taste and smell; fresh air and burnt wood all at once. You can notice it now, how much faster than the music your heart is pounding and you pull away, pressing flat against scarred tissue and cool metal piercings behind you. The devil doesn’t slow down, palms moving up and over skin. But the angel stills, pushing sticky hair out of your face as he whispers.

“Want to fly away, little bird?” You barely have to nod before Hawks catches Dabi’s eye and guides you through the maze of bodies. As you move, other’s take your place. Another sip of water, shared, finished, before the bottle is lost, joining the forgotten and empty things left behind. There are wings tattooed on his back, and the light that catches them make them flutter and dance.

You’re now in a corner, dark, away from the searching lights guiding souls to ascension. It’s too fast and too slow at once when your bag is tossed to the floor, against the wall under three bodies that begin to intertwine. Calloused fingers grip your chin as you stare into the deep end of the ocean. Then you’re floating in their water as a mouth kisses the back of your neck.

“Damn, you’re a doll.”

The fingers pull at your lips, squeezing your cheeks but you can’t think, you only feel the ecstasy of being touched. You’re flying when his lips are against yours, chapped and thirsty, like you’re the first sip of water for the night, or is it now early morning? Maybe it is, you can’t remember. He’s hot. Hotter than the chest pressed against your back and the hands beneath your skirt. Those are cool, slow, tantalizing. Your underwear is pushed aside and lazy lines draw up and down pulsing lips. The moans that want to escape burst through, and Dabi moves away, down your neck in order not to smother the sound. You trace his scar littered chest. You can’t look away from the shadows that quiver on his body, and he pulls your gaze.

“Keep your eyes up here, dollface.” He whispers, the exhale kissing your lips and you gasp as two fingers enter you, tugging on strings that pull you back, hands flying up to grip blonde hair behind you between your fingers. Once more, you’re one with the music as it’s inside you now. Rhythmically pumping as you stare into the face of Lust reincarnated.

The sweat on your chest begins to cool and you moan, one hand pulling Dabi close. His face passes yours as he kisses Hawks, or is it you? You’re fully sandwiched between them, and you could swear that you’re one. And all too suddenly, the haze is broken as a sharp light flashes against your faces. They’re pulled away and you feel empty, hollow, cold. Hawks brings two fingers into his mouth nonchalantly to taste you. The guardians in this void, security if you were in your right mind, grunting their disapproval as they walk away. You’re motionless again and so you begin to bounce, teeth grinding down, you might be biting your cheeks. There’s a stick of dynamite that’s lit up inside and you need to explode.

“Not here.” You say, heads whipping around to stare at you, grins spreading wide as teeth, gums, tongue, bones and soul break through.

“Do you know what you’re asking, sweet bird?” Lightning strikes against your ear. The third rule, always spoken.

“Yes,” you answer.

Dabi pulled the shirt tucked into Hawk’s waistband over your head as he slips his own on, scooping up your trampled bag.

“Then let’s bounce.”

The air outside is cold in the early light of dawn, sobering on your face and flushing your cheeks. Everything is too in focus, too bright. Most of the world is waking up, stretching, coming alive. You’ve never felt darker.

***********************************

Note: Ayyyyyyyy First time writing for Hawks, first time writing for Dabi and I put them together??? I’m sorry lmao. On a way more serious note, I know first hand how the world of underground warehouse parties work and can suck you into it. Please, please, please reach out to your friends if you notice them getting lost, or if you’re noticing a change in yourself. I’ve lost quite a few friends, and I know so many people that have lost more loved ones because of drugs and the like. I hope you’re staying safe x

[jasonndeans]

young gods - shane “dio” morrissey x reader

word count: 1,990

warnings: brief scene involving harassment and brief use of the f slur at the end.

chapter: 1/?

summary:  You weren't looking for anything when you met Dio, but you also couldn't take your eyes off of him. You were drawn to him, shrouded in black mystery and his softer side he kept well hidden under that duster. A part of you knew when you first saw him, he was destined to fly too close to the sun. At first, it wasn't really anything he said or anything he did. It was the feeling that came along with him. You'd never felt this way before, and the crazy thing is, you didn't know if you should. You knew his world moved too fast and burned too bright, but...how can the Devil be pulling you towards someone who looks so much like an angel when he smiles at you? Maybe he knew that when he met you, too.

Dio didn’t have much to bring with him on the day he took you up on your offer to live with you in your small New York City apartment; small, albeit big enough for two. He carried almost all of his earthly possessions with him in his pockets — the keys to his father’s ancient, barely running Honda, a pack of cigarettes, loose cash and change, and his trusty switch. The rest would have to be crammed into his car and hauled over, mostly consisting of clothes and shoes, thrifted or stolen. 

“I was wonderin’ when you’d rescue me from the Smack Shack,” he’d quipped, lips curling.

“The Smack Shack” is what he’d dubbed the worn-down, abandoned place he and his buddies — all of them pursuers of a list of drugs, some of them sellers like Dio — often crashed in when a softer, more secure sofa couldn’t be reserved for the night. Thus, The Smack Shack. You’d visited a handful of times despite the fact that it gave you the creeps. Dio had your trust, as did…some of his friends. The neighborhood just wasn’t the safest in Manhattan, needless to say, and there was no guessing what shady characters were looming about in these hollowed out homes. You’re just glad he’s out of there. And with you.

“Ohh, I rescued you, huh?” You’d teased back, your voice lilting in a sing-song tone. “I must be your knight in shining armor.”

He hummed in the back of his throat with a mock grimace, leaning forward to kiss you. “Don’t make me sick, birdie.” His lips were chapped and tasted of smoke, and as much as you detested the habit, it was something so purely Dio. A smirk played on his lips upon pulling back with decorated fingers idly tapping out a rhythm onto a tabletop of a squat little sandwich shop you worked at. “I seem to remember things differently.” Expectant, he cocked his head, casting a shadow of his star-shaped earring onto his neck -- one of many, many things that endeared you to the boy in black.

As if on cue, you turned sheepish with a duck of your head and a bashful smile cast downwards. He was referring to the day you two first met. Officially, that is. Along with the thrill of waitressing and constructing sandwiches, you worked behind a cash register at a record shop -- Empire Records. Music’s always been a constant comfort for you, in your ears when you needed a voice to scream your sorrows, your rampages or your little victories. You’d amassed quite the collection of records as you grew and your music taste with you for a player you’d fixed up and obtained from a seller when on the hunt for more important things like furniture and necessities to fill your then new apartment. You didn’t consider yourself to be one of those douchey vinyl connoisseurs, but you liked the place well enough. It was only a matter of time before you noticed the tall, dark, handsome boy who’d frequent the place without buying anything. He’d stick to the Industrial Rock or Post-Punk ailes and he definitely looked the type, decked head to toe in grungey black attire, adorned with silver jewelry and chains. Every so often the two of you would lock eyes, make slightly painful small talk about whatever was playing through the speakers. You even inquired once if he’d learned your shift schedule with how often he’d appear when you were working, and, leaning suavely on his elbows before you, he’d replied:

“Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t. That all depends...would you think I was a creep if I said yes?”

Perhaps a normal individual would confirm this, but you had to admit the guy was cute. Okay, he was hot with his dark eyes lined in black, brow piercing and air of confidence. So you smiled and shook your head. Dio smiled back.

You recall during one of your early morning shifts, Dio asked for your coffee order, motioning to the cup in your hands. You gave it to him and he advised against grabbing your morning coffee the next time it was scheduled on your calendar. With curiosity, you obliged and on that day and each day after, in he strolled with your cup in one hand, his in the other. So you carried on like that for a while, chatting over coffee, much to the dismay of your manager.

“Your boyfriend’s a distraction,” she’d remarked one day. “And a loiterer. I don’t care how dreamy he is, he can’t keep hanging around here if he’s not gonna buy anything.”

Admittedly, that caused your heart to sink a little. Yeah, you understood her frustration from a business perspective, but despite not even knowing this guy’s name, his gloomy presence brightened your otherwise dull work days.

When you transferred your manager’s message, Dio issued a breath of...disappointment?

“I don’t believe in money,” came his confession, almost hardly classifying as one what with how casually it was delivered. He chuckled at your raised brow. “Everyone’s a slave to these meaningless pieces of paper and metal, even you. ” A nail painted black pointed at you. “If I want something, nine times outta ten, I’ll find my own way to get it. Seems a little fucked up to work for the essentials for survival, don’t you think?”

For a moment, you sat with this new information. Yeah, it was a little fucked up to fork over hard-earned cash for things like basic needs, but how else was someone expected to live? Mulling it over, you sipped your coffee, once again brought by him. You shot Mr. No-Name-Kid a knowing look. “Am I drinking stolen coffee?” Your smirk couldn’t hide from him.

Dio only laughed.

One night as you closed up shop, you were disheartened at the absence of a certain trench coat clad “customer” in the store that day. You couldn’t place where this was coming from. After all, the two of you were only..what? Acquaintances at most? Names hadn’t even been exchanged, and yet you found yourself scanning the streets outside for any sight of him at the door; reminded of his face when bands like The Cure filled the shop.

Your sigh deflated you as you dug for your keys in your bag -- both to lock up and for your car. It was whatever. This guy had a life too and was under no obligation to visit you as you worked.  You turned the key to Empire Records, locking it shut and gave the doors a pull to be sure, Yup. All good. Nodding to yourself, you turned to locate your car in the lot next door. The night was brisk, pushing past the fabric of your cardigan as you walked an empty sidewalk. Under the glow of buzzing streetlights and neon business signs, you tugged it closer to you. The work day was dwindling, at least on this street, cars every so often rolling past. You’re about halfway to the car park when your ears catch a second pair of footsteps behind you. Your lips and spirits lift with the hope that they might belong to the heavy boots of Dio after all and you turn to greet him.

“Nice night, huh?”

This guy’s not Dio. His hoodie covers shaggy chestnut hair, hands in his front pocket as he trudges along. This dude reeks of weed and booze. You ignore him and continue on your path.

“Not a talker. Got it. Listen, honey, you don’t gotta clam up around me, I’m a swell guy. I’ll walk ya’ to your car, that’s where you’re goin’, right?”

Jaw clenched, you ball your cool hands into fists at your sides, keeping your car key poking out from between your fingers should this douche not get the hint. “I don’t need an escort, thanks.” Your reply is sharp, eyes remaining en route. Other than that, you try your damndest to ease calm through your body. Tempting as it is to dash to the safety of your vehicle, you’re not about to put any fear on display for him. You’re okay. Breathe. The lot’s less than a block away now.

Then a hand snakes its way around your waist.

“C’mon, baby, ‘m just tryn’a be a gentleman. Isn’t that what broads want?” His breath is rancid in your nose.

You jerk away, shooting daggers. “Offer declined, now leave me alone.” Now you pick up the pace with your destination in sight. You don’t make it far before you’re jerked back by fingers at your forearm that tug forcefully. The bastard opens his mouth to spew more drovel, but you don’t give him the chance to speak. Screwing up your face, you reel your arm back and jab him with your key in the ribs.

Pain sputters through his lips. No skin was broken (unfortunately), but he’s stumbled back a few paces and grabs where you’d struck him. “You bitch!” He spits, his glare glassy. “Fuck’s your problem?!”

You’re halted by a chilling mixture of fear and shock at your own actions, snapping out of it when the drunk stranger lunges forward. No time is wasted in absolutely fucking booking it now. He may be hammered, but you’re taking no chances. You pay no attention to the string of swears and slurs from behind you and finally reach your car. The vibrations in your hands make unlocking the door difficult, and glancing up you can see your pursuer drunkenly heading toward you.

“Fuck!” You cry. “Stupid fucking--!”

“If I were you I’d stop right there, you piece of shit.”

The familiar voice that hadn’t been there prior snaps your head up, scanning the darkness to catch Dio crossing the street looking more menacing than you’ve ever seen him. You could get in your car and peel out of there right now, but you’re frozen in place watching the scene unfold.

Your attacker finds his way to his feet again, looking dumbfounded at the character who’s walked onto the scene. “Who -- who the fuck’re you?!”

You catch a smirk on Dio’s lips under flickering streetlights. “That all depends on what your next move is, jagoff.” He looks pissed as all hell, though there’s a layer of calm to his words that stirs your stomach. Dio now stands in front of the other with his hands in leather pockets, like he’s provoking him. He’s always exuded this...intimidating aura, clad in all black and chains but you’ve never seen this side of him in action. Maybe now is a bad time to come to this realization, but you have to admit: it’s sexy.

“Oh that’s, ‘s cute,” Mumbles the brunette guy, snickering. “‘S this your boyfriend comin’ to the rescue? Looks like a fuckin’ faggot if I’ve ever seen--”

Dio’s boot to this guy’s crotch cuts him off in the middle of his “insult” and he crumples to the concrete with a groan; if that isn’t enough, Dio lands a second kick to his temple.

You can only stand there lamely with your jaw agape and watch him swagger over after he just knocked a dude in the nuts.

“Sorry I was late,” he says smoothly. “I was in a meeting. You alright?”

Stupidly, you blink at him in the low light. “I--um...I’m…” Real nice. You shake your head to jumpstart your brain. “Yeah, I-I’m okay. I’m good. Thanks. Really.” So he’d come to see you after all.

Dio nods, appearing grateful to hear you’re unharmed.

You two begin to speak at the same time and chuckle in unison. He falls silent, ushering you to continue. You look your rescuer in the face, unable to swallow a smile. You’d missed those eyes, seeming so warm in the cool of the night. “So, do I get to know the name of my savior?” You prod.

He laughs once, low in his throat. “Dio.”

[riorsonxaden]

can we get a drabble for jurdan + this is gospel by panic! pls 🥺 CONGRATS ON 1K BABES!!!! 🥳💞💞

The Fear Of Falling Apart

Warnings: mention of death, mention of alcoholism. HEA (for the most part)

Song of choice: This is gospel-Panic! At the disco

And thank you love!!! Thanks for always supporting all my crazy ideas. p.s. Sorry if this hurts babes. I promise I have smut in my docs for you.

Jude sat in the aged recliner next to the hospital bed. Unsure of how much time had passed stuck in the cold room. Only the sounds of beeping monitors and the low murmur of tacky infomercials from the tv overhead. Then of course his breaths. Deep and shallow as he slept. The same way his chest rose and fell.

She roved over his slumbered state. Thick, soft inky black hair messily brushed to the side. A hauntingly beautiful contrast to his ivory toned skin. Which looked more on the scale of ghostly pale than a glimmering white. His lips, full yet dry and chapped. Her guess was from all the content he spilled from whatever liquor he consumed. Amber eyes moved to the various tubes connecting him to the monitor. Keeping him steady. Keeping him alive.

Jude loved Cardan. Cardan loved Jude. It wasn't that simple. 

Not where alcohol was involved. For Jude, no matter how much he loved her. He seemed to favor drinking a tad beyond it. Her pleas for him to get help fell upon deaf ears. His friends...only cared for his wallet and line skipping. They were no help to her cause. She's fairly certain the staff at Insmoor General Hospital know her by name. For how many times, Cardan had needed his stomach pumped. Like always she drove as fast as her car could go. Jude would wait for the nurse or doctor, letting her know of his condition. This time it was a nurse who approached her. The words the nurse spoke were more like sharp knives that she knew would leave scars. That would haunt her. 

"your boyfriend's heart stopped for ten minutes."

Ten minutes. Cardan had died for ten minutes. In one single sentence, her entire world shattered. The fear of him being a broken memory stole the very breath from her lungs. 

Even now when she looked at him in peaceful rest. She could picture him laying there. Motionless. No movement under the thin blankets. No beeping from the monitors letting her know he was alive. Few things frightened Jude. Losing Cardan. No matter if it was seconds or minutes. terrified in a way she could barely hold a grasp of. 

Usually, when he drank heavily, she saw red. Furious at him for indulging in copious amounts. Until the rage and anger fell away. She'd lay in bed with him. Telling him, how much it worried her. He always promised to get better. He never did. A vicious circle, a dance with death. All it would take is a misstep in the routine to slip and flip. Cardan had gone and done just that. Apart of her wanted to scream at him until her lungs burned and her cheeks turned deep crimson as they did when her frustration with him hit its highest point. Tonight the thought of never hearing his criminally wicked tongue again weighed heavier than anger. For Jude, she felt as if she was on a cliff. Mere inches from falling apart.

Her hand trembled as she reached over, slipping her hand into his. It was barely warm, like death still hung around him. Readying to take him into a permanent slumber. Jude squeezed his hand, nails digging below the skin of his fingers. He didn’t grip back. If she didn’t study his face at that moment, Jude would have never caught the slight flinch from his lids. Good. If she was lucky he would hear her. 

“Cardan,” Jude took a calming breath, running a thumb over his knuckles, “I-I don’t know what to do anymore,” the hot sting of tears burned against the lining of eyes, she swallowed thickly. It didn’t prevent the wetness trickling down her cheeks or the way her voice cracked when she continued, “I want to hate you right now,” gnashing her jaw together and then losing it,” I want to slap or threaten you. And then tell you…” another breath. Jude wasn’t sure if she felt a featherlight squeeze or imagined it, “That..that if you loved me Cardan. You would let me go. Because. Because,” her tone rose an octave too high, her lips trembled. Shaking the way her body was as her heart twisted in agony, “I can’t watch you do this to yourself anymore. But-”

To her surprise, his hand squeezed back. Jude flicked her gaze to his eyes. The lids pulled back as he slowly blinked awake. The slow trickle of tears turned to an endless stream. Jude made to take her hand away. He held on to her. Like she was a tether to this world. To his world. A grip so tight she could feel the cool clammy sweat between their palms. He groaned trying to reach up and wipe the wetness staining her cheeks. He was still too weak and fell back on to the bed. Jude rubbed her tears away with the opposite hand. A tired grin fell on his lips.

“Jude,” Her name on his lips came out in a rasp, from sleep or what he endured she couldn't say. Cardan’s handsome features twisted like saying her name physically pained him.

Again Cardan tried to ignore the pain in his body as he attempted to rise. Jude moved to the edge of the bed thigh to thigh with him. Being this close to him. She fell off that cliff headfirst. Letting him see the damage he had done to hear that night. If this didn’t work she wasn’t sure there was anything else she could do besides walking away. Jude refused to give up. Not without one final fight. Cardan rested his head against her shoulder, an arm draped lazily around her. There was power in his fist as he clung to her. Fingers grasping at the back of her shirt. Jude copied his movements. The only difference was she felt hands running through her auburn strands in calming strokes. Her body shook against him as she finally, truly gave into the fears of what his habits did to her. Jude knew her sleeve matched his own. Soaked and used as a tissue. Cardan’s grip tightened around her with every shaky breath, every sniffle from either of them.

Jude willed herself to pull away, catching his face in her hands. Their foreheads touching and she could still smell the reek of alcohol on him. Almost like he wore it as cologne. She should ask him how he felt if he needed anything. Her emotions for once bested the thought.

“I want to hate you right now,” she choked out, biting back a sob, “because I hate what you’re doing to yourself. I hate that you’re not taking this seriously. For ten minutes. Ten minutes Cardan you died. You left me in this god damned world, you insufferable bastard. And for what?” her pitch rose with every word.

“I know.”

“I wish I could leave you. I want to,” Jude pursed her lips before continuing, Cardan only stared at where their thighs touched. She hoped it was shame that made him unable to look her in the eyes, “I’m... I couldn’t live with myself if, if, “ she stumbled trying to find the words. Too many thoughts were racing and pulsing in her mind. Jude couldn’t grasp onto one long enough to articulate it fully.

“Jude,” his eyes finally lifted under thick long lashes to meet hers. Dark circles encased around his coal eyes, “I had. No. I have failed you. And you should. I love you enough to let you go,” she was quiet, her expression unreadable as he coughed, “I know I died. Explaining it is difficult, but I know it,” gingerly he cupped her cheek, wiping away a stray tear with the tip of his thumb, “I should have stayed dead. This is a second chance. I am a sickness that needs to be cured.”

“What are you saying?”

He took in a breath and released it, “I need help.”

Jude wasn’t sure what stole the air from her lungs first. Cardan’s admittance or the way he held her. Arms wound around her like she was his lifeline, a saving grace. Like Jude was his gospel.

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[bluebellhairpin]

Plague

Damian Wayne X Batmom!Reader

A/N: Heh heh, I’m following my Batmom religiously now. She’s gotten too cool. - Nemo

Warning(s): Nightmares, Zombie-like stuff (gore, blood, think Cranks from Scorch Trials) 

Summary: A team-building exercise went a bit weary for you and Damian. But as time runs out, maybe he’ll be able to finally get rid of Talia’s version of a mother, and replace it with yours. 

Listening to: ‘Save Your Tears’ by The Weekend (ft. Ariana Grande) - ‘Save your tears for another day, so I made you think that I would always stay.’

Series Masterlist 

Masterlist   

Damian never really liked (y/n). 

Even after Talia broke into the cave and confronted him, Bruce and (y/n), his feelings only changed from silent loathing to slight admiration. After all, not many people could get Talia to act like she did, and it seemed (y/n) was one of them.

Eventually Damian and (y/n) were sent off one night. Bruce told Damian that it was a ‘team-building exercise’ and that it ‘would do him good to get to know the only mother-figure in the manor’ in case something happened. 

What Damian didn’t expect was that something happened while they were walking back to the car from the part couple hours spent in the carnival. (Damian wouldn’t admit, but he did like her a little more after she won him one of the giant stuffed animals that no one ever won.) 

It all happened so fast, and (y/n) recovered quickly enough to get to the car - luckily with Alfred waiting inside. She was quiet the whole way home, only speaking once she’d taken a look at the wound on her leg, saying something to the butler about ‘quarantine’ and ‘he’s back’. 

Damian didn’t like the sound of that. He went straight to his room as Alfred helped (y/n) towards the cave. 

The next day at breakfast, (y/n) wasn’t there. 

Bruce was looking somber as ever, and Dick looked uncharacteristically sad. Jason was nowhere to be seen - not unusual - and he was told Tim had been awake and in the cave since 4am.

 Damian thought they were just upset that (y/n) had gotten shot, and he wouldn’t lie if someone asked if he felt a bit guilty. He might’ve been able to help, and he didn’t do much more than not get in the way. 

Damian ventured into the cave around lunchtime, being greeted with a new glass cage set near the computer. One closer inspection, it wasn’t a cage - more like a quarantine room with only three sides glassed off - fitted with a bed, desk, it’s own computer, and a door off to one side - presumably for a bathroom. Inside was (y/n), donned in plain clothes, and working away on a keyboard inside the box. 

(y/n) noticed Damian as he approached, sending him a weary smile, and kept typing away. 

“What’s this?” Damian asked, gesturing slightly with his hand before stuffing it in his pocket. 

“Quarantine room.” she replied curtly, still typing away, but casting glances his way.

“Obviously, but what for?” 

“Me. I’m sick.”

“What,” Damian started with a scoff, “One bullet wound and you’re out for the count?” 

“It wasn’t just a bullet.” Tim said, walking back to his place at the computer. “Ma, results say it was the sulfuric and nitric acid. Mixed with that same other stuff we haven’t named yet.” Tim said, now addressing (y/n), of whom paid full attention. Treatment Damian didn’t get, and it tugged at his stomach in an unfamiliar way. 

“Thanks Timmy.” She said, then went back to typing again. Damian decided he wasn’t getting answers here, so he made his way back upstairs to his father. 

Bruce decided to do work at home today, and Damian now knew why. (y/n) was hurt, and it seemed Bruce wanted to be around in case something bad happened. Or more like something worse happened. 

“Father,” he said, Bruce looking up from his paperwork as Damian walked in, “Why is (y/n) acting so weak?” Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he sighed and motioned for Damian to sit down.

“She’s not ‘acting weak’. She’s been quarantined for our safety.” 

“Why? Sulfuric and nitric acid would only be detrimental to her health not ours.” 

“You know anything about zombies, Damian?” Bruce asked, full attention on the boy in front of him. Damian tilted his head.

“I’ve seen ‘Scorch Trials’, but those were cranks not zombies.” 

“Well the bullet (y/n) was shot with last night was coated in a substance that - after the incubation period - turns the host into a more agile version of themselves, stronger, smarter, and very carnivorous. Not to mention it’s contagious, it can spread as fast as the black plague.” 

“(y/n)’s going to turn into a crank?” Damian said, voice less stern, and more soft. “A crank that can infect others?” 

“Only if she gets out before…” Bruce trailed off, running a hand through his hair. 

“Before it kills her.” Damian finished, more of a statement than a question. He was starting to realize things were more serious than he realized, but he needed all his questions answered before he could walk away from Bruce yet. “How do you know so much?” 

“Because it’s happened before.” Bruce said, looking at Damian with a soft smile. “She was the first to test the cure.” 

“How many were infected back then?”

“A whole town in the middle-east.” Bruce sat back in his seat, getting comfortable. He felt Damian had a good few questions left. “The League came and helped contain it to just the town. (y/n) was one that helped, and paid the price for getting too close when trying to help.” 

“Why don’t you just use the cure now?”

“It’s not that easy, some of the ingredients are found on other worlds, some only Superman can get to because of his invulnerability. As you know, Clark isn’t always available. As of Jason’s Intel, only (y/n) is infected, so the urgency for a cure isn’t as great.” 

“Why didn’t I know of this before?” 

“It was before your time. We’d just lost Jason when it happened, we were both not thinking right. (y/n) viewed the mission as a way to get away from Gotham. And me.” 

Damian fell into silence, no more questions, and he felt himself falling back into his seat to mirror Bruce’s position. 

“It’s come back then. Whatever you thought you’d stopped before is back.” he said, locking eyes with his father as a few moments silence passed again. “A bullet, so someone has the plague substance. We need to stop them.” 

Days passed before something happened again. The news showed police barricading streets in inner Gotham from a whole hoard of infected civilians. Since they weren’t kept in quarantine like (y/n) was, they turned faster. Jason’s red hood could be seen helping the police along with Dick in his Nightwing costume. Bruce was in the Watchtower, overseeing the making of the cure with Tim. 

Damian stayed with (y/n), donned in his Robin suit in case he was needed with Dick and Jason, or his father and Tim. It seemed that even though her effects were slowed, she suffered more. 

The acid made her cough and cough, her throat must be feeling raw by now by how chapped her lips were. Her eyes were sunken in and rimmed red, and normal (s/c) skin turned pasty, with black bulging veins poked out of her arms, hands and neck. She’d lost weight since she was locked up, Damian noted even though it was slight, and her hair lost its usual shine. 

It made his stomach churn to see (y/n) looking so horrible. She wasn't just Bruce’s light in the dark world of Gotham, really she were light for the whole family too. 

Damian moved closer, pulling the computer chair with him, and sat next to the glass wall, resting his hand on the pane. Realistically, he hadn’t been sleeping the best since his talk with Bruce about what (y/n) was going through. His sleep was filled with images of her. 

One of her crawling through the floorboards of the manor, chasing him, scratching along the walls and leaving a trail of sticky black blood, skin rotted away and eyes glazed over, muttering over and over.

You could’ve saved me. 

Another she was laying in bed, looking like she was sleeping, and his father came up behind him, eyes glazed over like hers were in the one before, speaking in her voice, saying the same thing.

You could’ve saved me.

The most recent, she was dangling off a cliff, holding his hand, and the harder he held on, the more he tried to pull her up - for his sake and his family  - the heavier she got, the more she slipped away, and then she fell. She screamed, but he only heard one thing whispered in his ear.

You could’ve saved me. 

“Damian?” she asked, having moved closer. From a distance she looked much better than she really was, even so he was sure she hid most of it well. “What’s wrong?” her voice was so soft, so caring. She was so concerned about him even though she was the one dying where she stood. 

“You- you better not die before father gets back.” he said, voice breaking slightly as he fought back the start of tears. “He’ll miss you too much.” She let out a slight chuckle, sliding down the glass wall to sit. He breathing sounded easier if she wasn’t standing.

“I don’t plan on it, trust me.” she said, looking up at him, cracking a smile. “Can I tell you a secret?” He nodded. “I think it hits harder the second time round.” 

They both let out half-hearted laughs, Damian wiping away at his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry. She was acting too normal to be so close to death - or something worse. 

She wasn’t going anywhere, he’s sure that’s what she’s trying to say.

“I’m sorry.” he whispered, resting his arm against the glass alongside hers. If the glass wasn't there he would’ve taken her hand. 

“What for Dami?” she asked, voice as quiet as his. Damian’s throat was tight. Dami.

He liked that.

“For not saving you.” he said after a while silent. “I was there. I should’ve been more vigilant.” She clenched her hand.

“You don’t need to be sorry. If it wasn't me it could’ve been you, and I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself for that.” she said, leaning away to cough. She recovered quickly, a hand on her chest. “I don’t blame you for this Damian. There are bad people in this world, and they do bad things. Good people - like you, your father, and your brothers - they’re what stops the bad from overrunning the good.” 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Damian said, mimicking her question and posture from before. She nodded with a gentle smile. “You’re a much better mother than Talia.” 

To say Bruce was surprised when he got back to the cave after administering the cure to the crowd in Gotham was a good way to put it. 

When Clark mentioned to Bruce over the comms that Damian was very subdued when he delivered the cure to (y/n), he just thought it meant the boy was wanting (y/n) to just go back to normal, and therefore not being a pain. He didn’t expect him to be on the floor next to the quarantine room, sleeping, with the computer chair pushed a little ways away. 

(y/n)  smiled as Bruce approached, color already returning to her cheeks, and she raised a finger to her lips to motion for him to be quiet. The cure would kick in fully in a couple more hours, and she’d be completely free from infecting others in a little over a day. 

“What’s this?” Bruce asked, voice very low so as to not wake the sleeping Damian. 

“He was looking after me.” She said with a smile, having stood to stand a little away from the sleeping boy. “You should probably take him upstairs. He’ll sleep better in his own room.” 

That morning, when (y/n) woke up in her hospital-like bed, Damian was back. Having obviously moved back to the cave from since Bruce carried him upstairs, and now was sleeping slumped over the computer desk. 

(y/n) moved to the bathroom adjoined to the glass room, even she could tell she looked better. Color had completely returned, her eyes looked brighter, and the black veins in her neck and arms were more of a dark blue. 

By the time she reemerged, Bruce was in the cave, and Damian had woken. 

“Ummi.” He said, standing and walking to the glass wall, placing his hand up where (y/n)’s was. “You look so much better today.” he said, smiling. 

“I thought I always looked good?” she scoffed, earning a laugh from Bruce.

“Sure, sure darling.” Bruce said smiling over at the woman and his son. 

“Ah, Bruce! I’m hurt.” She said, Damian sending something that resembled a playful glare at his father, before returning his gaze to (y/n).

“Damian,” she said, looking down at the blue-eyed boy, a playful grin slipping onto her lips, “What does ‘Ummi’ mean?” 

Bruce barked out a hearty laugh, the red tinted cheeks of his son over-ruling the much more serious glare he was sending his way.

[mandelene]

Can you do another hurt/comfort doctor/dentist RusAme drabble? (I loved the one you wrote last time. X3)

Sure thing! 💕 If anyone hasn’t read the first one anon is referring to, you can click here 

The 24/7 Job

Word Count: 646

It's not often that Ivan gets a phone call from Alfred in the middle of the workday, but when he does, he knows it's because something is amiss and that he's going to have to fix it. Now is one of those examples. 

"Babe, I'm sick," Alfred whines, sounding congested and hoarse on the other end of the line. "I need you to come take care of me, please." 

He's used to Alfred always acting like every minor illness is going to kill him by now, but it's still semi-amusing nonetheless. "Oh, you poor thing," he replies with a hint of sarcasm. "What's wrong with you?" 

"My throat hurts, my nose is running, and I have a headache." 

"Did you take your temperature?" 

"Yeah, I don't have a fever." 

"Sounds like a cold. Warm up a can of soup for yourself in the microwave, eat, and then take a nap," Ivan suggests, balancing his cellphone between his ear and his shoulder while his hands busily type away at the computer to finish his charting. He really hates having to bring work home, so he has to get this charting done now. "And if you feel much worse or get a fever, text me." 

"That's it? Don't you have better advice or something? Or some meds I can take?" 

"I just gave you my advice. You don't need meds." 

"Yes, I do. I'm suffering!" Alfred says before letting out a squeaky sneeze. 

"Solnyshko, I haven't invented a cure for the common cold yet, but I'll let you know if I do. You'll be fine with rest and fluids, I promise. If you want, you can take some ibuprofen for your headache and sore throat." 

"But...But I at least need some cuddles..." 

"Da, when I'm home, okay?"

"You promise?"

"Da, now go prepare that soup." 

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

When he returns home, Alfred is fast asleep in their king-sized bed, mouth hanging open. His nose is a pale shade of red and his lips are chapped, but otherwise, he doesn't look extremely worse for wear. Still, Ivan decides he'll indulge him, and so once he changes into some more casual clothes, he climbs into bed with him and pulls his man-baby of a husband into his arms. 

"Mmm," Alfred mumbles, cracking one blue eye open. "You're back." 

"Da, someone has to take care of you since you're so sick," he teases, patting his head. "Did you have some soup and take ibuprofen as I told you to?" 

"...Nope."

Ivan sighs but isn't surprised in the slightest. "They were doctor's orders," he admonishes, tapping a finger on Alfred's sore nose. "How do you expect to get better if you don't take care of yourself?" 

"Don't need to...I have you to take care of me," Alfred says with a toothy smile followed by a dry cough. 

"I won't want to take care of you if you don't listen to me." 

"Nah, you will because you looooove me." 

"Are you sure you're not delirious?" Ivan asks, taking the opportunity to feel Alfred's forehead and cheeks...He might be a little warm, but barely. It's definitely nothing alarming. "All right -- how about I bring you soup and ibuprofen, then?" 

"Thank you. You're a doll," Alfred says with a contented hum. "I'm too weak to get out of bed, you know." 

Ivan laughs at that. "Uh-huh, I'm sure. It's a good thing you have the strength to whine. Any other dying wishes before I go to the kitchen?" 

"Nope, I think that's it for now...Oh, actually, more tissues would be nice, and some throat lozenges -- but bring the strawberry ones. I don't like the lemon ones." 

Ivan dips his head with a nod, smiles, and rolls out of the bed. He really hates having to bring work home but being a doctor is a 24/7 job, and well... 

He'll make an exception for Alfred. 

[selenacosmic]

True beauty. chap. 2

Genre: Romance, Modern AU.

Suitor: Shingen.

Tags: @dmiqueles @likeaquietfantasy @choi-jiyu @iloveshingen @nad-zeta @rizosrojizos @nuttytani @silver94.

“Is everything okay, (Y/n)? You seem a bit... Anxious about something.” Akemi’s voice trailed across your mind, taking you back to the reality realm. You couldn’t stop thinking about that message, that plagues your heart with confusion, a storm inside your head. Did the most handsome man ever just texted you?!

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m just really nervous about the dress that I need to do. I got quite the pressure on my shoulders.” You simply smiled to soothe the nerves from your dear friend, distracting her from the real issue that ruled your mind. Perhaps once you got home you could think of a good approach to send to him, something that would deal with his flirtatious nature. Keep it together, (Y/n)! At least until you reach your home!

—————

By the time you arrived at your place, you have already thought of a good response to that message, but you were nervous about sending it... what if he loses his interest? Well... there was only one way to find out. You immediately went to your room, took the cellphone from the purse and opened to the message he sent, it has been some hours now since Shingen started the chat room, it was enough waiting from you. You started to reply.

{Have no one told you to never flirt with your doctor?}_You

And... sent. Taking a deep breath you pulled your phone away, letting it charge as it was almost dying. Perhaps a shower would take your nerves away and relax your body! It would be a good time to start thinking of a way to fix that dress so that it was perfect for the client. Without further ado, you took your nightgown, the most comfortable one, your towel and rushed to the bathroom. Once you were there, you prepared yourself for a nice bath, while you undressed you let the warm water ready on the tub. As your naked body entered it, the sudden warmth stole sighs of relief from your rosy lips, that same shade of pink spreading across your face and body. Now, your mind was at peace.

—————

(Y/n) wasn’t the only one on her relaxing bath, a certain charming model was on all his glory, a cocktail on his hands as he relaxed on his much larger tub. Being honest, the rest of his house was simple, with some furniture the he himself made it. But the tub was a present he couldn’t simply ignore, it was all too relaxing to take his baths there. And a great place for his... little guests to have fun, it was big enough for at least four people. Yes, he had his fun with it, but something was missing, perhaps someone to cuddle there, and he wasn’t thinking of just anyone, but the warmth of a loving body...

He took a drink from the cocktail, sighing at the bittersweet taste in his tongue, that night he felt so lonely for a reason he couldn’t tell. That was until his phone, that was on the edge of the tub, vibrated with a new notification. Normally, all other notifications are silenced, except for his contacts, so that he knew it was important or from a close friend. He took his phone with his free hand and unlocked it, taking a look at the chatroom he received the message. Oh, it is the sweet little angel who I sent a invitation to chat. He thought, having a big grin spreading across his handsome face, eyes darking with interest as he read the text, ready to send a reply. Drops of water ran across his muscular chest, his fingers moving to write.

{Ah, but I wouldn’t be able to resist if the doctor was someone as attractive as you are. Please, do take care of me, angel.}_Shingen

—————

After minutes of relaxing and thinking about work, you finally exited the bathroom, your comfortable nightgown tightly pressed on your body, which was flushed from the warmth of the water. You have dryed your hair and was ready to watch a movie before going to bed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you took your phone from the nightstand and checked it to see if there was anything new. A few notifications from your social media, a message from Akemi to see if you were okay, you checked it all until you saw a message from the chatroom of the social media. Well, that was fast.

When you opened it, you could feel your cheeks warming up fast as you read the text, he wouldn’t stop flirting with you! Well, why not have some fun with him? It wouldn’t hurt to try... you thought of a good reply, sending it without further ado.

{Are you sure? I might just have to use a Syringe on you, it won’t be good.}_You

Your text was seen a few seconds later and was receiving a immediate reply.

{Oh please, have mercy on me, as the only thing that can cure me is a sweet kiss from your lips.}_Shingen

{Don’t be so dramatic, if you behave, I might give you a reward.}_You

{Will you hug me? I take anything from you as a reward.}_Shingen

{The reward is not getting smacked from the flirting.}_You

{You wound me, my beauty.}_Shingen

{Oh, I am not a beauty. I am pretty normal.}_You

{In my eyes, I see an extraordinary beauty.}_Shingen.

That last message made you flush so hard, how could someone like him think of you as a beauty? Maybe he is just forcing sweet talk? Oh, but you didn’t hide your face in your account, he certainly saw your face in the photos! And he thought... you were beautiful!!! You were actually flirting with a model... that said you were beautiful... if this isn’t a dream, you don’t know what else it could be. And you didn’t even notice how time past as you talked to Shingen, who could be a good person to talk to, despite his flirty nature. Eventually you ended up sleeping while talking to him.

Continue...

Sorry if it was small! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. See you in the next!

[v1ren]

“We could always slip away, and slide in close to get warm.”

Sighing heavily as he stood at the farthest point in the room away from the masses of people intermingling, the man cast silver orbs to the glass in his hand. The wine he poured for himself ages ago still remained untouched. What sense was there in drinking when everything inside of him screamed with an uncomfortable amount of boredom? 

Viren wasn’t typically fond of social gatherings and although this surprised absolutely no one, he had expected to speak with Harrow at least once. When such an event had neither occurred nor seemed at all plausible, he resorted to sulking. Slinking away to whatever corner he could find, he reminded himself that in some instances...his presence simply wasn’t welcome. If anyone had been surprised tonight, it seemed, it was Viren. 

How pathetic.

“We could always slip away, and slide in close to get warm.”

The voice in his ear elicited a sharp gasp; the man flinching with such force that he nearly spilled wine all over the front of his shirt. Thankfully such a tragedy hadn’t occurred, but it didn’t stop him from glaring at the tall, attractive elf standing beside him; smirk held firmly in place, cheeks alight with twinkling satisfaction.

Huffing aloud, the man composed himself with a roll of shoulders.

“I...don’t think even cuddling could save you from this cold.”

He kept his response neutral. Swallowed down the very thoughts of wandering outside, alone, with the Xadian that kept his heart beating much too fast these days. What would Harrow think? Would he even notice?

He sighs softly, looking away from the elf and dropping his gaze to the dance floor, couples held together comfortable and bodies moving as one. Really, this entire party had been a horrible idea. He should have stayed home and buried himself in his research, passed out on his desk, and awoke by early morning just to repeat the process all over again.

“It’s cold, but I need a breath of fresh air. Join me~?” 

He turns his attention back to the elf, lifting a single brow and looking down at the hand extended toward him. He lifts silver to meet gold, hesitating. The offer was simple. Kind, even. It was a reaction and an invitation that was simply so Aaravos. 

Viren was familiar with his behaviors by now. Accustomed to his speech patterns and mannerisms. There was nothing the elf loved more than curing his curiosity. Dipping his nose in areas that didn’t belong. Learning about those that intrigued him. Those that captivated him. 

They were one in the same. 

Sighing loudly (dramatically), the man reaches forward and takes the hand.

“Alright,” he breathes, setting his glass down on the nearby table. “But...not for too long.”

It was exactly the form of acceptance the elf desired; smile stretching from ear to ear. He leads the mage away from the people. Away from the music and lights and cacophony of conversations that all meant absolutely nothing to either one of them. They were the outcasts of both of their communities. The individuals that no one paid any mind too, because they simply could not be bothered to do so. Not when they were so unwilling to understand. To undermine their work and passions and existence. 

Together, however, they were invincible. Like-minded souls that, after months of ignorance, racism, misunderstandings, and frustrations, found solace in one another’s presence. They found a type of comfort that was only found when they were away from those that questioned them. 

It was moments like these, hand-in-hand, Aaravos pulling the man out into the large garden, Viren doing nothing but saving the touch of their hands to memory, that both individuals felt truly at peace.

Once they reached the heart of their destination, the elf allowed his favorite human the chance to observe. To be free of his grabbing and pulling and allow him to wander wherever he may go. He did, however, watch the man quietly - the way his face lit up at the sights of the frozen flowers. The snow blanketing them in its soft touch. 

“It’s so serene,” Viren murmurs, stepping forward to brush snow away from one of the flowers; its wide, red petal seeing the light of day once more.

“That’s the good thing about winter,” Aaravos replies smoothly, stepping toward the man. “The gardens are always quiet.”

“Mm...a very true statement.”

Though the man is no longer paying attention, his eyes observing each and every plant and flower; his eyes glowing with a sense of calm one can only find in such moments of beauty and wonder. He is himself again, free of the burdens he carries. Ignorant to the self-doubt and anxieties that hum just above his skin. Here, in this quiet garden, nothing but the sounds of his and his companion’s breath filling the silence, Viren was alive. 

Taking a step forward, the elf reaches a hand forward to tilt the man’s head away from his current source of infatuation. He moves quickly, unable to withhold himself any longer. Lips meet the chapped pair of his partner, the man melting into the touch as he returns the affection immediately. Aaravos wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him close; Viren releasing a small grunt of surprise. 

They part slowly, both unwilling to let it end, but understanding that it has to. For now. They remain together, however, embracing and keeping one another warm. Foreheads press against one another, eyes closing slowly as they soak up the moment. Enjoy the time that they have to themselves. Away from people. Away from past wounds and hurt feelings. 

“Let’s...stay here a while.”

Viren’s voice. Soft. Gentle. It’s enough. More than enough. It solidifies all that they are - together. 

Aaravos, in turn, releases a small chuckle and leans down for another kiss. It’s longer this time, more passionate; the ending arriving with the slight tug of his human’s lips. 

“As long as you desire, Viren.”

He whispers it against his lips, the snow cascading around them. Caressing them in a touch so soft, neither one wished to move. To leave what they created for themselves once again.

Thus, the two spent the remainder of the party together; hand-in-hand, observing the gardens, and falling deeper in love - as soulmates often do. 

[v-thinks-on]

Jeeves Gets Sick - Part 1

Next I would be the first to tell you that I’m far from the most chipper fellow in the mornings. It usually takes quite a bit of groaning and blinking to get myself upright at all, and I’m not fit for company until I’ve had my morning restorative in the form of a steaming cup of oolong.

I struggled one eye open, and then the other, and pushed myself in a bit of an upward direction. I had just started to have the presence of mind to begin to fancy a spot of tea, when to my distinct surprise, it did not appear. You may be thinking right now that this is a bit thick, that this Wooster fellow expects, just because he’s thinking of tea, for a cup of the stuff to miraculously appear in hand. But all I can say to that is that you have never employed a man like Jeeves. It’s like a sort of telepathy; as soon as I’m up and conscious enough to be thinking of tea, lo! It appears, and such has been the case since day one of his employment. How I’ll ever manage without the man is beyond me.

Given all that, you can imagine that I was rather put off by the non-appearance of the tea upon that particular m. I was just starting to wonder if I should give it all up as a bad job, go back to sleep, and try again later, or if perhaps my dinner the night before hadn’t been a touch too rich and was giving me strange dreams, when the tea did, at long last, make an appearance. It appeared in a sort of rummy way, however. The tea was there, of course, and Jeeves was there carrying it in, just as usual, but rummy, like the sort of dream where everything is normal, except you’ve forgotten you had a Latin exam the next day and when you go in to take it, it’s all in Greek.

Perhaps I’d do best to illustrate the rumminess of it all with some specifics. Jeeves, as you know, is a silent sort, I don’t mean in speech, though sometimes he can be so taciturn you forget he’s there, but I mean in movement. One moment he’s there, the next he’s not, or vice-versa, and you never hear the coming or going. But on that morning, I could have sworn I heard his footsteps whispering against the carpet as he approached. Or, for another demonstrative example, take Jeeves’s expression; he can give the best stuffed frog impression of the lot, I’m sure he’s won prizes for it at contests, but even when he isn’t wearing the mask, so to speak, there’s always a certain nonchalance to his bearing. I don’t think I’d ever seen a feverish spark dancing in his inky blacks, or seen him glassy-eyed like a fellow after a sleepless night.

I know it wasn’t much to go off of. In all other ways, Jeeves was impeccable as always, with his “Good morning, sir,” and “I hope you slept well, sir.” There was hardly a thing out of place, but between the late appearance and the aforementioned symptoms, I thought I had something of a case.

I was so badly startled by the whole upset to the usual routine that I was mostly coherent even before I’d had my first sip of the oolong. Still, I broached the matter cautiously as I took the cup from his tray, “Jeeves, are you quite all right. You seem a little out of sorts, what?”

“Sir?” Jeeves asked stiffly, with a bit of the air of an offended cat.

“A little peaky, I mean,” I attempted to clarify, “Like you’ve come down with something.”

“Is there something not to your liking, sir?” Jeeves said, as though he’d only heard every other word.

“Not exactly, I just-”

“Will that be all, sir?”

I sipped my tea, defeated. “Right ho, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir.”

With that, he left the room. I could have sworn I heard him go.

I was not to be so easily contented. I ruminated as I readied for the day. You must understand that in all the years I’d known Jeeves, I had never seen the man so much as falter. He’s something of a paragon, if that’s the word I’m looking for; where other men fail, he invariably prevails. He gives an invulnerable sort of impression, as though nothing could ever knock him down. And yet, here he was, late, unsteady, and feverish. The signs were subtle, but I couldn’t deny their presence.

I didn’t like it. It was awfully feudal of Jeeves to keep a stiff upper lip and soldier on through rain or high seas and what not - or whatever the expression is exactly - but for all that I depend on the chap, I could last a day without his services. It wouldn’t be easy, but I could manage it, and for a cause as good as his speedy recovery from whatever it was that ailed him I would do it with pride. But the thought of Jeeves struck ill by some unknown pestilence shook me to the core. I can hardly begin to say how much I value the man and the thought of him wasting away was more than I could bally well take.

I strode out to give him a piece of my mind over breakfast. But where breakfast ought have been, there was nothing in its place.

I made like the cat in the adage, letting I dare not wait upon I would, as Jeeves would say, for but a moment before barging into the kitchen. There, I found Jeeves, a mere shadow of his usually impressive self. He was sitting down on the job before breakfast was out on the table, and he faltered in getting to his feet as I entered his lair. His eyes were undeniably bright with fever and his brow damp with sweat, a few hairs curled out of place. To be seen in such a state, the man was clearly on his deathbed.

“Sir?” he began.

I silenced him with a wave and cut him off besides. This was more than just one of those arguments that inevitably occur with two stubborn chaps living in close proximity; Jeeves’s very life was on the line and I daren’t falter.

“Not a word, Jeeves. You are plainly ill. Even a fool could see it, and I know you are no fool. Even I can see it.” My voice took on something of a pleading note all on its own accord.

“Sir,” he attempted to protest, but even his words came out weak.

“Dash it all, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, startled by my own vehemence. “I won’t have you working in such a state. Call for a doctor!”

He straightened his posture and seemed to strain against the fever. “That’s very kind of you, sir, but hardly necessary.”

I refused to hear a word against it. “Not another word, Jeeves! I’m going to get a doctor and I expect you to go straight to bed and rest until you’re back to your implacable self.”

“Sir, there is no need to call for a doctor; it’s nothing that a little rest won’t cure.” It pained me to see his resistance failing even as I chipped away at it.

Jeeves’s word is usually taken as law, but this was too serious a thing to trust to his stubborn insistence. “No, Jeeves, rest. I’ll be back with a doctor before you know it.”

Jeeves let out the barest suggestion of a sigh. His breathing seemed laboured. “If you must, sir, then permit me to recommend my family physician. I have his London address.”

I stared at the address Jeeves provided. “Are you sure? I could certainly find you a better man on Harley street.”

“He has my absolute trust, sir. I would see no other.” There was something steely in his manner, even glassy-eyed as he was, that made it clear he would make no further concessions, and I didn’t have time to argue. The man has an iron will when challenged and that I had managed to push him so far as I had was evidence of how far he’d fallen.

“Very good, Jeeves. And you’ll rest while I’m gone? None of this working rot?”

“Yes, sir.” He almost sounded relieved, which only confirmed my darkest fears.

He saw me to the door despite my instance to the contrary. I could see his mask cracking all the while. His air of exhaustion would not have looked out of place on me the morning after a night of revelry, but on Jeeves, it looked horribly wrong. I had half a mind to carry the man to bed myself just to be sure he kept his word, but then I doubtless would have had a revolt on my hands, and so I contented myself with finding him a doctor.

The place was easy enough to find. A shiny new plaque by the door boasted the residence of “Dr. John Watson, M.D.” With a name like that, a fellow can only think of Sherlock Holmes’s pal, but there must be countless men with the name John Watson in the metrop., certainly plenty of them doctors, and all tired of being asked how Sherlock Holmes is doing. For my part, I didn’t very well care if the man was the prince of Persia or a patch-coated street kid like one of the Baker Street Irregulars as long as he had the stuff for Jeeves.

I gave the door a pounding that could have been considered frantic, and a maid soon swung it open and ushered me into a parlour. I believe I managed to impress upon her the urgency of my visit, because it wasn’t long before a doctorly fellow came down to see me. He was a broad-built mustachioed sort, regarding me with the utmost seriousness.

I have been quelled by lesser gazes than his, but I had my mission and didn’t even let him get so far as bidding me a terse good morning before I exclaimed, “It’s Jeeves! He’s ill!”

A glint of recognition struck the fellow’s eyes. “Reginald Jeeves?”

“That’s the one! He said you were his family doctor.”

The doctor smiled a little at that, but quickly turned serious. “Then I expect we have not a moment to waste.”

We hurried back to the flat as fast as feet could fly and wheels could spin.

On the way, Dr. Watson asked, “Am I correct in presuming that you must be Mr. Wooster?”

“Right-o!” I exclaimed. “I mean to say, yes, I’m him.”

The doctor nodded as though everything was just as he expected. “I doubt Jeeves would have sent you to me unless it was something serious.”

I twiddled my fingers a little, suddenly realizing something awkward about my position. “It wasn’t Jeeves who asked for you - well, he said he wouldn’t see anyone else - but I was the one who insisted. You see, he was all out of sorts this morning!”

“What were his symptoms?” Dr. Watson asked, his manner suddenly businesslike.

“Well, to start with, he was late with the tea in the morning, and then I swear I could actually hear him walking around, when, well, you know how he usually appears and disappears here and there. And then when it came time for breakfast, I found him sitting in the kitchen before anything was out on the table, and his eyes looked absolutely feverish!”

I’m afraid I made a muddle of the telling of it, but Dr. Watson nodded along as though it was all clear to him.

It felt like ages, but finally we arrived back at the flat. The place was silent and to all appearances empty. I half expected to find Jeeves collapsed on the floor, overcome by a sudden spell of weakness, but I bravely led the doctor on, through Jeeves’s lair, into his quarters. And there the man was, lying obediently in bed, though I noted with some displeasure that he was already sitting upright when we arrived. Jeeves made to struggle to his feet, but I waved him down with the firmest look I could muster.

So he contented himself with a quiet, “Sir,” and “Dr. Watson,” each accompanied by a respectful nod.

Generally, as you would expect, I spend very little time in my man’s quarters. Therefore, I was a little surprised by the cramped spareness of it all. The fellow constantly rescuing me from all manners of soup deserved rather better than what could have passed for a closet furnished with a cot, some drawers, and some shelves laden with all manner of tomes. But alas that was a problem for another day. For the time being, the three of us crammed in to the best of our ability; Jeeves in bed, of course, Dr. Watson on a chair brought in from the kitchen positioned at the bedside, and I hovering at the foot of the bed by the drawers.

“My apologies Dr. Watson, I am afraid there has been something of a miscommunication,” Jeeves said, somehow projecting the very image of a valet, even though he was abed in his brown dressing gown, looking only a little less feverish than when I left him. “Mr. Wooster’s gentlemanly spirit demanded that my recovery be overseen by a doctor, however I assure you that my condition is not at all serious and I find it to be much improved even after a brief respite.”

“Dr. Watson will be the judge of that!” I insisted, drawing myself up to a considerable height - with Jeeves incapacitated, I was by far the tallest chap in the room.

The doctor glanced between Jeeves and myself, no doubt weighing our words, though the only expression I saw cross his features was the suggestion of a smile. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Wooster. May I have a moment alone with my patient?”

“Oh, certainly! I’ll biff off then, toodle-pip!” I hastily ducked out of the room with a final glance at a less than pleased Jeeves, and settled myself in the sitting room for the long haul.

I lit a gasper to ease my rattled nerves and let the soothing aroma wash over me. You may be asking why I would prefer a gasper when I have Italian and Turkish cigarettes close at hand, and to that I can only point to the fact that Jeeves always smokes gaspers, and so I find them to have a similar reassuring effect when the man himself is absent, though certainly nothing equal to the real article.

I confess, I was rather far gone. I kept glancing back at the door to the kitchen, expecting Dr. Watson to emerge at any moment with news that I could only imagine inevitably got worse with every passing second. I felt rather like those Greek chappies; like Damon wasting away in his cell waiting for his pal Pythias - or rather Pythias racing back to wherever it was, absolutely frantic about Damon wasting away in that cell of his, only hoping he wasn’t too late. Not that I had any illusion that Jeeves saw his mentally negligible young master as anything even approaching his Damon or Pythias.

It was difficult not to envision Jeeves like one of those damsels in the pictures, slowly and inevitably wasting away in the sickbed as her family cried around her. I thought I heard a distant cough coming from the other room; the first innocuous symptom before consumption set in. I was just beginning to compose a fitting eulogy for such a great man with a few tears in my eyes when at long last I heard a door swing open and shut, and a steady gait that could only belong to Dr. Watson approached through the kitchen.

I jumped up to greet him, almost as fast as Jeeves when I interrupt him when he’s reading. “Is he…?”

The doctor smiled. “Don’t worry, Jeeves will be all right. He merely has a fever.”

“It’s not consumption?”

“No,” Dr. Watson said gently.

“Right-o!” I exclaimed, significantly braced.

“He should recover completely in a day or two, but I’ve given him an order to rest until then.”

“That’ll be just the thing!”

I hastily bade Dr. Watson take a seat and offered him a drink to toast to Jeeves’s health and what not and the kindly doctor obliged.

I downed my glass perhaps a bit too quickly, but a bracing drink really was the thing to take the edge off of my lingering fears and the jitters of relief.

Just as the need for further conversation began to make itself known - I had some mind to bring it around to Jeeves - the doctor remarked, “Has Jeeves been working himself particularly hard of late?”

“I haven’t been giving him any more work than usual,” I said with some righteous indignation. This chap may have been a friend of Jeeves, but that didn’t give him licence to critique how I ran my household.

“No, I would think not,” Dr. Watson said with just a touch of exasperation. “It is only that I have often had the occasion to observe that when a gentleman is particularly intelligent, he may have difficulty recognizing his own limits and the limits of others.”

“And overwork himself, you mean?” I asked, a bit taken aback.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think Jeeves ever does that. He’s as hardworking a chap as any, of course, but I don’t think he’d over do it.” I hesitated. “Really, he always seems so infallible, like nothing’s too much for him to handle. I don’t think I’ve ever known him to get ill.”

Dr. Watson nodded sagely. “Jeeves has done his best to appear infallible for as long as I’ve known him.”

“You knew him growing up, what?”

“No, Jeeves was a young man by the time I made his acquaintance.”

“Jeeves’s cousin Bunny said he was always particularly intelligent.”

“Yes, he was a very personable young man, but always at something of a distance.” After a moment’s pause, Dr. Watson forced himself to his feet. “I should get on with my rounds, but it was a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Wooster. Jeeves is fortunate to have a friend such as yourself.”

“I say!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet after him. “You mean it?” I’m usually not met with enthusiastic approval so much as weary disdain by the older element.

“Certainly. Jeeves was a friendless young man, but he seems to have taken a liking to you.”

I may have flushed at his words even as I protested, “What about his cousins? Bunny told me about the games they used to play. I’m just the hapless young master.”

To my surprise, the doctor frowned. “I wouldn’t call them friendly.”

I wanted to protest in Bunny’s defense - he’s not only a cousin of Jeeves’s, but a pal of mine - but then I remembered Jeeves’s cousin Dorian and his airy teasing that had a cruel edge to it, and instead, I asked, “Did Jeeves really say all that?”

“Not in so many words, but I’ve learned to observe a little over the years.”

“Well, I say! It’s really me who’s lucky to have Jeeves, with all he does for me. I only wish I could do enough to repay him.”

“I’m certain that you repay him in your own way.”

If my dubiousness showed, Dr. Watson didn’t comment on it as I showed him to the door. I bid him a cheery “Toodle-pip!” and retired to the sitting room.

Abruptly left to my own devices with no urgent mission at hand, I found myself rather at a loss. I puttered about for a bit, lit another gasper, finished off my s. and b., and even gave the book I had been reading the night before a cursory flip, but all the while my thoughts lingered on Jeeves. The words on the page meant nothing compared to the looming fear of Jeeves’s condition taking a sudden turn for the worse.

Finally, I decided enough was enough.

The floorboards creaked more than they’d ever before had the gall to creak as I toed it through the kitchen, toward Jeeves’s quarters, doing my best not to wake the man from his much needed slumbers. It was only as I stopped at the door, a hand upon the knob, that I realized the bally rumminess of it all. Whether Jeeves had really taken something of a liking to me or not, I couldn’t very well go peeking into my man’s quarters, ill or the very image of health, without a good reason.

And just as I was dithering at the door, my stomach came roaring to the rescue. It wasn’t so much a roar as a gurgle, but it made itself known and the next moment I had a plan of action fully formed. The first order of business was tea. The morning’s oolong had long since gone cold, and so I set about fiddling with the stove.

Perhaps thanks to my Aunt Agatha - that horrible aunt who howls at the moon and drinks the blood of the innocent - you may be under the impression that I have no ability to take care of myself without Jeeves acting as my keeper. That is not entirely true. I am certain I would waste away to nothing without him for a week, but, as I have said, for a day or two with just cause, I can manage. And to whomever has given you the impression that I cannot operate my own stove, I say “tinkerty-tonk.”

That is not to say that I am an expert tea-brewer or have in any way mastered the arts of the home at which Jeeves excels, but I can very well pull together a cup of tea. After a rather lot of prodding and waiting and prodding and waiting again, I emerged with a piping hot cup of just the stuff. It smelled about right, though it was difficult to tell after the steam burned my nostrils. It was with some measure of pride then, that I carried it ho, into Jeeves’s quarters, careful not to spill a drop - I shook some droplets off the saucer for good measure, before gently propping open the door.

Jeeves was, of course, alert and awake upon my arrival, greeting me with an ever formal, “Sir?” his tone just barely beginning to question what I was dashed well doing there.

“What ho, Jeeves!” I proclaimed, gesticulating somewhat more than I ought with the precious cargo in hand - I hastily put a stop to it before all the tea splashed out onto the floor. “Just come with a spot of tea, what?”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Jeeves said, sounding a little confused, the poor sick lamb.

Once the cargo had been carefully rested upon the bedside table, I took a good look at my man. His state was greatly deteriorated from his usual strength, propped up on a few threadbare pillows, his dark hair in wild disarray, and his eyes drooping. It took him a bit of effort just to push himself far enough upright to have a drink of tea.

I hastily bent over to assist him, but I’m afraid I rather more got in the way.

“Thank you, sir,” Jeeves said softly, giving the cup a tentative sip.

Despite all the chaos around them, his features remained impassive, those dark eyes with their inscrutable infinite depths, regarding me just a foot or so away from my own baby blues - a shiver ran down my spine.

It jolted me into self-awareness and I jumped the rest of the way upright. “Just thought I’d hop by and see how you’re coping, what?”

“Very kind of you, sir.”

“Is there anything else you need, what? A book to read, or any extra blankets or what not?”

“No, sir. As Dr. Watson instructed, all I require now is rest.”

“Oh, yes, right-o then! I’ll let you get back to that, what? I’ll just be popping down to the Drones for lunch then, unless you’d rather I stayed here, that is.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Right-o!”

After bumping into the wall, I backed out the door and closed it behind me before taking a moment to regain my bearings. I had half a mind to wonder where Jeeves kept the cooking sherry, in the hope that it might quell my firing nerves, but thankfully it soon passed, my head righted itself, and I set off for the Drones post haste in search of a more appetizing apéritif.

You may be thinking that being overwhelmed with gratitude when Jeeves miraculously lifts victory from the soup of defeat is one thing, but it doesn’t become a fellow to get all in a tizzy like this over something so simple as bringing his man some tea, but it must be understood that the circs. were rather far out of the ordinary. For one, it was me bringing Jeeves the tea, rather than the other way around. And for another, this was no ordinary man, but Jeeves, the paragon of a valet who had gotten me out of the soup more times than I could count and was an inimitable man besides, and so I dashed well wanted to do right by him in his hour of need, even though it had me well out of my usual depths.

Under the aforementioned circs., it was a somber, serious Bertram Wooster that lunched at the Drones that afternoon. I tossed a bit of bread about with the lads, but my thoughts lingered back in the flat with Jeeves. As I finished my lunch - more picked at rather than devoured, as would have been expected of a Wooster short one breakfast - I asked for some soup to bring back to my indisposed man. As it so happens, the cook at the Drones is acquainted with Jeeves and happily obliged, and so I was sent home bearing his sympathies and a tureen of his own special recipe.

I hurried back to the flat with the precious tureen and carefully ladled out a bowl of still warm soup. With a lot of slow, awkward movements, I managed to maneuver the door to Jeeves’s quarters open, soup in hand, without making a spill, only to find the man himself fast asleep in bed. I felt a small pang of disappointment, shortly overcome by relief that he was finally resting. He looked awfully peaceful; every muscle usually kept at stiff attention, for once allowed to relax. The teacup I had left with him before departing for the Drones now sat empty on the bedside table, and so in its place I put the bowl of soup, ready for whenever he woke.

Just as I was tiptoeing out, I heard Jeeves stirring in the bed behind me. I glanced back to see him hastily drawing himself to attention - as much so as he could manage.

“Thank you, sir,” he said hoarsely.

“Not at all, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, my voice too loud for the sickroom. “Bon appetit, what?” And with that, I stumbled back out into the kitchen.

With nothing more to be done - my bearings quickly regained - I returned to sulk about the sitting room with a gasper in one hand and a glass in the other. I’m not usually a terribly busy chap. I live a life of leisure and I, for one, am content not to be running about at all hours of the day and night, as much as my Aunt Agatha and her ilk may believe I do too little of the former and too much of the latter. No, it’s the quiet life for Bertram W. on all fronts. But on this occasion, I was downright preoccupied and rather wished I had something else to hold up my mind.

I lay about, did a spot of pacing, and lay about some more. I would have poked at the keys of the piano, but if my light tread was enough to awaken Jeeves, the instrument would have been a sure thing. And I couldn’t very well leave the flat in case Jeeves’s condition took a sudden turn for the worse.

I threw myself back down upon the sofa a bit more loudly than I ought and made a half-hearted attempt to reimmerse myself in the mystery that had seemed so captivating the day before. Today, however, each clever remark made me think of Jeeves’s sly, understated wit, each foolish mistake of how he would have doubtless done better, and each description of a corpse inevitably called to mind the image of him huddled beneath the sheets, fighting off death’s icy grasp as I sat reading, whiling away the hours.

I could stand it no longer. I tottered through the kitchen to Jeeves’s quarters just to be certain he was getting his requisite rest and hadn’t been calling out to me, his hoarse voice too quiet to be heard through the walls.

Jeeves lay in bed, to all appearances fast asleep, not at all like a fellow fighting off the icy hand of death. The soup, now lukewarm, sat untouched on the table where I had left it. Jeeves’s eyes fluttered open upon my arrival. 

Met with his sharp gaze, I hastily cast about for an excuse. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else you need, what? Any blankets or water or anything?”

“No, sir.” More gently, Jeeves insisted, “You are very kind, sir, but as you said yourself, what I need now is rest.”

“Oh, right-o.”

“Sir, if you would be more comfortable, I would have no objection to you remaining here.”

“I say! Rather! If that’s all right with you, I mean.”

“Certainly, sir. It would be preferable by far to the current arrangement.”

“Right-o! I’ll just get my book then.”

I dashed back to the sitting room, and in two blinks of an eye, I was back in Jeeves’s quarters, perched on the kitchen chair Dr. Watson had left by the bedside, book in hand. Jeeves regarded me a moment with something approaching a smile, before letting his head fall back upon the pillow and his eyes fall shut.

I sat silent and still, not daring to move lest the noise reach his acute senses and jar him from the dreamless. But I didn’t mind the stillness so much. There was something soothing about the sight of the man, peacefully at rest. I fancied I saw the trace of a smile lingering across his finely chiseled features. Even in sleep, there was something undeniably remarkable about the chap. You could see him gleaming with intelligence from miles away, his head sticking out a little in back just to accommodate all of that grey matter.

His eyelid flickered and I hastily turned my attention to my book.

It was much easier reading with Jeeves there beside me, sleeping soundly. I just made sure to turn the pages quietly and on a few occasions had to bite back exclamations, but on the whole, it was smooth sailing. Whenever a corpse showed up, all I had to do was glance down at Jeeves to be sure he was as life-like as ever, and looking healthier every minute for all the rest he was getting.

I don’t know exactly when I dozed off too, but the next thing I knew, I felt a warm hand on my wrist pulling me back into awareness, my back and neck sore as the dickens from sleeping where I sat, in that dratted uncomfortable kitchen chair.

“You may find a chair in the sitting room more to your liking, sir,” Jeeves remarked.

“You don’t say, Jeeves,” I retorted, still a bit groggy as I rolled out my neck and shoulders, and strained my back.

“Yes, sir.”

I rubbed open my eyes, still struggling in the bright light of day. Jeeves was still there in the bed beside me - not that I was so lucky as to have slept in the bed; I having been consigned to that dashed uncomfortable chair. He looked well, less feverish, I mean, his eyes back to their usual luster and what not, though he still seemed a little worse for the wear, tired and worn.

“Sleep well, what?” I asked.

“Yes, very well. Thank you, sir.” He certainly seemed refreshed.

Jeeves regarded me with a sort of rummy soft expression, if you get my meaning, nothing bad, just unusual for the chap, like he was amused by something, but without the amusement, or like I had somehow caught him off his guard, but with none of the startled look of having been caught.

“Feeling back to your old self, what?”

“Yes, sir.” Jeeves pushed himself upright, looking like he was about to get out of bed.

I hastily gestured him back down.

“Sir, your concern is gratifying, but I assure you that it is unnecessary.”

“Not necessary? Now see here Jeeves, you’ll get as much rest as Dr. Watson said if you know what’s good for you! I won’t very well have you suffering a re- what is it, Jeeves?’

“A relapse, sir?”

“I won’t have you suffering a relapse just because you’re fool enough to go back to work before you’re properly recovered and I’m fool enough to let you. And that’s final,” I added, seeing an argumentative glint in his eyes.

“Very good, sir,” Jeeves relented at last.

I was feeling rather pleased with my latest victory and it was with a bit of a Jeevesian flourish that I asked, “Now, is there anything I can get for you?”

“If you will not permit me to get it for myself, I believe a spoon for the soup would be called for, sir.”

“Oh! Yes, of course! Right on it, Jeeves!”

I hopped over to the kitchen, rummaged around a bit, and hopped back with the called for utensil.

I lingered by Jeeves’s sickbed for a few ticks longer, chewing the fat and what not, before finally biffing off to the Drones for dinner and leaving my man to his belated meal - the soup had gone cold, but he stubbornly refused my every offer to reheat it for him on the stove. Dinner was much like lunch; quiet and brief, occupied with thoughts of Jeeves. I saw Bingo and some of the other fellows, but I didn’t have the heart for more than a round or two, before hastening back home.

The flat was quieter than I had left it - silent, in fact - but the mouth-watering smell of something cooking wafted in from the kitchen. However, I found nothing simmering on the stove and, as far as I could discern, not a thing had been touched since I left for the Drones. Jeeves was awake, but not upright when I slipped into his quarters, looking still fitter than when I had left him mere hours before. I noted that the dishes on the bedside table were gone without a trace.

I beamed at the chap and proclaimed, “What ho, Jeeves!”

“Good evening, sir,” he answered with some suggestion of a smile.

“Rested and comfortable, what?”

“Yes, sir. I take it that your dinner at the Drones was satisfactory?”

“Rather!” Back in Jeeves’s company, everything took on a rosier tint, even my hasty supper. “But it’s good to be home, what?”

“Indeed, sir.”

Outside of Jeeves’s cozy little room, the sky was rapidly darkening. It wasn’t nearly a late enough hour for Bertram W. to consider calling it a night under usual circs., but these were hardly the usual circs. I was feeling a bit drowsy myself and I thought I saw Jeeves’s eyes beginning to droop. The chap needed all the rest he could get to make a full recovery.

“Do you need anything for the night?” I asked on a bit of a delay. “I can bring over some blankets from the spare bedroom. Or I could put up another pot of tea.”

After a moment’s consideration, Jeeves replied, “An additional blanket would not be unwelcome, sir.”

“Right-o!”

I yanked the blanket off the bed in the spare bedroom, gave it a quick fold, and carried it proudly back to Jeeves. It was a bit of a joint effort getting the blanket all set up and making sure Jeeves was comfortable for the night. I popped back into the kitchen to bring him a glass of water, and then I lingered, hovering by the bedside, unsure what else to do, but reluctant to leave the man’s side.

“Need anything else, what?”

“No, sir. Thank you sir.” He looked up at me, his usually keen or alternatively empty gaze again strangely soft and earnest, a gentle smile playing across his features.

I could only beam back. I had half an impulse to bend down and brush a stray hair from his forehead, which I hastily restrained, pocketing my hands to keep them from acting of their own accord as they are wont to do.

All was quiet, the square outside the window dark and still. We seemed to be very much alone in the world.

“Good night then, Jeeves,” I said at last.

“Good night, sir.”

“‘Till tomorrow, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good night, then,” I said again, and bumped into the door frame on my way out into the kitchen.

I paced about the flat a bit, picking things up, putting them back down, and what not, feeling rather at a loss - what Jeeves does in the evenings after seeing me to bed is one of life’s great mysteries. But the trials of the day were enough to wear down even the Wooster spirit, and so, with a great yawn, I retreated back into my own bedroom and hastened to bed, hoping the next day would herald a return to normalcy in the Wooster abode.

Part of The Mysterious Mr. Jeeves

[avidfanficwriter]

Two Drunken Fools (Chapter 1)

Characters: Tony Stark x OFC.

Warnings: So flippin many. Cursing, Alcoholism, depression, suicidal-ness(?) (I’m blanking the word), Smut, Pain, Will update as chapter arrive. Honestly, it’s messy. SPOILERS FOR INFINITY WAR AND ENDGAME

Ratings: M. 

Summary: When Tony fought Thanos, he thought that was as bad as it could get. He'd walk away with a bruised ego, a stab wound and the kid in tote. It didn't end like that, it never does for Tony Stark. His world fell. The kid's gone, Pepper's gone and he's in dire need of help but refuse to let anyone know that. Instead he cures it the only way he knows how: booze and seclusion. Until he discovers he shares shocking similarities with someone else whose curing their own pain the same way. 

Author’s Note: I HATE Absolutely freaking HATE chapters 1 and 2 but i give up. it’s pathetic, I know but I have a shit ton of other stuff written for this and the first two chaps aren’t getting any better. No matter how much I re-read and judge. I probably should get a beta, now that I think about it. Anyway, if you don’t like the first two i don't blame you, I hate them. 

Read on AO3

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. 

"When I'm done half of humanity will still be alive."

Of all the things, Tony has heard or been told, he never considered Thanos' threat to be the one that would haunt him.

He never considered the possibility that he would lose either... but he had. The Avengers lost.

The day he lost has started to haunt him, he second guesses every choice he made and his mind is filled with Thanos... again. After New York, the battle, the wormhole and Nuke, he didn't think it could get worse. He saw a threat and he new they would need to protect the world. Thanos had only showed him a glimpse of the destruction he would bring. What he actually did was much worse. He took the world into his fist and squeezed until he felt victorious.

There's the sting in Tony's abdomen where Thanos impaled him that has phantom pains  but it's Thanos' voice that he can't forget. Every day he wakes, it's the first thing he hears.

Thanos, the villain, the monster, the boogeyman who hides in children's closets had won. He followed through with the threat to rid the world of half human life but it's not the threat Tony wishes Thanos' would have acted on, he threatened to kill him, said in a gritty voice: "I hope they remember you." and Tony accepted it. He knew in that moment he was going to die. Only it never came. Thanos abandoned him, gathered the infinity stones and turned people to ash. Death would have been easier than living, buried six feet under with his flesh rotting and clothes turning to dirt would be easier than living with the knowledge that he let the world down. If he would have managed to stop Quill from reacting foolishly or stopped Strange from giving Thanos the stone, maybe they would've won. Maybe he would have succeeded but Thanos didn't allow him.

The gaping wound to his abdomen should've killed him, he deserved that. He should have went down with pain coursing through his body, blood seeping through his clothes and his body going cold but the world was to cruel to let Tony finally rest. He watched everyone around him disintegrate and he stayed. Tony remained in tact with his body bleeding and pain having yet to invade his mind. It should've killed him, plain and simple. Tony wanted to die, He longed for death but it never came. Everyone was gone, he was on a unknown planet and there was no telling who was still alive on earth. Did Pepper survive? Did Natasha? Was Steve---

Tony Stark deserved to die.

... but he hadn't.

Even as he was in a foreign spaceship suspended in the solar system with no food and water, an android as his only means of company and an infection infection running rampant throughout his body. He lived. Survival was harder to accept.

He lost Peter, a fifteen year old kid, he took under his arm and swore to protect. Tony looked the kid's aunt in her eyes and promised he'd be safe. He let her down.

The final nail in the coffin was, losing his heart, his everything, his reason for living. The light at the end of his tunnel was gone.

When Tony makes it to earth after days of being suspended in space, sickly and skeleton like with crusted lips and a heart beating far to slow,  it's Steve who helps him from the ship. Wrapping his arm around his waist and silently forgetting everything from their turbulent past.

"I lost the kid." Tony forces out with a scratchy throat and dry eyes. He doesn't remember whose surrounding them or who else is there to greet him but he can remember the feeling of dread seeping off of the Captain.

Steve is quick to respond, not an ounce of hesitation as he meets Tony's eyes. "Tony, we lost." He corrects.

"Is... is Pep..." Steve nods before Tony has a chance to finish the question, his eyes solem and Tony's heart audible drops.

Tony lost the kid, held him as he turned to ash and blamed himself but there was still a tiny part of him that hoped Pepper was safe on earth, waiting for him to come back. Discovering she wasn't, created more pain than the blood infection and stab wound could have ever made. Pepper was taken from him, taken like everyone else. He wasn't there when death kidnapped Pepper, he didn't get to hold her in his arms, cradle her body close to his chest and promise her she would be okay. She died waiting for Tony, alone and scared.

Thanos took away half the population but he also managed to destroy Tony. He cursed Tony, forced him to live knowing he failed. He was right, the world would remember Tony Stark, the would remember him as the one who let humanity down. The man who had the opportunity to save everyone and wasn't able to do it. Everyone died because he couldn't do what needed to be done. Everyone died and he lived. Because Tony always lives and everyone he loves eventually leaves him.

Tony turns to drinking when the pain is too much to bare, he considers jumping off the roof but some sick twist of fate doesn't let him walk off the balcony. He drinks anything he can get his hands on because it helps just enough to get him through the day, the moment he's released from the hospital he goes home and downs a bottle of scotch. Then another and another. It cuts off his emotions, shuts down the parts of his brain that yearn for Pepper. Yet once the alcohol wears off, it all comes back with a vengeance. Memories fill his brain, loving kisses, the feeling of fingers running through his hair, smiles, her laugh or how she felt beneath him. No matter how much he drinks, the torment and emptiness of his heart can't be cured fully. She's always there, haunting him. Reminding him of how he failed and who he was before everything happened.

Iron Man is tucked away in a closet, piling with dust while FRIDAY is ordered to not let anyone in unless he okays it. Not a soul is allowed inside his home. He wants to be left alone, he can't handle the shame that fills people's eyes as he passes or the whispered conversations whenever his presence is around. Everyone knows, he failed. Everyone blames him.

Happy is the first to arrive at his door with a bag of cheeseburgers from fifteen different fast food restaurants, he knocks, jiggles the handles and calls out for his boss. Tony ignores him. Rhodey is the next, his hand slams against the solid door and he spares no expense at bribery. Vegas, he offers, like the old times. Tony ignores him. Natasha shows up, slamming her palm against the door much like Rhodey had only she demands to know what is going on and why no one has seen or heard from him in two months. She is treated the same response.

Tony has FRIDAY send over paperwork informing Natasha and Steve that they are now officially in control of whatever is left of The Avengers Compound, there is a short typed note from Tony simply saying: "You deserve it now."

Three months after the decision has been made official and is announced to whoever is left of the population, Steve makes an appearance at Tony's door saying something, he doesn't care enough to listen anymore. He's drank to much, spent too much time wallowing in self pity and still slightly angered at the great Captain America. He's forced to endure pain, carry it around with him while Steve Fucking Rogers walks around with his head held high and smile on his stupid face. Steve leaves after just five minutes, his hands buried in his pockets and his eyes aimed at the ground. Voicemails start after that, Happy, Natasha, Rhodey and Steve. They all eventually start to sound the same.

Happy: Boss, are you doing okay? What are you up to? Do you need me to get you anything? Boss, there is a meeting today, you should be there. Tony... You can't live like this. ...The world needs Iron Man. They need you, Tony. Pepper would want you to continue.

Natasha: Tony, I can't do this, I can't run a company. Tony, you need to come back, I need you to come back. Pepper would have wanted you at the helm.

Rhodey: Tony, you have to get out. You can't lock yourself up in your house and just give up. Pepper wouldn't want this. There is still so much left.

Steve: Tony, Look... I uh.. I get it, okay. I know what you're going through. You just have to think about who you're doing this for. Think about Pepper.

Voicemail after voicemail goes unanswered, he can't even bring himself to listen to them anymore. They all want something from him, run the company, show the world he's still here, the team still needs you but no one even noticed Tony needed something once upon a time too. He needed Pepper, needed friends and needed support. Tony needed them once and they left him, betrayed him and beat him down. Why would he believe them now? Why it would be any different now?

Tony can't remember when he did it but eventually he disconnects his cell phone, deletes his email account and puts Friday on lockdown (mostly because he knows she's been sending people updates on him). He eventually becomes a prisoner in his own home, cuts off from the world and the people. Every so often he checks the cameras in the compound out of boredom and possibly because he misses his 'friends.'

A few overheard conversations between Rhodey and Nat from his security feeds in the compound lead him to believe the teams Bird is on some Warrior mission serial killer style. Natasha is doing a better than he expected job at the helm of the compound, Steve tends to lurk in the shadows when it comes to the business but he resides in the compound and usually eats dinner alongside Nat. Rhodey is still actively involved in the military occasionally popping by to check up on things. Tony is stuck watching as they move on, continuing with life all while he doesn't get the privilege to. He has moments where his fingers dance across the keyboard or pad of phone, the phone numbers he knows by heart all scream out to be dialed. He could call Happy or Rhodey, even Banner (whatever he's up to now, he's the only one who hasn't been at the compound lately. He overheard Natasha say he was off being a doctor in some foreign country again) Tony also gets threatening close to starting a conference call with whoever is inside the conference room. It'd be so easy to press the call button and talk to someone, anyone. He never does. The first month of  watching the feeds included witnessing Natasha come to terms that she was interacting with a build-a-bear, one who also happened to steal a few things from her office. Tony has a list of all the things, he's noticed the racoon taking and leaving money in place of. The second was trying to decipher where Steve spent his time outside of the compound but other than a bag of fast food he brought for Natasha, he's still at a loss. Months pass and the only interactions Tony's had with the team are one sided, video shots of their lives without him. Tony witnesses Natasha fire another round of employees they no longer deemed necessary with Steve standing by, he'd cross his arms over his chest and put on his signature stoic facial expression. Rhodey, meets a girl but it doesn't last long. Steve joins a group but has yet to say what for, he mockingly hopes it's one that helps him remove the stick from his ass.

It's late when he turns on the camera in Natasha's office, a glass of vodka and coke swirling in his hands as he props his feet up on the coffee table. He's running out of alcohol and desperately needs to order another six cases when he accidently clicks the icon for the security feeds, instead of changing it, watches it. The alcohol will still be there tomorrow and his bank account will still have money for it. Natasha is a blonde now with shorter hair, she has a stack of files in front of her. Steve is standing besides her, another firing spree Tony assumes. He watches her fire a young man and as he leaves he notices a sudden a shift in Natasha's behavior, she looks to Steve with weary lips: "Should we?" She asks in a gentle tone.

Steve nods, tightening his jaw. "He's not here. He's not coming back." They're talking about him, he knows it. The mood always shifts whenever he's brought up. "She's been doing a little of everything but... they're gone."

They're greeted by a young woman with curly brown hair in a white blouse, tight pencil skirt and six inch heels. He vaguely remembers her, she was an assistant to someone or on loan from SHIELD, he doesn't remember exactly. Their first meeting replays in his head, she asked for a signature holding a large stack of papers towards him, he thought she was a fan and it turned out to be an embarrassing encounter he hoped to forget. After he signed the document and let his mouth run with sarcastic comments about being asked to sign things because of his fame only to be told it was official business, he was redder than his iron man suit and she walked away smirking.

"You're being let go." Natasha informs her.

The brunette nods.

"It's temporary."

Another nod.

"You'll be paid for the first year of your absence."

Another nod.

"You were an asset to the company, if things change..." She means if things every become normal again. "I can guarantee you, you'll be brought back. A complete reinstatement."

Tony sets his glass onto the coffee table and for the first time in months, asks FRIDAY to turn on. "Who is that, FRIDAY?" He asks ignoring the greeting the A.I. gives him. The screen changes wiping away the security cameras and replacing it with her glowing picture and file. Her image takes residence on the right side of the screen and everything they have on her is displayed before him, employee records, position at the company, an entire database of information about her is before him. Wren Granger, he reads at the top of the page. Her name triggers the few memories he has of her, she worked for the Avengers, behind a desk with a smile that made you feel as though you'd known her for years. She'd attended a few parties at the Stark Tower but kept to herself. They had few interactions together but she never seemed the tiniest bit interested in him, her eyelashes didn't flutter when he came around nor find any excuse to touch him like most woman. She simply did her job and went home.

The first conversation they had that wasn't business related was at a party, years before everything happened. He was looking for Rhodey, ready to mock him over his insistent retelling of his adventures when he spotted yet another unfortunate soul being forced to listen to Rhodey's tales. Tony refills his drink and rushes to save the young lady.

"Rhodey, you're torturing the poor woman." Tony says swiftly joining them, resting his hand on his longtime friends shoulder.

Rhodey opens his mouth to respond, a wise crack at the tip of his tongue but the woman beside him beats him to it. "I beg to differ, Mr. Stark, it was just getting interesting."

"See, Tony..." Rhodey says a smile stretching across his face. "Somebody appreciates my stories."

"It's not all that fascinating," Tony quips. "He's been telling the same story for a week."

The brunette cocks her head and gives a dramatic gasp. "Is that so, Mr. Rhodes?" She asks with a smirk.

Once again, someone else who beats Rhodey before he has a chance to speak, it's Tony this time. "Don't feel to bad for him, he's just upset that the world only tolerates War Machine. Iron man is their  preference but they settle for second best in time of need." She tries to fight her chuckle by covering her mouth with her hand but the sounds of laughter leak through causing Rhodey to scoff and walk away annoyed. He grabs his drink and shouts a quip about War Machine being better as he heads to the other side of room.

"Oh no." The woman chuckles as she watches Rhodey leave.

Tony leans against the counter alongside the brunette and lets his eyes trail along her body. She's traded her usual pencil skirt for a pair of tight black jeans and a flowery blouse. "Which of these lovely prospectors do you plan to mooch off of?" He asks with a sly smile and cock of an eyebrow.

"I suspect you've taken yourself out of the equation?" She asks without missing a beat.

Tony jerks his head towards her and lets out a surprised breath, "Yes... why was I in the equation?" He asks, a cheeky grin now plastered on his face.

"Not originally but I figure why close all doors, huh?" She asks with a smile as she meets his dark brown eyes. "Besides wouldn't you be the best to mooch off of considering you're the billionaire?" There's a small shrug of her shoulders as she relaxes against the wooden counter behind her.

"Wise decision." Tony remarks. "But I'm taken."

"That's true." She smiles. "I've heard Steve Rogers is nice."

Tony turns his nose up, "Capsicle?" He leans closer hovering his lips near her ear. "You'd have to devirginize him."

Full of shock, she turns to face him eyebrows furrowed with her lips press tightly together. Her dark green eyes fall back to the Captain whose engaged in a competitive game of pool alongside Sam. "Well, maybe not. It might get a bit awkward when I don't call him the day after."

Tony chuckles, nearly spilling the drink he's holding. "Tony Stark." he says offering her his free hand.

"I know, I work for you." She says with a smile, accepting his hand in a firm handshake. "Wren Granger."

"It's a pleasure to meet you Miss Granger."

"You as well, Mr. Stark."

"Tony, please."

"Tony."

They keep each other company throughout the night, talking for hours about any little topic that sparks interest. Wren doesn't ask about his time as Iron Man or his life as a billionaire, she has simple questions or comments that only people who really want to know someone ask. It's easy to talk to one another, the conversations flows and doesn't feel stressed. It's comfortable, something Tony hasn't experienced in a long time. As the party dies down and the guests begin returning home, she glances at the watch on her left wrist and says that she should leave as she has an hour drive.

"An hour? You don't live in the city?"

"No, Not at all." Wren shakes her head almost insulted by the indication.

"Where do you live? I can get someone to drop you."

She nods, "I don't think you or I need that type of talk surrounding us." extending her hand to shake his. "Besides, I'm actually out of the city, rural area." Tony flinches at the comment and she notices his discomfort. "Not a country boy, i take it?"

"City boy, born and raised."

"Shame." She tsks him and stands. "It's nice break from the chaos that is the city. We get a lot less alien invasions." She winks at him with a smile. Tony chuckles quietly, at the remark. The noises that came with the city life, is what makes his home, a home. "If you ever manage to make it out there, in the quiet that is, you're more than welcome to stop by for a drink." She says straight faced. "Quiet can do you some good, it's a nice break to get away from all the noise and people."

The offer runs rampant in his mind as if it was offered just yesterday, he watches Wren leave Natasha's office, clutching a manilla folder to her chest. At the time, when she mentioned him coming out for the quiet, he thought nothing of. It was a friendly offer. Now, it felt like a calling. He can claim it's because he's severely lacking from human contact or slightly hungover and curing the hangover by drinking more and his mind isn't working at full capacity, or it's much simpler, he wants to talk to someone who isn't artificial and doesn't have a ulterior motive behind their words. He ponders the idea, when they met she treated him like he was a person maybe she'd do the same now. Everyone else tried to fix him until he longed to strangle them or share ways he can get over his loss. She could be different. There was no judgement when they first spoke.

He writes down her address, just in case and pins it to the fridge. Just in case, he thinks. If it really gets to him, he'll visit.

The ache in Wren's chest is raw, flesh eating and nausea inducing raw.

Everyone is gone.

The bad guy won.

The Avengers lost.

In an instant half the population was gone, wiped away from the world as if they never existed. Friends, family and lovers are gone. In a blink of an eye, they disappeared with a gust of wind.

The world feels empty now, those that were lucky enough to survive wish they hadn't. No one had time to prepare, they didn't have the luxury of a final goodbye or a warning that this would happen, it just did. Not many knew how to cope with the sudden loss, the trauma and pain resides deep in their chest unable to be cured. No funerals, no bodies and no final resting grounds. Ash in the wind. The world was at a standstill, abandoned cars rest in the middle of the roads, toys left untouched and groceries left to rot in the hot sun. Time seemed to stop.

Everyone hurts and most people blame the Avengers. The world's mightiest heroes were suppose to protect them, save the world but they let it down instead.

A year ago, Wren worked at the compound, her position wasn't of any importance but she had a way with words and could talk anyone into anything. When a business went awry, Wren Granger was your girl. A few sentences stringed together and the deal was back in place. The day it all happened, the day people disappeared without any explanation Captain America strode into the compound for the first time in years, defeat written on his face sporting a bearded jaw and glossy eyes while the building echoed with gasps. He ordered a meeting, standing before everyone in his uniform, the white star in the middle of his chest was absent, his fingers bloody and his suit looked darker. He explained what happened, omitting most of the classified details. Thanos had arrived to earth, threatened to cleanse the world and succeeded. He wiped out half of the population. The next order of business he asked, "Where is Tony Stark?" No one had the answer.

It would be a month before Tony would miraculously be found, "He was injured in a remote area." was the official cover story but there had to be more to it. There always was.

Tony was once again named the official boss, after it was discovered Pepper Potts had also been taken. Tony's health improved but he disappeared.

Days passed and Natasha Romanoff, a beautiful redhead with an attitude that could scare a 210 pound man and boy next door Steve Rogers were announced as the new boss. It should have gotten better but it didn't, employees were cut, costs were cut and within three months Wren was forced to move on. Natasha promised in a year, she'd be brought back if things returned to normal. If there was a normal to look forward too.

One year passed and the world was still broken and her job never came back, the Avengers weren't rallying up for round two and Iron Man let alone Tony Stark still hadn't shown up in public again. It was public knowledge that the loss of his fiancee Pepper had hit him hard. Rumors swirled that he was on the deep end of a depression, two pills away from ending it all. Wren didn't blame him for doing so, she'd lost people too. It's difficult to move on when you can't mourn any specific area except for a large wall that stretched for miles with names etched into it. It was personal, not an area you could make your own. It was covered in dead flowers, tattered teddy bears and letters from loved ones.

Wren started drinking six months after her job was gone when everything became to much to handle, little things would spark ripples of anger. Misplaced keys, grocery stores not being stocked, a rude comment she'd overhear and the neurons inside her brain would fire up creating a alter personality that attacked with anger. She drank to stop it all, the pain and the anger. It was easy. She fought it with a crooked smile and another bottle of alcohol.

He came next. Tony Stark, that is.

Wren was sitting at her dining table working on her latest jewelry design, it seemed her hobby as a teenager had paid off since being politely let go. A knack for making customized bracelets and necklaces had provided a substantial amount of pay. Requests came online shortly after for pieces engraved or in tribute to a lost loved one. The current piece beneath her small fingers with light blue nails was for a woman who lost her daughter, she asked for her birthdate, birthstone and a small pink heart on the necklace. The roar of an engine startled her, the necklace slipping between her fingers as she stood up. Her home was far enough away from civilization that no one would just be simply passing by, in order to get here, you had to look for it and in order to find it, you had to know where to look. The image of Tony Stark approaching the front door, with a case of Guinness in his left hand and his hair slightly tousled as if he just awoke with pair of sunglasses hiding his eyes felt like a dream. She pinches herself before moving from the window, this can't be real. Tony Stark is hiding? Gone? Scared? Missing? Lo-- the doorbell startles her again, it's followed by a short pair of knocks. Her lower lip comes between her teeth as she approaches the door, a shaky hand reaches for the lock, unlatching it and slowly twisting the door knob.

"Hey." He says as if this is a normal occurrence, like it's not unusual for him to be at her door in the middle of the afternoon. "I was in the neighborhood." He blatantly lies.

"Hi." Wren says in a whispered tone and her eyes grow even wider. "Uh...Come, come inside."

Tony sat across from her on the brown couch, his sunglasses discarded on the counter in the kitchen while his fingers danced across the glass bottle of beer. He's wearing an AC/DC t-shirt that is tightly stretched across his chest, it's the first time she's seen him in person in years, probably since anyone has seen him in person. His hair is longer, unkept and littered with greying strands and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot, his jaw is held hostage by months of unshaved facial hair. He looks broken. Nothing like the man who could throw out a sarcastic remark like he was a pitcher for a baseball team, the man   whose eyes crinkled when he laughed or was rumored to obsessively work on new projects. Mr. Stark sits before her, unrecognizable. He's a different man but she's a different woman now to. Everyone is different since it happened.

"This place is nice." Tony remarks as his eyes explore the home. He's seen better, undoubtedly, he's made of money. He owns a better home than this. His homes are in the cities full of people and tall buildings, millions of dollars put into the home with remarkable electronics while Wren's is secluded from civilization, surrounded by trees and wildlife, the closest grocery store was nearly two hours away and her closet neighbors were miles away. She has a broken bathroom sink, a window that never completely locks and a floorboard in the kitchen between the counter and fridge that squeaks every time you step on it, she knows he's pulling the comment out of his ass. Tony's been locked up for so long, he's forgotten what nice truly means.

"It makes do." She says with a small shrug.

Tony nods, bringing the bottle to his lips. He still hasn't explained why he was here or where he's been and he doesn't know if he can even begin to. He hadn't left home in a year, hadn't interacted with people in over a year but here he was.

"Did you actually stop at a grocery store and pick this up?" Wren asks nudging the case of beer with her foot. It's sitting on the glass coffee table covering a assortment of magazines and papers, she has yet to pick up.

"Yes." He nods. "Didn't want to show up empty handed."

"I like scotch too." Wren mentions with a smile. "In case you're ever in the neighborhood again." For a brief second, a smile crosses his face. It almost passes for real but his eyes give him away. "How are you doing Tony?" She asks interrupting the silence that encapsulates them. It's a difficult question, one that managed to escape her mouth before she had a moment to think of the consequences. Tony could answer with another fake smile or gather what's left of the beer and decide he's being called away.

There's a pause in the conversation and a hitch of his breathe before he answers, "I'm fine." His reply surprises her, she didn't expect an answer. When he poses the same question to Wren her answer is far from polite.

Her intent was to lie as he did but what comes out is not a fib, "I"m terrible." Wren mutters. "Fuckin terrible." She glances around the living room, shame written across her face. "I'm drunk, don't mind me."

"It doesn't help, does it?" Tony asks after another round of silence.

"No... Not really."

"No..." He repeats.

"You live here alone?" He asks even though FRIDAY already told him that answer.

She nods. "Me and my shadow."

"Must get lonely."

"I make do." She shrugs her shoulders. "The quiet--"

"--can do you some good."

"Is that what you needed?" Wren asks reaching out to grab another bottle of beer, one for her and one for Tony. It's a question in place of the one she really wants to ask, 'what are you doing here?' is on the tip of her tongue but she refuse to give it a voice. "Quiet?"

Tony opens the bottle, tossing the lid onto the table and relaxing his posture on the couch once again. He kicks a leg up on the coffee table, slides his arm across the back of the couch and stares at Wren whose legs are dangling off the arm of the loveseat. "I don't know anymore." He whispers, dropping his head back. "I think... I just needed somebody..." For the first time in years, Tony lets the truth out. He's got tears welting at the corners of his eyes, a knot forming in his throat and his suave personality he's had on display for his entire life is crumbling before a woman he barely knows. "who didn't know me... before." He lets out with a deep breathe. Wren simply nods and takes another long sip of her beer.

Tony leaves around midnight, alcohol on his breathe and his heart feeling a little less heavy. "It gets dark out here." Tony says surprised when he steps outside of the small house, glancing up at the sky.

"Yeah, no tall buildings to make it seem like it's always day. You can see the stars too." Wren says with a smile.

"I'll see you." Is the last thing Tony says as he leaves.

Neither Tony or Wren have any idea how to explain the last few hours of their lives, Wren is still in shock that Tony showed up at her door when she lays down in bed while Tony is still trying to piece together why he arrived there in the first place. He'd come across the post it note with Wren's address when he slipped in the kitchen and knocked off the papers stuck to his fridge. It was the only piece of paper that fell directly in front of him, rightside up and caught the little light he allowed into the house. He didn't plan to go there neither was he intending to but his legs went on autopilot and before he knew it, he was in the front seat of his car, driving to her home. Leaving his house for the first time in a year was easier than he would have thought. The world didn't care about him anymore. His car left the garage unnoticed, his appearance at the grocery store went unnoticed. Tony Stark was nothing to the world now.

Wren created a spark in the deepest crevice of Tony's chest, he felt relieved to speak to someone who didn't judge him. She didn't see him as a pompous ass or billionaire who would only think of himself. The time they spent together felt like two old friends catching up over a beer. It was relaxed. He didn't suspect that she would rush off and tell the media about his reappearance into society or find a gossip magazine to sell the dark tales that were Tony Stark.

Maybe she could become a much needed friend in whatever world they're forced to reside in.

[rustingawayslowly]

The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

hello and welcome to the lost book of remedies review. Basically, "The Lost Book of Remedies" is over 300-pages of our forefathers' most powerful natural cures that have been lost to history.

A few of them are the treatments and homemade remedies our grandparents utilized when we were kids to nurse us back to health.

Others can help us heal as we're moving into our senior years and health problems begin to creep up.

And you do not need to be an herbalist to use it.

In fact, "The Lost Book of Remedies" was made for typical folk with no previous plant knowledge.

It will allow you to turn your yard weeds into painkillers, prescription antibiotics and many more forgotten however highly effective remedies.

In times of crisis, this book will probably wind up saving lots of American lives.

Click here to get your hands on the lost book of remedies

Medicine Chest in Your Backyard-The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

What could be much easier than growing an herb garden with no effort? Naturally, you'll have to harvest your weeds, however, you would do that anyhow: it's called weeding.

Spring is a particularly fertile time for gathering your weeds - roots and all - and turning them into medicines. Here then are some suggestions on how to find, harvest, prepare, and utilize a baker's dozen (13) of common weeds that probably currently grow around you.

To make your medicines you'll require glass jars of numerous sizes with tight-fitting lids. And a minimum of a pint each of apple cider vinegar (pasteurized), vodka (100 proof is best, but 80 proof will do), and pure olive oil (not additional virgin) or good quality animal fat such as lanolin, lard, or stomach fat from a lamb or kid. You will likewise want a knife, a cutting board, and some rags to mop up spills.

In general, you will fill a container (of any size) with coarsely-chopped fresh, but dry, plant product. (Do not wash any part of the plant other than roots, if you are using them, and be sure to dry those well with a towel before putting them in your container.) Then you will fill the jar with your menstruum, which is the vinegar, the oil, or the alcohol. Label well and permit to stand at space temperature level, out of the sunshine for at least 6 weeks prior to decanting and utilizing. (See my book Recovery Wise for more specific info on making preparations.).

A field guide is practical for positively recognizing your weeds. The one I like best is A Guide to the Recognition of New Zealand Common Weeds in Colour, complied by E. A. Upritchard. (Offered from the New Zealand Weed And Pest Control Society, P.O. Box 1654, Palmerston North) This book even shows you how the weeds look when they are emerging.

Ready? OK! Let's go outside with a plant id guide or skilled herbalist and see what we can find.

Shepherd's purse (Capsella bursa pastoris) is an annual in the mustard family. Cut the leading half of the plant when it has actually formed its little heart-shaped "bags" (seed pods) and make a tincture (with alcohol), which you can use to stop bleeding. Midwives and females who bleed greatly during their period praise their timely effectiveness. Gypsies claim it works on the stomach and lungs too. A dose is 1 dropperful (1ml); which may be duplicated up to four times a day.

Cleavers (Gallium aparine) is a persistent, sticky plant that grows profusely in abandoned lots and the edges of cultivated land. The entire plant is used to reinforce the lymphatic activity. I cut the top two-thirds of each plant while it is in flower (or setting seeds) and utilize alcohol to make a tincture that relieves tender, swollen breasts, PMS symptoms, and allergic reactions. A dose is 15-25 drops (.5 - 1 ml); repeated as needed.

Chickweed (Stellaria media) has many usages, consisting of scrumptious salad greens. I cut the whole top of the plant and consume it or utilize alcohol to make a tincture, which dissolves cysts, tonifies the thyroid, and aids in weight-loss. Dosage is a dropperful (1 ml), up to 3 times a day.

Daisy (Bellis perennis) is a typical perennial weed of yards and open locations. Rather different from the native daisy (Lagenifera petiolata), the little English daisy is related to feverfew and has similar capabilities. I use the leaves and flowers to make a cast (with alcohol) or medicinal vinegar which eliminates headaches, muscle pain, and allergy signs. Dosage is a dropper full of the tincture (1 ml), approximately twice a day; or a tablespoon of the vinegar in the early morning.

Dandelion (Taraxacum Officinalis) is a persistent seasonal of lawns and gardens and among the very best known medical herbs worldwide. (The native dandelion of New Zealand - Taraxacum magellanicum - is medical too.)

��Those who enjoy a pure green yard curse the warm yellow flowers of typical dandelion. But those who want to see charm anywhere (such as kids and herbalists) treasure this weed. You can use any part of the dandelion - the root, the leaves, the flowers, even the flower stalk - to make a cast or medical vinegar which reinforces the liver.

 A dosage of 10-20 drops of the tincture (.5 -1 ml) eases gas, heartburn, and indigestion, in addition to promoting healthy bowel movements. A tablespoon of the vinegar works well, too. More importantly, taken before meals, dandelion boosts the production of hydrochloric acid in the stomach, hence increasing the bio-availability of many nutrients, especially calcium.

 The fresh or prepared green leaves are filled with carotenes, those anti-cancer, anti-heart disease helpers. And the oil of the flowers is a crucial massage balm for preserving healthy breasts. (There's lots more information on dandelions in Healing Wise.).

Dock, also called yellow dock, curly dock, and broad dock is a seasonal plant, which my Native American grandmas use for "all females' problems." The Maori call it Pae Whenua or runa. It is another plant that disagrees with sheep, especially when the land is overgrazed.

 I dig the yellow roots of Rumex Crispus or R. obtusifolius and tincture them in alcohol to utilize as an ally when the body's immune system or the liver requires help. A dose is 15-25 drops (.5 -1 ml). I also gather the leaves and/or seeds throughout the growing season and make medicinal vinegar, taken a tablespoon at a time, which is used to increase blood levels of iron, lower menstrual flooding and cramping, and balance hormone levels.

 If the chopped roots are taken in oil for six weeks, the resulting lotion is advantageous for keeping the breasts healthy.

Groundsel (Senecio vulgaris) and Ragwort (Senecio jacobea) are hardy perennials that have credibility for poisoning animals, like their cousin tansy. Although bad for sheep, these 2 Senecios are some of the world's most ancient healing plants, having actually been discovered in a severe 60,000 years of age. 

You can utilize the blooming tops and leaves with your alcohol to make a tincture which acts gradually to tonify the reproductive organs, ease PMS, and stop extreme menstrual pain. Dosage is 5-10 drops (.2 -.5 ml) daily, utilized just once a day, but for at least 3 months. (A bigger dosage is utilized to accelerate labor.).

Mallows (Malva neglecta, M. parviflora, M. Sylvestre) grow well in disregarded gardens and are remarkably deep-rooted. The flowers, leaves, stalks, seeds, and roots are abundant in sticky mucilage which is finest extracted by soaking the fresh plant in cold water overnight or longer or by making a medical vinegar.

 The starch is extraordinarily soothing internally (reducing sore throats, upset stomachs, heartburn, irritable bowel, colic, constipation, and gastrointestinal disorder) and externally (relieving bug bites, burns, sprains, and aching eyes). The leaves, flowers, and bark (especially) of the native Hohere (Hoheria populnea) are utilized in precisely the same way by Maori herbalists.

Plantain, likewise called ribwort, pig's ear, and the bandaid plant is a typical weed of yards, driveways, parks, and playgrounds. Determine it by the 5 parallel veins running the length of each leaf. You may discover broadleaf plantain (Plantago significant) with broad leaves or narrow leaf plantain (Plantago lanceolata) with lance-thin leaves. 

Either can be utilized to make a recovery poultice or a relaxing oil commonly considered as one of the very best injury therapists around. Not only does plantain boost the speed of healing, it likewise eases pain, stops bleeding, draws out foreign matter, stops itching, avoids and stops allergic reactions from bee stings, kills germs, and minimizes swelling.

Attempt a plaster or a generous application of plantain oil or lotion (made by thickening the oil with beeswax) on sprains, cuts, insect bites, rashes, chafed skin, boils, swellings, chapped and cracked lips, rough or sore hands, infant's diaper location, and burns.

To make a fresh plantain poultice: Pick a leaf, chew it well and put it on the boo-boo. "Like magic" the pain, itching, and swelling vanish, fast! (Yes, you can dry plantain leaves and carry them in your first aid kit. Chew like you would fresh leaves.).

To make plantain ointment: Pick large fresh plantain leaves. Slice coarsely. Fill a clean, dry, glass jar with the chopped leaves. Put pure olive oil into the leaves, poking about with a chopstick until the container is completely full of oil and all air bubbles are released. 

Cap well. Place container in a little bowl to gather any overflow. Wait 6 weeks. Then stress oil out of the plant product, squeezing well. Measure the oil. Heat it gently, including one tablespoon of grated beeswax for each liquid ounce of oil. Pour into jars and permit to cool.

St. Joan's/ John's wort (Hypericum perforatum) This stunning perennial wildflower might be disliked by sheep farmers but herbalists love it. The flowering tops are collected after they begin to bloom (generally on Solstice, June 21) and prepared with alcohol, and with oil, to make two of the most beneficial remedies in my first-aid package. 

Tincture of St. Joan's wort not just lends one a warm disposition, it dependably alleviates muscle aches, is an effective anti-viral and is my first-choice treatment for those with shingles, sciatica, back pain, neuralgia, and headaches consisting of migraines. The usual dose is 1 dropperful (1 ml) as frequently as needed. 

In extreme pain from a muscle spasm in my thigh, I utilized a dropperful every twenty minutes for two hours, or until the pain totally subsided. St. Joan's wort oil stops cold sores in their tracks and can even eliminate herpes signs. I utilize it as a sunblock. Contrary to common belief, St. Joan's wort does not cause sun level of sensitivity; it avoids it. It even prevents burns from radiation treatment. Eases sore muscles, too.

Self-recover (Prunella vulgaris) This odorless perennial mint is one of the great unsung therapists in the world. The leaves and flowers contain more antioxidants - which prevent cancer and heart problem, among other healthy traits - than any other plant checked. And as part of the mint family, self-recover is imbued with great deals of minerals, especially calcium, making it an especially essential ally for pregnant, nursing, menopausal, and post-menopausal females.

 I put self recover leaves in salads in the spring and fall, make a medicinal vinegar with the flowers throughout the summer, and prepare the flowering tops (fresh or dried) in winter soups.

Usnea (Usnea barbata) is that many-stranded grey lichen hanging out of the branches of your apple trees or the Monterey pines planted in the plantation over there or in almost any native tree in areas of the South Island Alps, where it is referred to as angiangi to the Maori. If in doubt of your recognition: 

Pull a hair gently apart with your hands, searching for a white fiber inside the fuzzy grey-green external coat. To prepare usnea, harvest at any time of the year, taking care not to take too much. Usnea grows gradually. Put your harvest in a cooking pan and just cover it with cold water. Boil for about 15-25 minutes, or until the water is orange and minimized by at least half. Put usnea and water into a container, filling it to the top with plant material. 

(Water should disappear than half of the container.) Include the greatest proof of alcohol you can buy. After 6 weeks this tincture is ready to work for you as an outstanding antibacterial, countering infection throughout the body. Dosage is a dropperful (1 ml) as regularly as every two hours in intense circumstances.

Yarrow (Achellia millefolium) This beautiful perennial weed is grown in numerous herb gardens for it has a wide variety of uses. Cut the flowering tops (use just white-flowering yarrow) and use your alcohol to make a strongly-scented cast that you can take internally to prevent colds and influenza. (A dose is 10-20 drops of up to 1 ml).

 I bring a little spray bottle of yarrow tincture with me when I'm outdoors and wet my skin every hour approximately. A United States Army study showed yarrow tincture to be more effective than DEET at fending off ticks, mosquitoes, and sand flies. You can likewise make a healing lotion with yarrow flower tops and your oil or fat. Yarrow oil is antibacterial, pain-relieving, and incredibly valuable in healing all types of injuries.

To find out more Please visit The lost book of remedies post 

VISIT OUR POST ON THE LOST BOOK OF REMEDIES

[redbeardgeek]

The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

hello and welcome to the lost book of remedies review. Basically, "The Lost Book of Remedies" is over 300-pages of our forefathers' most powerful natural cures that have been lost to history.

A few of them are the treatments and homemade remedies our grandparents utilized when we were kids to nurse us back to health.

Others can help us heal as we're moving into our senior years and health problems begin to creep up.

And you do not need to be an herbalist to use it.

In fact, "The Lost Book of Remedies" was made for typical folk with no previous plant knowledge.

It will allow you to turn your yard weeds into painkillers, prescription antibiotics and many more forgotten however highly effective remedies.

In times of crisis, this book will probably wind up saving lots of American lives.

Click here to get your hands on the lost book of remedies

Medicine Chest in Your Backyard-The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

What could be much easier than growing an herb garden with no effort? Naturally, you'll have to harvest your weeds, however, you would do that anyhow: it's called weeding.

Spring is a particularly fertile time for gathering your weeds - roots and all - and turning them into medicines. Here then are some suggestions on how to find, harvest, prepare, and utilize a baker's dozen (13) of common weeds that probably currently grow around you.

To make your medicines you'll require glass jars of numerous sizes with tight-fitting lids. And a minimum of a pint each of apple cider vinegar (pasteurized), vodka (100 proof is best, but 80 proof will do), and pure olive oil (not additional virgin) or good quality animal fat such as lanolin, lard, or stomach fat from a lamb or kid. You will likewise want a knife, a cutting board, and some rags to mop up spills.

In general, you will fill a container (of any size) with coarsely-chopped fresh, but dry, plant product. (Do not wash any part of the plant other than roots, if you are using them, and be sure to dry those well with a towel before putting them in your container.) Then you will fill the jar with your menstruum, which is the vinegar, the oil, or the alcohol. Label well and permit to stand at space temperature level, out of the sunshine for at least 6 weeks prior to decanting and utilizing. (See my book Recovery Wise for more specific info on making preparations.).

A field guide is practical for positively recognizing your weeds. The one I like best is A Guide to the Recognition of New Zealand Common Weeds in Colour, complied by E. A. Upritchard. (Offered from the New Zealand Weed And Pest Control Society, P.O. Box 1654, Palmerston North) This book even shows you how the weeds look when they are emerging.

Ready? OK! Let's go outside with a plant id guide or skilled herbalist and see what we can find.

Shepherd's purse (Capsella bursa pastoris) is an annual in the mustard family. Cut the leading half of the plant when it has actually formed its little heart-shaped "bags" (seed pods) and make a tincture (with alcohol), which you can use to stop bleeding. Midwives and females who bleed greatly during their period praise their timely effectiveness. Gypsies claim it works on the stomach and lungs too. A dose is 1 dropperful (1ml); which may be duplicated up to four times a day.

Cleavers (Gallium aparine) is a persistent, sticky plant that grows profusely in abandoned lots and the edges of cultivated land. The entire plant is used to reinforce the lymphatic activity. I cut the top two-thirds of each plant while it is in flower (or setting seeds) and utilize alcohol to make a tincture that relieves tender, swollen breasts, PMS symptoms, and allergic reactions. A dose is 15-25 drops (.5 - 1 ml); repeated as needed.

Chickweed (Stellaria media) has many usages, consisting of scrumptious salad greens. I cut the whole top of the plant and consume it or utilize alcohol to make a tincture, which dissolves cysts, tonifies the thyroid, and aids in weight-loss. Dosage is a dropperful (1 ml), up to 3 times a day.

Daisy (Bellis perennis) is a typical perennial weed of yards and open locations. Rather different from the native daisy (Lagenifera petiolata), the little English daisy is related to feverfew and has similar capabilities. I use the leaves and flowers to make a cast (with alcohol) or medicinal vinegar which eliminates headaches, muscle pain, and allergy signs. Dosage is a dropper full of the tincture (1 ml), approximately twice a day; or a tablespoon of the vinegar in the early morning.

Dandelion (Taraxacum Officinalis) is a persistent seasonal of lawns and gardens and among the very best known medical herbs worldwide. (The native dandelion of New Zealand - Taraxacum magellanicum - is medical too.)

 Those who enjoy a pure green yard curse the warm yellow flowers of typical dandelion. But those who want to see charm anywhere (such as kids and herbalists) treasure this weed. You can use any part of the dandelion - the root, the leaves, the flowers, even the flower stalk - to make a cast or medical vinegar which reinforces the liver.

 A dosage of 10-20 drops of the tincture (.5 -1 ml) eases gas, heartburn, and indigestion, in addition to promoting healthy bowel movements. A tablespoon of the vinegar works well, too. More importantly, taken before meals, dandelion boosts the production of hydrochloric acid in the stomach, hence increasing the bio-availability of many nutrients, especially calcium.

 The fresh or prepared green leaves are filled with carotenes, those anti-cancer, anti-heart disease helpers. And the oil of the flowers is a crucial massage balm for preserving healthy breasts. (There's lots more information on dandelions in Healing Wise.).

Dock, also called yellow dock, curly dock, and broad dock is a seasonal plant, which my Native American grandmas use for "all females' problems." The Maori call it Pae Whenua or runa. It is another plant that disagrees with sheep, especially when the land is overgrazed.

 I dig the yellow roots of Rumex Crispus or R. obtusifolius and tincture them in alcohol to utilize as an ally when the body's immune system or the liver requires help. A dose is 15-25 drops (.5 -1 ml). I also gather the leaves and/or seeds throughout the growing season and make medicinal vinegar, taken a tablespoon at a time, which is used to increase blood levels of iron, lower menstrual flooding and cramping, and balance hormone levels.

 If the chopped roots are taken in oil for six weeks, the resulting lotion is advantageous for keeping the breasts healthy.

Groundsel (Senecio vulgaris) and Ragwort (Senecio jacobea) are hardy perennials that have credibility for poisoning animals, like their cousin tansy. Although bad for sheep, these 2 Senecios are some of the world's most ancient healing plants, having actually been discovered in a severe 60,000 years of age. 

You can utilize the blooming tops and leaves with your alcohol to make a tincture which acts gradually to tonify the reproductive organs, ease PMS, and stop extreme menstrual pain. Dosage is 5-10 drops (.2 -.5 ml) daily, utilized just once a day, but for at least 3 months. (A bigger dosage is utilized to accelerate labor.).

Mallows (Malva neglecta, M. parviflora, M. Sylvestre) grow well in disregarded gardens and are remarkably deep-rooted. The flowers, leaves, stalks, seeds, and roots are abundant in sticky mucilage which is finest extracted by soaking the fresh plant in cold water overnight or longer or by making a medical vinegar.

 The starch is extraordinarily soothing internally (reducing sore throats, upset stomachs, heartburn, irritable bowel, colic, constipation, and gastrointestinal disorder) and externally (relieving bug bites, burns, sprains, and aching eyes). The leaves, flowers, and bark (especially) of the native Hohere (Hoheria populnea) are utilized in precisely the same way by Maori herbalists.

Plantain, likewise called ribwort, pig's ear, and the bandaid plant is a typical weed of yards, driveways, parks, and playgrounds. Determine it by the 5 parallel veins running the length of each leaf. You may discover broadleaf plantain (Plantago significant) with broad leaves or narrow leaf plantain (Plantago lanceolata) with lance-thin leaves. 

Either can be utilized to make a recovery poultice or a relaxing oil commonly considered as one of the very best injury therapists around. Not only does plantain boost the speed of healing, it likewise eases pain, stops bleeding, draws out foreign matter, stops itching, avoids and stops allergic reactions from bee stings, kills germs, and minimizes swelling.

Attempt a plaster or a generous application of plantain oil or lotion (made by thickening the oil with beeswax) on sprains, cuts, insect bites, rashes, chafed skin, boils, swellings, chapped and cracked lips, rough or sore hands, infant's diaper location, and burns.

To make a fresh plantain poultice: Pick a leaf, chew it well and put it on the boo-boo. "Like magic" the pain, itching, and swelling vanish, fast! (Yes, you can dry plantain leaves and carry them in your first aid kit. Chew like you would fresh leaves.).

To make plantain ointment: Pick large fresh plantain leaves. Slice coarsely. Fill a clean, dry, glass jar with the chopped leaves. Put pure olive oil into the leaves, poking about with a chopstick until the container is completely full of oil and all air bubbles are released. 

Cap well. Place container in a little bowl to gather any overflow. Wait 6 weeks. Then stress oil out of the plant product, squeezing well. Measure the oil. Heat it gently, including one tablespoon of grated beeswax for each liquid ounce of oil. Pour into jars and permit to cool.

St. Joan's/ John's wort (Hypericum perforatum) This stunning perennial wildflower might be disliked by sheep farmers but herbalists love it. The flowering tops are collected after they begin to bloom (generally on Solstice, June 21) and prepared with alcohol, and with oil, to make two of the most beneficial remedies in my first-aid package. 

Tincture of St. Joan's wort not just lends one a warm disposition, it dependably alleviates muscle aches, is an effective anti-viral and is my first-choice treatment for those with shingles, sciatica, back pain, neuralgia, and headaches consisting of migraines. The usual dose is 1 dropperful (1 ml) as frequently as needed. 

In extreme pain from a muscle spasm in my thigh, I utilized a dropperful every twenty minutes for two hours, or until the pain totally subsided. St. Joan's wort oil stops cold sores in their tracks and can even eliminate herpes signs. I utilize it as a sunblock. Contrary to common belief, St. Joan's wort does not cause sun level of sensitivity; it avoids it. It even prevents burns from radiation treatment. Eases sore muscles, too.

Self-recover (Prunella vulgaris) This odorless perennial mint is one of the great unsung therapists in the world. The leaves and flowers contain more antioxidants - which prevent cancer and heart problem, among other healthy traits - than any other plant checked. And as part of the mint family, self-recover is imbued with great deals of minerals, especially calcium, making it an especially essential ally for pregnant, nursing, menopausal, and post-menopausal females.

 I put self recover leaves in salads in the spring and fall, make a medicinal vinegar with the flowers throughout the summer, and prepare the flowering tops (fresh or dried) in winter soups.

Usnea (Usnea barbata) is that many-stranded grey lichen hanging out of the branches of your apple trees or the Monterey pines planted in the plantation over there or in almost any native tree in areas of the South Island Alps, where it is referred to as angiangi to the Maori. If in doubt of your recognition: 

Pull a hair gently apart with your hands, searching for a white fiber inside the fuzzy grey-green external coat. To prepare usnea, harvest at any time of the year, taking care not to take too much. Usnea grows gradually. Put your harvest in a cooking pan and just cover it with cold water. Boil for about 15-25 minutes, or until the water is orange and minimized by at least half. Put usnea and water into a container, filling it to the top with plant material. 

(Water should disappear than half of the container.) Include the greatest proof of alcohol you can buy. After 6 weeks this tincture is ready to work for you as an outstanding antibacterial, countering infection throughout the body. Dosage is a dropperful (1 ml) as regularly as every two hours in intense circumstances.

Yarrow (Achellia millefolium) This beautiful perennial weed is grown in numerous herb gardens for it has a wide variety of uses. Cut the flowering tops (use just white-flowering yarrow) and use your alcohol to make a strongly-scented cast that you can take internally to prevent colds and influenza. (A dose is 10-20 drops of up to 1 ml).

 I bring a little spray bottle of yarrow tincture with me when I'm outdoors and wet my skin every hour approximately. A United States Army study showed yarrow tincture to be more effective than DEET at fending off ticks, mosquitoes, and sand flies. You can likewise make a healing lotion with yarrow flower tops and your oil or fat. Yarrow oil is antibacterial, pain-relieving, and incredibly valuable in healing all types of injuries.

To find out more Please visit The lost book of remedies post 

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The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

hello and welcome to the lost book of remedies review. Basically, "The Lost Book of Remedies" is over 300-pages of our forefathers' most powerful natural cures that have been lost to history.

A few of them are the treatments and homemade remedies our grandparents utilized when we were kids to nurse us back to health.

Others can help us heal as we're moving into our senior years and health problems begin to creep up.

And you do not need to be an herbalist to use it.

In fact, "The Lost Book of Remedies" was made for typical folk with no previous plant knowledge.

It will allow you to turn your yard weeds into painkillers, prescription antibiotics and many more forgotten however highly effective remedies.

In times of crisis, this book will probably wind up saving lots of American lives.

Click here to get your hands on the lost book of remedies

Medicine Chest in Your Backyard-The Lost Book Of Remedies Pdf Download

What could be much easier than growing an herb garden with no effort? Naturally, you'll have to harvest your weeds, however, you would do that anyhow: it's called weeding.

Spring is a particularly fertile time for gathering your weeds - roots and all - and turning them into medicines. Here then are some suggestions on how to find, harvest, prepare, and utilize a baker's dozen (13) of common weeds that probably currently grow around you.

To make your medicines you'll require glass jars of numerous sizes with tight-fitting lids. And a minimum of a pint each of apple cider vinegar (pasteurized), vodka (100 proof is best, but 80 proof will do), and pure olive oil (not additional virgin) or good quality animal fat such as lanolin, lard, or stomach fat from a lamb or kid. You will likewise want a knife, a cutting board, and some rags to mop up spills.

In general, you will fill a container (of any size) with coarsely-chopped fresh, but dry, plant product. (Do not wash any part of the plant other than roots, if you are using them, and be sure to dry those well with a towel before putting them in your container.) Then you will fill the jar with your menstruum, which is the vinegar, the oil, or the alcohol. Label well and permit to stand at space temperature level, out of the sunshine for at least 6 weeks prior to decanting and utilizing. (See my book Recovery Wise for more specific info on making preparations.).

A field guide is practical for positively recognizing your weeds. The one I like best is A Guide to the Recognition of New Zealand Common Weeds in Colour, complied by E. A. Upritchard. (Offered from the New Zealand Weed And Pest Control Society, P.O. Box 1654, Palmerston North) This book even shows you how the weeds look when they are emerging.

Ready? OK! Let's go outside with a plant id guide or skilled herbalist and see what we can find.

Shepherd's purse (Capsella bursa pastoris) is an annual in the mustard family. Cut the leading half of the plant when it has actually formed its little heart-shaped "bags" (seed pods) and make a tincture (with alcohol), which you can use to stop bleeding. Midwives and females who bleed greatly during their period praise their timely effectiveness. Gypsies claim it works on the stomach and lungs too. A dose is 1 dropperful (1ml); which may be duplicated up to four times a day.

Cleavers (Gallium aparine) is a persistent, sticky plant that grows profusely in abandoned lots and the edges of cultivated land. The entire plant is used to reinforce the lymphatic activity. I cut the top two-thirds of each plant while it is in flower (or setting seeds) and utilize alcohol to make a tincture that relieves tender, swollen breasts, PMS symptoms, and allergic reactions. A dose is 15-25 drops (.5 - 1 ml); repeated as needed.

Chickweed (Stellaria media) has many usages, consisting of scrumptious salad greens. I cut the whole top of the plant and consume it or utilize alcohol to make a tincture, which dissolves cysts, tonifies the thyroid, and aids in weight-loss. Dosage is a dropperful (1 ml), up to 3 times a day.

Daisy (Bellis perennis) is a typical perennial weed of yards and open locations. Rather different from the native daisy (Lagenifera petiolata), the little English daisy is related to feverfew and has similar capabilities. I use the leaves and flowers to make a cast (with alcohol) or medicinal vinegar which eliminates headaches, muscle pain, and allergy signs. Dosage is a dropper full of the tincture (1 ml), approximately twice a day; or a tablespoon of the vinegar in the early morning.

Dandelion (Taraxacum Officinalis) is a persistent seasonal of lawns and gardens and among the very best known medical herbs worldwide. (The native dandelion of New Zealand - Taraxacum magellanicum - is medical too.)

 Those who enjoy a pure green yard curse the warm yellow flowers of typical dandelion. But those who want to see charm anywhere (such as kids and herbalists) treasure this weed. You can use any part of the dandelion - the root, the leaves, the flowers, even the flower stalk - to make a cast or medical vinegar which reinforces the liver.

 A dosage of 10-20 drops of the tincture (.5 -1 ml) eases gas, heartburn, and indigestion, in addition to promoting healthy bowel movements. A tablespoon of the vinegar works well, too. More importantly, taken before meals, dandelion boosts the production of hydrochloric acid in the stomach, hence increasing the bio-availability of many nutrients, especially calcium.

 The fresh or prepared green leaves are filled with carotenes, those anti-cancer, anti-heart disease helpers. And the oil of the flowers is a crucial massage balm for preserving healthy breasts. (There's lots more information on dandelions in Healing Wise.).

Dock, also called yellow dock, curly dock, and broad dock is a seasonal plant, which my Native American grandmas use for "all females' problems." The Maori call it Pae Whenua or runa. It is another plant that disagrees with sheep, especially when the land is overgrazed.

 I dig the yellow roots of Rumex Crispus or R. obtusifolius and tincture them in alcohol to utilize as an ally when the body's immune system or the liver requires help. A dose is 15-25 drops (.5 -1 ml). I also gather the leaves and/or seeds throughout the growing season and make medicinal vinegar, taken a tablespoon at a time, which is used to increase blood levels of iron, lower menstrual flooding and cramping, and balance hormone levels.

 If the chopped roots are taken in oil for six weeks, the resulting lotion is advantageous for keeping the breasts healthy.

Groundsel (Senecio vulgaris) and Ragwort (Senecio jacobea) are hardy perennials that have credibility for poisoning animals, like their cousin tansy. Although bad for sheep, these 2 Senecios are some of the world's most ancient healing plants, having actually been discovered in a severe 60,000 years of age. 

You can utilize the blooming tops and leaves with your alcohol to make a tincture which acts gradually to tonify the reproductive organs, ease PMS, and stop extreme menstrual pain. Dosage is 5-10 drops (.2 -.5 ml) daily, utilized just once a day, but for at least 3 months. (A bigger dosage is utilized to accelerate labor.).

Mallows (Malva neglecta, M. parviflora, M. Sylvestre) grow well in disregarded gardens and are remarkably deep-rooted. The flowers, leaves, stalks, seeds, and roots are abundant in sticky mucilage which is finest extracted by soaking the fresh plant in cold water overnight or longer or by making a medical vinegar.

 The starch is extraordinarily soothing internally (reducing sore throats, upset stomachs, heartburn, irritable bowel, colic, constipation, and gastrointestinal disorder) and externally (relieving bug bites, burns, sprains, and aching eyes). The leaves, flowers, and bark (especially) of the native Hohere (Hoheria populnea) are utilized in precisely the same way by Maori herbalists.

Plantain, likewise called ribwort, pig's ear, and the bandaid plant is a typical weed of yards, driveways, parks, and playgrounds. Determine it by the 5 parallel veins running the length of each leaf. You may discover broadleaf plantain (Plantago significant) with broad leaves or narrow leaf plantain (Plantago lanceolata) with lance-thin leaves. 

Either can be utilized to make a recovery poultice or a relaxing oil commonly considered as one of the very best injury therapists around. Not only does plantain boost the speed of healing, it likewise eases pain, stops bleeding, draws out foreign matter, stops itching, avoids and stops allergic reactions from bee stings, kills germs, and minimizes swelling.

Attempt a plaster or a generous application of plantain oil or lotion (made by thickening the oil with beeswax) on sprains, cuts, insect bites, rashes, chafed skin, boils, swellings, chapped and cracked lips, rough or sore hands, infant's diaper location, and burns.

To make a fresh plantain poultice: Pick a leaf, chew it well and put it on the boo-boo. "Like magic" the pain, itching, and swelling vanish, fast! (Yes, you can dry plantain leaves and carry them in your first aid kit. Chew like you would fresh leaves.).

To make plantain ointment: Pick large fresh plantain leaves. Slice coarsely. Fill a clean, dry, glass jar with the chopped leaves. Put pure olive oil into the leaves, poking about with a chopstick until the container is completely full of oil and all air bubbles are released. 

Cap well. Place container in a little bowl to gather any overflow. Wait 6 weeks. Then stress oil out of the plant product, squeezing well. Measure the oil. Heat it gently, including one tablespoon of grated beeswax for each liquid ounce of oil. Pour into jars and permit to cool.

St. Joan's/ John's wort (Hypericum perforatum) This stunning perennial wildflower might be disliked by sheep farmers but herbalists love it. The flowering tops are collected after they begin to bloom (generally on Solstice, June 21) and prepared with alcohol, and with oil, to make two of the most beneficial remedies in my first-aid package. 

Tincture of St. Joan's wort not just lends one a warm disposition, it dependably alleviates muscle aches, is an effective anti-viral and is my first-choice treatment for those with shingles, sciatica, back pain, neuralgia, and headaches consisting of migraines. The usual dose is 1 dropperful (1 ml) as frequently as needed. 

In extreme pain from a muscle spasm in my thigh, I utilized a dropperful every twenty minutes for two hours, or until the pain totally subsided. St. Joan's wort oil stops cold sores in their tracks and can even eliminate herpes signs. I utilize it as a sunblock. Contrary to common belief, St. Joan's wort does not cause sun level of sensitivity; it avoids it. It even prevents burns from radiation treatment. Eases sore muscles, too.

Self-recover (Prunella vulgaris) This odorless perennial mint is one of the great unsung therapists in the world. The leaves and flowers contain more antioxidants - which prevent cancer and heart problem, among other healthy traits - than any other plant checked. And as part of the mint family, self-recover is imbued with great deals of minerals, especially calcium, making it an especially essential ally for pregnant, nursing, menopausal, and post-menopausal females.

 I put self recover leaves in salads in the spring and fall, make a medicinal vinegar with the flowers throughout the summer, and prepare the flowering tops (fresh or dried) in winter soups.

Usnea (Usnea barbata) is that many-stranded grey lichen hanging out of the branches of your apple trees or the Monterey pines planted in the plantation over there or in almost any native tree in areas of the South Island Alps, where it is referred to as angiangi to the Maori. If in doubt of your recognition: 

Pull a hair gently apart with your hands, searching for a white fiber inside the fuzzy grey-green external coat. To prepare usnea, harvest at any time of the year, taking care not to take too much. Usnea grows gradually. Put your harvest in a cooking pan and just cover it with cold water. Boil for about 15-25 minutes, or until the water is orange and minimized by at least half. Put usnea and water into a container, filling it to the top with plant material. 

(Water should disappear than half of the container.) Include the greatest proof of alcohol you can buy. After 6 weeks this tincture is ready to work for you as an outstanding antibacterial, countering infection throughout the body. Dosage is a dropperful (1 ml) as regularly as every two hours in intense circumstances.

Yarrow (Achellia millefolium) This beautiful perennial weed is grown in numerous herb gardens for it has a wide variety of uses. Cut the flowering tops (use just white-flowering yarrow) and use your alcohol to make a strongly-scented cast that you can take internally to prevent colds and influenza. (A dose is 10-20 drops of up to 1 ml).

 I bring a little spray bottle of yarrow tincture with me when I'm outdoors and wet my skin every hour approximately. A United States Army study showed yarrow tincture to be more effective than DEET at fending off ticks, mosquitoes, and sand flies. You can likewise make a healing lotion with yarrow flower tops and your oil or fat. Yarrow oil is antibacterial, pain-relieving, and incredibly valuable in healing all types of injuries.

To find out more Please visit The lost book of remedies post 

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