#just smoking a thin layer of oil on it is more than enough to keep it from degrading

[passengerpigeons]

after having used cast iron for several years. I literally don't understand why people stress so much about fucking the seasoning. like someone was like "can't you not even simmer water in it?" I mean maybe not for like a full day bone broth or something but like the way some people think of cast iron would literally make it useless

[quaranmine]

Utah Resident here- I’ve lived p much my whole life in Utah, and nearly every summer here has had one bad fire or another. I have vivid memories of watching smoke billow over the tops of the mountains I lived next to, or driving past massive columns of the stuff while on the way to a trip in southern Utah (we lived in the north, but have a cabin in the south and visited frequently). The Brian Head fire was just over the mountain from our little cabin, and I remember having to leave a trip there a few days early for fear of our whole campground being overtaken by the fire. There were a lot of evacs that year, and a lot of the trees on the north side of the Brian Head Ski Resort are still charred black from where the fire hit the worst.

There was another time a few years later, back in Utah valley this time, where we had to evacuate for a night bc the mountain that was just behind our house caught fire. It was much smaller, and the evac wasn’t official, but it still scared me. The fire had gotten under control before it really took hold thankfully, but it really scared me at the time.

There were another two massive fires that happened at the south end of Utah Valley, near Nephi and on the west side of the lake. They happened on separate years but I have vivid memories of both- even a picture floating around somewhere of my little brother and I watching the west lake one burn from a healthy distance.

Not to mention all the days I’ve seen where the sky was completely clouded over with smoke from massive fires in California. It was terrifying to wake up to the smell of smoke and a gray fog that persisted for days, covering up the sun enough you could look directly at it without hurting your eyes.

I’ve seen…. So much fire, and I’m not even that old (early 20’s). I’m thankful most of these fires were put out within a couple of days/weeks, but I think these kinds of fires always gonna be part of living here tbh.

OUGH i'm so sorry you had these experience but also so many of these experiences. you need a break! that sounds so scary!

anyway i looked up the Brian Head Fire and HELLO??? I DID NOT KNOW THIS WAS A THING????

Unbeknownst to Lyman, the fire he started wasn’t just burning the pile of branches above the surface of the ground, it was also spreading underground, creeping through what’s known as duff, a thin layer of composting organic material just above the mineral soil. Lyman said he noticed the “weird looking” burn, which he described as “kind of a drippy burn, like oil or kerosene.”

(source) i've unlocked a new fear lol. no but seriously, despite doing sort of research on the subject for a few months now, I didn't know until I looked up the fire in your ask that fires could burn underground. Even when I googled it, I got a lot of articles about coal seams burning, which I did know about. But I found this article out of Canada that explains the phenomenon well. Basically: "When this happens, it's because there are just enough tiny spaces in the soil and between pieces of wood material to hold oxygen and keep the combustion going. These fires can smoulder metres below the surface."

Fascinating. Some fires can survive the winter like this and pop back up the next season and keep burning.

Anyway, I'm sorry you've had to experience so many fires. I think you are right, though, that fires are always going to be part of living there. Utah is geologically, geographically, and ecologically part of the region that experiences wildfire as a regular part of its natural life. There's a lot of dry montane forests, basin brushland/plains, etc. Now, humans certainly exacerbate this in more ways than one. Humans can cause out of control wildfires through negligence or arson, and humans can more indirectly impact wildfire prevalence through climate change. As the seasons get hotter and dryer, the more severe and common fires might be. But yeah, fires in general cannot (and should not) be eliminated completely. So fire management is a complex task in order to balance natural ecology with (unnatural/extensive) human impact.

in other news, big fan of your state's geography and nature by the way. utah is devastatingly beautiful and i haven't seen enough of it! i also headcanon utah to be basically the same environment as the badlands biome in minecraft, and therefore base my headcanons about Tumble Town in ESMP2 off of it.

[feral-ella-flynn]

Paying the Toll, pt 2: M Troll x F Human, SFW (for now)

Part 1

Male Troll + Female Human

still SFW (so far)

2.5K/6.5K word draft

tagging @feralprose @monster-bait @apocalypticromantic666 @pre-schoolervengance @bresilienne-ami @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic @dont-call-me-a-faerie @kirmalight (comment to be tagged in updates!)

I bet no one expected this to be updated! Including me! This installment is definitely not as long as I intended, because I got really hung up on details--that’s why I’m posting anyway, to get some momentum so that hopefully the third part will be both longer and not so tardy. 

Escaping a goblin raid on your village leads you to a bridge, but you have nothing to offer the troll who guards it for a toll...except yourself

You wake in darkness.  At first you aren't sure you're awake at all--it's only by touching your own eyelids that you can feel sure they're open. It seems to make no difference between the thick, pressing dark around you either way.

“Mattie?” you whisper, your voice thin and hoarse. 

There’s no answer, and understanding comes crashing down on you, like floodwater overwhelming a dam. You are not in your cramped room under the eaves of the big house, Mathilde is not sleeping on the narrow bed an armspan away–if she’s lucky, perhaps she was able to hide in the cellars or the attics, somewhere that was safe enough until the goblin raiders felt they had run out of things to raze and ravish and moved on. Or perhaps help would come, from the regiment billeted outside the market town, or from rangers who might have been near enought to see the smoke. If Mattie was unlucky….

A sob catches in your dry throat, then turns to choking dry heaves that leave you shuddering. Bile burns on your tongue. You huddle into the nest of furs, remembering now where you are and how you came to be here, naked and alone in the pitch black.

Not alone. There is the hush of leather brushing against stone, a faint musky scent. 

“Brúsi?”

“Aye.” The troll’s gravel-rough voice is low and close–you almost reach out, ready to blunder once again into his arms rather than be alone with your fears.

The scrape of flint is loud enough in the silence to make you jump. Sparks illuminate the troll, kneeling at your side, and as he coaxes the tinder to unfurl into flame you hastily wrap a fur around your bare flesh. Whatever mood made you so bold before has been banished by your nightmares.

“Is it morning?”

The troll shrugs. “Near enough.”

“Shall I–shall I make breakfast for you?” Your fingers knead anxiously in the soft nap of the pelt that you clutch closed over your chest. “What do you like for breakfast?”

The troll–Brúsi–glances at you, his head tilted in the way that is already familiar. You think it means he’s just as bewildered by your contract, and by you, as you are yourself.

“Dried goat,” he says. “Morning meal, evening meal. Unless there is a new goat.”

“Oh. Where do the goats come from?”

He shrugs. “The bridge provides.”

Well. You take a deep breath, pushing the fear and panic of the last day, of the dark dreams, down into a tight ball at the bottom of your stomach, where you can ignore it for a little while. “Does the bridge ever provide eggs?”

And so you begin your month as housekeeper to a troll. 

Your clothes are badly stained, and chilly from being spread out on the stone floor, but they're dry and you dress in them anyway, trying to ignore the scrutiny of Brúsi’s dark blue eyes as he watches you. He seems fascinated by the layers as you lace your stays over your shift, tie the strings of your petticoat, and your cheeks burn with a blush as you finally button your gown. You do your best with the tangles in your hair--letting it hide your face until your heart stops thumping in your ears before you twist it into a hasty braid. 

There are no eggs. But you take a lantern the troll indicates and follow him into another cave that serves as a store room.

“There is goat,” he says, pointing at the considerable supply of dried meat, “and other goods, if tha wish them.” His gesture at the heaps of bags, crates, jars, casks, boxes–all jumbled together and shoved to one side–is dismissive, as if there is nothing of value to be found. You stare wide-eyed at a bolt of fine silk, at the glint of gold from a carelessly overturned casket with a broken lid.

“What is all this?”

“Payment for the toll, for when there were no goats.”

“You don’t do anything with the things paid for the toll? They just sit and rot?”

He shrugs. “I butcher the goats.”

You can only shake your head, but the practicality can’t be denied–gold and silk isn’t much use in a cave, and it’s with less wonder but more delight that you find flour, oil, and salt.

Breakfast is fried bread--and goat meat.

Once the meal is prepared and cleaned away, the troll vanishes up the dark tunnel. He takes no lantern with him. He also doesn't say a word to you before he leaves, and you stand in the cave for a while, expecting him to come back with instructions, or–well, something. But he doesn’t, and  you can only twist your hands in the skirt of your gown for so long. Eventually you pick up the lantern and explore. 

There is little enough to see. Other than what you noticed when you arrived, there is an alcove that must be where the troll sleeps, on piled furs that smell musky but not unpleasant. There is the storage cave, although it seems larger than it did at first, because you realize that you can’t see the far wall before the circle of light gives way to darkness.

And then there is the tunnel entrance, where your new employer disappeared, and which presumably leads out, to--your stomach lurches at the memory of being upside down from the sky–the underside of the bridge. But perhaps that had been an illusion, and the tunnel merely led out to an opening in the bank underneath the bridge? You had been half out of your mind with fear, after all. Maybe you dreamed that part.

Maybe…maybe you could simply walk out of this tunnel, out of the dark, and walk all the way home.

Except that you agreed to a contract. And the troll did say he wouldn’t eat you, wouldn’t even touch you, which was more than any of the men at the big house ever promised...none of them had touched you, but you knew that was because you had been careful, so careful, all the time, to be invisible. 

It had helped that Mattie made it easy to fade into the background. She flaunted her pretty curls and winsome dimples, and when she sometimes crept into your shared attic room well after midnight she always had a new length of fine fabric for a dress or a necklace of amber beads to show for it. You asked once if she wasn’t afraid of falling pregnant, but she just shrugged.

“I know to be careful,” she said, and hid the coins she’d gotten for selling her latest bauble away beneath her bed.

Thinking of Mattie makes your eyes sting with tears, and reminds you that probably there was no home to walk back to–and if you tried, there would likely be nothing to be done there except burying the dead. You leave the tunnel entrance alone, and busy yourself with organizing the heaped goods in the storage cave.

When Brúsi returns, he brings you eggs, freshly laid and nested in a straw packed basket. 

“They had no goat." He shrugs. 

Other than struggling to invent new ways of preparing goat meat, most of your time is spent sorting. You find all manner of things in the storage cave, from precious jewels to plain linen fabric. The gems and gold you store in caskets, and then can’t shift on your own–Brúsi laughs at you, and picks them up with one hand, arranging them neatly along one wall as you direct him. You stack bolts of fabric, folding shorter lengths neatly into a another chest, you line up swords with gold wrapped hilts, swords with elaborately carved scabbards, swords that are short, swords that are nearly as long as you are tall, and then there are maces and axes and other things you can’t name. There’s even a pair of pistols in a tooled leather box, their handles gleaming mother of pearl. It’s more treasure than you ever imagined, and you feel that you’re in a dragon’s den instead of a troll’s cave--except that Brúsi shows little interest in the goods, except for the goat meat.

“If you don't have a use for these things, why accept them?” you asked, after the third day of sorting boxes and bundles and barrels, and still not finding the back wall of the cave. You’d found a crown, heavy and lumpy, like something out of an ancient grave, and under it a belt of bronze scales that linked together.

The troll just shrugged. “They are the toll, for the bridge. There must be a toll.”

“Then…" you bite your lip, but blurt "can I use some things?”

“If tha hast a use for them, then mayhap the bridge meant them for tha to use.”

“You make it sound like the bridge is alive,” you murmur, running your fingers over the bolts of fabric, already imagining yourself in a dress made of such soft material.

“The bridge is the bridge,” Brúsi says.

“What does that mean?”

He just shrugs.

You sigh, picking up a bolt of wool–practical, and still finer than anything you’ve ever worn. “If the bridge provides, can I give it a list? I need thread, needles, scissors, buttons…I can’t keep wearing this dress,” you gesture down at yourself. “Not without something else to wear while I wash it, at least, but I can’t make anything without supplies. And for that matter I need soap–”

Brúsi tilts his head. “Tha may always ask the bridge, but it works slowly. Simpler for tha to go to a market.”

You stare at him, your mouth falling open. “I can? I mean, is that allowed? I thought…”

He stares at you, the intense blue of his eyes unblinking, and you finally shrug. “I just thought I couldn’t leave the cave.”

“Not for long, but art not bound to the bridge as I am. Come.” He scoops a handful of coins into a pouch and leads you into the tunnel.

The ground slopes upward under your feet, and after a time there is a door before you, swinging outward. Brúsi ducks under its arch, his broad form filling the opening. When he doesn't move to let you through, you realize that he's blocking the way deliberately. Unease spikes through you.

"Is something wrong?"

"The bridge made tha sick before," he says. “Tha shouldst close thine eyes.” You squint suspiciously up at him–is he laughing at you?–but obey. You hear the rattle of his bone-decorated belt as he steps toward you, but then he stops. “I must touch tha,” he says. “Just to lift tha over the topside.”

“All right,” you whisper. You stifle a gasp as his enormous hands circle your waist, lifting you easily off of your feet, and then after a blur of motion you feel stone under you again.

When you open your eyes, you’re on the narrow stone arch of the bridge.  Your lantern flame becomes suddenly pale compared to the warm sunlight that makes you blink and squint. There is no dark and shadowed forest hemming in the river. Instead there is a road, smooth hard dirt fringed with wildflowers on either side, and the rooftops of a village in the distance.

“Where…” You look down at the bridge under your bare feet. 

“The bridge is all bridges,” Brúsi says. He holds out the leather bag of coins, and you take it, staggering a bit at the weight. “Buy whatever tha need.”

You hesitate, glancing from the troll to the road. What is there to stop you from walking away and never returning, from making a life somewhere? The bag in your hand holds more money than you had ever expected to earn in your life. There would be nothing to hold you to the bridge…except your promise.

“Tha canst not escape the bridge.” Brúsi seems to be reading your thoughts, although he’s not even looking at you. He’s gazing down at the water. “Every bridge tha sets foot on will be this bridge, until the toll is paid.”

“Of course.” The bag of coins drags at your arms, and you fumble it open, taking out a handful. “I should be able to get everything I need with these–it would be dangerous to carry all the rest of this.”

The troll frowns, glancing from you to the distant rooftops. “Danger from other humans?”

“Only if I seem to have more money than I should,” you assure him hastily. “It would get attention from the wrong kind of humans. I'll be careful.”

 The coins bite into your palm as your fingers clench unconsciously. The frown creases his forehead, not smoothed away by your reassurances, and you half expect him to shake his head and pick you up under his arm again, ready to toss you back under the bridge. 

“Please?”

 You bite your lip too late to keep the word in, but there are lazy curls of smoke rising from the distant chimneys, and you can hear the lowing of cattle nearby, the friendly chime of chapel bells...and all you can think about is cheese. Cheese, and fruit to pair it with, or potatos, perhaps. Honeycakes. Your stomach rebels at the very thought of dried goat.

Brúsi jerks his chin toward the road. “Go, then. The bridge will be waiting for tha to return.”

You hand off the sack of coins–your shoulders more than grateful to be relieved of its weight–and the troll adds it to the other oddments that dangle from his belt among the bones. He folds his arms.

The handful of coins you kept are barely enough to make your pocket sag with their weight, but you can feel them as a reassuring lump under your skirts. You run anxious hands over your hair and stained gown, smoothing uselessly at wrinkles. 

“I wish I had been able to bathe properly,” you mutter. “I look like a ragamuffin.”

But your hands and face are clean, your hair neatly tied back, and dusk is not far off, so perhaps your bare feet will not be noticed. You step from the cool stone of the bridge to the warm hardpacked dirt of the road. 

"I'll be back s--" Your voice breaks off as you glance over your shoulder. The bridge behind you is a simple one of wooden logs, straddling a stream that a child could leap across. Gooseflesh prickles the back of your neck. You hurry down the road towards the village without looking back a second time.

[toonblabbers]

Getting high with the bois

 Warnings: recreational drug use, sex under the influence, heavy foreplay, deep throating, oral sex (both receiving), creampie, overstimulation, orgasm denial, dirty talk

Pairings: Suna x Osamu X GN! Reader, Kuroo x Bokuto x GN! Reader

Rating: M (mature)

Suna and Osamu:

·         These 2 smoke together almost every night. It helps them sleep after a stressful day

·         Suna’s the man with the goods and hookups: pens, oils, pipes, blunts, bongs, edibles, you name it

·         There’s an ungodly amount of sexual tension when he rolling or offering to shotgun for you or Osamu

·         Can’t really tell when he’s faded unless you make him move from where he’s sitting or when you get him to laugh. He’ll get this dopey grin on his face and struggles to stop giggling

·         Please be aware of where Suna because he can and will lay down in the most inconvenient places. He doesn’t learn even after you tripped over him going to the bathroom when he was laying down in the middle of the hallway

·         Osamu is obviously in charge of the snacks when the munchies hit. His homemade edibles are better than any store bought one, hands down

·         Osamu is also very touchy when he’s high. Touchy like it’s a requirement for someone to be sitting in his lap or for someone to be running their fingers through his hair

·         His sex drives also goes through the roof so be prepared for him to randomly start grinding against you or the couch

·         Typically you’ll just end up sleeping in a pile either in the living room with a bunch of pillows and blankets or whoever’s bed you made it to

All you could do was whine helplessly as large hands pet over your heated body; your mouth occupied by Suna trying to get every last taste of the chocolate edible you just ate. Osamu busied himself with covering your neck with kitten licks and nibbles while pawing at your sex. It was just enough to drive you mad, but you couldn’t voice your frustrations. Right when you thought he would pull away to give you a breather, suddenly Osamu was there taking his place moaning into the sloppy make out. His tongue meshed against yours lazily before he pulled back to bite on your bottom lip, diving back to repeat the process.

“You’re so sweet” Suna chuckled into your ear, the sound of him licking his fingers adding to your arousal. You failed to notice when his hand had replaced Osamu’s down the front of your underwear. You moaned desperately against Osamu’s tongue as your hips bucked into Suna’s teasing touch. Suna Guided Osamu’s hands to play with your nipples while he moves down your body, pulling your underwear off as he goes. He nips at your calf slowly towards your inner thigh before switching to the other leg, giving it the same slow treatment. You finally snap when Osamu pinches your nipples at the same time Suna sucks at the sensitive skin where your thigh and hip meet.

“Please, please, please! Rin, ‘Samu I need you- need you both! Please just fuck me already, I need you both to fuck me!”

They smirk at each other after hearing your sweet pleading. Who were they to deny you any longer? They maneuvered you so you were on your knees with you face rubbing up against Osamu’s hard cock through his sweats. Suna sat himself comfortable behind you and began to devour you relentless; fucking you open with his tongue and fingers. Osamu takes advantage of your mouth hanging open to slide his weeping cock in, letting out a deep moan at the feeling of your mouth wrapping around him. He lazily thrusts his hips until you lips touch the light dusting of his hair; his cock throbbing each time it slide down your throat. They took their sweet time with you, but boy did they deliver once they had their fill of your delicious body.

Kuroo and Bokuto

·         Arguably the hottest duo to get high with. Sex is also a guarantee so bring something sexy to wear. Or don’t; the clothes don’t stay on that long anyway

·         They usually reserve smoking to special weekends when everyone has a few days off together, so their tolerance isn’t as high as the last duo

·         That being said, it doesn’t take much for them to get high quickly

·         If you thought Kuroo looked like a lazy, scheming cat before, he definitely becomes one when he’s high. Once he lays down, it’s hard to get him back up. He does it on purpose because he loves to annoy you

·         Kuroo becomes stupid good at video games. Any kind too which pisses Kenma off to high (lol) heavens. His concentration increases tenfold because his brain reduces the amount of things he focuses on

·         Needs to be touching something warm. Says his hands are cold even though he’s only lounging in some low hanging sweatpants. You know, the kind that do little justice to hide his dick print

·         He uses the lame excuse that his hands are cold just to have them on someone’s tits, ass or genitals. He honestly not doing anything but resting his hands on you or Bokuto but it’s enough to start a rise in you both

·         Speaking of Bokuto, please keep him in the house. He’s already a naturally warm person but when he’s high he just can’t keep his clothes on for the life of him. You and Kuroo have gotten use to his whole ass dick out

·         Bokuto is also the opposite of Kuroo: he is almost always moving. Swaying with the music, doing a little dance in the kitchen while he’s raiding anywhere that has food, bouncing his leg when he’s sitting down.

·         The only time he’s not moving is when he is literally koala’d around someone. If Bokuto has you in his arms he is not letting go unless something else captures his attention.

Kuroo’s hyper focus is both a blessing and a curse sometimes. Right now it was a curse as his long cock was practically piercing into your sweet spot over and over again. You tried to muffle your cries into the pillow you were holding onto, but it was a futile attempt. Kuroo knew how good he was pounding into you by the way your mouth hung open and tears streamed down your cheeks. A sharp slap to your already reddened ass cheek forced a sharp squeal out of you making Bokuto groaned. He was sitting on the floor in front of the couch with his fist tightly around his cock. He had to wait his turn after smoking the last pre roll without sharing. Both he and his cock were drooling at the sight of you being overstimulated by Kuroo. Bokuto wanted to cum so badly but wanted to do so with you clenching around him. Just the thought was enough to pull another strained groan out of him.

“Aww look at how desperate you look Kou. Go on kitten, look at how badly he wants to be fucking this hot, tight body of yours”

Kuroo grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your body flush with his as his hips slow down just a tad bit. Through your haze you can see Bokuto’s body: sweating and shaking with need, his thick cock an angry red and covered in a thin layer of his own precum. His muscles pulled tight as he watched Kuroo drag another orgasm out of you; your voice cracking as you screamed, body shuddering as your thighs were coated with both you and Kuroo’s cum. Kuroo was no better with his head thrown back, moaning out your name loudly as he pumped more cum into your weeping hole with each shallow thrust. As your body flopped back down on the couch below, Kuroo sat back as he watched his cum drip out of you and onto the cushions. He was suddenly yanked back and Bokuto was on you in an instant, rutting his hips against yours like an animal in heat. His entire body engulfed your as he whined in your ear. You only managed to whimper his name before your felt his cock stretch you out. Even after being fucked open by Kuroo, Bokuto was still bigger than him; it’s always going to be a tight fit. With the way Bokuto was already slamming home, you knew you wouldn’t be moving properly for a few days.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Admin notes: Still new at posting smut so feel free to let me know if I missed anything in the warnings. If you have any other Haikyuu duos you’d think would be fun to get high with, let me know!

Taglist: @chaotickatts​ (send me a dm if you want to be added)

[pedros-mustache]

convenience

summary: he was within arm’s reach. that’s all.

warnings: suggestions of harassment, alcohol consumption, language, innuendo

a/n: no thoughts, frankie morales and his broad shoulders only. poorly edited so forgive any mistakes you find. i’ll go back and fix soon.

you rarely come to the bar alone. tonight is an anomaly.

grabbing drinks after a long work week is more enjoyable with friends by your side, and you frequent this particular watering hole what feels like every friday but can’t be more than twice a month. life is busy for you and what friends remain from your college days. babies and partners and jobs—it keeps everyone running to and fro like chickens with their heads cut off. (for you, of course, it’s just the job that’s got you strung out. no husband, no babies. that shouldn’t matter, but sometimes it does.) still, despite hectic schedules, there’s a standing date a few times a month: friday, eight o’clock, the booth with the cracked-plastic seat coverings in the far right corner.

you like the noisy atmosphere of this place, and it’s easy to lose a few hours while gossiping over cheap margaritas, a whitney houston song thumping over the tinny loudspeakers. the air smells like cigarette smoke—that’s your only qualm—but the drinks are cheap, the food is passable, and it’s a chance to let loose and really enjoy yourself after a five days of business boredom. 

of course, that’s what “the hot bird” is like most of the time. today is different. today is tuesday, it’s six-thirty, and you really shouldn’t be here alone.

you twirl the thin plastic straw around your drink and risk a glance over your shoulder. there’s a guy in your regular booth—red-faced with alcohol, tie loosened, dress shirt two sizes too big. you know he’s staring at you because you can feel his eyes on your back, your hips, your ass; he’s anything but discreet. his stare hurts like a healing sunburn: itchy, uncomfortable, hard to ignore. even from across the bar, his focus is unyielding, and you doubt he’s one to be easily dissuaded, not with the rabble-rousing friends at his booth, jostling drinks and shoulders alike. you imagine he’s biding his time, waiting for you to feel comfortable so he can strike. which is exactly what you need after being passed up for promotion (again): a drunk asshole bent on making your shitty day worse just for the hell of it.

the bartender—josh—says your name and sets a cocktail down on the counter in front of you. “here,” he says. he jerks his chin forward, indicating the back of the room. “it’s from the guy in the back.”

“oh god.” you resist the urge to look over your shoulder again. the muscles in your neck twitch, scream at you to turn and appraise the self-satisfied smirk on this guy’s face, but you hold still. you are nothing if not resolute in your determination to mind your on business, wallow in self pity, and get home without much of a fuss. “what the fuck is this thing?”

josh cringes. “it’s a b-52, our least popular drink.”

“it looks like spilled motor oil and congealed grease had a baby.”

to your right, in the barstool two over from yours, there’s a snort of amusement. your eyes snap to the side, but don’t register the other patron before josh is tapping your wrist. you hold your breath, stomach clenching at the conciliatory look on his face.

“don’t look now. i think he’s coming over.”

“of course he is,” you mutter, dropping your forehead to your palm. fuck, you really do not want to cry right now, but tears prick the corners of your eyes anyway. traitorous bastards. it’s been a long day, and you aren’t sure you have the mental fortitude to tactfully tell some guy to piss off without causing a scene or bursting into a blubbering mess.

“i can tell him—”

a smooth, unflustered voice cuts josh off mid-sentence. “no, let me.” 

a half-filled pint of beer and a plastic basket of fries slide across the counter, and then a man, shoulders broad and trucker cap pulled low, drops to the stool beside you. you gape at him, jaw hanging. the guy from two stools over—eavesdropper.

“unless,” he continues. “you want to tell him to fuck off yourself. i’m sure you can—you look like a capable woman—but i know men and sometimes...” he trails off, but you catch his drift well enough. you know men too, and the men who frequent this bar are often of the seedier variety.

except maybe not this guy... he seems nice enough, willing to lend a hand, and after the day you’ve had, you’ll take any help you can get. plus he’s easy on the eye, and it’s been awhile since anyone with such a handsome face paid you any mind.

you twist slightly in your stool, turning your body to face him. you open your mouth to offer your name, but he beats you to it, sliding his hand over the low, curved back of your stool. his presence—so masculine yet so gentle—crowds you, and you fight the urge to suck in a sharp breath. mouth hovering over your ear, he lowers his voice, and his opposite hand, long fingers splayed outwards, settles on the counter. you’re boxed in, an arm on either side of your body, but, strangely, it feels... good, safe even.

“i’m frankie,” he says. “just follow my lead, and we’ll both be out of your hair in no time.”

you turn your face to meet frankie’s eyes. he’s so near you can feel his breath on your cheeks, could kiss his plush lips if you dared. his smile, small but encouraging, eases the clench in your stomach. your gaze drifts from his warm, brown eyes to the thumb-sized spot on his chin absent the fine layer of scruff otherwise covering his jaw. god, he’s handsome.

“uh—excuse me? i couldn’t help but notice you ignored the drink i sent over.” the man from the back of the room leans against the counter, his gaze tight on your face, elbows poised casually on the bar. his voice belies none of the uncertainty he should probably feel when confronted with your obvious disinterest and frankie’s breadth. “picked my favorite for a sweet thing like you.”

gritting your teeth, you turn your head. “thanks, but i don’t think—” your resolve wavers when the man’s fat lips spread into a grin. shit, he likes this doesn’t he—how uncomfortable you are? he reminds you of richard, the guy who got the promotion you deserve: smarmy and entirely too good at weaseling. your stomach sours.

“you can’t turn me down until you at least take a sip of the thing.” reaching over his chest, the man picks up the cocktail. the three distinct layers jostle in the small shot glass.

perhaps he sees the fine sheen of tears that rush to your eyes or perhaps it’s just to make a point, but frankie’s hand drops to your thigh. the warmth of his palm filters through the mesh of your tights. without thinking, you twine your fingers through his and squeeze. 

“she said no, man.” 

for the first time, your would-be-suitor’s stare slides to focus on frankie. he arches a thin eyebrow. there’s no mistaking the way his chest inflates as frankie straightens his spine. “yeah? and who are you?”

frankie speaks without hesitation. “her boyfriend.” 

the man huffs, incredulous. “well, you didn’t claim her before now so i’m just taking my shot. free pick, ya know? first come first serve.”

frankie slides from the stool to standing. he’s near the same height as the other man, but there’s something about the clench in his jaw and the way his fingers tighten around yours and the way he moves to grip your shoulder than has you leaning into him despite the anger rolling off him in sharp waves. your shoulder pushes against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, and you hold your breath.

“say that again and i’ll crack your skull open on the counter.”

the man blinks, stunned, then laughs. it’s a harsh, nervous bark. his eyes flit to the back of the room then return to frankie. “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. what are you? some macho man?” 

“no—retired special forces. i can and i will make your life a living hell if you don’t crawl back into the hole you came from. leave my lady alone.”

“shit.” the man shakes his head before tossing the rejected cocktail down his throat with a cringe. “ain’t fucking worth it anyway.” he slams the glass down on the counter and, heeding frankie’s advice, returns to sulk in the back booth, tail tucked between his legs.

frankie waits until the asshole is sat snug in his booth before returning to his stool. he pops a now-cold fry in his mouth then tags a long swig of his beer. you watch him and decide you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in your entire life. 

“thank you,” you breathe. “i—fuck, i didn’t realize you’d be so... intimidating.” 

frankie shrugs, eats another fry. he avoids your eye. “hate to see you treated like that. least i can do.” 

you hum in approval, tracing the curve of his nose with your gaze. “i got passed up for a promotion today,” you offer. “put me in a real tailspin. i don’t normally go out in the middle of the week.”

fry dangling between his pointer finger and thumb, frankie finally returns his eyes to yours. “i’m sorry to hear that. if it makes you feel any better, i got stood up. i don’t normally go out in the middle of the week either.”

“guess we’re just a couple of losers then.” when frankie’s eyebrow lifts, you visibly cringe. you grab his forearm and squeeze your eyes shut. “no, wait—that’s not what i meant. i meant that... in the grand scheme of things, we aren’t... i mean...” squinting, you risk a peek at him. “shit, i’m sorry.”

after a moment, frankie smiles—and your heart leaps to your throat. he motions to josh at the other end of the bar. “what drink do you like?” he asks. “we can make it a real date, if you want? you know, to keep up appearances.” 

“a real date?”

he nods. “yeah. i’m not big on fate and shit like that, but... well, maybe i’m big on fate tonight.” his eyes roam your face, and you wonder if he’s drinking you in, memorizing your features. unlike before, his stare is kind, appreciative, reverent. your cheeks heat under his gaze, but you don’t look away.

the corner of your mouth pulls into a grin. “okay.” you smile at josh when he appears. “i like mojitos.” 

“really?” at your nod, frankie’s smile widens. “me too.” 

you reach for a fry in his basket. “must be fate then,” you say with a shrug.

“yeah.” his hand falls to your thigh again, squeezing the flesh around your knee. you look from his hand to his face, and anything you once thought shitty about the day turns rosy with possibility. “must be fate.”

.

.

.

taglist:

@ezramando @frannyzooey @spvce-cowboy @writings-of-a-hufflepuff @sofsoftheloaf @salome-c @aphr0d1te5 @anu-simps @softermina @spideysimpossiblegirl @mummifymecaptain @sleep-tight1 @thewayofthemandalorian @greeneyedblondie44 @darthpapi @salome-c @just-another-fangirl-22 @stevie75

if your handle is crossed out, tumblr would not let me tag your blog.

[angry-geese]

Blood Ties - Chapter Twenty Eight: Retrieval

soulmate au Choso x reader

Warnings: light angst, swearing. overall sfw

Synopsis: its about time something goes right for everyone in this, however short-lived that may be lol

a/n: i ended up axing a scene from the very end of this chapter so its not nearly as long as i first thought. chapter twenty nine shouldn't take me so long to get out

Word count: 4.6k

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masterlist

It's still dark outside, but the alarm clock on your side table reads 5am. You couldn't have been asleep for more than a few hours; yet it seems to be the most sleep you’ve gotten as of late. You’re finding it increasingly more difficult to stay asleep through a whole night. More often than not, it's a nightmare that wakes you up, and what typically keeps you from going back to bed. Though you know logically that it's unlikely something should attack you here in the dorms, your body doesn't seem to know that. Jujutsu Tech—in theory—is one of the few places you should be safe, but some little part of your lizard brain refuses to accept that.

Today, what wakes you up is neither a nightmare, nor your alarm; it's your brother. "Get up," he says, kicking the foot of your bed, and subsequently shaking you awake.

It's a rather rude awakening at that. You sit up with a grunt, shoving your body up off your mattress, shaking off the remnants of a dream. The blankets have been kicked off towards the foot of the bed, half falling onto the floor. Your shirt sticks to your body with cold sweat. A shower would be nice right about now.

Blindly you feel around for your glasses, nearly knocking over a glass of water on your bedside table in the process. Once they’re located, they’re shoved up on the bridge of your nose.

“Do we gotta do this now?” You ask. “Can I at least brush my teeth?”

“No,” he says, “we don't have time. Go get dressed.”

On a normal day, it doesn't take you all that long to get ready, but with your brother hovering over you as you go about your morning, you spend at least twice as much time as usual. James, of course, has enough time to smoke. But supposedly taking two minutes to brush your teeth is too much time.

Getting dressed is a hard enough task in itself when you’re half asleep, and your joints are refusing to work. There's no reason why you should be this sore, but you are, much to your complaint. Maybe you’re finally feeling your age. You figured you’d have a few more years before this started setting in, but with the way your luck has been going lately…

Once you’re dressed, your sword is wrapped, and stuck firmly in its sheath against your side. You’ll need something to carry them. Are they glass? Should you bring something to wrap them in? Or are they just loose, dry…

Part of you hopes it's the former. You don't know how you’re going to deal with them if they're… loose.

The stench of cigarettes does little to help your foul mood. Neither does the lack of coffee, or breakfast. You figure the day is doomed before it even starts. The sun hasn't even risen and you're already irritable.

From there it's a short walk to the stairwell, which is dimly lit, and has a musty smell to it. The door sticks, and the hinges need to be oiled. They squeak harshly as the door is wrenched open. Judging by the thin layer of dust, you’d say it's been a while since someone was last down here. The last people down here were likely you, and the others.

It couldn't have been that long, could it? It doesn't seem like enough time has passed for there to be this much dust.

The lower levels of the school resemble a maze of sorts. You're certain you’ve rounded this corridor twice already. For lighting, the hall has some wall sconces scattered about, which emit a soft orange color. Far warmer than the fluorescents in the classrooms, and much less harsh on the eyes. That musty smell remains, but it can't be helped with being as humid as it is—not to mention the lack of circulation; fans, or windows to open.

The string of fate isn't a very good guide, but where Choso is, his brothers aren't far. It's the closest thing you have to any sort of lead. You’ve done more with less, so you figure you can make it work.

Eventually you hit what looks to be a dead end: a hallway that ends in a wooden door. The lights are out in this corridor, and there's no visible switch. This hallway holds some sense of familiarity to it. Not that it's discernable from any of the previous hallways you’ve been in, but you get a sense of deja-vu. Can you even call it deja-vu if you've been here before?

The red string leads along the ground, before disappearing under the door. No light is visible through the cracks, and when you press your ear up against it, nothing can be heard on the other side. You're lucky enough to find it unlocked.

The door opens to a forest. Despite the sky being pitch black, with not a star in sight, it's bright enough to see. Lining the path up ahead, are scraggly, barren trees. Footprints are visible in the dirt, with no rain or wind to sweep them away. That's the strangest part about this place; the lack of weather. You would think there would be something—anything—but there isn't. It makes this place feel like some strange dreamland.

You’ve definitely been here before.

More out of a sense of paranoia, than any sense of danger, you draw your sword. Not many things are going to be able to sneak up on you in an open place like this, but it's better to be safe, than sorry.

It's only a matter of following along the path until you come across the warehouse. Luckily it's not too hard to retrace your footsteps. As strange as the lack of weather is, it has small advantages like this.

Smaller paths branch off the main one. You suspect they lead to more storage buildings, but there's really no way of knowing unless you check. Since you have no intention of getting lost in here, you’ll stick to the main path.

“So why the name Grimsever? Or Dawnbreaker?” You ask. Small talk feels more manageable than silence.

James says a quiet “huh?” before answering with: “Well, Dawnbreaker’s the weapon you get at the end of the Meridia's Beacon quest, and Grimsever is the sword you’re supposed to retrieve for that one lady in Riften from some Dwemer ruins. Really, I just thought they sounded nice. And any weapon should have a name, especially if you’re using it so much.”

You’re silent for a moment, before saying: “you named my sword after…” Skyrim?!

“Yeah?” he says with a shrug. “It needed a name.”

“So you picked Skyrim? Of all things?!" you ask. “How many paint chips did you eat as a child?”

Silently, he slips out of the corner of your vision. You don't notice he’s stopped walking until you’re a few yards ahead of him. When you do pause and turn to look back at him, he’s staring at the ground.

"What's it like?" He asks. "Meeting your soulmate for the first time, I mean."

This is something you have to think about. There's a lot of things that are better off not being said, for the sole fact that words rarely do anyone justice. Putting things poetically was never a skill of yours. Bluntness was always your friend, until you needed to give something other than a straight answer, and it ended up being more of a curse.

Sometimes you wish you had the talent of flowery language, but such a trait is ill-fitting on you.

"It's like… seeing in color for the first time, after only seeing the world in black and white." You say.

He blinks. Part of you expects him to ridicule you for it. For saying something so sappy. But he doesn't. His head tilts to the side, like it's taking him a moment to process your words.

You try to imagine this any other way—to imagine meeting Choso normally. Would you have run into him out in public? Or would he have been a student in the same class as you? Would the two of you pass notes like two teenagers passing messages in class? Who would make the first move? You or him? Where would you go on your first date?

You two haven't even gone out on a date yet! That's something you've got to fix.

“You get this look in your eyes, when you think about him,” he says, “I can always tell when you are.”

"Yeah? What's that look like?"

"It's like you're off somewhere in your head." He says. "And when you come back, you almost look sad. Like you're disappointed with reality." You watch as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. "I don't think I'll ever understand loving another human being in such a way," he says with a laugh, "but… I got a cat,

"I've never been a cat person, you know? And I certainly didn't like this one at first. It wasn't even my idea, a friend of mine convinced me to do it,

"So I got a cat. I paid 20 bucks for him ‘cause I bought him off a friend. He's all black, save for a patch of white on his chest. Named him Crusty. And boy did he live up to his name. Pissed all over my apartment the first night I brought him home, threw up in my good work shoes, would bring in dead birds through the window and leave them on the table,

"I considered giving him back, and telling my friend he was too much work,

"I don't know what changed. Maybe I just gave in and got used to it. We settled into this routine; he and I. When I'd get home from work, and get on my computer, he'd worm his way into my lap and sit there. Maybe he'd knead my thighs with his sharp ass claws. Usually he'd just fall asleep,

“And listen," James says, "I may not get love the same way you do, but I'd kill for that damn cat."

You've seen pictures. Crusty, as he's so aptly named, is a fat tuxedo cat. His cheeks are quite round, and even when his mouth is closed, two of his teeth stick out. He can't be much more than two or three years old. You've been sent pictures, and countless 3am texts where your brother was ranting about having to clean up another mess.

And there’s really no good way to put it; love is simply different for each person cursed with it. To you, it almost feels cheap to put it that way. Saying things like that always felt like a copout. It feels like it's along the lines of a parent telling a child “because I said so” solely because they’re the parent.

But there is no greater purpose to all this. That's the point of religion. Of cults. Of devoting yourself to a person or idea or thing. To give yourself the illusion that there is some greater power at hand.

And Choso is the only being that deserves love in such a way. If you are to devote yourself to one thing, it will be him.

Up ahead you spot a building. It's unassuming in nature. The outside of it is grey, and the roof on it resembles the roof of the school. The name of it is lost to you, but the tiles end in a curve, slanting upwards.

“This is the warehouse.” You say.

“Doesn't look like anyone’s been through here,” says James, “nice.”

“Don't even think about it.” You say. “We’re just here for Choso’s brothers. I don't think the higher ups will take kindly to us stealing any more.”

James lets out a forced sounding laugh. “All those old decrepit bastards turned tail and ran anyway, what are they gonna care about some missing weapons?”

“Weapons?” You ask. “Is that all you’re here for?”

“So to speak…” He says. “Swords are breakable. They're tools, they’re meant to be broken. Why don't you get a replacement for that hunk of junk?”

“Hey!” You say, jabbing the handle of Grimsever in his direction. “Nobody insults my piece of shit sword but me!”

He rolls his eyes, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

The two of you circle the building, once, then twice. There's only one entrance; the garage door. Time has made the lock rusty, and brittle. Judging by how old the lock is, you doubt it's connected to any alarms inside—if there are any at all. That's not to say there aren't various traps inside that need to be disarmed, but that's James’ problem now, not yours.

“Doesn't security seem a little light to you?” You ask.

He shrugs. “There's probably more inside. Mahito managed to slip in and out without being detected for a while—I think we’ll be alright.”

“You say that, but I have a bad feeling about this.” Using the handle of Grimsever, and a little bit of force, the lock busts off, clattering to the ground.

James fishes something out of his pocket, holding it out at arm's length. A piece of paper from the looks of it. It's soaked in what looks like dried blood. Tearing off a corner of it, he pops it into his mouth.

You gag audibly.

The change isn't instantaneous. The smell of cursed energy burns your nostrils. His is a bit more tolerable than say the energy a cursed spirit gives off, but not by much. Cursed energy is cursed energy, it's never pleasant. It makes you wonder if your relation to him is what makes it bearable, or if such a thing is random.

It's like looking at a mirage. At first glance he appears to be Megumi; albeit he's a bit too tall, and too broad In the shoulders to be the student. Once you look closer, the mirage falters. He is both Megumi and not-Megumi at the same time. The only part of him that remains unchanged is his eyes. That's the worst part about his whole… thing. The eyes. They look to be photoshopped onto his face.

"How's it look?" He asks, spitting the chewed up piece of paper onto the ground.

“You look like a serial killer wearing their victim’s skin.” You say.

"I'll take that to mean it worked."

“How long is this-” you motion to him vaguely, “gonna last?”

“Not a clue,” he says, “that's why I kept part of the paper.”

James opens his mouth as if he has more to say. He closes it quickly. And then nods, mumbling something about time.

“Well… good luck?” You say.

There's an audible schlop as he steps through the door. Must be some kind of barrier. The air in the doorway shimmers like heat off of a highway. Definitely a barrier. As you try to gaze inside, nothing but an empty room is visible on the other side.

Since there's a barrier, then someone—or something—has to be nearby to cast it. In order to produce a stronger barrier, the caster may remain outside—sacrificing protection of themselves in order to get a more potent shelter. This one doesn't seem particularly strong. You circle the building once more, but see nothing out of the ordinary; no totems, binding spells, or whatnot. So whatever is casting it, is probably be inside.

Were someone to stumble upon you right about now, there's no possible way for you to look more suspicious. Not many people head to this place with the intention of having a cigarette, or pick this spot for a nightly stroll. Lying probably isn't going to get you out of this. And thought if the situation were to arise, you could probably come up with a lie on the spot, but you doubt how convincing it’d be.

A glint from something in the dirt catches your eye. It's buried low, and up against the wall. You squat down to scrape some of the dirt away. Such a task is rather easy, the ground here is so dry and loose it blows away like dust.

What you uncover looks to be writing, half buried in the ground, bordering the building’s foundation. It's too inconspicuous to be someone's graffiti. Neither is it here by chance. They’re wards—runes—whatever the hell they’re called. Matters too delicate for you to find yourself dealing with. A binding curse. Or so you assume. Something to remotely seal this building off, and protect it from intruders, but simultaneously allow certain people in. Barrier techniques aren't something you specialize in; that's a topic left up to Ijichi, and other jujutsu managers. You don't know what the hell you’re doing.

It let him in, so his soul manipulation must have worked.

If you were able to take down that barrier in Shibuya by breaking a post, then this shouldn't be too different. Disrupting the writing on the building's foundation may work—if you had something to write with. This isn't an easily erased substance like chalk, it's more like permanent marker. Must be some kind of paint. Your fingers trace across the ridges in the concrete.

You dig the tip of Grimsever into some of the writing. The paint, so old and dry, crumbles right to dust. If you were to just repeat that a few more times…

Completely taking down the barrier would leave this warehouse open to anyone who wants to enter it—whether they’re on your side or not. Depending on it's remaining contents, that could be a bad idea. You seriously doubt anyone is going to go through the trouble of sneaking into the school, solely to rob this warehouse alone. But it's been done in the past, and you don't feel like eating your words.

From inside the building, you hear a crash, and then a loud resounding “fuck!”

You press your ear to the wall, and ask “you alright in there?”

“Yeah.”

“What'd you break?”

He mumbles something that sounds like a “fuck you” but it's hard to tell. The wall that separates you makes it indiscernible. You take that as your cue to stop talking.

The writing seems to follow the building's foundation entirely. Low enough to be partially buried in the dirt, but not so low you have to dig very far for them. Determining their age is impossible, but they must be old.

There's another schlop! noise as James steps back through the barrier.

He slings the bag towards your feet, and it lands right in front of them. Your soul nearly leaps out of your body as you hear glass clinking against glass.

“Don't throw them!”

“What?” He asks. “It's not like they're gonna care.”

“Okay but I don't want gross preservation liquid spilled all over my shit!”

He mumbles something, but the sudden flare of your cursed energy tells him he’s about to lose the hand he’s currently holding up.

Nestled in the bag are a set of vials, each hardly bigger than your thumb; the contents of which seem to vary from vial to vial. They’re all contained in a sort of clear, gelatinous substance. The aforementioned liquid resembles hand sanitizer, if it were to have thickened slightly.

What were their names again? Noranso, Tanso, Sanso… uhhhhh… one starts with a k. This would be a lot easier if these were labeled. How are you supposed to know which one is which?

In one hand you take a vial, holding it at eye level. What you’re not expecting is for the contents inside to turn to look at you. You visibly flinch, nearly dropping it.

You're not sure what you expected them to look like. It certainly wasn't this.

"Don't tell Choso I said this," you say, holding the vial out at arms length, "but these things are kinda creepy."

"I don't think he'll take it personally." James says.

Using your jacket, you wrap the vials up, before unceremoniously shoving them back into your bag. Hopefully your parka will prevent any of them from breaking. At the very least, your bag will prevent them from getting shaken around too aggressively. You don't think they’d notice if you were to shake them like a snowglobe, but tempting fate is never a good idea.

"You've got your pick of weapons," he says, "if you want me to snag you anything. They’ve still got a pretty good arsenal in there."

"I think I'm gonna have to pass on this one," you say, "but thanks, I guess."

You're already in deep enough shit as it is, no need to make things worse. If there even is a Jujutsu society after this…

With your back against the wall, you sit. Not wanting to ruin your nails even more, you chew on the inside of your cheek. This was too easy. You’re not certain if that makes you more anxious, or less.

“What's the matter?” James asks, offering you a cigarette.

You take it, and hold it between your thumb and forefinger. He lights it for you. Though you hold it between your lips, you don't inhale.

“Didn't this seem a little too easy to you?” You ask.

He shrugs. “I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. We did everything right—it's about time something didn't go horribly wrong for us.”

This time you're the one to shrug. Your cigarette is the only thing keeping you from gnawing on the inside of your lip. The bitter taste of cigarette smoke fills your mouth. It's probably stuck in your skin by now, and no amount of scrubbing will take that away. All your clothes smell like it. And it's not a good smell, but the familiarity of it is comforting.

“What do I do now?” You ask.

The look he gives you seems to ask: why are you asking me?

“You said we’d help out with this mess with the culling game, right?” He asks. “Well, let's get back to the dorms first.”

He holds his hand out to you, and you take it, using it's leverage to stand.

"Hey wait," he says, "you never gave me my money."

…

Much to your surprise, the dorms aren't empty. Fushiguro and Itadori are out in the hall, with a grim expression plastered on their faces. If the situation were any different, you'd make a joke and ask who died, but maybe that's not the best idea right now.

Itadori seems to light up upon seeing you, and you greet him with a nod. Fushiguro is much less responsive, but greets you too. There's bags under his eyes. It makes you wonder when he's last slept. Has he been having nightmares like you?

"You're back." You say, and Itadori nods. "How'd it go with those third years?"

“About as well as expected,” says Fushiguro, with no other comment on the matter. You're not sure if that means it went well, or horribly wrong. Either way, you don't get any clarification.

“How’d getting Choso’s brothers go?” Itadori asks.

“Surprisingly not terrible,” you say, reaching for your bag, “wanna see them?”

He nods, but his eagerness quickly turns to horror when you place a vial into his hand. Itadori holds them with equal terror, and care, studying the contents inside. When the… person (thing?? curse???) inside turns to look back at him, he flinches.

"I… don't know what I expected." He says, turning the vial over. Yeah. That was your first thought too. "What'll you do now?"

"I dunno. It kind of depends on what you guys are going to do." You say. "When are you going to enter the barrier?"

"Pretty soon," Fushiguro says. He notices as you take a particular interest in picking at your nails.

“So this is it…” you say.

“It seems that way,” James says. "Want a shot-"

You swing your fist into James' shoulder hard. "You can't give them alcohol! They're fifteen!"

"What?" He asks, holding his hands up in defense. “Tell me—what am I supposed to offer?!”

"They're too young to drink! You're gonna kill all their brain cells."

James looks from you, to Itadori, then back to you.

"You better choose your next words very carefully." You warn.

Your threat is met with a sheepish grin, and a laugh from him. Itadori doesn't necessarily need you to defend his honor. Most of your investment in this comes from spite towards your brother.

"Look, I don't know how much help I'll be when it comes to figuring out the game," you say, "but I'll help where I can."

"Right," James says, "speaking of which,

“When the two of you enter the Tokyo Colony, I want to be with you,” he continues, “I have reason to believe my cursed technique can nullify other's cursed techniques.”

You stand there with your mouth open. Some small part of you imagines your mother telling you to close your mouth, or else you'll catch flies. He turns, as if he's about to walk away, but you seize the sleeve of his hoodie, preventing him from doing such.

“You can't just drop a bomb like that and then dip!” You say. “What the hell do you mean?!”

“Well, nullify may be the wrong word for it. It's more like I can completely extinguish it,

“It's pretty straightforward,” James continues, “through manipulation of the soul, I can possibly isolate and destroy someone's cursed technique—or at the very least prevent them from using it.”

Your gaze shoots to the two students in a silent question. So they heard him too. At least you aren't going crazy…

“So…” Yuji says, “you could help us free Gojo-Sensei?”

“Help is a bit of a strong word,” James says, “but I won't make things harder for you, at the very least. I have no way of knowing if my cursed technique will be of much use. And this is all a guess, I have no way of knowing whether or not this is possible until I attempt it. But I think it's likely…”

The silence that follows is not a comfortable one. You wish for someone to say something. Anything.

If only this fleeting peace were to last a little longer.

That's all you can think as you will time to stop. As you wish for nothing more but ten more minutes. Ten more minutes with these three. You don't even have to do anything, you'd take silence. Just ten minutes…

"You could run," Itadori says.

You have to do a double take. Yuji Itadori suggesting you run? No way. That boy wouldn't back away from a fight if he knew what was good for him.

"Huh?"

"Entering that barrier almost certainly means death," he says, "you know that, right?"

"I'm well aware." You say flatly.

"I mean, it wouldn't be cheap, or easy, but you could catch the next flight out of Japan." He says. “We’ve got things from here.”

As much as you'd like to be the bigger man, and immediately refuse his offer, you don't. You have to think about it. Self preservation overrules almost any other thought you have. Mostly it's the idea of getting out of this. Of leaving with your brother.

But some small part of your lizard brain wants it. To flee. Find some warm, tropical country and settle down, where you can live out the rest of your days fishing. Living a simple, quiet life. Retirement; an idea you've never given much thought. It always seemed too far away; too much of a pipe dream with the way everything else was going.

Would it be too late to run off with Nanami?

"We're in this a little too deep to run, Itadori," you say, "sorry, but you're stuck with me."

This does draw a small smile from him. “You can call me Yuji,” he says, “we're friends, you don't have to keep using my last name. You’re older than me anyway, I should be using yours.”

All you’re left with is a hollow feeling in your chest.

"Fine," you say, smiling weakly, "Yuji it is."

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 30

The idea came about as they were sitting in the semi-dark watching the previous day’s rushes of Snap Shots on the retractable projector. It was the rough stuff before the cuts, several takes of him being jostled by the crowd thronging to see the ticker-tape parade and being thrown against Marceline, falling more in love over her shoulder as he scented her perfume. Nelly laughed more than he expected her to. There were even a couple belly laughs. 

When he turned to her for an explanation, she ran her hand over the top of his head and to the base. “Oh Buster, your face,” she said, combing her fingers through his hair and caressing him. “I don’t know how you make it do that, but it always tells everything.”

Hearing that cheered him up. With the premiere of Steamboat nearing, he’d started to feel nervous about the critics again, which in turn made him nervous about Snap Shots. What if it was another turkey and the writers were right all along with their dictionary-sized script? Encouraged, he told her a little about where he thought the film was heading and she nodded, agreeing with his plot. 

“I ought to go wash my hair or I’ll lose the will,” she said, when there was a lull in the conversation. 

“Aw, forget your hair,” he said. He was having the time of his life showing her the pleasures of the Villa and was reluctant to call it night. 

“Absolutely not. Now it smells like chlorine, anyway.” 

He’d been able to persuade her into the pool before night had fallen. She wouldn’t hear of wearing one of Nate’s bathing suits, and was probably right that they wouldn’t have fit her bosom. Instead, she wore one of his one-piece suits and they splashed for an hour, challenging each other to races and engaging in a little idle necking. They hadn’t redressed afterwards, just donned cotton robes from the bathhouse and walked around the house in bare feet. Caruthers cooked ribs for dinner with asparagus and French-cooked new potatoes on the side, and they’d eaten in the breakfast room. 

“Chlorine-schmorine,” he said.

“I’m serious,” she said, withdrawing her hand. She gave him a playful but firm prod. “C’mon, Mr. Cameraman.”

“Oh, thinking about becoming a Ziegfried Girl?”

It was a joke, but as he took her upstairs to his bedroom it occurred to him that he did have a camera. He’d bought it over the winter, only to realize he had nothing to shoot. Natalie didn’t like the daredevil poses he put the boys in, calling them ‘dangerous,’ and he wasn’t about to aim the camera at her dour face after she lectured him. So he put it in a corner of one of his closets and forgot about it. A hitch of excitement went through his stomach as he entered the bathroom with Nelly. She would get into the water and she would be naked. 

“May I?” said Nelly, gesturing to the clawfoot tub. 

He nodded, throat going a little dry.

She sat on the edge and turned on the taps, keeping her fingers under the stream of water until it was to her liking, then plugging the drain. 

“I’m not going to get a lick of privacy, am I?” she said, lifting an eyebrow. 

He shook his head. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.” 

She rolled her eyes and half-smiled at him. While the tub filled, she stood at the porcelain sink and went through the familiar motions of letting down her hair. He sat on the toilet seat looking up at her and smoking a cigarette, pretending not to be as interested as he really was. She brushed her hair with his silver hairbrush after unpinning it. It was halfway down her back, and so thick she had to hold sections up to brush the under layers. Once she’d finished with her hair, she turned off the bathtub taps and gave him an exasperated look, although he could see she was teasing. The cotton robe came off. He didn’t have much of a chance to admire the way his bathing suit looked on her much curvier frame before she shucked it down. He whistled.

“Hush,” she said, dipping a leg into the tub. She put the other leg in, sat down, and examined his selection of shampoos and soaps. He could have offered her Natalie’s more expensive shampoos, all scented like flowers, but knew she wouldn’t have it. So cocoa nut oil shampoo it was. She drew up her knees and disappeared into the tub, dunking her head, and sat up with her hair drenched. He looked at her bubs, the rich brownness of her hair, and knew he wanted to fix the sight forever. He ignored her questions as he stepped out of the room, went into the hall, and turned on the lights in his closet. The camera and tripod were where he’d left them. He grabbed them and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on his way back to the bathroom. 

Buster liked Nelly for so many reasons, and to them he added the fact that she didn’t bat an eye when he returned to the room with the camera. “I hope you’re not thinking of using those photos for Snap Shots,” she said coolly, as he set the tripod up a yard from the bathtub. He opened up the camera, withdrew the bellows, and fixed it in place.

Nelly hummed, scrubbing her head with shampoo. “We’re all alone, no chaperone, can’t get our number. The world’s in slumber—let’s misbehave!” she sang. 

He laughed. “I’m trying, but it takes an age to set this damned thing up.” He screwed it on the tripod and inched it forward to adjust the focus.

“They say the spring means just one thing to little lovebirds …”

“We’re not above birds,” he countered. 

“Let’s misbehave!” they finished together, and laughed. 

“Okay, think I’ve got it just about right,” he said. He felt for the cable of the shutter release and clicked it. 

“Say, where are you going to have these developed?” she said, pausing in her lathering. “I don��t want anyone else to see them.”

He clicked the shutter again, capturing her quizzical expression and the way her raised arms lifted her bubs. “Got a darkroom of my own, honey.” There was one in the detached shed on the Villa grounds where he cut film, though he’d never used it. 

“Oh.” She resumed lathering. “That’s fine.” 

He noticed that she couldn’t pile her hair atop her head when she washed it, but rather started at the top and worked her way down to the long coil lying against her shoulder. For a minute, he didn’t click the shutter, but simply watched her add shampoo and lather, humming “Let’s Misbehave.” A feeling swam in him that had nothing to do with lust. He shook it off and said, “Look at me. Chin up.”

Nelly pursed her lips and thrust her chin at him, giving him a saucy look. He clicked the shutter. She laughed at herself in the aftermath and he clicked the shutter. She crossed her arms across the edge of the bathtub, her bubs settled across them, and his lust returned lightning-fast. 

“You’ve got great tits,” he said, wanting to see if he could get her to blush on camera. He knew she half-hated, half-loved when he used language like that with her. 

“Bus,” she admonished. As predicted, there was the blush. 

He clicked. “What about touching one of ‘em?” 

She clucked her tongue, but cupped one breast and stared at him like she couldn’t wait to be fucked. His pulse was starting to thud in his ears. He straightened from his crouch and moved the tripod closer. Nelly gathered her hair in a bunch at the crown of her head and thrust her chest at him, smiling. It was a beautiful pose. “Now I’ve got to do the part that takes forever, rinsing.”

Buster peeked out from behind the camera. “You could rinse out in the shower.”

“If I do, will I have company?” She leaned forward on the tub again, her bubs so full and inviting he could practically feel them in his mouth. 

He nodded, his throat dry again, and stood so he could start the shower. When he announced the temperature was right, Nelly scurried, dripping, across the floor and into the metal cage. She flung her head back and the white shampoo foam sluiced down her hair and into the drain. Buster shed his robe and bathing suit and stepped into the shower, and she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him, slipping her tongue into his mouth. She was soft, warm, and slippery and he wanted nothing more than to make love to her again, but he intended to keep his promise about the prophylactics.

When her hair was rinsed and the water ran clear, he lowered himself to his knees. He always treasured the look that came into her eyes when she realized what he was about to do. She was slick and he pressed a finger into her as he swirled and flicked his tongue. It no longer took him very much time at all to make her come. On cue, she quickly began to writhe. If he could snap a photo of them doing this, he would.

She almost drowned him when she came, clutching his head against her and making the water flood into his face at an uncomfortable angle, but he didn’t care. He licked her until she pushed him away. 

“I want you,” she said with a whimper, when he rose again. 

The beast in him agreed, wanted to take her right then and there. He growled against her neck and rubbed himself on her. “Not without a thin,” he said, trying to be sensible. He also didn’t know if he could manage the angle. “You could kiss me,” he suggested, feeling breathless. 

Her eyes were heavy. She tugged at his prick. “Here?” 

“Mmm-hmm,” he said, his heartbeat drubbing in his ears. 

She sank to her knees. He watched her hollow her mouth over him, the fringe of her eyelashes downcast, hair fanned down her back and over her shoulders. His hand went to her hair and his eyes closed without him even knowing it. He endured the sweet torture of the silk heat of her mouth for all of two minutes before his climax roared up on him and he was a goner. Nelly kept him in her mouth and by the time he opened his eyes again, he wasn’t sure whether she had spat or swallowed. 

“That enough misbehaving for you?” she said, standing with a groan. 

He nodded, feeling weak and leaning back into the spray of the shower. 

They shared the soap and washed up. He found towels for them in the linen cabinet. Nelly twined her hair up in one and knotted the other between her breasts. She aimed the tripod at him as he toweled his hair. “Oh no,” he said. “Not in my birthday suit.”

She ignored him and fiddled with the focus. “You’ve got some of me in my birthday suit.”

“ ‘Cause it’s your birthday next week,” he said, tying the towel around his waist in haste. 

She gaped at him. “How on earth did you remember that?”

He’d filed it away during their weekend at the cabin, although he wasn’t about to ‘fess up. She wasn’t aware yet, but he’d planned a surprise for her at next Friday’s party that she didn’t know she was attending. “They say the spring means just one thing to little lovebirds …” he said, pulling his toothbrush out of the porcelain holder in the wall. 

Nelly clicked the shutter. “Fine, don’t answer. I do want a picture though. It’s only fair. Are you going to misbehave for me or not?”

He laughed at her persistence, and turned around and loosened his towel, but draped it in front of his prick instead of losing it altogether; he wasn’t interested in looking small in the picture. He gave her the deadpan that came so natural whenever a lens was aimed at him.

She laughed. “You’re so damn somber.”

He stared at her, deadpan. 

“Okay, just one more and I’ll leave you alone.”

As soon as she’d taken the picture and stood up, he offered her a full smile. He laughed as she swatted his rear end, and handed her a spare toothbrush. Nelly sat on the end of his bed and braided her hair a few minutes later, dressed in the cotton robe again. He busied himself carrying a down bedspread onto the bed on the sleeping porch and turning down the sheets. 

“Aren’t we sleeping in here?” Nelly said with an expression of concern when he took her hand. She was probably worrying he’d take her back to Natalie’s bedroom. 

“Uh-uh.” Once they were on the porch, she relaxed. There was a nip to the night air that was going to make the down comforter just the thing. He patted the bed. “Take off your robe.” She bared herself to him again and he was reminded afresh what a good idea it had been to take a mistress. He took his off and pulled the bedspread up to their shoulders. Nelly snuggled close, smelling like coconuts. Though he’d sneaked girls into his room several times before, he’d never dared bring one onto the porch.

The state of his marriage was always nagging him, like a cut he kept bumping and reopening, but snug under the covers with Nelly with the cold breeze playing against his face, he forgot it for the time being.

Notes: I’m early this week! It may be a longer wait for Chapter 31, though--that will be a long one and a pivotal one. Please exercise patience. Soundtrack: Irving Aaroson’s “Let’s Misbehave”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JctNtRfHRLU Pretty risque for a song from 1928!

[skybiome]

And when the sun comes up, you’ll find a brand new god.

Chapter 5

Beginning | Previous | Next

ao3

tw: none

Techno and Phil worked together over the next few days to clean and preserve all of the venison. Phil seemed to have more experience with this, so Techno followed his lead. Techno was cutting the remaining meat from the bones and while Phil started a fire in their impromptu smoking pit. The skin has all been removed in the days prior.

Between just the two of them, a fair amount of the meat would go to waste, so they had to work quickly to preserve it. Inside, the hearth was burning low and drying thin cut pieces into jerky.  

The temperature outside had been dropping over the days since their hunt. Phil had given Techno a winter coat from somewhere. Lined with some sort of soft animal fur, Techno barely noticed the cold.

Techno walked over to where his companion was poking at the smoking wood chips.

“Phil.”

“Hm?” The winged god looked up at him.

Techno fisted his hands in the pockets of the coat to keep himself from fidgeting. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Phil’s eyes widened in mild surprise. “Oh, alright then.” He didn’t sound upset. “We’ll finish this today then, and we can make you a good meal tonight before you hit the road.”

Techno nodded and walked away without another word. The anxious energy under his skin didn’t settle Phil’s acknowledgement. The feeling of being tethering to something was insurmountably foreign. He couldn't wait to get away from Phil, but at the same time, he would miss the man deeply. It had been millenia since Techno had let himself get this close to someone.

Better to drain the wound now than let it sit and fester.

But that would be an issue for tomorrow Techno.

He got to work harvesting the garden they’d planted a few days ago, washing the dirt off the produce in the stone-bottomed brook. Once the meat was settled to preserve both inside and out of the inn, Phil disappeared to somewhere. Techno assumed he’d be back before long.

So he did that hard work first, using a shovel Phil had provided to dig up the root vegetables out of the cold ground. He also gathered other fruits and vegetables from the trellises. Once that was done, he picked them up and set them on one of the tables inside the inn.

And then he didn’t know what to do.

Techno had never had free time. He was always preoccupied with keeping on the move or hunting down the next monster he’d taken a bounty on. Even here, Phil normally had a task for him to do. Whenever all the chores for the day were over, it was already night time. Not knowing what else to do, Techno started running laps around the inn, falling into the steady rhythm of the motions.

After a few laps he expanded his loop to include the other buildings surrounding the central well. And then to just running around all of the structures in the village. Never once did he see another person or even any lights on. Just perfectly tended gardens, even in the almost freezing weather.  

Eventually, the monster hunter slowed down and approached one of the still houses. He knocked on the back door. No response. He tried the handle, and Techno was a little surprised when it opened with no resistance.

Inside sat a picturesque little home. Well made cupboards and countertops were spotless. An unlit tallow candle sat in the middle of a table. Techno took a closer look, and saw that the wick was pristine. It had never been lit. The table surface was unmarred, not showing any signs of being used as a board for cutting food or even any marks of a child playing with their first dagger.

Techno left, and checked the next house. And the next. And the next.

Every house was empty. Each one had a slightly different layout, but it was always unmarked countertops and empty cupboards. He doubted that these houses had ever been lived in. They were just part of the setting of the fictional town Phil had created.

He stopped checking the houses and went back to running circles around the empty village, leaving him along with his thoughts.

Phil didn’t seem malicious. Over the two weeks he’d known the deity, he’d never shown any ill intent. The outburst during the hunt was the first time he’d heard Phil even raise his voice. The god wasn’t gaining anything from spending time with Techno, but he also wasn’t trying to get anything out of the interaction. The cursed man couldn’t figure out what the god’s game was.

He was pulled out of his own head by the sound of Phil yelling his name. Cutting through the dirt paths, Techno made a bee-line towards the inn. Phil was standing outside the building, hands cupped around his mouth trying to project his voice. His wings were fluffed up and slightly spread slightly, like he was anxious and ready to take off at a moment’s notice. His voice was laced with worry.

Once he saw the monster hunter approaching, his wings laid flat and folded nearly behind his back. The line of tension eased out of his shoulders and the slightly frantic expression eased from his face.

“There you are.”

The ‘where’d you go?’ was left unspoken.

Techno nodded, and put his hands in the pockets of his new coat. “You left and I got bored, so I went on a run.” Techno one hand out and made a circular motion in the air, gesturing at the town around them. “Just around the outside of the village.”

Phil nodded, “Alright, I was worried that you had left.”

Techno shrugged. “I don’t know if I can leave, Wilbur may be keeping me here.”

The winged man stiffened slightly at the wandering implication of Techno’s words. He tried to brush it off, and replied, “I don’t think so, I’m fairly certain you can leave whenever you want.”

So he could leave right now if he wanted to. Phil would protest, but he wouldn’t be able to stop the monster hunter. Techno filed that away for later. Then he walked past Phil and turned the handle of the inn door. Holding the entrance open, he looked back at his friend, and asked, “You coming?”

When Phil didn’t spring into action, he added, “I don’t know how to cook, so I hope you do.”

With that, Techno turned away from Phil and walked farther into the building, leaving the door open behind him. A smile stumbled onto the god’s face. He walked inside and closed the door behind him, accepting Techno’s unspoken ask for help.

---

In the monster hunter’s humble opinion, Phil was a pretty good cook. The finished jerky and smoked meat was stored in cloth bags that Phil had pulled from somewhere, and the rest of the deer was slowly being cooked over the lower fire. Techno had been eating well for the last few weeks and he couldn’t wait to dig in when it was ready.

The cursed man had been put in charge with the rest of the meal preparation (with Phil helping if he needed it). Several spuds were slowly cooking in a pan off to the side of the stone hearth along with several herbs Phil had thrown in.

A few other additions that wouldn’t take as long to cook rested on the countertop. Some apples and nuts to be roasted, and mixed vegetables that could be cooked in oil. A loaf of bread was rising on the other side of the warm kitchen.

It was more food than Techno had seen in a long time, and definitely more than he and Phil could eat before it goes bad.

“What are we going to do with all this?” The man motioned to consumables strewn about the room.

“Hm?” Phil looked up from the book he was reading. He tilted his head to the side, asking for Techno to elaborate.

“There’s no way we can eat this all before it goes bad.”

The winged man nodded, and closed his book so he could fully focus on his companion, keeping one finger in the page he was on. “I invited some friends to help finish off the food. That’s where I was earlier” Techno opened his mouth to say something, but Phil kept talking. “They’re coming over later tonight, after you’d normally be asleep, so you don’t have to interact with them if you don’t want to.”

Techno nodded. He didn’t quite know how to feel about Phil picking up on his social anxiety that easily, but the gesture was kind enough.

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. It was the first day since Techno had arrived that he wasn’t doing anything from dawn to dusk. It didn’t seem like Phil was speeding up the day too much. Techno could actually track the motion of the sun via the sparse rays coming through the canopy and windows. It was nice.

He’d been reading a book the winged god had given him out in the main room. The god in question had pulled him back into the kitchen with the setting of the sun. Together, they finished preparing the rest of the food and assembled a feast in the main room of the inn.

All of the food he’d eaten over the past few weeks had been amazing. This was the best so far. He didn’t manage to eat much, appetite soured by the fact that he’d promised himself he would leave tomorrow.

About the time he started to slow down, Phil glanced towards the door of the inn, and announced, “Our guests will probably be here soon. They’re kinda loud, so you can go to your room if you want. I’ll make sure they leave you alone.”

Techno nodded and slid off of the stool, taking it as Phil’s polite way of telling him to scram. He took the book Phil’d given with him, though. And true to his friend’s word, around ten minutes later, several voices entered the inn. Through the walls, Techno couldn’t parse them well enough to tell how many people there were. At least six, mostly likely more. One of them sounded like Wilbur.

Yeah, Techno wasn’t going back out there. Accepting his fate for the night, the monster hunter stripped off his outer layer of clothes and climbed into bed. He closed his eyes and let sleep easily take him.

Half an hour later, he threw the covers off and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He couldn’t sleep and Techno had no idea why. The people in the inn weren’t being too loud. He could barely hear them despite the thin walls of the inn. Phil’s laughter made it into his room occasionally, and Techno felt something in his gut curl every time he heard it.  He wasn’t looking forward to having to leave in the morning.

A thought lanced through the monster hunter’s head. He didn’t have to leave in the morning. There was a window in his room. Techno could leave right now, without having to face Phil. Before he knew it, his heavy coat was back on, and his window was open.

The cold wind stole the man’s breath, making Techno take pause. But only for a moment.

He hefted himself up and out of the window sill. He didn’t want to look Phil in the eyes before leaving, so clearly the solution was to avoid Phil altogether.

Frozen grass crunched under his boots. Techno hadn’t noticed that it was snowing, but a thin layer of white coated the ground. Blades of grass and leaves were poking up through the powder.

He walked around the exterior of the building until he was standing in front of the inn. Through the windows, Techno could see about a dozen people socializing. The inn looked alive for the very first time.

Turning on his heel, Techno marched away from the illuminated structure. He'd seen a road leading out of town while running earlier. That's probably the road he's supposed was supposed to go. The monster hunter took a few steps past the wall in the direction of the road out of town. Then he reversed his path and went down the dirt path that had first brought him into town.

It was well into the night when he arrived back at the statue that had first greeted him. Techno's eyes pick up the details of the sculpture with no problems, even in the low light. There was no mistaking it. The facial features of the statue may be missing, but it still was the exact height and build as the man he'd been living with for the last three weeks.

Techno ran his hand over the bottom of the statue, clearing the snow and knowing that a plaque was hidden underneath. He pulled his hand away, and felt something stutter in his chest.

The words were different.

PHILZA, GOD OF SURVIVAL AND SOLITUDE PATRON OF THE ENDANGERED AND LONESOME PROTECTOR OF HIS FAMILY AND THE ONES HE LOVES

Something sad curled in his chest at the confirmation that Phil was really a god. It almost felt like a betrayal, enough though he knew it was coming.

Techno lowered himself onto the snowy ground. He closed his eyes. His fingers dug into his pants as the snow melted and the cold water bit into his legs. Eventually the chill made its way through his heavy coat.

Techno only opened his eyes when he could see light through the closed lids. Sunlight danced across the icy ground, shooting daggers into the cursed man’s eyes. He stumbled to his feet, shaking the gathered snow from his hood and shoulders. A good few inches, too.

The statue and it's broken pieces were also dusted with snow. No more grass was poking up through drifts. Techno turned around to look at the trail that had brought him here. The footpath was buried under the snow. For a moment, he didn’t know how he was going to find his way back to the village.

Something moved into Techno’s line of sight, and it took him a moment to register what it was. The white wolf blended into the powder almost perfectly. It blinked at Techno, then turned and trotted away. The cursed man followed.

The canine kept a steady pace in front of Techno. Occasionally, its fur camouflages it perfectly, and it would disappear from Techno’s sight. He was, eventually, less following the wolf, and more following the footprints it left behind.

After a while, the wolf stopped and sat down, pointing its nose at something. Techno shook his head and let his eyes refocus. The wolf glanced at him. When Techno met its eyes, it turned its attention back to the building in front of them.

A sign over the door, proudly read  The Core Inn . Unlike every other time Techno had seen the building, not a single light was on inside. He turned away to look at the other buildings. Besides Techno and the wolf’s foot prints, the snow cover was pristine. Taking a moment to realign his internal compass, he headed towards the road that led out of town.

Three steps into the journey, a weight pressed against his side. Techno stumbled at the pressure, but caught himself, realizing that the wolf that had been leading him, was now walking alongside him. Hesitantly, he set his hand on the animal’s head.

The wolf pushed against Techno’s hand, and pressed harder into the man’s side. Techno took that as permission and shoved his hand through the wolf’s fur and into the warm undercoat. He may be impervious to frostbite, but cold was still cold.

He started walking again, carding his hand through the canine’s fur. It was nice to have something else grounding him in the blank surroundings. In the real world, Techno would normally have bird song or even just the wind in the trees to fill his ears. Over the weeks, Phil had become the background noise, either with his voice or the motion of his clothes.

The snow crunched softly under foot as they traveled. The massive trees thinned from towering conifers to rolling woods of deciduous. What immediately caught Techno’s attention was that the wind was back. Birds and animal tracks were numerous, criss-crossing the snowy landscape. When they stumbled upon a crossroads, Techno took note of the messy wagon tracks in the resting snow.

Compared to the premade tracks that had covered the ground in the village, these looked incredibly natural. A sign post sat across the road. Techno approached and read it, wolf still glued to his side. A place named Aria was to the left, and Mount Lacerta was to the right. It didn’t mention the path he’d arrived from.

Techno turned around. His footsteps and any indication that he’d followed a premade path to his current location was gone. He turned back around, and the sign post had vanished as well.

“Huh,” Techno said. He turned to look at his furry companion. “Where do you think we should go?”

The wolf blinked, and started walking towards the left. Techno followed. After a few steps, the canine stopped and looked back at the man. He stopped as well, waiting for the wolf to continue leading. The animal looked back at Techno and whined.

When Techno didn’t move, the wolf turned around. It walked until it was once again glued to his side. Pushing against the monster hunter’s leg, the canine took a step. It looked up at Techno, and took another step forward.

Techno got the message. They walked alongside each other for hours, basking in the cold beauty.

Eventually, the wolf’s steps stuttered for a moment. Then it took off like a shot.

The cursed man watched it’s white coat shrink into the distance, content that it was leaving him. To Techno’s surprise, the wolf stopped about thirty feet away. The canine spun in a circle in the snow. Then it planted its rear end in the snow and let out a piercing howl.

The cry scared birds out of the surrounding trees. The wolf lowered its head, and although it was too far away to hear the panting, Techno could see its tongue lolling out of its mouth.

Something bubbled in his throat. He was surprised when a barking laugh escaped. His chest felt warm despite the cold. Another laugh emitted from Techno as he sprinted after the animal. The wolf let out another howl, turned, and ran from the man, egging him to chase.

Techno did so willingly. He almost couldn't remember the last time he’d felt this elated. Snow clung to his feet, but the monster hunter didn’t notice. Instead, he looked up to the cloud coated sky and let loose his own howl. The wolf up ahead returned the call.

Back and forth, the two echoed as they ran. Sometimes it was a whoop or holler from Techno, and a bark or yip from the canine. As they ran, the energy they carried only grew, until they were both high on euphoria.

Before he knew it, the snow was gone from around Techno’s feet. The wolf led him down the hard packed dirt road for hours at a sprint. It was nearly sun down when the animal broke from the path. It veered into the trees to the left of the road. Techno followed with zero hesitation.

A small campsite was set up just out of sight of the road. Techno came to a halt by the edge. It was a tent with a small circle of stones set up next to it. The wolf was looking around, tapping its feet and whining slightly.

A stick snapped in the trees. Both Techno and the wolf’s heads snapped towards the sound. In an instant, the canine had dove through the bush between them and the source of the noise.

The cursed man heard the sound of someone yelling in surprise and being knocked to the ground. Techno pushed through the brush to follow. He found the wolf practically laying on top of someone, licking at his face. His green and white bucket hat had been knocked to the floor and large black wings moved in the dirt and plant cover as Philza tried to shove the canine off his chest.

The god managed to roll onto his side, pushing the animal off him. Sitting upright, he ran his hands through its thick coat, cooing and praising it.

“Gods, you’re such a good boy.” Philza said through laughter. “Thank you for leading him here.”

The wolf licked his face one more time before settling its head on the god’s lap.

Turning his attention to Techno, Philza smiled, and explained, “I sent him to come get you.” He ran his head between the ears on the wolf. “It’s hard to navigate in the snow, and I didn’t want you to get lost.”

He chucked. “I know you’d be okay, but it was just for my own peace of mind.”

Techno swallowed dryly. He couldn’t think of anything, so he just nodded.

Philza stood up, pushing the animal off his lap, and brushed off the front of his robe. He was covered in bits of dead leaves and small sticks were on the ground around him. The god leaned over, picked back up the pieces of tinder he’d dropped.

With his arms full of dry material, the winged deity turned to Techno. He jerked his head towards the campsite, motioning for the cursed man to come with him. They maneuvered back through the hedge. The wolf seemed elated, dancing around their legs and nearly tripping them several times. Philza chuckled at its antics. He set his gatherings down beside the unlit fire pit.

The god lowered himself onto the hard ground with a sigh, wings half unfurled behind him to keep the feathers from bending on the ground. Techno hesitated for a second, and then sat beside him. The wolf did its best to lay on top of both of them, head in Philza’s lap and back end on Techno. Its white tail was slowly turning brown from thumping against the ground.

Philza laughed again. “Get off me you big lug.” He pushed the animal off his lap again. “Go cuddle Techno, I need to start the fire.”

The wolf whined, but sulked over and dropped its head into Techno’s lap. Despite its grumpy demeanor, its tail was still thumping against the dirt.

The god gave the canine a fond look. He pulled a flint and steel out of his robe, and started on the process of lighting a flame.

Techno knew how to start a fire with flint and steel, but he hadn’t done it in decades. Normally he just ate food cold or didn’t eat at all.

The entire scene was almost too domestic for Techno. Something curled in his gut as the sparks illuminated Philza’s hands and face. The sun had dipped below the tree line and the golden light made Techno yearn for the slow and warm days in the inn.

He ran his fingers through the wolf’s fur in order to do something with his hands. After a few dozen attempts, a small flame started in the god’s cupped hands. Slowly, he added pieces of tinder until it was strong enough to survive on its own. He put a few bigger pieces of wood on top of the fire for it to destroy when it grew big enough.

Philza turned his attention back to Techno. “Do you want something to eat? You didn’t take any when you left.”

His tone wasn’t accusatory, but Techno still felt like he was being scolded for something. He nodded, saying, “Sure, I can eat.”

The god nodded. Leaning over, Philza stuck his head inside of the tent. A second later, he emerged with a bag in hand. He rooted around inside for a moment. He pulled out the cloth bag that they’d put the smoked meat inside of yesterday.

He handed it to Techno, saying, “here.” The cursed man extracted a hand from where it had been scratching the wolf’s ear to grab the sack. The canine lifted its head to sniff at the bag. Techno thought it was going to try and take it, but it lowered its head back onto his lap without protest.

Philza pulled one more thing out of the bag before setting it aside. He unwrapped the remaining pieces of the bread loaf they’d made two days ago. The god must have hid it from his guests, otherwise it would be gone by now. He set the clothes it had been wrapped in over the bag, and tore two pieces off the loaf. Philza wrapped the rest of the bread back up and set it in bag.

Techno followed the deity’s example. He pulled a few pieces of jerky out of the bag, and handed them to his companion. The cursed man offered a bit to the wolf. It sniffed the meat for a moment, but laid its head back against the man’s chest. Techno shrugged, but closed the sack up and handed it to Philza, exchanging it for one of the pieces of bread.

They warmed their meals against the steadily growing fire. By the time they were finished eating, the sun had fully set. The wolf was dozing in Techno’s lap, and he was half convinced to join it. He was emotionally drained from the excitement of running, and from his running anxieties about Philza being upset that he’d left in the middle of the night. The god had hardly mentioned Techno’s flight at all, only expressing seemingly mild disappointment that Techno hadn’t taken food with him.

Techno shook his head, seemingly shaking his brain back into working order. He cautiously worked his way out from under the predator on his lap and stood up. Philza’s eyes followed him.

“I think I’m gonna go now. I’ve wasted enough time.”

Techno started towards the road, mentally promising that he wouldn’t stop walking, no matter what Philza said to stop him.

“You could stay here tonight.”

The monster hunter paused his stride. He could hear the deity standing up behind him.

“The tent is big enough for two people.”

Techno took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“Alright. Tonight only,” he lied to himself. “Then I need to keep moving.”

“Alright,” the deity echoed. Techno could imagine the deity nodding at his back.

That's how he found himself, pressed up against the back of a sleeping deity half an hour later. He could feel Philza slowly moving against his spine with every breath. The god was laying on top of one on his wings in a position that couldn’t have been comfortable, but the deity sure sounded fast asleep.

Techno was curled up inside of a bedroll. Philza just had a blanket since his wings wouldn’t fit in a bedroll. The wolf was lying half on Techno’s legs, half under Philza’s wing. The weight of the canine and the subtle noises from the both the wolf and god soon lulled Techno to sleep.

[freshneverfrozen]

Tincture - Chapter One

Or, the one where your author lets us do what Ubisoft wouldn’t. Also, the tropey one.

When her home is burned by a mad Dane, a healer must decide if her fate lies with forgiveness or revenge. 

I’m back from the dead to inflict on you all an AC Vahalla Reader fic literally no one is asking for. Is it Reader/Ivarr? Reader/Basim? Reader/Hytham? Who knows? No, like seriously, I don’t know.

Multi-chapter Fic

Pairing: Reader +...uh, Ivarr? You expect me to choose?

Rating: M for mmm, slow burn erotica.

On AO3:

Part One, Two

........................

CHAPTER ONE:

Snow burns. No one had ever told you. It is a scalding cold that stiffens your bones and cracks your teeth, and you are glad the moment the last flurries are behind you.

The people whose company you learn to keep are never as bothered by the snow as you. Their eyes shine like ice and their faces are shadowed and grim. They had not taken to you easily, a foreigner like them, but unlike them, you did not earn your place through rended flesh and broken bones.

You mend their flesh. You set their bones.

Eventually, they began to call you something other than ‘troll’ and ‘witch’. Eventually, your hut is traded for a slant-framed house at the edge of a village that survives both Saxons and Danes. 

‘Healer’ they call you, and it’s just as well. You left your name behind in a faraway place. 

You count a spring with them and then a summer. But just as the north-country snow melts, time changes all things.

One gray morning, when the mists are heavy over the moors, something besides the creeping cold wakes you. Wood creaks under a layer of furs as you sit up in your bed, rubbing sleep from your eyes and straining to hear again what drew you from sleep.

There is only yawning silence. It stretches past the walls of your house and over the hills. Beyond your walls, the wind is still, the farm animals not yet restless, and the corner fire is long dead past the comfort of crackling embers. 

No, you realize. It has not been noise that has awoken you.

A feeling swirls in your gut. That’s it. A pack-and-run instinct that you have trusted before. And just that simply, it occurs to you that life here is over. You can rebuild. But you must first survive.

‘Witch,’ they once called you. ‘Uncanny’ would be closer to the truth.

The floor is chilly beneath your bare feet as you slip from your bed. You grab nothing, not food, nor tincture. With a hand to the cord that holds the small draw-string pouch around your neck, you know you will have only a few pieces of silver. That, and your life, will be enough.

You have felt this feeling before. This knowing.

You take only your dark woolen cloak from the back of a chair and, wrapping it around your shoulders, you peek past the hung sail-cloth that serves as a door and out into the foggy blue of early morn. 

Quiet. Still. A calm before a storm.

Yes. You know this feeling. 

You melt from the shadows of your home, around the side and between the stables and granary. You know the families. Saxons on one side, Danes on the other. One has children. The other an elderly mother. She had been the first in this place to call you ‘healer’ when you eased the ache in her old bones. 

Silently, you move on swift steps until cold mud from the cart path gives way to tall grass that stings your feet. There, you crouch. You move a little further and listen for nothing. The further you go, the more guilt turns your stomach. So many are still asleep in their beds. You are their healer.

But you cannot save them. 

Near the edge of the field stands an ancient oak, out of place and far from its brethren in the forests to the east. It stands among the high grass, a field’s width from the village. You lower yourself against the gnarled base, settling down until all can see of the village are the plumes of smoke from the hearth fires drifting into the sky. Your feet are chilled to numbness, caked in mud and grit, but your hands shake too badly to massage the feeling back into them. 

Instead, you wait, and you exhale your breath between your knees so that it does not rise above the grass. 

And you do not flinch when the first of the battle cries pierce the air. You had known they were coming. Danes. Different from the peaceful breed settled here. 

Screams follow smoke, and then follows the wafting scent of blood and shit on the wind.

You had known.

You sink lower against the tree and in an awful moment, wish that you might freeze. When the wishing is unanswered, you try not to listen as the screams grow fewer and farther between. The terror of the butchered turns to gleeful cries from the invaders. How long has it taken? The sun has yet to clear the sky. Another sacking done in England. Danes killing Danes, killing Saxons, killing all. But not you. Not yet.

And then you hear it.

A sound separates itself from the victory din. It begins as a rustling through the grass, not soft as your steps had been, but moving quickly and toward you. A wayward Dane? A survivor?

Lie still, you demand of yourself as your muscles seize on instinct. You press yourself deeper into the dirt. A fool would run. A dead fool. Whatever comes, it cannot know you have hidden yourself here, tucked yourself away amid the roots and reeds.

A set of shoulders and a dark head above them glade over the tall grass. He is a Dane. You can smell the blood on him, see the gleam of it against the shaved side of his scalp. At his nearness, your heart pounds until it rattles your teeth, but you do not take your eyes from him. If he spots you, and only then, you will run. It will be the death of you.

But he cannot see you. Not here. But even as you think them, those thoughts sound like lies.

The Dane curses, and it is then that you hear the slosh of liquid against clay walls. His steps are burdened. Carrying something. He shakes the bulk in his arms and you hear the splatter of something wet over grass and smell the cloying scent of oil and pitch.

They mean to burn the fields.

And you with them.

Why harvest, when you can ransack? Why spare lives, when it is easier to take gold from a corpse? 

You are a healer, but you would kill them all if you could. 

The Dane moves off, his back to you now. His shoulders are slim, his body lightly armored. If you run, there is every likelihood this one will overtake you. But you cannot wait, not as you hear him call out in his rough language for fire. A torch. You will have to slip away or face certain death in this snare.

You shift, quiet as a hare in the underbrush, and begin to move eastward. Wet ground seeps into the thin fabric of the under-dress you had escaped in, but you ignore the spreading damp against your chest as you crawl. The sound of a horse’s braying and the noise of hooves through grass drives you forward. You know without looking that someone has brought the Dane his torch.

The crack of a mad laugh sets your teeth to grinding. The Dane shouts, “Let the ravens pick their fill through the smoke!” 

“Careful that you do not burn with the fields, Ivarr,” says another voice, too full of reason to earn anything other than ridicule.

The Dane laughs again and soon, the rush of fire catching fuel overtakes the sound of him. It spreads and crackles at your back, wind carrying the heat, carrying the flame. Toward you. 

You’ve no choice but to run now. 

You’re going to die after all. By fire or the swing of an axe, it doesn’t matter. Dead is dead. Perhaps, this is punishment for leaving the others unwarned. If that is so, you are cut by the bitter thought that the divine has been swift in retribution.

Heat licks at your calves sooner than you expect and you push to your feet. The forest is a league away, over crag and hill and the sludge of the moors. You will never outrun them. But perhaps the flame and smoke will hide you  -- 

“Aha! Look there! One last sheep left to gut!” The bark of the Dane drives the breath from you. “Give me your horse!”

“But Ivarr -- “

A snarl from the Dane is all you hear before the noise of your bare feet beating over grass drowns out the rest. The moors. You need only make it to the moors and then the muck and hollows will slow him. 

With a gasp of relief, you clear the field, legs burning and catching beneath a skirt heavy with mud. Another small hill lies ahead, this one rocky with moss-covered stones. You dart up the first slope, casting yourself over one rock just as you hear the thundering of hooves nearing. 

The Dane laughs, a hollow, delirious sound that you have heard before from madmen you could not cure. You glance back, your eyes drawn to the sheen of teeth. His is a gruesome smile, crooked and jagged like a jack o’ lantern on Samhain. Fear boils away the cold as you register just how near he is, and you spot a hand sweeping at you from the back of a dappled horse.

“Where will you go, foxling?” he jeers. “Run! Run faster! This is no chase!”

A protesting snort from the horse ruffles your hair as you near the top of the hill. The beast proves a blessing, and you throw yourself from its path just as the Dane reaches for you again. With curse, he flails at the air, and before he can turn his mount, you are struck with an idea. 

Instinct has always served you well and as it beckons, you listen. Leaping with a snarled cry, you catch hold of the Dane’s outstretched arm. Your weight and the momentum of the horse unseats him and for a moment, a very brief one, your eyes lock with his. They widen, surprise sparking behind the wild blue of them, and in the instant before he falls, you think you see a grin turn his lips. 

He strikes the ground with a thud, crying out as the horse’s hooves catch his legs. You leap over his body as it rolls, your fingers twisting into the mane of the horse. One bound and then another, and you find your purchase, swinging yourself up into the saddle. You look back over your shoulder, eyes narrowing in focus on the Dane as the horse rocks beneath you. He staggers to his feet, yards away now, and he laughs.

“Well done, little fox! Run, while I catch my breath!”

His laughs grow louder, wilder, and when you turn from him, you dare not look back again.

.

………………………………………

.

There might as well be snow. 

English nights are cold when spent in nothing but a damp shift and cloak. The horse, at least, makes good company. The village is three nights behind you now, three nights that you feel in your empty belly. On the first, you had not slept, fearing the mad Dane would appear from the shadows. The second had passed in the cradle of old ruins. The third, you had found an abandoned home.

Now, with morning blooming outside, you saddle the horse, a mare whose name you do not know. You had spent the night considering names for her, to replace whatever the Danes called her, if it had been anything at all, but in the end, you decided on nothing. You’ve little fondness for all the names given to you, so you will not do the same to her.

She is simply the mare, as anonymous as her rider.

A starving rider, you think grimly as you swing into the saddle, with your stomach growling to remind you that wild raspberries do not take the place of bread and mutton. 

“Will you share your grass?” you ask the mare as you lean forward to scratch between her ears. “You do not seem as starved as I.”

She snorts as though to say too late, and with a glance at the earth below, you see that she has eaten the greenery to nothing.

Muttering through a smile, you say, “Ah, payment for saving my hide. I understand.”

A half-day’s ride brings rain. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself and take solace in knowing bad weather means fewer travelers, and fewer travelers mean less likelihood of bandits. It is by that reasoning alone that you are surprised to see two figures crest the hilltop ahead. Both ride horses of their own and as they near, you cannot make out their faces for the sodden white hoods they wear.

Better unfriendly than dead, you adjust your own hood, and hunker lower over the saddle. You guide the mare off the path to make way for the riders. Monks? They look like men of the Cloth, perhaps on their way to one of the Saxon holdings. If so, they are riding into Dane territory. 

But that is their problem, not yours.

Your teeth grit as one slows his horse as they pass. 

“Traveler,” he says, his accent strange, as foreign as yours. “Is it this way to Fremdeleigh?”

Fremdeleigh is ash and ember now.

In your hesitation to speak, you cut your eyes upward beneath the edge of your hood. Looking at the man, a length of curling dark hair falls about a dark, trimmed beard. More than that, you cannot see. The other rider, slightly smaller, hunched as though the ride has pained him, turns his face away. Of him, you can see nothing.

The man is waiting, and should you hesitate longer, you risk more questions. “Fremdeleigh was that way, yes.”

The man is quiet for a stretch. 

“Was?” His voice...such a simple questions gives you chills. It is a dangerous voice, one that has you wishing for highwaymen rather than priests. If they are priests. The knives and daggers strapped about the men are not lost on you.

“Perhaps it is, if it still stands. Danes took it three days past.”

The men share a look, though you doubt they can see one another’s eyes. You make to move the mare forward.

“A moment,” says the man. “Do you come from Fremdeleigh?”

“Why do you ask this? What is left of it lies down this road. Brave the Danes, if you must go there.”

“Perhaps I make a habit of braving Danes?” Charm settles in the man’s voice too late. It does little soothe your wariness. “And I ask to know what sort of Danes they were.”

Needling man. You should not let his prying bother you, but Fremdeleigh is not so far behind you that the question’s answer is easy to face. 

“The wicked sort,” you reply, and at this, you think you catch a snort of agreement from the second man. “Now, safe travels to you both, strangers.” A rolling growl from your stomach accompanies your words, and you quickly turn your face away.

You have just set your heels into the mare’s sides when the first man calls out, “You’ve a hungry look about you. Perhaps you would trade answers for a meal?” 

Another dinnerless night feels more than you can stand. But a part of you would sooner starve than risk a camp alone with these men, who are perhaps not as godly as their robes would claim. 

The man seems to read your thoughts. Surely, he has figured you to be a woman by now. An easy target, if he wishes it. “We will not harm you, this we swear. We want only your time and to ask a few questions.”

“Men have done worse to women with smaller promises than that one,” you reply. 

The rain is coming harder now. The mare throws her head. If you do not get her beneath the shelter of trees, she may take herself. Your stomach growls again. The pain of emptiness is setting in. You consider your choices for a moment -- a hungry, endless ride through this weather or hooded men, armed to the teeth. Before the man can refute this -- indeed, it seems he’s rather reluctant to argue this at all -- you make up your mind. 

“Remove your hood,” you say, “I would know your eyes.”

The twitch of a smile appears beneath the beard. “As you wish.”

He raises his hand and pulls down the hood, revealing a head of thick, black hair to the elements. He is a foreigner, and farther from home than the Danes had been. His skin has the dark cast of men from the east, his eyes darker still. 

They are a killer’s eyes. You know it the moment they meet yours and a prickling begins at your neck. But this one is not rabid like the men from whom you had fled. He is a killer, but something tells you he hunts more dangerous prey than you.

“Very well,” you say when you can stand to hold his gaze no longer. “Answers for a meal.”

“You are no longer worried we will kill you?” he asks. You do not think he is as surprised as he feigns. 

“No,” you reply simply. 

The other man, smaller and quieter, shakes his head beneath his hood. This one thinks you stupid or mad, but he winces before he decides to protest, and just as silently, he settles over his saddle and looks away.

.

……………………..

.

The thick trees are shelter enough for the three of you. Several times, as you watch the men set about tying off their horses and building a small fire beneath an outcropping of rocks and a fallen log, you reconsider your foolishness. But when one of the men, the quiet one, retrieves bread from his satchel and places it before the fire, you are finally coaxed down from the mare.

“Here,” he says, handing you the bread and a helping of...dried fish, you realize as you unwrap the parcel. “It is fish.”

You know fish when you smell it. This one does think you stupid, after all. Perhaps he is right. But obvious though the words are, you are surprised to hear that his voice is softer than that of his compatriot. It is better suited to a poet than a man strapped to the teeth in blades. As he pulls away, you get a glimpse of his face, still hidden beneath the hood, and find it younger than the other man’s.

“A Dane’s meal,” you reply, glad your eyes are shielded by your own hood.

“A Dane’s meal is still a meal.” He turns away and sulks over to the far side of the fire. His movements are hitched, a hand going to his side as he lowers himself down. You see no blood on the white of his robes, so perhaps his is an old wound. The healer in you nearly as what ails him, but you hold your tongue and take a bite of bread.

The other man moves more quietly than you would like, crouching beside the fire, his eyes and expression hardly warmed by its flames. He tries to smile at you, but seems to know that will not earn him any faith, and after a moment, his expression slips back into something cold and unreadable. 

“I am Basim,” he says, “This is my...friend. You may call him Hytham, if you wish, though I cannot promise he will hear you over his groaning.”

“I am fine,” says the other man, but you know a lie when you hear it.

You swallow your mouthful. “Strange names to hear in England.”

“Strange times,” mutters Hytham. 

Basim’s eyes run from your feet -- still bare -- to your face, and you fight the urge to draw in on yourself. The urge passes as you realize there is nothing lecherous in the look; it is...appraising. It sees more than you care to reveal, and you make up your mind to eat quickly.

“You have the look of someone who is running. Can I assume it is from Danes?”

“You knew that when you offered this meal. What is it you really wish to know, Basim?”

His lips twitch again. Is it an uncontrolled tick, you wonder? A man like this strikes you as one who has very little outside his control, so perhaps the smiles, if that is what they can be called, are intended to put you at ease. 

“We are looking for our friend. We have news for her.”

Looking for a Dane.

You frown at the dried fish and cast a wary-eyed look at Hytham. “A Dane’s meal, after all. You should have just said so.”

“Would you have taken the first bite?” asks Hytham.

You make a face and it is then that you learn that Hytham does not hide his smiles so easily as Basim. You look back to the other man. “I saw little, I’m afraid. One Dane chased me. That is his horse.”

“You stole his horse?” Basim raises a brow. 

“He deserved worse. He was scarred. A bigger man than he looked. Another called him Ivarr. That is the only name I heard.”

“That is name enough,” says Basim. He sits back on his heels and gestures to you. “Please, eat.”

As you take another bite, you’ve half a mind to ask if they are friends of this Ivarr, but doing so will open the door to more questions and both these men seem the sort to prefer asking them. You have made it this far; you’ll not have your throat cut for nosiness. As you eat, the skies darken, until midday could be mistaken for night, and thunder rolls overhead.

Hytham’s voice draws your glance. You had thought the man dozing as the conversation waned, but he is awake, though his mouth is set in a bitter line. “That’ll be Thor, or so I’m told.”

“You should have stayed in Ravensthorpe,” Basim says, but his scolding is gentle. 

“I tire of four walls. I am fine.”

Liar.

He stretches out his legs, but the motion seems to pain him. He catches you looking. “It has been a long ride.”

“A long ride on an injury, even an old one, can do a man more harm than the change of scenery will do him good.” You shove the last bite of bread into your mouth and swallow. Hytham -- and Basim, too, you notice -- eyes you cautiously as you stand. Or you think he does. He tilts his head, hood slipping until you can see a little more of his cheek. You kneel beside him and ask, “What is bothering you?”

“Not an old injury,” says Basim, “but not a new one, either.”

“Let me look. It will be my thanks to you both for sharing your food, and it will pass time in this rain.”

“Are you a healer?” 

“I was. Before Fremdeleigh burned. I will be one again once I am settled.”

“I am fine.” Hytham’s jaw takes on the proud jutt of someone determined to let their pride outweigh their sense. At last, he has enough of the hood, and sweeps it back so that he can glare at you properly. You had been right. He is younger than Basim, perhaps younger than you, though the handsomeness of his features is weighed down by a pain you had only glimpsed beneath the hood. 

Despite Hytham’s potent scowl, you shake your head. “That’s the third time you have said so and each time, your whining gets louder.”

A rich crack of laughter from Basim startles you both. “Perhaps I should leave you to her and I shall ride to Fremdeleigh?”

“I should think he has learned this whining from someone,” you reply, and this quiets Basim. “Best you stay and hold him down. In case any bones need re-setting.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hytham tells you quickly. 

“How would I know? You will not let me look.”

“I am -- “

“Fine! You are ‘fine!’” you snap. “Pass the time in pain, then. Have your raider friends look after you. Three days ride from now.”

This pales him. His eyes -- you could not name their color if you tried -- flick to Basim. “Three days? You said it was two.”

“I thought it was.” Basim holds out his hands, but somewhere in the dark of his eyes, you think he knows better. “A simple mistake.”

“You do not make mistakes,” grouses the younger man. He looks back to you. “Have a look if you wish. Or spare me the slow death and kill me now.”

You smile. “I can do either.”

“A healer and a horse-thief. Strange company to find on the road.” Basim stands, drawing his hood over his head. “Swear to me you will not kill Hytham...” He pauses, his eyes flicking to you, and you realize that he has neither asked your name, nor have you given it.

“You are leaving?” asks Hytham, voice rising above the patter of rain. “Leaving me with this stranger?”

“I am riding ahead. Something tells me I leave you in capable hands.”

“No,” protests Hytham. “I can ride.” He gets to his feet. You watch as he grits his teeth through whatever pain plagues him. He holds his ground, even as you stand to reach for him should that change. 

“Follow when you can. And you,” Basim looks to you, “If our paths do not cross again, go well. I would be careful returning to Fremdeleigh, were I you. If what I know of Ivarr is true, he will care less for his horse, and more about the woman who dared take it from him.”

Return to Fremdeleigh? The possibility had not occurred to you. Fremdeleigh is gone. 

Hytham’s protests cease as Basim reaches his horse, lifting himself into the saddle with a grace you’ve only seen in woodland creatures. He waves once and is soon vanished beneath the forest boughs. Hytham spins on his heel, brushing past you, and drops back down by the fire with less swiftness than which he had stood. You know the sight of a man wounded in more ways than one, and some wounds, even you cannot heal.

Instead, you set to business. “Off with this,” you say, tugging at his tunic. He scowls, but the fight has gone out of him. When the tunic is removed, bared skin is revealed to you. The man is, without doubt, not a priest. His chest and arms are wiry with muscle, a few faint scars marring the skin here and there. It is only a happenstance glance that you notice one of his fingers is missing, cut cleanly at the knuckle. 

“You move like a man with broken ribs,” you say, “How long ago did this happen?”

“Months.”

“And it still pains you so?”

“It is the cold.”

At this, you smile. “Foul stuff, the cold. Breeds barbarians.”

Hytham tries not to smile, but that, too, strains him. His friend’s departure -- if that is what Basim truly is to him -- has left him sullen, but he withstands your prodding well enough. Only when your hands run down his sides does he shy. 

“I am --”

“Do not say ‘fine.’” 

Instead, he says nothing.

His skin is warm to the touch, a good sign for the circulation, and you notice that your roving fingers leave gooseflesh in their wake. 

“The bones have set.” You sit back, drawing your feet under you. “Unless you would like me to break them again, this pain will revisit you. If I had my stores, I could make something to ease the burden, but those burned with Fremdeleigh. For now…” You cast your eyes about, at last coming to rest on the sash that had been removed with Hytham’s tunic. “Give me a moment.”

A moment turns into a few minutes. Hytham eyes you warily when you ask for his sash, but agrees, only to panic when you near the fire with the fabric in hand. He is quieted when he sees what you are doing. You wrap a few cooling coals in the material, testing their heat against your wrist, and returning to his side when you are finished. 

“Press this here,” you tell him, “It will soothe the ache.”

“For a time?”

“For a time.”

Bitterness clouds his expression, but it is short lived, disappearing with a nod. “Thank you, healer.”

Your fingers flex at the word. You had not thought to hear it again so soon. Last time, it had taken a year, maybe two, after you had lost everything to find yourself again. As Hytham’s eyes meet yours, you wonder if, perhaps, the Danes were not as thorough in their destruction as they had hoped.

Hytham’s eyes study your face; they are keener than you had given him credit for, and you feel them pulling at the edges of what you wish to hide. 

“What will you do?” he asks. “Could there be anything left of your home?”

“In Fremdeleigh? I doubt it. If I returned, I would likely only find Danes.”

“The Danes are not all so bad.” His smile is wry one, a little more honest than you would like. Either it or the fire has given a pretty flush to his cheeks. “You were unlucky to cross Ivarr. He is a menace.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him.”

“Will you go to Fremdeleigh? To find Basim?”

Hytham nods. “He is testing me. To see if I will return to Ravensthorpe, or follow him. I am good for more than reading scrolls and maps.”

“You look as though you are good in a fight.” You tap a finger to one scar that runs over his shoulder, paler than the rest of his skin. He glances away when you say this, like a maid who has been she is pretty. “It would be a risk to return there. Not when I’ve no promise that there is anything left to salvage.”

“A shame,” says Hytham with a smile, glancing at you, only to look away again. “All this bread and...fish,” his nose wrinkles, “is going with me.”

“Speak plainly, priest.” Your teasing is less pleasing to him than the idea of dried fish, and he waves you off with a flutter of a four-fingered hand. “If you’ve an idea, let’s hear it.”

“Return to Fremdeleigh. Recover your stores if you can. And if you can, come with us to Ravensthorpe. A healer is always welcome, especially one who is not empty-handed.”

“Healer?” You raise your brows with a laugh. “In Fremdeleigh, I am a horse-thief. What if this Ivarr recognizes me?” 

“He cannot recognize you if he does not see you.”

“Spoken like a man who watches the world from beneath a hood.”

Perhaps it is the firelight, but you think you see Hytham’s ears flush a deep red. “Do as you wish,” he says after a moment. “I ride when this rain stops.”

So it is that when the rain stops, you go with him.

[rediscoveringmichelle]

An Apple a day keeps the cravings away

January 2021, back in London after spending Christmas at home in Ireland with my family. This time had been a very different experience to the last. Freer, both mentally and physically. The last time I had been home was at the beginning of the global pandemic, restricted to the 2km radius of my home in Clontarf, North Dublin. However, on this occasion not only had restrictions been lifted by the Taoiseach for the Christmas period, I had lifted my own restrictions too. The beginning of the pandemic was the turning point of my recovery and now, 9 months later, I was no longer limiting myself to 3 healthy meals per day, with no snacks and a strict schedule of two 10km runs per week and a minimum 2 and half hours of walking per day. I felt happier and healthier than I had been in years, able to relax and enjoy late night glasses of wine and mince pies with my parents, meals out with friends and the odd day of rest and relaxation with nothing but a few hours of TV to pass the day. It didn’t matter how much weight I had put on; I had gained my life and laugh back, and I would be forever grateful for the lesson I had learnt thanks to this awful pandemic. That making myself thinner and fitter, didn’t make me any happier. And that being physically healthy is nothing if you destroy your mental and social health too.

January 2018 was really where it all began. Recently single and having spent a lot of my newfound freedom on nights out, eating takeaways and drinking large volumes of alcohol, I had understandably put on a bit of weight. The guy I had been seeing, suddenly stopped texting me and I felt rejected. My parents were back to living their lives after their run-ins with poor health. Dad back to smothering his toast in thick layers of butter and Mum loving her newfound ‘real-Mum’ life of Pilates and coffee catch ups since selling her practice for good. I was no longer needed. Mum didn’t need me to drive her to chemo or cook my Dad his no red meat, no oil, no salt dinners. I felt anxious as they went back to living their lives. No longer able to control them, especially my dad. I couldn’t force him into living a by-the-book healthy lifestyle. But I figured what I could control was myself. I could be the healthiest person I could possibly be. And with the added benefit of making that guy wish he’d never let me go. My perfectionist self would ensure that I would be the perfect picture of health. No cheating, no dieting, just a new lifestyle. A new me. One I could love.

I scoured the internet for all the advice on changing your lifestyle, getting fit and losing weight. Running apparently boosted your metabolism and was an efficient way to burn calories and fat. So, I started by running 5km, three times a week. Weights would help then to reduce my body fat and tone up so I coupled the running with strength training in the gym, also three times a week. I pounded out Kelsey Wells workout routines, while listening to ‘This is me’ from The Greatest Showman, a song about not being afraid to show the world exactly who you are, as I was ironically punishing my body into a shape that was not naturally me. I strictly followed Dad’s cardiologist’s advice and cooked everything from scratch, substituting beef mince for turkey mince and not using oil, butter or salt in my cooking. I cut out all snacks and limited myself to three meals per day. Social Media became my home ground for weight loss advice. ‘You’re not hungry, you’re thirsty. Drink some water.’ ‘No pain, no gain.’ ‘Ignore your cravings and they will eventually go away.’ ‘Craving sugar? Have an apple instead’. Each day would end with eating an apple to stave off the cravings and to quieten the rumbles in my stomach.

I started weighing my food, tracking everything from litres of water drunk and then steps walked and active minutes of exercise. I upped my runs gradually to 10km, twice a week because social media told me that after running for 35 minutes, you no longer just burn calories, but also fat. And yes, I do realise that anyone who has a degree in anything science related would quickly realise these were all completely made up and not based on fact, but I guess I wanted to believe them. I would believe anything that forced me to push (or punish) myself more. I stopped going out for drinks or dinner with friends. Too many calories and too worried that I wouldn’t be able to get up and run in the morning, unable to flex from the specific days I went running, for fear I would never run again. When I moved to London, I spent my weekends walking 40 thousand steps so that I could then earn a slice of banana bread from Deliciously Ella’s Vegan & Gluten Free Deli. I felt a rush of joy wash over me each time I saw the number on the scales or the minutes of my 10km runs decline, but like a drug, the high didn’t last long. I was addicted. I had no trust in myself. ‘You’re so controlled’, they complimented me. But deep down, I felt like there was a lazy, sugar and fat loving girl inside me. An imposter in a gradually reducing body. Fearing that just one biscuit and I would be back as that unhappy and overweight rejected girl.

I really believed that being thinner and looking like those girls I idolised on Instagram would make me happier. They were all smiling, surely that meant they were happy? As the compliments turned to concern, I felt that surely people were just jealous of how much weight I had managed to lose. Weight loss was something to be proud of, wasn’t it? The truth of it all didn’t hit me until the pandemic. As I sat up in my bed struggling to breathe on the night of the Taoiseach’s first lockdown announcement, I started to wonder what I was really fearing. During a time when people were dying, all I could fear was not being able to exercise enough and being locked up in a house full of food. I feared putting on weight and relinquishing control. I felt trapped with nothing to look forward to. Holidays cancelled and my boyfriend of two months at home with his family 167km away in Belfast. That was my rock bottom.

In an effort to cheer myself up I started to make a list of all the things I wanted to do post lockdown. Have date nights in with my boyfriend, making pizzas, ordering takeaways and eating breakfast in bed. Then the excitement of getting to do these things started to dwindle as the anxiety crept in, as I tried to count up how much exercise I would need to do in order to earn those nights. A day in bed with no exercise? Nope, that’s a no go. And that’s when it hit me. I had made myself thin, with the thought that then I would be lovable and that then I could enjoy my life. But I was thinner, thinner than I’d been since I was a preteen and I still wouldn’t let myself go enough to do the things I deeply wanted to do. To let myself enjoy life. How freeing it would be to just, let go!

My love for learning kicked in and I made the decision to start reading up and educating myself. I came across a book my mum had not so subtly left lying around the house. ‘Just Eat it – How Intuitive eating can help you get your shit together around food’ by Laura Thomas. I didn’t believe I had an eating disorder until I started reading her book. As she listed off the disorders, she then came to Orthorexia – defined as an unhealthy obsession with healthy eating or over exercising. ‘When was the last time you even asked yourself what you’d like instead of what you ‘can’ or ‘should’ eat?’ she queried. The sad reality was that I couldn’t remember. ‘We trust our phones more than we trust our bodies’. Well that was certainly true for me. She used science, showing that weight was in fact not a determinant of health but that by exercising, eating healthy and not smoking we could be healthy, regardless of our size. That eating a donut didn’t in fact negate the nutrients of the carrot we ate earlier. And that white flour was actually infused with calcium and that those carbs are what give us energy to move and enjoy life. My eyes gradually opened to all the lies diet culture had taught me and I felt empowered.

I moved on to more books and podcasts and started culling my social media feed of anyone that didn’t make me feel good. I started following intuitive eating dietitians and anti-diet advocates. Following people of all shapes and sizes and realising how biased our society is towards people in smaller bodies. Not just the size of airplane seats but assuming that all health issues experienced by fat people can be solved by weight loss. I learnt that the night sweats I had been experiencing, the pretty much non-existent sex drive and the inability to maintain body heat for any length of time were in fact all side effects of the restricted eating and over-exercising. Half the time I didn’t even look as thin as I had become because I was wearing so many layers of clothes in order to keep warm. Walking around the house with a hot water bottle strapped to my waist and wearing a fur coat indoors while out for dinner with friends. Only now can I laugh at the image of it. I started to make a list of all the things I would gain through gaining weight and glancing back over it now, I have gained all of these and more. My headspace, my laughter, my body heat and a fantastic relationship that I thankfully didn’t destroy because of my restrictive, anxious mind-set.

My recovery hasn’t been easy. The steps toward eating intuitively start with banishing your food rules and allowing yourself to eat what you want. A process that takes time before you can start tuning into your hunger and fullness cues again and introducing gentle nutrition. It involved allowing myself to devour entire tubs of Oatly chocolate fudge ice-cream, multiple evenings per week. Making my way through all the delicious Deliveroo takeaway options London had to offer – Honest Burgers red meat beef burgers with rosemary salted fries, Franco Manca pizzas, with all the toppings, and Kin & Deum Thai curries, with full fat coconut milk. Gradually I started being able to listen to my body and trust it. Whether it hungered for a salmon stir-fry or was seeking out a slice of chocolate cake. The interesting thing being, that months later it now craves nutritious food the majority of the time. And that by allowing it to have higher sugar or fat containing foods whenever it wants, I no longer feel out of control around them. I no longer find myself devouring three large sized bags of crisps in one sitting, overtaken by the fear that I will never let myself eat them again.

I have days where I find myself critiquing my larger thighs in the mirror but instead of allowing the thoughts consume me, I allow them float by with curiosity and continue about my day knowing that the way I look doesn’t define me and that the greatest things about me have nothing to do with my body shape or size. I am a thoughtful friend, who prides herself at remembering important moments in friends’ lives. A courageous girl who isn’t afraid to try new things, whether that be travelling solo across Vietnam or signing up to a surf and yoga retreat in Cornwall. A creative person who loves to draw and a lifelong learner that is open to new ideas and wants to challenge her way of thinking. My body will change a lot over the next 50 plus years of my life, but the great thing is that thanks to freeing myself from the disease, I get to look forward to the possibility of being alive for that long and to enjoying every waking moment, no longer postponing life for when I look or am a certain way.

© Michelle McCarthy January 2021

[whisperthatruns]

Air Rights

The French Church---         never much on looks, red brick leaning                  in the direction of Romanesque---

settled into modest circumstances         how many decades on West 16th?                  Nothing divine in the details,

veneer peeling from doors never         meant for here, never open. No light,                  evenings, through colored glass,

though by day you could discern,         twenty feet above the sidewalk,                 Christ stepping onto the waters of Galilee,

sea and savior oiled by exhaust,         nearly indistinguishable. Weeknights,                  downstairs, a dozen groups renounced

at length crystal or alcohol, skin or smoke,         and what each circle resisted glowed                  at the center of their ring of chairs,

nearly visible; there you could consecrate         relinquishment, or find someone already ruined                  to pursue whatever made you, for the night,

unsinkable. The rent, collected each time         they passed the hat, kept the church afloat.                  Of the congregation eight souls remained,

Haitian evangelicals. Only once         I saw someone mount the stairs                  toward those slapdash doors

---who could have missed her?         Under a plane tree clearly considering                  giving up all ambition, an idling towncar’s

rear door opened, she stepped out,         and I knew at once that if she’d ever                  been thwarted, she simply summoned

more of some alloy of metal and will         she drew up from beneath the pavement,                  maybe from Haiti itself, from generations

that stood unbending in her.         In her green hat, in the forgiving archways                  of her dress, her capacious black purse,

she conquered the stairs, and raised her hand         to open the door. Just once.                  The meeting schedule disappeared

from the basement entry’s wire-gridded glass,         the rooms stayed dark, addicts no longer                  smoking and talking under the miserable tree.

Twilights, before they were gone, I’d walk         through a climate so thick I could almost taste it,                  meet the gaze of men whose eyes locked

into mine. Was this the night they knew         was coming, the night they’d fall?                  I recognized them, I wanted

to put my hand into the wound         at their sides, that we might be real                  to one another. A barrier went up

around the entry, papered with signs         and permits, and an ‘artist’s rendering’                  ---fourteen stories clad in bluestone,

suspended above the somehow         freshened brick of the church.                  A flyer in our vestibule said they’d sold

the space between their sanctuary         and heaven for a cool eight million,                  and units in what would be

the highest stepped-back Nineveh tower         on our block: raise the faithful high,                  plunge the neighbors into shadow.

Lord thou preparest a banquet for me...         Workers boxed the plane tree’s trunk                  in a cage of 2 x 4s, heavy equipment scooped

a new foundation, hammered the pilings in.         How do they stand it, in Cairo or Rome,                  when any shaft in sand reaches down

five thousand years? Bad enough in New York:         artifacts of quarantine and revolt,                  bullets that did or didn’t strike rioters,

squatters or immigrants, Irish or black.         Cemetery slabs etched with the hex                  of David’s star. Oyster middens,

pipe-stems, crockery stamped with eagles         and shields. And in the Historical Society,                  dug from a site like this one,

an object I can’t forget,         nightmare thing, its plutonium half-life                  still ticking: brass shackles,

superbly made, locked into place         by a brass bar, sized to fit                  the wrists of a child.

That sign the angel placed outside         of Eden, forbidding re-entry?                  No arrow, but these joined zeroes

fetched up out of the mud,         their poison seeping into                  the groundwater. The backhoe clawed,

rebar spiked its way up, and some days         traffic stopped while the concrete mixer’s                  rotating drum poured into place more

of the solid substance of our block.         The city stopped work more than once.                  I saw, where they’d poured the footing

a little short, workers float a three-inch layer         along the top of the foundation: sure to crack,                  maybe one day bring the whole thing down?

Though walking home, after hours,         late winter, I found towering at midnight’s center                  a vertical representation of heaven,

nine episodes of the exaltations of light:         builders’ lamps diffused by silver ceiling joists,                  filtered through layers of tarps,

an unfinished model of the spirit’s progress,         a pilgrim ladder. Where did it lead?                  Each story occupied a rectangle

of what once was formless,         unglazed windows opening                  on a flecked and spattered galactic swirl...

Up there above the streets,         might not desire be articulated,                  spoken till seen through?

Half-finished, swathed in black netting,         translucent scrims veiling the lights                  left burning within, that building

would never be so beautiful again.         Thank you, Haitian evangelicals, for that.                  Now the Bradford pears open

dusty blooms against a scaffolding         crowning the new Barney’s down the block,                  and black girders sketch out more floors

above a French Church caged         in spars of steel, wave-walking Jesus                  shadowed by the bristling supports

of a terrace just above. Do the faithful         look up toward a future in a world of light,                  more square feet? More power to them;

who doesn’t want a privacy to fill with memory         or anticipation, room for the self                  to billow out in dreaming?

The shadow pooling the street’s grown cooler,         gained in depth. Sometimes I walk                  a city block and notice everyone’s

looking at a screen, or talking to someone         who’s somewhere else, so that here seems                  to thin out, dispersed and characterless.

I miss the addicts. I’ve done time         in that school of longing and resistance,                  a sometime citizen of the knot

I threaded nights on my way to anywhere,         under what the builders have chopped                  to a lame, broken arm of a tree.

Nearly everything we said beneath it         concerned our endless desires,                  the thing that doth shine and so torment us,

our coins passed from hand to hand until         their inscriptions all but wore away.                  Those old longings---at least we said them

to each other. We are of interest to one another,         are we not? The evangelical woman,                  in her superb hat, will she look down

from that glassy paradise and find me         of interest, or the men and women who unroll                  blankets over flattened cardboard

under Barney’s stainless awning,         its steel-cloud sheen? They sleep and dream                  before a chamber gleaming with refusal

all night, inviting no one in,         sealed plate glass displaying                  ---ready?---necklaces, shown on featureless,

streamlined busts, under relentless halogen,         to foreground shine. Ten feet away, tulips                  fenced in iron spear-tips wrap

wings around their furnace flames, heat         drawn up from the center of the earth;                  a strength never bridled yet,

even the mutilated tree aura’d         in a froth of green. No intention                  to quit, none whatsoever.

The new tower’s blank surface         offers fewer chances to engage,                  an old church’s ramshackle intimacy

shrinks beneath what we all see coming:         a seamless façade interested only in itself,                  dwarfing the red brick it doesn’t crush

because---why should it? The air rights         are for sale. Fit yourself around whatever                   it is you want, pay them some fraction

---enormous, in their eyes, but nothing         to the unreal numbers you’ll accrue;                   build, and keep on display what you

swallowed to erect this chilly Babel tower         on my block. I’m all judgment, I know;                   the Congregation won’t regret the sale

of light and air, and those who sleep         on Seventh Avenue, their midnights raked                   by precious glitter

---on the space between their skulls                and the empyrean, no one puts a price.                   The new tower’s a glacial expanse.

The tulips ember in their spiky bed.         We dwell down here in shadow                   and in spring.

Mark Doty, The American Poetry Review (Vol. 49/No. 6, November/December 2020)

[sailorshadzter]

Absolutely love your Jonsa prompts. Can I requst for one where Jon comes back with Dany to WF only to hear how Sansa has either take on a lover (this is fake obvs and is just a misunderstanding) and gets super jelly at any guy talking to her. Would be really great if they end up having hot sexy times at the end. Sorry but possessive Jon is my jam LOL. Thanks and keep up the lovely work.

this has been in my inbox for a while, so sorry for the wait anon!

i actually had started it last week, but my hand injury got in the way! i hope you enjoy it & that its worth the wait!

send me prompts

He hates that he's jealous, but he can't help it. He can't stop it.

It's been three days since his return from Dragonstone with Daenerys and while he should be focused on the important things (white walkers, the Night King, the impending war for the Iron Throne, are the first things that come to mind) and yet, all he can think about is the rumor he's been told.

Jon knows he has no right to be angry, to be upset, but he can't help it. He can't stop the anger that floods through him when he thinks of her on the arm of another man. He can't even begin to think about what it would mean if she found another man- he's been gone all these weeks, he supposes he can't blame her, and yet... He's jealous. He's angry. He wants her all to himself and with the damned dragon queen always on his arm, he's barely been able to share even a private moment with Sansa. And the one moment they did have together, they argued. Jon can't blame her for that, either, he knows what this looks like to the outside world.

Standing out on the battlements, Jon sighs, the air escaping him in a cloud of white. It's grown even colder in the few days since his return, the snows that fall blanket the frozen wasteland that has become the North. Down below comes the call of the men as they work tirelessly to prepare Winterfell for the battle that is to come any day. They dig trenches that they will fill with oil to set ablaze, to keep the walkers away from the castle walls. They train relentlessly in the field behind Winterfell, preparing for the battle they must soon face. Boys as young as twelve fight with swords in their small hands, while the girls gather in chambers to sew leather to the armor, to prepare healing herbs at the instruction of the maesters. They all have a part to play and at the moment, Jon is the only one avoiding his.

His attention is momentairly diverted by catching sight of that vivid red hair he loves so much. Sansa walks through the courtyard on the arm of a tall, young man he knows to be Harry Hardyng from the Vale. They make a handsome couple, or so everyone says, and a tremor of jealousy flows through him when he sees Sansa lean in and laugh at something Harry is saying. Jon has heard through the servants that Harrold Hardyng came to Winterfell just after his own departure for Dragonstone. He also knows that Sansa had briefly met the man in the Vale, before her marriage to Ramsay Bolton.

He watches as they stroll the rest of the way through the courtyard and up the steps and out of sight back inside Winterfell. He stares for several long moments at where she had once stood until finally he pries himself from the railing and heads down the walkway and down the stairs until he too stands in the courtyard, among the men where he belongs.

[ x x x ]

The knock on his door comes as a surprise.

It's late, so late that the rest of the palace surely must sleep, though Jon remains awake in his chambers in front of the hearth. Ghost raises his head from his paws, a short bark of recognition escaping him at the sound of the knock. He knows at once who will be there at his door and when he crosses the room to open the door, his heart is beating wildly in his chest. "Sansa." He greets at the sight of her there in his doorway, still fully dressed in her black gown, though her hair tumbles down her back, free from its usual braids.

He steps back, allowing her inside, and at once Ghost is beside her, begging for pets and attention. She sinks low enough to wrap her arms around his shaggy neck and Jon can't help but to smile at the sight. He would give anything in the world to keep this moment forever, to freeze time and just watch her with Ghost, a smile on her rosy lips. "You've been avoiding me." She speaks suddenly, rising up from the floor as she turns to pin him with her sapphire gaze. He chokes, sputtering over denial, shaking his head. "You have been." She confirms, brushing a stray lock of red hair from her face; Jon's fingers twitch, he longs to run them through the silken strands.

"You've been busy," he quips back, unable to stop himself. The familiar sensation of jealousy twists in his stomach as she takes a step closer to him and he wonders if she's just come from seeing him.

She laughs, a cold, hardened sound that doesn't match her. "Yes, so busy with running the kingdom you've given away." Yes, there's that anger of hers again. He knows he deserves it. He knows she owes him a lot more than her angry words. "Do you avoid me because you love her?" He's heard this question before- or something that had meant the same thing. He recalls the last private meeting they'd had, when she had asked him if he'd bent the knee for the North or for love. He hadn't had the chance to answer her, they had been interrupted, but he longs to tell her the truth. He longs to tell her the words he's felt in his heart since those days so long ago at Castle Black. Wrong or not, Jon knows what he feels for her goes beyond the love of a brother. "Or does she tell you to? Does your queen command you to stray from your family?" She can't stop the last words that fall from her lips, her anger and jealousy spilling over in one final question.

"You seem quite preoccupied with your own affairs," Jon snaps, unable to stop himself, though he regrets the words once they've fallen from his lips. Sansa blinks, her mouth falling open only to close again, surprise written all over her face. "Harrold Hardyng seems to be the center of your attention these days." She doesn't speak, but her eyes narrow in anger, her mouth a thin line as she takes a single step closer to where he stands. They are mere inches apart now.

"Are you jealous?" She asks, her voice a whisper of smoke, her eyes suddenly smoldering in a way he's never seen before. "Does it bother you to see me upon the arm of another man?" She can't help but to smirk when Jon tightens his jaw, a fist clenching into a fist at his side, both obvious signs of the truth. She supposes she should be happier, knowing Jon was indeed jealous, giving her a little bit more proof that Jon was smarter than he let on. That him giving up the North had been for more than just a pretty Targaryen queen. "Do you imagine what they whisper of us?" Sansa knows the rumors of her and Harry, though she laughs about them, knowing how far from truth they are. There's no man she thinks of besides the one that stands in front of her. She's leaning in, closer now, her lips hovering just a hairsbreadth over his. "In your rooms, late at night... Do you imagine me with him?" He imagines a whole lot more than that.

Jon sucks in a breath, hyper aware of the tightness of his breeches, of the fire seeping into his blood. Does she even know what she does to him? His hands are in her hair now, unable to stop himself from touching her, feeling her. She's warm, warmer than any fire, than any fur cloak. "I imagine you with me," he rasps, his words bringing a chuckle from her lips. "I know it's wrong, Sansa but I..." She silences him with a kiss.

It's a long kiss, a warm kiss, a passionate one. One of his hands stays tangled in her long red locks while the other traces the outline of her body until it reaches her hip, snaking around to press into the small of her back. "I imagine me with you, too," she whispers when she breaks the kiss, somewhat breathless as she smiles. "But I thought..."

I thought you loved her... I thought we could never be.

The unspoken words settle between them and Jon tugs her in close. "There's no one but you." He speaks honestly, truthfully, saying the words he knew he should have said before. Jon pulls back so he might look her in the face, the hand that was once tangled in her hair now cupping her cheek. For a long moment, there is silence, but there are no words that need to be said right now. Jon leans in to capture her mouth with his, a soft kiss that weakens her knees and warms her cheeks.

When he breaks the kiss, she speaks, soft words that echo in his spinning mind. "I don't want to imagine anymore, Jon." Those are the only words he's needed to hear. He's kissing her again, a deeper kiss, and her response is to grab a fistful of his shirt, tugging him closer. Her tongue meets with his in the most delicious of ways and Jon trails his other hand along her body, relishing in her soft curves and warm skin he can feel between the layers of her clothes. She lets out the most arousing whimper when he pulls back, though this time its to take her by the hand and lead her towards his bed.

Undressing her is a slow process- mostly for her sake, but partly for his own. He wants to savor every moment with her as much as he wants her to feel comfortable in anything that they do. She turns her back to him, giving him access to the laces of her gown, which he slowly unlaces while she glances at him over a shoulder. When she turns back around, the gown slips over her shoulders, revealing to him the expanse of her milky white shoulders. Inch by inch, she lets the gown slide from her body until its a puddle of cloth at her feet. Standing there in just her chemise, she blushes beneath his gaze, uncertain and shy in a moment such as this, which was just as enticing to him as her previous confidence had been.

Once again he takes her by the hand and draws her down onto the bed, following after her only once he's shed his shirt to the floor, where it joins her discarded gown. She lays against his pillow, red hair a fan beneath her head, blue eyes staring up at him as she smiles. Jon knows he loves her so beyond anything in this world, he knows he would do anything for her. Anything. Leaning over her, he captures her mouth and hopes, prays, wishes, that every unspoken thing between them is understood with that single kiss. Drawing back several moments later, her blue eyes are dark and damp, telling him that his message had reached her.

This time when he kisses her, he doesn't intend to stop.

[squishymoth]

Moth’s and Lorelei’s Veggie or Vegan Sandwich Tips:

To preface this I’m kind of a picky eater, especially about textures. Most delis in my area's offerings for vegetarians are made up of various roasted veggies, avocado and cucumber, resulting in a very GOOPY unappetizing sandwich. 

I also don’t subscribe to the idea that vegetarians should only eat vegetables,  and that fake meats are all flavorless and pointless. Most of the tastiest vegetarian sandwiches I’ve had include fake meats.

Nothing I’ve written here is crazy insightful or revolutionary but if anything here helps someone make a tasty vegetarian or vegan sammy I will be happy.

Additions specifically written by my lovely girlfriend Lorelei are marked (L) for Luigi.

Sandwich thoughts below the cut!

Fake Meat:

I will start with the cheaper, easier to find fake meats. Good vege sandwiches should be accessible IMO. I believe these brands will be more widely available and you won’t have to go to a specialty health food store to find em.

Morning Star Farms Bacon:

The MSF bacon is salty and savory and can be as crispy or chewy as you like. Just cook it a couple minutes on either side in a dry non-stick pan. I’m not sure that it tastes exactly like bacon, but it’s strong point is that it has a good flavor all on its own which is what I think defines any good vege meat.

Morning Star Chik Patties:

A great chik’n patty if you are looking for a crispy chicken sandwich, easy to cook in the skillet or the microwave (both ways come out tasty and crispy). Overall Morning Star has good stuff and is widely available.

 Tofurkey: 

really succeeds at a lunch meat texture and has a subtle savory flavor that allows it to support other sandwich ingredients. 

 Fancier Fake Meats:

Green Slice Meatless Deli Slices:

(WARNING not all of them are vegan some use egg white) I’ve often wondered why there was no vege ham alternative, on a recent grocery run I discovered there was one! Green Slice’s applewood smoked slice (I have only tried this flavor, but I’m sure the others are also good) these have a lovely very meat-like texture and flavor. My only quibble is that they are very small and there aren’t that many.

Sweet Earth Facon:

This bacon smells amazing and tastes very bacony. It is cooked in oil, make sure to use paper towel to blot off extra oil.

Light Life Smoky Tempeh Bacon:

Tempeh itself gets a bad rap (you have to cook it in a very specific way), but honestly for sandwiches tempeh is not worth using unless its smokey tempeh bacon. It has a lovely flavor, but it is a very different experience to the other two facons in this list. Imagine it as the contrast between your typical everyday bacon and a thick cut, pepper corn encrusted, artisanal bacon. It is thicker and chewier, but has a delicious smoky sweet flavor.

Tofu:

Pan Seared Tofu:

Ok if you’re really not into fake meats or you just like tasty tofu here is a home made, very tasty, and pretty all purpose recipe for a tofu sandwich filling. This recipe is from The Pho Cookbook by Andrea Nguyen. Best part about it, no need to press! Cooking it in the pan before adding oil drives off water super well, and gives a really unique tenderness. We eat this on it’s own, it’s that good!

Ingredients: firm tofu, 1 TBSP neutral oil, 1 TBSP soy sauce (optional in this case if it doesn’t fit the VIBE of your sandwich, if you leave out the soy sauce make sure to compensate with other umami ingredients in the sandwich) 

Instruction: cut your tofu into desired shape (triangle or domino or whatever) put them in a DRY non stick pan, and drizzle with soy sauce on both sides (if desired, salt and pepper could also be used). 

Cook on medium without disturbing the pieces for ~5 mins. 

Drizzle with oil and then flip them, allow the second side to cook for ~5 mins.

To check if the second side is ready try shaking the pan a little, if the tofu moves you can flip. If they are not to your desired brownness flip again and allow to continue cooking until you are satisfied. You are looking for a mottled brown color.

Crispy Tofu:

If you are looking for a crispier tofu here is a homegrown method that I’ve learned through trial and error, also a great addition to spring rolls.

Ingredients: firm tofu, neutral oil, salt and pepper (any other seasoning you like). OPTIONAL: a sauce as in orange sauce, teriyaki, or even BBQ (never tried BBQ but it could work.)

Instructions:

Most important thing for crispy tofu is to drain and PRESS IT. I would press it for between 15-20 minutes. Either cut up your pieces to desired shape and size before pressing or press the whole block if you want to prepare a big portion.

After they are pressed and the moisture is removed, season your tofu. I’ve experimented with rolling tofu in cornstarch to add an extra crispiness but it should crisp up on its own. You may just sprinkle your desired seasoning on both sides as you like. 

In a non stick pan fry tofu on both sides in oil (enough to coat your pan) on medium high heat until golden brown and crispy. When cooking tofu I’ve heard it’s good to leave it undisturbed before flipping to prevent bits sticking to the bottom and preserve inner softness. Try shaking the pan, if the tofu moves a bit it is not going to stick to the pan and lose it’s crispy outer layer. When they are finished cooking set the tofu on a paper towel to remove any excess oil.

OPTIONAL: in the last minutes of cooking add a sauce of your choosing, flip the tofu to coat.

Fats:

Avocado:

Avocado is a great addition to almost any sandwich, especially if you are vegan or lactose intolerant. It can easily take the place of cheese or mayo in 99% of sandwiches.

Vegan Cheese:

My girlfriend has tried MANY vegan cheeses and has found all of them to be disappointing. So we have no recommendations for vegan cheese. 

Garlic Butter:

A tasty spread to up your sandwiches flavor. we don’t have a recipe with EXACT measurements, this is all to taste. This can be applied to any sandwich for extra flavor and fat.

Ingredients:

A couple spoonfuls of Butter/Vegan butter

1 small garlic clove (or garlic powder)

Black pepper

Italian herb blend (or pretty much any green herb, fresh or dried [dried preferred] will be tasty)

Honey (if vegan just leave out the honey)

Instructions: In a small bowl grate your garlic clove into the butter, add all other seasonings and the optional honey, and mix. Make sure and taste, if you find it under flavored add more of the flavor stuff, if it is overpowering add more butter (this can keep in the fridge if you end up with too much). Then just spread the desired amount on your toasted bread.

(L) Mayonnaise:

Ok listen, it's stinky. But so is almost every cheese. It adds more of a feeling than a flavor, the fattiness can really uplift a lot of sandwiches, especially with tomato. But, if you are opposed to mayo for whatever reason, avocado, cheese, even olive oil, will fill this role. (not sure about vegan mayos but it can't be that hard to nail right? (Moth does not endorse this pro mayo stance)

(L) Vegan/Dairy freeRanch:

I don’t like ranch, but this homemade stuff really justifies it. I used normal mayo but it should work with vegan mayo. This is a very loose recipe, so tweak it to what works for you

½ cup mayonnaise (egg or plant based)

½ a lemons worth of juice

¼ cup oat milk (soy and almond milk don't play nice with savory flavor)

1 tsp garlic powder

Salt and pepper to taste

1 tbsp fine chopped fresh dill (or dried, or any green herb0

Whisk the mayo, milk, and lemon together. Add your herbs, and let it sit in the fridge overnight

This is the most important step, this time allows the garlic powder to rehydrate and the herbs to steep that give the ranch its signature flavor. Ranch is basically garlic powder sauce.

I have not tested this ratio much (ok fine at all), so trust your gut! 

Also fun fact,  juice of 1 lemon + 1 cup of oat milk + time = 1 cup of vegan buttermilk!

MISC:

Deli dressing:

You can buy this bottled in store or make your own at home easily. It will add that deli je ne sais quoi to a sandwich. Works best on a simple sandwich that might otherwise be lacking in flavor.

Ingredients:

Olive oil 

Red wine vinegar (any vinegar should do TBH)

Italian seasoning (again some dried oregano or other similar dried herbs should be fine)

Salt and pepper

OPTIONAL: put some vinegar hot sauce (tapatio, cholula, taco bell packet, etc) in that bad boy.

Instructions: mix it UP. This is another recipe that I usually just measure out by eye and taste

Falafel: I am not very experienced in making falafel so I don’t have a recipe on hand, but they are yummy.

Sprouts: a welcome addition to almost any sandwich, earthy, light and crunchy. They are also really easy to grow in a jar at home.

Pickles: love these funny dudes, they don't play well with sweeter sandwiches though. Use your judgement.

Chips: put em in there, 12 year olds know what they're doing.  

Dutch Crunch: objectively the best sandwich bread. 

Coleslaw: if you dislike coleslaw maybe you’ve only had a mayo based one. The only good coleslaw is vinegar based. Thin sliced cabbage, olive oil, vinegar of choice, honey (or vegan alternative) a spoonful of grainy mustard and salt and pepper. Great on a chik’n based sandwich.

Vegetarian Sandwich Ideas:

I don’t really have anything ground breaking here but here are some of the tastiest sandwiches I’ve made. If for some reason you want to try making one of these you can add or leave off anything you like. Salt and pepper all your sandwiches. And add cheese to any if you eat cheese!

BLAT or BLA:

To start this off, I don’t like tomatoes in sandwiches, I know I’m not correct, but you can add tomatoes if you want.

Ingredients: 

Garlic butter

iceberg lettuce (or any lettuce)

avocado

facon (my fav is morning star farms, a fancier facon such as smoky tempeh bacon is also good but has a completely different flavor and texture)

tomatoes (optional because I do not like them)

(L) TOMATO TIP: salt and pepper your tomatoes and let them sit a moment, also if its not tomato season cherry tomatoes are ur best bet for a decent tomato from the store.

Orange Tofu Sandwich:

A note: feel free to substitute a different sauce or to omit sauce entirely. The pan seared tofu makes a good sandwich filling without any extra sauce.

 Ingredients: pan seared tofu, crispy tofu, or gardein orange chikn nuggets (these come with a packet of orange sauce)

Orange sauce

Iceberg lettuce (other lettuces or even finely chopped cabbage will be good as well)

Avocado

Thin sliced sweet or bell pepper 

(L) Fancy “Ham” on Rye:

Ingredients:

Rye bread The rye bread adds a lovely funky herby note to the entire experience. Its what makes it fancy.

Green Slice applewood smoked(or any You could use tofurkey, but honestly if you find it/afford it green slice has an amazing texture and deep flavor that tofurkey doesn't. This is a simple fancy sandwich, splurging is gonna go a long way here.

Garlic Honey butter

Iceberg Lettuce (again or any other lettuce, or a mix with arugula and spinach)

Optional mayo: (L) i adore mayonnaise on this kind of sandwich, it really lets the other flavors shine. I havent tried it with avocado, my gut says it wouldnt work as good but I’m not a cop put some on there avocado is yummy. 

Optional cheese a sharp cheddar or fancy gruyere. 

Crispy Chik’n Sandwich:

Ingredients:

Morning Star Chik Patty (spicy one if ur spicy)

Facon (strong recommendation for morning star on this one) 

Vinegary vegan coleslaw (or any lettuce iceberg is recommended and easier on the fly)

Dill pickles (pickles+crispy chicken very yummy, we specify it on this one because its almost necessary for a spicy sandwich.)

Condiments of choice (ketchup, BBQ, honey, hot sauce etc)

Deli Style Sandwich:

A really basic sandwich, add whatever other sandwich fixings you like.

Ingredients:

Tofurkey

Sprouts

Iceberg lettuce

Sandwich dressing

Avocado 

Pickle or Cucumber

[alandofhoneyedfruits]

Reap What You Sow [5/?] Master Attendant & Unknown

[fxngsfxgarty]

though i am bruised

Inspired by a prompt from @alicethething

“You said something about swangs prompts? Bc idk bout you but I think there was plenty opportunity for some comfort after the ghoulfools dropped Fangs off a fucking stairwell :)”

Title from Cut My Lip by Twenty One Pilots.

Also available on AO3 here.

Fangs should be dead. He knows that much.

He would be dead, too, if not for his friends. For Jughead, who ran to catch him when Kurtz dropped him over the balcony, and for Sweet Pea, who was right at Jughead’s side. For the Serpents, the only ones he has left, the family he’ll have when Fogarty blood is spilled and drained and washed away, and he’s alone in the world again. No Serpent stands alone, no Serpent is left for dead. In unity, there is strength. All that’s left of all he knows lies with the two friends that remain.

Jughead is long gone now, picking up the pieces, chasing down assailants and probably exacting revenge on Fangs’ behalf. Sweet Pea, who bore the brunt of Fangs’ weight as he fell, is still here, though, lying still in the early evening light inside their tent - asleep, perhaps, or just keeping his eyes closed so Fangs can’t see he’s in pain. It could be either. Usually, Fangs would expect the latter, but these days, he’s not so sure of anything. But he needs to know, so he grits his teeth and rolls onto his side, wincing as his back kicks up another complaint, hot and sharp and stiffening by the minute. It could be worse, he reminds himself, it could be a broken neck, a damaged spine, paralysis. Even death.

“Pea.”

“Mm?” Sweet Pea opens his eyes almost immediately; he sounds sleepy, but not asleep, so Fangs doesn’t feel too bad about disturbing him.

“Jus’ wanted to make sure you weren’t dead,” Fangs admits. “We’re good.” But instead of falling onto his back again, he carries on turning. In the small space inside the tent, he’s almost immediately resting against Sweet Pea, head on his chest, nose buried in a crease in the faded flannel he’s wearing. It smells like motor oil, and the lingering smoke from their nightly campfires. Soothing, almost. Fangs remembers how that same smell had enveloped him when he hit the hallway floor, and how he’d been convinced that that was heaven, just eternity of Sweet Pea Sweet Pea Sweet Pea, like sleeping curled close to him forever. And then his brain had caught up with his body and his body fucking hurt and the little dream was over.

He still hurts. Not like getting shot, but a different kind of hurt, a full-body feeling of something-is-wrong even when he doesn’t move. When he does move, he’s hit with an unpleasant reminder that he probably shouldn’t, that seeing a doctor or going to urgent care might be a good idea, but they don’t have that kind of money and he’s pretty sure he couldn’t get on a bike or in a car right now. He doesn’t remember getting back from school, but he thinks maybe somebody carried him to a borrowed backseat, and there’s a vague memory of Jughead and Sweet Pea lowering him down to his bedroll, and Sweet Pea’s face blurring in and out of focus above him as he layered his shivering body in blankets.

He’s still shaky now, not cold, just freaking out a little bit over the fact that, y’know, he’s had yet another brush with death. His best friend must notice, because there’s a slight shift in the warm body beneath him, and then Sweet Pea’s arms are firmly around him, one over his waist and the other slipped under his neck for support. Soothing fingers are brushing through his hair, and he shuts his eyes tight, hoping that’ll be enough to keep the hot tears at bay. He briefly hears a weird choking noise, and wonders what it might be, but before he can ask, Sweet Pea is gently shushing him.

“Don’t cry, Fangs, c’mon,” he murmurs, and Fangs realises the noises are muffled sobs and they’re coming from him.

“I don’t wanna die, man,” he forces out, trying to get closer to his friend even though they’re already pressed up so close in a tent barely meant for two. “I’m not a damn cat, I don’t got nine lives and I already used up two. Maybe three if you count halves, like initiation night, and the Poisons in Pop’s parking lot.” He still has butterfly stitches across his brow and the lingering headache from the night the girls ambushed them. There’ll be scars, mental if not physical. It’s crazy how things build up and up and up until it all comes crashing down around his ears.

“You’re not gonna die while I’m around,” Sweet Pea sighs, his hold on Fangs tightening just a little. “We’re still sworn to protect each other. I’m not gonna give up on you… Someday, you’re gonna be okay.”

That only makes Fangs cry harder, and for a few minutes, neither of them says another word. Fangs grips Sweet Pea’s shirt until his knuckles turn white, like he’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. Sweet Pea rubs circles into Fangs’ back, his touch light and caring; he knows Fangs’ pain goes far beyond the physical one, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to forget about it. He comforts him until his shoulders stop shuddering at every choking, badly-hidden sob, until he can feel hot tears soaking through his shirt, until Fangs is quiet and breathing almost evenly.

“I’m with you,” he says softly, so quietly Fangs isn’t quite sure he’s not imagining it. “I have been since we met, and I will be til the end. It’s more than oaths and laws when it comes to me and you.” Fangs nods. He’d protect any Serpent with knives and fists and curses, but Sweet Pea is all of that and more. 

The taller boy just keeps on talking. “You’re gonna be okay. This hurt, it’ll pass like all the others. You always come out on top. You’re the strongest person I ever met. If bullets can’t stop you, neither can some greasy, junkie freak with a god complex.”

Fangs exhales, almost a laugh, complete with a shaky smile as he nuzzles Sweet Pea. “Shut up,” he murmurs. “I’m not all you talk me up to me.” “Sure you are.” Sweet Pea shrugs the shoulder Fangs isn’t leaning on, so he doesn’t jostle him too much. “You’re incredible. You’re something else.”

Fangs pauses before speaking his mind. “You’re kinda all I got… You’re my everything. Love you.”

Sweet Pea presses a kiss to his forehead. Again, it’s so soft Fangs fancies that he’s imagining it, but he knows he’ll remember it in the morning regardless.

Outside, the rapidly-darkening evening bursts into a soft orange glow - someone’s lit the campfire.

“You wanna go outside?” Sweet Pea asks quietly.

Fangs shakes his head. “Don’t want them right now. Just wanna stay with you.”

He gazes up at the thin blue fabric of their tent, imagines the night sky beyond and the stars coming out like the way the firelight reflects in Sweet Pea’s eyes. He doesn’t need a fire to keep warm when he gets to drift to sleep in his embrace.

[mensbodybuildingtips]

How to Get Rid of Loose Skin After Weight Loss

If you're taking care of the problem of loosened skin, particularly after major weight loss, right here's just what you could do about it.

Have you broke your butt for months as well as months to drop weight just to be left with handfuls of hideous loose skin?

Do you would like to know at last just what it takes to tighten this skin and also display that brand-new body you have actually worked so tough for?

If so, then this write-up is for you!

First, allow me state that I comprehend exactly how frustrating the loose skin problem is. It's very inhibiting to really feel like you're doing whatever right without obtaining the outcomes you actually desire.

Some people might say to quit stressing over just how you look as well as just be delighted with exactly what you have actually obtained, yet I have a difficult time with guidance like that.

Sure, some people develop undesirable fascinations with looks and picture, but there's absolutely nothing wrong with wishing to have a lean, solid, healthy body that looks as well as feels great. In truth, I would certainly reach stating that everyone must have that experience.

And so in this short article, we're mosting likely to take an extensive take a look at the loosened skin concern and also see what can be done about it.

The Trouble isn't Constantly Loose or Excess Skin

While there are legitimate cases of excess skin after weight-loss, just what many individuals assume hangs or excess skin is really just excess body fat, which is soft as well as jiggly and quickly mistaken as skin.

There's a simple method to inform if you're handling real loose skin or way too much body fat.

Pinch the location you're worried about as well as if you can get hold of greater than a couple of millimeters of skin, there's more fat in there to lose.

Until you shed that fat, your skin has no factor to return to its previous size and also tautness. Bear in mind that skin isn't really a curtain of passive, inert flesh-it's a living body organ that adapts to its interior and external environments. As long as the fat it's affixed to remains, it will certainly sag.

If you're a man, I wouldn't take into consideration surgical treatment to take care of loosened skin up until you've struck 10% body fat. If you're a woman, 20% is the number.

These are the body fat ranges where your subcutaneous fat degrees come to be reduced sufficient to precisely examine the state of your skin. As well as possibilities are simply getting lean sufficient will solve the entire problem.

If, however, a person reaches this reduced level of body fat and his/her skin is practically paper thin as well as looks like crinkly papyrus, after that it truly refers excess skin, and could be taken care of accordingly.

Now, one point you should know is that specific fat shops are more difficult to shed compared to others. The scientific research is rather complicated, and also I study it below, but also for the function of this post all you need to recognize is the fat in certain locations of our body is tougher to lose compared to the fat in others.

Not together, these 'stubborn' fat stores stick to the areas frequently related to loose or excess skin troubles: the reduced abdomen, lower back (love takes care of), hips, thighs, and butt.

What many people think is loosened skin is just excess amounts of stubborn fat.

Now, you cannot directly 'target' persistent fat shops with unique diet regimen or training methods, however you could make use of a number of strategies to assist remove them much faster. I discuss every little thing here.

Building Muscle and Minimizing Excess Skin

A big part of tightening up loose skin is developing muscle. The factor for this is simple.

There are two layers of tissue below your skin: fat and also muscle, both which press against your skin as well as keep it from sagging loosely.

When you acquire a huge quantity of weight, your skin needs to increase a fair bit to suit the increase in body size. When you lose the fat, nonetheless, as well as particularly when you lose it promptly, your skin does not necessarily reduce at the exact same price as your fat cells. This discrepancy can cause loose skin.

Furthermore, numerous individuals utilize numerous types of starvation diet programs along with large amounts of cardio to lose fat, which additionally causes substantial muscular tissue loss, further broadening deep space between the skin and the underlying tissue.

The outcome is a minimized body fat percentage but a little, soft physique with drooping skin. The 'slim fat' appearance, as it's called.

Building muscle is the remedy to all these woes because it actually completes the looseness in the skin, producing a visibly tighter, healthier look.

This suggestions applies to both people that have already lost a lot of weight and those that are just beginning. If you're presently dealing with issues of loosened skin, you ought to start raising weights. If you're starting a weight loss routine, be sure to include weight training in it.

Remember the objective isn't just to lose weight yet to lose fat and not muscle.

Improving Skin Elasticity

If your skin loses elasticity-its capability to broaden as well as diminish as needed-it can not go back to its correct dimension. This occurs normally as we age but it could affect more youthful people. What can you do to enhance it?

Several things, actually.

Stop smoking.

As if there weren't currently adequate reasons to stop cigarette smoking, below's an additional: it ruins your skin.

A research study from scientists at the International Association of Ecologic Dermatology assessed the skin of 64 women Italian cigarette smokers for the presence of lines, vascular as well as pigmentation state, elasticity, brightness, and also texture.

The first evaluation exposed that the ordinary organic age of research individuals was 9 years older compared to their chronological age. After 9 months of not smoking cigarettes, nevertheless, the average decrease in the organic age of the skin was 13 years.

The profits is this: if you desire healthy and balanced, vivid skin, you have to steer clear of from cigarettes.

Eat enough protein.

Research shows a relationship between healthy protein intake and skin youthfulness and also wellness. Low-protein diet programs is related to poorer skin health than high-protein weight loss, which aids decrease wrinkles, dryness, as well as skin atrophy.

Eat your fruits and vegetables.

Your body needs a large range of minerals and vitamins to accomplish the millions of organic procedures that maintain you active and also healthy, and also consuming a number of portions of vegetables and fruits each day is the only reputable way to provide everything your body needs.

In terms of skin specifically, research study has actually revealed that greater consumption of fruits as well as vegetables are related to healthier, good-looking skin.

Consider supplementation.

No tablets or powders are mosting likely to offer you a 'quick repair' for your loosened skin, but there are several supplements that may help. Let's look at each.

Gelatin

A research performed by scientist at Stanford College found that supplementing with 250 mg of jelly daily enhanced skin elasticity.

Getting jelly in your diet can be a little challenging, though, unless you enjoy eating a variety of odd foods like oxtail, chicken feet, or brief ribs. Supplementing is the simplest means to go here, and also here's the product I would directly utilize (CURRENTLY Foods is a credible firm):

Fish Oil

Among fish oil's numerous health advantages is the improvement of skin elasticity, as well as a significant improvement can be seen in as couple of as 3 months.

A premium fish oil is one of the most effective all-around supplements you could take to maintain health and wellness and safeguard against illness, however not all fish oils are equal.

There are 2 vital things to consider when selecting one:

You need to know just how the oil has actually been processed.

There are two types of fish oil on the marketplace today: the triglyceride type and also the ethyl ester form.

The triglyceride type is fish oil in its natural state, and the ethyl ester kind is a processed variation of the triglyceride type that includes a particle of ethanol (alcohol).

While lots of researches have confirmed the benefits of supplementation with fat ethyl esters (FAEEs), research study has shown that the triglyceride form is better soaked up by the body.

One of the reasons for this is the ethyl ester form is far more immune to the enzymatic procedure by which the body breaks the oil down for use.

Another drawback to the ethyl ester form is during the digestive procedure, your body transforms it back to the triglyceride type, which causes the launch of the ethanol molecule.

Although the dosage is small, those with alcohol level of sensitivity or dependency can be negatively impacted. Research has actually supplied evidence of mobile and also natural poisoning and also injury resulting from the ingestion of FAEEs.

You desire to understand the EPA/DHA material of each serving.

Because of the varying quality of fish oils on the market, it's essential that you look at how lots of milligrams of EPA and also DHA (omega-3 fatty acids) are really in each serving.

Lower-quality supplements may have as little as 150 - 200 mg each 1 gram of fat, which makes them virtually pointless as you have to take much too many every day to obtain sufficient omega-3s (you want a minimum of 2 - 3 g of omega-3s each day).

A top quality fish oil can be quite a bit more money than a low-quality one, but when you check out just how much you're obtaining for that money in terms of omega-3 fatty acids, the price makes more sense.

For instance, below's the label from an affordable, low-grade (ethyl ester) fish oil product:

This item costs regarding $11, and comes with 100 pills consisting of 300 mg of omega-3 fats each. This indicates you're obtaining 30 g of omega-3 fats each bottle, and paying concerning 37 cents per gram.

Now, below's the tag from a high-grade triglyceride fish oil item that I make use of, Nordic Naturals' Ultimate Omega ( and FYI, I have no partnership with Nordic Naturals):

This item costs concerning $40, as well as includes 120 tablets having 640 mg of omega-3 fatty acids each.

This implies you're getting about 77 g of omega-3 fats each container, and paying about 52 cents per gram.

So, as you can see, the first cost difference of $11 vs. $40 isn't really as extreme when you check out just what you're getting: 37 cents per gram of low-quality oil that isn't really most likely to deliver all the benefits you're looking for vs. 52 cents each gram for the highest-quality oil on the marketplace that will.

In regards to dose, 1 to 3 g of omega 3 fatty acids (not fish oil but the omega Sixes themselves) suffices for many objectives. Right here's the product I directly utilize and like:

What Regarding 'Weight-loss Tablets'?

The US weight-loss market is absolutely enormous (worth nearly $61 billion since 2011), as well as weight-loss tablets make up about $1.5 billion of that pie.

When people are investing that kind of loan, matter on the hucksters and also shysters to be operating in force.

The outcome is, well, what we see in the marketplace: an absolute excess of weight loss items and also dietary routines, all advertised as far better compared to the next.

This could make fat burning a very complex, discouraging, and also expensive endeavor.

Well, the first thing you must understand is that NO pill will certainly cause you to amazingly shed weight. You have to manage your caloric intake to slim down (you have to feed your body less energy compared to it burns everyday).

That claimed, in this article, I review the components in a selection of prominent "weight reduction pills" and reveal you which could accelerate weight reduction when combined with an appropriate diet regimen, which don't, and which researchers are not sure of.

The Profits on Loose Skin and also Weight Loss

In some situations, there is no other way to completely remove loosened skin without surgical procedure. Before you drop that roadway, however, comply with the suggestions in this article and also see where you're at:

Get to 10% body fat (men)/ 20% body fat (ladies)

Build a substantial quantity of muscle mass to replace a few of the 'area' left from the fat loss

Don't smoke

Adopt a high-protein diet

Eat a number of portions of vegetables and fruits every day

Use supplements confirmed to aid if your budget sustains it

If you do all these points and continue to be individual, there's an excellent chance you could dramatically decrease and even remove your loosened skin issue without going under the knife.