#the slimmening

[capriciouscaprine]

omggg, all my family does is EAT!

we got together after the end of the semester, but instead of doing something, we had dinner

they invited me over for the next day by telling me what they were making for dinner

we got together for christmas, and (all at home) had brunch, chocolates while we played two board games, and then started making and then ate dinner

I went to see relatives with my mom, and we had pastries and cake and dinner, with most of the activities being cooking and then one small wander around the yard

today, they invited me out again, specifically to go to a chain restaurant

FIVE DAYS IN A ROW where all of the genuinely planned activities were EATING!!!

and then my mom was mentioning to me that my sister (who is very active and slender but also now over 25) had 'admitted to' gaining weight and needing larger pants

you know, the same woman who keeps agonizing over being a bit larger than she was in college

and worrying about her husband's health but not actually getting him specific treatment for his joints

please, be so for real for serious

[iheartericmatthews]

The World's Biggest Wiener

Hi!! I'm alive!! Now READ MY FANFIC. DO IT.

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Link on A03

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: Jack and Eric go on a road trip to Nevada to see a national treasure.

Deep in the American southwest there is myth in the sky. Dark, dry trees with their twisted branches stand like frozen bodies of ancient shamans reenacting ancient legends. Giant saguaros loom large and still as creatures feed on their bodies, building homes inside their hearts. The arid earth cracks and sizzles like a flame.

It is a land of contrast: freezing nights punctuate scorching days, crimson deserts sweep into ruddy canyons on a deep blue backdrop. Those who’ve seen it say it’s something of another world, and are compelled to write stories of untamed frontiers and the outlaws expelled to them.

Jack and Eric were just there for the wieners.

Well actually, just the one. The “World's Biggest Wiener”— a supposedly ‘colossal’ statue of a hotdog— had been unveiled just a couple months prior in the middle of the desert, and news of it rapidly wiggled its way across the nation. The Post, the Times, the Meskokie Informer- it seemed that every big city and every small town in the United States wanted some good ol’ fashioned weinering.

That’s how it came to be that Eric Matthews, one incredibly hot day in July, burst into his and Jack Hunter’s shared Philadelphia living room, opening the door with a violent “bang!” he stuck a newspaper into his roommate’s flushed face, and declared:

“JACK, WE’RE GOING TO NEVADA.”

…

They wouldn’t rent to 22 year olds- not one place. Enterprise, Alamo, Budget, Mr Feeny and even his own parents- all these were a few in the ever-growing list of entities Eric now considered part of a conspiracy to keep him away from the dong.

(Oops- I mean dog. Hot dog.)

This, of course, only spurred him on more. Nothing could get between Eric and his wiener. As he tore through every place that even hinted at a car rental in Philadelphia, it was Jack who ultimately got the hookup.

He appeared one day, entering through the doorway of their apartment with his hands tucked suspiciously in his pockets. Eric had been curled up on the couch, watching 90210 reruns, trying to be a man and not pout after he’d been forcibly removed from yet another rental car agency. One more restraining order and they’d told him he'd be put on a watchlist. Honestly, Eric was less worried about the whole watchlist business than he was about his ever-slimmening prospects of ever getting to see a record-breaking wiener.

Jack subtly tried creeping up to Eric, hands still planted firmly in his pockets. Still, though Eric was known to be a fool, when it came to Jack Hunter he was nothing if not perceptive.

“Whatcha got there, Jackie?” he asked, feigning nonchalance by not taking his eyes off the tv, though Jack knew the flames of curiosity had already been kindled.

A stupid grin broke out on Jack’s face as he padded over to Eric on the couch.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Eric raised an eyebrow, watching as Jack took a seat next to him on the couch.

“Just trust me man” Jack said, the smile not leaving his face.

Eric cautiously closed his eyes and said: “Okay, but if this turns out to be ANYTHING like the whipped cream situation I’m never trusting you again.”

Jack chuckled “I was the one on the receiving end of that, you dork.”

“That doesn’t matter!!” Eric quipped dismissively.

There was a rustling sound as Jack brought whatever he was hiding out of the pockets of his cargo shorts, and Eric felt something being dangled just a few inches from his face. On the tv you could hear Luke Perry and Shannon Doherty making out aggressively.

After a long pause of Eric not taking the hint, Jack said, a little exasperatedly: “You can open your eyes now.”

Eric cracked one eye open slightly. From between the blurriness of his lash line he could make out blobs of silver and black, catching the light like a shiny wind chime. He opened his eyes a little more and now he could see the object dangling from Jack’s hands was, in fact, a key fob.

“NO WAY.” Eric shrieked, eyes fluttering open all the way.

“We are the proud, temporary owners of a 1995 Toyota Camry.” Jack announced with pride.

“I- WE-” Eric stammered, speechless, overwhelmed with gratitude and excitement he gesticulated like crazy. Before either of them knew what was happening he grabbed Jack’s cheeks in his hands and brought their lips together in a firm, brief kiss.

It was certainly nothing to write home about. It was mushy and full of saliva and even bits of teeth. Over as soon as it started, it was the grossest kiss of either of their lives. When he pulled away Jack's eyes were still closed.

“Jack!! Do you know what this means???” Eric exhaled, breathlessly, face flushed as the realization of what he just did set in.

Jack didn’t seem bothered- the dumb smirk was still on his face, and his eyes were just slightly glassy. “Hmm?” he hummed.

“We’re um…” Eric sat back a little so he wasn’t so close to Jack, so he was no longer so close he could feel his body heat. “You, me and the weiner! We’re going to Reno, baby!!”

…

Five days and 6 hours later found them at a gas station that looked like it was straight out of 1958. It was all vaguely reminiscent of a Quantum-Leap-type situation.

The hot sun blanketed everything, reflecting off the ground and the polished metal finish that covered almost everything there- from the pumps to the giant Texaco sign staring imposingly out at the mesa. The silence was so profound that in between the rare car thundering down the state route, they could hear the ringing of their nervous systems and the thump thump of the hot blood in their veins.

As the car guzzled gas from the pump, Eric leaned against the car. His shades were pushed up to his head, pushing his bangs away from his eyes and furrowed brow. He held the fully unfolded Rand McNally in front of him, attempting to appear as if he were considering the route.

Yet it was hard to do any considering… considering he found his eyes wandering from the map to the man leaning against the pump in front of him. Jack’s arms were crossed over his chest as he looked listlessly out into the desert. Over the past few days his skin had darkened, and freckled at the bridge of his nose. A permanent blush of a mild sunburn dusted the exposed flats of his forehead and cheeks, as well as the base of his neck near his collarbone. His hair had grown a bit shaggier and longer over the summer, and now lightened slightly where the sun had bleached it.

He was doing sort of a James Dean thing with his white tee and his blue jeans. That shirt had to be illegal, Eric thought. There had to be a county ordinance that said “one shall not wear shirts that cling too tightly in all the right places.” It had to be dangerous for people’s safety- it surely was for Eric’s. Eric squinted his eyes and wrinkled his nose, trying and failing to shoo away all the vague images in his head of him confiscating Jack's felony of a t-shirt, pinning him to the ground and maybe putting him in handcuffs. Get a grip, dude. He thought to himself, quickly schooling his expression and looking back at the map. He hadn’t jerked off in a week. It certainly hadn’t helped that this whole trip it’d been hours of proximity in the car and Jack right next to him all day with his tight shirts and the heat and all the close contact and this talk about weiners and bangers was driving Eric nuts.

The kiss, disgusting though it was, certainly hadn’t made things easier either.

Last night he’d woken up gasping into his pillow from an especially vivid dream where Jack had been pressing him into cheap motel sheets, skin to warm skin like a gust of desert wind against his body- one that offered only an imitation of relief, so deceptive in its proximity to reality. Now when he looked at Jack's arms- followed the vein from his knuckles up his forearm he couldn’t help remembering how they’d felt in his dream, dry and firm sweeping over his rib, holding him close, holding him down. He wondered how it’d feel to have the real thing on him.

The thoughts were shooed away as quickly as they’d come. This certainly wasn’t anything new to Eric. He’d been perfecting this particular routine since he was nineteen. They said if you spent 10,000 hours doing something, you’d become an expert— if that were true, then Eric had to be a god at suppressing any and all Jack-Hunter-related urges.

“Whatcha looking at?” Jack’s voice bounced through the dry silence like a stray tumbleweed bush over a flat.

Eric startled slightly, a little too aware of just how long he’d been staring. His head snapped toward Jack, his face a carefully constructed mask of faux indifference. “Hmm?” He forced out, attempting to sound casual, waving a hand in the air as if to shoo the question away, along with all his indecent thoughts. “Oh, you know, just checking the map. Gotta make sure we’re heading in the right direction, y’know?” He flashed his best smile, the one that usually got him out of trouble.

Jack just raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything nor look away.

Eric shifted uncomfortably. “What?”

Jack shrugged. “Must be a pretty interesting map.”

Something about the way he said it— just a little too amused, a little too smug— made Eric suspicious. He narrowed his eyes. “What are you looking at, man? Do I have something on my face?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Jack let the words hang in the air before tilting his head slightly. “You sure you’re getting much out of that map, buddy?”

Eric frowned, glancing down at the sheet of paper in his hands. “Uh, yeah? I wasn’t born yesterday, dude. I think I know how to read a map.”

Jack’s smirk deepened. “Even upside-down?”

Eric blinked. Looked again.

Sure enough, the map was upside-down.

Eric just huffed wordlessly as he straightened out the map. Somehow, at that moment the only gust of wind they’d felt since getting out of the car blew, causing the paper to fold over itself and get all twisted around. He didn’t even know paper could twist before. He furrowed his brow as he straightened everything out, and Jack tried not to giggle. Eric suddenly felt way too overstimulated. The heat, the cramp in his leg, the lingering embarrassment he’d felt since the kiss, much less the embarrassment of pushing back his stupid thoughts for the last 4 years and now Jack was trying not to laugh at him? The gall!

“You know what, Jackie-boy?” Eric burst out, voice high and sharp. Jack’s eyebrows shot up at the nickname. “I don’t need this! I really don’t!” Eric continued, folding up the map hastily, and very incorrectly. “You always think you just know sooo much better than me! Like ‘Oh, poor Eric, can’t even read a map, let’s all laugh at Eric!’”

Jack laughed out loud. “Hey I’m not the one who’s-“

“Ah-- n-n-n! Let me finish!” Eric jabbed a finger at Jack, bringing it right up close to the man's lips. Jack crossed his eyes, looking at the accusatory digit like it was a foreign object, brow furrowing. Realizing what he was doing, Eric yanked his hand back, as if scalded.

He huffed, pacing now. “If Jack Hunter’s so much better at everything, maybe I should just stop helping altogether, huh? See how you like it! I bet you’d loooove that, wouldn’t you?”

Jack, for once, looked genuinely concerned. “Eric, I—”

Eric tutted: “I don’t wanna hear it!! I don’t wanna talk about it! Let’s- let's just find a place to crash and call it a night, okay?”

He knew he was being irrational, and yelling wouldn’t make anything better. He was already starting to feel a little bad. Jack couldn’t possibly realize what Eric was all worked up about- he didn’t deserve this.

But he wasn’t ready to address all that just yet.

Jack raised both hands in surrender.

“Alright, jeez man. Whatever you say.”

…

They got to the motel three hours later. They would’ve been there in two, but Jack got lost twice. Eric might’ve gloated just a little. Not outright, of course– just a quiet little hum of satisfaction, a well-timed stretch, a barely restrained smirk when Jack finally had to pull over and admit defeat.

The Pine Lodge (aptly named, considering there wasn’t a tree in sight) sat at the end of a gravel lot, its neon VACANCY sign flickering like it was reconsidering the claim. The parking lot was almost entirely filled, and Eric wondered if the other rooms were taken by other unsuspecting drivers who’d had their maps upside down too. Inside, the lobby smelled like bad coffee and faintly of eau de mold. A dusty plastic plant drooped in the corner. Eric didn’t even know plastic could droop. Wasn’t that the whole appeal of buying a fake plant instead of a real one?

The woman at the front desk– Betty, as the faded cursive font on her yellowing nametag read– barely looked up from her crossword as they approached. She was portly, with deep crow’s feet and a deep burgundy perm piled up in a beehive. The default sneer on her plum-lipsticked lips melted, though, the minute she saw Jack.

“My my, well, aren’t you a looker,” she said in a voice that smoked at least a pack a day, batting her square, fake eyelashes. “How can I help you, gorgeous?”

“Thank you, miss. Just a room for the night.” Jack responded sweetly before grinning and turning to Eric. In a low voice, he murmured, “You hear that, Eric?” He nudged his friend. “A looker.”

Eric let out a sharp breath through his nose, crossing his arms. “Yeah, yeah. A real Abacus.” He frowned. “Adobo? Adentist?” He shook his head. “Whatever, you know what I mean- the Greek guy.”

Beth reached for a key from the pegboard behind her, the little tin room number jingling as she dangled it in front of them. “It’s our last one,” she said, dropping the key into Eric’s open palm, her fire-engine-red acrylics clicking against the metal.

“Oh– and you fellas’ll have to share the bed,” she added, like it was an afterthought.

"WHAT" Eric exclaimed in a voice much too loud to be appropriate for a lobby. His wild gaze flicked between her, then Jack, then back at her again. “You’re kidding!”

Betty made a face at Eric before turning to Jack and saying, in the most saccharine voice a woman pushing 60 could manage, “Well, unless your friend would like to stay with me…”

Jack snatched the key out of Eric’s hand before he could think too hard about that offer. “C’mon, roomie.”

Eric threw up his hands. “Unbelievable! I'm talking to your manager! I'll write to corporate!”

“I am corporate.” Betty sneered, unimpressed.

"Excuse him- he's in a mood…" Jack apologized as he dragged Eric forcibly out of the lobby and towards their room.

…

The room looked like someone had eviscerated the ’80s. Like a murder scene designed by Joan Kessler. The loud florals rippled on the wall like an optical illusion—Eric vaguely remembered reading a story about cursed wallpaper in high school. Something about it driving a woman insane. Yeah- he could see it. He gave the walls a wary glance, half-expecting them to start whispering and falling apart.

The whole scene was so garish, so violently ugly, that for a brief moment, Eric forgot he was mad at Jack. “Hey Jack, I think this place might be haunted.”

Jack, completely unbothered, tossed his bag onto the bed, making the mattress wheeze like it had just been punched in the gut. “Hey, it’s got character.”

“Yeah? So does asbestos. And let me tell ya- it’s not nice.” Eric scowled.

His eyes flicked to the single bed– single! As if the night wasn’t already bad enough. Suddenly remembering he was, in fact, still very much pissed at Jack, Eric squared his shoulders. “Oh, and I am so not sharing the bed with you!”

Jack scoffed, already sitting on the edge of the bed, taking off his shoes. “Come on, dude, don’t be a baby.”

Eric crossed his arms. “Nuh uh. No way. You can’t get me into bed that easily.”

Jack smirked. “You know this isn’t the worst thing we’ve done together. Not by far.”

Eric opened his mouth, then thought better of it. Unfortunately, Jack was right. But, he also didn’t want to take a trip down memory lane right now. Remembering all the close contact they’ve had over the years might…distract him. And distraction might lead to forgiveness, which Eric was trying very hard to avoid right now. Instead, he made a grand show of dragging the rickety desk chair to the corner of the room and plopping down in it, arms still stubbornly crossed.

“Don’t care. Still angry at you. Night night!”

Jack sighed, rolling his eyes as he flopped back onto the bed, making it protest even louder. “Suit yourself, drama queen.”

…

When he woke up, Eric was decidedly horizontal. Which was strange, considering the last thing he remembered before boarding the sleep train was his head nodding forward onto his chest as he sat upright in the chair.

Not only that, but something heavy and warm was draped over his shoulders, flush against his back. When Eric’s mind finally caught up to his senses, he realized his feet were tangled with somebody else’s.

Jack’s feet.

At first, he searched for a reasonable reaction one would have when confronted with this situation. What would a normal person feel? He should be mad, or maybe grossed out– definitely a little embarrassed. But he was a freak, and it felt good. Here he was- presented with the exact scenario he’d imagined waking up to nearly every evening for the past four years. Four years of tamping it down, of drowning it out, of pretending it didn’t exist. Almost 20% of his life, given willingly to the person who encircled him now physically as he had metaphorically, in the criss-crossing of his veins and the pattern of their pulse. So, who could blame him for savoring it, when given the chance? The feel of Jack’s heartbeat against his back, the way his chin dug into Eric’s shoulder- who could blame him for wanting this for just a little longer?

But, just as he felt comfortable in his best friend’s arms- he also felt guilty. He had to get out of this position. For both their sakes. He didn’t want to embarrass himself further, or worse to make Jack feel uncomfortable- to do anything remotely in the territory of taking advantage. But when Eric tried to shift away, Jack just pulled him in tighter, as though he didn’t want to let go.

Rationally, he knew better- the fact that he was now firmly embraced by Jack meant nothing- the man was probably still asleep, his arm just falling where it fell. Yet, he couldn’t help the way his heart skipped a bit, and his breath caught in his throat at the thought that it could mean something. If only…

“Just a minute, okay?” Jack muttered, his voice thick with sleep, nose tickling Eric’s neck, warm breath settling on his pulse point. “I wanna talk to you.”

Eric’s thundering heart began to do somersaults. He could feel it in his eardrums, he could see it in sparks behind his eyes. Jack Hunter was holding him. He was holding him because he wanted to.

“Sure,” Eric said quietly, almost too quietly, as if speaking any louder might make Jack come to his senses.

“Are you still upset about that stupid fight we had yesterday?” Jack asked, his voice rough.

Eric shrugged, or as much as he could in this position. “I don’t wanna force you to be anywhere you don’t wanna be, man.” He sighed, the words coming out more tired than he expected.

Jack let out a long sigh and loosened his grip on Eric’s upper body, much to Eric’s dismay, before bringing his hand up to cautiously tuck Eric’s hair behind his ear. Eric almost keened at the touch. He wrinkled his nose involuntarily to avoid leaning into where Jack's fingertips had run- he was sure Jack had seen his ears wiggle just a little.

Then, Jack’s voice dropped low, right by Eric’s ear, lips brushing just above his pulse. “What if I told you I don’t wanna be anywhere but here with you?”

If Eric’s heart was doing somersaults just a second ago- now it was doing an entire gymnastics routine. He swallowed hard, still trying to mask how this was all affecting him. He couldn’t let himself believe it, couldn’t let himself get carried away, not yet. It could still be some weird game, a fluke– these things just didn’t happen to him.

“Not even getting to third base with Pam Anderson?” Eric joked, a little awkwardly, subconsciously thinking that maybe by avoiding the situation nothing bad could happen.

Jack pulled back just a little, but Eric still felt it. Jack exhaled, humor in his voice: “She’s not my type.”

At that, Eric raised his eyebrows. Some of his self-consciousness started to melt away, replaced by the sheer absurdity of it all. “Oh, come on– she’s everybody’s type.” he scoffed.

“Eric, dude,” Jack said, shaking his head like Eric was being intentionally dense, “how obvious do I have to be?”

“Obvious about what?” Eric said breathlessly on an inhale.

“For fuck’s sake, man.” Jack’s voice dropped, gravelly and tinged with frustration. “I practically throw myself at you. I mean, I packed my sluttiest t-shirts for this trip just in the hope that you might look a little longer.”

He pulled Eric even closer, his chest pressing hard against Eric’s back, the heat of Jack’s body seeping into his skin. Jack’s breath brushed against his ear, and as he whispered Eric could hear the smirk in his voice: “And don’t even pretend like you haven’t been ogling my hot bod. I’ve seen you— you're the worst ogler on the planet.”

“Am not!” Eric protested, a blush creeping up his neck, his voice cracking in a way that betrayed him. Then, realizing what he’d implied, he added, “And anyways, I don’t ogle. I assess.”

“Sure you do.” Jack’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

The conversation lulled, but Jack kept holding Eric. Eric, in turn, wanted to kiss Jack. He wanted to kiss him really bad. Like, more than anything in his whole pathetic life. A tsunami of images lashed him—he was powerless against the onslaught of thoughts of them together. Would it really be that bad to let it happen? He had an idea of what was coming. He thought he knew what Jack was thinking, too. It’s the thing that was making him stay still- he knew his next move would mean turning around and kissing the life out of Jack- he was scared they’d have to pry him off once he got the chance. So, he needed that final confirmation from Jack, that this is what they were gonna do. That this is what he wanted. That he’d let him.

“Eric, I gotta ask you something, ‘cause it’s been killing me for the last week.”

Eric’s chest tightened in anticipation “Oh yeah?” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, despite his body being primed like a live wire.

Say it.

“Yeah.” Jack paused, his voice quieter now, like he was shy or something “That time... when I got the car back in Philly. Did you mean it? When you kissed me?”

“Yeah.” Eric confirmed without hesitation. “I did.”

There was a pause. He felt Jack’s nose against his neck. His hot breath.

“Do you think we could do it again?”

Finally.. He could practically hear CeCe Penniston start singing.

The moment the words left Jack’s mouth, Eric didn’t hesitate. He turned—no, whipped—around, closing the space between them in an instant. His hands found Jack’s face, fingers spreading across his cheeks like they were meant to be there, like if he let go for even a second, Jack might disappear. He kissed him the way he had always wanted to—without hesitation, without doubt, without fear.

Jack responded immediately, wrapping his arms around Eric’s back, groaning into the kiss like he had been holding it in for years. It wasn’t enough. Would never be enough. Eric shifted, rolling on top of him, pressing them closer as his hands trailed from Jack’s face to his hair, threading through the strands, fingertips scratching lightly at his scalp. Jack's hands moved too– spreading across his back, pressing into the dips of his spine like he was memorizing each vertebra, counting them like prayer beads.

Until the wallpaper peeled off the walls. Until ten generations of motel clerks with burgundy beehives sat behind that front desk. Until a thousand new layers settled onto the mesa, new canyons carved themselves into the earth, ancient riverbeds found fresh paths through stone. Until cities crumbled into sand, the world turned to dust, and the desert burned in the flames beneath the ground. That’s how long Eric wanted to keep kissing Jack. If reincarnation wasn’t real, he’d invent it—just for the chance to kiss him one more time.

They broke apart, gasping for breath, but neither moved away. Their bodies stayed pressed together, hands still roaming. Jack’s fingers settled on Eric’s hips, grounding him, while Eric’s stayed in his hair, gently tugging, just because he could. They didn’t speak. Their noses brushed in a quiet eskimo kiss, their lips barely apart. Eric dipped lower, his mouth pressing against Jack’s jaw—his chin, his cheek, the soft, warm pulse just below his ear.

Jack’s hands slid beneath his shirt, fingertips skimming across his skin, and Eric shivered. He felt his pants get tighter. His kisses became more insistent, more urgent, nipping at the olive skin of Jack’s neck.

It took everything for him to pull away before things went too far. He bit Jack’s earlobe, voice dropping into a whisper:

“Hold on.” He could scarcely form words, much less coherent sentences “too fast.”

“Okay.” Jack responded, removing his hands immediately.

…

When they stepped out of the motel, the morning sun already beating down on the pavement— that’s when they saw it.

The World’s Biggest Weiner.

It was right there. Right across the street. Standing proudly in all its oversized…underwhelming, 3ft glory.

Eric stared. Blinked. Looked at Jack. Looked back at the weiner.

“Dude! You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

Jack nudged him, grinning happily. “Guess we really took the scenic route, huh?”

They flagged down a kind-looking lady with a fanny pack and a sun visor to snap a picture of them with the disposable camera. As the flash went off, Jack leaned in and pecked Eric on the cheek.

Eric felt it everywhere.

They thanked the lady and retrieved that camera. When she was gone Eric cleared his throat, eyes on the statue. “I thought it’d be bigger.”

Jack smirked. “Come on, Eric. What happened to ‘size doesn’t matter’?”

Eric rolled his eyes, and Jack, ever the menace, leaned in again—this time pressing a kiss just under his ear.

“Besides,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “maybe the real World’s Biggest Weiner was the friends we made along the way.”

[randomwriteronline]

"You should put on weight, beloved," Gaeric said suddenly. "There's signs this winter will be a rather rough one."

The other warden hummed and mumbled, half asleep and snuggled with his cheek thoroughly smooshed against his lover's vast chest: "I am not fat."

"I know, and that's what worries me," Gaeric replied gently. His fingers went to comb through white hair and gently massage at the nape of the man in his hold: "Bibarel fur linings can only do so much - you need some natural layers against the chill or you'll freeze yourself to death."

At that Ingo furrowed his brows and cracked open an eye to better process what he was hearing, because something didn't seem quite right.

"Oh," he exclaimed lazily after a moment of buffering: "You said I should gain weight. Not lose it."

Gaeric pulled himself a little away and looked at him like he was out of his mind.

"In this weather?" he asked, horrified.

Ingo made a quiet noise and pressed a chaste kiss to his neck.

"I wouldn't tell you to lose weight if I was sentencing you to death! Not even the Diamond Clan would - is it a thing in your homeland? Do people not value a good layer of fat against the cold?"

Now that Ingo thought about it, as muscular as they were, Gaeric and Irida did have a discreet amount of fluff on their limbs and stomach to hide them - carefully built through the years with what supplies the Icelands provided, while Palina was losing a bit of it now that she had mostly moved to the Coastlands, Lian was still balancing the distribution, and he himself had remained 'unreasonably lean' according to Calaba.

"I believe they do not," he agreed absentmindedly, leaning back into his beloved's embrace: "The only person to ever tell me to gain weight has been my..."

He interrupted himself, brows furrowing slightly as the fuzziest hint of a memory struggled to resurface: "My... Father... I believe. I think I had not... Been fed enough. Before he came around."

Ah, Gaeric reflected, a chosen father probably, like with him and Irida.

Either way he nodded approvingly and nuzzled a kiss on white hair: "He gets it. A good father-in-law with a good set of priorities. I would have loved to meet him."

Me too, Ingo thought to himself. "I have a feeling he would have liked you."

-

"Gaeric has said I should gain weight," Ingo started as he carefully folded his coat.

"Then you should," Melli simply replied.

He felt the other warden turn to look at him with that stinging surprised gaze of his and faced him, head sinking into his shoulders.

"What?" he asked, stoking the hearth a bit as the night promised to be anything but warm. "I don't like to admit it, but he knows his stuff when it comes to these things. The first time Sabi went to the Icelands he sent her back to us chubbier than a Croagunk's cheeks - and with Calaba in tow to lecture us with his exact words, she said, that we were fools for sending a scrawny child like that over with just some furs on her!"

He watched as Ingo debated wether or not to keep his tunic on, and shed his own.

"You aren't quite fat, though," he heard him say while he busied himself with pulling the garment over his head.

"I come from the South of Hisui too," he argued back, "And even then I've got plenty of things to keep me warm when I'm here in the mountains - you, for one."

"I an not sure my body heat alone would be sufficient to stave off a harsh season."

"Oh, you're no Skuntank, that's for sure, but you do try."

"Alas, I do not have fur."

Hair fully shaken out of the fabric, Melli turned back to the bed, where a lump was already under the covers; with incredible swiftness he snuck over and pressed his mouth to his darling's cheek.

"Maybe if you did have a bit more meat on you, you'd be a little warmer," he posited, slipping under the blankets and wrapping his long arms around the slightly stouter frame as he spooned him.

Soon enough he let out a soft groan into Ingo's nape: "Or at least your awfully sharp bones wouldn't stab my stomach as often..."

A laugh shook the back of the Pearl warden: "This is my hut, you know," he reminded him, shifting to get an arm around him, "I could leave you outside if I so decided."

"You won't," Melli replied flatly.

He was right, of course. But admitting his victory would have made him gloat incessantly about being right, so all he got was a kiss on his lips - which was in fact the same thing, but in this case he very gladly remained quiet if it meant he would get a couple more.

And because his lover was terribly soft about these things, he would get quite a lot.

[jessefien]

Dag 128: Aperol Spritz

Jaaaaaaaa! Raampje open want er is weer zoooooon! Man, zo blij elke keer als je de gordijnen opendoet en de kindjes moeten niezen omdat de zon te fel in hun oogjes schijnt. Geleerd van de slimste der slimmen: Paul Van Maele:

Japie maakte koffie en we konden het raam openzetten. Met de golvengeluiden op de achtergrond pakten we een goed ontbijt want we moesten de Scala dei Turchi beklimmen. De Turkse Trappen zijn een soort witte kalkstenen kliffen tussen twee zandstranden bij Realmonte. Deze is door wind en regen zodanig uitgesleten dat er trappen zijn ontstaan. Heel mooi met de zon erop en ook met onszelf erop. Bleek wel dat je er eigenlijk niet meer op mocht sinds 2019 maar kijk, er was weer eens niemand en Clarysses zullen altijd Clarysses blijven he. Het was precies een maanlandschap. Na wat klim- en klauterwerk deden we ook het betere aperowerk. Aperol Spritz voor iedereen! Leve het leven! Erna moest wat hard onderhandeld worden met oudestenenallergieman, maar ik kreeg mijn zin: op naar de Valle dei Templi. Ale, je kan dit toch niet overslaan?! '13 euro per persoon voor naar stenen te kijken, grom grom!' Kijk, het was goed voor onze benen, we kregen een Golden Hour om van te smullen, gratis vitamine D van de zon, de omgeving was heel mooi en we stapten in totaal een goeie 8km vandaag. Allergieman kan niet klagen, toch? Er stond ons nog een stevig ritje te wachten richting Etna vanavond. 2u30 rijden, ok, maar de banen in Sicilië zijn de slechtste die we tot in toe op reis hebben bereden. Toch waren we heeeul hulukkige menschen want we vonden Pietra Nero, een authentiek restaurantje met een zalig terras voor in de zomer sowieso een must do. Nu kropen we toch gezellig binnen aan het haardvuur en de kerstboom en aten we pizza en risotto alsof ons leven ervanaf hing. Buena cena! Ciao tutti!

[music2liveby]

DAY 62: Jesus Christ by Slim Cessna’s Auto Club

Album: Always Say Please and Thank You Release: June 9th, 2000 Genre: Gothic Folk

In the summer of 2014, I had a roommate who was introduced by one of my best friends to a band called Slim Cessna’s Auto Club based out of Denver, Colorado. What resulted was the endless loop of every song in their discography for the better part of half a year, a period of my life appropriately named The Slimmening. I couldn’t stand to listen to these guys as the overexposure simply drove them into the ground for me, voiding any enjoyment I could have possibly derived. Several years after that fateful time, I look back at the oddity that is Slim Cessna’s Auto Club as not just a band, but more of an experience for the uninitiated that continues to bring joy to the hearts of their devout followers. It’s impossible to label the band under one genre; instead I will say they are a unique blend of Americana, folk, and rockabilly music that revolves around heavy influence of sacrilege and the questioning of faith. Jesus Christ is about as religiously questionable as it gets, deriving from their mainstream debut Always Say Please and Thank You. Frontman of band name fame Slim Cessna carries a strong folk influence in his vocal style, especially in Jesus Christ’s ballad arrangement while strings player and backing vocals Jay Munly (referred to by fans as simply Munly) accompanies Slim in the low end of the vocal department. Perhaps the best example of this folk influence is in Slim’s trademark yodeling skills, providing a beautiful contrast that lacks vocals but tells all you need to know about the passion in his craft. While Jesus Christ follows typical ballad tradition, much of Slim Cessna’s Auto Club repertoire includes fast-paced, story-telling qualities that have a tinge of melancholy set by Slim’s diverse talents in singing. While their strange musical influence might be intimidating to first-time listeners, lovers of country and folk will immediately fall in love with Slim Cessna’s Auto Club’s brand of musicianship they’ve called their own since the turn of the millennium. I apologize in advance to anybody who has to be subjected to their music on repeat though. They might be that good to some people. Looking at you, Colton. 

[capriciouscaprine]

reminding myself: if I want something later, I need to work for it now

[krazyshoppy]

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[lyricssongs2021]

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[dealsazi]

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[jezus-christus-is-mijn-leven]

3. Geloof in het lot is geen vervanging voor kennis over de soevereiniteit van de Schepper

God zegt: “·······ze dan passief af te wachten en zich bij het lot neer te leggen. Maar ze erkennen niet dat het lot van de mens ondergeschikt is aan Gods soevereiniteit; op eigen initiatief leren ze niet Gods soevereiniteit kennen, om zo kennis te verkrijgen van Gods gezag, zich te onderwerpen aan Gods orkestraties en regelingen, zich niet langer verzetten tegen het lot en onder Gods voorzienigheid, bescherming en leiding te leven. Met andere woorden, het lot accepteren is niet gelijk aan het zich onderwerpen aan Gods soevereiniteit. Geloof in het lot betekent niet dat men Gods soevereiniteit accepteert, erkent en kent. Geloof in het lot is slechts erkenning van dit feit en het fenomeen eromheen, wat iets anders is dan weten hoe de Schepper het lot van de mens regeert, iets anders dan erkennen dat de Schepper de heersende bron is van het lot van alle dingen en zeker iets anders dan het zich onderwerpen aan Gods orkestraties en regelingen van het lot van de mens. Als iemand alleen maar gelooft in het lot – er zelfs diepe gevoelens over koestert – maar daardoor niet in staat is de soevereiniteit van de Schepper over het lot van de mensheid te kennen, erkennen, zich eraan te onderwerpen en het te accepteren, dan zal zijn of haar leven evengoed tragisch zijn, een doelloos, leeg bestaan. Hij of zij zal dan nog steeds niet onderworpen kunnen worden aan de heerschappij van de Schepper, om een geschapen mens te worden in de meest ware zin van het woord en de goedkeuring van de Schepper te verkrijgen. Iemand die echt de soevereiniteit van de Schepper kent en ervaart, zou in een actieve, niet in een passieve, hulpeloze staat moeten zijn. Naast de acceptatie dat alles door het lot bepaald is, zou hij of zij een precieze definitie van het leven en het lot moeten bezitten: dat ieder leven onderworpen is aan Gods soevereiniteit. Als iemand terugkijkt op de weg die hij heeft bewandeld, als iemand herinneringen ophaalt over elke fase van zijn levensreis, of zijn pad nu moeizaam of soepel was, dan ziet iemand dat God hem bij elke stap op zijn pad begeleidde, dat Hij iemands pad aan het uitstippelen was. Gods minutieuze regelingen, zijn zorgzame planning waren het die iemand zonder het te weten naar vandaag hebben geleid. Om Gods soevereiniteit te kunnen accepteren, om Zijn verlossing te ontvangen – wat een groot geluk is dat! Als iemands houding tegenover het lot passief is, dan bewijst dit dat hij of zij zich tegen alles wat God voor hem of haar geregeld heeft verzet, dat hij of zij geen onderdanige houding aanneemt. Als iemands houding tegenover Gods soevereiniteit over het lot van de mens actief is en als iemand dan terugkijkt op zijn levensweg, als iemand daadwerkelijk vat krijgt op Gods soevereiniteit, zal iemand op een eerlijker manier verlangen zich te onderwerpen aan alles wat God geregeld heeft, zal iemand meer van die vastberadenheid en zelfverzekerdheid hebben om God zijn lot te laten regelen, om te stoppen met zijn opstandigheid tegen God. Want als iemand het lot niet begrijpt, als iemand Gods soevereiniteit niet begrijpt, als iemand moedwillig voor zich uit tast, aarzelend en wankelend door de mist, ziet hij dat de levensreis te moeilijk is, te hartverscheurend. Dus als mensen Gods soevereiniteit over het lot van de mens erkennen, kiezen de slimmen onder hen ervoor het te kennen en te accepteren, vaarwel te zeggen tegen de pijnlijke dagen toen ze eigenhandig een goed leven poogden op te bouwen, in plaats van te blijven vechten tegen het lot en hun zogenaamde levensdoelen op hun eigen manier na te streven. Als iemand geen God heeft, als hij Hem niet kan zien, als iemand Gods soevereiniteit niet duidelijk kan herkennen, dan is elke dag betekenisloos, waardeloos, ellendig. Waar iemand ook is, wat zijn werk ook is, zijn middelen van bestaan en het nastreven van zijn doelen brengen hem niets dan eindeloos hartzeer en uitzichtloos lijden, zo erg dat hij het niet verdragen kan om terug te kijken. Alleen als iemand de soevereiniteit van de Schepper accepteert, zich onderwerpt aan Zijn orkestraties en bepalingen en een waar mensenleven zoekt, zal iemand langzamerhand bevrijd worden van alle hartzeer en lijden en alle leegte van het leven van zich afschudden.”

uit ‘God Zelf, de unieke III’ in ‘Het Woord verschijnt in het vlees’

Beveel meer aan:

Beproevingen – een ander soort zegening van God

[xehanortsreport]

officialleoneabbacchio replied to your post: hayato is stronger than half the cast and he’s an...

hayatos fucking jacked kira’s lucky this kid never challenged him to a lift-off

OK BUT WHY IS A LITERAL PREPUBESCENT CHILD RIPPED???

And for that matter, why the FUCK does Yoshikage “I really need to work out more” Kira have like a gotdam 8 pack

this is part 4, part of The Slimmening, there is NO reason for EITHER of them to be fucking JACKED

[liberbits]

Gaan alle slimmen banken op de blockchain of zullen ook deze worden vervangen door nieuwe #blockchain #banken? https://t.co/fgGE1DlSw0

Gaan alle slimmen banken op de blockchain of zullen ook deze worden vervangen door nieuwe #blockchain #banken?https://t.co/fgGE1DlSw0

— ŁiɃerɃits (@LiberBits) March 16, 2018

from Twitter https://twitter.com/LiberBits March 16, 2018 at 11:10AM via IFTTT

[chantellebluepoetry-blog]

change

I will change for you.

Ill cut my hair

Ill paint my lips

Ill lengthen my lashes

Ill blacken my eyes.

I will change for you.

Ill slimmen my stomach

Ill curve my hips

Ill grow my nails

Ill bigger my breasts.

I will change for you.

I won’t be sad

I won’t get mad

I won’t be bad

I won’t be cad

I will change for you.

Let me change for you.

[capriciouscaprine]

had a typical American hotel breakfast that was full of stuff I typically avoid (and so kinda put them on a pedestal tbh): bacon, sausage, pancakes, fried potatoes, pastries, etc, and they just... weren't good??? not satisfying at all, too dense, poorly seasoned, greasy and yet oddly empty, just bad!

for sure, this was mostly due to it being one step above fast food in terms of quality, but that just emphasizes to me that it just isn't worth pining after (or consuming) these types of foods, and instead I should be focused on having high quality food experiences, which often featured appropriate serving sizes made from fresh, nutritious ingredients