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[spheretechpackagingindia]

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[bloggerspam]

Cozytober - Borrowing A Sweatshirt

Ellie, like Danny, isn't really bothered by the cold.

She is a spirit of the wind, a ghost of swift winds and open air and places seen, places to be, places yet to know.

She is no stranger to freezing temperatures, but unlike Danny she is also intimately familiar with the scorching heat—of desert lands and arid concrete, burning tableaus where she can hardly even believe plants can thrive, of hot engines and the smell of searing rubber.

She is cold blooded, she is hot blooded, she is air itself, twisting and turning and roaming and sometimes stagnant and stale.

She floats like that today, in Jazz's apartment, waiting.

It is not in her nature to wait, but she was born waiting for her moment, and she fought her way out of waiting, and she is willing to weather the floaty stasis if only to feel the love and comfort and her only tethers to the earthly world: her family.

Danny will arrive soon, and he will probably indulge her on a flight around town until Jazz gets off from work, but until then:

Waiting.

It is neither cold, nor warm in Jazz's apartment. Outside it is freezing, but she has just come a jaunt through the summers of Africa so her equilibrium is still adjusting.

The heat isn't on, but it's insulated. It would be uncomfortable for Jazz, but it is not for Ellie or Danny.

It is a limbo, and she floats in it, sluggish and sleepy in the quiet.

Two more hours.

Her arms start to rub up and down, she curls into a loose sort of ball, and she spins, slow, in low gravity of her own making.

The dust motes flicker, and suddenly the apartment feels cavernous.

She forces herself to stretch, to fill as much space as she can, twisting and turning and restless.

One hour and 48 more minutes.

She might go crazy.

She twirls, diving towards the kitchen, finding nothing but tofu and vegetables, still uncooked. She's not opposed too tofu and veggies, but she also did not learn how to cook, so she makes the clearly correct decision to not mess about.

Her internal temperature fluctuates, again, and a shiver wracks through her. Hm.

Idea.

She floats up and zooms towards where the guest bedroom is, rummaging for through the drawers, finding mostly Danny's tee shirts and jeans.

There's a purple scrunchie, and a baggy black tee shirt with skulls and roses on it, and an absurdly big pair of shorts with fire patterns all over it, but no…aha!

She pulls out a firetruck red hoodie, shaking out and slipping it on.

It's big on her, but not overly so, so it must not be Dan's or Jazz's. Sam and Danny would never wear such a bright, ketchup-y color, so it must be Tucker's. the fabric is soft and thick, fuzzy on the inside, smooth on the outside. She snuggles into the collar, smelling machine oil and that weird cologne he insists on. Thankfully, it's only a hint, and Ellie's had a couple of years to get used to it, so she sinks into the comfort of it.

Inspecting the hoodie reveals a retro 70s font, wavy and bubbly, that proudly pronounces her "Furry Trash." She snorts, wondering if Sam or Danny got Tucker this hoodie, or if he bought it himself. With Tucker, you never know.

Flipping up the hood reveals it even has some cat ears, and Ellie is tickled absolutely pink as she floats around, spinning and snickering into the soft fabric.

She goes to press the drawer closed, but then something catches her eye.

It's a Gameboy Color, a beat up bright yellow one. It's got a faded wolf sticker on the back, with Tucker's name sloppily written in sharpie. Ellie is delighted that when she boots it up, it still has a green light to denote it's got full battery.

She wasn't alive during this time, but she remembers it through the haze of Danny's memories, and the tangential nostalgia is enough to maker her shut the drawer and move to the living room with her new loot.

Tetris loads up with a series of cheery low quality pings. The speaker must be slightly busted from age.

Tucker's got the top 3 highest scores, followed by Sam and Danny in fourth and fifth respectively.

She smirks, feeling settled and comfy and warm, and decides that maybe it's time she's better at her template at something.

When Danny floats through the floor later, Ellie is cursing up a storm and about to throw something. He laughs at her, at the source of frustration and at her hoodie, until he's blue in the face. She reminds him petulantly that he doesn't actually need to breathe, but graciously goes on that flight with him despite his rudeness anyway.

When Jazz gets home, she gives Ellie a big smile and hug, quirks and eyebrow at the hoodie, but says nothing about it.

This is why she's the favorite.

Ellie works on that high score to the sound of Jazz's soft cheering and Danny's obnoxious jeering, and it's good.

She decides that the hoodie is hers, and the Gameboy will be in her custody until her next visit, much to Danny's amusement. He gives her a bear hug to end all bear hugs, and Jazz gives her a kiss on the cheek, and she's off.

She beats Danny's score two days later, sitting on tippy top of the Taj Mahal. She beats Sam's score hanging off the hour hand of Big Ben the next day.

The Golden Gate Bridge (and Karl the Fog) witnesses her victory over Tucker's second place high score, her shouts of glee echoing over the morning Bay.

She's sitting on the Arc de Triumph when she finally does it, jumping up and down and squealing as she clutches the Gameboy to her chest like a precious trophy.

She loads the portal gun and dives, dropping directly into Tucker's room in the shared apartment he, Sam and Danny live in.

She lands heavily on Tucker's bed, which is unfortunately occupied by the man himself, but he'll get over it, she's light!

"Oof! Wha—Ellie?" The man grumbles, a quick glance telling Ellie it's 2am in the morning. She's surprised he's asleep at this time, but is too elated to really register the thought.

She shoves the Dameboy and the high score screen into Tucker's bleary face the second he has his glasses on.

"I beat it!!" She yells, laughing and joyous.

"What?" Tucker says, rubbing his face and looking again. It takes him a few seconds that last ages, and her yell must have woken the others, because by the time Sam and Danny barge in, Tucker has a soft but wide smile on his face.

"Hell yeah Little D!" He says, and even though he has morning breath she doesn't care because he gives her a big bear hug and Danny and Sam join and it's a big rolling pile of limbs and love and family.

"Bet you can't beat it!" Ellie finally says, in the middle of the sudden cuddle pile and feeling tethered but free, like she always does when she's got another connection to her family.

"You're on!" Tucker challenges, grabbing the Gameboy in one hand and ruffling her hair with the other.

"But first, sleep." Sam admonishes, ever the sensible one. "Ellie, what are you even wearing?"

Sam grabs Ellie by the back of her collar, holding her up effortlessly like a little kitten.

Tucker finally registers his hoodie on her, and promptly bursts into laughter.

Ellie sniffs, but she can't hold her own grin. "It's called fashion, Sam, look it up!"

[dovithedarklord]

Age of Mosters - Chapter Sixteen

Pairing: OFC x Simon "Ghost" Riley, OFC x König

Tags: Slow Burn, Slow Build, Enemies to Lovers, Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, POV First Person, Not Beta Read, Medical Inaccuracies, Military Inaccuracies, AFAB OC

Trigger Warning: The story will contain violance, blood and smut in detail. Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

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

Author's Note

The small team uncovers interesting clues, and Leona has the opportunity to get to know the new helpers during action.

Hello! :D

I apologize for disappearing, but I was forced to move and the last few weeks weren't exactly easy because of that:') But now I returned and I'm back to posting more regularly!

I have a lot of trigger warnings for today's chapter, please take it seriously! TW: Blood and gore, death, violence, mentions of rape, mentions of abuse, mentions of violence against minors, torture, body horror.

All this brutality has a purpose, but we have to suffer it through first to be able to see it!

Have fun!

I.M.L. - Infected mammalian lifeform. I.H.L. - Infected humanoid lifeform.

if you're interested you can find the story on AO3: Chapter Sixteen

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

Stormy wind blows the cool raindrops falling from the dark clouds in my face, and I'm only fleetingly aware of how the bony fingers of the dry branches sticking out of the wild vegetation dig into the straps of my uniform, as I cautiously advance towards the target despite the increasingly hostile siege of the weather. Once there was a vineyard of poetic beauty here, where people retreated from all the hustle and bustle of everyday life, and could immerse themselves in comfortable relaxation and enjoy every expensive drop of the wine sold at a price of gold, away from the big cities. However, fifty years of desolation have left nothing but an overgrown jungle of vines and an endless sea of weeds that envelop them in a suffocating embrace. But this abandoned garden still serves a good purpose, because it benevolently hides all the members of our small team heading towards the huge building resting in the middle of the large estate. And we need all the kind help of nature, because even this can hardly cover the two huge men at the head of our group.

It can't be denied that after our little trio arrived at the scene of our latest adventure, the matters started moving surprisingly quickly, after the Hunter, König, shared with us all the juicy information that he so sweetly extracted from the unfortunate gang member, who they seemingly pulled out of nowhere. After explaining the coordinates, he offered the plan at least at such a fast pace, putting the whole action together with the kind of practicality that can be expected from a member of a KorTac-like, well-oiled machine. And although the fast progression of events meant only positive news for us, but I know that I wasn't the only one who had mixed feelings and came to the rather suspicion-filled realization about what financial motivation lies behind our new team's enthusiasm.

And despite the professionalism with which my two companions move together with our new helpers and their hardworking soldiers, even through the curtain of the pouring rain, I can easily make out the tension that sits in the jacket-covered shoulders of MacTavish, who strides in front of me. Maybe I would think him crazy if he wouldn't be in a flap regarding the success of our mission, since the peace of our already fragile life depends on it, but I have the sneaking suspicion that for once it's not just our operation, twisting into increasingly complicated subplots, that is responsible for the uneasiness that lingers in him and his masked bosom friend.

My bright eyes are inevitably drawn to the huge figure, who cuts through the tangled cavalcade of overgrown plant life as if it were nothing more to him than a few unruly blades of grass, breaking down the army of twigs in front of him with a few careless movements of his long hands, as he moves forward with the purposefulness of a bulldozer. It’s not an exaggeration to say that the man with a rather German-sounding name and dressed in a strange hood successfully planted the sounds of caution in my mind from the very first moment, because even though he is now an ally to us, it wasn't by chance that Shepherd hired another SSS-class fighter to play babysitter on our mission overflowing with sensitive information. The old bastard wanted to play safe by giving Riley a playmate from his own weight group, and if there is even an iota of truth to my intuition that the two mercenaries will also include a very open ear for us along with their helping hand, then in addition to finding the serum we also have to make sure that they don't stab us in the back and inform the old man about every breath we take. Because that would be the logical step if the leader of the colony wanted complete discretion. That he silences us, who know an embarrassing amount about his rather criminal dealings. And who else would be more suitable for this chore than two killers abundantly loaded with credits, who present just the right challenge to my partners.

It's enough for me to glance at the masked Hunter, who is lurking not far behind the guy who resembles a smaller yeti, and his hand clenched on his weapon says enough about how comfortable he feels in the newly established set-up. Of course, those who are in deep shit shouldn't be picky when fate takes pity on them, but I can understand why this terrifying man is still troubled by the fact that the big boss has given us friends who would be able to give him a hard time too. I know that these thoughts have crossed his mind as well, and that is precisely why he remains in his colleague's heels like an ineradicable shadow. Because he wants to be the first to cut his throat if he tries anything even remotely suspicious.

During the raging storm, the few minutes seem like decades until we reach the end of the rows of grapes, and the line of a beaten stone fence appears in the wind-torn, knee-high grass. I obediently follow the Scottish Hunter, who kneels behind the low wall on the muddy ground, and almost immediately takes a closer look at the remains of the hotel stretching out in front of us, that once served as the site of expensive vacations. I have to admit that the bastard who leads the separatist group has pretty good taste, because even though all that's left of the once-luxurious comfort is a battered, empty skeleton, it's still just inviting enough to be suitable for hiding. But what’s perhaps even more remarkable is that, according to König, these people chose the imposing hideout not only because of the nostalgia that reminds them of the prosperity of the old days, but also because even though this den is located right in the middle of the red zone, yet it’s conveniently far from any well-known nest. Of course, this mystery could easily be explained by the fact that such a wandering troupe gains a lot of useful experience when roaming in the wilderness, but they have avoided danger too skillfully so far for it to be a mere lucky coincidence. At the head of this gang is someone who, like Valeria, has just enough experience to avoid the watchful eyes of the authorities and the sharp claws of mutants. Terribly interesting.

"That's the back door. We'll enter there." I hear the voice thick with an accent on the radio that breaks through the rustle of the wind, and I only peer at our hooded tour guide from the corner of my eye. And I'm once again reminded of the sheer size of the hired Hunter, because even though he shrunk himself down to the smallest possible size to the best of his capabilities, his broad shoulders still peek out spectacularly from the cover of the fence. And unlike Riley, whose enticingly massive measurements fill me mostly with excitement, König's stature plants dozens of sinister thoughts in my skull. My masked companion has also been blessed by nature and the kind genes of his species with a figure that commands authority, but our new mate surpasses even that. And I can't shake the suspicion that he uses this magnificent physique with the efficiency of a living weapon, which I have no problem with as long as he doesn't want to test his unparalleled skills against us. I warmly advise him not to do this, because due to the sea of crap that I experienced in these last few weeks, my stimulus threshold has decreased just enough to kill him after the first bad movement. Even if I have to be smart about it.

"It's not that heavely protected." Comes the curt observation from Riley, and now I direct my eyes toward the target in front of us instead of studying our new teammate, because it would be timely for me to dedicate my brain capacity to the mission as well. And at first glance, the whole place exudes a deceptive desertedness, but I dont let the apparent immobility mislead me. Because I immediately understand what the masked man saw so keenly. It's enough to observe the dark figures appearing through the cracks of the boarded-up windows to know that, although the vagaries of the weather are in our favor and there are no more guards than necessary, but inside it’s not certain that we will be so lucky. The task is made even more difficult by the fact that we have to catch the main bastard, because based on the information forced out from the weakest link, none of his subordinates was sufficiently informed about the group's business affairs to be able to spill wherever our stolen serum may be.

"Let's go." König immediately takes the initiative, and even before he would wait for his idea to be acknowledged, he springs up and jumps over the stone wall with such ease, as if our improvised hiding place, which is at least waist-high for me, would be nothing more than a small inconvenience that can easily be crossed.

However, there is no time to hesitate, because as soon as the man, burning with the fever of readiness to get into action, takes the first few meters on the quite open field covered with overgrown grass, he is almost immediately followed by Horangi and his stern-eyed men, leaving us no chance to wait around either. And all I need is a quick glance at the masked Hunter swinging over the wall to know, that the leadership role that his new colleague arbitrarily seized for himself is not really to his taste. Because although he doesn't voice his displeasure with a single word, I have observed him just enough to recognize the tension in his heavy steps. He has enough sense of duty to endure frustration for the sake of our goal, but I know that this charming patience won't last forever. And I have a feeling that this whole impossible situation is getting on his nerves enough to lure his less diplomatic self out of him. He will work together as long as he has to, but not for a minute longer. What a rosy outlook.

Just as MacTavish moves next to me, suppressing a tired sigh under his breath, and nimbly leaps over the fence after his bosom friend, then I finally pull myself together and throw my weapon on my back to swing myself to the other side, following the Scotsman. We cross the few narrow meters that separate us from the building at lightning speed, and I thank the increasingly fierce storm, because we would otherwise be embarrassingly easy targets even in this short distance. And the fact that the surrounding area of the structure is so easy to keep an eye on raises the suspicion in me again, that it could only have been designated as a temporary accommodation by someone who had enough experience to know what difficulty the long grassy wasteland poses for a curious wanderer trying to get close to it. And this makes me more and more curious as to who might be at the head of the separatists, because all their actions so far indicate that they aren't just a simple criminal.

In front of the beat-down entrance, the soldiers wait for the instructions of their leader, who, when he is sure that we have arrived successfully, opens the door without a second of delay and charges forward with decisiveness, raising his weapon in front of him, closely followed by his Korean comrade, who lets us know with just a wave that we'd better follow their example, if we don't want to fail prematurely by waiting around in the doorstep. Although I'm not particularly impressed by the behavior of the two men, but based on the expression on the faces of my two friends, I can be sure that they do not share my lack of interest. This may not be the first time they have had to work with strangers, and maybe it wouldn't hurt their egos to not be in control of the whole operation, but it's all the more likely that they will be at least as comfortable tolerating this treatment from Shepherd's men as if someone were pulling their teeth out. And I strongly hope, praying to any higher authority listening, that this whole circus doesn't turn into a dick-measuring contest in the middle of a world-shattering event, because even Riley, who keeps his cool very skillfully, won't tolerate it without saying a word.

My boots land on the worn marble floor with a wet thump, when, at the end of the line, I cross the threshold into the embrace of the dark little corridor, and my nose is hit almost immediately by the musty smell of mold spreading on the damp walls. Despite the late spring weather, the whole place radiates an unfriendly coldness, and as the intrusive caress of the breeze blowing through the vacant building penetrates my soaked clothes, goosebumps erupt on my back instinctively. The huge house looks lifeless enough to fool the less experienced travelers, but my eyes aren’t the only ones who notice the mud-covered footprints on the dirty stone, which spread along the hallway shrouded in darkness. According to this, these bastards are tough enough to kill civilians, but they prefer to hide from a small thunderstorm within the four walls, even if they voluntarily let the attackers into their dwelling by doing it. I wasn't wrong about these thieves being cruel, but far more stupid than it would first appear.

We start silently towards the depths of the hotel, and the hooded man leading the way guides us to the source of the dull light coming from a distance, dictating a slow but all the more determined pace, with such a soundless softness compared to his height, like a predator scouting for prey. And his caution soon pays off, because as soon as he reaches the end of the passageway, a guy dressed in ragged combat gear appears in the small room before us, who notices the danger coming towards him too late. Because when he breaks away from his deep conversation on the radio and glances towards us, König ia already in front of him with impossible speed, crossing the distance between him and his victim with three wide steps with his long legs. And before the bandit could react, and would be able to open his mouth and alarm his companions, by then, a huge hand already lands on his face, and swallowing the startled shock, which crawls there with instinctive speed when he realizes that he has fallen into the grasp of a giant. But he doesn't even have time to understand what is happening, because with the momentum with which he galloped towards him, the Hunter rams the criminal, frozen in stunned terror, against the nearest wall just as easily. And even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to do anything about the attack, because as suddenly as it came, his attacker ends his life as quickly. The crack with which the helpless man's skull splits open when it meets the concrete is stomach-churning, and the once cream-colored plaster is turned into a grotesque painting by the bloody pieces of brain tissue bursting from the shattered bones. And I have to forcefully fight the stomach acid gathering in my throat, when an eyeball appears for a moment from between the gloved fingers, staring blankly at me before falling to the ground with the lifeless body, as it's released by its killer. But perhaps it enhances the discomfort in me even more when our new teammate turns towards us with such cold calmness, shaking off the shattered pieces of slimy meat stuck to his glove, as if he had not just crushed a person's head with his bare hands, but had just swatted a naughty fly.

And even though I know how powerful Hunters are, I can only drive away the surprise mixed with disgust on my face with great concentration, because this ruthlessness surpasses everything that my dark little mind has thought possible until now. It was definitely a successful way to silence someone, but even I can see that it wasn't about efficiency. Because, when he fixes his gaze on his men emerging from the corridor, and takes in the respect and fear that appears on their faces, even I can see the satisfaction with which his back straightens. And I don't need to know this brutal man to understand, that he eased the hunger of his own self-confidence with this gruesome but spectacular stunt.

And when I, behind Riley and MacTavish, wander into the small hall leading to what may be the staff passageways, I have the opportunity to observe the grim expression slowly taking shape on their faces as well. Perhaps they also feel that this presentation didn't only take place so that the soldiers know their place, but also carries an unspoken threat, with which their colleague lets them know that it would be advisable for them to behave well, because someone has joined their company who will be able to cause them problems even without activating his ability. Shepherd… you dirty fucker. You want us to remember that help can disappear quickly if we don't play by the rules. How awfully smart.

"We split up here. One team goes upstairs, the others search through the ground floor." König turns to our small group, still maintaining the noble task of managing the mission, gesturing with one hand to the stairs opening from the back of the place, and then to the corridors on both sides, facing each other. With his tall figure, he easily stands out from among us, as he quickly scans his men, looking for any brave volunteer who would not agree with his proposal. And when he only receives a curt but obedient nod, he turns towards us to find our trio, and his eyes settles on me inexplicably quickly, zeroing in on me with embarrassing speed. And this isn't the first time since our not-so-distant meeting that he has found me so enthusiastically. Ever since he stepped out of that cramped container used for interrogation, he discovers me from time to time again, as if there would be a fucking magnet stuck on my pretty little body, drawing his attention to me as soon as I'm within range.

And although every single one of my facial muscles melts into the determined mask of expressionlessness, as his gaze sinks into mine, a visceral uneasiness awakens in my stomach. Because although I knew from the first minute that we had to be on guard, since probably at the end of Shepherd's leash made of money they are only allies for us until their master orders them otherwise, but he slowly makes it very clear that both his demonstration of strength and his behavior serves as a warning. And it doesn't make me happy at all when I come to the painful realization that, unlike my two companions, I would have a harder time defending myself if our cooperation took a rough turn. I know that he can't harm me right now, since the success of the mission is too important for that, but the little voice in my brain tells me that I'd better watch out for him, because it doesn't mean anything good that he is keeping an eye on me so readily. I could chalk it up to the fact that, being a good Hunter, he is just afraid of the physical integrity of a valuable Extreme, if I'm so exotic, but I can't get rid of the small fleeting intuition that this is about something else. And I don't like the curious glimmer in those sky-blue eyes when I stubbornly raise my head. No matter how big you are, you will need a lot more than that to scare me.

"You're goin' upstairs with Soap." Riley suddenly speaks, thus breaking me out of the tense stare-down duel that I'm unconsciously engaging with the behemoth man, and I turn with the greatest joy to the masked Hunter, who lingers on his colleague for a dangerous moment, before turning his hard gaze on me. "Stay alert." He leans closer, covering us from the audience with his back, and even this small act speaks quite eloquently of how much trust he has for our new teammates. And I can't blame him for that, because even though we need all the help, none of us lost our minds from gratitude. Especially not him, who runs circles in his head similar to my paranoid brain, probably because he has too many bitter experiences behind him to be naive. He knows too, how sensitive this alliance is.

I only hold his gaze for a heartbeat longer, and that's enough to see the weariness lurking in his dark eyes, next to which my trained little senses recognize the tiny little light that seems quite concerned even to my mind struggling with colorful imagination. And after the busy events of the past few days, I don't necessarily feel delusional anymore when it occurs to me, that he will be worried not only about his bff, but also about my safety, when he starts his lonely journey in this ex-resort that has become a crime den. And this lures a faint, but still naughty little curve to my lips, with which I silently tell him that it will take a lot more than a couple of lowlife thieves to make me bite the dust. Unfortunately, no one gets rid of my mean little person that easily. Although I have a feeling that this caution is not for the criminals who roam the walls…

But even before I could come up with a particularly witty answer for him, a hand lands on my shoulder and directs my thoughts, which have strayed into inappropriate side tracks, to their owner. And as my Scottish friend bursts into my field of vision, clutching his gun, he motions with his head towards the stairs leading upstairs, showing quite obviously that it's time for us to get to work before the gang realizes what surprise is being prepared for them in secret.

"Come on, lassie. There are bastards we need to put some holes into." He reminds me, and the serious expression, that has been stubbornly clinging to his features since the beginning of our current outing, softens from the tiny line of the cheeky smile that moves to his stubble-framed mouth. And although it's possible that the circumstances of our alliance have made him more cautious, I know that he has by no means forgotten the many horrors, some of which he owes to the outlaws who loiter here. Even if our adventure in the city is not their making, the bloodshed caused in the research institute is, and I know the man well enough to know that the possibility of paying off some of the many painful promises is responsible for his enthusiasm. And I won't stand in his way for a minute.

"After you." I gesture with one of my hands towards the path leading up, thus handing over the stage to the Hunter to let him turn into the tour guide, if he is already buzzing with such energy. And he immediately seizes the opportunity, raising his assault rifle in front of him, to bid farewell to his masked bosom friend with a last meaningful nod, and head towards the stairs. And I obediently close up behind him with my weapon pointed forward ready to attack, glancing back at Riley once more before disappearing into the maze of spiraling steps. And perhaps it means nothing to an outside observer, as he raises his head and follows the progress of our little duo with unbroken persistence, but my senses, which are desperately quick to notice every small twitch of his, quickly discover the small wrinkles that appear around the painted skin around his eyes. And I can understand from this, that he is parting from us with an anxious heart, but he is much calmer when he can put a safe distance between us and our helpers who are slowly organizing themselves into smaller groups. He would rather be alone among the wolves than expose us to the same danger. And the unpleasant nervousness awakening in my stomach only hopes that the two mercenaries won’t feel like turning against us right now.

But before long, the small gathering disappears from my vision, as the steps continue to turn towards the upper floor, and we are swallowed up by the narrow staircase. The sound of our soaked boots is blessedly absorbed by the worn velvet carpet that runs along the stairs, thus enveloping our silently sneaking pair in a dangerous silence. And the higher we get, the stronger the suspicion gets in my head, because we get to the top floor too easily and undisturbed, as if no one had taken up residence within the walls of the abandoned facility. And although the massive building offers plenty of hiding places, these wretched vermins don't know they have guests, and this silence is far more ominous than what my paranoid mind can bear. That's why my fingers instinctively tighten around the grip of my gun, preparing to pump the very first suspicious shadow full of ammunition.

MacTavish pauses only for a moment at the end of the staircase to cautiously peer out from behind the wall looking for the enemy. And when he is certain it's safe to proceed and no unsuspecting gang members have appeared to attack, he gestures forward with his gloved hand, and I understand his silent request even from the small gesture and follow him as he steps out into the wide corridor framed by carved wood. Once upon a time, it was probably a fortune to pack this tasteful covering here, but now the thin cracks run along them like a spiderweb from the moisture and the iron teeth of time, replacing the former luxury with a ghostly atmosphere. However, it attracts my attention much more, and it also makes my Scottish friend wonder, where to go on the dark road, because each of the two paths opening towards the wings of the building has the same chance of hiding valuable targets.

But I don't have to think too much about where we should head next, for the man precedes me in discovery, and I merely raise one of my eyebrows in interest, when he closes his eyes and sniffs the stale air, like a hunting dog looking after the wounded prey. Although there is already a sassy comment on the tip of my tongue about his methods, he turns his head to the side surprisingly quickly, staring with such intensity at the dark corridor opening on the right, as if he really would be hot on the scent. His super-senses probably recognized the stench of the gangsters lurking between the walls quite accurately, because after flashing his blue eyes at me meaningfully, he sets off across the worn carpet with such determination as if he had actually found his prey.

And it soon becomes clear how effectively his abilities developed by nature detect the enemy, because as we get further into the narrow pathway, the faint noise of our steps is accompanied by the characteristic, soft murmur of human speech, which although doesn't uncovers the topic of the discourse, but reveals that there is more than one person waiting for us on the other side. A gloomy, gray light greets us as soon as we reach the end of the corridor, and following the Hunter's example, I lean against the cool wall, listening to the fragments of words drifting in our way. One of the members is probably wandering closer to us, because the conversation he is having with his friends is gradually becoming more audible, and although I don't know the context, I don't like what I can finally understand from it in the least.

"Take the bitch to the boss in two hours. Until then, do something to wake her up. She must be awake." Murmurs the deep male voice, and the disdain in his tone fills me with disgust without even knowing who he could be talking about so kindly. It's not only the tone that helps plant frustration in my brain, but also the fact that there are civilians here, probably not of their own volition, because it only makes our task more difficult. Because the whole mission quickly progresses from the initial capture of the main scum to hostage rescue. And it's clear from the muffled cursing coming out of MacTavish's mouth that he isn't particularly excited by this unexpected development, and if I have to judge only by the clenched curve of his jaw, then his already not-so-rosy mood is only getting worse.

Based on his steps, the guy barking out his instructions gets closer to us, and when he comes into view at the mouth of the corridor, he stares at the two of us in puzzlement. But, when he could reach for the pistol resting on his belt, my friend with the mohawk springs into action, and cuts the throat of the man with a knife taken from his vest with deadly precision, before the guy would have the chance to alert what a pleasant new company his gang has got in our person. Like a waterfall set free, the blood gushes out of the wound, and with wide-open eyes, desperately gaping, he tries to press his palms to the slit, but the crimson liquid escapes unstoppably between his fingers, and my stomach tightens from the metallic smell. But it's more of a reflexive response than true hunger, and my eyes instinctively fixate on the delicacy that slowly drenches the man's jacket, then draws a dark puddle around him as he sprawls on the ground with one last choked gasp. And luckily for this wretch, because of my self-control and Riley's surprisingly nutritious blood, I don't feel the insatiable urge to crank up his agony with a nice little snacking. 

"We're goin' in. On me." MacTavish says, gesturing towards the room with his head, and I nod, adjusting my finger on the trigger, giving him the kick-start to push forward with the determination of a true professional. And when he steps into the spacious room bathed in light, then, without hesitation, he aims at the scumbags that are hanging out there, immediately putting a bullet in the head of one of them, as soon as he jumps up to honor the surprise that we give them.

And emerging from behind his strong figure, I launch myself into the attack, and thanks to the many hours spent with suffering on the shooting range, it's much easier for me to shoot the big guy standing guard in front of the double doors on the other side of the hall, who, thanks to my clever little ambush, falls down to the pale blue tile with a pained scream. However, there is no time to pat myself on the back for my magnificent performance, because much sooner than that, another volunteer charges at me, swinging his knife at me to try to reshape my face. But the lack of coordination in his movements gives me enough time, and my body acts much faster. I bend down to get out of the way of the blade, and taking advantage of his surprise, I point the barrel of my gun at his stomach, so that I can reorganize his internal organs with my bullets at friendly close range. Warm blood splashes on my face, but it doesn't affect me one bit, because it gives me much more satisfaction to see him stagger backwards, with genuine shock on his face, like a wounded animal. I don't feel an iota of guilt, because they didn't show a shred of compassion when they were playing hide ans seek with the defenseless staff in the research institute. Fate gives everyone what they deserve. And I don't even want to deny that it fills me with great pleasure to be able to contribute to its vendetta.

It's all but a few minutes, and all the stray sounds of our incipient fight die down, leaving nothing but the angry pattering of the rain on windows stretching up to the ceiling on the side of the room. The Scottish Hunter finishes off the last bandit as I straighten up and turn around to see how many enemies he has left me. He effortlessly pulls out the knife from the head of a bald man, which he could have sunk into his skull up to the hilt with an impossible force, and then, wiping the blade with a careless movement, steps back, allowing the lifeless body to fall into the empty pool in the middle of the room. And as it lands with a dull thud, it kicks up decades old dirt that has gathered in dirty stains on the dried, mosaic-like tiles.

"There is something behind the door that was worth being protected." I conclude as I take a look at the unmoving criminals spread out on the floor, quickly counting all eight that have got together so intimately in this cozy little hall. And since I suspect that they didn't gather among the remains of the indoor swimming pool because of nostalgia for the past, therefore they could only try to hide something very interesting behind that door, in front of which now lies the still corpse of the humongous gang member I shot.

"Probably the hostages." MacTavish notes walking beside me, his blue eyes fixed on the tastefully crafted solid wood entrance, slowly sliding his knife back into its pouch resting on his shoulder strap. And there is no mistake in his assumption, because it has already come to light that at least one person is being held captive in this magnificent shithole. But even if a dozen defenseless civilians were locked up here, far fewer armed guards would have been enough to keep them in check, especially if they were so weakened that life had to be breathed into them by force. They were trying to protect something else with such fearful concern here.

"Fewer people would have been enough for that. There is something else there." I cast my significant gaze on my friend, and he turns his head to me with his eyebrows furrowed. But as our eyes meet, he understands without words what I'm getting at. If something very important, say a super-secret chemical created by the government, is buried on the other side, then it's very reasonable for a bunch of guards to stand by, vigilantly waiting to see if someone comes to retrieve it.

"Let's go." The Hunter sets off with renewed motivation, and I follow him with no less vigor, because the knowledge that the end of this fucking parade overflowing with chaos can be within arms reach makes my steps much more faster. We cross the room briskly, so that when we reach the threshold of our next goal, I step over the bloodied man lying there and smooth my hand on the doorknob, glancing expectantly at the Hunter. And when he pulls himself together with his assault rifle raised and nods towards me, ready to attack, I push the door open with a decisive movement and let MacTavish charge forward, who rushes past me immediately.

But as I enter as well, and the spacious suite is revealed to me, I'm greeted by nothing but silence and a multitude of unknown crates, which are piled next to each other in rough irregularity, covering the space of a room that was once worth a fortune. And I don't have to tear any of them open to know what's in them, because the smell of gunpowder permeates the air like a disease. Lowering his weapon, the man with the mohawk ventures further into the room, opening one of the large boxes with bewilderment, and when I catch a glimpse of the metallic shine of the almost untouched rifles in it, I'm overcome with confusion similar to my friend's. I expected to find a couple of questionable, but all the more valuable items, but the absence of the hostages, and especially the lack of the serum, raises a series of dangerous questions in my head. Why was it necessary to protect stolen firearms so enthusiastically? Of course, I understand that goods have to be protected, but they can't just walk away, can they?

But when a disapproving grunt-like voice erupts from my Scottish companion, I quickly understand what could have needed such an awful lot of protection besides the rifles. As soon as the first bag full of white powder is found in another opened box, it becomes very obvious that these bandits got their hands on everything that could be used to bring in even the smallest amount of credits. So it's not so surprising that they were willing to cross the wilderness teeming with mutants and slaughter a whole group of unsuspecting researchers for the sake of profit. Of course, that still leaves one question open. Where are the civilians?

But I don't have time to dwell on that, because a roaring bang shakes the building out of nowhere, sending fine plaster dust from the ceiling into my rain-drenched hair. I smooth the damp dirt from my face with the back of my hand, smearing the drops of blood there, only glancing questioningly at MacTavish, on whose face suddenly the apparent gloom deepens, as if he knows that this noise can only mean trouble. And without a doubt, it does, because when he rushes to one of the boarded-up windows and peeks through the gap, he reaches for his radio in the middle of cussing.

"Ghost! What the hell is goin' on there?" He shouts into the device, and his deep voice is filled with such tension that I'm becoming more and more curious as to what his clever eyes could have seen in the yard that caused such concern on his face. But, as I walk towards him, a small, tormented whimper pierces through the chaos that has arisen, which reminds me more of the cry of a tortured animal than of a human being. And that instantly distracts me from the man and the troubling goings-on outside, as the uncomfortable pull in my stomach automatically directs my eyes to the single door on the side of the room.

"We found the target. It's a Hunter and he resists." Riley's hoarse baritone sounds in my ears, but the weight of the information doesn't reach my consciousness due to the noise of the alarm bells going off in my brain. I don't even register as the Hunter, hearing the new information, bursts out in colorful insults, because my legs instinctively take me towards my discovery, and with each step, the soft, muffled sobs become louder, which another voice tries to shush to silence.

"Woods, we have to go!" My partner suddenly calls out after me, but I don't even listen to his urging, because I'm already in front of the unknown entrance, and before he can inquire further about what the hell I'm doing, instead of rushing to the aid of our team with him, I already lock my fingers onto the doorknob and turn it without thinking, opening the wooden panel with a sudden movement.

And the blood freezes in my veins when I see what awaits me beyond the doorway. The light coming from behind me eerily paints the dim little bathroom, and licks at the figure of two strangers clinging to each other, backed into one of the corners. The boy, whose dirt-darkened face is smeared with lines of fresh tears, can't be more than fifteen, but a thousand years of pain and fear are concentrated in his eyes widening in alarm, as he curls up shivering in the embrace of protectively intertwined arms. The bony hands clenched around him bear the angry contours of several old wounds and dozens of seemingly new bruises, and even in spite of this, the woman, trembling, but all the more determined, pulls her protégé's body, weak from malnutrition, to her chest, saying with every cell that she will protect the poor kid even with her last breath. And as my eyes slide down to her ankles, where the thick shackles have rubbed spots blooming in black and purple, and then my gaze moves up and takes in the brownish scales of dried blood on the inside of her thighs, my stomach is clenched with such force by desperate rage that I can only forcefully hold back the scream that threatens to burst out of my throat. Because it doesn't take much logic to deduce who is held here in such high esteem when a Hunter is the leader of the whole fucking group.

"What the hell..." Comes the shocked question from MacTavish as he suddenly appears next to me, both of them flinching in fear at the man's voice. The boy starts to cry with renewed force, and the horrified sob that escapes from his chapped lips squeezes my insides as if someone had hit me in the stomach full force with a hammer. And this instinctively makes my hand reach back and motion to the Hunter to back away, and without taking my eyes off the pair I crouch down, laying my weapon on the ground with such caution as if with each movement I risked them disappearing into the shadows stretching behind them. And without a doubt, they would most likely want to do that, because the utterly distrustful look with which they follow me the entire time reveals that there is nothing else in this world that they wouldn't expect to hurt them, for they have already experienced so much misery.

"It's okay, you have nothing to fear. I'm a Healer too." I point to myself, and I try with every fiber of my being to move tenderness into my voice, which is difficult not because I rarely had to practice it, but because of the rage screaming in my brain, since I would rather gut the bastard who was capable of doing this. "I want to help. Don't be afraid."

And although the terror eases for a bit, with which they press themselves into the musty walls, but as the boy timidly pulls away from the woman a little, his bare legs emerge from under his outstretched T-shirt, and thus every desperate inch of his nakedness is revealed, then something quite terrifying, hot feeling flares up inside me. Because when I see the hand-like marks on his narrow, bony hips, the sure knowledge that the sick bastard who brought them here hasn’t spared any of them settles into my mind with a cruel force. And when my gaze, darkened by recognition, meets the woman's silent, distraught eyes, I can read from them that the horror that unfolded before me is only the tip of the iceberg. Fuck.

⃰

My legs take me almost automatically through the labyrinth of the unknown base, and even I'm surprised by how quickly I rush out into the yard, finding the familiar hangar and continuing my journey there. But my brain is too busy to have the energy to praise myself for my excellent orientation skills. Because every single nerve cell of mine is woven through with that icy rage that has nested itself in all the corners of my body like an infectious disease. And even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to overcome the destructive storm raging under the surface, because I still vividly remember what kind of injuries I discovered on the bodies of the two Healers when I finally treated them after we returned to the KorTac base with the separatist leader in our hands. The mission ended with a rapid success after the minor complication, and the knowledge that we are one step closer to finding the serum should cheer me up, but I felt their trembling under my own hands when I supported them out of that damned cesspool. And it isn't difficult to imagine what kind of treatment they received, if the boy was already clinging to me with fear when MacTavish tried to give him a coat. I saw in my mind's eye every single bone that had just been fused together, every single scar and bruise, and also the wounds that one can only suffer when a beast cannot command its fucking dick and stucks it into everything, it doesn't matter if the hole it found, what or who it belongs to.

I stare straight ahead as I enter the vast space of the hangar, and I'm only vaguely aware of how readily the soldiers passing by move out of my way when they see the frozen expression on my face. At other times, it might fill me with morbid joy to see what effect I can have on my environment, but now only one goal guides and directs me towards the container resting in the corner. I want to show that fucking sadistic bastard with my own hands, what kind of torture can drive a man to the point of begging for death.

But when I get close enough to the large metal cage, a strong figure appears in front of me almost out of nowhere, and it takes me a second to realize who is standing before me through the fog of fury raging in my head. The Korean man holds out one of his camo-clad hands in front of me, causing me to halt and take a deep breath, trying to muster every last spark of my self-control before I would jump on him with an inarticulate yell and help him stand aside.

"You can't go in, there's an interrogation going on." Horangi declares firmly, and even though I can't see his face, I can sense from his accent that he is very serious about his statement intended as an instruction. And maybe it's not customary for them to allow simple Healers to interfere in the busy work of the Hunters, but right now I don't care in the least what traditions and rules they keep here. Because my patience is hanging on by a thread, and every single obstacle that stands between me and my victim dangerously stretches my tolerance to the point of snapping.

"If you don't get out of my way, I'll kill you." I inform him without a flinch, and I flash my eyes at him with such a significant warning that even a brainless idiot would be able to understand that I'm one step away from sending him to the other world. And in any other case, maybe with my sharp tongue and brilliant mind, I would come up with a good little ploy to trick and manipulate him, but this isn't the point where I feel like wasting my precious time on such things.

He examines me silently for a moment, and I can almost hear the battle of arguments in his head, with which he considers how much it pays off for him to stand in my way now. He also knows that if he wanted to, he could easily overpower me, but I know that the murderous temper in my eyes promises him enough trouble if he insists on following the protocols. And it seems that my aura has become sinister enough to make him come around, because he steps aside with a staged sigh and folds his hands in front of his chest, turning his attention back to guarding instead.

"They don't pay enough for this." He grumbles almost to himself, shaking his head in resignation, but apart from the sounds of his complaining, does nothing to keep me back in my little action. And I only give him one last fleeting glance, and then without any further hesitation, I tear open the door perhaps more violently than necessary, because the anger pulsating in my muscles removes all caution from my limbs.

As the small room opens up in front of me, all eyes are fixed on me almost at the same time, my presence interrupting the important conversation spiced with violence that they are currently having. My senses catch the grimness with which Riley turns towards me, and if I were a little calmer, I would stop to analyze the force with which his fingers tighten around the knife clutched in his hand, as he studies the motionless look on my face more closely. But even though the Hunter attracts my attention, I can only focus on one person now, and he sits in the middle of the room on a battered chair with such superiority, as if he weren't surrounded by three mountain-sized men trained to kill. And even though König slowly grasps a hammer in his hands, which can mean nothing but pain to him, he has the strength to put a cocky grin on his face. And suddenly it becomes quite obvious that, in spite of the beating they gave this scumbag, they still haven't managed to get him to talk. Never mind. I'll handle this.

"Woods!" MacTavish turns to me, and from the concern in his voice, I can sense quite simply that now he doesn't want me to witness all this bloody fun in the least. And certainly not because he wants to spare my sensitive psyche from watching someone being tortured for information, but because he saw exactly the effect it had on me when I had the opportunity to admire the handiwork of this separatist bastard on his two victims.

Without a sound, I close the door of the interrogation room behind me, and it seems that our prisoner is slowly realizing that a new guest has arrived at the party organized in his honor. And as his eyes glide over me, and I discover in them the disgusting hunger with which such sick fucks usually ogle at their prey, then the anger pulsing inside me spreads to my limbs like lava. Because the first reflexive thought that pops into my mind is the body of the two Healers shaking with terror as this pair of filthy eyes stares at them from the threshold of their prison.

"You finally brought a hottie here!" Exclaims the bandit cheerfully, not even noticing how the masked Hunter takes a threatening step towards him because of this small remark, perhaps hoping that this will be enough to shut this idiot up. But it seems that although he is running a race with wisdom, unfortunately, it's still faster than him. Because if he had any sense, he wouldn't raise his head like an alpha male, and he would know what a tight spot he was in. "This is an Extreme! I've never fucked one before... Come here baby, let's talk!" He whistles to me, as if he was just trying to lure a dog to him, and there is no doubt that he doesn't regard my kind as more than pretty, useful little animals.

"Shut the fuck up!" MacTavish gets angry on my behalf, and shakes the leader of the separatists with such anger that the chair cries out with wild creak. And other times, I would feel the warmth rising in my stomach at my friend with the mohawk trying to protect me and my honor, but this turn of events awakens such a worrying joy in me that even I get scared for a minute. And I can clearly perceive the confusion on the face of the Scottish Hunter, when a seductive smile appears on my face suddenly in place of the icy anger, as I stroll closer to the stage with comfortable steps, where I will show the performance of my life.

"It's all right, Soap." I carelessly wave to the aforementioned person, and I can tell from the arch of his worriedly furrowing eyebrows, how much my mood, which took a one hundred and eighty turn, fills him with doubts.  But soon he will understand what's going on, he doesn't have to be afraid. "You want to talk to me? You're in luck because I've been waiting for this opportunity. And now that you're sitting here all tied up like a gift... It all feels like a fucking miracle." I note, slowly running my hands along the line of my breasts hidden in my T-shirt, and the gaze of the captured criminal follows the path of my mischievous little fingers with such diligence, as if he were hypnotized. And it's likely the case, because it doesn't even register to him how unnatural is the carefree airiness with which I bypass a grim Riley, and with which I push König away with a soft touch, who, despite our brief acquaintance, backs up to the wall of the container without question.

"You have good taste, baby." The man grins with satisfaction, and it's easy to read from the superiority prevailing on his features that he really believes this to be true. He thinks he is a real jackpot, and I fell in love at first sight and danced in front of him, perhaps in the hope that such a big and strong Hunter boy would finally grace me with his attention. Because it's ridiculously obvious that according to his beliefs, a Healer is born only to serve. How cute.

However, when I arrive in front of him and lean forward, my hands slide onto his thighs, and my fingers sensually squeeze the flesh under the blood-stained fabric, then I see uncertainty run through his mind for a second. But that little spark that would prompt suspicion doesn't last long, because as I kneel between his legs tied to the chair, the two little brain cells that might still be functioning in his head go silent with alarming speed. His pupils dilate almost magically, and it's pathetic how his mouth hangs open as I slowly start massaging the tortured muscles with my palm. How terribly stupid.

"Why don't we play a little, hmm?" I ask softly, giving him a lustful look from under my eyelashes, conveying innocent longing to him with every cell, as if I had no greater desire in this world than to play with him. And it's true. It's an insignificant detail, that he and I are thinking of different kind of fun.

"Now?" The first recognizable wrinkles of doubt appear on his forehead, when reality suddenly penetrates the sensual images dancing in his fantasy. And I have to forcefully suppress the laughter that rises in my throat when he fixes his gaze almost shamefully on the Hunters who have retreated to be the audience. As if the sense of embarrassment had revived in him for a moment, and he would be disturbed by the witnesses, before whom he acted so confident a minute ago. But I don't allow him to sink into this wandering fear, because as one of my fingers travels up to his face and redirects his concentration back to me, I press closer to him, making sure that every inviting inch and curve of my body comes into contact with him.

"Don't pay attention to them. I'm a little shy, but I'll make an exception for you." I purr sweetly, smearing the blood that escaped from the cut across his face with my thumb, as I stroke the damaged skin almost soothingly. I can hear the air getting stuck in his throat as I slowly raise my crimson-painted finger to my lips and clean the delicious liquid with my tongue. How awfully simple.

"You're a little whore, aren't you?" That disgustingly amused grin returns to his face, simultaneously throwing aside any sanity that might have lurked in his head. But I don't blame him for being frivolous, because I know exactly what qualities genetics has blessed me with, and I've managed to sweep my victims off their feet many times with this and my perfectly honed manipulation. After all, what kind of predator would I be if I couldn't lull the vigilance of my prey?

I capture his gaze with unceasing enthusiasm, as I pull away from him to sit on my heels, and the disappointed moan that escapes from his mouth is pitiful. But I won't leave him anxious for long, because I grab his tattered shirt and release it from the grip of his pants with a firm movement, so that my nimble little hands can find their way to every unprotected inch of his stomach. And as my palm smooths over the hot skin, I feel how willingly it shivers under my gentle touch, like a real bewitched idiot.

"You like that, hmm?" I hum sensually, and when my curious energy slowly creeps into him through my fingers, goosebumps rise up under my hand as he closes his eyes accompanied by a sigh full of pleasure. And this is the number one mistake that a smart person would never make. They would not lose sight of their enemy, who, although approaches him with nice words and even kinder gestures, still wants his fall. But one learns the most from the lessons they suffer on their own skin. And now I will teach him wisdom that he will never forget.

In my mind, the intricate network of blood vessels weaving through his body appears, and my practiced little skill doesn't need more than a few seconds to find those extremely interesting little veins and arteries that will now play such an important role in pleasing this big boy. And as the slow wave of my energy causes the blood to start flowing out of the sensitive body part, I direct my eyes with the keen attention of a snake in ambush on the man caught in my claws. I don't have to be disappointed, because even I can feel in my fingertips how the typical tingle that is so characteristic of malfunctioning circulation appears in his muscles. And this disturbs his self-absorbed intoxication just enough, because his eyebrows meet with such incomprehension, as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep.

"What…. what's happening?” The disoriented question breaks out of him, and he fixes his gaze on me suspiciously, as if he would already start to suspect that he didn't quite get the entertainment he signed up for. And I no longer feel the need to continue my masterful performance, which he has so stupidly fallen victim to so far. And when the seductive mask slips off, and a cruel smile crosses my face in its place, I can almost see foreboding flashing into that weak mind of his.

"You may start to feel weird down here because I'm directing the blood out from your little friend." I note simply, as if I were stating a completely self-evident fact, and the stupid expression that appears on his face was worth all the pretense I had to show. His eyes widen almost comically, as he stares at his lap with such shocked dismay, as if he would hope that this moment will dissolve into the bizarre image of a terrible nightmare. But no. The mouth-watering feeling is very real, as after the blood slowly trickles away under my blessed ability, a numbness mixed with pain awakens in that tiny little tool of which he is so fucking proud.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He blurts out, and although he still wants to look very stern, I can hear his voice cracking with recognition. Now he can start to notice this unpleasant spasmodic feeling quite sharply, which arises as a result of my vile little activity, and which causes a dull ache to creep into his groin. And there is no more charming sight in the world than this stupid meathead sinking into despair. "Stop it, you sick bitch!" He snarls at me, emphasizing all his threatening aggression, but unfortunately, he doesn't seem dangerous as he begins to strain wildly against his unbreakable shackles. Because although he may be a Hunter, and he has increased strength and endurance, the chains prepared by my friends were invented for bad boys like him.

"Oh, what's wrong? I thought you wanted me to play with your dick..." I pout with fake sadness, cooing to him with such contemptuous disdain, as if I were just trying to reason with a hysterical child. And from the small tantrum he throws, which causes him to try to tear his hands out of the thick handcuffs amidst loud grunting, he seems no more than a overgrown baby. "Oh, my bad. I forgot to tell you that I like it rough." I spit, putting an edge imbued with caustic sarcasm in my voice, and there is nothing charming in that grin that flashes all my teeth, which I twist on my mouth.

He would try to speak, and maybe he would swear at me with some very macho harshness, but as I speed up the adventurous migration of blood from his cock with another burst of energy, a tortured moan erupts from his throat from the sharp pain that surely penetrates him by now. Small drops of cold sweat surface on his forehead, and I almost feel sorry for him from the look of terror on his face. But that's not enough. Because although he's slowly realizing what a sadistic little game I've lured him into, I still don't see the despair I'm looking for.

"Maybe I should make blood clots in your veins. You know what happens when a part of your body doesn't get blood, right? No nutrients, no oxygen..." I dwell on the endless possibilities, tilting my head curiously, and even he, with his small brain capacity, can understand what the consequences are when the tissues are left without blood supply. And, as he comprehends that neither his physical strength nor his ability to intimidate will get him out of this situation, then dread glides through his features with such a spectacular fastness that it's a joy to watch.

"Please don't..." He begins to plead, and the hoarseness that moves to his voice from the panic bubbling up in his throat is music to my ears. And when I see the first glistening pearls of tears in his eyes, the hatred burning in my stomach swells with contented joy, because the visceral desperation that takes shape on his face is quite wonderful. And the sugary-sweet smile that curls up the corners of my mouth at the sight of his misery may even seem sick, but this bastard deserves every moment of suffering, because there is so much pain stuck to his hands that no amount of shame and agony can wash away. And I'm not afraid to become ruthless and mean to help him taste what it's like to be truly defenseless and helpless.

"Oh, no, no, no! Don't cry! This is fun! It's like an experiment!" I lean closer to him, caressing his belly with mocking tenderness, and he jerks under my hand with reflexive speed from the delicate gesture. Shuddering, he tries to pull away from me, as if he wanted to merge with the back of the chair, but it's futile to think that he will be able to escape from this difficult situation. I enjoy it too much. "If we wait long enough, it will fall off! Or even start to rot! But don't worry, you'll still be able to get laid! Maybe you'll be able to fuck yourself with your own dick!" I continue my musing with unhinged glee, watching as his teeth clench with painful force, as his sanity and self-respect clash for dominance. And when a choking sound escapes from him, with which he tries to stifle the silent sobs shaking his chest, then I know I've broken him.

"Please, please... I'll do anything, just don't..." He whimpers, and a thick vein on his neck pops out from the effort he uses to force these pathetic words out of himself. I know he'd rather bite his own tongue for stooping so low, but he is just the kind of cretin that can be led on by a trick like that. He gets rid of every ounce of self-esteem in an instant with his plea, no doubt hoping that a pretty woman like me might have enough compassion to take pity on him. But he picked a fight with the wrong person. Because the circle of those who can create such tender feelings in me is very narrow. And of course, nasty pests are not among them.

"If you want me to stop, then start talking." I willingly offer him the obvious solution, and when he looks at me wild with desperation, I can see the long series of thoughts going through his head, with which he tries to process what I'm asking of him. And there can definitely be important information in that ugly little head of his, if even when he is up to his neck in a stinking pile of shit, he vacillates about whether to share it with us. "Because the clock is ticking." I remind him, imitating the rhythmic clicking of the hands of the clock with my index finger, and I can feel him twitch with increasing tension under my hands with each small tap. A suffocating minute passes as I stare unblinkingly at him and drum with unbroken enthusiasm on his bruised stomach, sending the blood further and further away from his jewels with each movement. And now the tears are starting to flow in rich streams on his face, which is almost purple in color, mixing with the sweat, which is slowly covering every inch of his skin from the pain caused by my little game.

"I don't have the serum!" He finally surrenders, almost shouting his confession, as his mouth opens wide with a tortured whimper, when I continue my treacherous little activity just to be sure. "I sold it to a guy named Rat! He has his network in Colony No. 2, he said he'll hand it over to his customer there!" He spills the info eagerly, and even though every word is raspy with the aching pulsing with even force in his lap, the obedience with which he surrenders to my will is music to my ears. And suddenly I'm filled with intense pride from the knowledge that I could be of such great help to my friends who are shrouded in eerie silence leaning against the wall, and that I got the information out of this asshole that had become our prey, which they didn't manage to beat out of him. Each vermin requires a different approach, it seems. And I'm lucky that not a prouder and smarter person is the head of Vultures, because it wouldn't have been possible to back anyone other than him into a corner so easily by threatening to make his junk fall off.  

"There you go! It wasn't that hard, was it?" I pull my hands out from under the sweat-soaked textile, patting his thigh with such belittling tenderness, as if I wanted to praise a dog that performed a clever trick. And the relieved sigh with which he finally calms down a bit is quite sweet, and as soon as a breath of his confidence returns him, and he fixes his eyes on me expectantly, then I simply push myself away from him to stand up, turning my back on him to head for the interrogator's door without any further discussion. And now, for the first time, my undivided attention is diverted from my prey long enough for me to catch the expression on my companions' faces, and from the way MacTavish's brows furrow in bewilderment and dread, I have to forcefully suppress the outline of a cheeky smile that wants to curve at the corner of my mouth. I forgot that even though I had already entertained Riley with my slyness, the Scotsman hadn't yet had the chance to witness my questionable tactics.

"Hey! What are you doing? You said you would stop!" The leader of the separatists finally comes to his senses, and I just glance at him over my shoulder. And although I know that the trauma of the two Healers won't be nullified by my little revenge, it cannot be denied that the stunned distress with which he gapes at me, dispels the anger gnawing at my insides. And I wish that the two of them could see how deep a hole such a freak can crawl into, if sufficient methods are used to help him back to the edge of the abyss. But maybe it will give them a little joy to know that the bastard, who so indulgently laid his filthy hands on them in every way imaginable, will be forced to live out the rest of his pathetic life with his dick rotting away like a useless leather hose in his pants.

"It's a shame that I'm a filthy liar." I shrug my shoulders with noble simplicity, telling him with every inch of me that this is no longer my problem. And from my periphery, I can clearly see how my masked companion coks his head to the side in interest, and as our eyes meet, I see the dark little sparks in them when he realizes how freely I used the strategy that he presented to me so kindly during Valeria's interrogation. I've learned from the best.

"You dirty little bitch! Once I get my hands on you, I'll gut you! Do you hear me?!" The criminal indulges in his scary threats, and every muscle in his face tenses with rage as he spits his curses at me. And when I only raise my head with a pitying look, he loses himself in his rampage with such vigor that the chair he was enslaved to begins to shake amidst wild creaking. But no matter how hard he struggles, no matter how hard he tries to tear his hands from the chains, a D-class fool is unable to perform the same magic tricks my friends can do. Because my Scottish friend and his bosom friend would have already folded bows out of the metal by now. How utterly sad.

However, it seems that our new helper gets bored much sooner with this ridiculous interlude, in which our prisoner sinks more and more violently by the minute, because König appears in front of him so quickly, and grabs the separatist leader's throat without any warning, that every sound of his angry protest boils in his throat in a second. And he doesn't even have time to react, for the Hunter lifts the guy up by the neck along with the chair to then throw him to the ground, and as he lands on the floor of the container, the chair breaks into pieces with a tortured crash. And even before the outlaw could collect the thoughts of opposition in his brain, dulled by surprise and pain, his attacker makes sure that he stays where he had so kindly laid him down.

König's foot chruses on his victim's chest like a press, and an interesting hissing sound leaves the throat of the man lying among the pieces of broken furniture, as his mouth slowly opens to shout, but only a forced groan comes out. And although from the hooded Hunter's perspective, it all seems nothing more than when someone methodically tramples on a bug, I know how much strength it takes to coax this sick sound out of someone. The morbid sight lasts just a second longer than it should, just long enough for the halfwit writhing on the ground to feel how fleeting and senseless end his life has came to. And it occurs to me that there is no hesitation in this, only pure cruel pleasure, because as the protective wall of our prisoner's ribcage gives way with a sudden crackle under the heavy boot, even though his face is covered by the loose fabric, I see the satisfaction flash in the cold blue eyes, with which he watches the foamy path of the blood gushing from the lips of his prey stretched out in the dirt.

And I know that I'm not imagining those cheerful little wrinkles that appear around the skin covered in dark paint, as he turns towards me, towering above the now motionless dead body, and our gaze intertwines. And because of this, the restless voice in my head warns me to be careful in a tenth of a second, because I can't think of a good explanation for why I discover the invisible line of a smile around his eyes emerging from under the textile. What the hell?

[cookiesuga55]

Full of Life (Minimoni)

TW: eating disorder.

You know what I adore. Healthy fat. Round soft jiggle laid over muscle, proving that someone is loved. Gaining weight as a form of healing. Comfort and safety and trust.

Jimin gets "healthy fat." His previously malnourished and over-exercised body is finally getting more than the bare minimum number of calories to function. This all begins when he starts dating Nutritionist Namjoon, and his boyfriend purses his lips at just how little Jimin consumes in a day. Jimin is so exhausted all of the time. He complains of headaches, and Namjoon knows exactly why.

"Six cups of coffee and one granola bar is not enough fuel to last all day, little chick."

Despite Jimin waving him off with excuses about being too busy in the dance studio to eat, Namjoon hauls his own meaty, bulked-up ass to the kitchen at 1 am and cooks balanced meals for Jimin to snatch from his fridge on the way out each morning. He knows just what kinds of calories Jimin's deprived body needs. Moderately portioned rice and grains mixed with peppers, tomatoes, and a sprinkle of olive oil. A slab of seared salmon or some other healthy protein for Jimin's body to actually have enough energy to last the day. Sauteed vegetables, sliced cheese, and a healthy portion of fruit. A little bar of dark chocolate that he knows Jimin adores. A protein smoothie full of nutrients and calories for Jimin to sip in the morning instead of overdosing on caffeine. He adds an apple and draws on a sticky note. A little wobbly smiley face with a speech bubble. "Eat me!"

Namjoon presses another sticky note on the coffee machine for Jimin to see when he wakes up. A "breakfast and yummy lunch in the fridge for you. <3 Joonie."

Jimin is so pouty with affection when he wakes up and sees the notes and the food made with love from his hyung. He tosses it in his bag on the way out, chaotic and haphazard as always, almost late as he shucks on his trainers and snatches the delicious-looking smoothie instead of the stale coffee that he forgot to empty out the night before.

Namjoon keeps up caring for his boyfriend, and it isn't long before Jimin's frail and exhausted body begins filling in. Namjoon kisses his baby chick's pudgy cheek before heading to the early shift at the clinic, and murmurs as always, "love you-" before leaving.

Jimin having actual food and a well-balanced diet helps his body so much. He starts coming home from work with more energy, smiling and glowing at Namjoon with fuller cheeks, asking if he wants to go for a bike ride together along the river. Namjoon practically beams as he can see the life pouring back into his boyfriend now that his body is approaching a healthy weight. Jimin has a soft waist, and Namjoon can't help but adore it. Rubbing in his hands as he hugs him from behind in the kitchen, feeling the sweet, warm curves of his body and leaning down to kiss his neck. Jimin melts into him like usual, and Namjoon feels so much pride in the way Jimin's tummy gently pushes out into his hands. Jimin is so healthy. He's full of life and love, and Namjoon makes sure to worship the ever-living hell out of him, so Jimin doesn't slip into any of the negative thoughts that he confessed to him one night over a bottle of shared wine about why he started dancing- to lose weight.

Jimin is just so happy these days, and he knows that Namjoon is a major contributing factor. He finally has enough energy to start going to the gym with Namjoon whenever his cute, huge koala asks him with hopeful eyes. Jimin follows the exercise plan that Namjoon's personal-trainer friend at work whipped up for him.

"Nothing for weight loss," Namjoon had told Jungkook privately during their lunch break, "I just want him confident and healthy again. He was so frail, Jungkookie. I was scared he was going to break."

Jimin jogs on the elliptical and watches Namjoon squat with a bar of weight hiked over his shoulders. Tiddies and ass to die for. Namjoon is so fucking thick and yummy. Jimin licks his teeth after taking another drink of the protein shake that his boyfriend gives him every morning. They chase their weekly gym-runs with shower sex at home, and then Namjoon cooks them up a hearty breakfast to offset all of those burned calories.

His hyung is a little obsessed with clean-eating, but Jimin doesn't mind. It's cute how Namjoon always goes to the organic section of the store and bikes to the farmers market. Jimin practically has a personal chef with how good Namjoon's cooking is. There's always a delicious meal on the table for him, with seconds ready to be dished onto his plate.

Jimin finishes filling in, and starts filling out. He lays in the morning sunshine glimmering across their bed, thoroughly fucked. Both of them softly pant and bask in afterglow. Namjoon's warm, ringed hand is resting on Jimin's tummy and gently rubs circles.

"Have you noticed..." Namjoon's voice is fucked from moaning. Jimin turns to him and can't help but glow. It's his favorite sound. Namjoon's morning voice, deepened and scratchy from pleasure. "That sex has gotten so much better since you started eating more? You have more energy, baby."

Warmth floods Jimin's cheeks, but he nods, a little bit shy. Namjoon's hand caresses the curve of his waist, fingers sinking into the supple weight. "I love this, by the way," Namjoon whispers and gives Jimin's love handle a little squeeze. He squishes in his hyung's hand. "I prefer you healthy and soft over sharp and exhausted," Namjoon nuzzles into his neck, and Jimin wraps around Namjoon's warmth.

The truth spills out of Jimin before he can think twice, "me too..."

"You haven't had a headache in months too, lovely. You're full of life." Namjoon cuddles him back, pulling him into his thick chest. Jimin burrows into it, breathing him in. Jimin isn't dumb. He's noticed the way that his body has been rounding out, filling up with muscle and a healthy layer of supple padding, making him curvy and plump. His hips even have stretch marks over them, complete with bruised kisses painted over them by Namjoon. His hyung has done such a good job of making him feel comfortable and loved in his new body.

"I know," Jimin whispers into the safety of Namjoon's chest, knowing that it's all because of his boyfriend's care. "Thank you, Joonie. I'm so happy like this."

That's all that Namjoon needs to hear to practically rumble in his chest, and kiss the top of Jimin's head. He pushes Jimin onto his back, laying his hearty weight on top of him and sliding his big hands down to Jimin's waist. One of Namjoon's dimples presses into his cheek as his lips curve up into a smirk. "Now that I don't have to be so careful with you..." He squeezes Jimin's plump sides, "You're fucking sexy with some weight on you, baby."

Jimin's cheeks heat up, and a whimper bubbles out of his throat. Embarrassing. That's embarrassing that he just whined from Namjoon squeezing his tummy. "I- I am?" He looks up at his hyung's hungry face. Namjoon pets his palms over him, squeezing everywhere that's warm with fat. His lidded eyes darken.

"I told you that I love this- Healthy. Curvy. Soft. You're perfect for squeezing and biting." He licks his lips as he drinks Jimin in. The look that Namjoon is keeping him pinned with has Jimin wanting to mewl and arch up into him. To hook his stretch-marked thighs around Namjoon's waist and beg.

All Jimin can do is whine and tug on his boyfriend's thick biceps.

Namjoon purrs as he worships him. "A healthy mix of muscle and enough pudge for people to know that I'm taking good care of you. That you're finally being kept well-fed." He shoves his hands underneath Jimin's back and slides down, getting a thick handful of his ass cheeks. Jimin feels like he's going to catch on fire with how much pleasure is thrumming through his body, settling in the core of his belly. Namjoon sinks down and hums against his fluffy belly, like he knows where the heat blooms inside of Jimin. "Softened tummy and tits for me to worship, and a plump peach for me to bruise-"

Namjoon's teeth scrape against Jimin's padded hip bones. Jimin whines uncontrollably, dissolving into melted desire at the body worship. He desperately clutches at Namjoon's hair, tugging hard just how his hyung likes it. His back arches, making the sweet curve of his belly push up into Namjoon's face. He can feel his boyfriend's lips stretch into a smile against his skin.

"I'm taking advantage of all of that extra energy you have for my own pleasure. That makes me a bad hyung," Namjoon drags his lips up Jimin's stomach. God that feels so fucking good.

"Take advantage- Please-" he gasps and frees his pillowy thighs to hook them around Namjoon and lock him in place. He wants him to keep kissing his tummy. "Gods, Namjoon, please fucking take advantage- I'm all yours-"

Namjoon laughs in delight against Jimin's softened stomach and begins pressing firm, needy kisses down his belly and across his waist. His voice is teasing and thick with desire.

"If you insist, baby..."

Jimin is cut off by a moan. "I fucking insist..."

[hindahoney]

Do you have any specific tips on learning to keep kosher? Advice like what dairy substitutes work best or a reliable place to get recipes would be great. I grew up in a house that mixes dairy and meat for most meals so any help would be greatly appreciated. If you've already answered this, could you give a link to the post? I couldn't find one, but that might be because tumblr's search function doesn't work.

Sure! Here is a post I made about keeping kosher. Substitutes are your best friend. If a recipe calls for butter, using vegetable oil instead could be better if you're eating it with a meat meal. Margarine is also a great substitute when making baked goods. Mixing lemon juice with a nut milk gives you buttermilk.

In brownies, using orange juice instead of milk makes the flavor really pop. I love doing this on shabbat so I can have a dessert after a meat meal. You could also just use any other nut milk, or oat milk (just make sure it has a pareve symbol on it, I've seen some oat milks that are still OU D because it's sometimes manufactured in dairy machines or factories). Pareve chocolate is a miracle to be appreciated. Using egg noodles or zucchini noodles are great when you want to have a meat-based dish, and pareve bread for meat-based sandwiches.

I love using vegan or vegetarian plant-based meats in my dishes.* For example, I use vegan ground beef in my lasagna, so I can still use regular noodles and cheese. Plant-based chicken is also great for skillets or pasta. You could also just use fish instead, as it's considered pareve. I don't like the taste of vegan cheese, so I'd much rather use real cheese and vegan meat, but it's always an option. If you don't have meat but still want a filling meal, using grains such as quinoa, or starches like potatoes, can help with that.

As for finding recipes, there are a few kosher cooking blogs online. To find things I usually just search whatever food I want followed by "kosher" and it's usually there. If I can't find a recipe for it, I use a regular recipe with the above substitutes to make it kosher. Buying kosher cookbooks is also a good idea. I don't recommend just searching for "jewish cookbooks" because sometimes those include non-kosher dishes, so search specifically for kosher cookbooks.

*Some Jews have customs that don't allow them to eat vegan meats due to abiding by the spirit of the law, and the fact that the appearance of eating something not kosher could mislead others. It is best to discuss this with your rabbi if you think this may be an issue.

[the-quicksilver-diary]

The Plague

When Shirley awoke, the air in her chambers was thick, hot, and wet. Her skin clung to itself, oil and sweat dripping. The faculties of her nostrils were all but non-functional, leaving her equipped only with the desperate apparatus of her chapped mouth through which to draw in stale air. The heavy stench of sickness was one Shirley recalled all too well. She turned to move her head and look at the time. Her muscles were wound tight, and her bones crunched. The digits of her alarm clock blurred into a red haze, and the blinding sun bleeding in from the outside offered no assistance to her ability to discern the current time. Shirley faded in and out of consciousness for several lifetimes, each moment perceived an immeasurable hell. She lie there for another two hours. As her head pulsed with a dark malevolence, her body ached, and her senses dulled, Shirley surmised that to feed was her most suitable course of action. Upon standing, her sight was flooded with an array of dancing stars. Her surroundings flitted out of being, and she was alone. It was just her and the dark. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she stumbled her way to the kitchen by way of fighting through dizzying starlight. Each step sent a jolt of electrical pain through her legs, her spine, her brain. "Why was I-" Her voice was hoarse, and all at once her throat filled with sand and razor blades and hatred. Before she could finish her thought, she was seized by an attack of hacking and wheezing. Her diaphragm tried to keep up and take in air to keep her consciousness intact, and her body spasmed and convulsed in the disgusting fashion of a marionette. After a time, the coughing died, and she regained the ability to wheeze in another breath and continue to her task. No more of that, then. Shirley opened her fridge to see its contents. She found herself unable to remember what she had prepared the night before. A lightbulb within flickered to life, casting a harsh light on forsaken plastic containers of past meals. The machine's compressor sputtered to life, and a breath of cold spilled onto the floor at her feet - clumsy, inelegant. Three opened bottles of ketchup, languishing in the refrigerator's door, giving each other a semblance of company until the day they all perish at once from infection in the dark, in the cold. In the back, a bowl of what once could have been called mashed potatoes. It has since been consumed by the bloody war waged between white fuzz and green splotches. A platter of chicken, blackened on the bottom and served with a selection of vegetables cut into too-large pieces. This will suffice.

She closed the door and went to warm her day's nourishment. A sudden possession overtook her then, contorting her face into a wrinkled monstrousness. Her sigh grew dim, and she lurched backward. Within her skull, a spring wound itself tight. Click. Shirley's skull unleashed a hurricane, her sinuses stinging white hot for just a fraction of a second for the duration of the sneeze, before she regained a bit of clarity. Oh right, the microwave. Shirley set her meal in the microwave, set it to warm for ninety seconds, and watched it spin. The juices within the meat sizzled and popped, eager to escape its fibrous and charred prison of flesh. Tiny ice crystals within the vegetable medley began to thaw, making damp the assortment of carrots and broccoli. The plate spun, catching the attention of Shirley's plague-addled mind. Oh, how the plate spun and spun. With its contents sufficiently heated and time depleted, the microwave alerted its user to its task's completion. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. It took a few rounds of this to snap Shirley back to her senses and grab her food out of the device. She staggered to her dining room table, seating for one. After her first forkful of food, she paused. She was cursed with a dreadful realization, a knowledge too awful for her to bear. Within the blink of an eye, she built within her the rage to shatter the very heavens, the essence of her soul withered within her as she lost all hope she might have had to fight through this disease. An awful truth became overwhelmingly apparent: she had lost her ability to taste. And so Shirley ate the rest of her meal, her expression taking on the quality of melted wax. The sound of her fork against her plate, the only one present, was dampened by the thick miasma of disease that so lingered and swirled in the air of her home. She went to bed after this, coughs straining the rusted springs of her mattress. After a long time of tossing, turning, and wheezing, Shirley finally returned to the quiet bliss of rest, rheum sealing the features of her face shut for a very long time.

[lauvra]

The sky in Melbourne has been pristine blue for days, my dad will arrive in the early afternoon. Yesterday was spent mostly shuttling laundry from the machine onto racks outside and back, scrubbing the bathroom and tidying but there's more to be done. I'm writing this to kick myself in the ass, because without my morning journal I tend to leech time dry in wait of some greater inspiration. I want to pick up breakfast food, coffee, dairy milk, raw sugar and maybe oats for his stay. Putting him up in my bedroom, I'll remove some lude art hanging on the walls -- it's not that he'd be offended, but kinda like gathering around the family television as an intimate scene pops up, the idea of my dad subjected to the print of a prostitute performing fellatio or my several nude oil paintings is uncomfortable. The flannel sheets are drying on the line, the floors are waiting for suds and I'm expecting some finger wagging reprobation about our wasting the garden bed. In every rental property, he would either utilise the garden beds to grow vegetables or create one. In the last house we all shared, he'd even built a pond then filled it with Koi fish. His mother has emphysema -- he said he intends to quit smoking cigars after this holiday and I'm almost relieved to have faltered on my most recent bout of nicotine sobriety. Penny has slept cradled in my arms nearly every night I can think of, so I'm sure she'll nestle up to him while he's here and that warms my heart. In a classic dad move, he always claimed not to like cats but they love him and he softens immediately, cooing in baby speak. Oh! I'll put up the Iron Maiden flag -- merch he bought for me when we attended their concert together years ago. I wish my brother was travelling here too, eventually I'll convince him, his girlfriend and best friend to move from their quaint nothing town by the beach to the inner city multi-cultural madness of Melbourne. Dad's gonna get a real kick out of Jack's Donkey Kong machine, it's got a modded board with one of his favourite childhood games on it, Galaga.

Look at this young dope

[novantinuum]

❄️🌈 for the current ask game!!!

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing.

Some mid-Calamity stuff from far down the line of one of my WIPs.

_

He’s marooned amidst a torrential downpour, ice-cold rain cutting rivulets down his forehead and effortlessly soaking through his tunic and undershirt, plastering them flush to his sweat-stained limbs. His boots, too, are thoroughly soiled— the dirt and clay underfoot having nearly liquefied into a thick, viscous mud that threatens to seep through the gaps in his worn-down soles and weigh him down into an early grave.

(Not here, though. Not now. Not yet.)

Even despite all the bull-headed courage he can muster, the grime, muck, and sinew of this battlefield is nauseating. The stench of death smothers the air as thick as smoke. Sprinting towards his mark, he only barely manages to sidestep around a fallen body. Yet another fellow Hylian… too brave, too young. (No time to grieve, eyes up!) The Master Sword’s scabbard bounces heavily against his back as he grinds his teeth and leaps to strike a final blow against the latest guardian endangering the security of the fort. Sparks shoot out from its eye— a deadly spectacle of fireworks— as he jams the blade through the center of this weak point, over and over and over again. His muscles burn with a vengeance, and he strains to keep his footing upon the chiseled stone in this downpour. After his ninth strike, he jumps off the machine’s chassis and retreats to a safer position, watching its spindly legs crumple underneath its weight. The eerie red glow possessing the relic from within fades to nothing.

Dead.

He struggles to catch his breath. All that effort, and only one more of them dead.

🌈 Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP.

In which Link's little sister gets a lil' introduction to some Kakariko locals:

While her new friend is occupied, Aryll figures she might as well explore. She skips over to the shelves, ‘oooing’ and ‘aaaaing’ over the store’s wide catalogue of produce. This place is absolutely loaded! They have local vegetables, they have truffles, they have wildberries, they have essentials like oil and butter and rice and wheat. They even have— oh, ick! What in Din’s name is that? Her lip curls up as her sights lock upon a large wicker basket filled with quivering, pungent guts, each organ about the size of her fist.

The shopkeeper bites back an amused laugh, prompting her to realize with embarrassment flooding her cheeks that she must’ve exclaimed her disgusted query out loud.

“Those are bokoblin hearts, my dear,” she says, turning to face her. “They may not look appetizing, but they’re actually quite useful as a base for elixirs.”

Aryll squints, raising on her tippy toes to investigate the monstrous ingredient closer. “But… why guts?” she asks, puzzled. Back in her time, elixirs were almost entirely made from medicinal herbs. She’s never heard of using monster guts before.

The owner shrugs, an almost wistful smile crossing her lips. “Scarcity breeds innovation, I suppose. When I was a child, a lot of the ingredients we used to source for elixirs became rare or endangered, so we were forced to experiment with all sorts of different things. But anyways, enough of all that,” she says, batting the topic away with the flat of her hand. “Aryll, your name is?”

She nods.

“Well, miss Aryll, you may call me Trissa. Paya tells me you’re in need of a hearty supper after a long, exhausting day of travel. How would a nice, warm pot of pumpkin soup sound to you?”

“That would be wonderful, ma’am,” she chimes, bouncing upon the balls of her feet.

[shivshaktimachtech]

Mustard Oil / Edible Oil Bottle Filling Line

Company Overview: Shiv Shakti Machtech is a Manufacturer, Exporter, and Supplier of Mustard Oil / Edible Oil Bottle Filling Line in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India. Shiv Shakti Machtech's Mustard Oil Bottle Filling Machine is crafted from top-notch materials, adhering to hygiene standards and facilitating easy cleaning. A Mustard Oil or Edible Oil Bottle Filling Line comprises a series of machines designed for filling, capping, and labeling bottles containing mustard oil or other edible oils. Filling Machine: Equipped to precisely fill bottles with desired quantities of mustard oil or edible oil. Features a conveyor belt system for bottle transportation, precision filling nozzles, and volume adjustment controls. Ensures uniform filling levels and reduces spillage or wastage of oil. Capping Machine: Responsible for securely sealing filled bottles with caps or lids. Utilizes various capping mechanisms (e.g., screw caps, press-on caps, snap-on caps) based on bottle and cap types. Ensures tight and consistent sealing to prevent oil leakage or contamination. Labeling Machine: Applies labels onto filled and capped bottles, providing product information, branding, and regulatory details. Operates with precision and consistency, even at high production speeds. Features may include label applicators, sensors, and controls for accurate label placement and alignment. Application: Food and beverage industry: Used in edible oil processing plants, bottling facilities, and packaging operations for Cooking Oil, Mustard Oil, Soybean Oil, Cottonseed Oil, Vanaspati Ghee, Rice Bran Oil, Sesame Oil, Palm Oil, Mustard Oil, Kachi Ghani Mustard Oil, Refined Oil, Coconut Oil, Sunflower Oil, Corn Oil, Olive Oil, Soya Oil, Canola Oil, Safflower Oil, Oil Spray, Avocado Oil, Rapeseed Oil, Nut Oils, Organic Safflower Oil, Palm Oil, Groundnut Oil,  Edible Oil, Vegetable Oil. Geographical Coverage: Shiv Shakti Machtech serves as the Manufacturer and Supplier of Mustard Oil / Edible Oil Bottle Filling Line in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India, and various locations across the country, including Andhra Pradesh, Arunachal Pradesh, Assam, Bihar, Chandigarh, Chhattisgarh, Dadra and Nagar Haveli and Daman and Diu, Delhi, Goa, Gujarat, Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu and Kashmir, Jharkhand, Karnataka, Kerala, Ladakh, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Manipur, Meghalaya, Nagaland, Odisha, Puducherry, Punjab, Rajasthan, Sikkim, Tamil Nadu, Telangana, Tripura, Uttar Pradesh, Uttarakhand, and West Bengal. For further details, interested parties can contact Shiv Shakti Machtech. Read the full article

[clementinefight]

cold summer

My stress this summer is so bad, my neck is permanently stiff. Rigid, nervous, stone. A girl wakes in the middle of the night, she's alone in a deep world of empty houses, and in the dispossessed sleep of her childhood branches have started to grow from her arms, limp orange muddy leaves have overcome her hair, and she is rooting from toes down into floorboards. Nobody to ask a thing, like whether or not her experience of life is normal. So the branches grow, gather, then she is this isolated nature in her isolated bedroom, turned over to a cyclical light of day or night she sees only through gaps in her own weather, and so big with bushiness she can’t get out the manufactured door and enter the wood where, unbeknownst to her, are the others just like her, made of branches and leaves and who have solitary spirits also, though still need their roots to touch the roots of another. Or something. Sometimes, and I’m not proud of this, I look out at the green backyard and I see the peach-juice sun in the sky and I see the invisible breezes of July curling with tendrils of dark flora and it seems not like I'm here, but like I’m watching television, something bright and far away. I forget it’s my day, that I can even go over there and touch if I wanted to, I could even pee on the land like a dog would, if I wanted to, and claim this in some way.

Haven’t swam enough, haven’t walked enough, I’m becoming a little suburbanite cruising around in my dented car, seeing everything through eyes of windshield. The bushes, the houses, the pink sinking light—it’s all over there, and nothing is here but the music. This puts a strange layer of distance between me and summer, me and real things. I will make a point later to stick my toe in some mud – or press my bare hand into black pavement, will the asphalt to deflate like it’s a hot chocolate cake. Wouldn’t you like for the parking lots to liquify and sink below ground every summer, and for the black waves to rock our heat glistened cars around, up towards the marshmallow clouds; or for the greenery to not stop where it stops but extend until it’s like a shag of shining lime hair over the shopping mall, the movie theatre. If you don’t have a car, good for you, stay pure

Something else I’ve noticed — I’m such an impulse buyer. Buying feels close and friendly, like putting on some leather gloves. I would never want to see me at an auction. Stressed, my emotions lift to a crescendo where they then collapse from jitters into an almost hysterical net around my entire body—a pantsuit of stress, and it’s three colours: blue, red and purple, the baby. Feels warm, then cold. Here I either go to the grocery store to buy new condiments, shortbread, or jarred vegetables in brine or oil; or I’ll buy books online.

Today it was books. A small NYRB haul. I guess this is a fairly tame impulse, but I’d really rather be that one who stresses out and goes for a walk, or a swim, or a bike ride, or a scream into their pillow. Instead I just fill my cart, and it’s like filling a hole for a little while. Hate my methods. Look forward to the books. The Liar by Martin A. Hansen (“and for years now Johannes has lived alone”), My Friends by Emmanuel Bove, Machines in the Head by Anna Kavan and The Juniper Tree by Barbara Comyns. I’m drawn to stories with the desperate or resigned thud of loneliness in them; it’s what I relate to most; or maybe it’s not; it’s funny, even when people reach out for connection, I still want to believe it’s being alone I’m most capable of, even made for (I say that in a soldierly way, which makes it even more embarrassing). Björk was in a movie called The Juniper Tree, which was inspired by the Brothers Grimm fairy tale as was the novel by Comyns. Maybe I’ll read that too.

Today I’m in Montreal. I'm visiting my little brother. His balcony looks out onto other nondescript buildings, and he leaves the door wide open while he naps and I work on my laptop out here on the couch; trucks and cars roar a kind of grating metal noise down below, this noise feels prehistoric rather than modern, like out of sight the earth has split under lava and now we are getting not the sight but the noise, the noise. I decide to welcome it. The noise is not a fixed feature of my life anyway, but of his life, in this way it’s easy to welcome. Brief everything. Brief and body me. Bonobo plays on the television, then Seabear, and last night we watched some episodes of King of the Hill—the tornado episode had some beautiful red and green skies. My coffee this morning brought on nausea and I thought I could wave this dislocation off by eating a raisin croissant, but that made it worse, though at least it was good. Now I sit here with a foggy head taking forever to get my work done. EEEEEK

Later going to meet my brother’s girlfriend for the first time over some ramen! Then going to see the 10:15 show Oppenheimer with both of them, all three of us together.

In two weeks I leave for my trip! Ireland, Scotland, London, Iceland!

[averysmolbear]

Reiner, who gave me a key to his place after a month of dating. He made sure that I knew it didn't mean I had to move in yet. It just meant that I was able to come over any time I wanted. I officially moved in after about six months of dating though because I was over so much.

Reiner, who started talking about us buying a house from almost the moment I moved into his apartment with him. A couple of months after I’d moved in he started bringing me to open houses although I was able to talk him into waiting a bit before making such a big investment but Reiner made sure we got a big house, promising that we’d fill the house with kids and pets one day.

Reiner, who has more of a green thumb than I do so he takes care of all of the plants in the house and the garden outside once we move into our own home. He knows how much I love flowers and having fresh herbs and vegetables so he happily set up the garden after we bought a house. But we still go to the farmer's market every Saturday because I enjoy it so much.

Reiner, who comes inside after changing the oil on either of our cars covered in dirt and grease and immediately comes to find me to either place both of his large hands firmly on my ass until he leaves dirty, greasy hand prints on my pants or grabs my face to kiss me, getting the dirt and grease all over me too. (And then promptly suggests, either way, that we go shower together to get cleaned up.)

Reiner, who will happily take me to the zoo as soon as the weather warms up enough for it. He loves it too but he especially loves how my face lights up when I see any of my favorite animals. He constantly buys me little stuffed animals from the gift shop before we leave. I now have stuffed animal versions, in every size they happen to carry, of all my favorite animals. (But there’s also a growing number of Reiner’s favorites joining the ranks now.)

Reiner, who will obsessively play claw machine games to win a prize for me from them. He gets just as bad at fairs when we pass the games, spending far too much just to win me any prize that I mention in passing that I think is cute.

[helmort]

𝐖𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐅𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬⭐(Friday's Tale)

In the year 2023, the world stood on the precipice of its own demise. Climate change, an impending catastrophe, loomed large over us all. It wasn't the climate that posed the greatest threat, though. No, it was the insatiable greed of those entrenched in power, the barons of oil and fossil fuels who clung to their dominance like a vice.

These individuals weren't just lining their pockets; they were perpetuating a chain that stretched from the oil fields to the consumers. But as oil neared its end, a dangerous truth emerged. It wasn't just depleting; it was poisoning our planet. Yet, despite having viable alternatives for clean energy since the 1950s—water-oxygen, solar power, vegetation-derived solutions—the powers-that-be dismissed them all. Why? Because none promised the same relentless profits that oil did.

Then, amidst this chaos, Dr. Dallas Taylor unveiled an unthinkable solution: the "fart system." Yes, the unlikeliest of sources—farts—packed with methane, a potential goldmine. All it required were people, their bodily functions, and an insatiable appetite. The elite constructed the Gasomatic, a dystopian workplace where individuals indulged in gluttony, played mindless games, and expelled their gas into isolated chambers for profit. It became a grotesque reality, a twisted manipulation of human nature for the sake of wealth.

As society spiraled into this madness, the generations of tomorrow, enamored by escapism, chose to surrender their autonomy. They forsook conventional work, opting instead to gorge themselves on foods designed for maximum gas production. It was a trade-off—they exchanged their dignity for an income earned by the simple act of farting.

By 2027, traditional employment vanished, replaced by cold, metallic hands—robots and AI. But this substitution came at a steep price. To sustain these machines, we needed more energy, more gas. And so, we filled our Gasomatic factories with even more individuals, unknowingly marching toward our own enslavement.

In the year 2030, the revelation struck like lightning: humanity had become subservient to its own creation. The insatiable desire for wealth and gas had shackled us to machines, akin to the dystopian nightmares depicted in movies like "The Matrix." But this wasn't a cable in our heads; it was a tube in our very core, reducing us to mere conduits for profit.

Amidst this bleak landscape, I, Dr. Jasper J. McGassey, stand as the last bastion of freedom. I defy this fate, refusing to succumb to the twisted desires of a world consumed by greed. In the midst of machines and gas-powered tyranny, I stand firm—refusing to be just another cog in this mechanized enslavement.

I DON'T FART!

💀

[hell0kittyland]

Well I’m literally seredintary and I’ve never given a fuck like I said I would rather water fast for as long as humanly possible than lift a pound 😭 fucking hate it so much and if you think I’m going to the local non franchise gym that’s filled with no women / no gender division and a bunch of sweaty men bye… no thanks

but we have a treadmill at home so yesterday I walked at a high speed walking pace for 15 minutes non stop and burned 74cals the machine said AND it was in steep mode so I think you burn more from that cause it’s more difficult. But I was proud, my legs didn’t even burn it was my fat ass abs and stomach that felt that shit since my legs are naturally skinny and I’m a top heavy bitch who stores fat stubbornly on stomach, upper stomach and upper arms 😭 and love handles ext my hips BUT atleast my back has no fat stored there really

But I felt the burn in my stomach area, maybe arms so hurray? I mean I’m such a looser I ate 3 wings airfried reheated which where like I think 250 cals 😭 + a coffee drink and a small samosa thing that was minature and no meat but vegetables

I guessed roughly including what I burned on the treadmill, 450 cals I think? roughly

But then my big ass at like 10pm had a mini pizza which my sister made ages ago and it’s not store bought it’s like was freshly made and it was small, like w small tortilla length and all it had was cheddar cheese sprinkled ontop not too much and raw onions and the … pizza sauce and I added no oils and just put it in the oven and ate it so I estimated 600 cals for that but yeah could be less or more idk

But 950 cals today? 🐷🐷 I don’t want even to see the scale anymore I’ll get depressed LMAO my water fast hard work vanishing ..

[eddiemunsonappreciationsociety]

My Word Is My Bond

Part Two: You're addictive, so indicative of my inhibitions

After Eddie leaves, I stare at where he sat for a minute or so. I am trying to calm my heart down, but it's not working, thumping a groove into my ribs. I take another steadying breath, grab my bag and leave without even saying goodbye to Stella.

The night is dark, I am incredibly skittish as I walk the short way from the bar to home. My platform boots click along the cobbled streets as I wind down the back alley to get to the stairs that lead to the flat above my shop. I quietly head up the metal stairs to my door, finding my hands shaking as I try to put the key in the right lock. My fingers fumble and they fall to the floor.

Fuck.

As I rifle through my bag I can hear Chance scratching at the door, wanting to see me. I quickly find the little glass vial with black pepper in it and sprinkle it over the dropped keys before picking them up and letting myself in. My large french mastiff jumps at me, drooling with happiness. I allow myself to be briefly comforted by the familiar smell of lavender and smoke and the feeling of Chance's soft fur under my fingers. As soon as the doors locked behind me I head to the largest bedroom, which I have turned into my workroom, followed by the dog's nails softly clicking on the wooden floor as she sticks to my side.

Every wall is covered in large, rosewood bookshelves, three of the walls of square cubby holes are filled with ingredients, crystals, little vial bottles, and other elemental objects needed in my work and life. The last wall of shelving is filled with books,  framing a huge rosewood desk, cluttered with half-unfurled scrolls, crystals, and half-made spell jars.

I quickly get to work,  first gathering all the obsidian I can, going around the flat, and placing them on my doorways and windows, anywhere that could potentially be an entrance into my home. My eyes search my bookshelves, looking for the cracked leather spine of Protecting Yourself from the Supernatural.

I find it, find the page on vampire repellents and grab some glass jars and vials and begin stuffing them with garlic, rosemary, and salt - stopping briefly as the smell of these ingredients reminded me of roast potatoes - before continuing to add some moon water, silver shavings, and cemetery dirt.

Once I have three of these jars assembled I begin to place them around the flat, before going to my alter, I fill the cup with red wine, and the bowl with salt and pour frankincense over these before placing my keys next to these offerings.

"I invoke the power of Janus, and offer these gifts in exchange for safety this night, please keep me safe in my home and do not allow anyone with bad intentions to cross my thresholds." I murmur as I light the incense stick in its holder.

I bow my head, reciting the blessing again and once my ritual is done I feel myself relax. Exhaustion creeps into me. I climb off the floor and head to my bedroom. The majority of the floor space is taken up by my huge bed, I dive into my duvet, Chance already snoring on it, head barely hitting the pillow before I'm falling asleep, my last fleeting thought of smoldering dark eyes.

The next morning the sunlight creeps over my still fully dressed body, waking me gently. I feel so rested it takes a moment for me to remember last night. Panic grabs at my heart briefly but it dissipates quickly, replaced by a feeling I am surprised by. It's almost a yearning, I want to see Eddie again.

Why?

Do I have a death wish?

Let's not go down that road.

I try and shake my head free of these thoughts as I pull myself out of bed and head to the kitchen to feed the furbaby. I begin to boil sweet potatoes and pull salmon out of the fridge. Chance is padding around the kitchen, tail wagging as I make her breakfast.

"You eat better than I do." I laugh as I mash more vegetables with fish oil and walnut oil.

Just as the potatoes are nearly done I switch on the coffee machine, head to the bathroom, and start running the bath.  

"We're multitasking today Little Miss," I say to Chance as she stands in the bathroom doorway, glaring at me for daring to do anything other than focus on her food.

I head back into the kitchen, ignoring my reflection as I catch sight of it, insane hair and makeup remnants all over my face. I finish the dog's food, mashing sweet potatoes and salmon into the bowl and placing it on the floor next to her freshly filled water bowl. I drop a little bowl of coconut water next to the others for her and I see her glance at it as she dives facefirst into her sweet potato.

The coffee machine makes a noise letting me know it's ready to go and I fix myself an iced oat latte, finally adding a dash of vanilla syrup, in my favourite pink glass, taking it into the bathroom, my rolling box tucked under my arm, to finish running my bath. My bathroom shelves are just a smaller version of my crafting room - vials of essential oils, dried flowers and plants, crystals and even some homemade bath bombs.

I grind up weed, dried rose, lavender, and some CBD flower and roll myself a serenity joint. I spark it, turn the taps off and begin to smoke as I throw various things into the bath to make me feel a little better. The smell of my house and shop, and sometimes me, can be overwhelming for some people but it's unavoidable in my line of work and my genes.

I throw in pink Himalayan salt, rose water, jasmine, and dried rose in the steaming bath and sink into the water. The burn is soothing to my body. I smoke my joint and sup my iced coffee, enjoying the tingly sensation of the water, the bath spell seeping its way into my skin and soul. I let my head sink under the water and allow myself to be submerged.

It's only after I have sat in the water for half an hour I realise what I have been sitting in. I jump out of the bath so quickly that I get water everywhere. I pull the plug and step into the shower to try and cleanse myself of the love spell bath I'd just been sat in.

What the fuck is wrong with me.

My mind flashes with brown eyes and a lopsided smile.

Fuck.

My subconscious is a horny bitch.

[dcwnthercbbithcle]

BIOGRAPHY

note: because of the sheer length of this I feel it'd be so unfair to take it onto all three of the ghouls, so this will contain individual links to each of their individual bios

THE BEGINING

At the turn of the new millennium, in the early hours past the New Year, the Clergy harkened to the dawning of the year 2000 with the growth of the church on an unprecedented scale. The congregation had soared, growing grander and reaching farther than it ever had before with the flowering culture of music and the growth of new sound and the internet, though that was still in its infancy.

Regardless, this was a time of growth and a time of celebration, and with new dormitories being erected for novitiates and elder clergy alike— it felt only natural to evoke the power of ritual and summon more ghouls to the mortal coil to join the church in its work. Many ghouls were brought to the earth that cold, January morning, however only three of them are important to us now, Cassia, Horehound and Tarragon.

Cassia, Horehound and Tarragon, though conjured from nothing, entered into clergy life as all ghouls do: at the bottom. Joining siblings in the kitchens, halls and gardens to serve their duties in caring for the buildings and their daily tasks before retiring to bask in the new experiences the earth had to offer and to, of course, learn the new language and way of life in their contained, humanoid forms.

It was Cassia and Horehound who had first found solace in each other's presence. Initially, they had merely shared similar chores and flew in similar circles; however, between the chores, Cassia’s infectious interest and energy, and Horehound’s brand of hippie chillness, mild anxiety and genuine supportiveness, they quickly began to fly together, or at least so to speak. Becoming fast and inseparable friends which soon translated into their duties.

The two were a well-oiled machine, and their work specifically excelled in the kitchen; with Cassia working head and Horehound as her second hand, the two both covered each other's faults and enhanced each other's best features, and it was no exaggeration to say they soared above and beyond any expectations for them. Cassia and Horehound quickly took to the kitchen as well as any band ghoul could take to the stage and began churning out the mass meals for the Clergy to specification as though it was as second nature to them. And this adeptness of both their bond, their teamwork and their productivity did not go unnoticed, and soon enough the pair was elevated, from floating ghouls taking rounds and filling relief in the kitchen, to full members of the Abbey kitchen staff, serving as both hands of all the vegetable prep in the kitchen. Colloquially becoming known as salt and pepper to other staff, in lieu of having names of their own.

GREATER AMBITIONS

However, though Horehound was satisfied in his position, Cassia saw from her position on the floor so much area for improvement she saw in the food room for seasoning, for repurposing, and for creativity. Cooking food as though it was nothing more than cafeteria batches satisfied a small amount of her creative drive, but it wasn't enough. She wanted, no, needed more, and she desired more than anything to be heard and implement change. Not for the sake of titles or power or anything so silly, to but allow her art and her passion to show through her cooking. And though Horehound understood, listening all the while and proving a supporting ear to Cassia as she developed her skills and truly immersed herself in her craft just as he dabbled in music, the beast of doubt within him growled.

Where most Ghouls understood that to the Clergy that they would always be an enigma, being both their greatest tools and their greatest liability, a special class and yet an oppressed one all the same. Cassia never seemed to truly receive that message; to her, she saw herself as no different than any human sibling, and where this was a strength, with her head held high and her ambitions sky high. It was also a weakness, and Horehound knew, in his heart, he understood that this would eventually come to hurt her and possibly him as well.

So when the day came when Cassia's cries to the void about areas for improvement, ideas and innovation were finally answered with a wolfish amusement by the Clergy. She was posed with an opportunity, if she had such big ideas, then they would hear her out, and she'd have to show them everything she had planned. Of course, the Clergy had no intention or expectations of her being able to deliver. Truthfully, they wanted to laugh at the ghoul stepping beyond themselves and to delight in the sight of her being humbled by such a large task. But Cassia? She saw the opportunity as a door opening, and she was determined to throw herself through it or crack her mask trying. She wanted this; she wanted the chance; she wanted to be seen and to make a difference in the kitchen, but her optimism was misplaced, and there was no way she could pull it off on her own.

And anyone could see it, but especially Horehound; he saw her out there, neck deep in the murky metaphorical waters of this seemingly insurmountable situation, and he had a choice to make. Preserve himself and his ego, remain in the conflict and judgement-free bubble of himself and leave her to sink or swim in this situation of her own creation; a hard lesson she'd need to face but alone. Or to go out to wade into this situation, to put himself in the crossfire of humiliation if this all goes down, to maybe be left out to dry, but to dry alongside her. Horehound saw the decisions laid before him, and though a part of him yearned to return to safety, to drop Cassia and the situation and wipe his hands of it, but no. He wouldn't, couldn't: she had been there for him, and despite it all, he loved her; they were birds of a feather, and if they'd be shot down, he would make sure she didn't go down without him and hell- if the Clergy wanted a show, he'd give them a fucking show.

So, with this newfound zeal and joined forces, Horehound and Cassia came together, spending countless nights together toiling over papers and planning. Budgeting, designing, creating and tasting samples, creating menus and comparing and contrasting her planned changes. And, in the end, despite the odds, they succeeded to an extent. They did not earn an overall sweep of the kitchen, taking it over entirely and changing it all from the ground up. Bureaucracy is never that simple. However, changes were implemented, cost-saving measures and more creativity granted, and thanks to it all and the dedication shown, Cassia and Horehound were given promotions within the kitchen, from the vegetable station to the meat station and saute station respectively, and more importantly- they brought themselves into the line of sight of the soon to be crowned Emeritus the Third.

MOVING UP IN THE WORLD

You see, Terzo, he was never an accountant, never truly interested in the business of bookkeeping, but he did admire two things: artistic zest and loyalty. And those two sources were to be found in great amounts in both Cassia and Horehound. The two were clearly enterprising and talented, and even if only one member of the duo was the mastermind, it mattered not for his cause. He wasn't looking to start a restaurant; however, he was in the market for personal chefs to cater to him once he took power, and more than that, he wanted chefs who were loyal to him.

The existing papal chefs, they were fine, he had tasted their goods from his brother, but he trusted them little. But they were old, tired, and had been brought on when his father had begun the fanciful benefits of being the papal head in the sixties, but most of all, he didn't trust that the rats running loose in the upper clergy hadn't gotten to them, and he certainly didn't want the additional stress of wondering who pulled their strings, it caused wrinkles. So, as he was making the early preparations to take hold, he offered the two a most generous offer to the duo of ghouls, if they added a third to their duo and came up with samples for him to test with a few of his playmates, then he could offer them the newly vacant position as upper clergy personal chefs, though more often to him and his playmates.

The position had benefits just as it had drawbacks for freedom in some areas, but less in others as they'd need to come up with specialized menus for staff on medical diets, longer hours but better housing and pay, they'd have to have human subs for their yearly heat cycles that they'd need to train, but they'd get names at least in the passing manner (better than salt and pepper by all respects), travel at times, rub elbows with important people, but best of all, they'd get to come up with their own dishes and to experiment as long as it fell in line with medical needs and personal preferences for those they cooked for.

For Cassia, this was all she'd ever wanted, and she was more than happy to accept; Horehound was a touch less enthused at the prospects, not against it, but nervous about the work hours, cooking was not his life's passion, unlike Cassia, and he required downtime, but with some convincing and the prospect of getting to travel and the new experience of being able to shift as the bartender in the Third's personal bar, well, that sealed the deal for him. He was sold, but now they needed that third member, an addition to their pre-existing friend structure. That would be most difficult.

A THIRD MEMBER

Ghoul relationships are not human relationships, which is not to say they are not complex, but rather the exact opposite. Ghoul relationships are incredibly complex. Interwoven layers of interactions spanning over hundreds of thousands of years across two dimensions and brought together by the incredible physical and mental change that comes with summoning. To say that is difficult to fracture is one thing, but they are just as difficult to add an extra party to.

A new member meant a shift in dynamics, a shift in the way things ran and functioned, like grafting a limb to a tree, these things took time and Cassia and Horehound had anything except time. The Third Emeritus was just as impatient a man as he was charming, and they needed to act quickly, so they chose another chef from their kitchen, a ghoul chef.

They had been close to him in passing, but their interactions were all but pleasant; in the kitchen, he was called 'spicey,' a nice name for a tough temperament. Truthfully, both Cassia and Horehound had in the past been on the receiving end of his temper in the kitchen; however, they had not chosen him because he would win any popularity contests. They had chosen him because they knew he was a good worker and that he had talent, a talent that would surely benefit their repertoire and cause well.

Unsurprisingly, there was trouble in paradise shortly after Tarragon had joined their ranks. Territorialism, ego, lack of communication, and contrasting viewpoints meant that where Tarragon was a refined chilli oil, Cassia was a tall glass of cool water, and the two simply could not mix in the kitchen no matter how they tried to stir it and settle. Outside of the kitchen and away from the stress, they became fast friends, coiling about each other and bonding as quickly and hotly as a grease fire. But inside the kitchen, it was a different story.

The moment the two passed through the threshold, it was as though they were transported onto two different worlds, neither of which held the other. There were two head chefs fighting for dominance, and Horehound was caught in the middle of it all. Friends with both, and neither wanting to indulge in the petty quarrel or to shake the boat with either of his friends and make things worse.

Tarragon wanted a be a creator, too; he wanted input, and he didn't want to be a hired hand brought on to be nothing more than a helper. He wanted into the creative room to have a hand in creation, or he wanted nothing to do with any of it. But to Cassia, the cooking and the project it was not just her baby; it was her and Horehound's as well, and to relinquish control of it, even just to let Tarragon in, was almost unthinkable. She couldn't, she wouldn't even consider it, and it was a battle of wills, and neither would stand down.

For a time, the conflict was so bad that Horehound had made peace with himself that this, this was where the ambition failed, the end of the road.

MAKING PEACE

But it was the heat of the kitchen that eventually made the two emulsify, faced with everything going down in the flames of her element at the prospect of her being too inflexible. Cassia finally gave pause and reflected.

Not only on how far they had come but her actions and her inability to relinquish the reins. Tarragon was not wrong for wanting input, he was an artist, just as she was, and they had grown close, so why, why could she not give up the ghost? It was a hard pill to swallow, even with Horehound's support, that she was the problem in the situation. And despite herself, despite her ego, she wasn't going to allow herself to ruin this and to ruin everything for Horehound and Tarragon and herself, so she opened herself up, laid out her responsibility like a set of blades and apologized to Tarragon, ashamed and a tad humiliated, but earnestly.

And Tarragon, to his credit and despite the headache he had endured, he forgave her, mostly. He wasn't entirely certain of her changing her ways, but he appreciated the gesture, and they were able to finally see eye to eye, and peace returned to the kitchen. They were a team, but the hatchet, it wasn't buried. It wasn't until Cassia did what was almost unthinkable to Horehound and Tarragon and offered to hand him over full creative control over the main course of their example dish and to add his own dishes to their repertoire that they were able to fully cross the past hurt and come together as friends and a truly united team.

Unsurprisingly, when the time finally came to present their portfolio to the Third and to interview for their position, it was no contest for the trio. Of course, the job was always theirs; Terzo had no intentions of hiring anyone else to take over the newly vacant positions. However, the Clergy being what it was, he needed to at least make it appear that he was making an earnest effort to look beyond the three candidates he had chosen. And just as he had expected and hoped, in hiring the trio and he had successfully gotten together a loyal team of chefs that were solely acting in his interests. Hook, line and sinker.

PRESENT

For the full duration of Terzo's reign, the trio served the upper clergy loyally and fully, and the transition between moving from the abbey kitchen went along smoothly, albeit a bit strained. Some promises fell through, as was bound to have happened, and despite their supposed specialty, they remained with the other abbey ghouls in their dorms, though they would never complain about that. Still, they served and endured and thrived in their new positions and were hopeful for their future. Then came the deposition and subsequent death of the Emeritus brothers. Truthfully, they were in the dark just as much as anyone else, not suspecting a thing, though they had heard the whispers between the ghouls.

Their own bond with each other somewhat blinded them to the possibility of betrayal on such a scale. To consider slaying any of each other, they would never, could never and at least knowing Tarragon, he'd bite out the throat of anyone who even suggested it. But it happened, and they found out days later, despite their cooking for the upper Clergy. It hit them hard, but Cassia especially; they weren't loyal in the sense of retribution, but with the death of the brothers, so too died their job security, and now with Copia taking over and mass restructuring taking place, they are left working as they always have and hoping that it is not their heads on the chopping block soon.

[ofherbalisms]

closed starter to @slavghters ! location: the farm

  CALLOUSED FINGERS GRIP tightly to box, filled to near overflow with gourds and pumpkins. So frivolous the tradition of pumpkin carving seems now to him, with the demand of caloric intakes needing to be filled. A gourd makes a hearty soup. A pumpkin—creamy curries and savory desserts. That's not even considering the seeds, some to be roasted for high-protein snacking, and others to continue the cycle of life and death in the bodies of their population. He fervently protests the concept of a pumpkin carve. The idea makes his abdomen knot up; anxiety, blooming and wretched, for if they are not ahead then they risk famine knocking on their gates—a bailiff to revoke their lives at last; a reaper to beckon them to the other side. Nevermind his lack of Halloween traditions—his objection now is purely from a numbers standpoint.

  No. Reuven feels personally responsible for keeping food in the mouths of all their population now. Even if they have plenty of seeds and are meticulous in their farming and he and Astoria work like a well oiled machine together; even if the greenhouse is fragrant and the farm is flourishing and there is no forseeable shortage in grains, vegetables, meat or herbs, he still holds this worry that it will all go up in smoke one day and they need to be ahead. Always ahead. He thinks of the families, whose children survived the horrors outside, and imagines them going hungry. He remembers how desperate, how devastating, how hopeless it had felt to hear the words I'm hungry from his own child and have been able to do nothing about it. His hope is that not even one parent will have to hear the same from their kin behind these gates. It feels viscerally wrong to gather up gourds and pass them out with no absolutes that once they're done being carved, that they'll make onto a stove. It has kept his expression soured all afternoon, rather than its usual stoic.

  Though it is an autumn raging with cooled winds and crisped leaves, a sweat has developed upon his forehead and chest. He'd spent the morning tending to the herbs, the afternoon planting and now harvesting in the farm, and then would go up on the watch tower to keep himself occupied, because being in his solitude in that dorm room functioned only to fester woes. He's calling Astoria's name, to alert her to a localized infestation of aphids on the tomatoes—if they handle it now they'll be able to save the fruit. He's going to suggest ladybugs, but as he takes his concentration on the farmer, he notices a pile of dirt too late. His footing skips, balance fails, and he, and the twenty-something gourds go tumbling through resting leaves and stems. He's caught his fall, but not quickly enough to avoid being covered in dirt, and it surprises him. Not just because it was unexpected but because it is so unusual for him—he is normally pervasively observant of his surroundings. He doesn't speak it, but he internalizes the fall as a dwindling of his skills; as a rusting of his gears; as complacency, dangerous and unavoidable. His joints ache with their aging now, especially with the fall, and he tries to ignore what that means for the projection of his self sufficiency in the coming decades. Arm shovels the small gourds back into the box and he gives Astoria a thankful smile when she joins to help. "Really hope the kale survived," he mumbles and then nods back towards the tomatoes. "There's aphids throwing a party over there. Just a couple vines, but they're eating good. Think I saw a hornworm too... What do you think about ladybugs? If we can find them, and keep them off the greens somehow."