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hell-on-training-wheels · 4 years

Note

Cocoa for the one word prompt, please? Either MK or Overwatch - you get to pick. ;)

Hi anon! :D I decided to go with Overwatch cause I haven’t written anything for that fandom in a while. I’ve actually never written for these two so I hope I got them in character. 😅 Hope you all like light McMercy.

On a side note, I have nothing against Swiss Miss as a product. But I like to make my cocoa from scratch too.

Swiss Miss

Summary: Mercy prescribes McCree some much needed medicine. Fandom: Overwatch Characters: Jesse McCree, Angela Zieglar, Mei, Snowball Words: 2,081

It wasn’t hard to catch the repugnance on Angela’s face, but what the sharpshooting cowboy did miss, was the reason why the medic was casting such a stare his direction. As far as McCree was aware, he wasn’t doing anything that warranted such objection from Zieglar.

Jesse ignored it for the moment, turning his attention back towards the kitchen counter as soon as the microwave counted down to its last second. As soon as it beeped, he opened it and retrieved the red coffee mug inside; the ceramic cup already warming his hand through the glove.

The outlaw was acutely attentive of her eyes watching his every movement as she sat at the small round table in the middle of the stark white room, the same one that had a direct view of the kitchen counter that held the microwave, the coffee maker, and a few little boxes that held packages of tea, sugar and hot cocoa mix on top.

It was the cocoa that caught his eye today, and while the cowboy didn’t usually reach for it unless the holidays were in swing, had a sweet tooth that needed satiating every now and then.

Besides, he needed something that would give him energy, and he wasn’t about to touch the coffee. In the Overwatch base, it was Genji’s turn to brew a pot, and bless his little cyborg heart, he made the coffee at Route 66 more favorable —not easy to do.

McCree took a sip and sucked his teeth, bits of the powdered gunk getting stuck against the roof of his mouth and behind his teeth. He sighed; the artificially flavored chocolate mix wasn’t renowned for being the best the world had to offer, but it didn’t mean he had to waste it —there was a way to make it better.

He reached down into his tan pocket and withdrew a flask, one that held an emergency stash of whiskey. Funny enough, Jesse found himself reaching into his pocket more and more nowadays; each time still mulling over the fact of why he returned to Overwatch. He never should have let Echo and Winston talk him into it…

The doctor let out a light, disgusted scoff. The holographic pad on the table she was reading now going completely ignored as she dropped her fork back into the bowl of salad — watching him pour whiskey into the mug in horror.

“You alright, Doc?” he questioned, almost sardonically, while biting back a smile. McCree knew that Angela wasn’t usually so objective to him drinking minutes before noon, she knew it was his business, but he was starting to second-guess that maybe the medic had been holding in her resentment all this time, and perhaps it had finally reached its peak.

As usual, he was wrong.

“What on earth do you think you are doing to that cocoa?” Mercy balked, gesturing towards his mug. “And I hesitate to refer to it as such.”

McCree finished pouring a more than decent amount of liquor into the mug before he screwed the cap back on and put it in his pocket. The cowboy simply shrugged and took a sip.

“Makin’ it better,” he explained casually. He took another sip, and the medic’s lip curled adamantly in disgust.

“I doubt there is anything you can do —all the whiskey in the world could not make it taste better.”

“Well as usual, Angie, you’re not wrong,” he took another sip. “But it’ll do fine.”

Mercy raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you even worried at all that nothing you are consuming is even chocolate? Have you bothered to look at the ingredients, Jesse?”

The gunman couldn’t help but chuckle lightly at her. Even on her lunch break she still played mother hen.

“Nah,” McCree confessed indifferently. “What I don’t know won’t kill me. Besides, they wouldn’t sell it if it weren’t fit for human consumption, right?”

“They also sell cigarettes for consumption, and we both know how bad for your health it is, don’t we Jesse?” the doctor returned, raising a deliberate eyebrow in his direction.

Well, she got him there… but it didn’t mean he wasn’t still going to stop —with the cocoa or the tobacco.

“Well… I have faith you can get me patched up, Doc,” was his usual answer — one he always threw out when he was out of ammo —and Zieglar rolled his eyes at him.

McCree was about to take another sip before he shrugged again and added. “Besides, what wouldya’ recommend as a prescription? Seeing as our little posse is non-profit, there ain’t a whole lot of dollars we can throw out for anythin’ but powdered hot chocolate.”

Mercy wasn’t deterred by his excuse. “Have you perhaps tried to make it from scratch yourself? You will find it more rewarding doing so - in both taste and for your health.”

Jesse let out a laugh, his robotic hand indicating to his person. “Do I look like a gourmet chef? I can barely boil an egg.”

The cowboy took another sip from his mug. Smacking his lips as a bit of un-melted powder sat on his tongue. “I wouldn’t know the difference, anyhow. I’ve always had the same thing growin’ up. Ma’ was too poor and a worse cook than me.”

Angela gave him a shocked look, as if he had told her that he had never seen the sky. “You have never had true hot chocolate, Jesse?”

McCree shrugged casually. “Never got around to it. Don’t it all taste the same anyway? Hot cocoa is hot cocoa, right? No matter where it's from?”

The medic frowned hard in his direction before she scoffed and narrowed her eyes sternly, as if the aloof cowboy had just questioned her lineage in a unfavorable way.

“It absolutely is not the same.”

The cowboy sighed, taking another swig from his spiked mug, before he clicked his tongue and turned on his heels, retreating towards the door. “Well, ain’t gonna find out any time soon, anyway. I’ll stick to the powdered and the hard stuff in the meantime.”

-----

The next day, when he entered the kitchen, finally able to get coffee after a day with it being Morrison’s rotation on the pot, the first thing that hit him was the smell. It stopped Jesse right in the doorway, and he took a second to close his eyes and inhale; truly captured by it. It smelled like chocolate, made him think of Christmas, and it made the air so sweet he could taste it on his tongue without sampling it. When he did finally open his eyes, he found the source almost immediately.

Mercy and Mei stood by the kitchen counter, looking over several mugs filled with hot chocolate and being topped off with whipped cream —real and freshly made from the blue ceramic bowl off to the side— and the kitchen in slight disarray due to the limited counter-space.

He eyed the black teapot that sat on the heating application plugged into the wall and his nose pinpointed the origin of the aroma. They had just finished plopping whipped cream on top —Snowball, Mei’s little robotic friend, also watching closely by in fascination —before Mercy finished it off by sprinkling chocolate shavings, dusting the white clouds all with small curls .

McCree caught a glimpse of the brick of chocolate inside a red wrapper nearby… real Swiss chocolate that was also most likely brewing the teapot as well. He’d never had swiss chocolate before, but heard from Genji it was the best...

“Oh McCree! Come! Angela made hot chocolate!” the former Antarctic scientist called to him, her always present giddy and positive enthusiasm making the room bright. “It is sooo good. With real chocolate from Switzerland!”

“My grandmother’s recipe,” Mercy chimed in, her eyes glinting proudly, as she picked up the red mug that McCree always grabbed —ready to go for him. “And it only calls for the best and real chocolate.”

Angela walked over to him and handed it, which he did while biting back a smile that threatened to creep along his face.

The doctor placed her hands on her hip as soon as soon as he took it, and his resolve to keep the smile at bay dissipated. “Ah, shucks Angie. You didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

The blonde crossed her arms across her chest, her demeanor professional. “I am a doctor first, Jesse. And it was clear you needed a remedy to your obvious ailment.”

McCree nipped his lips at the peak of the white cream, the smell of the drink wafting into his nose and almost making him close his eyes again. “What ailment?” Jesse let out a small, barely audible hmm as the whipped cream touched his tongue...

Oh… it was good. And it was just whipped cream. Another thing he had never had from scratch.

Mercy smiled back, seeing his reaction, though her visage still stayed business-like. “For your misconception that all hot chocolate tastes the same as that artificial powdered atrocity that dares to have the words ‘swiss’ and ‘chocolate' on its label. I have found a proper home for it —in the garbage. You now have a chance to sample a proper prescription.”

The gunslinger couldn’t help but smirk at her, his eyes flickering between her and the mug. It was a nice gesture, one that he hadn’t expected from the doctor that was usually so obstinate in regards to only her work. Even now she was still thinking of healing, just using a different kind of medicine to do so. The woman was always so adamant about making sure that everyone was taken care of; rushing about and fretting about every little scratch. With all that was on her busy plate, it warmed him to be thought of, even if the woman was still using the excuse that her doing a nice thing for him was for medical purposes.

What a doll.

“Can I put whiskey in it?” he asked, jesting lightly, as he lifted the red cup slightly at her.

“Don’t you even think about it,” Mercy scolded, only ten percent joking. “Or I will personally be sending you the Med Bay.”

Mei let out a small giggle from behind, one that complimented Snowball also jostling in humor as it floated nearby; its LED lighted eyes squinting and conveying it thought it was funny too.

McCree let out a light laugh in response before he lifted the mug to the air in a friendly mock-toast to the medic.

“Well, since it's already in my favorite mug anyhow,” he said before he placed the mug to his lips…

...and refused to pull away as soon as the warm, amazing hot chocolate hit his tongue.

Holy hot damn…

It. was. good.

Instead of being watery and flavorless (the only thing ever evident from the packages being the sweetener) Mercy’s cocoa was decadent and rich, blanketing his tongue and leaving him feeling homey inside. It transported him outside the bleak kitchen, and seated him on a plush couch with a warm wool blanket wrapped around him; imaging himself watching a snow storm in a rustic cabin in the mountains.

Jesse didn’t even mind that whipped cream was plastered and sticking to his beard the more he tipped it back— downing the entire thing in one greedy shot.

He brought the cup away, a nod in his face as he licked his lips clean unabashedly.

That was the best non-alcoholic drink he’d ever had.

Mercy raised a pleased eyebrow at him while Mei gestured to his face.

“Uh… McCree, you got, uh, whipped cream all over your face.”

It took a second for Jesse to even hear Mei before he grumbled a ‘huh? Oh right’ before he brought his glove up to wipe his face.

Meanwhile Angela waited patiently, although the doctor already knew her remedy was a success. But still she asked: “So, have I persuaded you to stay clear of those atrocious packages of hot chocolate?”

Jesse let out a whistle, a grin plastered on his face, before he nodded and replied: “Yes ma’am. Ain’t nothin’ packaged toppin’ that. That was damn fine.”

He paused, his empty cup raised towards her politely requesting another, before he raised an eyebrow at her. “Still ain’t quitin smoking though.”

Mercy laughed lightly at his joke. “One out of two is a victory when it comes to you, Jesse McCree. Even I know I’m not that gifted of a miracle worker.”

#overwatch #overwatch fanfic #mcmercy #jesse mccree #angela ziegler #mercy #overwatch fanfiction #my fics #mei overwatch #hot cocoa #one word prompt #anon

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holylulusworld · 4 years

Text

Sand In My Shoes - Part 4 – The other woman

Summary: You come back from holiday’s missing the love you found.

Pairing: Jensen x Reader, OFC’s

Warnings: angst, talking about divorce and lawyer stuff (don’t sue me for mistakes I’m not a lawyer), bitchy future ex-wife, language, violence (almost), smut, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, dirty talk, hair pulling

Sand in my shoes Masterlist

Sitting next to you Jensen can’t hold back a chuckle every time you don’t let his future ex-wife’s lawyer talk back.

“Mr. Jackson I already told you we are not here to negotiate. My client’s real estate agent arranged everything to sell the house to pay your client the sum she deserves, even tho we both know she doesn’t deserve anything.” Smiling sweetly, you ignore the boring looks of the other woman in the room.

“He owes me way more!” She starts screaming, ready to jump over the table to attack you.

“Please note that Mrs. Ackles is not cooperative and refuses to find a way to end this marriage like an adult.” You say politely to the stenographer. The man chuckles lightly, giving you a curt nod.

“This won’t be necessary.” Gasping at your reaction Mr. Jackson tries to calm his client. “She will behave. How about Mrs. Ackles agrees to your terms and gives the piano and everything Mr. Ackles wants back and she can keep the house.” Mr. Jackson silently begs you to agree and you raise one finger.

“I need to discuss this with my client. Can we have a short break? Five minutes.” Nodding the other lawyer takes a deep breath, still trying to calm his client.

“Mr. Ackles, can we talk outside?” Jensen nods, holding back a chuckle at his future ex-wife’s pissed expression.

“You promised to always love me and give me all I need, Jay. You broke your promise.” She spats and Jensen wants to say something, but you grab his arm, shaking your head.

“No, Mrs. Ackles. My client did everything to make you happy. We are here as you decided to cheat on him in the house he built for you, on the bed he bought to start a family. I would appreciate it if you do not talk directly to my client. Mr. Ackles pays me well to look out for his interest. If you excuse us now, I’ll talk to him in private.”

----

In the small separated room, you talk to Jensen to decide if he wants to give her the house or not.

“If I get the piano and the paintings she can have the house, but she has to stop using my name right now.” Jensen is busy slipping his hand between your legs as his face is buried in your neck.

“Jay, fuck, not here. Let’s keep it professional until you are divorced.” Muttering you push against his shoulders.

“What can I do, Sweetheart? If you go full lawyer you make me so hard I want to take you on the table right in front of them.” Jensen groans against your skin, marking your neck with his lips.

“Ackles, tame your libido. I want to talk about the house and your case, damnit, don’t make me all wet right now.” Chuckling he nips at your neck, slipping one finger into you to tease your g-spot. “Gonna fuck you so hard the moment we get out of here.”

“Fine. House…yes or no, Ackles.”

“Do it your way and I’ll have mine with you later…” His eyes are lust-blown when he meets yours and you grab the back of his neck to hungrily kiss his lips. “I’ll rip her apart for you, Jay. Now straighten your clothing and stop being that distracting. I can barely concentrate…”

“Jesus, Baby Girl, I need to fuck you on this table for sure…later…”

----

“My client agreed to your terms. Mrs. Ackles can keep the house under three conditions. She must give back the piano and the paintings listed under point 4 and 6, also she must stop using the name Ackles immediately. Lastly, she must stop posting things about my client, his show or anything according to him. She can keep the car too if she agrees to these terms today.” Ending your speech, you smile sweetly once again as her lawyer nods in agreement. “I think she won’t get a better deal.”

“My client agrees to these terms. We already discussed your proposal while you were outside with Mr. Ackles. We only want one more thing and this shouldn’t be a problem.” Her lawyer clears his throat and you nod, taking the papers he offers out of his hands.

“She doesn’t want my client to talk about his divorce and the reason to not severely affect her career.” A grin on your face you need to hold back a chuckle as you glance at Jensen. He’s smirking, giving you a curt nod.

“Fine by me…” Jensen whispers in your ear.

“Well, we don’t want this to happen, don’t we? I think we can agree to these terms but according to the posts your client spread all over social media everyone out there knows about her affair, but we agree to these terms.”

Handing Mr. Jackson the prepared papers you smile at Jensen’s future ex-wife’s.

She’s angrily clenching her jaw, ready to explode any minute. Her lawyer tries anything to calm her, but she can’t hold back any longer.

“Do you fuck Jay? Is it that? Do you ride his cock and that’s the reason you try to destroy me?” Now she lunges over the table to grab your wrist, but you are faster. Catching her wrist you twist it harshly, causing her to gasp.

“Please note that Mrs. Ackles tried to attack me. That I had to defend myself and twisted her wrist. We don’t want her to sue me later. Right, Mr. Jackson?” Pale the lawyer nods, pushing his client back onto her chair.

When she finally signed the papers and leaves the room with Mr. Jackson, cursing you smirk at her. The moment Mr. Jackson and the stenograph are out of the door she turns around and you nod, palming Jensen’s cock through his pants. “Every night bitch.” You chuckle and she stomps out of the room, slamming the door shut.

“Damn, you are a one hard-boiled egg.” Circling you Jensen push you against the table before he lifts you onto it, stepping between your legs to slide your skirt upward. “You make me so hard…” His face inches from yours he hums when you spread your legs wider.

“What do you want to do about it, Jay.” His teeth trap your lower lips as he slips one hand between your legs, teasing your clit with his skilled fingers.

“I’m gonna do...” Jensen husks against your lips. “...what I told you I will do. Going to lock this room and take you on this table right here and now. Gonna make you scream my name…”

----

Skirt around your waist, panties around your ankles you find yourself bent over the table as Jensen roughly fists your hair. He never was that rough during sex before but you would lie telling anyone the way he angrily fucks into you, calling you his dirty girl doesn’t turn you on.

“Fuck, you make me so hard every time you beat my ex-wife with words. I’m so turned on…” Jensen growls, slamming his hips against your rear.

Neck craned in an uncomfortable position, legs cramping you try anything to remain silent but the way Jensen drives wildly into you makes it impossible not to make pornographic noises.

“Oh, fuck…god…I’m gonna…” Gasping you feel your walls tightening around his hard cock. Jensen is grabbing your hips, now dragging you onto his shaft with every powerful snap of his hips.

“Come for me…”

Your voice is hoarse when you cry out his name, squeezing your lover tightly. Jensen can barely move due to the way your pussy is tightening around him.

It doesn’t take him long to paint your walls with his spendings. A loud grunt follows his orgasm and he almost shouts your name but a knock at the door let Jensen fall silent.

“Fuck…we are screwed.” You whimper as the knock becomes more demanding.

“We are sorry, but I have to discuss some more details with my client.” Praying your voice doesn’t sound all fucked out you wait for a response.

“No problem ma’am. I was just trying to find an empty room to talk to my client.” A gruff voice answers.

“Give us five minutes and we are…done.” You reply, holding back a chuckle when Jensen lazily thrusts into you. “Take your time…”

Listening to the man walking away you look over your shoulder, shaking your head. “Jay! Could you stop fucking me while someone is outside?”

Ignoring your outburst Jensen pulls out of you, already shoving your panties up your legs. “You will wear my cum the whole drive back home, damn…”

“I hate you sometimes, Ackles! How shall I be professional around you?” Trying to fix your clothing you ignored the dirty grin on Jensen’s face.

“You are fired…” Offended you place one hand onto your heart, gasping. “But Mr. Ackles, I need this job.” Batting your eyelashes, you look up at Jensen, licking your lips. “Can we not find a way to let me keep my job?”

“I think…” Cupping your sex with one hand Jensen leans closer. “That can be arranged…”

----

Relaxing in Jensen’s arms you snuggle closer to his chest, forgetting the exhausting day you try not to think about Monday, more appointments and the fact you have to meet up with Jensen’s ex and her lawyer on Wednesday to get the piano and the paintings.

“What do you think about, Baby?” Jensen husks and you chuckle lightly. “Aren’t women supposed to ask this kind of question?”

“Just relax, everything went well. If it’s about the paintings and stuff, she can keep it if you don’t want to meet up with her again.” Jensen tries to make you feel comfortable, but you slap his chest.

“No way, Ackles! I fought so hard to get your things! I will not let Mrs. Infidelity keep the piano and paintings. Let me do my job, Jay.” The look you give Jensen tells him to nod and smile instead of arguing. “I mean it, Baby. We won and this means I will meet up with her and get your things. Now shut your pretty mouth and cuddle me some more.”

“Hmm…that can be arranged, Y/N. How about a short vacation when this is all over?” Jensen softly kisses your hair when you relax in his arms once again.

“I got a new client, Baby. Christmas is close so let's just work and we can have vacations later…”

SPN Forever Tags

@donnaintx, @screechingartisancashbailiff, @fallen-wolf22, @sister-winchesters99, @mogaruke, @the-is13, @helloitsmeamie203, @strayrosesbloom, @thewinchesterco, @hobby27, @kittycatlover18, @gh0stgurl, @marvelfansworld , @sandlee44, @hawaiianohana31, @unlikelysamwinchesteronahunt, @katpatrova17, @notyourtypicalrose , @heyitscam99, @flamencodiva, @echoesofpassion, @cocklesbelli, @voltage-my2dlove, @fandom-princess-forevermore @thenamelesschibi, @lauravic, @fandomsrourlives, @wittysunflower, @drakelover78, @lemondropirwin, @lonewolf471, @wronglanemendes, @spnhollis, @void-imaginations, @jay-and-dean, @shatteredabby, @juniorhuntersam, @helpmeluci, @neii3n, @goodgodimaweirdperson, @alltimesamantha, @chonisberonica, @supernaturalonice @stuckys-whore, @shadowkat-83, @officialmarvelwhore, @wecantgiggleitsafandom, @meganywinchester, @shikshinkwon, @miraclesoflove, @yolobloggers, @lu-sullivan, @maniacproffesor, @hollymac79, @straycuties9, @kayla-2000, @ilovefanfic86, @gracefultrenchcoat494, @babygirls-fav, @sadn0va, @spnwoman, @amiquette, @linki-locks11, @geekofmanyforms, @eggingamazinglove, @jessica-marsh09, @spnficgirl, @shut-themoonscone, @thequeenreaders, @countrygal17a, @kteelou, @soryuwifeyxx, @kricketc28, @heartislubbingdubbing, @atomicfandombomb, @defenderrosetyler , @shortwinchester, @maybesomedaygayyyy, @tmiships4life, @differentstudentrunaway-e70bf763, @deanmonandnegansbitch, @exo-nova, @the-chocolate-moose, @jamesmoriarty-biotches, @laxe-from-outer-space, @certaindeanwinchesterforcastiel

If your name is crossed out Tumblr won’t let me tag you for some reason. Sorry.

Dean/Jensen Forever Tags

@spnfamily-j2, @supernatural-bellawinchester, @butifulsoul125, @lyinginthegingerlocks, @deans-baby-momma, @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester, @20gayneen, @janicho88, @thefaithfulwriter, @dreaminemz, @negans-lucille-tblr, @akshi8278, @hhiggs, @midnightsilver16830, @mrspeacem1nusone, @ria132love, @caligraphee, @the-witch-in-silence, @multisuperfandom, @deansgirl-1968, @justanotherwinchester, @jadesupernatural, @squirrelnotsam, @gaveherhearttotheliontattoo, @roonyxx, @jason-todd-squad, @thevelvetseries, @spnsuper17, @adoptdontshoppets, @woodworthti666, @frederikkeborup, @psychicforest, @luciathewinchestergirl

Sand in my shoes Tags

@linki-locks11, @spnbaby67

#spn #spn fanfiction #sand in my shoes masterlist #Jensen Ackles #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x reader #jensen x reader #jensen x you #Smut #RPF #Supernatural RPF #rpf fanfic #jensen ackles x y/n

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muppetsilas · 4 years

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My Plan

The absolute biggest thing to keep in mind through all of this is that this is NOT a diet! This is not temporary and painful. You’re not denying yourself things, don’t tell yourself you “can’t” have a thing. Keep in mind that these are smarter permanent choices that you’re making and every time you put something in your mouth, you’re making the decision that it’s “worth” the calories. The ONLY rule to weight loss is to burn more calories than you’re taking in, so you can adjust to whatever foods you need within moderation, don’t treat this as torture.

Also, DO NOT weigh or measure yourself AT ALL until after the sixth month. Take all measurements before you start and then avoid it until then. Daily/weekly/monthly progress fluctuates too much and muscle weighs more than fat per square inch, so do not focus on numbers; nothing will de-motivate you quicker. You’ll be able to tell things are changing by how you feel and how your clothes fit.

First Two Weeks: -Make a list of all of the non-carby foods you like and won’t get sick of. There are many lists online to draw from. Don’t worry, you’re not cutting all of the things out now; but the list will be helpful later. -Come up with three or four things you can make in bulk and freeze in baggies or containers (already cooked or ready to cook portions) for once weekly meal prep (helps when you’re busy or on the go - I use quiche/fritatta, chili, chicken stir fry, and pork chunks). -Do the same listing bulk things for the fridge that you can grab for snacks instead of snack foods (I use tuna salad, crack slaw, cheeses, lunch meats, and hard boiled eggs). -Cut out carbonated drinks. Even fat free, calorie, even sparkling water. It’s not about that; they are stretching out your stomach with their bubbles, and making more room in there to convince you that you need more food in there to be full. -Cut back on sweets if you can. Have half of what you used to have. -Switch to five scheduled meals a day, one of which is a protein shake. SCHEDULED is important. Set alarms and just spend this time getting into the groove of five smaller meals instead of three larger ones. Don’t worry too much about portions right now, however try not to ADD more food than what you’ve been eating, just spread out what you’d normally have for the three and make sure one of the five is a shake. Any shake you like that has more than 10 grams of protein per serving. That extra protein will curb your hunger and get your levels up for when you start working out (don’t panic, you can do this). Anyone on food stamps, be aware that if you’re getting your shake stuff on that, it has to be one that has a “nutritional facts” label, NOT a “supplements” label.

Second Two Weeks: -Replace a second meal with a shake. Any meal you like. At this point, you’re having two shakes and three smaller meals a day. Note that it’s different for everyone; no one can tell you how much to eat as it depends on what/how you were eating before. So don’t stress about amounts. YOU know how much you were eating, so trust yourself and eat less than that per meal. Don’t be worried, those two extra shakes a day will make a difference and you shouldn’t need as much in the three meals. -Get into your meal prep and eating schedule routine; set one or two days a week when you cook and store food and by now you shouldn’t need alarms as much for your meals.* *Amazon sells cheap little take-out storage containers, like 40 for $10 that can be frozen or refrigerated that have lasted me years that are “correct” portion sizes (half cup). -Get moving. We’re taking this slow, so don’t push it, you don’t want your body to get scared about what’s happening. It will push back, but you got this! Pick any activity at all that will get your heart rate up for at least five minutes at a time, three times. This is called HIIT (high intensity interval training), and it’s the best way to work out as it maximizes your calories burned. Make a fun playlist on Spotify or whatever service, that gets you HYPE, and just go for it. -WATER WATER WATER. The more water you drink, the less hungry you’ll be and the better you’ll feel overall. Yes, it’s annoying to pee more, but even if you’re not taking in more fluids than before, at least replaces your sugary beverages with water. I HATED water when I started this, now I’m addicted. We should be addicted! Trust me, your life will change with water. And a secret: Decaf coffee counts as water up to three cups a day! So enjoy that, but don’t go over three, or you’ll be worse off. -Cut out sugary coffees and juices. -Cut out the rest of your sweets (for now; they’ll be back once you have more self control on how much you have in one sitting. Better just not to have them in the house as a temptation).

Month Two: -Replace another meal with a shake or a protein bar. -Start focusing more on your portion control. By the end of the month, your goal is to be at a half cup per normal meal (2) and 8 fl oz shakes for the other three. -Stay on your eating schedule. -Time to up your activity! I know this is the part that sucks, but try to make it fun! Don’t stick to the rigid guidelines of what people say is exercise. Make up your own. There are literally millions of videos online for every activity and any ability level. I am disabled, and I had to find things I could do with my limited mobility. If you have no equipment at all, you can things around the house! Or you can invest in an affordable resistance band set on Amazon. Try to do either 10 minutes three times or the five minutes 6 times. Either way, you’re doubling your activity. -No drinks except water. -No sweets or spreads. Time to drop that mayo, butter, BBQ sauce, etc. I know it’s tough, but you shouldn’t need it anymore with all of the great recipes you have in your repertoire now.

Month Three: -Alright, time to crack down. You should be eating protein, veggies, and limited fruits only at this point. You should be feeling pretty satisfied with the two half cup meals and three protein shakes a day. You should only be drinking water, no other beverages. -How’s that workout going? You should have been getting at least a half hour cumulatively of cardio every day and now you want to add some weight training if that wasn’t what you were doing already. You want to look up “core” exercises. We’re not looking to get you “swole” or ripped. You don’t need to work out all of your muscles. You’re just looking to get your core strong. That will be the basis of all future workouts and it will make you feel better overall AND it will help to avoid any injury when you want to work out harder later.

Stick with this as long as you can; depending on how much weight you have to lose; and in a few months, you’ll notice that unfortunately you’ll plateau. This stall can last one month to many, and it’s the hardest part of this whole adventure. You’ll want to quit and give up and pig out. I PROMISE it will end and then you’ll lose weight even quicker than you did before. If you want to jump-start the loss again, you may need to increase your workout and/or food intake again.

Lastly, just try to listen to your body! The society we live in has made that really difficult to do. Our whole lives we’ve had to eat in the rush or “clean our plate” or have our veggies... We don’t really listen to our bodies anymore. Your body will tell you when you need certain foods and water. Don’t assume that the more you eat, the less hungry you’ll be after. You know from Asian food that that’s not true. Protein, as a rule, will keep you fuller than carbs and sugars. Just try not to eat because you feel like you have to “finish this serving”. I did that for so long because I didn’t want to waste food. Unfortunately you may waste food during this journey, but you’ll come up with ways to store it and have it later and make adjustments as you go.

I lost 90 pounds this way over the course of 11 months. It feels slow, but think about how quickly a year actually goes by!

#weight loss #diet #fat #fit #workout #exercise #food #trans

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arcanalogue · 4 years

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Death and the Maiden, Cooking Edition: Pomegranate Tiramisu

Fahwad Khan, IMPERMANENT (THE POMEGRANATE SKULL) 2014

Pardon the long post, but I just don’t know where else to go with this. And even in terms of recipe posts it will be annoying because there’s the dreaded backstory — but I’m sharing in honor a friend who passed away, so I guess if you feel terrific about skimming past all that to get to a cake recipe one minute faster, no one can ever question your commitment to gastronomy.

So here’s the deal. Back in 2011 I was hosting a monthly variety show that featured numerous components: film, live music, burlesque, PowerPoint presentations, arts & crafts, really ANYTHING.

My friend Cas Marino wanted in on the action; he was a performer, but he was so much more than that. He was performing life, quite vividly; he was a cancer survivor who’d never stopped transforming. He played serious dramatic roles in productions all over New York City, he was happy to dive into a drag revue, he would host salons and get-togethers in his Midtown apartment, and on top of everything else, he was working on a blog called “The Food Daddy,” which was entertaining to read even if you couldn’t cook. As you’ll see below, everything he touched became infused with his humor and personality.

He’d appeared in a number of my shows, usually in drag inspired by that night’s theme. Here he is on the night we read excerpts from Elsa Lanchester’s then-out-of-print memoir.

Here he is, drinking milk right out of the carton on the night we did a whole show about the trope in fiction about women who transform into cats. (I’m telling you, dear reader, I was truly living my best life as a producer!)

This was all in a lovely professional downtown establishment, so naturally I was interested in bending every possible rule past the breaking point. So when Cas asked if he could make food for my entire audience, I said YES... and then went to inform the venue so they could explain why it was completely against the rules. (In this instance, they had their own cafe on-site that was strictly kosher, and they could not risk confusion or contamination with outside food.)

I don’t recall exactly how we pulled it off, but Cas began showing up at my events armed with enough food to serve 75 people (the theater’s capacity). Do you realize how incredible that is, reader? Sometimes we’d sell out, but sometimes we’d only have 15 folks in the audience, half of them comps. Cas believed in me so hard, he planned for a sold-out show every time. He would have been offended if we ran out of kibble with even one person left to feed.

The food was always on theme, so when I did a show about America’s First Ladies, he combined vintage recipes from Barbara Bush and Rosalynn Carter to make Bipartisan Buffalo Chicken Sliders, which he served dressed as Eve, the original “first lady,” mostly naked and covered in vines.

As you’ll read below, he agonized over the perfect thing to serve at our “Death and the Maiden” show. At one point, it was going to be mini-eclairs filled with pomegranate cream and tipped with an almond fingernail. He finally settled on this original tiramisu recipe that knocked us all COMPLETELY OUT. And I ate the leftovers out of my fridge for days, because letting even one serving go to waste felt like a desecration.

Look, I’m telling you he could COOK. He once described his culinary style to me as “tragically indulgent.” His fantasy (like so many others at the time) was to parlay his food blog into an actual cookbook someday.

Sadly, Cas did not live to fulfill this particular dream. In 2014 his cancer returned, and he faded away right before our eyes. From his hospital bed, he wrote me: “I have to survive this just to write about it and do a one-man show where I cook and feed and we all laugh and sob and go ‘Mmmmm that's fucking good’ and it just becomes a big audience/artist participation evening of sharing where I am the only one who gets to talk.”

That same year, I managed to recreate his Pomegranate Tiramisu and serve it to friends as my birthday cake; for a couple years afterward, I would look the recipe up on his website and fantasize about making it again. The ingredients weren’t cheap, and it required more kitchen space than I had in NYC.

And then the worst thing happened: at some point after Cas’s death, the domain expired and his blog went 404, and ONLY THEN did I realize I hadn’t scribbled it down anywhere. People say “the internet is forever,” but hell... even Tumblr users know differently.

I spent a few more years being very depressed about this, imagining the recipe was lost forever, but it turns out someone had managed to preserve the blog’s contents, and at long last it fell back into my hands. BACK FROM THE DEAD! Not unlike the Bride of Frankenstein herself.

So I’m going to let Cas take it from here, dear reader. Thank you for letting me bring him back to life for a just few minutes, performing for you, feeding you. Knowing that would’ve meant everything to him. From one of his last messages to me: “I have no designs on sainthood. But I know I still have shit to accomplish in this world, even if not a physical member of it.”

Knock ‘em dead, Cas!

“The Food Daddy” - Pomegranate Tiramisu

This recipe was created by me to fit the bill for the recent “Meet the Lady” performance (which, if you’ve not heard or read, is a monthly variety show that really rather defies description), titled “Death and the Maiden”.

I toiled with possible ideas that had to do with death and maidens, figuring most easily that a “death by chocolate” offering would at least use one of the title words. Then lady fingers came into the thought process because, well, if you dismembered a maiden you’d have two byproducts: death, most notably, and lady parts — including, but not limited to, her fingers.

Lady fingers naturally led to Tiramisu fantasies, but I didn’t want to go the traditional route. And after discussing it and brainstorming, I got smacked in the back of the head with the realization that the mythical Persephone — a maiden — kidnapped as she was by Hades — who, by way of his being the god of the underworld, was death its very self in semi-human form — ate nothing but pomegranate seeds during her detainment in hell.

If this doesn’t spell fucking dessert, I don’t know what does.

Herewith, my scaled-down recipe (in scope, not in structure or composition; I doubt you’ll need to serve 75 people with yours, though even at half-size this will serve a small army). You can pare it down even further if you feel such need, or instead of making it into one big sheet cake, assemble several smaller ones (I found this worked BEAUTIFULLY in loaf pans) and send them straight to the freezer for future enjoyment.

A few other flexible considerations: I made mine in a full-size deep steam table pan for presentation and food service purposes. These things measure roughly 20 x 10 x 3.5”, but you can use the smaller (12 x 9 x 2.5”) disposable aluminum half-pans for this recipe, or as stated above, any other configuration of sizes that suit your needs. If you want to unmold it and slice it after freezing, line your pans first with cellophane wrap. After just a minute or two out of the ice box, you’ll be able to lift it out of the pan (perhaps with the help of a hungry friend) by the ends of the cellophane, place it on a cutting board, and have at it. Tres artistique, even weighing in as mine did at about eight pounds. This last conclusion required me getting on the scale both with and without the final dessert in my arms and subtracting the first weight from the laden number, which could have been quite a site, as I generally refuse to step on a scale until I’ve removed every last stitch of clothing including my socks, and spit out any spare saliva and shaved every last facial hair so NOTHING will add even a bazillionth of an ounce to my readout, lest I suffer a deep fit of depression. And being depressed when you’re holding what turns out to be 8 pounds of really good cake is a recipe for emotion-eating disaster. But I staved off the need to feel slimmer than normal in light of the facts that (a) I was mid-movie shoot that week, and thus had to maintain a larger-than-usual mane of face-hair for my role; (b) spitting near food meant for others would be gross; (c) being naked around the same food would be even grosser; and (d) the tile floor in my bathroom could be a bit chilly, so why risk taking off my socks?

Socks, spitting, scanty clothing — nothing could have made this less enjoyable. The audience that night devoured what was served to them, and all but attacked the leftovers on the way out of the theater. I had sent samples of this creation to my usual team of taste-testers for input as part of the development process, and perhaps the most poignant and fitting critique came from my dear Mom who, just having started a new diet regimen, had the following to say during our brief check-in on the phone:

“Hello. This is your mother. Fuck Weight Watchers, and Fuck You.”

I love you, Mom. And not just because you loved this surprising new take on an old favorite.

60 Lady Finger cookies

4 Cups Pomegranate juice

1-½ Cups plus 2 Tbsp. sugar

1 Packet unflavored gelatin

4 Egg whites

1 tsp. Cream of Tartar

1 Cup Mascarpone cheese

3 Cups Crème Fraiche

1 Tbsp. Corn starch

¼ Cup water (or as needed)

½ Cup sliced almonds

¼ Cup Pomegranate seeds (or dried sweetened cranberries)

(Reserve 6 Lady Fingers for garnish.)

In a saucepan, mix pomegranate juice with 1-½ cups sugar, and sprinkle gelatin on top. Stir or whisk until gelatin is dissolved with no lumps remaining. Bring mixture to boil over medium-high heat, stirring constantly until sugar and gelatin are fully dissolved. Reduce heat to medium-low and continue to boil, stirring often, for 10 minutes. Remove from heat and set saucepan into a larger bowl filled with cold water. Stir frequently and change cold water bath often, allowing juice reduction to cool as close to room temperature as possible.

In the bowl of a stand mixer or with electric beaters, whip egg whites with cream of tartar until stiff. Remove to a separate, clean mixing bowl (preferably chilled in the freezer) and set aside.

In stand mixer or large mixing bowl with electric beaters, mix mascarpone with 1-½ cups of cooled juice reduction until well blended. Beat on medium-high for one minute. Add 1 cup of the crème fraiche and blend until smooth. Finally, fold in beaten egg whites, half at a time, just until fully incorporated.

Assembling the tiramisu: Here’s where Food Daddy starts getting anal (but this works easiest, so just shut up and do as I say. Love you!). On your prep surface, set your plate or bowl of unpackaged lady fingers (you don’t want to be messing with cellophane and plastic bags and such mid-project here); next to that, set your remaining juice reduction; and next to that, set your cake pan.

Working from left to right (or for my Hebrew or dyslexic foodies, right to left), dip a lady finger lightly in the juice by placing it on the liquid’s surface, flipping it over with your fingers, then removing it by hand and placing it in the cake pan. Working quickly, repeat this process, building a tightly packed layer of side-by-side, row-by-row, lightly soaked lady fingers on the bottom of the pan. Nobody will see the inside of the tiramisu in its entirety, so if to make a uniform layer with few gaps you need to rip a finger here or stuff a finger there, I won’t tell a soul if you have to be a bit forceful or creative.

Spoon half of the pomegranate mousse mixture over the bottom layer of lady fingers. Using the back of a spoon or a rubber spatula, spread the mixture evenly. Lift the pan and drop it gently a few times on your work surface, just to make sure all the gaps are filled and big air bubbles are removed.

Repeat with a second layer of dipped lady fingers, and then a second layer of pomegranate mousse, again tamping pan to release air bubbles and distribute the filling evenly. Top with one final layer of dipped lady fingers.

Spread the top with the remaining 2 cups of crème fraiche, tamp pan to settle the layers, and set aside.

Pour remaining juice mixture into a measuring cup, and add enough of the water, if needed, to make 1 cup of liquid. Return to saucepan, and stir in the corn starch and the remaining 2 Tbsp. of sugar until starch is dissolved. Place pan over medium-high heat, and bring to a boil to thicken. Remove from heat.

In a food processor or with a cutting board and knife, coarsely chop the almonds and the fruit, then add the reserved lady fingers and pulse (or chop and crumble) until the whole thing looks like somebody pawed at a poor helpless berry-nut muffin until there were no big chunks left.

Sprinkle the crumb mixture evenly over the top of the tiramisu. Drizzle with the pomegranate syrup mixture.

Chill tiramisu at least 2 hours in refrigerator before serving. For overnight storage or longer, cover with cellophane wrap gently pressed against the top surface.

This will “cure” and the flavors will blend and the whole combination really pull together if left refrigerated for two days. For storage beyond that or to deal with leftovers, this freezes BEAUTIFULLY. Just allow to come to room temperature before serving, or enjoy it “semi freddo” by removing from freezer and slicing wide, inch-thick slices, laying each on its side on individual serving plates and eating it cold and firm. A dollop of additional crème fraiche and a sprinkling of chopped almonds (did I hear someone say “mint sprig”?) sure would make this anything but a “leftover” dessert.

#death and the maiden #pomegranate #tiramisu #recipes #cooking #cas marino

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gumnut-logic · 5 years

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A Little Distraction & A Little Too Much Attention (The End)

And here it is :D I hope you enjoy it. Many, many thanks to @scribbles97 for all her help with this ::hugs::

From here

-o-o-o-

“VIRGIL!”

Em’s voice had Scott spinning on the spot just in time to see his brother leap into the remains of the crowd and grab a man sporting a holocam.

Shit!

As he moved to follow, Gordon moved with him, his brother swearing under his breath.

Scott made it just in time to grab Virgil’s right arm on the back swing as his brother pinned the man to the ground. Gordon caught his other arm and together they wrenched him off the smirking reporter.

Virgil struggled, his fury fully focussed on the prone man. “How DARE you!” A guttural snarl and Scott found himself being dragged forward. Virgil was pure muscle, a truck, a freight train out of control. “Virgil, stop!”

Gordon lost his balance and their brother took a step forward.

“Goddamnit, Virgil!”

“C’mon, big boy, you’re not going to let these two stop me from getting the story of the decade, are you?”

Scott was bodily shifted forward as Virgil snarled again.

“Virgil, he’s not worth it.” Scott put himself between his brother and the asshole on the floor. “C’mon, Virg, you’re better than this.”

Brown eyes finally fastened on his, fury shifting to pain. Blood dribbled sluggishly from the scratches on his face. An egg of a bruise on his forehead was sketched out by his wayward hair.

“Why?” A whispered plea.

“Because you are.” Scott lifted one of his hands off his brother’s shoulders and, when the man didn’t take advantage, he reached up and cupped his jawline gently. “And Kayo needs you.”

Virgil’s eyes widened.

“Well, I can’t see what she sees in you, but, man, she is a sweet piece of ass, worth bedding a sister for.”

A blur of pissed off woman, a yelp, a grunt and the man was silenced by a lack of consciousness, Kayo stuck a knee in his back as she fastened a zip-tie around his wrists. “Problem solved.” But as she stood up, she wavered. Em swooped in and steadied her.

A hand to her head, Kayo swore under her breath.

“I want to examine both of you now.” Em’s voice brooked no argument.

Beneath Scott’s hands, Virgil deflated as if he had nothing left, his forehead dropping to his eldest brother’s shoulder. Scott’s hand cupped the back of his neck, the other wrapping around his back.

He held Virgil for a moment, letting him slow his breathing, letting him find his control again and force a trembling calm.

Whispered. “C’mon, Virg.” A breath as his own heartbeat began to temper down. “Let’s get you both somewhere safe.”

-o-o-o-

Security ushered them into a private room in a protected section of the airport. There were several chairs and a table, none particularly comfortable, but they did the job. Penelope and Parker had taken off to smooth ruffled feathers with the airport authorities. Alan and Gordon walked in either side of a glaring Kayo, both eyeing her as if she might collapse any minute, but too scared to touch her. Scott had his arm around Virgil’s shoulders. The younger man looked shattered.

Em accosted some of the airport officers and got her hands on a first aid kit. She directed Virgil and Kayo to take a seat next to each other and set about attending to their injuries.

She didn’t miss Kayo reaching out to take Virgil’s hand, her fingers curling around his non-responsive digits.

Em could not imagine what was going through the man’s mind. Kayo just looked angry, royally pissed. She had no doubt that when they made it back to Tracy Island the gym was going to have an abrupt and violent remodelling. But Virgil...

“Virgil?”

Tired brown eyes looked up at her.

“I hope you are not taking anything of what has been said today to heart. I hope you are not listening to those bloody assholes who are creating deliberate chaos in order to sell a few extra subscriptions.”

He didn’t respond, but looked away, staring down at his hands.

Em reached over and nudged his chin up with her finger. “You listen to me, young man. That is bullshit. You and Kayo have a beautiful thing. I’ve seen it. Don’t you dare let them mess with your head.”

Kayo leant over and, reaching up, drew him to her side, bringing his head down to kiss him gently. “Is my idiot being a bigger idiot than usual? Because if he is, I’m going to have to take him home and kick his ass.”

Those eyes darted to his lover and a small smile curved his lips. Voice hoarse. “I love it when you’re scary.”

Kayo grinned. “I know.” She kissed him again. “Now my head is pounding. I’m sure yours is, too. Let Em patch us up so we can go home.” She closed her eyes letting her head drop to his shoulder. Quiet. “Take me home, love.”

The slight plea was enough to snap Virgil into action. His arms wrapped around her and drew her close. He kissed her hair and cradled her against him.

Those sparkling brown eyes captured Em’s once more over the top of Kayo’s head and his lips curved up a little.

Em smiled and reached for the kit.

-o-o-o-

The flight back to Tracy Island was blissfully uneventful. Em had plastered bandaids all over Virgil after acquiring a pair of tweezers and removing a few stray pieces of glass. She wanted to run a scan when they got home as the injury to the back of his skull was still bleeding sluggishly and she was concerned there might be a hidden break. Kayo was dizzy at times, but other than a nasty developing black eye and associated bruising, she had escaped the worst of what a concussion could have given her. Both of them just needed rest.

Consequently, although it wasn’t a very long flight, it was long enough for Virgil to slip sideways in his seat, head falling to Kayo’s shoulder as he drifted into an exhausted sleep. The bandage around his head had his hair sticking up in all directions and, when combined with the bandaids, left the man looking a mess.

Kayo reached up, gently brushed that hair out of his eyes and kissed his injured forehead, before resting her head against his and closing her eyes.

A glance in Scott’s direction and she found him watching his brother and sister, a worried expression on his face.

Em stashed the aid kit back into its compartment and moved over to where Scott was sitting. Wrapping her arms around him, she kissed his hair and whispered low enough for only him to hear. “They’re okay, Scooter.”

He arched an eyebrow up at her as he reached an arm around her waist and tugged her close, resting his head beneath her chin. “Love you.” It was said quietly, but with emotion.

“Love you, too.” She held him that bit tighter.

-o-o-o-

Alan brought Tracy Two into an extremely soft landing, her VTOL letting them down so gently, Virgil didn’t stir at all. Kayo opened her eyes, immediately assessing the situation. She latched onto Em, who was resting against Scott, his arm loosely around her shoulders, and the doctor smiled at her. Scott continued to stare out the window.

It was odd that her eldest brother wasn’t piloting the plane. It was odd to see him uninjured and back here with the family at all. Alan was flying with Gordon as co-pilot. Scott had insisted.

As the plane taxied into the cliffside hanger, the sun was blotted out, dropping a shadow across her brother’s face. He blinked and turned to look at her.

She shot him a small smile.

He half returned it.

And she remembered exactly how this had all begun. An unprompted attempt to help Scott and Em escape the inevitable downside of celebrity. She stifled a sigh. Their failure had been pretty much complete. There was no way Em would go unnoticed now.

Kayo immediately began setting up strategies in her head on how to protect the woman when she made it home. How to save her as much grief as possible.

Tracy Two came to a complete halt in her parking bay, Thunderbird Two hulking beside her. Kayo didn’t bother to move. Virgil was still asleep and it was her policy to keep him in that state as much as possible, particularly when he was injured.

Scott got the message and quietly stood up, prepped the door and engaged the mobile stairway. No sooner had it settled into place, there was the sound of hurried footsteps clambering up the stairs.

Grandma burst into the cabin, her eyes tracking, looking for something or someone. She reached a hand up and squeezed Scott’s shoulder as she walked past, but it was soon obvious she was aiming for Virgil.

She caught Kayo’s eyes as she approached. The expression on her face could only be considered loving. She knelt beside Virgil, reaching out, but not quite touching him.

Her eyes darted to Kayo again and back to Virgil. Kayo frowned, unsure what she wanted, but it seemed that Virgil sensed her presence, because he suddenly snorted and snuffled awake with a groan.

“Virgil?”

“Grandma?”

Kayo brushed her fingers across his shoulders and let him sit up. Grandma grabbed his hands gently in hers, drawing them together and kissing both of them.

Virgil blinked, staring down at her. “Huh?”

“I am so proud of you.”

“Uh?” Virgil was obviously not quite online yet.

Kayo frowned. “Grandma?” What on Earth had they done to make her proud of them? The whole situation was a media disaster.

Their grandmother stared at her. “You haven’t seen?”

“Seen what?” This from Scott, helping Em into her ‘scoot.

“Oh, you have to see.” And with that Grandma clambered out of the plane, and nothing was left to do but follow her.

-o-o-o-

Virgil was as stiff as a board. Everything ached. He had no doubt that if he lifted up his shirt there would be bruise mottled skin all over his torso. That damned trolley had hit so hard.

He sighed and leant against the elevator wall.

Kay’s fingers squeezed his hand and he shot her a small smile. She looked as awful as he felt and the sight of her set his blood boiling again. A bruise spread up the side of her face and wrapped around her eye. The swelling wasn’t as bad as it could have been, mostly because Em had given her an icepack at the airport, but it still hurt to look at her.

There must have been something on his face because she leant in and kissed him gently. “Not your fault.”

He let his forehead drop to hers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Still not your fault.”

“Still hurts to see you hurt.”

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer. He closed his eyes and just let himself feel her breathing beside him.

The elevator delivered them to the comms room and Virgil made his creaking way towards the couches wondering if he could get away with curling up and going to sleep on one of them.

His grandmother, his brothers, including a hovering holographic John, and Em were already arrayed around the sunken circle, but there was a couch spare and he took advantage of it, Kay sitting down beside him.

“So what did you want to show us, Grandma?” Scott appeared to be on his last nerve. Great. Between him and Kay, he’d be repairing gym equipment for the next month.

Grandma didn’t answer, she just activated the holoprojector. The news channel flared up. Virgil groaned. “Really, Grandma? Honestly, I’ve had enough...” He trailed off as the headline spun around the display.

True love conquers all...It’s a Tracy love story...Virgil Tracy, the most loving man, caught on camera...This is what true love looks like...

The headlines rolled on, all saying basically the same thing, and above them was a panning three-dimensional shot of Virgil holding an unconscious Kay in his arms, the expression on his face speaking volumes.

“Oh my god.” Every red blood cell in his body congregated in his face.

Kay gripped his hand hard enough to cause pain.

Phantom legs walked through and around the two figures in the holoprojection, echoes of the crowd at the airport that had so reviled him. A voice over started reporting the details of the day.

“Stoic after protestors first injured him, then mocked him, Virgil Tracy watched as his fiancé, Tanusha Kyrano, was knocked unconscious in front of him. Only then were his true feelings revealed. As you can see in this clip, the man embodies what we all wish we could feel for another.”

Virgil stared at the female reporter as her expression literally swooned over the video clip. His throat dried out and he found it hard to swallow.

“Virgil?”

He turned to his grandmother, her gentle smile embarrassing him even more. His eyes darted around the room seeking absolution, but found only his caring family.

“Virgil?” This time Kay reached up and turned his head to face her. Green eyes were glistening in the overhead lighting. His breath caught in his throat as she reached up and caught his lips with hers, her fingers climbing into his hair.

Oh.

Scott stood and walked over to their grandmother and politely asked for the remote and began flicking through channels.

Every. Single. Channel.

Every channel showing news had that one clip. People were raving. Claiming that this was true love, that Virgil was a real man, that this was what love was meant to be.

Virgil hid his face on Kay’s shoulder.

“What the hell happened?” It was Scott’s voice, but Virgil did not look up. Kay was rubbing circles into his back.

“I’m not sure.” Grandma. “The clip hit the newsfeeds and there has been nothing but positive chatter since.”

“How the hell?”

“I have no idea, but I’m not inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Well, at least they are not abusing Virg anymore.” Alan.

“No, now he is some kind of love god.”

“Gordon, don’t.” Scott’s voice was firm.

“I wasn’t, honest.”

“In any case, I want to do that scan, and then both of you can get some rest.” Em, ever the voice of reason.

“C’mon, love.” Kay nudged him, urging him off the couch.

Whispered. “I love you.”

“I know.”

-o-o-o-

Far above Tracy Island, John bid his family well and cut the connection. Pushing off from the console he floated gently for a moment, arms crossed, his eyes tracking the camera as it followed its rail into the room.

“Is it finished?”

“Yes, John. File deletion and manipulation complete.”

“Did anyone catch you?”

“No. The virus was very efficient and what it didn’t catch, I followed up.”

“That was fast.”

The ring of lights blinked rhythmically. “I had to be. The news propaganda will be positive now. I will keep an eye on it.”

“Thank you, EOS.”

-o-o-o-

FIN

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #virgil tracy #kayo kyrano #scott tracy #em harris #john tracy #virgil/kayo #scott/em #warm rain #gentle rain

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sohannabarberaesque · 5 years

Conversation

What Super Snooper and Blabbermouse weren't quite expecting @ the Minnesota State Fair:

SUPER SNOOPER, checking through a guide to "on-a-stick" eateries at the fair: Who would have believed, Blab, that you've got 99 "on-a-stick" options here at the Minnesota State Fair, 22 of them for hot dogs alone!

BLABBERMOUSE, trying to make things clear: And just so you know, those Pronto Pups have a flour batter while Poncho Dogs and Jumbo Dogs have cornmeal batters ... meanwhile, what exactly did you have in mind?

SUPER SNOOPER: Blab, I thinks it beholds me to get the "real deal", otherwise known as a corn dog, made with nothing less than real cornmeal batter! And I understands there's one place which uses cracked field corn in its cornmeal batter--

BLABBERMOUSE: Which, I assume, would be worth the try, Snoop?

[Meanwhile, a run-in with no less than--]

WALLY GATOR, inevitably bound to be peeved: I assume you're aware of a certain place, Cajun Bob's by name, that sells deep-fried alligator on a stick ... no doubt an insult to my species, don't you know...

SUPER SNOOPER: Thanks kindly for the advice, uh--

WALLY GATOR: No less than Wally Gator, swingin' alligator of the swamp ... who's bound myself to try a few of those "on-a-stick" goodes they keep talking about here, don't you know ... well, whadd'ya know, deep-fried candy bars on a stick! Battered Milky Way bars, here I come!!

SUPER SNOOPER, chuckling: That's Wally Gator for yous, Blab--always something of a laugh riot when you least expect it, even when it comes to on-a-stick foods! [To BLABBERMOUSE:] Uh, let's see, Blab ... let's see what else is up on the "on-a-stick" menu ... grilled salmon, grilled shrimp, tater-tot hot dish on--[dumbfounded] TATER-TOT HOT DISH ON A STICK? Blab, don't tell me things have gotten weirder and weirder on the stick!

PETER POTAMUS, just passing along and himself chowing down on a Minnekabob with a side of deep-fried olives "on a stick": You ain't seen the half of the weirdness in foods on a stick!

SUPER SNOOPER: Uh, Peter Potamus, before you bloviate into your Hippo Hurricane Holler act, you might like to know where Wally Gator was going to try some deep-fried candy bars on a stick!

PETER POTAMUS, dumbfounded: You mean they actually have deep-fried candy bars on a stick?!! Tell me what else is weird in that department!

BLABBERMOUSE: Some other stuff you can find on a stick here includes grilled chicken breast, grilled pork chops, falafel, marinated vegetables, gyros ...

SUPER SNOOPER: Even balls of pizza dough as are, uh, baked and served with dipping sauce ... frozen iced coffee bars ... pierogies ... Rice Kristie bars ... cheesecake--

PETER POTAMUS: I heard a rumour that you can get key lime pie on-a-stick here, too!

BLABBERMOUSE: You are so correct there!

PETER POTAMUS: And macaroni-and-cheese on a stick?

SUPER SNOOPER: That is, uh, correct. Not to mention Chinese egg rolls, Vietnamese egg rolls, Scotch egg--

PETER POTAMUS: Now what exactly is this "Scotch egg"?

SUPER SNOOPER: It's, uh, a hard-boiled egg rolled up in sausage and breadcrumbs, like, and then deep-fried.

PETER POTAMUS: Rather intriguing ... and I hear they've also got deep-fried pickles, mashed potatoes--

BLABBERMOUSE: Not to mention deep-fried chocolate chip cookie dough on a stick--

PETER POTAMUS, dumbfounded at the revelations: I just have to wonder if I still have any Tums left ... [Makes a run to the nearest stand for bottled water, sensing that all this talk about deep-fried food made him thirsty ... and in the process, our detective duo decides to head for Famous French Fries to have a modest little cup between them ...]

SUPER SNOOPER, going through another finger's worth of French fries: Sometimes, Blab, this "on-a-stick" food kick ain't easy to get over ... and besides, isn't it better to have something more rational for once in the foods arena on occasion at the fair?

BLABBERMOUSE, fingers soaked in ketchup as much as the oil from the fries: You couldn't have said better, Snoop ... do you think one of those Juicy Lucys ought be in order?

SUPER SNOOPER: Blab? And ruin our jackets with the grease spewing from one of those things?

[Meanwhile, "just passing by"--]

NORVILLE "SHAGGY" ROGERS, taking stock of the scene: Like, Scoob, things at the Fair couldn't get more interesting than what I just ran into--Super Snooper and Blabbermouse having French fries and taking stock of the scene.

SCOOBY-DOO: Rooper Rnooper? Rabberrouse? Really?

"SHAGGY": Scoob ... how about some fruit-on-a-stick?

#fanfic #whimsy #hanna barbera #minnesota state fair #super snooper and blabbermouse #on-a-stick #wally gator #peter potamus #shaggy and scooby #unlikely on-a-stick options #hannabarberaforever

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uhhailey · 5 years

Text

Things I’ve Heard High Schoolers Say

I graduated!!! So have the list of things I’ve overheard at school!

- "I stopped using anal beads... (muffled conversation)"

- "Why would you even kill a prostitute in the first place?"

- One bro to his bro friend "dude stop sucking dicks"

- "What did we do in math?" "Smoke weed."

- "He doesn't eat paper anymore it doesn't taste good."

- "You look like a lesbian." "What does a lesbian look like?" "You."

- "You look like an old math teacher."

- "Have you ever sent noodles?"

- "Thanks mom."

- "Do you like tacos or hotdogs?"

- "Do you think i'd memorize it if I ate the paper?"

- "What's up my dick-sucking whore?" *sucking noise*

- "Forgive me heavenly father, for I have sinned." "Why?" "I wrote 1,555 words of smut last night." "Oh."

- "He eats his poop!"

- "Fidget and chill"

- "Oh I thought that was a duck but it was really a rock."

- "You can always shower but you can't shower when you're dead."

- "I thought it was a chicken but it was just a fire hydrant."

- "Don't touch me I don't want your diseases."

- "Is that arm dead? No it's alive."

- "Just want to make sure, tacos and burritos are already in Spanish right?"

- "People are like sandwiches." “Elaborate?” “No.”

- "All I drink is nuts."

- *in Snape's voice* "Comó te llamas, Potter?"

- "I don't trust anyone who kicks bread."

- "Remind me to kill myself in ten minutes."

- "Wait, are Italian people white?!" "Yes." "Oh."

- "Don't call me bro I'm not your brother."

- "I love the Nintendo Gods™"

- "You look so good - eat my ass"

- Listening to the "Be More Chill" soundtrack: "I hate country music"

- "You're gonna become a professional guitar? Let me know how that goes."

- "It looks like Saturday today!"

- "Hey there, malignant tumor."

- *the bell is ringing* “Is the bell ringing?”

- *gives a penny i found to my friend” “Thanks, now I can finally buy my yacht.”

- “You guys know how to make cake? I once boiled an egg and it exploded.”

- “What does the V stand for” “Vasectomy.”

- “The clitoris is not located on the leg.”

- “What’s up bro?” “Not my grades”

- “He has a butt. I ate the butt.”

- “I went to an ocean once.”

- “Can I borrow your eyes for a second?”

- “Mine hasn’t eaten a cat yet.”

- “I will slap you with a taco.”

- “It’s report card night today!” “Who is Japartard?”

- “So I was eating mini oreos in the bathtub...”

- “I finally figured out how to do that Poptropica mission thing.”

- “Do blind people use echolocation?”

- “THANOS DEMANDS YOUR FUCKING SILENCE!”

- “Thanos can suck my ass.”

- “King-Fucking-Julien making an appearance on Instagram! Ugh, daddy.”

- “In the Bee Movie, did the lady fall in love with the bee?” “Yeah, that’s the whole premise of the movie.”

- “What if there was an inverse sandwich? Like... the bread is on the inside and the ham is on the outside?”

- “Elon Musk is my dad.”

- “Is anyone Catholic in here?” “No I’m Chinese.”

- “There’s a baby over there!” (multiple gasps of excitement) “With the lady pushing the baby cart!”

- “Whale sharks are thicc.”

- “The luxurious key of B flat”

- “This is my son, Stove.”

- “My blueberry ran away.”

- “People in the LGBT community we’re generally associated with Communists.” “Well, guess I’m a Communist.”

- “Spoons are just bowls on sticks.” “Holy shit.”

- “Abe Lincoln or Babe Lincoln?”

- “Tomorrow is Meme Day so if you don’t dress up you’ll fail all your classes.”

- “If you made a documentary about dogs would you call it a dogumentary?”

- “I smell bullshit.” “I smell ass.”

- “How do you break an avocado??”

- “Look at this nice twig.” “That’s a nice-ass twig.”

- A magician pulled out 3 cups. My friend immediately said: “Shots!”

- “Never have I ever bullied someone.” “Does myself count?”

- “We were dissecting cats and the teacher literally started playing that ASPCA commercial.”

- *Puts a pillbug upright* “That’s my act of kindness for the day I’m done”

- “No shut up I’m not going vegan for you”

- “It’s gonna let all liquidy bro!”

- “Vegans say nuts have protein to make themselves feel good.”

- “Do you remember the vine where the guy throws the tater tot at the guy’s butthole?”

- “One of my tastebuds is falling off.”

- “My blood pressure could not be any higher.”

- “Who the fuck takes a bite out of an onion?”

- “Be a detective so you can win the detective competition.”

- “Why does this store sell so many weapons?” “These are Harry Potter wands.”

- “I dropped my wallet on the floor of the Disney store and it was covered in glitter when I picked it up.”

- “They’re in between middle-aged and old.”

- “You see the sign that says yeet? Yeah, right above that”

- “Danger! Danger! Nick Jonas!”

- *while driving* “This guy is so close to me right now and if I suddenly stop he’s going right up my butt and I don’t think we’ve reached that level of a relationship yet.”

- “Is Caillou asian?”

- “That bird is Jesus.”

- “I peed on his neck.”

- “Boba Fett is gay, there is canonical proof.”

- “Dua Loopa ‘round this dick”

- “Horses have the fattest quads”

- “What’s America’s penis?”

- “You should have a superpower where you can place trash cans wherever you want. You’d be called White Trash!!”

- “Jesus, that car just farted!!”

- “What’s the purpose of eyebrows?”

- “What are you good at?” “Breathing. Wait, just kidding, I have asthma”

- “I will strip for you”

- “Oh, so you’re from one of those square states, huh?”

- “This weather makes me want to kill myself” “All weather makes me want to kill myself”

- “Ants can’t get to the second floor! Ants don’t know how to use stairs!”

- “Yo bro you have ADHD?” “Yeah bro join the club” “Where can I sign up?” “It’s not an actual club dumbass.”

A bunch of 5th graders are outside the window:

- “[Teacher’s Name] you’ll scare them. Show them a math problem” “They look so happy and full of life. I wonder what that’s like.”

- “Do you follow wherever your dick goes?” “It’s not a compass!!!”

- “California is not furry central!!”

- “I’m afraid of those.” “Whisks?” “No, tongue rings.”

- “Hail is just mean snow.”

- “I think it’s Mardi Gras.” “I’ve never heard of that. Is it a white holiday?”

- “This school is on AIDS.” “I don’t think you can be on AIDS.”

- “Do they have any animals in Europe?”

- “Do any of you want to donate blood?” “I don’t want anybody to have my blood. I worked hard for it!”

- *angrily* “You’ve played patty cake every day for the last week for 20 minutes!!”

- “Big boobs aren’t the only thing that is good, all things are good.”

- “You got herps?”

- “I’m so done with high school.” “Why?” “Some guy right in front of me just threw up!!”

- “They’re taking my teeth!!!!”

- “Oh, it’s egg!”

- *guy opens a tampon* “It’s a popsicle!!!”

- “I’m so good at this game. No matter how hard I try I can never fai- oop never mind I failed.”

- “Okay so, Yee.”

- “I need to put a sticker on my camera for, like, hackers, but I’m lonely”

- *at a trampoline* “Wait omg!! I’m going to lay face down and you can jump so I can fly into the air!!!” “Yeah!!! That’ll be fun!!!” .. “shit my nose is bleeding”

- “I’m going to try to avoid contracting tapeworm in the Denny’s parking lot”

- “Does size matter in hand modeling?”

#high school #school #graduation #funny

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kiwiparallels · 6 years

Text

Townhouse, part II

[You can read part I here] Harry got back to his house with a head on the clouds. Conflicted between thoughts of sleek blond hair and how attractive it seemed to even on a bloke, he didn’t realize how a trail of changes followed him upstairs to the naked bed. The boxes spilled its contents, just before, tucking themselves in the closet near the front door. Cups and plates moved themselves to the kitchen cupboards, while books flew right to the big wooden bookshelf in the living room. Colored clothes were slowly sorted in the walk-in closet in the main room where he slept. The walls went from an old beige to a clear white color, as the wind sweeped the dust away from the dark hardwood floors. A flame was lit up in the fireplace, right under the old firebolt, that decided that wall was a good place to hang. A beautiful drawing of a Lion, made by Luna a couple months before, attached itself to the wall in the hall, waving its mane with a shake.

When he woke up, blinded by the bright sunshine, his stomach roared in hunger. His golden snitch zoomed over the room, making him very aware of yesterday’s pints and the consequent headache that pulsed on his forehead. He thought of Ellie, and how warming the little bar she ran felt to him. He knew his friends would love the place, but he couldn’t show it to them yet. Moving to muggle London had one objective: being away of the wizarding world enough so he could get on with his life again. A pinch of pain took hold of his heart: did that mean there was no space for Ron and Hermione at this new life? No, of course not. It was just an adjustment time. He could figure things out as he went. His friends were there, no matter how apart they were. Their thursdays dinners would eventually happen again. Just not right now.

He got up, looking around the room. It was like, during the night - or better, the morning, as the sun was so up into the sky that it seemed like it was almost noon -, the place got a new face altogether. It was still empty, no new furniture appeared. But it did seem clean and tidy, as a house was supposed to be. He started down the stairs, watching closely for updates, and right as the possibility of an entering-and-breaking occurred to him, he ran into someone.

“Master Harry” said Kreacher, anxious eyes glittering at him.

“Kreacher! What are you doing here? I thought you were at Hogwarts since I freed you”

“Kreacher was, Master Harry, he lived through the shame!” Harry thought it was better not to complain with that statement. “Kreacher wants to know if Master Harry needs help decorating the new house, sir.”

“I think I’m okay, Kreacher, thank you. Is there something I can do for you?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, Master Harry, Kreacher heard you’re selling Mistress house!”

“Yes, so?”

“Kreacher wanted to… say goodbye, sir.”

“The house is open for you as long as it’s mine, Kreacher.” The bow he received then was exaggerated and deep. With a last ‘thank you’, Kreacher flicked his hand, pointing to the kitchen, and disappeared out of thin air. The air was filled with the smell of fresh pancakes and scrambled eggs. A treat from Hogwarts, he thought. His stomach rumbled again, wondering if there would be some treacle tart. Was that what happened, then? Kreacher decided to buy his sympathy with his organization talents? He went to the kitchen, mouth watering at the beautiful breakfast that awaited him, treacle tart included.

He had never been good at sensing where the magic around him came from. He knew the food was full of house-elf magic, but there was nothing in it telling him that. Hermione would help him with it. She was not just sensible, but her new experience in regards of magical creatures would pay off. He took a mental note to ask her later. Everything was delicious, but the tea was already cold. He got his wand and pointed at his cup, muttering a quick heating charm. As he touched it, the water quickly boiled up and evaporated. He shrugged. It happened occasionally. Maybe he should have been back to Hogwarts, as apparently he couldn’t do children’s magic properly anymore. But he was above it, in his muggle house. It wasn’t a problem anymore.

He got out of the house again that day, thinking about how he needed to fill up the house with furniture. He had never done that before, and he was sure he didn’t want anything like the Black’s furniture. It was old and classic, but also very boring and elegant in a way he would never be. The Dursley’s modern-kitsch home was no better, all colors and patterns that still reminded him of the seventies too much. He wanted a clean space, with less clutter than his head. He needed it. The task quickly got really boring. He pointed at furniture and wrote big cheques, and then pointed at new furniture. It was all exactly what he wanted, but it wouldn’t get to the house for a couple of days, and he couldn’t really put it together in his mind. He hadn’t bought everything yet, only the big pieces he was sure he needed, and - oh, so needed - some shades for his windows, as he was still scarred from his sudden encounter with the sun today. When it started to go down again, he tried to think about dinner.

Cooking in the muggle way seemed like a burden, the memory of the Dursley’s gave him a chill. That he wouldn’t do. But his magic was faltering, and trying one or two of Molly’s charms to cook could even set the house on fire. He would need to eat out again. And forever, apparently. He stopped at a cafe and bought a sandwich, eating slowly as he walked. Maybe buying stuff would be more fun with help. Maybe eating would be more fun with people. Harry wondered why his life always circled down to being alone. Even in his days at Hogwarts, in the end, it was only him and Voldemort. No one was there to actually understand what he was feeling, what he needed, what he wanted. Hell, who knew what he wanted? Just now he only wanted his empty townhouse, and here he kept muttering about its emptiness! He felt frustrated. He looked at himself, mirrored in a window shop, and sighed. Some would say he had everything. He had more money he could count, fame, the bestest friends in the world, he had a fierce girlfriend… Ginny crossed his mind them.

She had made him happy someday. His heart raced to see her, his mouth dried up when he had to talk to her, kissing her was a bliss. But when did it change? He remembered them as a good dynamic couple… when he was sixteen. Had it been so long? Had he been lonely for so long? It did, apparently. They tried, he knew, but it got so tiring. And there was no reward at the end. The happiness he felt by her side had a place before the war, at the Hogwarts he called home. But not here, not at this time. If he could feel any differently he would, but it was so agonizing to explain it to her. To put in words that he thought about not coming back. He knew what he had to do, but he also knew what he wanted was something else altogether. She would treat him like he was crazy, like he had never lost anyone, like he didn’t understand the pain she felt. And she was one of the few who knew what it felt to be in Voldemort’s shoes, to feel like a pawn in a bigger game. He felt used. But she would say everything worked out in the end, so who cared? Once she even said that, maybe, it was better he was used. He shook the thought away. A chilly breeze came through and he wished he had a thicker coat. Although, it served the moment right, he was already feeling cold for a while.

As he walked aimlessly, he tried to not think. That had always been hard. But chewing up on everything that went wrong would not help. He had stated that very clearly in therapy. He was lonely, yes. It was a fact he had to deal with. Maybe, what he needed was a new girlfriend, someone who didn’t have to know about the mess of the war - someone fun and carefree like the muggle people he saw on the street. He thought about Ellie, she was nice. Her dark brown hair was long and wavy, careless knotted up. She seemed like his kind of girl, easy going and talented. A lot like Ginny. But maybe he wasn't that easy going anymore. Or that talented. What did he do? She asked. He had no answer. Being a wizard wasn’t something to do either. He had to come up with something. Soon. Actually, before coming up with a present, he had to come up with a past. She seemed quite sure he looked like a rich kid. Maybe it was the magic energy, maybe it was the fact that he would never worry about money in his life indeed. Apparently the Potters made sure of that.

But that was a good place to start. Private boarding school. In Scotland. Not that far from the truth. What else? Orphan? How could he be an orphan rich kid? His parents died recently, then - it would explain the grief that used to come back from time to time. Car accident? He laughed, imagining Aunt Petunia’s face if she knew he intended to pull her lie onto people again. No other family, all right. He was pretty sure no Dursley would stop to greet him on the street anytime. No clue about what to do with his life - that was actually true. He felt a little bit lighter with this plan. At least he knew what to say when he talked to someone again. He wondered if he should go back to the bar. The idea of beer got his stomach churned up, but maybe he could just hang. Play some darts, maybe.

His image in the window shops caught his attention again. He had old clothes on, he knew the tee under his jacket actually had a hole under his arm. Usually he had no one to dress up to - or he would just throw some robes over everything and call it a day. It was, then, time to shop some more. He went in some stores, remembering how the guy from yesterday’s night was dressed. He could never pull off something like that. He didn’t have the confidence or the body. Of course he had grown up, he had always been tall, and his shoulders were broader, but he still seemed really slim, built for a seeker. The beard was a game changer, though. He tried to keep it short and trimmed, but it did make him seem older. He could work with that, maybe. His hair would do whatever it wanted, so it was a lost case. He did like how a simple tee looked so he went for that. Everything he got was like his house: plain and uncomplicated. He played with all colors, but got simple pieces as jeans, long sleeves and sweaters. His most complicated look was the one he was wearing as he got out of the shop: a grey and black baseball tee and a jeans jacket.

He felt fresh. He went straight into the bar, sitting on Ellie’s counter again. She greeted him with a smile.

“I’m sorry to tell you our kitchen is already closed. A pint, though?”

“Just some p-ginger beer, please.” He stuttered as he realized she probably wouldn’t have fresh pumpkin juice in a muggle bar.

“Oh, I see it was a rough morning indeed.” She went to pick up a bottle, and turned to a tanned brunette girl, very tall and very thin. “Chiara, we have a new local. Meet Harry - it is Harry, right?’

“Yes, it’s good to meet you.” Harry shook her hand. She smiled too. “You run the kitchen here, right? Last night’s pepperoni pizza was incredible.”

“It’s an old family recipe, thanks. What brought you here, Harry?” Chiara said, no accent, even though he wasn’t sure why he was expecting one. He didn’t look the part of an englishman either.

“I bought a house a few blocks away.” She looked a little bit uncertain, and turned to Ellie.

“He’s the private schooled jock, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. He never told me if I was right, though. But you know I’m good.” Two ginger-beers appeared at the counter.

“You are.” Harry said with a smile, laughing as the girls screamed a clearly rehearsed A-ha! to his face.

That night’s conversation was easy, no big personal questions were asked. They told him about the business, Chiara’s family was in England for a few generations now, but decided to return to to Italy when she turned eighteen. Pizza was her way of doing it, and in the middle of it, her school best friend Ellie decided to study bartending so they would open the bar of their dreams. They had met Jack on a party, he went with them to taste one of her pizzas, and decided that taste would make anything a good investment. Harry could only agree, Jack was absolutely right. After a couple hours, feeling the un-stressful ambience relax and soothe him, Harry noticed Ellie looking at one of the girls passing through the crowd with dreamy eyes. Chiara noticed and pointed discreetly.

“That’s Ellie’s biggest bar crush. She comes here every wednesday and saturday for the last eight months, and that face happens every time.”

“She’s pretty, I guess.” He said.

“How come? She’s perfect! She’s a lawyer, always celebrating her big wins with us. Oh, if I had someone a could sue… You guess, hah! Do you even like girls? How can you say that?”

“O-of course I like girls.” Harry was thrown off by the comment. He did like girls, he liked Gin. Not for a long time. And he did like Cho, back then. But not kissing her, at all. He shrugged. He didn’t like boys any better. Except for the blond guy yesterday.

“Do you, really?” Chiara laughed. “It’s okay, Harry, you don’t need to label yourself for us. Ellie here is just messing with you.”

“You don’t need to, but unfortunately Chiara is super straight. I’ve never even had a shot.” She mock frowned. Harry smirked, and looked around. People around here really didn’t seem to label themselves. He saw how the interactions were really free and smooth, between everyone, far from some muggle places where he had been before, in which straight couples were the only ones to be seen. It hadn’t caught his eyes, usually that was how things worked in the wizarding world too. He never thought of worrying about it. It was buried in a distant past in which he dodged bullies and had to hear Dudley’s opinions about everything. A past that ended soon after Hagrid went into that hut.

“OI! Harry!” Ellie snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Did you hear me?”

“No, sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“I said I saw you ogling the cute blond boy yesterday! Is that what you are into? Long hair and leather jackets?” He was startled.

“Was it that obvious?” She nodded with a knowing smirk. “He seemed like someone I knew, actually. But, yeah, he was fit.”

“Oh, he’s a regular. Maybe you’ll have a better luck than I did. But all I know is he’s pretty busy, he works a lot, I guess. What did he do, Chi? The one that always order the prosciutto pizza…”

“Hm, I think he’s a journalist of sorts. Music press, I guess?”

“Oh, yeah, the Nirvana t-shirt guy that actually looks a little like Kurt! And he usually drinks whisky.” Ellie added, counting the information pieces in her fingers.

“What’s Nirvana?” Harry asked, making both girls giggle loudly.

[to be continued: part III, part IV]

#townhouse #drarry #drabble #drarry fic #drarry ficlet #fic #fanfiction #harry potter fic #ficlet #Harry Potter #part ii #post war #it's over 5k words already #draco didn't even appear #slow burn #for sure

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imjustthemechanic · 6 years

Photo

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/? - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/? - Sabotage at Guedelon Part 9/? - A Miracle Part 10/? - Desrosiers’ Elixir Part 11/? - Athens in October Part 12/? - The Man in Black

Somebody’s following them. Somebody curiously familiar.

In the morning they took advantage of the hotel’s free breakfast – which consisted mostly of hard-boiled eggs and ham sandwiches – and then set out for the area where the desk clerk told them they were likely to find Frenchmen. It was on the other side of the Acropolis, which meant either a long walk or a long bus ride. Since it was still early they chose to walk, but they quickly regretted it. Even at nine in the morning the Greek sun was already blazing, and sweat was soon running down Natasha’s back. The Acropolis itself loomed over the city, tall and bald and with the ruined temples protruding from its top like the bones of some enormous dead animals. The giant flag at the south end was entirely still. There was not a breath of wind to carry the perspiration away.

Allen, who was overweight, was fanning himself with a tourist information pamphlet as they climbed a hill. “How did all those old Greeks do it?” he panted. “Didn’t they all wear wool?”

Nat tried to imagine standing on top of the Acropolis, in full sun with no breeze, draped in what was effectively a blanket. It made her feel slightly nauseous. “The ancient Greeks did a lot of opium,” she said.

“That actually kind of makes sense,” said Allen.

“It’s no wonder they were so into sports,” Sam said. “You need to be in Olympics shape just to walk around the damn city.”

In the Keramikos, they started to find businesses with signs in French to cater to the expat community. There they split up, pretending to be poking around in souvenir shops or asking for directions while they scanned the faces in shops and restaurants for Madame Desrosiers. In this manner they made their way a couple of blocks up the street, until Nat found her way into a little café that served French pastries. She took a look around, then went up to speak to the clerk.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, in English.

“I’m looking for a friend,” Nat replied, in French. “She told me she’d be in Athens this fall, and I was hoping I’d run into her.”

The man smiled. “I’m happy to help! We all know each other here. What’s her name?”

“Helene Desrosiers,” said Nat.

The smile vanished, and the clerk shook his head. “I don’t know the name.”

“She doesn’t spend a lot of time here, just occasional visits,” Nat said – if all the French expats knew each other and yet they didn’t know Desrosiers, that seemed a reasonable conclusion. “She’s East Asian by ancestry, but grew up around Paris.”

“No,” said the clerk, sounding worried now. “No, that doesn’t sound familiar.”

Liar, though Nat. They would have to keep an eye on this place. “Thank you anyway,” she said, and switched to English. “While I’m here, I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

“Of course, Mademoiselle,” said the clerk, relieved.

He was not just a liar, Natasha thought as he brewed some French press coffee for her, he was a bad one. He’d probably already talked to Desrosiers and would talk to her again, as soon as he thought Natasha was gone. What would she do when she learned that they’d followed her.

Something caught her eye, and she glanced over her shoulder. The café was similar to many in Mediterranean countries, a long thin room behind a narrow storefront with a few tiny tables and chairs crammed down one side with the counter on the other. People were sitting and chatting in French, English, and Greek while enjoying their drinks and snacks. Tourists were going through the rack of postcards on the sidewalk outside. And a man with longish brown hair, wearing distressed jeans and a black t-shirt, was loitering next to the rack, hands in his pockets, trying to look casual. Nat couldn’t see his face, but something about his build was familiar. Was that another Barnes?

“Your coffee, Mademoiselle,” said the clerk.

Nat smiled and accepted it. “Merci beaucoup,” she said.

“Enjoy your time in Athens,” the man told her with a return smile.

When Nat turned back to the entrance, the man in the black shirt was gone.

For a moment she was torn. Part of her wanted to go out and see if she could find him – if he was another Barnes, then he might lead them right to Desrosiers or her mysterious Athenian friend. If he wasn’t, however, she’d be wasting her time, and she needed to sneak around the back and eavesdrop on the phone call the clerk was doubtless about to make. She couldn’t do both, but then, she reminded herself, she didn’t have to. She had friends who’d be willing to help.

She dashed to the door – the man in the black t-shirt was now across the street, trying to avoid a peddler who was determined to sell him a hat. Nat took a quick picture of it and sent it to Sharon.

I think it’s another Barnes, she texted. Can you keep an eye on him? I’ve got another lead to follow.

She then bought a big scarf and a pair of sunglasses from the tourist shop next door. With those for a disguise, she slipped back into the café and sat down at the back table with her laptop, pretending to work on something while keeping her eyes and ears on the clerk. He kept serving customers, and while he did take a couple of phone calls, they were business-related. Nat perked up a little when he made a call, but judging by what he said, he was talking to his mother. It seemed highly unlikely that was Madame Desrosiers.

By the middle of the afternoon, the heat and humidity were becoming unbearable. It was cooler in the café, but not by much, and the need to wear the scarf as a disguise wasn’t helping at all. Nat could feel sweat soaking right through the thin fabric. The clerk didn’t seem to have recognized her, and Sharon and the others hadn’t been able to find the possible Barnes or any sign of Madame Desrosiers.

It was time to give up for the day. They chose the Acropolis Museum as a place where they could do a little sightseeing without being boiled alive, and there Natasha made good on her promise to tell Sir Stephen about the Elgin marbles.

“The originals are in the British Museum,” she said, as they wandered through a gallery where the plaster replicas were on display in the same configuration as they would have been on the temple itself, “and the Greeks have been angry about it for two hundred years.”

“How did they get there?” asked Sir Stephen.

“Lord Elgin stole them,” said Sam.

“So I gathered,” Sir Stephen said, “but there must be more of a story to it than that.”

Everybody looked at Natasha, and she shrugged. “There are a couple of versions of the story, but what seems to have happened is that he got a license from the government to take casts of them for preservation, then instead he bribed the port authorities to let him ship the originals back to Britain. Ostensibly his excuse was that he didn’t want them to be broken up for lime by the Turkish army, which was occupying Athens at the time. He originally intended to use them to decorate his new house, but he ran out of money and ended up selling them to the British government.”

“Stole them,” Sam repeated with a nod.

“Just like Nicolas Desrosiers stole Princess Sitamun,” Nat agreed.

“And they tried to give the princess back to the Egyptians, but only so that Madame Desrosiers could not have her,” Sir Stephen observed. “Whereas this marble they’re determined to keep?”

“Yep,” said Nat. “Apparently they’re ‘part of the cultural history of all western nations’ or something.”

Sir Stephen nodded thoughtfully. “This man Elgin – would you call him an archaeologist?”

“Absolutely not,” said Nat.

“Is that not what archaeologists do?” he insisted. “Take the treasures of the past and put them in museums, far away from the people who made them?”

“Elgin didn’t consider himself an archaeologist, he considered himself an art conservator,” said Nat. “People used to do a lot of that stuff but they don’t anymore, at least mostly not.” There were always exceptions, unfortunately. “Nowadays we know that when you take stuff away from where you found it, you lose most of the information that comes with it.”

“Though you condemn the wrongs of the past, you don’t see fit to right them,” Sir Stephen noted.

“Wait until returning the marbles will piss somebody off,” said Nat. “Then they’ll get right on with it.”

They headed downstairs to look at the Caryatids, the six statues that had supported the porch roof of the Erectheon, when Natasha noticed a familiar figure among the crowd. Behind the Caryatids was a balcony that looked down to the floor below, where there were glass panels over an archaeological excavation directly underneath the museum building. And standing next to that, trying to pretend he wasn’t looking at them, was the man in the black t-shirt.

This time Natasha could see his face – and she recognized it at once.

When he realized she was looking at him, the man in black quickly turned his head. Natasha kept her eyes on him as she walked around to the other side of the statues. The figures had elaborate hairstyles which were visible only from behind, and Sharon and Sir Stephen were looking at them. Nat touched Sir Stephen’s arm, and he looked over his shoulder at her.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The man with the long hair, in the black t-shirt,” she muttered. “That’s the guy I saw at the café. Look familiar?”

Sir Stephen turned around. “He is facing away,” he said. “Is he another Buckeye?”

Nat glanced back – the man in black had indeed turned around. “Yes, definitely,” he said. “And I’m pretty sure he’s watching us on purpose.” She licked her lips. “Let’s go back upstairs.” The museum had a recommended walkthrough route that most visitors followed – going back up to the Parthenon level would be moving against the flow. If the man in the black t-shirt turned up there, too, it would be a strong indication that he was following them.

They found Sam and Allen, who had wandered off following Clint – he was insisting that somewhere in the museum was the world’s oldest computer. Natasha calmly informed him that the Antikythera Mechanism was in the National Archaeological Museum, about four kilometres away. She escorted him back up to the top floor, where they all sat down on the benches in the north gallery. From there they had a stunning view of the Acropolis itself, now shimmering in the full afternoon sun. In spite of that and the fact that there was still no wind, the whole hilltop was crawling with tourists.

Natasha decided to pretend she was giving a tour, herself. “Those arches there,” she said, pointing to a feature visible at the foot of the hill, “are part of the Odeon of Herodas, where they still hold performances and cultural events. On the right you can see a sort of dish-shaped slope, which is the remains of the Theatre of Dionysus…”

Her companions were not listening to her. They were all looking to the right – and there was the man in the black t-shirt, contemplating one of the carvings of Lapiths and centaurs. Sir Stephen stood up.

“Sir Steve…” Nat began. The marbles were replicas but there were other artifacts in here that were genuinely ancient and priceless. The museum was not a place to start a fight.

“I’m sorry, Natalie,” he said. “But I simply must know.”

#fanfic #steve rogers #natasha romanov #bucky barnes #sharon carter #clint barton #sam wilson

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lostinfic · 6 years

Text

Nubivagant 3/3

(adj.) wandering through or amongst the clouds; moving through air; from the Latin nubes (“cloud”) and vagant (“wandering”), c. 1656.

Summary: Based on the movie “A walk in the clouds” but on a sheep farm in the north of England, at Christmas. During the war, Betty ran away from her grandfather’s farm with a man. Now that he’s left her and she might be pregnant, Betty must go back and face the family she abandoned. When Colonel Mercier finds her crying at the train station, he offers to pose as her husband. Tags: Hurt/comfort! fake married! sharing a bed! huddling for warmth! and many more! Pairing: Jean-François Mercier x Betty Vates Word count: 6700 Rating: Mature Part 1 | Part 2 | Ao3

December 24th, 1945

A ledge ran the length of Marnie’s kitchen, from the top of the cupboards, over the door frame to the window overlooking the backyard. As far as Betty could remember, the containers stacked on it had fascinated her: opened tin cans, glass bottles in green and milky white, ceramic jars with cork stoppers, earthenware pots glazed like the sea in winter, even old snuffboxes, and in between them, seashells, wooden thread spools, pine cones and chipped porcelain figurines, mementos gathering dust. From the ledge hung copper pots, tea-stained cups and bouquets of dried herbs tied with string. She used to imagine her grandmother was some sort of witch. As random as this assortment looked, Marnie knew exactly what each contained. She reached for a small wooden box and sprinkled its content in her boiling pot of soup without a second look.

The scent of vegetables and broth filled the room. The same, and only, Christmas record played on a loop in the living room: “Silent Night”, “Adeste Fideles”, “O Little Town of Bethlehem”, “O Holy Night”, “It came upon a Midnight Clear”. The same record every holiday season. Unconsciously following the rhythm of the songs, Betty sprinkled salt and mixed butter and flour together to make dough.

“Remember before the war,” Margaret said as she chopped carrots, “when Daddy took us to York one Christmas.” At the time, their father had already enrolled in the British Expeditionary Forces and knew he might leave his family soon, but hadn’t told them. He had wanted to make their last Christmas together special.

“The funfair!” Betty said. “Remember the ice rink with that huge pine tree in the middle. And you fell arse over kettle!”

“Oi! You can talk, I remember how scared you were in the chair-o-plane.”

“Only at first,” Betty retorted. Vertigo had struck when her feet had first lifted off the ground and she’d tried to grab her sister’s hand. But then the exhilaration of flying had overcome fear. Her sister and grandmother recounted other souvenirs of Christmas past, but Betty kept thinking about that feeling. Her pulse quickened, and she smiled at the memory. The next best thing to falling in love.

Betty’s gaze slid to the window, seeking Jean-François’ tall, lean frame through the mist. He walked out of the barn, carrying a ladder. She’d found some old clothes for him, denim trousers and a wool jumper she’d knitted herself quite a few years ago.

For all his distrust of the newcomer, Grandpa Marshall didn’t hesitate to ask for his help. One might say, he was abusing it even. Jean-François worked harder than anyone.

Grandpa Marshall held the ladder as Jean-François climbed up to the barn. Some roof shingles had come loose during last night’s storm.

“He might just win your grandpa after all,” Marnie said, looking over Betty’s shoulder. “Honest, when I first saw him I didn’t think he had it in him for hard work.”

“Me neither.”

“Where are you gonna live?” Marnie asked, cleaning the sink. “England or France?”

“I— I don’t know.” Betty wiped her hands on her apron, and looked around for something to do.

“Didn’t you talk about it?” she insisted.

“He wants to go back to France, see what it’s like first, you know, after the war.”

Marnie sighed. “Don’t tell your grandpa. You in France, Sarah, Margaret and Eric going back to Leeds like your aunts… He still blames me for giving him only daughters and granddaughters.” She left the kitchen, shaking her head and mumbling.

Betty sat at the table, a massive sturdy thing, its scratched surface a testament of its age. In the family for generations, it had seen every meal, every quarrel and celebration, even some amateur dental surgeries and a birth.

Betty sprinkled flour on the table and rolled the dough which Margaret placed into pie pans. Her mother added the sweet apple and raisin filling, Sarah didn’t say a word, lost in her own world as she often was.

Jean-François’ hammering echoed inside the house. Betty imagined this becoming her daily life. Cooking good, hearty meals, the kind rationing had prohibited for the past years, while her husband worked outside. They would manage the farm together, the money, the cattle, the sales. Her grandfather was more of the “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” persuasion, and that had served him well, but times had changed, people and their needs too. Betty had so many ideas to improve the business. She wanted other breeds of sheep to diversify their production and merchandise. They could sell woollen garments in London, in the shops.

“I reckon it’s flat enough now,” Margaret teased. Betty had absentmindedly rolled the same piece of dough for the last five minutes.

“Sorry.”

“I can’t believe you still look at your husband like that after two years, it’s like you met yesterday.”

Betty babbled some answer. She couldn’t deny she was falling for her pretend-husband.

Jean-François had said he hadn’t loved anyone else in the eight years since his wife’s death, and here she was, fancying another man two months after Craze had left her. What would he think of her changeable heart? Of course, the circumstances were very different. And if she was honest, her feelings for Craze had dwindled many months before he left, she’d stayed with him out of necessity with a good dose of delusion.

“We all did it,” her mother said, out of the blue.

“Did what, Mam?”

“Left home for a man. I did it for your father. Margaret did it to get away. Look where that took us. I bet you thought you was different.” Beside her, Margaret snorted, a jeering little sound.

Not so long ago, Betty would have endured, accepted even, her mother’s words. Now she didn’t know how to deal with the anger it aroused in her. She fought the urge to run away. “Maybe I wouldn’t’ve been so easily convinced to leave if you didn’t say things like that to me all the time.” Her voice quivered, and she quickly lowered her gaze, but she stayed on her chair and squeezed the dough, hard enough to tear through it.

The fact that it was Christmas Eve made no difference to the sheep, so on top of preparing tonight’s party they had to get on with their usual chores. In between, hanging stockings and stirring the Christmas pudding, Betty fed the animals and gathered eggs. She didn’t meet Jean-François all day and started worrying he was avoiding her. Last night she’d heard him arguing with Grandpa Marshall, saying she was kind and strong, but after she feigned sleep and moved closer to him, he left her bed. Then this morning, it looked like he was trying to sneak out even though he denied it.

At the end of the afternoon, when he headed up to their bedroom, she followed him. His duffel bag was opened on the bed, and he was placing clothes in it. Her stomach dropped, suspicions confirmed. “If you wanna go so much, you just need to say. M’not keeping you.”

“I said one more day and I’m staying, well, two more days. No train on the 25th, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” She’d known right when they’d first discussed it that no trains operated on Christmas day. “So you don’t want to go?”

“I was looking for this,” he explained, holding up a camera. “I thought my sister would like it. But perhaps your family would too. No husband would come empty-handed to meet his new family in-law for the first time.”

“A camera? You sure?”

“I can buy another one for Gabrielle. I noticed there are no recent portraits of your family on the walls. I could take some pictures later when everyone is dressed up for church.”

“Dunno how Gramps will feel about that. It’s an expensive gift.”

“Would it make him feel better if I told him I… borrowed it from MI6?”

“You didn’t!”

He shrugged with a little grin. “I had it for a mission and forgot to give it back.” He opened a flap at the front of the camera and pulled out a retractable lens. He raised it to his eye. “Smile.”

“No way! I look awful,” she replied, smoothing down her hair. The shutter clicked. “You rascal!” She ran to his side of the bed, and he jumped out of her grasp. Another click. “Stop it!” she demanded, laughing.

“Last one.” She pulled out her tongue, but he took another photo anyway. “I’m sure they will be beautiful.”

Betty shook her head indulgently. “You’ll have to tell us how to get the photos developed, before… you know.”

Jean-François put the camera back in its leather case and sat on the bed. He smoothed his trousers unnecessarily several times. “I should be honest with you,” he said at last. “You’re right, I was trying to leave this morning.”

“Oh. I… I understand.” She turned her back to him and fiddled with objects on top of the dresser. “I mean, Gramps making you do all this work and you’ve more important things to do, I’m sure, with other people.”

“No, that’s not it. I’m worried that the longer I stay here…” Their eyes met in the mirror above the dresser. “I’m afraid it’s making things more difficult.”

“Difficult how?” she asked, joining him on the bed.

“With you family. And between us.” He relaxed his leg, and his knee touched hers. “Elizabeth, the more time I spend with you—”

Margaret burst into the room. “Come! Quick!” Betty and Jean-François ran down the stairs with her, and followed her outside.

Eric had fallen through a hole in the upper part of the barn. He clutched his leg, screaming in pain. They cleared the wooden planks and hay that had fallen over him, and carried him to the house on a makeshift gurney. He didn’t bleed but might have broken a bone. They fussed over him as they waited for a doctor.

Betty never found out the end of Jean-François’ sentence.

After the doctor’s visit, Jean-François showed the camera to Grandpa Marshall, and they spent the afternoon photographing the homestead. The old farmer glowed with pride, planning to send these pictures to newspapers and to family members abroad.

They ate cabbage soup for supper, leaving room in their stomachs for treats later on. As the women did their hair and make-up in preparation for Mass, the men shaved and took out suits they only wore once a year. Presents appeared under the tree, and carollers sang on the streets. Neighbours and friends came by with homemade gifts. The excitement in the air was tangible. Betty felt like a kid again. She and Margaret, ran around with curlers in their hair, laughing at the smallest things as they searched for something to wear in lieu of lipstick. “I can’t wait until we have mascara again and proper stockings,” Margaret sighed.

“Me too,” Betty replied, but she wasn’t really listening, instead examining her appearance in the mirror. “I can’t wear this.”

“You have to, we need to leave soon and Gramps wants a nice photo of us all before.”

Betty searched every closet in the house and found a green dress with a tulle skirt. Still struggling with the back zipper, she joined her family in the living room. “Can someone help me with this?” Her heart skipped a beat when she felt Jean-François behind her, his hands rested on the small of her back. He jiggled the stuck zipper and leaned in to get a closer look. His breath tickled the skin between her shoulder blades. He had to reach inside the back of the dress to fix the zipper, and when it finally moved, his fingers slid slowly up her spine with it. He swept her hair aside so it wouldn’t get caught in the metallic teeth, and his touch lingered on the nape of her neck as he closed the button at the top of her dress.

“All done,” he said, hands still on her.

“Thank you.”

Marnie’s giggles effectively ended their moment. “Look up,” the old woman said. As the whole family stared, Betty realized they were standing right under a branch of mistletoe.

“Come to think of it, we’ve never seen you two kiss,” Grandpa Marshall said.

Betty and Jean-François exchanged a look. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she covered her mouth with her fingertips.

“What do you say, ma belle?”

This was her only chance to kiss him, but she tried for nonchalance. She shrugged. “Tt’s tradition.”

“For the sake of tradition,” he agreed, cupping her cheek. Betty wet her lips, her heart pounded in her chest.

“What’s going on here?”

Betty startled, recognizing the voice. Two men came in, Donald and his father, Grandpa Marshall’s best friend. Salutations and cheers followed their entrance.

“Who is this?” Jean-François asked in a low voice, still toe to toe with her.

“He’s the man I’d’ve married if I’d stayed.”

“I see. Perhaps it can still happen for you.”

He walked away, but Betty grabbed his arm and pulled him back to her. She lost her nerves, and Jean-François looked at her with eyes full of questions.

“I don’t want him,” she said.

His hand returned to her cheek, and she grabbed his tie. The smallest smile graced his lips before he gently pressed them to hers. They kept the kiss chaste because of their audience, it still left Betty weak in the knees.

“Do you think we have convinced your family?” he asked, his mouth just an inch from hers.

“Not sure yet.”

He chuckled and kissed her again.

“Alright, enough of this,” Grandpa Marshall said, pushing them apart. “We’ve a picture to take.”

The whole family gathered in front of the Christmas tree, Jean-François adjusting their positions to fit in the frame.

“Jean, come here, with us,” Marnie said, Grandpa Marshall grumbled but she shushed him, “let Donald take the picture.”

The whole village, hundreds of people, gathered on the parvis of St. James church. Men smoked while women talked, and children chased each other overexcited to be up so late. The night was alive with lights and laughter that eclipsed the stars.

At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the tall doors, Betty slowed down. “D’you think he knows we’re not really married?” she whispered to Jean-François.

“Who?”

“God,” she replied as if it was the most obvious thing.

“Do you not want to go inside?”

She gave this some thought. “That’s probably worse, innit?”

“We’re not doing anything an unmarried couple should not do.” Satisfied with his answer, Betty took his arm and they walked up the stairs.

Marnie told him the railway company had built the church for its employees in the 1880s. The interior design reminded parishioners of that fact: red and yellow brick walls, pews like benches in the station waiting room and a font cover shaped like a railway engine wheel.

The real centre of attention that night was the choir of boys and men, in white robes, each holding a candle, the only light in the church. Their voices was but a hum above the chatter.

With every person they met, Betty had to explain she wasn’t, in fact, dead as her grandfather had told everyone. She seemed relieved when the service began.

Mercier wasn’t the most religious man, but he took some comfort in the thought that something as horrible as the war they’d lived through had a larger meaning. That his survival and the death of his friend were not random. This Christmas, more than any other one, invited to contemplate life and death and one’s place in it all. As the reverend spoke, he saw it in the faces of everyone around him: the frowns and the knitted brows, the teary eyes and white knuckles. Gratitude and grief, sadness and relief.

He reached for Betty’s hand, and wondered when doing that had become so natural.

The Marshalls were generous people, after mass, they opened their door to everyone. The house filled with friends and music: violin, guitar, accordion and bagpipes. The living room became a dance floor and the windows fogged. He took off his tie and jacket. There were flapjacks and hot cider, and Betty’s arms around his waist. She introduced him as her husband to anyone who asked. They called her Mrs. Mercier. And he played along. They both did. Perhaps a little too much. He hoped these people would never compare the stories they told them or they would find some serious discrepancies. The story of their wedding, in particular, they embellished with every repeat. What started as a “short civil ceremony”, by the fifth time had become “a gorgeous ceremony at St Paul’s cathedral, with the French National Orchestra playing as I walked down the aisle. Jean-François had just helped them escape the Nazis, you see.” A good undercover agent would never do such a thing, but it made Betty smile so he didn’t care.

When old neighbours told him embarrassing stories about Betty’s youth, he noticed she hid her face against his arm, so he encouraged them to continue. More than once, young Betty had gotten in trouble when trying to help. “Oh, you must have been, six or seven, when you fell off our apple tree,” a woman remembered.

“Said she was trying to return baby birds to their nest,” a man added.

“I still got a scar,” Betty said, pointing a faint line on her arm.

He touched it carefully, and hated Craze for abusing her big heart.

“You have scars too, don’t you?”

“A few. Here.” He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and pulled the lapel away to expose his collar bone. Her fingers danced along it, slipping under the shirt to touch the spot of raised, pinker skin. He could smell the cinnamon on her breath, and he wanted to kiss her again.

She dropped her hand and gaze. “Want something to drink?”

“Yes, whatever you can find.” She walked away so quickly she bumped into her aunt.

Mercier ran his hands down his cheeks with a groan. He had to pull himself together, he was here to help Betty not make things harder for her. Despite that good intention, when she came back and found her seat taken, he patted his knee in invitation.

“You sure?”

“You would not be the only one.” Around the room, three other women sat on their husband’s lap. “If you don’t want—”

“No, no, that’s okay. That’s the normal thing to do.” She sat sideways of his knees, keeping most her weight on her own legs. He wanted to pull her closer, feel her full weight on him. He drank instead. The Jubilee Stout she’d brought him tasted of roasted grains and licorice, and made him long for a full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon or a fine Cognac.

Betty discussed with Mrs. Jeffrey, the woman they’d met at the train station on their arrival. As Betty talked, she relaxed further against him, and he drank some more to keep his hands off her. “So, I never got the full story of how you two met,” Mrs. Jeffrey said.

Mercier began to tell the story he’d prepared. “I was chasing after German spies who’d tried to pass off as French refugees.”

“Goodness gracious, German spies? Here?”

“Yes. They lured me into a trap, and when I escaped I had to hide. I found a place in the woods, behind the farm.”

“When I found him… I needed help,” Betty said, and Mercier frowned at her deviation from the story they’d agreed on, but she continued. “I’d hurt meself. In the forest. I’d slipped on the rocks, in the river, you know the place.”

“Beside the old bridge, yeah? Our Johnny fell there too, nearly drowned, he did.”

“Yeah, that’s the place. Well, you see, Jean-François he didn’t have to help me, could’ve ignored me, kept hiding, but he didn’t. He rescued me.” She cupped his cheek tenderly, and, never breaking eye-contact, he placed a lingering kiss on her palm.

“And you helped me too, to recover from my injuries,” he said. “I knew I had to go back to London. Duty called, but I didn’t want to go. The more time I spent with her, the harder it became to leave. So I asked her to marry me. I would have waited,” he added, also going off script. “If she’d wanted to stay with her family. I would have understood.”

Mrs. Jeffrey dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “You two are so sweet, I wish you a lifetime of happiness.” She pinched their cheeks and left.

Betty sunk against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Are you tired, ma belle?”

“A bit, yeah. It’s past two am.”

They fell silent, observing the people around them, some celebrating, some snoring. They didn’t interest him as much as Betty, her warmth through his clothes, the faint scent of soap on her skin, the tiniest of freckles on her nose. Desire pooled low in his stomach.

“Jean-François.” She had a hand on his, not just resting there but pushing it away lightly, and he realized he’d ventured quite high up her skirt.

“My apologies, I— I think I need some fresh air.”

Mercier welcomed the night air and its cooling effect on his ardour. He rounded the corner of the house and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. “Merde.”

He kept thinking of Olga, A.K.A. the countess, “am I overplaying my part?” she’d asked on their last meeting before she was killed.

Laughter and songs came through the window. Every person Betty had introduced him to as her husband she would have to tell he’d left her. The lie had gotten out of proportion and would make life harder for her rather than easier. This was why he should have left earlier.

The back door opened, he heard voices but didn’t see them from his side of the wall. “What’s the deal with Betty and that husband out of nowhere. Thought you was gonna marry her, Donald.”

“I was. Dunno what she’s thinking, takin’ up with a stranger. This land could’ve been mine. Now it’ll go to some French knobhead. She’ll never fit here with a man like that.”

The last guests left past 3am, and Betty searched around the house for Jean-François. She hadn’t seen him in the last hour. Not since she’d stopped his wandering hand, she hadn’t minded it, it just wasn’t the right moment or place for that. She hoped he wasn’t upset. She asked Marnie and Margaret, but they hadn’t seen him either. He wasn’t in the bedroom nor the washroom.

Finally, she found Jean-François asleep in an armchair in the closed summer kitchen. He looked too peaceful to wake him up, besides he’d have to get up in just a few hours for farm work. It was cold, so she covered him with an afghan blanket and brushed stray hair off his forehead. She laughed softly at his gaping mouth.

The old floorboards creaked, and Grandpa Marshall sidled up to her. Thumbs hooked under his braces, he considered Jean-François then his granddaughter. “Does he make you happy?”

“Jean-François— yes.”

“You sure? You don’t look it, not always. What happened, Betty?”

“It’s war, Gramps. Death and… and deceit. I can’t be the innocent girl I was before and that’s alright.”

“Well, war was easier to live through here. We was safe.”

Betty sighed and walked away, picking up empty bottles and glasses as she went. Her grandfather followed her to the kitchen. Of course, he had to pick a moment when she was sleepy and he’d drank to talk. She wiped her hands on a tea towels. “Dunno what to tell you, Gramps. I know I let you down. I can’t explain why I did what I did. Not entirely… Will you ever forgive me or d’you want me to leave?”

He sat down at the table, groaning at the ache in his joints. “To be fair, I knew it was coming,” he said.

“How d’you mean?”

“You don’t say much, luv, never have, but that don’t mean there’s nothing going on in that nugging of yours. With you father’s death, and you mother’s… You needed something else.”

“I do love the farm so very much, though.”

“I know. I know. Just tell me you found what you was looking for.”

“A bit, yeah. I know a thing or two about meself I didn’t know before.”

“And you found him.”

“I’ve still got a lot to think about.”

“Dunno thinking so much will do you any good, but you do what you gotta do.” He stood up and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You can stay here as long as you need too.”

“Yeah?”

“Come here, my lil’ chicken.” He gave her a hug, and for a brief moment, she felt like the happy child she had once been.

Grandpa Marshall went to bed, and Betty looked out the window with an unburdened heart.

“You would have let me sleep in that chair all night?” Jean-François asked, he held the afghan around his shoulders which made him look like a tall child.

“Didn’t want to wake you. You coming to bed, then?” They walked sluggishly up the stairs together. Jean-François collapsed on the mattress.

“Your family certainly knows how to throw a party.”

“You had a good time? Did it take your mind off your family?”

“Yes… Of course, now I’m thinking about them.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry!”

“I’m joking.” He crossed his arms under his head, stretching his torso in a way that pulled his shirt out of his trousers, and her eyes lingered on that sliver of skin. “Betty?”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“Do you need help with your dress again?”

She didn’t. “Yes, please.” She sat on the edge of the bed, and he rose to his knees. She let him brush her hair aside.

“I think I heard you reconcile with your grandfather,” he said, opening the top button.

“Yeah, I think we’re on the right track.”

“I’m happy for you.”

He pulled the zipper all the way down, knuckle dragging down her spine as he did it. She stayed on the edge of the bed, dress sliding down her arms.

“D’you think I should tell them the truth?” she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.

He’d laid back down already, eyelids drooping with sleep, but he made an effort and propped himself up on an elbow.

“Why do you want to tell them? Don’t do it for me.”

“No, I mean, I do hate that they don’t know what you’re doing for me, but I’ve just realized I’m gonna have to lie to them about it all me life.”

“I shouldn’t have made you lie to them.”

“You did the right thing. Not sure I’d’ve taken that train without you.” She squeezed his hand. “I just feel I should be honest.” She sighed, too sleepy to consider the matter further.

“That’s very noble of you.”

She admired his ring on her finger. “Yeah, I reckon I should be knighted too.”

Jean-François chuckled and pulled on her hand so that she fell on the bed beside him. “I dub thee: chevalière de la Lune.” He patted both her shoulders then booped her nose.

They rested their heads on pillows, blinking slowly, smiling at each other. They should change out of their clothes before falling asleep, but she didn’t have the energy to stand up.

“Can you hold me? Just for a little while?” Betty asked.

“Sure.” He opened his arms, and she snuggled up to him. His hands rested on her back where her dress gaped.

“Happy Christmas,” she whispered. She pecked his cheek but he turned his head at the same moment and their lips met. They froze until Jean-François moved his lips, and she returned the kiss. A gentle kiss, sleepy and unhurried. Afterwards, she kept her eyes closed for a second, savouring the tingles on her lips.

Betty rested her head on his chest, and they fell asleep in their fancy clothes.

Sunlight danced behind her eyelids, shifting yellows and whites, compelling her to wake up. Although she resisted the pull of the morning, she became more aware of her surroundings, of the soft rise and fall under her cheek, of a heartbeat where he ear rested, of an arm over her. She smiled and pressed her nose to the soft cotton of his shirt. And she thought there would be no more war if everyone had such lovely mornings. The thought made a giggle bubble her throat and her stomach vibrated with it against Jean-François. He inhaled deeply and tightened his arms around her. “What’s so funny?” he mumbled.

“Nothing.”

Unpleasant sensations eventually caught up with her: full bladder, pasty mouth, pins and needles in her arm. He protested when she moved, but eventually let her go. She tiptoed to the washroom so as not to get caught by her family, she had every intention of going back to bed. She rinsed her mouth and freshened up with a flannel. The floor was cold under her bare feet and she rushed back to the room to dive under the covers. Jean-François was still in bed, but she thought she could smell mint about him.

They lay face to face, and she removed one of her hair from his shirt as an excuse to touch him.

“I could kill for a good cup of coffee,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Too much to drink?” She rubbed his forehead to alleviate the headache. He leaned into her touch until his head rested on her pillow. She ran her fingers through his hair, and his eyes fluttered shut.

“I only had two beers, but I didn’t get a lot of sleep. And I love coffee.”

“You can have a coffee tomorrow. You’ll be in France.”

His eyes opened, he searched her face, his brow furrowed. She shied away from that inquisitive gaze, tucking her head under his chin. He smoothed strands of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingered on her jaw. “I want you to come with me to France.”

She stilled. She couldn’t have heard him right.

“Please say something.”

She looked up at him, and she found in his eyes the same sincerity and concern that had touched her at the train station. “You really mean it.”

“Yes… I think I could use someone with me. And you are so very lovely to be with.” Betty smiled wide behind her fingers. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes! I mean, it’s only polite I return the favour.”

“This is not about politeness.”

Betty’s heart swelled in her chest, pushing laughter up her throat. She couldn’t stop smiling.

“May I kiss you again?” he asked.

“Oh, please do.”

From the way he wet his lips and looked at her, she knew this kiss would be different. A spark flared in her stomach. He brushed his nose down the slope of hers, and the first press of his lips was a featherlight caress. Without the pretence of mistletoe and her family watching, he took his time, building up the kiss. With each touch, the spark in her grew. Her mouth parted on a sigh, and he sucked on her bottom lip. Their legs entwined and fingers tangled in hair. He deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth, letting his hunger take over. And she welcomed it. He held her so tight, this fingertips reached her ribs.

In the last months, with sadness and anger plaguing her heart, intimacy had been far from her mind. But now, her body awoken from its hibernation, desire returned to her cells, and her pulse thumped between her legs. She canted her hips, pressing against him. The kiss turned messier. Wet smacks and panting breaths filled the room. She clawed at his shirt as if to rip it off him. A groan rewarded her ardour.

Jean-François pulled away suddenly. His eyes were wide, his lips kiss-swollen.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m finding it hard to keep my promise to stay out of your knickers.”

“Oh, sod that promise.” She tugged on his collar to bring him back to her, and he laughed against her lips.

Jean-François pulled her dress down to her waist, his mouth following the fabric, pecking down her neck, across her collarbones, licking at the lacy edge of her bra. She removed it as fast as she could, and he kissed the red indentations left from sleeping with the bra on, a tender touch on each side of her breast then to the soft undersides, until her nipples were hard enough to graze his teeth over them.

Betty arched into his touch, trapping his leg between hers, squirming with a delicious sort of restlessness.

His hand sneaked under the layers of tulle, caressing her thighs and dragging his nails in a way that turned her skin to gooseflesh. She spread her legs without a moment of hesitation. He cupped her sex over her underwear and she bucked into his hand.

“Betty?”

“Keep going.”

His fingers slipped under the fabric, and he quirked an eyebrow at her readiness. He removed his hand from under her skirt, showed her his glistening fingers.

“I like you,” she said shyly.

He gave his beautiful fingers a lick. “You like me a lot.”

She hid her face in the crook of his neck and he kissed her hair. “It’s okay, ma belle.”

His light strokes of her folds became bolder, and she soon forgot her embarrassment. “Like this, please.” She guided his touch to a spot that made her gasp.

He moved faster, and she fisted the sheet. “Oh, God.” He studied her, the way she bit her bottom lip and squeezed her eyes shut, learning what elicited shivers and gasps.

“Look at me.” She opened her eyes, and he added a finger with a twist of his wrist that made her cry out. She put her hand behind his neck, bringing his forehead to hers. Their breaths mingled as her body went taut. And he swallowed her moans of release.

Betty fell against the pillow, every muscle felt like jelly. “Thank you.”

He chuckled at that and lay beside her,tracing lazy patterns on her stomach and chest. He was still completely dressed but his hair was a beautiful mess.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” she said, “I just need a minute.”

“I will be right here when you’re ready.”

“I bet you will.” She kicked off her dress and knickers. “Can I... be on top?”

“Hop on.” She chuckled as she straddled him.

She began with his wrinkled shirt, exposing his chest. Licking her lips, she caressed his flat stomach, the shelf of his ribs, the sparse hair on his pectorals. She was already rolling her hips where he bulged, and took some perverse pleasure in soaking his chic trousers. She inched lower down his legs and unbuckled his belt slowly, then dragged the zip down even slower. His groan of impatience was delicious, she stroked him through the cloth, enjoying the way he hardened under her palm.

“I didn’t know you were such a tease,” he said.

“It’s not teasing if I see it through, though.” She flashed a mischievous grin.

He pulled her in for a kiss, nipping at her bottom lip. She rubbed her nose along the stubble on his jaw, smelling his skin, faint traces of woodsy cologne and his natural musk. He gripped her hips, tried to tug her down on him, but she resisted.

“Just wait a minute, you’ll love this, I promise,” she said, and started to kiss down his body.

Her hot breath, inches from his pants made him twitch and hit her chin.

“You deserve a reward, don’t you think?”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to.” And she found she really meant it. She wasn’t trying to please him beyond her own comfort zone, she was being honest. He already knew everything about her and had never once judged her, she doubted this, of all things, would be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Betty kissed his hip, and he caressed her hair, and oddly chaste gesture given what she was about to do.

She pulled down his pants, just enough to release his cock and lick the length of it. He raised himself up on his elbows to watch her. His eyes were dark, his mouth agape, holding his breath until the next touch. She revelled in that look, this beautiful man who desired her.

She gathered saliva in her mouth and kissed his tip, she let him push up past her lips. His stomach flexed with each panting breath. She sucked on the head, and he cursed in French. She released him returning to teasing licks.

“Are you enjoying torturing me?” he asked.

“Immensely.”

“I’ll get back at you for this. There are so many things I want to do to you.”

“Tell me,” she asked, returning her mouth to his cock. He sucked in a breath and tried to focus on describing all the places where he wanted to make love to her, starting with the train to Paris. His voice was lower, rougher than usual, his French accent thickened. She could feel herself swelling and slickening, the throb of her own arousal as she imagined it with him.

She bobbed her head faster. He’d stopped talking now. Her free hand rested on his thigh, and he laced their fingers together. When his grip tightened, she stopped. “You can finish like this,” she said, “or we can continue.”

“Continue.”

She straddled him again. He didn’t penetrate her, but let her glide up and down his cock, coating it in her wetness. She caressed her breasts and rolled her hips languorously. He swallowed hard, and she watched the muscles in his neck work. It aroused her as much as the friction between her legs. When he rubbed his thumb over her clit, her rhythm faltered. She braced herself on his shoulders, grinding faster. The old bed squeaked and rattled. He licked the sweat up her neck and kissed just below her ear.

“Jean-François, I need…”

“What do you need?”

“I need you, in me.”

He rolled over her. He cupped her cheek and looked into her eyes in a way that made a lump rise in her throat.

She wrapped her legs and arms around him, holding his as close as possible as he slowly pushed in her. They moaned in unison, and he stilled, filling her. He throbbed and swelled in her. His breath was ragged, his teeth were at her shoulder. She needed him to move but she treasured this closeness, this unity. She kissed him, pouring her heart and soul into it.

When they parted, there was marvel in his eyes. He rested his forehead on hers and started moving, careful, sensuous rolls of his hips meant to make her feel every inch of him. And they lost themselves into each other.

When they finally left the bedroom, the table was already decked with the best china and Christmas crackers for lunch. The pudding steamed in the copper boiler used to heat water for washing, turning the kitchen into a sauna.

“About time,” Marnie said. “Help me with the mutton, will ya.”

“Sorry, we overslept.”

“Didn’t sound like sleeping,” Margaret muttered.

Betty joined her grandmother at the counter, even the men helped prepare the meal.

As they sat around the table, paper crowns on and laughing at Grandpa Marshall’s stories, Betty’s eyes drifted to the window, to the Howgill Fells awash with sunlight and the sheep grazing peacefully. It felt familiar and new at the same time. She would return here, of that she was sure. Under the table, Jean-François laced their fingers. Whatever 1946 had in store for them, they wouldn’t go through it alone.

Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for more of Jean-François and Betty in 2018 :D

#timepetalscollective #Mercier x Betty #teninch fic #spies of warsaw #a passionate woman #I kept thinking this was almost done #but noooo #it made me realize how many hours I spend on a chapter #nubivagant fic #lostinfic writes stuff #a walk in the clouds AU #dwcastxover

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peacefulheartfarm · 3 years

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Pickled Quail Eggs

Let’s get back to the quail and pickled quail eggs. So much has happened. Many changes since the last time I talked about them. Ten jars of pickled quail eggs that have been completed. And so much more to talk about, especially the creamery roof.

I want to take a minute and say welcome to all the new listeners and welcome back to the veteran homestead-loving regulars who stop by the FarmCast for every episode. I appreciate you all so much and I’m so excited to share with you what’s going on at the farm this week.

Our Virginia Homestead Life Updates

It’s getting close to Christmas. Hope you all are ready. Scott and I have been watching the YouTube series called “The Chosen”. I highly recommend it. The story so far is about Jesus’ adult life, not his birth. It’s still great watching for Christmas time IMO. A second season is currently in the works. I believe filming is scheduled to be completed in February 2021. I don’t know a release date, but I’m eagerly anticipating its release.

Quail

On to the quail updates on the homestead.

Last time I talked about out beautiful Japanese Coturnix quail we were having issues with hens getting beat up really bad. We rescued a bunch of them and put them in quarantine away from the others. One rooster was also in quarantine. Each and every one of them healed up just fine. The only problem is that we couldn’t put them back in their various cages lest the same thing happen all over again. So, they were slated for culling.

An additional blessing and/or problem was we were getting 29 or 30 eggs every day. That’s a bit too many. Who knew that we would be so successful in getting them to lay throughout the winter? Last year we had zero, zip, nada for eggs throughout the entire winter. Then one day in late March, they all started laying again as if on cue. Getting 30 eggs at a time was a giant blessing. The more eggs we get from our quail, the less eggs we have to purchase elsewhere.

Culling Hens

Before I get on to the pickled quail eggs, I need to talk a little bit more about culling the hens. When you live the homestead life, there are certain choices that need to be made that are not always easy. I love our quail. The eggs they lay are so cute and beautifully colored. However, we have to face facts and only keep what we need. And we need to give them the best life. We ended up reducing our quail population by 12 birds – well actually 13 but I will get to the additional bird in a moment. We had 6 in quarantine. Originally, there were five hens and one rooster in the bottom cages. In the lower cage on the right, we were missing a hen, the white one. All of the groups have 1 rooster to 5 hens. With my new experience, I realized I could not add another hen to the cage because she would just get beat up by the others as they vied for dominance and so we simply took all of the remaining hens out of there. That was four more. The cage on the bottom left had only one hen and a rooster in it. The other four hens from that cage were in quarantine. We took that last hen and added her to the group to be culled. Now we have 11. The end result is two cages on the bottom, one left and one right, that have a rooster and no hens.

In the penthouse was an interesting situation in that there were originally 10 hens and 2 roosters on each side – or so we thought. On the right side is where the rooster in quarantine came from so there was only one rooster there now and 10 hens. We took the five extra hens without a rooster buddy from the penthouse right side and put them in the lower cage with the lone rooster on the right. It made sense that these hens had been raised together and would therefore live in relative harmony together with their new rooster friend. They did to a point. More on that in a minute.

Miscalculations

In the penthouse on the left side was supposed to be 2 roosters and 10 hens. The only problem was that I kept getting 11 eggs from there. That’s right. I got 11 eggs from 10 hens. After closer inspection it became clear that I had misidentified one of the hens as a rooster. No problem. I needed five hens to be moved to the lower cage on the left. That left six hens and a rooster in the left penthouse. I snagged one of the hens at random and added her to the cull group. Now there were 12 in the cull group and each cage had 1 rooster and 5 hens. It seemed perfect.

More Rearranging

We processed all of the culled birds immediately and I had them in cold water overnight. There are enzymes produced in that first 24 hours or so that help tenderize the meat. Once that process is complete, I usually package them and then freeze them in packages of four birds. However, these 12 were slated for dinner and leftovers and they got an extra day in the frig. The very next day after doing all this culling and rearranging of hens, I went out to feed and water them and found another hen with a slightly bloody head. It wasn’t bad but she had definitely been abused. This time I grabbed the rooster and immediately quarantined him. It had to be him. The girls were getting along fine before and now the bloody head again. The only change was putting them in with the rooster. Sure enough, the next day, her head was much better and there were no other injuries. She healed up within three days and still no other injuries. As soon as I saw that she was going to heal up without the rooster in there, he got added to the dinner pot. And that is how it ended up being 13 instead of 12. We still have a few leftovers in the frig. Maybe dinner tonight.

Not Perfect But It Will Work

So now, one cage has five hens with no rooster. All five still lay eggs like clockwork. I just won’t be able to use those infertile eggs in the incubator.

The final note with the quail is that yesterday, I went out to feed them and found one of the hens in the penthouse on the right had died. There were five eggs in there, so she laid her daily egg before expiring. This happens sometimes. There was no mark on her externally, but she had blood just inside her beak. Something internal went wrong. I have no idea what. One cage has a rooster and four hens instead of five. That reduces our total hens to 24. That’s two dozen eggs each day. Hope the rest of them fair well through the rest of the winter. We will have to cull a few more to make room for new babies in the spring. But until then, lots of eggs. And some of them will be made into pickled eggs.

Pickled Quail Eggs

I boiled 100 quail eggs and made 10 jars (1/2 pint) of pickled quail eggs. The boiled eggs were submerged in vinegar. This did two things. First, the spots lifted off and floated to the surface of the liquid. Second, the shells, now white, became soft and rubbery overnight. Peeling them was a matter of pinching the soft shell and peeling the rubber-like shell. It was so easy. Who knew peeling eggs could be so easy.

I used three different pickling recipes. The basic pickling solution was similar in all of them. Two cups vinegar and one cup water and two to four tablespoons of sugar depending on the recipe. The salt varied a little too. This solution was enough for three jars plus a little. I made three jars of pickled quail eggs with this solution and added curry seasoning. There were three jars of pickled quail eggs with the vinegar solution, a pickling spice mix and ½ a beet. Those are a beautiful pink egg now. Then I did four jars of pickled quail eggs using apple cider vinegar in the mix instead of white vinegar and I added some minced garlic. I used the same pickling spice mix as the previous one. Unfortunately, none of them have been tasted yet. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.

In the end, I have canned 10 jars of pickled quail eggs with plans for quite a few more over the winter. It will be a fine snack throughout the next year.

Apple Pie Jam

Speaking of canning, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned my apple pie jam. It’s pretty simple and out of this world delicious. The other day while out picking up some quail feed I ordered from a local supplier, I bought another bushel of apples. The previous bushel made lots of apple pie filling and a bit of apple pie jam. And there they were apples galore right out there for me to pick up. This year was the first time I had made the apple pie jam and it was a hit. Basically, it’s an apple jam recipe with pie spices added. It is unbelievably good. It has ground cinnamon, ground cloves, ground nutmeg, and ground allspice. A bushel of apples ended up making another 40 pint jars of apple pie jam.

Perhaps I went a little overboard with making this jam, but it was really fun. I have some ½ pints that I’m selling at the farmer’s market, and will likely sell some of the pint jars as well. There will still be plenty for ourselves and as gifts for family and friends. It’s just one of those things that was so fun I just had to do it over and over. Two days straight with canning two batches of 10 pints each. Now you know what to expect out of a bushel of apples. Plan accordingly.

Cows

On to the animals. Most of the cows are still grazing on grass. It’s amazing. No hay for the main herd yet. We are near the end of December. The plan is progressing nicely. Most of the year there will be no hay expenses for these girls. It’s a giant step forward in our homestead plan. Everyone is doing well.

Just last night a new possibility arose to add another new bred heifer or young cow to our herd. This time if it works out, we will be adding another purebred Normande to our homestead. We’re excited. It will be a very, very long trip, but so worth it. These young ladies are hard to come by and we hope to remedy that in the future by having lots and lots of heifers for ourselves as well as having some to sell to others. I can’t tell you how many people have asked me if we have any heifers for sale. It seems lots of people are looking for these beautiful cows and there just aren’t that many heifers available. Especially that have the milking genetics. I’ll keep you posted on how this new development progresses. And if you are one of those looking for a Normande, drop me an email and I’ll let you know who to contact.

Donkeys

All of the donkeys got their hooves trimmed. Johnny was really, really difficult. I think more difficult than he has ever been. He was constantly kicking, jerking, moving around. And when Scott got to the last hoof, he just layed down. It was a very trying experience for all concerned. On the other hand, Cocoa is getting used to it. She did really well. And as always, Daisy and Sweet Pea just stand there. It’s old hat for them. Glad to get that accomplished.

All of the donkeys have their winter coats. They are like little fuzz balls.

Sheep

I was going out the driveway yesterday and noticed the sheep are looking nice and fat. I’m talking about the breeding group in the front pastures. They look really round but it is too early for that to be pregnancy showing. Sheep gestation is only five months. They are not even two months along. It is that last month that they get really big and round. No these girls are just really healthy and strong. It’s good to see them doing so well.

Creamery

The roof is in progress. What a job it was to get the material here and unloaded. It was not without issue. Plus, the wind contributed to some additional damage to the materials. Scott is out there right now finishing one run of metal on the lower end of the loafing shed.

This morning it was quite the ordeal to get the last pieces delivered and transported from the road back to the building site. Scott had quite the elaborate setup in place and it would have worked beautifully if his tractor had had a little more toughness. Unfortunately, it was just a little bit too small for the task. The metal was bundled all in one piece and was delivered on a tow truck. Because the pieces are so long, this was the only way to get it to us. Department of transportation rules for how much can hang off of a trailer made this job much harder to accomplish.

Bent Roofing Material – Oops

Anyway, the tow truck arrived this morning with the roof metal. Scott had our hay trailer rigged up so the bundle could be lifted up off the truck, the tow truck would drive out from under the bundle, Scott would back his hay trailer under it and then lower the bundle onto our hay trailer. He had already tested his ability to drive it back to the building site. All should work well. We had a neighbor friend bring his tractor over to help lift the load. All actually did go well for a brief moment. Then the load shifted, Scott’s smaller tractor was just not able to hold up the load and it slipped off the forks. Lots of bent metal sheets. A few more gyrations and they got it onto the trailer and the rest of the plan went smoothly. It’s all there next to the building ready for Scott and I to unload it one sheet at a time. That’s for tomorrow.

More Bent Roofing Material

Last week Scott picked up a different load of metal. These were shorter pieces that fit on the hay trailer. He and I unloaded that without issue. Yesterday, Scott laid out quite a few sheets of these metal sheets onto some sawhorses. Even before going out to the road to meet the tow truck driver, he discovered that the thunder I thought I heard last night was actually the wind blowing those large pieces of metal all over the place. More bent metal roof panels. You can’t have everything go right every day. That just would not be real homestead living. In the end, the roof will be completed and all will be well. I have a long day tomorrow helping with the heavy lifting and moving those 27-foot sheets of metal off of the trailer and under the barn. Some of them will get moved to the roof as well. I expect my biceps and wrists to be sore again. But hey, that’s one of the reasons we do what we do. No need to go to the gym. They are closed anyway. Daily life on the homestead is a workout that is never boring.

Final Thoughts

That’s it for this podcast. Trials and tribulations galore. If it ain’t one thing, it’s another. All in all, things are going well for us on the homestead at the present time. We say our prayers and thank God for our blessings. The animals are healthy (well except for that one quail) and we are healthy.

I can’t get enough of those quail. It looks like we finally have all the issues worked out. We are back to normal operations with everybody happy and content in their little homes. I just put a jar of pickled quail eggs out on the counter as an appetizer for tonight’s dinner.

The creamery is moving along at a good clip. It won’t be long and we will have finally realized that dream. Just another one of those blessings I’m always talking about.

In the near future I’m going to be updating the website to highlight our raw milk cheese herd shares. Look for updates on that next time. This year’s cheeses are superb. If you regularly eat a pound or two of cheese per month, you might want to think about joining our herd share program. You can own a piece of the herd and dine on locally produced cheese.

If you enjoyed this podcast, please hop over to Apple Podcasts or whatever podcasting service you use, SUBSCRIBE and give me a 5-star rating and review. If you like this content and want to help out the show, the absolute best way you can do that is to share it with any friends or family who might be interested in this type of content. Let them know about the Peaceful Heart Farmcast.

Thank you so much for stopping by the homestead and until next time, may God fill your life with grace and peace.

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maedarakat · 7 years

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Margin for Error - Chapter 7

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 - Part 6

Ruff groaned irritably as she dunked the next dish into greasy, sudsy water. It's not so bad, just a small pile left, then you don't have to even think about dishes until after dinner, she told herself. You can do it.

It wasn't that the task was particularly hard, it was just unpleasant. Globs of oil skimming in the water's surface, damp drying towels, mysterious floating debris in the lukewarm cloudy water that bumped against her submerged hands . . .

She. Hated. Doing. Dishes.

It was even worse this morning, when the water couldn't seem to stay heated. Fishlegs' idea of dropping dragon-heated rocks into the tub was far better than waiting for a pot to boil over the fire, but it could use some fine tuning; those heated rocks hadn't lasted very long against the frigid temperature of the well water. The tub had barely stayed hot enough to allow Ruff scrub the bacon grease off the skillet. And now her sponge resembled a wet lump of black lard. Ugh, gross.

It was impossible to clean off the dishes any longer like this - maybe she could go out on the deck and summoned a dragon to give the water a friendly little blast. Ruff was already hearing the sound of big wings. Was that Hookfang?

She saw the big orange dragon and hurried to flag him down, nearly tripping over a box that someone had placed in the doorway. A box full of dishes . . . greasy, moldy, crusty dishes - even a scorched pot or two. Who had -

"Hi!"

Seething, she spun around on the owner of the voice.

"Hi, Snotlout!" Ruff greeted through her teeth, oozing with dangerously false sweetness. "What's all this?"

"Oh, well, Astrid told me earlier to grab all the hoarded plates us guys hadn't brought back to the kitchens so they could be cleaned."

"I believe she asked us all to do that a month ago." Ruff iced.

"Yep! And you know what? This morning, I just happened to remember."

Ohhh, she wanted to punch him right in his smug little face. Ruff hoped this meant his yak-pants were ruined.

"How did you even hoard this many dishes?!" she shrieked, throwing her hands up. Honestly, if the situation was any different, she'd be impressed.

Almost half the island's dishes and pots were in this freaking crate. All of them completely disgusting. She held up a soup pot so burnt that its bottom was bulging outwards, utterly mystified. "And how did they get like this?!"

"They aren't all mine, I just took up a collection. You can thank Astrid for that particular masterpiece - I think it's one of her failed cooking experiments. Saw her trying to bury it behind her hut."

"And so you unburied it?!" Ruff screeched in outrage.

"Pretty much. Enjoy! Whoooo! SNOTLOUT!" He hopped into Hookfang's saddle and they flew off, just barely dodging the furiously hurled cook pot.

Ruff let loose a long stream of decidedly unladylike invective.

She fumed at the box, wondering if she could just push it off the deck. Those dishes had been missing for a month - and maybe nobody would notice all the broken crockery on the rocky shore below?

That's how Dagur found her, trying to drag the entire thing toward the railing.

"Huh. Wow, those are some nasty dishes."

"Ack!" Caught in the act, Ruff straightened up to face him. "You saw nothing!"

"Hmmm, nope, pretty sure I saw something almost happen," he teased lightly. Seeing Ruff's crestfallen look, Dagur hastened to reassure her. "It's okay, I actually came to help you do dishes. I figured it isn't fair - you having to do them all alone, just because of me."

Ruff's eyes widened at that, then softened. "Awww, really? You came to help me?" Her smile faltered a bit when she looked back at the crate. "Ugh . . . even if we get the water hot again, it's gonna take all day to do those. And by then it'll be dinner time, which means even more dishes. You sure you don't wanna just look the other way while I chuck them all into the ocean?"

Dagur looked thoughtful, and then suddenly grinned. "Funny you should mention the ocean . . . I think I have an idea."

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If there was anyone on Berk who Tuff knew not to push his luck with, Gothi was near the top of the list. The tribe's Völva had a gentle healing touch, but a mouthy patient usually wasn't above receiving a sturdy whack with her staff or even one of her dreaded ear-pinches.

Tuff kept his complaints to a minimum as Gothi's bony fingers pressed and prodded his bruised ribcage, though he couldn't help but squirm. She looked surprised when she found no breaks or dislocated ribs. Tuffnut almost blurted out that he'd already had the latter, but explaining how they been fixed and by whom might cause some problems.

Once her examination was complete, Gothi motioned for him to put his vest and tunic back on and scribbled a message into the dirt. She then hooked one of Gobber's helmet horns with her staff and dragged him over to read it.

"Hey, now! You're awful bossy. Right, I know, you've got things to get on to, well so have I! Grump's going to eat everything in the forge if I don't hurry back."

Gothi looked up at him half-lidded, unimpressed.

"Alright, let's see - she says you'll need a hook - OWW! Sorry, off the hook, doing any heavy chores. And that it's a miracle you don't have anything broken, so try not to do anything stupid and reckless for at least three weeks. You'll have to breath very deeply several times a day to keep from getting ill. It'll hurt, but do it, because coughing when ye get sick will definitely hurt worse."

"Yeah, I hear that," Tuff winced at the very thought. Even sneezing sounded like agony.

Gothi smoothed the dirt with her foot and wrote something else.

"Aside from all that," Gobber translated, "Is there something you should be telling me?"

Tuff blinked, unable to stop the guilty look that crossed his face.

"Ahh. Thought so. Well out with it, then. What've you stolen, or broken, or --" Gobber looked down in surprise as Gothi gave him a light prod toward the door with her staff. She made a dismissive motion with her hand, as though shooing off a chicken.

With a shrug, and a glance at Tuff that suggested it had been nice knowing him, Gobber headed off to visit his hopefully still-standing forge.

Gothi looked at him sharply and drew something in the sand. All at once he realized that this had nothing to do with the fugitive Berserker they were hiding. Tuff stared at the crude arrow sketched in the dirt and swallowed hard.

"Did you dream about the arrows too?" he muttered, looking up at her. "A sky full of black glistening death?"

The Völva went a little pale at that and gripped her staff tighter, leaning against it. Okay, so maybe he'd been a little too dramatic there . . .

It was only a moment of weakness, for Gothi straightened up and nodded briskly at Tuff, patting his shoulder. She gestured for him to get up and go on his way.

"Wait, that's it? That's all you wanted? No details, theories, hypothesis - nothing? Just gracias, mi hijo, buenos dias?"

Gothi gave him a remarkably patient look and then nodded again, gesturing for him to leave. Tuff frowned, but obeyed. He knew he should be honored she even believed him, but being simply dismissed afterwards was upsetting.

Maybe if he and Ruff had been trained officially in spae-craft under a Völva, it might have been different; his input would actually be valued. Either way, he didn't regret learning what he knew from his mother, even if it wasn't considered 'good' magic.

"Hey," Heather greeted him, on the landing with Windshear. "Gobber just told me you're excused from hard labor, which I thought would be good news. So what's with that expression?"

"Eh. It's nothing," Tuff shrugged. "Guess I better go see Mom. Wonder what the Chief meant by her having her hands full?"

"It's nearing harvest season. Are any other members of your family helping out with that?"

He thought about it, and shook his head. "No, Uncle Sven and Cousin Lars have their own fields. Other than the kitchen garden, we have more chickens than crops, so mostly we sell eggs."

Tuff brightened a little. "I'll get to see how Mom's little chickens are doing. Maybe there was a hatching recently. Oh, Heather, I hope it's so - you haven't lived until you've held a soft fluffy little peeper in your hands."

Heather smiled as they walked together toward the Thorston home. "That sounds nice. My village used to have chickens and every morning I'd collect the eggs from my family's coop. I learned to leave the brooding ones alone pretty quickly."

"Too true, Heather. Those proud little mothers certainly know how to bite." Tuff smiled at her until he noticed the melancholy look that passed over his friend's face. She'd been doing better until he'd found Dagur, with the whole missing her family thing. Tuff sighed softly; she and her brother needed to talk.

Both siblings seemed to be holding back information that could help them understand what had happened - with Oswald, with her village. Until Heather felt ready to relive that pain again, she wasn't going to be able to listen, and Dagur wasn't going to make her.

"Have you ever had a rune-reading?" Tuff blurted, startling Heather out of her thoughts. "Just sat yourself down with a nice aromatic cup of tea, while letting someone sing to the Norns and spirits to find all the hidden answers? It can be very motivating. Maybe even soothing, for a lost troubled soul such as yourself."

"Tuffnut, I'm not a 'lost troubled soul'."

"Aren't you?" he asked dramatically, raising one eyebrow. As Heather stared at him flatly, he waggled them ridiculously until she started laughing. He joined in, slinging an arm around her shoulders as they walked.

"Seriously though, you should let my Mom do a reading for you. She's pretty good, and it won't even cost you money. I'll work something out with her." Heather looked a little unsure but Tuff just grinned. "It'll be okay. You could even ask about future loooove. You and Fishy, sittin' in a creek . . . Wait, no, that's not how that goes."

She blushed, but looked a bit more relaxed at that. "You know what, sure. Maybe it could be fun."

"There we go! That way you won't be bored while I help Mom with whatever she needs help with."

Heather nodded and leaned into his one armed embrace. "You and your family seem pretty close," she noted.

Tuffnut shrugged, thinking of who else was waiting at home. "Eh. Most of us. A little more than half at least." His father would be asleep at midday, drunk asleep by the fire in his chair. There shouldn't be any trouble with him while Heather was over.

One could always, always hope.

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

“You ready?” Dagur asked, balancing carefully on Belch’s neck. The Zippleback had agreed to let him ride, though it had taken several mackerel (Belch’s favorite) to warm him to the idea. To be fair, the Berserker and the two-headed dragon did have a rather unpleasant history and Zipplebacks never forgot.

Ruff beamed at him, and eagerly twined the rope around her arm to make sure their load was even. “I was born ready for this!” she crowed.

Dagur grinned back at her and the two of them urged their dragon to swoop down over the ocean, hovering purposefully too close to a breaching Scauldron. It ignored them for a while, but as they persisted to trail it, the Scauldron lifted its head above the water and glowered at them balefully, she needscheeks puffing out.

Ruff and Dagur dropped their cargo directly in the path of boiling spray, letting the rope go slack as they flew up out of the way. The blast hit the net full of soiled crockery full on. Ruffnut whooped as she saw the dirt, sludge and grease run off the dishes and pots, splattering into the ocean.

“Oh, that is nasty!” laughed Dagur. “I can’t believe they were going to make you clean all that by yourself!”

“Hey, if I get to do it this way?! I want to do dishes all the time! Sign me up!” Ruffnut blew a fond kiss at the Scauldron, which grumbled at them now that they were out of range. She reached back to the saddlebag behind her and pulled out a salmon, tossing it down to the Scauldron. The water-dragon caught it, and swallowed the fish whole. It looked up at them expectantly, waiting for more.

“Hey there, pretty boy! Can you do me one more solid and fire some hot water again?” Ruff asked sweetly. “There’s more salmon in it for you!” The Scauldron made a curious sound but didn’t seem averse to getting more fish, lazily treading its tail through the water as it waited.

Ruffnut shook something over the net – a powder made from dried soap flakes and soda ash. “My mom uses this stuff when she needs to get something really clean. It’s been passed down through the Nut family,” she explained to Dagur.

“Neat! I’d like to meet your family someday.”

“You’d want to meet roughly half my family,” Ruffnut smirked. “The half that isn’t all jerks.”

She again blew kisses at the Scauldron, thinking of the one she’d met and helped so long ago. It obligingly sucked up some more water and blasted the boiling liquid directly at the net, causing even more sludge and slime to dribble out.

“Alright! Here you go, scale-baby!” Ruff called lovingly, and tossed another couple salmon down.

The Scauldron snapped them up and turned to swim off with its prize. She made sure to save some for Barf and Belch, who were obviously getting jealous of the strange dragon.

On the way back to the island they dipped the net into the ocean and dragged it through the currents to fully rinse everything. “If all that doesn’t get these clean, nothing will,” Dagur shrugged.

Sure enough, the dishes were all but sparkling in the sun as they flew high enough to pull them out of the water. Ruff let out another whoop of victory. “Best. Chore. Ever!”

Dagur smiled at her, impressed. “You’re really good at training Scauldrons.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t train him. We just did each other a favor. One time Tuff befriended a Typhoomerang just by yakking at it. It ended up saving our butts from a forest fire, but didn’t stick around. I don’t know how he does it – he just talks and talks and somehow dragons like him enough not to eat him. I just make sure to always have lots of fish on hand.”

“True. Never met a dragon who doesn’t love fish.”

“Well, we have! It's called the Whispering Death. Those things don’t like anything. Tuff’s impossibly in love with them – I can’t even tell you the number of times I’ve had to drag him away from trying to hug one.” Ruffnut gave an exaggerated sigh. “Thank Loki he’s moved on to chickens. I can handle chickens.”

Dagur smiled, shaking his head fondly. “I’m glad you two get along so well.”

“We don’t all the time, but I get what you mean. After we put the dishes away, there’s a few hours before dinner. Wanna check out our boar pit?”

The Berserker perked up. “You guys have a boar pit!? Uh, yeah I want to check it out!”

Ruff cackled in delight as they flew back to the Clubhouse. “This is gonna be awesome!”

-----------

Tuff must have missed her more than he realized, for the moment he saw that familiar shape clad in vivid colors, he quickened his step.

His mother was a broad-shouldered woman who seemed to like wearing the brightest of colors - if only to flaunt that she could easily make her own dyes and dress like the noble woman she wasn't. Her rainbow rags cheapened the otherwise expensive indigos, reds, and purples that upper class families preferred, especially when worn for doing laundry in the front yard.

The outrage seemed to amuse Madge Thorston greatly; anytime Tuff had seen villagers openly scorn her clothing in the market square, she had stood up straight and laughed for an uncomfortable length of time in their faces.

His mother was proud, brave, and strong. Nothing could bring her down, make her submit, or stop her from doing exactly as she pleased.

Well, maybe except for her husband.

That explained why she was out in the yard even past noon, face and hands reddened from the cold and scrubbing linens across a board. Tuff grinned at her as she looked up, expression changing from annoyance to surprise as she recognized her son.

"Oh!" Madge dropped the sheet back into the pail and scooped Tuff up in a bear hug as though he weighed no more than a straw. "Ha! My scrawny son has come home! I'd half-thought you were Mrs. Nygenskar, back to pester me about her damned missing chickens."

She promptly pinched Tuff's ear between finger and thumb, causing him to yowl. "A good thing you weren't, because then I really would have popped you one. Why'd you have to be so terrible at stealing, getting caught all the time? Now everyone thinks we're thieves. Thieves!"

Heather glanced over at a full milk pail that had the Hofferson crest carved on its side and bit her lip.

"Well, Mom, we sort of - I mean, that's our thing. 'The family that nicks together, sticks together.' It's our motto," Tuff answered.

His mother let him go. "Stick out your tongue," Madge said sharply. Tuff groaned but obeyed, and she flicked it hard enough to make him cringe. "That's for having loose lips in front of a new face."

"Oh, uh, my name's Heather," the 'new face' ventured. Madge turned to look at her appraisingly. "Your son was telling me you did rune-readings?" Heather glanced at Tuff for help. He rather unhelpfully gave her a thumbs up.

"Hmm. You came for a reading, did you? Having some trouble with a certain family member?"

"Um, yes- how did you know?" Heather stammered, shocked.

"The Nut knows, my dear. Also, I've seen the same look on my daughter's face since the pair of them were born. Your brother has you at wits end just by being near, and on top of all that there's a whole different mess to sort out. Very well, there's time for tea and a reading. How much coin can you bear to part with?"

Yep. Blunt and to the point. That was Mom at her finest.

"Actually, since Heather's technically adopted family, I was thinking I could pay for her first time," Tuff interjected, coming to his friend's rescue.

Madge raised an eyebrow, thinking for a long moment. "Fine. You've done well enough making effective staves(1), so I'll have three more. One for the chicken coop against predators and thieves. Then I want two new ones for the house, one to ward against financial ruin. Another against violence.

"Carve the two into beams upstairs, but don't wake your father. I'll not have him running his mouth off at anyone else today."

Her words were sharp, but Tuff could easily hear the affection in them. "Okay, I can do that, Mom." He darted forward to hug her, and was pleased when she rested her hand on his head.

"Good, now get to it." Madge swatted the small of his back as he ran toward the house. Tuff heard her turn to Heather, who was waiting nervously. "Now my dear, do you like your tea sweet or spicy?"

Yeah, she was in good hands. Tuff knew he'd have at least an hour to carve the staves and sneak some stored bedding and clothing out the window. Hardsell would sleep through everything and he probably wouldn't even have to talk to him.

He carefully pushed open the door, only halfway before the hinges would squeak, and slipped inside, just as carefully easing it closed.

A thick hand palmed the door, just over Tuff's head, shoving it closed with a solid thunk.

Tuffnut froze as breath touched the back of his neck and he failed to register the usual snores by the fireplace.

"Welcome home," Hardsell said flatly, looking anything but pleased.

Tuff turned his back to the door and grinned as brightly as he could manage. "Hey, Pop. How've you been? I see you got your beard trimmed a few months ago. Looks good. Real good." Tuffnut's grin was strained but genuine, and his clasped hands were the only sign he was inwardly screaming.

Hardsell gave a snort and gripped the back of Tuff's neck, steering the boy toward the fireplace and the chairs that sat next to it. "Sit."

It wasn't a request.

Tuff stifled his dread and obeyed, heart pounding a little fast. Only two things could ever get Hardsell to stand up of his own volition: Needing to refill his mead mug and 'putting people in their place.' Usually with a fist or well-aimed kick. Cutting words were also a given.

Gods, no wonder his mother was outside. Probably spending her nights in the warm family bath-house too.

"For whatever reason, you're loose in Berk. Without your sister. I take it she isn't involved in whatever disaster you plan to cause. Definitely the smarter twin."

"Oh, definitely - most definitely -" Tuff agreed, and because his anger was faster than his logic, he eased right into sass mode. "By the way, excellent job coherently stringing together more than three words - you must have switched to the alcohol-free mead."

Hardsell chuckled at him, humorlessly. Then he flung the contents of his mug into Tuffnut's face.

Tuff yelped in pain and wiped at his smarting eyes. The liquid stung terribly, but not like mead . . .

"That's vinegar, boy. Gothi's prescription for a failing liver is apparently to drink vinegar. One mug of tea in the morning, then the rest of the day and night -"

Hardsell looked at his mug and paused for too long. Tuffnut considered getting out of his chair and hiding beneath it, but of course he moved far too late.

The heavy mug hit him as he flinched down, shattering against the back of his chair. Tuff yelped as the ceramic shards flew everywhere, piercing skin and scattering unpleasantly across the wooden floor. He remained seated, trembling as his father loomed over him.

"As I said. Vinegar. Made from last year's apple harvest, I believe. It doesn't taste very good, but my mind has never been clearer. Your old man is going to be changing this family's fortune, boyo. Starting with you."

"Me?" Tuffnut asked, raising an eyebrow. He was terrified already, but he refused to give his father the satisfaction of admitting that. "Ah, I get it! This is another one of your inspiring 'get a job' lectures. That's okay, because I'm actually already employed as a Dragon-Rider of Berk. I personally don't think I can do any better, but I'm so flattered you do. I'll keep that forever in my heart. Now if you'll excuse me -"

Tuff's attempt to leave was met with a cuff to the head and he was all but thrown back into the chair. "Stay seated, I'm not done."

Well, this was just fantastic. The youth obeyed and remained quiet as Hardsell continued. Nervous fingers tapped against the frame of the seat and he hoped the man couldn't hear them.

"Your sister will bring the family money in her own way - by means of her marriage. Though she's proven too ugly to capture the attention of Chief Stoick's son, there are plenty of rich men looking for a younger bride to keep them warm this coming winter."

Tuffnut's fingers curled into fists. He hated when Hardsell insulted Ruff - especially because he only did it when she wasn't here. Cowardly didn't describe half of it.

As for forcibly marrying her off? Yeah, sure, good luck to the poor idiot that agreed to be her groom. Had Hardsell forgotten they had dragons? They could fly away from anything he threatened. Still though, incredibly uncool. Tuff held his tongue, aware he was being provoked. Hardsell took another drink and once more focused on Tuffnut.

"But you . . . you'll never amount to anything. You've no future. Why waste money on a bride for you? Would you even know what to do with one?"

Ah, the classic narrow-minded insults about his manliness he'd come to expect.

Tuff snorted, almost amused at the predictability. He didn't take the bait, putting on an air of boredom. Small beads of blood were still sliding down his face, turning gradually into streaks and stains. He focused on the little cuts on his face, absently picking out bits of debris from the shattered mug.

"Your cousin Lars - now there's a boy deserving of a girl. So we'll trade you for one. There was a visitor from afar who visited one of our family elders. Seems he's in search for a boy, about your size and build, with long blond hair and a Berkian accent. Seems this 'boy' owes some of his men quite a bit of gambling money."

Hardsell glowered at Tuff, who just shrugged. "I don't owe money to anyone. And I'd never gamble anything if there was a chance of losing. I'm not that stupid. If I was, Ruffnut wouldn't let me be."

"Hmm. Well, he's willing to do a trade anyhow. The boy in question's whereabouts, for one of his men's eligible daughters to marry your cousin."

Uneasily, Tuffnut looked up. "Why exactly would he want this 'boy'? I mean, if he's owed money, wouldn't it make more sense to just ask for a dowry?"

"Oh, we didn't pry. It's a good enough trade for me. He can decide how useful you'd be when you're his. You know what they say, boy; one man's garbage is another man's gold."

Okay, that had hurt. Tuff glowered. "That's it, I'm not buying it anymore. There's no possible way the family can sell me or trade me - to anybody - if I don't want to go. I'm a Dragon-Rider; I help defend Berk - you can't just send me away like I'm worth nothing!"

"You're only worth nothing to me, boyo. But you must be worth quite a bit to the men you owe all that gold to."

"I told you I haven't been gambling! They aren't after me!"

"Who else would make such trouble? Was it your sister, then? Perhaps you'd prefer to blame that older, more successful cousin of yours -"

Tuff scowled, growing angrier. "Don't you even try to bring Ruff or any of my totally awesome cousins into this - they're completely innocent! Lars, on the other hand . . ."

Hardsell cuffed him again, making Tuff flinch down and cover his head. "You bite your lying tongue - Lars is the son I wish I'd had."

Tuffnut growled in frustrated anger, his emotions finally getting the better of him.

"Oh, poor you, you got me and Ruff! So sad! Not like you did any work to raise us anyway - you just sat there and drank for twenty years! And now - all because someone cared enough to finally force you to quit - you're in a bad mood and you're taking it out on me and Ruff, and even Mom! Your crappy liver is not my fault!"

"Really? Isn't it?" Hardsell snarled. He gripped Tuff's bleeding face harshly, thumb smearing across a cut. "Maybe letting such a disappointment live after it was born and not exposing it to the bitter cold is the reason I started drinking in the first place!"

Tuff lost his defiant sneer and simply crumbled, devastated. He glared through it, trying to will away the hot tears filling his eyes.

His father was full of shit; there was no way he'd actually go through with this or that the family was planning to. Hardsell was simply trying to hurt him, as usual.

Well, he'd fucking succeeded.

Even now, the man was watching him carefully for a reaction, so obviously itching for a reason - any reason - to hurt Tuff even further. The youth decided not to give him one and simply got up, pushing past the bigger man to go upstairs, to the loft where he and his sister used to sleep.

Hardsell said nothing, save for chuckling and sitting back down.

Somehow that hurt even worse.

Tuffnut took a few moments to get his head together, and gripped the dragon-toothed necklace around his throat. It was times like these he really missed having his sister with him. She would have known the exact thing to say to make that jerk pucker his lips shut.

After a few deep breaths, he took a knife out of his pocket and began to carve a stave into the beam above the stairs. His hands were shaking badly; he nearly cut himself twice and once almost dropped the knife entirely.

Still, he managed to carve the first - a protection circle with symbols warding off ruin. He began to make four marks within the circle - one for every member of their family. Mom, Ruffnut, himself, and . . .

The tip of the blade was digging into the wood, ready to make the mark for his father, but Tuffnut was unwilling to commit to it. A bead of red blood dripped into his eye and he wiped it away, staring at the smear of red on his fingers.

Bright red, just like . . .

There was the memory of warm arms around him, of kind words and a sincere smile.

Tuff's eyes spill over suddenly and with no warning. He refused to make one sound of misery, instead carving the fourth mark.

Not for Hardsell, but for Dagur.

Let the house and land wights and all the Gods protect Dagur from evil; his father could be ripped to pieces by a draugr for all he cared. Or better yet, a hill-lurking troll. Ooh, or drowned by a nokken under the ice floes - yeah, that would be fine by him. He couldn't imagine his twin being all that upset either.

Tuffnut carved the second stave his mother had asked for, against violence. It was exactly the same - he made the fourth mark on Dagur's behalf and left Hardsell unprotected.

Though Odin Allfather may frown on him for his lack of duty toward his father, Tuff knew in his heart that Loki was standing just behind Odin's throne, giving him a sly grin and a thumbs up.

He put the knife away and wiped furiously across his eyes, hitching quietly as he entered the empty bedroom. Tuffnut would need bedding and a pillow and shirts. He went to the far end of the room and opened a cedar chest.

The nicest shirt he found that would fit Dagur's frame - dark blue linen and seldom worn - was rolled up and hidden in a goose-down quilt his grandmother had sewn.

It didn't matter who it used to belong to. As far as Tuff was concerned, it was Dagur's now.

Tuff also stuffed a pillow and a fur-lined brown vest into the roll; surely his erstwhile roommate would appreciate the additional warmth. He found a set of his grandfather's throwing knives as well, and stuffed the leather-wrapped bundle into his belt. Hardsell would eventually know they were missing, but Tuffnut refused to give him the chance to sell them.

He climbed out the window and onto the roof, letting the rolled goods gently tumble down to rest over the frame of the chicken hut below. Tuffnut eased himself down as quietly as he could, knowing Hardsell might see him out the kitchen window.

He couldn't risk it. With the sour mood his father was in, he wanted no further encounters - not today, at least. Tuffnut watched the window warily for signs of movement within, and relaxed when nothing in darkness stirred. Probably sucking down another mug of vinegar by the fire.

Might as well do the last stave then; it'd be quicker than the others. Tuffnut pulled out his knife and made short work of it, scratching a mark for everyone of his mother's six (no, wait, nine?) chickens.

One of the hens burbled at him while he worked and Tuff smiled at her. He clucked back and was reaching in to stroke her white feathers when she flapped her wings in sudden alarm. Tuffnut had no time to react as a hand seized the back of his neck and pulled him away from the coop.

For a moment he strangled on the leather cord of his necklace, oddly afraid it would snap, then gasped as he was shoved down to hit the hard packed earth. Tuffnut's ribs started screaming and he gave an abortive moan, curling around them.

He didn't bother looking up at his attacker. He didn't need to.

The bed roll was dropped in the dirt beside him and shaken open, all the goods falling out. Hardsell, pulled out the blue shirt. "Hmm. A gift from your mother to me, when we first met. She dyed it herself."

He tossed it back on the pile as though it meant little; no, the reason he cared at all was because it was his and Tuffnut had attempted to steal it. That was reason enough for Hardsell to continue, but he also went for Tuff's belt, pulling away the throwing knives. "And these were my father-in-law's. I'd wondered where they'd gotten to."

If Hardsell was trying to make Tuff ashamed and submissive, he was barking up the wrong tree. That ship had already sailed.

"Oh, I can tell you that. It got thrown carelessly in a trunk upstairs, during all those years you held down a chair in front of the fire, drunk out of your mind," Tuffnut sneered.

A pair of hands gripped Tuff's upper arms, hauling him to his feet, and giving him a rough shake. "This isn't something you'd steal for yourself. That shirt wouldn't fit you, or even the Ingerman boy. You're hiding something."

Tuff winced but remained defiant. "Nope, I was just going to cut it up into rags. The outhouse on the Edge is all out of good paper."

"Lying spawn of Loki." One of those hands began to twist Tuff's arm, putting strain on his shoulder. "The vest, the shirt, the knives . . . even the extra bedding. They're for someone. Who?"

Tuffnut whined as his shoulder started to genuinely hurt.

"Let go-" he gritted out, taking back every wish he'd ever made that his father would stop being a drunken unmoving lump and do something. In retrospect, being a drunken lump was preferable to this.

Hardsell only continued, with calm purpose. Was it the mead that had kept him calm for so long? All this time, had it been merely dulling the man's hatred of him?

Tuff's shoulder burned with pain and he couldn't help the sobbing plea that tore past his lips.

-------

Madge had helped. She really had.

Not so much with casting the runes and telling her the secrets of the Norns - though that was helpful too if you really believed in that sort of thing. Rather, the Thorston matriarch had a level head, a wise outlook on life . . . and lots and lots of experience when it came to talking to estranged family members.

If Heather could boil down the whole experience to one phrase, it would be that seeking out the truth is far more cathartic than blind forgiveness could ever hope to be.

"Usually," Madge had said, blowing across her teacup, "You'll end up mad at yourself for not asking the truth sooner. You deserve to know it, certainly. Your brother deserves to be given the chance to tell you. There are reasons he did what he did, not excuses - but reasons.

"I think it's worth noticing that he's never once begged to explain away his actions. He knows what he ended up doing was wrong, no matter what information he was or wasn't told."

A strange statement, but Heather hadn't had time to ask anything further; a neighbor had showed up unannounced to argue over something missing. From the sound of the raised voices, it was going to take a while. After twenty minutes of waiting, she'd set down her tea and walked politely away, heading toward the house to see if Tuff was finished yet.

When the front door did not open she, walked around to the chicken yard.

For half a moment, Heather stood there utterly frozen in shock.

Seconds later, she was bending back two of the man's fingers - forcing him to let go of Tuffnut. She used the grip on Hardsell to spin him and twist the man's arm against his back, slamming him into the wall of the coop.

"Don't. Move," Heather hissed, beyond incensed. Her axe's edge pressed against his jugular. She didn't know or really care who this stranger was, but he was no doubt responsible for the blood and marks she saw on her friend's body.

"Tuff, grab your things, okay?"

"Yeah," came the ragged answer. "H-Hold on." Tuffnut managed to kneel, gathering up the scattered items and re-rolling them. He stood with difficulty, and bundled it under his arm. She saw him looking helplessly at a smaller wrapped parcel of leather further away on the ground.

"I got it." Heather let go of Hardsell to snatch it up, never looking away from the dark-haired man, who glowered right back. He didn't keep it up, eventually lowering his eyes from her piercing glare. "Keep walking, Tuffnut."

Heather didn't sheathe her axe and kept looking over her shoulder until they came around to where she'd last seen Madge. After one look at them, the woman turned from her argumentative neighbor mid-sentence and moved swiftly toward her son.

Mrs. Nygenskar took a long gander over the apparent situation and walked away, obviously finding gossip more valuable than her chickens.

"I may actually kill him this time," Madge murmured, looking him over. Tuff swallowed hard and fell into the woman's arms, dropping the roll to hug her tightly.

"Stay somewhere else for a while?" he begged. "I think Pop's gone insane."

Heather felt her stomach twist. Part of her had suspected, but hearing it confirmed was still awful.

"Tch. Why would I leave my house? I can handle him. Hardsell doesn't raise a hand to me, and . . . Gods, I'm sorry, boyo. I thought he'd be hard asleep." Madge sighed and dipped a rag into the bucket of clean rinse water, gently dabbing at the cuts on Tuff's face. "You don't worry for another second on me; get back to that base of yours before dark. Let the grown-ups handle all of this."

Tuffnut hitched and looked up at his mother imploringly. The desperate worry on his face made Heather's chest hurt.

"Neither of us want to leave you in any danger," Heather supplied for him. She still had yet to sheathe her axe. That was how much Hardsell had alarmed her.

"Oh, I won't be. I'm fixing to kick him out for a couple nights. Let him miss the fire's warmth and sleep on the benches in the Great Hall. I'm sorry he laid hands on you. I promise it won't happen again - he'll be on good behavior by the time you both visit for Snoggletogg."

Tuff nodded, smiling ruefully. Heather wondered how many times he'd heard that same promise and her heart ached for her friend. She put an arm around Tuff's shoulders and finally put away her axe.

"You two have a safe journey back. Don't cause more trouble than you can handle, and tell your sister the same. Give her a hug from me, whether she wants it or not. Heather, I hope our short time together was helpful."

"It was . . . thank you." And please be safe. Heather returned Madge's smile and turned, wordlessly coaxing Tuffnut to walk beside her. They would go to Gobber's forge and see if Hiccup was anywhere near done with the wing prosthetic.

Tuffnut was quiet for a moment as they walked, occasionally shivering. Heather was inwardly distressed, not having any idea what to say, but her friend solved that for her.

"You, uh . . . you remember that time we blew up that ship together?" he asked, lightly jostling her shoulder. "That was fun, huh?"

She looked confused, then realized he was changing the subject. "Yeah, it was - Tuff, should we take you to see Gothi? Is your shoulder -"

Tuffnut pulled away from her questing hands and rolled his shoulder, forcing it back in with a small crunch. The resigned pain on his face showed Heather he was far too used to this. "It hurts more when other people put it back in," he explained, not meeting her eyes.

Heather gazed at him, understanding, and drew him into a hug. "If you don't want to talk about it, it's fine. Just know that I'm always here if you do."

Tuff made a small weak noise, face muffled in her hair, but he didn't push her away. "Okay," he whispered shakily. She let him go and he raised his face, expression worryingly blank as he fought back tears. "We should find Hiccup. I think I've had enough of Berk for one day." Tuff tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a dry sob.

Heather linked her arm with his, and walked with him in silence to Gobber's forge.

- Tbc

Notes:

1.) Staves are sigils - in Norse magic, a passed-down or self-designed symbol that is made for a purpose. There are staves for binding prisoners, staves against getting lost, or drowning - even staves for picking locks! Madge has taught the Twins all her own staves, passed down through the Nutt family, and how to make their own.

Here is a link for further examples and information: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icelandic_magical_staves

#tuffgur #dagur the deranged #tuffnut #rtte

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waffle--kun-blog · 7 years

Note

Answer them all (*ﾟ▽ﾟ*) this is what I'm gonna tell you when you reblog an ask thing, always.

WHAT

BUT

AAAAAAAAAAAH

WHY DO YOU DO THIS AGHSJDFKG

1. Who was the last person you held hands with? My girlfriend.. I’M STARTING TO ANSWER AND I’M GLARING AT YOU EMILIA2. Are you outgoing or shy? Aaahh outgoing!!3. Who are you looking forward to seeing? My girlfriend AND my cup of coffee tomorrow morning~4. Are you easy to get along with? ..I hope I am!5. If you were drunk would the person you like take care of you? Yes..6. What kind of people are you attracted to? �� Uhm.. next question all right~7. Do you think you’ll be in a relationship two months from now? I.. hope so..8. Who from the opposite gender is on your mind? All of my friends right now, I’m talking to them! And my girlfriend, always9. Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable? … Yes, but eehhrr I know I probably shouldn’t, so.. I try to act normally…10. Who was the last person you had a deep conversation with? Stella probably!!11. What does the most recent text that you sent say? “What?” AHAH12. What are your 5 favorite songs right now? Neptune, Saturn, Venus by Sleeping At Last, Forest Fires by Axel Flovent, and.. uhm… I know it’s four songs, but I wouldn’t know which one could be the fifth!13. Do you like it when people play with your hair? I’d say yes!14. Do you believe in luck and miracles? Y E S15. What good thing happened this summer? I got in a relationship with the person who is my girlfriend right now!16. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again? Yes!17. Do you think there is life on other planets? OF COURSE WHAT YES YES18. Do you still talk to your first crush? Nooooo ahah it’s been way too many years!! But I recently talked to her once because she casually found my number again!19. Do you like bubble baths? Mmhhh.. I can tell you that I like bubbles and I like baths!20. Do you like your neighbors? Yes, they’re really kind, especially the ones who live in front of us!21. What are your bad habits? I wouldn’t know.. I procrastinate? ahsdjfgk22. Where would you like to travel? The entire universe~23. Do you have trust issues? Nonononono24. Favorite part of your daily routine? Talking to others and looking up at the sky.25. What part of your body are you most uncomfortable with? .. I wouldn’t know..26. What do you do when you wake up? I immediately try to remember my dreams!27. Do you wish your skin was lighter or darker? Oh I’m actually okay with the way I am, luckily!28. Who are you most comfortable around? Kind of all of my friends, but mostly my girlfriend.29. Have any of your ex’s told you they regret breaking up? Yes.30. Do you ever want to get married? I’M WAITING FOR THAT31. Is your hair long enough for a pony tail? NOOO AHAHAHAH32. Which celebrities would you have a threesome with? … what…….33. Spell your name with your chin. CHRFJDGZB NO ALL RIGHT34. Do you play sports? What sports? Can overthinking be considered a sport because ahsdjfkg35. Would you rather live without TV or music? Without TV, I actually don’t watch it often.. I’d never want to live without music!36. Have you ever liked someone and never told them? Uhmm.. no..37. What do you say during awkward silences? I think I often say something that comes to my mind like “That cloud looks like a horse”, or I simply ask “how are you?”38. Describe your dream girl/guy? Neeeext question~39. What are your favorite stores to shop in? There are very interesting shops here about Harry Potter and other fantasy series and just fantasy things in general, they even sell swords and fairy statues, they’re so magical.. oh and old fashioned shops that sell particular types of food and other things that you wouldn’t normally find, there’s one here in Italy called “Castroni” and I love it! 40. What do you want to do after high school? I’m already there, ahah! I wanted to study philosophy and here I am~41. Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance? Yes.42. If your being extremely quiet what does it mean? I wouldn’t know really! Maybe I’m really sad or wondering if planets have feelings.43. Do you smile at strangers? Yes and it makes me happy for some reason! I just hope they don’t find me creepy44. Trip to outer space or bottom of the ocean? AH. AAAH AH OUTER SPACE O U T ER SPACE O U T E R S P A C E OU T ER SP-45. What makes you get out of bed in the morning? The fear that I’ll miss the train asdfghhjk46. What are you paranoid about? ….47. Have you ever been high? Noooo48. Have you ever been drunk? NOOOOOOOOOO49. Have you done anything recently that you hope nobody finds out about? I ATE ALL THE COOKIES FROM THE PACKAGE AND MY MOTHER STILL DOESN’T KNOW50. What was the colour of the last hoodie you wore? Grey.51. Ever wished you were someone else? Maybe not..52. One thing you wish you could change about yourself? .. I wish I didn’t have such a hard time making decisions sometimes.53. Favourite makeup brand? AHAHAH I DON’T KNOW I’ll let you know though!!54. Favourite store? Read the question 39~55. Favourite blog? All of my friends’ blogs!56. Favourite colour? Periwinkle YOU GUYS DON’T CALL IT INDIGO APPARENTLY AH57. Favourite food? Chocolate and antything sweet!58. Last thing you ate? Boiled eggs and carrots.59. First thing you ate this morning? I didn’t really “eat” anything, I only had coffee!60. Ever won a competition? For what? Uhm.. maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.. I don’t remember ahah!61. Been suspended/expelled? For what? Never ever sh62. Been arrested? For what? NOOOO WHAT63. Ever been in love? I don’t know.. I don’t know what true love feels like, or if I do but I don’t realize it, maybe yes.. 64. Tell us the story of your first kiss? Oh I had just gotten in a relationship with my ex girlfriend, and I kissed her when I told her how I felt about her and she said she felt the same way.65. Are you hungry right now? Not really! Or maybe a little bit!66. Do you like your tumblr friends more than your real friends? I LIKE EVERYONE STOP67. Facebook or Twitter? Twitter!68. Twitter or Tumblr? TUMBLR SADLY69. Are you watching tv right now? Nope~70. Names of your bestfriends? SSSHH71. Craving something? What? The mineral…BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH 2013 MEMES72. What colour are your towels? Mostly white!72. How many pillows do you sleep with? Two pillows.73. Do you sleep with stuffed animals? Yes ahah they’ll always be on my bed!74. How many stuffed animals do you think you have? Mmhhh.. maybe 20 or so..75. Favourite animal? Horses, cats and birds!76. What colour is your underwear? NO. ASDHFJGK. NO.77. Chocolate or Vanilla? Both!78. Favourite ice cream flavour? Everything that involves chocolate and cream!79. What colour shirt are you wearing? Dark blue.80. What colour pants? Black 81. Favourite tv show? Does Code Geass count? ahsjdfkg82. Favourite movie? A movie I couldn’t tell in English, but the Italian title is “Al di la’ dei sogni”.. and .. uhmm.. I need to think about this, I think there are a lot of them but I wouldn’t be able to make a list now!83. Mean Girls or Mean Girls 2? I never watched them!!84. Mean Girls or 21 Jump Street? I never watched these either ahsjdfkg85. Favourite character from Mean Girls? AAH I DON’T KNOW I’M SORRY86. Favourite character from Finding Nemo? I couldn’t tell! I’d need to rewatch it, but maybe Dory!87. First person you talked to today? Stella, SAY HIIIIIIIIII88. Last person you talked to today? My girlfriend for now!89. Name a person you hate? myfather I don’t hate anyone.

90. Name a person you love? My mother!

91. Is there anyone you want to punch in the face right now? Myself, all the time92. In a fight with someone? Uhm.. if you mean if I’m a fight at the moment.. no, I think.. 93. How many sweatpants do you have? Maybe just one or two!94. How many sweaters/hoodies do you have? EEEEEH. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH I LOVE HOODIES AND SWEATERS SO.. 100000000000000000000095. Last movie you watched? Does an X-Files episode count?? 96. Favourite actress? I wouldn’t know..97. Favourite actor? Nnnhhhh… I don’t know, I’m sorry!98. Do you tan a lot? Kind of, yes!99. Have any pets? A cat and a parrot and I love them so much aahh100. How are you feeling? ..I’m fine… coUGH101. Do you type fast? yeeeeEEEESS AND I’M STILL SURPRISED THAT I MAKE A LOT OF TYPOS102. Do you regret anything from your past? Yes, and no..103. Can you spell well? Ahah probably! 104. Do you miss anyone from your past? Yes.105. Ever been to a bonfire party? What is it?? 106. Ever broken someone’s heart? .. I wish I could say no… but..107. Have you ever been on a horse? I went to horseback riding for years!108. What should you be doing? STUDYING. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH109. Is something irritating you right now? … Irritating me… nothing! I just don’t really get “irritated”.110. Have you ever liked someone so much it hurt? .. Eeeh..111. Do you have trust issues? Mh? Didn’t you already ask this? MMH112. Who was the last person you cried in front of? I don’t remember.. ..113. What was your childhood nickname? Oh I should ask my mother, but I’ve always been called Chris by my friends even back then!114. Have you ever been out of your province/state? Yuup115. Do you play the Wii? It’s a miracle that I’ve had a Nintendo DS ahsdjfgkh116. Are you listening to music right now? No, but I’m going to!117. Do you like chicken noodle soup? OH YES!!!!! YES!118. Do you like Chinese food? Is spring rolls considered Chinese food? I wouldn’t know, but I’d like to try it, I love trying food from other countries!119. Favourite book? It usually changes depending on what I find!120. Are you afraid of the dark? No, I actually like it..121. Are you mean? YES. VERY. I’M GOING TO STEAL ALL YOUR WAFFLES AND EAT THEM ALL BWHAHAHAHAHAH122. Is cheating ever okay? .. I…- … ..is killing people ever okay.. ?123. Can you keep white shoes clean? NOOOO NOT EVEN THE BLACK ONES 124. Do you believe in love at first sight? .. I strongly believe that you need to build a connection with someone to fall in love, but.. love has no logic so I wouldn’t know.. I’ve happened to fall for someone at first sight… I couldn’t compare it to what I feel when I fall for someone after getting to know them though. I do feel that there’s something different. But to me, love takes place between souls and they need to get to know each other somehow. BUT AT THE SAME TIME I BELIEVE IN EVERYTHING125. Do you believe in true love? Of course!126. Are you currently bored? Not really~127. What makes you happy? Philosophy, the universe, waffles, my friends, my girlfriend, my pets, my mother, the sky…128. Would you change your name? Actually, no! 129. What your zodiac sign? Pisces130. Do you like subway? I’ve never been there!131. Your bestfriend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? .. Ah.. ah.. ahah… … uhm.. I.. never knew what to do..132. Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? STELLA ONCE AGAIN SAY HIIIIIIII but wait, didn’t you already ask this? Or is it my impression??133. Favourite lyrics right now? “At first I thought you were a constellation, I made a map of your stars then I had a revelation”134. Can you count to one million? Aahsdjfg noo135. Dumbest lie you ever told? I wouldn’t know! Perhaps “I’m fine” while obviously having a breakdown136. Do you sleep with your doors open or closed? Open, mmh I feel like this says something about people..137. How tall are you? 178 cm, last time I checked.138. Curly or Straight hair? Wait wait what are we talking about??139. Brunette or Blonde? WAIT WAIT WHAT140. Summer or Winter? WINTER AAAHH WINTER WINTER!! I CAN’T STAND SUMMER IT’S TOO HOT141. Night or Day? Night, and the moon and the stars~142. Favourite month? December!143. Are you a vegetarian? Noope144. Dark, milk or white chocolate? Milk and white chocolate because they’re sweeter, but I just really love chocolate in general!145. Tea or Coffee? Both, but maybe coffee.. 146. Was today a good day? … Ahah not really buuuut147. Mars or Snickers? HA! Snickers!148. What’s your favourite quote? The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.149. Do you believe in ghosts? YEEEEEEEEEEEEEES ALSO IN ALIENS150. Get the closest book next to you, open it to page 42, what’s the first line on that page? ..OH. “Names of stars and constellations were taking the place of a wonderful dream, where me and my parents were having lunch next to a river. Andromeda, Cassiopea, Centauri, and many other names from space were pronounced by his warm voice.” YOU MAY CALL THIS FATE. It’s a book that my girlfriend gave me because it reminded her of me, there’s one of the main characters who’s in love with stars and he talks about them all the time.

#I put this under a read more and I hope it will work for people who are on mobile right now!! I've heard that it doesn't always work...#EMILIA NFHGH

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