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#I can always go nuts with rendering afterwards
regardsandregrets · 1 year
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I did and overdid the trend
Surprise bonus version without glasses :>
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randomtothecore-blr · 4 years
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Being Adrien Agreste.
For @ladynoirjuly2020  (Cuddles)
Please don’t mind me popping out of nowhere and leaving this one-shot here. Just Chat Noir getting the love he deserves from his lady. Take this good old piece of FLUFF. Have a nice day!
________________
Adrien was seriously exhausted.
First he had continuous practice, and might he add, in the presence of a strict and seriously pissed coach of basketball for the upcoming match. Every guy in the class was exhausted after the long day, but momentarily happy because they could later go home and sleep their asses off. At least that was what Nino said he would do; it was only plausible that others would be doing the same.
But Adrien Agreste couldn't, no sir.
After school he was directly shoved into his other routines which included his Chinese Gibberish, Piano Crap-a-Trap, Fencing-Non Sensing, and lots of unnecessary Photo-Shits.
There were at least five shifts (five shifts!) in that photo-shoot, rendering the blond tired and completely exhausted in the end along with the complaints from the cameraman that 'it wasn't good enough', but Adrien was droopy more than pissed to snap at the guy that there was so much a person could do after five hours of sports, and two hours of constant standing.
And since his eyes were stinging and it was hard for him to keep them open, every job was becoming increasingly hard to complete. He felt his eyes burn so much that he was afraid they might wither and shrink in the sockets. Adrien regretted using his phone all night, trying to once act like a normal and rebellious teen to stay up all night. He should've known that one can only do such things when they are... normal.
And now that he was trying to sit in the back seat and his eyes instantly landed on someone that was most definitely an Akuma, Adrien cursed under his breath. As if on cue, his muscles started to ache in every part of his body, his every joint hurting and his head throbbing and his eyes burning. Adrien still sighed and got back out of the car, ignoring his assistant's questioning gaze. He didn't even bother to give an excuse and jogged somewhere safe.
Adrien peaked at the villain causing havoc everywhere and found out he was an athlete. The blond actually growled, causing even his kwami, the god of destruction, to squirm in his jacket.
"Claws out."
Chat Noir exercised his muscles a bit. Stretched his legs. Jogged. Cracked his knuckles. Slapped his face a few times. But the tiredness remained. The droopy eyed black cat glanced at the Akuma again. It seemed like he was one of those villains that always exhausted the heroes and extended the fight longer than necessary. Chat Noir groaned again.
He. Just. Wanted. To. Fucking. Sleep.
He saw a tiny red figure out there, now fighting the villain that called itself Destructeur. 
Ladybug.
It wasn't until she let out a startled yell at the blow in her stomach that Chat Noir's eyes snapped open to full alert and he jumped into action.
He bent down in front of the heroine as she sat up and rubbed her abdomen in annoyance. "Where were you?!" She all but exclaimed in frustration.
Chat Noir smiled despite himself. Her demeanor always managed to lift his spirits, no matter how bitter she could be.
"Oh, I was just chilling, bugaboo." Ladybug groaned as Chat Noir looked up at the villain that had gone nuts, "Well, aren't we in a cat-astrophic situation."
Ladybug stood up, readying her yoyo, "The only situation I'll be in will be kick-asstrophic. Let's get this over with, Chaton." She ran forward as Chat blinked. And then he barked out a laugh.
The plan, according to Ladybug, was to distract the villain as usual so that she could grab the damn obvious medal around Destructeur's neck. She couldn't help but notice something akin to... exhaustion? Flashing in her kitty's eyes before he immediately hid it and winked, dashing in the man's direction.
Ladybug frowned. She could feel that something was wrong with him, if the unsettling restlessness she felt in her heart was any indication. They were two halves of a whole, after all. And it had been a while since she found out that they could feel each other's mood shifts.
Pushing it aside to be dealt with later, Ladybug ran towards the villain as well, where she saw Chat Noir desperately trying to trigger and run from the raged athlete. Of course, it was a freaking athlete they were talking about. Of course that athlete had to tire them from all the running and fighting. If even Ladybug was exhausted, one could only guess what Chat Noir was going through.
But he still pushed himself forward, his muscles aching and paining and his breath labored and mind fuzzy as he said, I can still push my strength. Just a little more. I can fight as long as I'm able to stand on my feet.
His head bobbed back countless times due to a rush of nausea, but he was not going to leave this on his Lady to deal with alone. He could feel her worrying glances in his direction every once in a while, and he tried to give her his devious smirk which she obviously didn't buy. In the end, thankfully, Desctructeur got a little tired too (Or perhaps Hawkmoth just got bored), and Ladybug took that one millisecond chance to tackle him and take his akumatized object.
Chat Noir sighed in relief as the purification followed, and willed himself to Just a little more strength. Just give Ladybug a reassuring smile and a fist bump and go home. Just. This. Little. Strength.
He got up chiding himself as Ladybug finally started coming towards him. He took a deep breath, and smiled at her. "Welp! I'm thankful that it's all wrapped up!" Why was his voice shaking? "But it's a tragedy we have to cut our meeting short now." He said as he kissed the back of her hand sloppily. Ladybug rolled her eyes, "We haven't used our powers, so we have a lot of time." She stated and then eyed him. "Are you okay, Chat?"
"What can possibly happen to this cat, Ladybug?" He said smoothly. Another rush of nausea.
They saw the reporters coming their way, and Ladybug looked at Chat Noir worriedly, "Hey, are you- CHAT?!"
In a quick motion she stepped up to get hold of an almost collapsing Chat Noir in her strong arms. Her heart beat was erratic at what she had witnessed; his eyes had rolled back as he fell forward, and if she hadn't caught him he would've been lying sprawled on the ground. And it didn't help that he was shaking. And she could tell how bad it was because he was putting all his weight on her.
"Chaton, what happened?" Utter shock worry laced her voice. Chat Noir only shook his head, his eyes closed. As the press drew near, Ladybug quickly shouted an apology to them and, ignoring their worried questions about the black-clad hero, she zipped out with Chat Noir in her arm.
"Chat Noir, please tell me you're okay. Please. Speak to me!" She hyperventilated. She landed on a roof nearby, letting him lie down in her lap as she caressed his face. "Kitty, what happened? Please say something!" Being herself, she was already imagining all type of worst scenarios; him having a terminal disease, dying, going into a coma, becoming mentally unstable-
"Tired..." He croaked out, and Ladybug released a long relieved sigh while ignoring his offended expression.
"Don't get me wrong," Ladybug started, "You got me really worried. I thought it was something serious."
"This is serious..." Chat Noir groaned as he leaned into her warm body, pressing his head to her chest where he could hear her heartbeat, making him smile. 
So... warm.
Ladybug sighed or hummed in understanding, wrapping her arms around his frame to cradle him like a child, a fond and sympathetic smile on her lips. "You deserve a rest, kitty."
So...Calming.
Chat Noir sniffed with closed eyes, taking in Ladybug's scent and Ladybug's hands around him and Ladybug's soothing voice and just Ladybug. Was she... was she humming?
He felt her pet his hair slowly and deliciously as he stifled a moan of delight. This was heaven.
So...amazing.
He was blushing. He knew he was with the heat in his face and ears. But he couldn't bring himself to care as he hugged the Lady of his dreams tighter.
So... comforting.
So...
Ladybug felt a snore escape from the cat in her arms, smiling fondly at his sleeping form. She knew Chat Noir was an extremely energetic person who always pushed himself to never get tired. So if he was in such a state, Ladybug knew better than to wake him up. So she sang him a lullaby, rocked him slowly, gave him all the comfort she could right there, knowing she couldn't do anything else because of their identities.
Chat Noir was out worse than she thought. She was sure that if she slapped him he wouldn't wake up still. This just made her feel sorry for him even more. Ladybug placed a soft kiss on his cheek, cupping his sleeping face as she studied his peaceful features and that small smile lingering on his lips. She placed another kiss on his temple.
"Good kitty." She cooed.
She traced her finger from his forehead to his cheek, then down to his chin, her eyes trailing the movement. She leaned her head closer to study his face. Ladybug always thought that Chat Noir looked way too handsome for his own good, but she couldn’t help but admit that up close he looked like an angel; peaceful and ethereal with his glowing, flawless skin. Her curious blue eyes raked his face, until she realized that she was brushing her thumb over his lower lip. As his hot breath fanned her own lips, Ladybug jerked back with a start at their proximity.
Wow, she’d really leaned closer to him without realizing. Her eyes looked at his closed eyelids, and she couldn’t help herself but lightly peck both of them, eliciting a soft mewl out of him. A fond smile found her lips. She hugged him just a bit more tightly.
“My selfless chaton.”
________________________
BONUS:
Plagg: She kissed you on the cheek.
Adrien: W-What?!? She did? When I was asleep?
Plagg: AnD sHe GaVe YoU a WhOLe LoT oF kiiiiiisssesss aNd looooooovee aFtErwArDs~
Adrien: P-Plagg, please elaborate! How many? And w-where?
Plagg: I'll leave that a secret, 'good kitty'~
Adrien: PLAGG NO YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME IN THE DARK LIKE THAT-
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uzumaki-rebellion · 4 years
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“Wet Sugar” [Part 14 of 30]
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Summary: Erik and Yani grow closer, but he’ll have to leave soon...
NSFW. Mature Audience. Smut. You know what it is.
"Girls can't never say they want it
Girls can't never say how
Girls can't never say they need it
Girls can't ever say now
Give it to me like you need it baby
Want you to hear me screamin'
Heavy breathin'
I don't need a reason baby
I want it 'til you can't fight
I can give it to you right babe oh
I wanna be your healing
I can be real good
Please don't get in your feelin's…"
Summer Walker—"Girls Need Love"
She was his Adhan.
If Tahir were to hear him call Yani that, Erik would have to beg forgiveness from his mercenary chum. He did not mean any disrespect to the Muslim faith by it. It was the truth.
Before the sun rose on most mornings, Erik laid back on the bed he shared with Yani and watched her raise up and down on him, her body facing away from him. He would watch the muscles in her back flex and tense and see a warm sheen of perspiration slicken her skin. He would admire the indentations in her ass cheeks, the little pockets of cellulite dimpling the back of her heavy thighs and her shorter legs. He would reach out sometimes to hold onto her cute feet that he would tease her about. They were cute, chunky, wide, and he would make fun of all the weight they had to hold up from her thighs and ass. She hated when he did that, but he found them sexy and told her so. She was perfectly loving and round and soft and made him happy to wake up every day. What more could a man ask for? Especially when he was crazy about her. More than crazy. In love. Deeply. With her and her child.
They both tried to keep the intense pleasure of their lovemaking from escaping their lips and waking the baby in the next room, but Erik found himself unable to keep quiet for long as the soft rays of sunlight rose to illuminate his woman, her soft skin glowing a luminous coppery brown, and her wide round backside rolling on his hips that thrust gently into her. The moist sound of her wetness on his morning erection forced loud gasps to erupt from his lips.
By the time their bedroom was fully brightened and warming up from the sunshine, Erik would be twisting up the sheets with the grip of his fingers trying to anchor himself while shouting out Yani's name as his manhood swelled inside of her. The force of his semen leaving his body would render him speechless, especially when Yani glanced back at him and he caught the side view of her breasts bouncing. The expression on his face at that moment always propelled her to her own release, and her already tight walls would clench around his thickness even tighter forcing him to shout out a final curse word or two once he caught his breath again.
He had to have her every morning like that, had to see the sunrise with her on top of him moving those big hips and big ass…had to see those luminous eyes of hers on his face when he released hot and heavy into her womb.
Every morning she had him crying up to heaven, and every morning she would respond in kind toward him. Afterward, she would clean herself up and check on Sydette while he stayed on the bed wondering how his life had functioned the last two years without her in his world. He couldn't fathom an existence without her or Sydette now, and those thoughts made him anxious.
He could sleep soundly with her next to him without the help of medication. The focus on his work with Klaue's arm was acute and productive because she was always near him. His overactive brain learned to wind down easily when she was around. His life had a new clarity, a new purpose…a new needed daily routine.
After morning loving Yani would bring Sydette into their room to greet him, and he would shower the baby with kisses and hold her up in the air where the little girl would giggle and wave her arms and legs around like she was flying. Those moments were his favorite of the day, his body thrumming with the warm feelings he received from Yani and the joy on Sydette's face when her eyes saw him in the morning. He had formed a tight bond with the baby, and Yani said nothing when Sydette started calling Erik Baba the way he taught her. He didn't feel it was appropriate to have Sydette calling him Daddy. That was Chez's right as the birth father, but the reality was that Erik was caring and providing for the child more than her biological Dad, and he did feel like a father to her. They were a family now. A solid unit and Sydette thrived while living on the compound.
Her vocabulary picked up immensely because both Yani and Erik spent so much time talking around Sydette. They were both surprised when new words would pop out of her mouth because they would stare at each other and swear up and down they didn't teach her those things. All the deep conversations Erik had with Yani every day and every night rubbed off on Sydette.
Yani took Sydette to the cove before breakfast when it was Erik's turn to cook the first meal of the day. There was nothing like watching Yani stroll down the path topless with Sydette in her arms. He would blow kisses to Sydette and when they returned for breakfast, there was the tugging of his heart when Sweet Pea would reach out for him saying, "Baba! Baba!" He fed her in the high chair as Yani planned out their day.
After breakfast he would shuffle off to do work and Yani would spend time reading nursing books and studying up on subjects she would take up soon in school while looking after Sydette who played with her toys on the floor. Yani complained that Erik bought the baby too many toys, but he argued that a lot of the stuff he purchased was educational.
When he needed a break from his work, he would saunter down to the cove for a swim. On his return, Yani typically had Sydette down for a nap and he would lay himself on Yani's lap on the couch or back in the bedroom where he would suck on her tits for a long session while she edged him until he was spurting in her hand. She would fix them lunch afterward and then they would settle down for a nap together until the baby woke them up.
More work, then a quickie session with his mouth between her legs before dinner which was Erik's favorite meal to prepare for them. Depending on what he was cooking, the three of them would go to the cove together and swim, helping Sydette to become a mermaid like her mother. Erik would stand in the water up to his hips as Yani stood twenty feet away with Sydette in between them. He would laugh so hard with joy when Sydette would kick her little legs and wind her arms in the water making her way to him. Half dog paddle, half baby sea turtle scramble, he watched her swim to his open hands as he lifted her up and wiped her eyes. Kissing her cheek, he'd flip her around and watch her head back to Yani the same way.
Nervous jitters would sometimes grip him when a sudden wave rolled through and lifted the baby away from them. Yani didn't panic, but he would, worried that too much water would go down her nose or throat, and he often found himself scrambling after her.
There was a little tv watching in the evening, a final goodnight for Sydette, and then nighttime loving would begin. Erik always made sure to put Yani's ass to sleep. But then the midnight hour would creep around, and he was nudging her awake to put it on her again. Pure bliss…
Until she started going out on too many brunches and day trips with her friends.
At first, it was nice knowing she had the time now to spend with her pals. He had heard the horror stories of what Chez put her through, cutting her off from relatives and friends. He was happy to see her happy until she did it more often to the point of switching up their daily routine. He was accustomed to having her whenever he wanted and now found himself calling her when he wanted pussy. Calling her and having to wait for it for hours.
Nah.
Sex with her was just as important to him as their family time together, and he would have these intense urges for her. She was a habit he couldn't break and most times she was a good girl and would bring that good puss home to Daddy when he demanded it.
Lately…she was being a brat.
On her excursions away from him, he would kiss the baby goodbye as Yani strapped Sydette in the car seat to drop her off with Twyla or her parent's. Before she sat in the driver's seat of her car, Erik would kiss Yani deeply and play with her pussy, getting it wet and puffy.
"Don't be gone long," he would tell her.
Yani would nod and let him feel on her titties. He'd make sure she saw the slight bulge in his pants before he'd turn her around and spank her ass a few times. Sometimes if he was feeling a type of way, he'd take her behind the car and fuck her standing up, nut inside her deep, but refuse to let her cum. She had to return home in a timely manner if she wanted him to finish the job he started. He'd then insert one of the toys he bought for her and send her on her way.
The toys weren't making her get to him fast anymore.
In fact, he suspected that she liked disobeying him. It frustrated the fuck out of him and made him much more aggressive when she finally did drag her ass home. He would be aggravated with her but horny as fuck. Horny to the point of being brutal with her pussy. He'd be in her guts an outrageously long time and so worked up chasing that nut so strong that it would take him hours later to realize that she was playing him. Making him think he was in control when he was the one wrapped around her finger. Pussy whipped. Correction. Pussy stomped.
He would just get riled up and have to fuck her hard and fast with his hand on her throat to keep her in check. Even then, she'd have a sly smile on her lips as if to say, "Nigga, you ain't shit."
She stared at him like that after he pressed her face into the mirror as he took her on the floor. The cushiony pallet they built for that purpose was rumpled, his knees starting to hurt from the hard position he locked himself into. His punishment for taking so long to return to him ticked her off, but she licked his cum from the mirror. Plunging back into her, she came on him when he begged her to and his confession of love came tumbling out of his mouth. The sweet questioning look on her face as she stared at him in the wall mirror let him know it was safe to confess his feelings for her.
Yani's eyes welled up and he felt a loosening and a tightening in his heart. That he felt open enough to tell her he loved her was freeing…but telling her he loved her was also a stone block he placed around his own neck. It was foolish. He had to leave her at the end of the summer, would have to go wherever Klaue sent him. Why tell her this when it wouldn't matter after two more months? It was like planting I.E.D's inside his body and hers for no damn reason. It was self-destructive. Unfair really.
But oh how she kissed him afterward.
He wanted her to say it back to him but he was glad that she didn't. It might have paralyzed him at that moment. Her lips and tongue on his let him know how she felt. The tears on her face that traced a wet trail down her skin and his showed him all he needed to see. She was there in the thick of it like him.
After cleaning themselves up he made the decision not to push her about getting to him when she was out with her friends. She was twenty-one. He remembered what that was like. Wanting to party and hang out. He told her she was free to do what she wanted. Rushing her home for his needs was not the way he wanted her summer to be. There was deep pleasure in dominating her sexually. But the deeper pleasure was seeing her happy. Relaxed. Care-free. Being a loving mother to Sydette around the compound. Watching her put on make-up and pretty clothes to be out on the town with her buddies.
He kept her body on top of his on the couch as they watched television until it was time to pick up Sydette from her parents. They were going to dinner together with the baby, and Erik was going to drive her to her parents. She was nervous about it, evidenced by the deep sigh she gave when her cell alarm went off.
Her people knew what was up with them. No point in lying about it and making unnecessary tension whenever she dropped the baby off.
The ride over to her parents was tense.
"Yani…baby, relax. We agreed to keep it simple. I pull up in the car, you get the baby, and then we leave. Let them get used to seeing me drive you over…"
Her eyes were wide with fear.
"Have they made a big deal about me still?"
"No…they just don't say anything. But I can feel it when I come back to get Sweet Pea. It's like they don't want to give her back to me. Sometimes I wish they would say something. It would be better than that weird energy they give me."
"I should just come to meet them—"
"No! It would be too much for them."
"I know how to act around people who don't like me."
"They don't know you. That's the problem. They would like you a lot I think…"
"I'll do what you want. You know that. But I think we should just—"
"Damn…"
Yani leaned forward in her seat.
Erik pulled in front of a nice-looking home where Yani's parents stood outside talking to a neighbor with Yani's father holding Sydette in his arms.
"I just wanted to run in and out, but—"
Erik turned off the S.U.V.
Yani's parents and the neighbor stared at the car. She stepped out and Erik rolled down his window watching her approach them. Sydette wiggled and cried out "Mama!"
"Hey, Sweet Pea. Hello Mrs. Anson," she said.
Mrs. Anson and Yani's mother were busy staring at Erik through the windshield.
"Your friend is not getting out?" Yani's mother said.
"We have a dinner reservation—"
"Introduce us," her father said, his eyes taking in Erik's face.
Yani turned to look at Erik, a helpless expression on her face. Erik rolled up the window and stepped out. He walked up to her father first.
"Erik, this mi father Halston Galiber, and mi mother, Paula Galiber…"
Erik shook Halston's hand firmly. The man's eyes took in Erik's slugs and the scars on his arms. Yani's mother did the same.
"Baba!" Sydette shouted. She reached for Erik and he took her from Yani's arms and held her on his hip. Sydette's hand went to his mouth and he pretended to snack on her fingers and she squealed like she normally did, their normal little game for when they greeted one another.
"Go home," Sydette said, her legs bouncing on his hip.
"Nice to meet you, Erik," Yani's mother said, "this is our neighbor Mrs. Anson."
Erik nodded to the woman who stared at Erik as she gave him a warm smile.
"Hello, Mrs. Anson."
"Nice meeting you. I'm heading home, Paula," she said walking away from them.
"We're going to be late for our reservation," Yani said once more moving next to Erik.
"Bring Erik to the BBQ next week. Give us more time to know him," Paula said scrutinizing Erik harder than Halston was.
"We'll think about it—"
"Would love to come," Erik said.
Yani glared at him.
"Good. We'll expect you there," Halston said.
Yani took a deep breath and moved back toward the car.
"Thanks for taking care of Sweet Pea," Yani called to them.
"Have a nice dinner," Halston said.
Erik placed Sydette in the car seat as Yani climbed into the front passenger seat. The baby safe and secure, Erik walked around the car, waved at Yani's parents and climbed into the driver's side.
"God, why are they standing there just staring," Yani said through gritted teeth.
"I'm the big ogre from the hill stealing the Princess and the Pea," Erik joked.
He drove past her parents and Yani finally relaxed in the car.
"That wasn't so bad," he said.
"I know. And it worries me."
"Why?'
"They don't like me being with you."
"But now they've seen me. Invited me to the family cookout. I'm in baby!"
"It's suspect—"
"Suspect?"
"A setup."
"Nah. They met me. They can see I'm a regular dude—"
"You not regular, man."
"On the surface…"
She glanced over at him, a smirk on her face.
She was too damn cute. He reached over and squeezed her hand, lifted it to his mouth and kissed it.
Dinner was simple and filling, a local spot for fresh conch and beef patties, and afterward a calming stroll along a public beach. Erik dipped into a public restroom, and as he washed his hands, he heard Yani screaming outside. Running out and ready to beat ass for whatever danger harassed his girls, he slowed down when he saw Yani holding her phone to Sydette who was crawling on the sand.
"What's wrong?!"
"She was walking! My baby was walking!"
A relieved sigh came out of his mouth as he watched Sydette lean forward on her hands, push up from the sand and toddle over to Yani three full steps before tumbling again. Erik clapped his hands.
"Aye Sweet Pea! Big girl!"
Sydette looked up at him as she sat on her rump and clapped her hands eagerly too before trying again. Erik took out his phone and recorded her taking five steps over to Yani. Sweeping the baby up into her arms, Yani smothered Sydette with kisses.
"Got you both recorded!"
Yani put her daughter back down and held her hand, allowing Sydette to go at her own pace. Erik walked behind them still recording as Yani let go of Sydette's hand. She took wobbly steps but kept her balance, making sudden stops to clap her hands again and to also look back to make sure Erik was still following.
"Keep going, Sweet Pea!" he encouraged.
The baby turned around and took a fast toddle back to him grabbing his left leg. She giggled and looked up at him.
"Look at Baba' big girl!" he said.
"Big!" she called up.
He put his phone away, and when he looked over at Yani, she had her eyes on Sydette.
"I thought I was going to miss this moment," she said softly.
They both watched Sydette experiment a little more with steps before she was reaching up to Erik. He lifted her up and kissed her forehead.
"I would've missed this. Right now, I would normally be at the restaurant, and she would be with Twyla, or Monice, or my Auntie…I wouldn't have seen this…"
She took a long exhale and wiped her eyes before linking her arm in his free one.
So many new milestones he was witnessing with Yani.
His own parents were together when they told him about his first steps. His father teased him about trying to have alone time with his mom and how Erik had woken up from their living room floor and waddled over to them trying to get to his mother. As a kid, he didn't get the big deal about his first steps, everyone took them.
But seeing Sydette do it, and witnessing the awe and gratefulness in Yani's face, he now understood what it meant to a parent. Even in the short amount of time he had known Sydette, he had watched her change and grow so much. He was there and Chez was not. He felt a slight bit of guilt like he had stolen something from Sydette's father. Did Chez even care? Yani's belly had been swollen with the little girl when he cheated on her making another child. If he had no concern then, would he really care if he saw her walking for the first time? Yani deserved that all for herself. Fuck him.
Heading back to the car, Yani sent the video she took to all her family. Her phone blew up quickly. Once they were back at the car she was gabbing to Twyla and Cee Cee on speakerphone. Erik sent his video to Yani's phone so she could send the shots he took of Sydette walking to her.
"Big nigga, you in trouble now," Twyla teased him, "baby girl will be runnin' up on you two. Can't be fuckin' freely no more!"
Yani's face crumbled with embarrassment.
"Goodbye!" Yani said and hung up on her cousins.
"They're right you know. She can already climb down from her bed."
Yani glanced back at Sydette.
"You knock before you enter our bedroom? Hear?"
The comfort of home eased them both into quiet contemplation. Yani cleaned and changed Sydette as Erik scanned the tv for news and sports updates. There were no warning messages from the security system that guarded the compound, and he shot off his weekly check-in email with Klaue. The man was bugging him about his arm. Erik told him he'd have something workable in two weeks. He'd have it done sooner, but he wasn't ready to make a short trip away from Yani and Sydette so soon.
"She is out already. Mommy and Daddy must've had her busy over there to make her so wiped."
She crawled onto the couch and curled up in his lap. A yawn escaped her lips.
"You are beat too."
"Because of you," she said.
He kissed her cheek.
"My baby is walking," she whispered.
"Swimming. Walking. Running is next."
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"All of this."
He kissed her and rubbed her hip.
Her eyes wouldn't leave his.
"Go on to bed. I'ma stay up and watch a little tv," he said.
She nodded and kissed him on his cheek.
The sway of her hips was enticing, and for a second he thought he would follow her. But she needed a break. Physically from him.
He stayed up a few hours until it was past midnight. Slipping into their bedroom, he stripped out of his clothes and climbed under the covers next to her. It was cooler that night and nice to feel covers surrounding them as opposed to their usual slumber on top of the covers. He spooned around Yani, but she turned around and snuggled into his chest, her warm body molding around his.
"Killmonger," she whispered.
"Yes?"
"I love you too."
He squeezed her and felt his throat get tight.
"I was scared to tell you that," she said.
"I was scared too."
"It feels different."
Her hand stroked his arm. He pulled back to look at her. Even in the darkness and the pale light of the stars, he could make out her face.
"How does it feel to you?" he asked.
Her fingers touched his lips.
"It feels real this time."
He nuzzled his face against her cheek.
"I've only been in love one time before this. I didn't think I could feel that way again. Not this fast. Not with two people," he said.
"What scares you?"
"The hurt I know I will cause you and that baby—"
"Killmonger—"
"I didn't want to tell you I loved you, Yani. I wanted to keep that to myself. Make it easier on you and her…the closer we get…I don't want to disrupt Sweet Pea's life… or yours—" "We knew what we were getting into—"
"But the baby, Yani. She… she's…"
Erik closed his eyes.
"She's attached to you now. I know."
Yani tucked herself into his chest once more. She calmed the shuddering there.
"Don't think about nothin' bad, okay? Let us just love you back," she said.
###
One whole week.
He didn't touch or initiate anything solely intimate for one whole week.
He worked an insane amount of time in the workshop, and instead of taking his afternoon breaks to the cove and coming back to suckle her breasts, he went to the gun range and shot weapons.
Yani worried that all the love talk stressed him out the night she shared her feelings back to him, but he was still affectionate with her. It was just all the sexual play that lapsed between them.
She tried wearing sexier outfits around the house instead of just being straight up nude. Titillation was often more exciting to men than full nudity. But that didn't entice him, his focus was on completing the task Klaue had for him. Even when she went out with her friends, he didn't even bother to play with her body or insert toys into her vagina or ass. No more urgent phone calls to come home.
Morning loving was just intense kissing. No more quickies. No more coming after her when the urge struck him throughout the day. Bedtime was just a bit of smooching, a little bit of rubbing all over her booty and then he was out…snoring.
Nude text messages didn't even stir him when she would send him personal selfies of her breasts or her hands between her legs to his cell. It was like he was over her. She couldn't figure out what was going on with him. Even when she asked, he just said work was on a tight deadline. She even took over cooking their evening meals when he worked through the night, stopping to grab a bite for a few minutes before returning to the workshop and working until two or three in the morning.
Sometimes she caught him staring out at the ocean on the porch of Klaue's main home only snapping out of his reverie when Sydette walked to him and tugged on his pant leg.
"C'mere Sweet Pea,' he would say and take the baby on a walk around the property, guiding her baby steps and helping her up if she stumbled. A lot of time was spent on Klaue's private beach where he would play Brazilian music on a small set of speakers and jump around wearing white loose pants and fight an imaginary opponent with his hands and swipes of his legs. He was acrobatic and so fast. She would come looking for him with Sydette and find him down there, He'd pretend to fight her or move in front of Sweet Pea doing cartwheels and backflips. Sydette would try to copy him and roll around in the sand and kick out her chubby legs toward him.
"Jinga, Babygirl!" he would call to her and Sydette rolled in the sand to please him.
She missed him physically.
She asked her cousin Monice to watch Sydette for a few hours. She needed some alone time with Erik, and she needed to do it in a way where she didn't have to worry about looking after Sydette too.
###
Klaue wanted two things:
An arm that wouldn't explode on him because of the vibranium.
An arm that looked realistic.
One out of two wasn't bad because the materials used to make a white person's pale flesh-tone arm would not work. It melted and couldn't contain the energy and power of the Wakandan metal. He experimented with many polymers on metal exoskeletons until he found one that would do the trick. The man would be stuck with a pale egg-shell white outer arm with internal protective alloys that Erik created and mixed that could contain the power of the vibranium power surges that threatened to blow up his old arm. He played with thermoplastics, metal oxides and the like until he found the proper balance of surge suppression.
He spent a short lunch staring at Yani's human anatomy figurine, taking it apart to look at the structure of the human arm with plastic pieces as opposed to online 3D diagrams. He asked Yani a few questions about tendons and ligaments, so tempted to take her into the workshop but deciding to keep her in the dark. He eventually mastered the inner workings of the arm design. The goal now was to get it to seal up properly once the weaponized firepower was used.
He was so wrapped up in getting Klaue's arm perfected that he ignored the blatant attempts by her to get his attention. He was so close to getting the prosthetic finished that he used that energy he once showered on Yani to push through with his work. He clearly saw Yani trying to catch his eye, and she did, but he pushed through regardless. Nude photos sent to his phone didn't even move him. When he was hyper-focused like this, nothing could sway him.
Sitting in the workroom, he took his time assembling components to secure the arm. His cell gave off a chime and he glanced at it. Yani had a close up of her bikini top. The orange one he liked.
I want some dick.
Erik stared at her text.
"My girl is hurtin'," he said out loud a wide grin on his face.
He ignored her words. The cell chimed again.
I'm so wet.
Baby, I'm working. Gotta finish this shit. I'll take care of you soon enough. Promise.
But I want you now. The baby not here. Just you and me. Come get this pussy, man.
Calm yourself.
Calm this pussy.
He laughed.
"Thirsty," he said pulling his goggles back down and picking up Klaue's arm. Time for more tests outside on the gun range.
Yani knew better than to come around there while he was testing. Strict guidelines were set for her and Sydette while he was working on Klaue's prosthetic.
The random targets Erik prepared for his tests were hung about at various distances. Bags of cement twenty, fifty, and one hundred feet away. Groupings of twisted metal close and far away. Slabs of beef to simulate human flesh propped up too.
Erik placed Klaue's arm on a metal post and turned on his remote-control unit. Glancing around at his set up, he opted to go back into the workshop and grab a protective apron to wear on his chest. Better safe than sorry.
He texted Yani.
About to do some testing. You hear some explosions, don't freak out.
No response.
Erik draped the apron around himself.
"Killmonger…"
Yani's voice. Clear and loud and sexy as all get out surrounded him.
She was using the intercom system.
"Whatchu want, girl?"
"I need it…"
He pulled the goggles from his eyes.
Shit.
The treble in her voice made his stomach react.
"Yani, I told you—"
"Listen to it…"
A drawn-out moan surrounded him and his dick jumped. He could hear the unmistakable and unrestrained gushy sounds coming from her pussy.
He yanked the protective apron away from his body.
"So juicy for you…"
She was slapping that fat puss now and he lost his breath for a second. Squeezing his eyes closed, his fists balled up tight.
"Where are you?"
He swallowed thickly and grabbed at his dick, adjusting the swelling he felt there.
"Come find me, Daddy…"
This girl. Fuck.
She couldn't be around the workshop or gun range. That was a given. She knew better and wouldn't play around there. He decided to check her house first.
"I need you to make a mess in this pussy…"
The outdoor speakers were crisp and clear. Her voice had his skin prickled with goosebumps. Like a ship searching for a lighthouse, Erik stormed into the middle house and checked all the rooms. She wasn't there.
"Ooh, baby…"
"Yani…fuck…where are you?"
He jogged up to the first house and looked in rooms, under beds, deep inside closets, around the foliage outside. He ran down to Klaue's house.
"So close, Daddy…"
He was so crazed at that point that he even checked the secret space under Klaue's globe that housed his liquor.
The cove.
Erik moved like a cheetah chasing a gazelle expecting to see her. Her voice could be a recording. When his eyes gazed across the horizon of water hoping to see her wet and naked and waiting for him in the balmy sea, he let out a loud yell of frustration when she wasn't there.
He stalked back over to Klaue's main house and checked the other private beach.
Where the fuck was she?
Feeling aggy, he checked the garage and other non-domicile buildings for her.
"Killmonger…please…."
Maybe she was near the forbidden zone.
He swept around the gun range and checked the rest of the grounds. Was she fucking with him?
He stomped back to Klaue's main house.
"Yani…I don't wanna play no more!"
Their bedroom was spotless, the bed made, the windows open, the pallet on the floor pristine. Her fingers were working her depths and he could hear every slick and wet sound. Dick jutting out, there were wet stains on his loungers already.
He stepped into the master restroom and washed his hands and rinsed his face. Returning to the bedroom he tried to think of how she could be so hidden.
"Give me a hint or somethin' girl…damn."
"Keep playin' with that dick…"
She was watching him. His eyes went to the hidden cameras in the room. He had disabled every camera that Klaue could try and spy with. He was aware of every power surge or strange attempts to hack into the mainframe of security.
Unless…
There was another room he was unaware of. One that Yani knew about and Klaue didn't reveal to him. A panic room of some sort…
Erik took off his shirt and slipped out of his Nike track shoes.
She had to be in Klaue's house.
He ran his hands down his chest and he heard her voice give off a sigh.
"You like that?" he asked.
"Yessss…"
Fuck. Her voice curling around the end of the S's.
"Stroke that dick…"
He reached into his loungers and gripped himself.
"Lemme give you all this," he said.
"Mmhmmm…mi want it all…"
His balls jumped. She probably had them big legs wide open, fingers dripping with all her slick. Clit engorged and ready for his lips.
He fisted himself.
"You nuh wahn this?" she groaned.
"Oh shit…"
He was so swollen. Her vocal inflections would make him cum if she kept talking to him through the speakers. His eyes felt watery and blurry.
"Look for the heartbeat," she said.
Heartbeat.
His eyes blinked and he shuffled out of the bedroom, heavy girth bobbing as he walked. Once he found her it was going to be over. Ain't no way she was having him on a pussy scavenger hunt without him tearing that ass up at the end.
His fingers stroked the head of his dick through his thin pants. The entire shaft throbbed from root to tip because of his touch.
"Baby…" he gasped.
Eyes darted about the living room. They once had a conversation about the artwork and artifacts decorating the space. He played with several djembe drums and let her strike the skins to hear the different tonal sounds, teaching her a basic drum pattern to play. The tighter the skin, the louder the sound.
"The drum is the heartbeat of the people," he told her.
Taking in the drums now, he scanned each and every one within sight.
"Warmer," she whispered.
He stepped in front of a small drum set made with goatskin.
"So cold, baby…"
He swung around.
There had to be another secret opening.
Heartbeat.
Scanning a shelf display of ancient drums, Erik walked in front of a centerpiece.
"Warmer…hmmmm…"
His ears tingled from her sound and his left hand tugged on his nuts. The center drum was from the nineteenth century. The ones shelved next to it were twenty-first century. But the one on the bottom left shelf display was the oldest. Fourteenth-century from what Klaue told him. Erik's hands reached for it and rubbed the edge of the skin.
"So close, Daddy…"
He ran his fingers along the ropes on the side of the drum and stroked the wood wedges. On the drum stand, Erik noticed a discoloration of dark brown wood mixed with a lighter hue. He flicked his thumb across an unusual marking on the side and a small section of the wall shelving opened up.
Erik smiled and slipped through the opening and found himself standing above narrow stone stairs. He walked down and found what he suspected, a panic room filled with wall view screens that were turned off. There was a small generator, an air filter system, and a supply of canned foods, water, and a fridge. He stepped into another narrow room and found Yani naked on a twin bed, her legs wide open, her fingers sinking in and out of her glistening slit. The wings of her labia sat welcoming.
He shook off his pants and dropped to his knees.
Yani's eyes were pools of lust. Erik pulled her thighs closer to him. Wrenching his eyes away from hers, they dropped down to stare at her opening. He fought to calm himself, his breathing uneven from the excitement of finding her. He stroked the skin of her belly and let his fingers drop to the meeting of her thighs and legs.
"Killmonger—"
"Shh…"
He reached up and stuck his fingers between her lips and she licked them before sucking them gently, her eyes still on him.
"You want this dick?" he asked, letting the weight of it drag against her folds.
She nodded her head, gasping when his slick glans grazed her clit.
"Made me do all that work looking for you…damn…girl—"
The squelching from her fingers inside her pussy made his face grow tight. His lips poked out and he groaned hard when he saw how frothy her digits were when she pulled them out. She presented her slick fingers to him and he licked them clean, the sweet taste of her making him weak.
She circled her nipples and pushed her breasts up close to her face. Her tongue snaked out and circled each plump tip licking them slow.
Thoughts of eating her out first went out the window. He gave her no warning and plunged into her opening rough and raw.
Yani gasped and released her breasts, her elbows trying to balance her weight as he fucked her with little tender mercies.
"Pussy wet as fuck!" he yelled.
The bed she was on was firm and handled the weight he was throwing on her.
"Yes…yes…yes!" she wailed at him.
"…impatient…couldn't let me finish my work…"
"…fuck me…"
Her eyes held him hostage.
Despite the beauty of her breasts bouncing, her big dark nipples enticing his lips to suckle them, despite the bounty of her thighs and thick ass rocking against his balls, Yani's eyes trapped him with all the love he saw there. He tried to blink away the sudden rush of tears he felt growing on his lids, but they fell on her and she lifted up to hold his face. Wiping away the wetness he felt falling, she stopped his hands.
"Don't," she whispered, "if this is what you are feeling, let it come out, yeah?"
His face dropped down to hers.
"I don't even know how to act around you anymore," he mumbled into her ear.
"Just love me," she sighed into his ear as he thrust into her once more.
He moved her further back onto the bed and held up her left leg.
"…gripping me…"
"Been wanting you for so long."
"I know."
"Daddy, right there….right there…"
"Being a good girl…shit…"
"Erik."
His eyes went back to her the moment he heard his name.
Her lips were slightly parted and her pants for breath matched his slow deep thrusts inside of her.
"Erik!"
Her eyes shut tight and he saw tears press out from her lids.
"I'm right here."
He felt her insides clamp down around him and he held her tighter against him. Heavy exhalations filled his ears as she clutched onto his back, her nails pressing into his muscles. She cried out again and he felt her body spasm against him hard.
"God…I'm cumming in your pussy baby!"
The surge from his balls erupted. He felt the hard spurts fill her up, his eyes rolling back. Her thighs pulled his ass back down.
"You runnin' from me?" she teased.
"Fuck!" he shouted.
They both started laughing.
"I wasn't running."
"Yes, you were," she said.
His body hunched up when he felt the last of his ejaculate release into her.
"Goddamn…that was...damn."
She laughed at him more and he grinned.
Lifting up from her he caught her eyes again.
"You mine…" he whispered.
She stroked his cheek and neck.
"I'm yours," she said.
Leaning back, Erik pulled out from inside of her.
"Girl, we done fucked up this man's emergency bed."
He slapped her thighs and felt a rush when a bit of his semen drizzled from her opening.
"Your shit is all sloppy now," he said thumbing her labia and coating her folds with more of his warm cum.
He leaned his face back down to hers and kissed her.
"You made a big mess," she said watching more of his semen spill out from her.
"That's what you wanted. I delivered."
"Yeah, you did."
"What's that look for Lil Mama?"
Yani sat up and eased her shoulder against his.
"You make me happy."
"Yeah?'
"Yeah—"
A loud hissing sound disturbed their reverie. An automated voice came through the intercom system.
"Incoming message from Klaue, Ulysses"
Erik slipped on his pants quickly.
"I'm going to take his call in the living room. Go out the back door and stay up at the middle house until I come for you, okay?" he said.
Yani nodded and threw a pale yellow dress over her head and grabbed her sandals.
He kissed her cheek and slapped her ass.
"I'm not done with you, Ma," he said following her out of the panic room.
He watched her scramble out of the main house through the back exit before he touched the main viewscreen in the long side wall of the living room.
"Klaue, talk to me," Erik said, stretching his neck and feeling sated after having his woman.
"Tell me about my arm," Klaue said.
Erik could see the man sitting at a desk in South Africa somewhere.
"It's almost ready—"
"I need it next week."
Erik wasn't ready to leave St. Thomas. Even if it was for a short period of time. Love was making him feel rooted.
"Okay," he said.
Klaue smiled.
"That's my boy!"
###
Chapter 15 Here.
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Text
You Can’t Cross the Same River Twice - Chapter 15
Charles is running out of time. He'd lunched with Grandmama at Copely Square and she had issued an ultimatum - couched though it was in the genteelest of language - over dessert. Charles must find a suitable bride lest the Emerson-Winchester fortune pass to, ugh, Cousin Alfred. Who, despite his many deficiencies of character, has both a wife and - more importantly - an heir to carry on the family name.
Charles cannot - will not - allow such an idiotic gormless cretin as Cousin Alfred to be the one responsible for carrying the Winchester name and legacy into the future. And there's no saying what his nouveau rich, money grubbing harlot of a wife would do with the family fortune, but it would doubtless be something gauche. So Charles must, for the good of the family, find a suitable bride - and soon.
Unfortunately, Charles knows just who to ask for help.
"Charles!" Pierce exclaims a little too loudly as he answers the door. And he's looking rather... rumpled. Perhaps he has company. "We weren't expecting you to drop by this afternoon."
He does have company. This was undoubtedly a mistake. But now that Charles is here, he may as well state his purpose.
"Please excuse my rudeness in dropping by unannounced, but I'm afraid I need your help." There, a bit of groveling ought to placate Pierce and hopefully help him speed whatever hussy he has over out the door.
Pierce gestures Charles inside. "Well, if that's the case, step right into my parlor..."
"Said the spider to the fly. You know you're making a devil's bargain asking Hawkeye for unspecified help."
And joy. McIntyre's home as well. At least he appears to have gotten rid of Pierce's girl already.
Pierce smiles not at all comfortingly and says, "How exactly can I help you, Charles? Surely it can't be anything of a medical nature."
"No, no, it's much worse than that." Charles slumps into an armchair. He's playing up the anguish a bit and is gratified when Pierce looks at him in genuine concern. He always was a soft touch. Hopefully it keeps him from laughing Charles out of the room at the next part. "I've been tasked with finding a suitable bride with whom to start a family. And I must be engaged before my family's summer cotillion lest I - and my entire immediate family - lose everything." Charles looks up discretely to see how Pierce and McIntyre are taking his tale of woe.
McIntyre is spluttering and choking on a mouthful of whiskey - and Charles must have missed him pouring a glass - he would have taken one himself, even if it's mid-range Irish swill. Or, more likely, it was left over from Pierce's date - Charles wouldn't be surprised at McIntyre drinking from another's glass.
Charles turns his gaze to Pierce, the man he really needs to impress the urgency of his situation upon. Pierce is just staring unblinkingly back at Charles. And he would feel rather proud of rendering him speechless, but Charles does actually need his help. He hopes Pierce comes out of his shock soon.
It takes McIntyre gently closing Pierce's gaping mouth - and whispering something presumably uncouth into his ear, based on the slight flush it elicits - for Pierce to come back to himself.
"How," Pierce asks, "I repeat how do you expect me to help you? If you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly married. And I doubt I could introduce you to anyone you'd be interested in."
McIntyre snorts. Perhaps Pierce's class of girl has deteriorated further since Korea.
"I'm not looking for introductions, Pierce. I doubt you know any of the eligible debutantes of Boston high society. I simply need help determining if any one on the list of suitable young ladies of good breeding is someone I could actually stand to live with." Charles sighs. "I find myself... changed... by our acquaintanceship - and Korea in general. And after the way my old school chums reacted to our little card club, I want to make sure that any woman I marry is understanding of our friendship."
"Aww, Charles, you admit that we're friends." Pierce looks to McIntyre. "And in front of other people, too."
"He must really need your help," McIntyre adds. "Though I'm not sure I qualify as a people to the Back Bay set."
"Well, true love - or the aristocratic equivalent - is a noble cause. Of course I'll help. But you still haven't explained how I can assist you in this selection process - though, of course, I'm willing to give all the candidates a thorough physical." Pierce leers.
"That will not at all be necessary." Charles affects affront. "After all, I myself am a highly skilled physician." He allows a smirk to grace his features.
Pierce laughs, bested - and does not appear too put out at the loss of opportunity for lechery. Despite his reputation, Charles has never seen him press himself untowardly on any of the young ladies he's acquainted with from their little neighborhood pub. That's the reason Charles feels comfortably approaching him with this difficulty - that and his skill at pranks and practical jokes.
"All levity aside, gentlemen, I'd like Pierce to escort Honoria to the various outings I'll have with the more likely candidates - she has already promised to act as my chaperone. And, as she was once engaged to an Italian, I assume she will also have the necessary fortitude to deal with you." Charles levels a glare at Pierce. "But I warn you, you had best not allow any harm to befall my sister."
"I'll be on my best behavior," Pierce promises. "Though after being engaged to an Italian, surely she can handle a country bumpkin from Maine. I suppose Trapper would be a bridge too far, though."
And there's an edge to Pierce's expression that Charles has learned means he's dangerously close to insulting McIntyre - and that he had better tread carefully lest Pierce tear him apart most viciously.
"I thought perhaps McIntyre could escort the lovely Nurse Freeman to dine with us and any of the candidates who make it past the initial interview. I would not subject either of them to undue... uncomfortableness." For both are fine representations of their respective... backgrounds - managing, as they have, to rise above their unfortunate origins to become competent medical professionals - and they do not deserve the scorn and censure that one of Charles's station would generally level.
"I think it's a terrible idea," McIntyre says. "Count me in."
"Excellent," Charles says brusquely. "You'll of course need suitable clothing - I'll make an appointment with my tailor and send you the details. And I'll need to inform Honoria of the plan..."
There are quite a few wheels to set in motion - including several young ladies to call upon - so Charles bids Pierce and McIntyre a rather indecorous adieu. They don't seem offended by his haste to depart, so Charles leaves South Boston with a spring in his step and a scheme in the works.
--
"You're gonna look so pretty all dolled up."
Trapper smooths the shirt over Hawkeye's shoulders, making sure it lays flat. Hawkeye can feel the warmth of Trapper's hands right through the thin silk. It's almost like when Trapper had helped him get ready for his date with Edwina - except that there's no Radar here to keep the mood friendly and comical. It's just intimate. And that intimacy is further underscored by Trapper laying a soft kiss on the back of Hawkeye's neck as he starts to do up the shirt buttons. Hawkeye can see himself in the mirror, half dressed and framed - enveloped - by Trapper, who's standing behind him, steady and steadfast. It gives him the courage to voice his reservations about the evening.
"I'm nervous about going to this little soiree, Trap, I'm not going to lie. I've never been to a high society garden party before - and I know the point of this whole thing is to make sure Charles finds someone who can accept us being friends - but I don't want to actually make a fool of myself." Hawkeye meets Trapper's eyes in the mirror. "I know I agreed to this plan, but now that I'm staring it down, I'm worried. It sort of feels like I'm being asked to play up the worst parts of myself to keep people away - like I did when I went nuts. And I'm worried I'll be stuck back in that version of Hawkeye after I've spent all this time getting out of it."
Trapper shifts so that he's more fully embracing Hawkeye. "Look, if you really can't do it, I'll go and you can stay home. But for all that he's an asshole, Charles ain't gonna make you make yourself look stupid or be the center of attention or anything. He's just asking you to be a semi-decent human being - something you're pretty good at - to make sure his date is one too. And I don't know that I'd be feeling all that comfortable at a high society shindig either, Hawk. But it sounds like Honoria's a good sport and she and Charles will be looking out for you." Then Trapper grins. "And if it gets to be too much you can always pull the fire alarm or hide in the plants or something. I think the conservatory has a big room full of ferns, you oughtta have no problem disappearing."
Hawkeye smiles too. "All that army camouflage training finally being put to good use." He squeezes Trapper's arm briefly. "Thanks, Trap. I think I just sort of got lost in what the worst version of the evening could be but you're right about Charles and the plan and everything - especially the part about me being a paragon of truth justice and the American way." Trapper snorts at that but Hawkeye continues on. "I feel a lot better about mingling with the silver spoon set knowing you'll be here waiting to mock all the upper class twits with me afterwards."
"Well, you ain't ready to head out the door just yet," Trapper teases. "Showing up without pants would definitely be the wrong kinda crass - not to mention, put you right in the spotlight."
Trapper gathers up the suit pants and kneels in front of Hawkeye, holding them open so Hawkeye can steady himself on Trapper's broad shoulders and step into them. He remains kneeling as he pulls the trousers up Hawkeye's legs in a lingering slide, the fine wool the faintest tease against his bare skin. And Hawkeye is having trouble remembering why he'd been nervous - or anything at all, really.
"You know, maybe I ought to just call in sick anyway, Trapper. Stay home with you." Hawkeye has to take a deep breath when Trapper does up his fly. His problem definitely isn't cold feet anymore.
Trapper stands, grinning, and wraps the silk tie gently around Hawkeye's throat. "Nah, you made a promise to help and you oughtta honor it." Trapper snugs the knot against the base of Hawkeye's throat and smooths the tie flat. "Besides, I'm looking forward to doing all this in reverse when you get home. And I can't spend the evening in anticipation if you never leave."
Trapper gently tilts Hawkeye's chin and kisses him. Then he presses kisses to each of Hawkeye's palms as he places the showy gold cufflinks Charles had insisted on.
"I suppose there's something to be said for drawing things out," Hawkeye says, a little breathless. "But not too much, I don't want to actually be late."
Trapper grins and helps Hawkeye into the waistcoat. "Glad you're seeing things my way." His hands linger a little as he does up the buttons. "And I made sure I had plenty of time to get you ready." Trapper steps back and his eyes rake over Hawkeye's body. "Made sure I had time to appreciate my efforts."
Hawkeye looks at himself in the mirror. He's never been a fan of three-piece-suits, finds them stifling and restrictive. But he can sure appreciate what a close-cut vest does for Trapper's physique.
Hawkeye's built along different lines, though. Rather than emphasizing broad shoulders and a strong chest, the waistcoat pulls him into a sort of hourglass shape. He looks slender and delicate and pretty in a way that the boxy trousers and suit jackets currently in vogue usually hide. And he'll have to hide this under a jacket too - Charles would pitch a fit if he showed up half dressed - but he may just try to find an excuse to wear the vest, and only the vest, in the future. The way Trapper's looking at him, he wouldn't mind it either.
And then Trapper's helping Hawkeye into the suit jacket, doing up the buttons, adjusting the handkerchief. When Trapper places his hands on Hawkeye's shoulders and pushes him gently down to sit on the bed before kneeling to help Hawkeye into his shoes, he can't help but run a hand through Trapper's curls. And Trapper looks up at him, smiling, and presses a soft kiss to the inside of Hawkeye's thigh just behind the knee.
They stay like that for a while, Trapper resting his forehead against Hawkeye's thigh while Hawkeye gently cards through his hair. It's quiet, peaceful. And then there's a knock on the door and it's Charles's driver come to collect him.
--
Hawkeye tries to hold on to that sense of peace as he's thrust into the genteel insanity of a high-society blind date. The main area for the party is a riot of color and noise - compounded by the echoing glass ceiling. And Hawkeye doesn't know anybody here except for Charles, who is obligated to pay almost undivided attention to his date.
Fortunately, Hawkeye is saved by the arrival of Honoria Winchester, who - despite all of Charles's stories of her wild past - is a sedate companion. And Hawkeye can slip into the rote mechanics of escorting her to their table, pulling out her chair, and complementing her appearance. He may just get through this evening all right after all.
And then Charles's date opens her mouth.
--
"How was the party?" Trapper asks as Hawkeye slips through the front door.
He's reading on the couch and the radio's on softly in the background. Hawkeye is grateful for the calm - even if this isn't quite how he'd expected to be welcomed home after all of Trapper's talk of anticipation and promises to undress him.
He raises a quizzical eyebrow at Trapper.
"Business before pleasure, Hawkeye. How'd everything go?"
Hawkeye flops down on the sofa next to Trapper with a put upon sigh. "Some hedonist you are."
He pokes Trapper in the side but he just looks expectantly at Hawkeye.
"Ok, fine. The party was all right - though rich people sure eat weird food. And Honoria is a delight. We definitely ended up being friends with the wrong Winchester - though it's probably too late to swap them out. But we did our jobs of being mildly objectionable and kind of feeling out Charles's date on things. Although we didn't really need to bother, since she pretty much aired every strange and bigoted opinion you could think of all on her own. And when she wasn't complaining about immigrants diluting the purity of good Anglo-American stock, she was criticizing the decor. Charles looked like he was about ready to throw her in the fish pond halfway through the second course - and I'm kind of sorry he didn't."
Trapper snorts. "That's almost impressive."
"Yeah, she must have cleaned up at the time trials for Olympic snobbery." Then Hawkeye grins. "But we found out, during one of her spiels about dirty foreigners, that she's absolutely terrified of catching a - quote - heathen jungle malady. And wouldn't you know, the conservatory has a room all done up like a little jungle. We went for a stroll there after dinner and Honoria kept asking about the various exotic diseases we treated in Korea and if we could get them from the room. And Charles did a very unconvincing job of reassuring her that there was no way she would be able to contract them in the States. And Charles's date just kept getting paler and paler and complaining of various symptoms. By the time Honoria asked her if her complexion was normally so yellow, she was ready to cut the evening short and lock herself in a sanatorium. Frankly, I hope she keeps herself quarantined for a good long while just so nobody else has to listen to her."
"And hopefully Charles's next candidate for Mrs. Emerson Winchester isn't such a dud," Trapper says. "I want my own turn at being a nuisance."
Hawkeye snuggles a little further into Trapper's side and bats his eyelashes. "Speaking of duds, I'm really ready to get out of these fancy clothes. And I think you promised to help with that."
Trapper grins. "You sure got a one track mind, Hawkeye. But I like the direction it's going." He ushers Hawkeye up the stairs and into the bedroom.
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vincentpennington · 4 years
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Stocking Your Paleo Pantry
Wondering how to fill your kitchen and pantry with healthy real food so you can cook nourishing meals even during emergencies? Here are my top tips on how to stock a paleo pantry!
I’ve heard from many Nomsters—especially those who are brand-new to Paleo—who’ve read my Paleo 101 overview and want to dive right in, but they don’t know how to prep for the journey. And while I’ve posted about my own home pantry before, I know mine’s got a bit more stuff than most folks need. (I tell myself it’s ’cause I develop recipes for a living now—but to be honest, it’s also because I’m a recovering hoarder.)
Ready? Let’s fill your kitchen with all the good stuff that’s going into your family’s belly!
Stock up on protein!
I’ve said it before: The most sustainable, nourishing, and flavorful animal protein comes from healthy beasts that chow down on whatever nature intended them to eat. When filling up your freezer or fridge, prioritize the purchase of grass-fed (and grass-finished) beef, lamb, and goat, as well as pastured poultry/eggs and sustainable seafood.
Yeah, I know—these items aren’t cheap, but I make it work by buying ground meat and lower-cost braising cuts (e.g., chicken thighs, whole chickens, chuck roast, brisket, beef shanks, Boston butt roast). Plus, I always stock up when there’s a sale.
Emergency Protein!
I also keep “emergency protein” on-hand to ensure quick meals whenever I’m too tired, lazy, or stressed to whip up more complicated recipes. These pre-cooked items include canned seafood, (like wild salmon, sardines, and tuna), hard-boiled eggs, sausages, and organic deli meat. And when I’ve got absolutely nothing in the house, I’ll swing by my local market and buy a salt-and-pepper-seasoned rotisserie chicken that I can serve with a giant green salad. But to be frank, I try to always have stuff in the pantry, ’cause the only way to ensure healthy meals is to be prepared!
Key thing to remember: don’t make perfect the enemy of good. Just do the best you can. (True confession: we have some cans of Spam in the pantry, too.)
Online healthy meat sources
I have personally shopped online at these vendors and highly recommend their meat and seafood:
Belcampo Meat Co.
Five Marys Farm
Thrive Market
US Wellness Meats
Vital Choice Seafood
Fruits and Vegetables!
People wrongly assume that eating Paleo is a MEAT FEST, but I respectfully disagree. Sure—on my dinner plate, you’ll find a palm-sized portion of high-quality protein, but the rest of my plate is overflowing with vegetables. It’s become a Paleo cliché, but I eat more plants than I did when I dabbled in vegetarianism many years ago.
I prioritize purchasing in-season, pesticide-free produce and I make sure my family eats a variety of fruits and veggies. Of course, I have to make sure that I actually eat ’em because there’s nothing worse than pulling open my vegetable crisper and finding melted and moldy produce.
Vegetables and fruit with a longer shelf life:
Winter squash (e.g. butternut, kabocha, spaghetti, and delicata varieties)
Citrus (e.g. oranges, tangerines, lemons, grapefruit, etc.)
Cabbage (e.g. Napa, green, red, and savoy)
Potatoes (store them in a cool, dark place)
Beets
Apples
Onions, shallots, and garlic
Stock your freezer with veggies!
I also stock up on “emergency greens” by stocking my freezer with organic frozen vegetables (e.g. kale, spinach, peas, mixed vegetables, cubed squash, riced cauliflower, etc.). After all, when the veggies are pre-washed, pre-cut, and in my freezer already—I don’t have an excuse not to cook with them.
Healthy Cooking Fats!
Replace the bottles of highly processed, omega-6 dominant vegetable oils on your shelves with healthy cooking fats like ghee, coconut oil, rendered animal fats (e.g., lard, tallow, bacon drippings, and duck fat), avocado oil, algae oil, or extra-virgin olive oil. Remember: fat is not the enemy. You just need to make sure the fats you consume are the right fats. (You can read more about healthy fats in this cooking fat primer by my pal, Diane Sanfilippo!)
Flavor Boosters!
Nobody wants blah food, right? I have certain items on-hand all the time that will magically transform meat and veggies from boring to nomtastic! The number one thing to know is which ingredients naturally boost umami, the fifth taste. I extoll the virtues of umami whenever I can because it truly is the shortcut to deliciousness. You can read about it in both of our cookbooks or listen to this podcast episode to learn more.
Here are the flavor boosters that I stock in my kitchen:
Coconut Aminos: This dark, salty, aged coconut tree sap tastes remarkably similar to soy sauce, but without gluten or soy. I combine it with fish sauce for the perfect seasoning.
Red Boat Fish Sauce: Fish sauce is a staple ingredient in a number of Southeast Asian cultures. It’s literally umami in a bottle. Yes, it smells a little gross, but don’t judge a condiment by it’s nose. A few drops makes every savory dish taste better.
Fresh garlic, ginger, scallions: I do a lot of Chinese cooking so I always make sure I have these three items on hand—the holy trinity of Cantonese cooking.
Fresh herbs: Fresh herbs add brightness and flavor to your meals, so make sure you have plenty on hand. Watch this Periscope video to see how I store fresh herbs so they last up to two weeks.
Dried spices and seasonings: My spice cabinet always contains dried thyme, bay leaves, garlic, and onion. I also have several spice blends that are all-purpose seasonings (e.g. Magic Mushroom Powder or Primal Palate Adobo seasoning)—just sprinkle it on a garbage stir fry and you’re golden!
Assorted vinegars/citrus: Acids are a key component in cooking, and one of the most valuable flavor enhancers in your pantry. A splash of vinegar or a squeeze of fresh lemon or lime juice often adds much-needed tartness and brightness to your finished dishes. Just make sure that your vinegars don’t contain gluten (e.g., malt vinegar) or additives.
Prepared sauces/dressings: It’s always better to make your own sauces and dressings from scratch, but to stay sane, I keep a few bottles of marinara sauce, Thai curry paste, and salsa in the pantry. All feature Paleo-friendly ingredients, and enable me to quickly throw together a meal. (Feeling ambitious? Make your own Paleo-friendly sriracha. I even have a Whole30-compliant version!)
Dried Mushrooms: Add a blast of umami to all your stews and braises by tossing in a few reconstituted dried mushrooms. You can also use them to make the best seasoning blend of all time, Magic Mushroom Powder.
Tomato Paste: Just one spoonful will add depth and umami to your stews and braises.
Bacon: Bacon is delicious, but I use it more as a flavor booster than as the main dish. Make sure the bacon you choose is made with pastured pork and no crazy additives. If you’re on a strict Paleo challenge, avoid bacon with added sugar. My kids go crazy over my Roasted Broccoli & Bacon, because BACON.
I frequently update this Amazon store with my favorite paleo kitchen pantry items, including the stuff I mentioned above!
Drinks
Your mother is 100% correct about water being the best way to hydrate, and I’m not going to disagree with her. You can make your agua fancier by adding sliced fruit or cucumbers (spa water!) or you can guzzle sparkling water. But if you’re craving something different, I recommend kombucha, assorted teas (with no sweetener or dairy), coconut water, or black coffee. Homemade almond milk is also kind of awesome. (Just omit the vanilla extract if you’re on a Whole30.) On chilly mornings, one of my favorite drinks is a warm mug of bone broth, which you can store frozen in convenient portion sizes. Don’t knock it ’til you try it!
Snacks!
After I started eating Paleo, I discovered that I was a lot less hangry, and I didn’t need to snack every couple of hours. Once my body got acclimated to eating real food again and responding to my natural satiety cues, I found that I wasn’t hungry all the time. In fact, when you go Paleo, you’ll probably only reach for nibbles because you’re bored and feeling like chomping on something. If I’m at home and my stomach rumbles ’cause I didn’t quite fill up on my main meal, my snacks tend to be mini versions of meals (like fruit or vegetables + protein + healthy fat).
Packable paleo snacks!
Of course, there will be times when you’ll be travelling or stuck in a Paleo wasteland in between meals (say, at work or school) and you might want to have a little something in your bag to tide you over. My favorites are salted and roasted macadamia nuts, beef jerky, and dark chocolate (85-90% cacao). I don’t indulge in sweets too often, but when I do, I make sure it’s worth it and I won’t feel terrible afterwards. (Reminder: If you’re doing a strict Paleo challenge, you should avoid even Paleo-fied versions of your favorite treats. Sugar is still sugar, even if it’s in the form of honey or maple syrup.)
Okay, Nomsters—keep well-nourished and stay healthy!
[Originally posted on December 28, 2015. Updated on March 15, 2020.]
Looking for more recipe ideas? Head on over to my Recipe Index. You’ll also find exclusive recipes on my iPhone and iPad app, and in my cookbooks, Nom Nom Paleo: Food for Humans (Andrews McMeel Publishing 2013) and Ready or Not! (Andrews McMeel Publishing 2017)!
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thewitchylibrary · 4 years
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How To Master Decorative Concrete Sealer Companies Near Me In 6 Simple Steps
In this article on DoItYourself.com we delight in delivering a location exactly where home improvement novices and experts can come with each other to share Thoughts and advice. Inside of our Forums, users can browse threads to view what exchanges are occurring on a topic of interest or start their own individual dialogue by posting some thing with the Local community To participate in.
Your session is going to timeout resulting from inactivity. Click on Alright to increase your time and efforts for a further half-hour.
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Its use for stabilizing previous and ruined concrete substrates right before putting in new concrete and/or protective coatings was necessary. Since 2006 I have already been disabled, but used it all over again in 2009 on the new concrete floors of a point out-of-the-artwork prototype concrete and metal house in Waupaca, Wisconsin. I am persuaded there isn't any other products that's its equivalent; just test it and you'll apply it to each and every concrete challenge.
Mainly because concrete may be very porous, Nearly like a sponge, it absorbs humidity in several means. For instance, groundwater can wick into a concrete slab from the perimeters or from beneath. Rainwater can seep into cracks and crack Handle joints. Drinking water vapor is often drawn through the atmosphere. In a nutshell, concrete will nearly always include some moisture.
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A: There are lots of different factors to just take into account In regards to concrete sealers and how much time they'll very last. A concrete sealants’ longevity will rely upon the caliber of concrete driveway sealer utilized and what number of levels are already added into the concrete. Concrete sealers are constructed from a variety of different elements but generally speaking, a sealer that contains silicate will previous the longest as the material simply cannot physically stop working.
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writingwife-83 · 7 years
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Sherlolly Appreciation Week, Day 2- First Date
Last minute decided to write this one for Day 2. It kind of randomly came to me, but I ended up being pretty happy with some of the Sherlock feelsies in this one. Enjoy! ;)
Fancy a Date?
“Thank you again, Molly,” Sherlock said genuinely as the cab neared her flat in the dark of night. “And I know John is grateful. Rosie was a bit too crabby for a sitter tonight.”
“Oh no problem, I don’t mind.” She smiled and began gathering her bags in preparation to exit the once the vehicle stopped.
Sherlock felt suddenly panicky. The evening had been so wonderful up till then. They’d analyzed clues from a body, tracked down a suspect, informed Lestrade, and got the man arrested. It had all been rather perfect, and Sherlock hardly wanted it to end now. It was probably one of the best days they’d spent together since the mess of Sherrinford.
As the cab came to a stop, the words suddenly tumbled from Sherlock’s mouth.
“Molly, wait!”
She halted and raised her brow expectantly.
“I…was wondering if you’d like to…” His mind raced frantically. He needed to suggest something! But what? And then miraculously, a light switched on. A rather large one actually. “Would you make one more stop with me tonight? There’s a place I’d like to share with you.”
Her gaze swept his face and she slowly smiled and nodded. “Yeah. Sure, why not?”
Sherlock returned her smile, speaking to the cabbie in the front without breaking eye with her.
“Driver? Slight change of plans…take us to Big Ben, please.”
Molly huffed another breath while rounding the last bunch of steps. Good God, she thought with a laugh. Was this Sherlock’s idea of saying thank you? He’d already had her running around the city all evening, and now-
Her thoughts hit a brick wall as she felt his large hand close warmly around her smaller one, giving her a little helpful tug as they made the final push to the top. She didn’t ask questions, but just squeezed his hand in kind and bit her lip to keep from grinning like a fool.
“Well,” Sherlock said and exhaled in a puff. “Here we are!” 
Molly looked up as they rounded the corner to stand behind one of the clock faces. It was truly awe inspiring. 
“Beautiful. Bit bright though,” she commented, shielding her eyes from the bulbs that lined the wall which lit up the clock faces through the darkness of night.
“It is, yes,” Sherlock agreed. “If I came here wanting to get some rest, I tended to stay in the clock room. Follow me, I’ll show you.”
They rounded a couple more corners till they came to the large room which held the inner workings of the actual clock, the rhythmic ticking which filled the room rather pleasant in Molly’s opinion. She gazed around in wonder till she realized that Sherlock had begun creating a little space on the floor. 
He pulled out a sleeping bag from some hidden spot and rolled it out, gesturing to it in invitation. Molly was beginning to wonder about this unusual version of Sherlock Holmes, but did happily take a seat next to him. He was quiet for a moment before clearing his throat and speaking hesitantly.
“Perhaps I should have…planned a bit better. Brought some snacks or a drink, or maybe even chosen music. Not that I couldn’t find some on my phone right now…”
“Music?” Molly questioned with a laugh. “Sherlock, what is this?”
He looked sheepish. “That will largely depend on you, I suppose. But I was rather hoping that it could be something like…a date?” His eyes narrowed, almost as if anticipating rejection. 
Her jaw dropped briefly before morphing into a smile. “A- a date? Really? Like, a real date with two people who-”
“Yes, Molly. Two people who have feelings for one another.”
Molly was rendered a bit speechless as Sherlock inhaled slowly and went on speaking, his voice soft and smooth.
“I’ve come here many times, you know. Always alone, always hoping not to be found. That was the point. The whole idea of these bolt holes, including this one, was to remain out of sight, away from prying eyes and even attempted help. I ran to places; places where I could be on my own. Though, there was one exception.” He locked eyes with her. “You.”
Sherlock reached over for the second time in a matter of minutes and took her hand in his before continuing.
“Every other bolt hole was a place, nothing but a location in which to hide. Even this,” he said, glancing around them. “All it’s majesty aside, it’s just a building. Just a structure that I could plant myself in till I decided to let myself be found. But you were the only person that I ran to. And if I’m completely honest, I only ever wanted to run to you.”
Molly blinked rapidly as her eyes began to sting. But this was a strangely pleasant sort of sting which was accompanied with the warmth that was rapidly spreading outward from her heart.
“Naturally I couldn’t always go to your flat,” he added with a little sigh. “Sometimes you were unavailable or I didn’t want to have danger follow me to where you live. Or sometimes…sometimes I was too ashamed to be seen by you.”
Molly chewed her lip, knowing what he must be referring to. It was true. He never did show up at her flat under the influence of anything illegal. She had already guessed that he didn’t want to deal with her reaction during those less than exemplary moments in his life.
“But even when I wasn’t with you, I found myself often thinking of you. I’d lay here, listening to the ticking and trying to imagine it was the softer ticking of the clock in your flat; the one on the mantle above the fireplace.” He smiled. “I liked that sound.”
“Not that you ever slept on the couch,” Molly finally spoke with a smirk.
Sherlock chuckled, but a moment later his expression stilled and brow crinkled in concern. “Is this a- a really terrible date?”
Molly licked her lips and paused, unsure of how steady her voice would be. “Sherlock this is, um…this is the best date I’ve ever been on. No exceptions.” She gave him a smile of reassurance as well as an extra squeeze of his hand.
His eyes lit up like a small child’s and he grinned in relief. He then leaned over, pressing a warm and lingering kiss to her cheek, slipping away especially slowly afterward, his lips almost brushing hers in the process, sending a pleasant shiver skittered up Molly’s spine. She sighed contentedly as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her gently in to lean against him.
“I’m grateful for how easily impressed you are in this case,” Sherlock murmured. “Though I maintain I should have included some of the more proper aspects of a date.”
Molly lifted her head from his shoulder with a smile. “Oh, actually I think we can have a little snack, if you feel like that would make it a bit more traditional.” She began rifling through her large bag and finally pulled out a little snack baggie. “See! I usually carry some Ginger Nuts. Just in case.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened and darted back and forth from the snack bag to her brown eyes.
“Sherlock? What?” Molly asked with a little laugh.
“I’m not terribly experienced, so tell me,” he said with a little crack in his voice. “Is it completely inappropriate to…propose on the first date?”
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wantweightloss · 5 years
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Why havent I lost weight after exercising? You asked Google heres the answer | Kate Carter
New Post has been published on https://weightlossguideto.com/must-see/why-havent-i-lost-weight-after-exercising-you-asked-google-heres-the-answer-kate-carter/
Why havent I lost weight after exercising? You asked Google heres the answer | Kate Carter
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Every day millions of internet users ask Google lifes most difficult questions, big and small. Our writers answer some of the commonest queries
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Honestly? The short answer is more than likely that you are consuming more calories than you are expending.
Of course there is a little more to it than that. It helps to know what type of exercise you are doing, how long you are doing it for, and at what intensity. But, for the vast majority of people, it is not the exercise part that matters most. Its what you eat. When it comes to weight loss, a good diet trumps exercise every time.
How much are you eating?
It might not be an easy truth, but study after study shows that people consistently underestimate the amount of calories that they consume. They forget the handful of nuts, or the cans of soft drink, or even just the fruit to tide them over to tea. Research from Harvard Medical School published in the BMJ found that, of more than 3,400 customers polled at fast food chains, more than a quarter underestimated calorie content by at least 500 calories. And over time that adds up along with the pounds.
Another thing worth considering: as well as underestimating calories consumed, most people tend to overestimate how much they burn through exercise. In a Canadian study, a group of recruits were told to eat the number of calories they thought they had just burned by working out. They ate two to three times as much.
Exercise is not a magic bullet. You cant and I speak, with regret, as someone who runs about 60 miles a week use it as carte blanche to scoff whatever you want. A 2011 study in the American Journal of Medicine put it starkly, isolated aerobic exercise is not an effective weight loss therapy. If you want to lose weight, you must first and foremost examine your diet.
But Ive worked up quite an appetite!
Our relationship with food is complex. Many of us again, myself included use treats as a reward. We think a long session in the gym, or a long run or bike ride, deserves a large plate of food as a reward. Yet much of this is in our heads, rather than our growling stomachs, and indeed exercise can actually be an appetite suppressant.
This is illustrated by another Canadian study dating from 1997. Three groups were chosen. One did high-intensity cardio, one low-intensity cardio, and a control group no exercise at all. The researchers asked all participants to then rate how hungry they were, before taking them to an all-you-can-eat buffet. There was no statistical difference either between how people in the various groups rated their hunger, nor how much they ate. In other words: no one actually worked up an appetite.
(An aside: swimming always strikes me as the worst culprit for this. Wonderful though swimming is, it almost always seems to make you starving afterwards, even if youve done very little other than sedately paddle around. Swimming in cold water, rather than an overheated pool, does burn more calories because your body is working harder to keep warm. However, it also stimulates your appetite more by up to 44%. So its pretty easy to consume more than youve burned after a swimming session. I love swimming and it has many other benefits, but as a fat or weight loss tool it is less effective than other forms of exercise.)
So what are you eating?
Another answer to the question is to look not so much at the amount you eat as what it consists of. Not least because some foods have a higher satiety index than others, and will therefore leave you feeling fuller for longer. A protein-rich diet with about 35% of your calories coming from a protein source seems to be the best way to combat hunger, fight muscle loss and generally feel smug and healthy.
This is not to buy into the carbs are evil myth. Carbs are an important part of a balanced diet, particularly if your chosen form of exercise is endurance-based. On the flip side, however, people who think they need to carb-load before endurance efforts should be aware that the body has more than enough stored in it for a good 90 minutes of exercise before you need to start thinking about topping up with gels or similar.
One in, one out?
Your heart rate monitor informs you youve burned 500 calories. A large bar of chocolate is roughly 500 calories. Ergo, you can eat that (in addition to everything else youre having) and not gain a pound, right? In truth, the trade-off is a more complicated than that.
In a study published in 2010 in Medicine and Science in Sports and Exercise, researchers at Louisiana State University recruited three groups of moderately overweight volunteers. One group as control, the second group cutting calories by 25%, and a third by 12.5% but increasingly their calories burned through physical activity to the same level: so the two latter groups had the same overall calorie deficit. What happened? Well, both group lost the same amount of weight. But the group who followed the 12.5% less calories/more physical exercise improved other health markers like cholesterol, blood pressure and insulin sensitivity. So, essentially, while a calorie is a calorie, and while diet is far more important for weight loss, you should exercise too because itll improve your overall health.
The myth of the fat burning zone
Anyone who has ever been on a cardio machine in a gym will have seen those heart rate graphs. You know, the bit with the weight management or fat-burning zone. Those who believe fervently in those graphs seem to worry that pushing themselves higher than that zone could have positively deleterious effects on their fat burning.
Sorry, but it doesnt work like that. The fat-burning zone is based on a misunderstanding of how our bodies work. When we exercise, we use both fat and carbohydrates stored in our cells. At a low level of intensity a walk or gentle cycle ride we burn more fat than carbohydrate. If we push harder, and longer, the proportion changes, switching over (dependent on fitness and age and so on) at about 60% of your max heart rate. This does not, however, mean we stop burning fat or even burn less fat when we go at it harder than that.
Yes, the ratio shifts, but at a higher intensity/duration you are burning more of both anyway.
And theres more bad news for those who believe in the fat-burning zone.
If you burn mostly carbohydrate during exercise, then when you eat afterwards, your body will convert those calories into carbohydrate to replenish what youve used. If you burn mostly fat, your carbohydrates stores will still be full. So, with no need to top them up, your body will store those calories as fat rendering your fat-burning efforts pretty redundant.
Just look at sprinters. They do much of their training at a very high intensities with long rest periods. Im pretty sure they are almost never in that fat burning zone, either on the track or in the gym. They generally look like they are coping OK with keeping the fat at bay
But muscle weighs more than fat!
No, it really doesnt. A pound of muscle weighs who would have thought it? a pound. The same as a pound of fat. Or a pound of lemon jelly. Or a pound of sweets. A pound is a pound. The muscle just takes up a bit less space (dont click on this visual representation if you are squeamish).If the scales are unfavourable to you, its unlikely to be because the 20-minute run you did yesterday suddenly added 3lb of muscle to your frame. Sorry.
Keeping it off
The trouble with losing weight is that the less you weigh, the fewer calories you need to sustain you, on a day-to-day basis. This is one of the (many) reasons that people might find initial weight loss quite easy but then hit a plateau. Equally, its why many people finish a diet, then immediately find they are putting weight back on: they are eating what they used to be able to consume while maintaining the same weight, but now they actually need less. It doesnt seem fair, does it?
OK, so what exercise should I do?
Which is best for weight loss? The honest answer is probably the one you enjoy and will stick to. Cardio burns more calories at the time you are doing it, but weight training encourages your body to burn more calories through the rest of the day. Most studies that have examined the issue tend to conclude that, if weight loss is the goal, the best approach is to do both.
Finally, for far more authoritative, in-depth analysis of fitness myths and weight loss confusion, I cannot recommend highly enough this book by Alex Hutchinson. In an industry (or industries both the diet and fitness ones in this case) that seem to thrive on fads, misinformation and peddling the latest must have regimes or gadgets, its a clear, science-based look at what really works.
Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/us
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torreygazette · 7 years
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Morning is the Best Time
My dead grandmother has been on my mind a lot. Which is weird, because she's been dead for quite some time now, and we weren't really in contact when she died. 
I think about her when I open my hope chest (sue me, I'm from New England) and see the quilts she made, cook using her enormous stockpot or her enamel baking pan, or go for a piece of ribbon and see it coiled around a recycled greeting card. 
She didn't leave me these things, I picked them from a room in my uncle's house filled with her stuff. It's a long story. 
My maternal grandparents were Plymouth Brethren, the Exclusive kind. My grandfather was essentially as pope-like of a figure as could be possible, in a denomination that doesn't even acknowledge that the position of pastor exists. When there were doctrinal disagreements, you either went with my grandfather, or you didn't. This contributed greatly to the splintering of the Exclusive Plymouth Brethren and helped render it the small pile of sawdust it is today. Our family did not go with him, and so when I was 12, my grandparents ceased speaking to us publicly. My grandmother, in an act of rebellion, or perhaps hoping I might be redeemed, continued to write me letters. They were strange. She wasn't good with children, and she was very German, and I don't think she ever got the mental help she needed to process her depression and PTSD. I know only a handful of facts about her because you don't think to ask these kinds of questions as a young child, and she was secretive enough so that even my mother and the uncle that still speaks to me (there's one that doesn't) don't know the answers. 
She was born in Germany in the 1930s (I think?) and was the oldest of 5. Her father was an architect, who I'm told designed some of the gas chambers used in the concentration camps. They say he didn't know what they were for. The children were instructed by my great-grandmother to drape their clothes neatly over chairs after removing them at night, "in case the Lord came back because you wouldn't want Him to find you with a messy room."
When World War II hit, my grandmother and her siblings were out raiding American army garbage cans for potato peelings. She never spoke of this to us. All I knew as a kid was that her teeth were bad, and this was due to malnutrition. She emigrated to England, and I believe did some kind of schooling there until she was sponsored to come to America. 
(Many many many years later, my father would rent a room from the man who sponsored my grandmother, not having yet met my mother.)
I don't know when she met my grandfather, and I don't know what drew them together. He had a great sense of humor but was spiritually domineering. She had a great sense of humor which got stifled and would only occasionally peek out. Their wedding photos are, typical of the early 50s, very formal. She looks sad. I know she hated the photos.
So you take all of this, and add lashings of typical German stoicism, a healthy amount of legalism and pietism, and then all that nutty Plymouth Brethren dispensationalism (which I'm not even sure she understood or agreed with!) and there you have the grandmother who would send 12-year-old me letters that read "Dear Danielle, it's true the Bible doesn't actually SAY what the best time to read your Bible is, but really, morning is the best time." Most letters were accompanied by an improving pamphlet or a profitable article photocopied from who knows where—sometimes a florid poem about heaven. There was no advice about how to be a Christian and function in the world, only about how to be completely separate from everything. 
The memories from before our families stopped speaking are blurry at this point, being a couple decades old. I remember their house and yard, remember running out to her raspberry patch to help her pick. I remember their dog, an aged German Shepherd, whose most interesting feature was that he dug until the color wore off the end of his nose, and then she had to put vitamin E on it. 
I remember the one terrible time my parents tried to leave my brother and I with the grandparents for a night. To be fair, we were probably on her last nerve. She had made us dinner—egg drop soup—which we rejected summarily, and so she made us scrambled eggs and toast, I think. We kept popping out of bed, as small children do, but she was so unnerved by this (as though this hadn't happened with her 3 kids?) we got told we were going to get spanked. Needless to say, by the time our parents called to check on us, we were both crying. There were no more overnights. 
She tried to teach me to sew. A fine, complicated stitching technique, that I didn't get on the first try, and I remember how frustrated she was by that. Joke's on her—I'm fine at sewing now. But I was like SEVEN THEN. 
I can't remember what her food tasted like, which hurts. There have been blips - once I made chicken stock and left it cooking overnight and the kitchen suddenly smelled like hers (she was famous for being able to make soup out of nothing, which incidentally I inherited,) and I cried. The smell and texture of mixed peas, carrots, and corn still makes me feel weird.
Post-separation, we saw her one more time, shortly after my grandfather died. My car broke down on the trip, and it was before smart phones were readily available, so we were hopelessly lost. By the time everything got sorted out, my car was towed, and the uncle who didn't speak to us had to pick us up in his fancy car and deposit us at her house, she fed us dinner and put us to bed at 7:30 pm. It was broad daylight. She was in her 70s at that point - getting up at 5:30 am, RUNNING up and down stairs, scads of energy. 
She'd always been a hypochondriac and a health nut at the same time, constantly looking for the fountain of youth. Piles of supplements, carefully regimented diet, and coffee enemas. It didn't work—she declined into Alzheimer's not too long afterward.
The last few years of her life were spent with my uncle (the one that does not speak to us) and his family, and by all accounts, they took wonderful care of her. 
We were not informed of the death of either of my grandparents until after the funerals had respectively taken place, per their wills, so that we could not be in attendance. My mother had been written out of her father's will and remained somewhat in my grandmother's, so I was sent to pick out any of her personal items that we might want. 
I loaded the car—the quilts she had made, her pots and pans, her yogurt maker. The sign from a pile of fabric just marked "BARGAINS." Tubs of neatly coiled ribbon and trim and embroidery floss. The china my mom asked for. Everything of hers that hadn't already been claimed was there, down to the contents of her medicine cabinet. The thing that hit me the hardest was opening a tub of bedding and smelling HER, a smell I did not know I remembered. There's a container full of quilts under my bed right now. And I am afraid to open them in case that smell is gone. 
When my car was packed full, I drove to the giant cemetery both my grandparents were supposed to be buried in, according to the internet. It was bordered by a field on one side, and a super-highway on the other 3 sides. I walked for hours, up and down, and couldn't find them. It was cold and windy and I cried a lot, wondering if they had been buried in unmarked graves just to spite us, and then I drove home with my car full of what must have looked like crap to the tollbooth operators who stared at me strangely. 
These mornings in Lent where I wake up and grab my coffee and try not to fall asleep over the Book of Concord, I feel an odd yearning to see her again. She'd probably hate the fact that I'm Lutheran, but at least she'd approve of the fact that I'm getting my reading done during the best time.
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thaliaarche · 7 years
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"The Eyes Are Windows to the Soul”
For @queenofsebaciel‘s Sebaciel week– day 6, “the Midfords.”
Ships: Sebeth and Sebaciel Rating: T Warnings: Homophobia, canon-typical violence, relationship abuse Word count: ~4.5K
Summary: Disenchanted with her marriage, Elizabeth turns her attentions from Ciel to his butler. Thus the three begin a dangerous game . . .
(This works as a stand-alone fic, but the immediate prequel is here on AO3 in case you’re interested. Please check the warnings, as they’re quite different from this fic’s.)
The day came when Sebastian was not there to stay Ciel’s hand, and the slap reverberated throughout the manor’s halls.
Elizabeth ran from their bedchamber— her bedchamber, as Ciel had coolly reminded her just then— stumbling down dark hallways, tripping on the grand, blood-red carpet of the main stairs. To the new bride, the mansion seemed grotesquely large, swathed with shadows she had somehow never noticed as a child.
As a child, she would have responded to Ciel’s darkness with ribbons, with toys and music and her own, soaring giggles. But she had learned over the past few years that no amount of shimmering clothes would lighten Ciel’s mood. And no matter how many glittering, fairy-tale balls she arranged, he would not play her prince, would not even try.
She was Elizabeth Midford Phantomhive, a woman of the two strongest families in Britain, so she didn't cry. Instead, she did what she had seen so many adults who didn’t cry do. She made her way to the dining room, with its well-stocked liquor cabinet.
“My lady.”
Startled, she let the glass slip, yet that butler, inexplicably appearing next to her as if out of thin air, caught it inches from the ground. He glanced up at her, her slight frame now shaking with fright as well as rage. She stared back for a moment and then began to speak, to beg that he wouldn’t tell Ciel and give him more reasons to dismiss her as a foolish wisp of a girl . . .
He cut her off. “Would you care for some tea?”
She studied him over the cup of steaming tea— a gentle, calming oolong he had received just that day. She praised its delicate flavors, and he smiled in return, sitting down across from her without taking any tea himself.
It was unusual, of course, for a lady of her status to ask a butler to sit at the table with her. Elizabeth, however, had never mistaken Sebastian for a normal servant. Though she noticed a slight crease in his youthful brow and traces of weariness in his rich, red-brown eyes, she felt— as she had the first day she saw him, standing by her miraculously alive cousin— that he was somehow supernatural.    
Sebastian watched her as well. These months of marriage, filled with empty days as Ciel roamed abroad for his missions and punctuated by tempestuous arguments whenever he did return, had been unkind to the young lady. Left alone with only the other servants and too many snakes for company, she wore dark frocks everyday, the sober hues accompanied by shadows under her eyes and hollows in her cheeks. Sebastian wondered whether her prior gayness hadn't been more aesthetically pleasing.
"Tell me, Sebastian," Elizabeth broke their thoughtful silence, "Was he always like this?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"How can you not? You have been far closer to Ciel than anyone, these past few years. If anyone knows whence his cruelty comes, it's you."
Sebastian gazed at her green eyes— more perceptive, perhaps, than he had suspected. "I do know what you mean, then. And yet I can't answer."
Elizabeth took a sip of her tea, considering. "He told me once, without thinking much of it, that you couldn't lie even if lives depended on it."
"That was a rather foolish admission on his part."
"It's true, then? You can't lie to me?"
"Indeed."
"Though you can still play with my words," Elizabeth mused. Setting her jaw, she fixed her eyes on Sebastian and asked outright, "What's the most evil thing he's done as the Watchdog?"
"'Evil' is hard to define, but perhaps burning down a building full of kidnapped children would qualify."
She gasped and clenched her eyes shut, but she reopened them a moment later, shaking her head. "Is he tortured, then, by guilt over that act or some other?"
"I do not think he feels guilt for any act."
"Because he is fighting for good?"
"Because he fights for the queen," Sebastian replied. Elizabeth detected a note of sarcasm.
"He may yet be guilty in thought, though," she murmured. Then, her eyes grew wide at a new thought. "Sebastian, is he . . . Is he like a character out of that Oscar Wilde novel?"
Sebastian raised an eyebrow at her stammering. "I once again don't know what you mean. That is a frightfully ambiguous question."
She grimaced. "It's difficult to put this delicately."
"You need not worry about protecting my innocence, Lady Elizabeth."
Now Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "To the best of your knowledge, has he ever asked a man to be his lover?"
Sebastian stared at the woman before him, crimson irises flickering. "No," he finally said, his voice soft and low. "He has never asked, to my knowledge."
"I hoped he might have someone he cared for," Elizabeth looked down, speaking to her empty cup.
"You would have him be happy, even in someone else's arms?"
"If it would save him from his own bitterness, yes," she replied curtly. "I mourned him once, Sebastian. I didn't intend to ever do so again."
"And what of your own bitterness?" Sebastian questioned, standing to refill her tea.
"A proper lady is never bitter."
"Your grief, then. What can save you from being consumed yourself?"
Elizabeth pondered for a moment, as the only sound came from the tea trickling into her cup. Finally, she shrugged. "You can."
"I can?"
"Of course," she tossed her golden curls, wearing her first true smile in days. "Fence with me."
Sebastian and Elizabeth did battle, their blades clashing as Ciel shut himself in his study. The very first day, Elizabeth won handily, slipping the sword past Sebastian's defense to stab him where his heart would be.
Her eyes immediately narrowed. “You let me win. Why?”
“I will admit I held myself back. It is your first time fencing in many months, after all . . .”
“Keep in mind that I am cut from the same cloth as Ciel.”
“Oh?”
“I love nothing more than a strong opponent. Their skill makes their ultimate defeat so much more thrilling.”
Sebastian smirked at her teasing arrogance, and he easily beat her in each match afterwards. Yet he saw determination unfurling in her, his every victory sparking life back into those dead green eyes. He had to leave the next week, summoned by Ciel to a new adventure, and, even as he slaughtered thugs by the hundred, he found he rather missed those elegant matches with the young lady.
Upon their return, the lady herself greeted the travelers at the front door, a fresh ruddiness in her cheeks. After replying to Ciel’s stern nod with an unsmiling greeting of her own, she turned to Sebastian with a barely concealed grin on her lips, indicating with a tilt of her head that the matches would resume immediately.
Early on the morning of his and Elizabeth’s anniversary, Ciel was out of town, and marriage was far from his mind. He and Sebastian were stranded in a swiftly sinking dinghy, bobbing somewhere on the ice-cold Channel.
At the same time, Elizabeth stood before her bedroom mirror, her nightgown’s hem swirling at her ankles as she lunged forward, lashed out with the imagined sword in her hand, and then sprang back again. She had not forgotten the date, but she pushed Ciel’s absence from her thoughts, instead focusing solely on her footwork.
The earl’s carriage rolled up to the manor in the afternoon, and Sebastian helped his master from the coach. Uninjured and implausibly dry, Ciel strode straight-backed to the door where his wife waited, laced into a nut-brown dress.
“Happy anniversary, Lizzie,” he said, bowing stiffly.
“I wish you the same--” she smiled sweetly-- “and I am glad to see you in good health. You seemed worried in your last letter . . .”
“This case is presenting me with only the slightest trouble,” he replied. “You need not concern yourself with it.”
Elizabeth smiled once more, though Sebastian now noticed the irony mixed with the sweetness.
They progressed inside, where Elizabeth presented Ciel with his gift— a tome freshly arrived from America, describing the various monopolists currently thriving there. He thanked her, obviously taken aback by her thoughtfulness, and then nodded to Sebastian, who produced a large box seemingly from midair and placed it before Elizabeth. Opening it, she pulled out a new dress of luscious, shining green, its billowing skirt tucked and pinned and cascading down in troves of ruffles.
“It’s so cute,” Elizabeth squealed. “Oh, I have to try it on right now! Paula! Help me into this, Paula . . .”
As she scampered upstairs, Sebastian found himself smiling at the echo of a young girl whom he thought gone forever.
Once dressed, Elizabeth swept back down the stairs, her slender silhouette shimmering in apple-green, her gold curls artfully loosed about her face. Sebastian stopped still at the sight.
“Shall I assume I look lovely?” she said, laughing at his awestruck expression.
“You . . .” Sebastian trailed off, shaking his head. “Few things render me speechless, Lady Elizabeth . . .”
“So I should congratulate myself for managing it,” she finished, giggling. “Is Ciel in the study now? I wanted to show him. Did he choose this himself?”
“Not himself, my lady,” Sebastian corrected.
Her face fell. “Nina Hopkins, then?” she muttered. “She always had superb taste . . .”
“No,” Sebastian cut her off. “I chose it. It matched your eyes exquisitely.”
Still standing on the steps, Elizabeth stared at him, their eyes perfectly level, their bodies perfectly still. “And here I thought you liked my fencing uniform best,” she finally murmured, feeling a hot blush in her cheeks.
“Second best, young mistress.”
"No, I am not going to wear a dress again!" With that, Ciel ordered Sebastian from the study.
Thinking over the latest disaster, Sebastian sighed as he poured Lady Elizabeth another cup of tea. She glanced up upon hearing it.
"I apologize for disturbing you, Lady Elizabeth . . ."
"He's still worried over that case, isn't he?  The one he insists is causing no problems at all."
The butler nodded.
"Can you tell me what the trouble is?"
“I cannot speak in specifics, my lady, but the gist of the matter is this— I did some reconnaissance work alone and obtained an invitation to a ball tomorrow night, hosted in the home of our primary suspect."
"Is that not cause for celebration?"
"It would be, except the invitation is for both Professor Michaels— my alias, you understand— and his honorable new wife. I’ve already aroused some suspicions, and, should I attend without said "wife," certain parties will ask untoward questions that could set the investigation back months."
"Surely there is some actress in Ciel’s network who may take on the role?"
"None who can both convincingly play a young gentlewoman and also treat this matter with the discretion it requires."
"Someone who's not an actress, then?" she asked, suddenly smiling.
"Mey-rin is a possibility, I suppose," Sebastian mused, "But even I would be hard-pressed to remedy her accent in time . . ." He noticed Elizabeth's impish expression. “No, my lady, we could not ask that of you!”
“Whyever not? I’m ready, able, and more than willing to be of assistance.”
He stared at her for a moment more, a devilish grin spreading across his own face.
“Your refreshments, Mrs. Michaels.”
Sebastian held out a plate of biscuits— tastefully rearranged according to his butler sensibilities— to Elizabeth, and she thanked him, pitching her voice lower, drawing the words out. To avoid being accidentally recognized, she had donned both a new way of speaking and a rather unusual costume— Paula had pinned her blonde curls tight to her head and placed a wig on top, rolling its black tresses into an intricate bun. She wore a pale pink dress that, despite being simpler in design than she was used to, still showed off her figure splendidly.
Various interested parties around the room watched the couple carefully. Ciel, smuggled in as the Michaels’ footman, noticed their distraction and slipped out the door, seeking more private rooms.
“How will we know if Ciel is discovered?” Elizabeth said. Both she and Sebastian wore perfectly polite smiles as they planned to rob their host's home, thus appearing indistinguishable from the conversationalists around them.
"He and I have developed a system of communication precisely to rescue him from captivity,” he replied. “Lemonade?”
“No, I’m quite refreshed,” she assured him, raising her voice slightly as she saw one of the criminals walk by. “But please,” she returned to a quieter tone, “Do let me know if he finds himself in trouble.”
“Have you a sabre strapped under your dress with which to rescue him?”
“Not at all, dear,” Elizabeth cooed. “Simply two handguns. My mother taught me to shoot almost as well as I fence.”
"And wherever did you get the firearms?”
“From our maid, naturally. She brought me quite a selection with the petticoats today.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re one hell of a wife?”
She shook her head, suddenly giggling.
For hours, they danced with others, merely glancing at each other over their partners’ shoulders. Late in the night, Sebastian found his way back to Elizabeth. “A dance, my lady?”
She paused, considering. “I’d be delighted, Seb— Mr. Michaels.”
Inhaling deeply, Elizabeth placed one hand on his shoulder, fingers ghosting against his sharply sculpted neck. He raised his hand first to her face, touching a wayward black curl, coiling the silken lock around his finger before tucking it back behind her ear. That gloved hand slipped downwards then, settling at her waist, and she gasped, quite by accident, as his other hand took hers and interlaced their fingers.
Tall, impossibly graceful, he led her in the waltz, and she instinctively trusted his every motion and let herself spin blindly. With the subtlest of presses, he guided her flawlessly among the crowd of couples in the ballroom, her skirt never so much as grazing another lady’s, even though his eyes were fixed on hers the whole while through.
“We will leave the ball after this,” he breathed into her ear.
Ciel had crept back, fist clenched around a most fascinating paper— a list of Latin incantations compiled by the criminals, all explicitly designed to destroy devils— and he had just slipped into the ballroom, only to see Elizabeth and Sebastian together. They were dancing, both impossibly graceful as they stepped and turned in rhythm, in harmony. Ciel shook his head, reminding himself that they were both merely playing their parts as a newlywed couple, that they served him alone.
Even after the triumph at the ball, the case dragged on, but why Elizabeth couldn’t tell. When she asked questions, Ciel snapped at her or waved her away, while Sebastian simply shook his head, explicitly forbidden from answering.
The two of them had left to finish the case off a few months ago. They were supposed to return last week. Now, the servants paced the halls, whispering anxiously. Finny tore up all the flowerbeds out of nervous energy, Bard was setting fire to the kitchen twice each day, and Mey-rin entirely gave up cleaning, instead waiting on the manor’s rooftop and aiming her rifle at every bird in sight.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and checked herself in the mirror, adjusting her posture before repeating a footwork drill. All the while, she considered the situation. Sebastian would keep Ciel safe, would preserve the dear, human husband she had sworn as a child to protect. Sebastian would keep himself safe, too, for he had clearly been engineered— tortured?— to be inhumanly strong.
And yet she worried for them both, and in equal amounts.
When the carriage finally clattered to the front door, a hired coachman was driving. Ciel climbed out, healthy but muttering irritatedly. “Damn convulsions . . .”
As Ciel strode into the manor, Bard and Finny clambered in and carried out the butler, a silent, jerking wreck. His eyes were closed, apparently unconscious. His body, otherwise unharmed, shuddered and spasmed in unceasing rhythm.
Elizabeth blanched at the sight, but she swiftly stepped forward, sending Bard off for the doctor, showing Finny how to lay Sebastian down on the sofa, instructing Mey-rin to fetch water and Paula to get medicine.
As the servants bustled about, she whipped around to face Ciel, who still stood at the foot of the stairs. “Why did you let this happen?”
“I didn’t know he was so weak,” he spat.
“Do you think him invulnerable?”
He barked out a laugh.
“Tell me, Ciel! How do I heal him?” she asked, words tinged with pleading. “We can’t let him die.”
“What,” Ciel mocked. “Would you miss him?”
She opened her mouth in passionate response, for she would indeed miss him— the incisive, impossibly perceptive gaze of his cherrywood eyes, the magnificent wit tightly reined in by that servile facade, the kindness he had revealed to her beneath the hardened edges of his cynicism . . .
Then she saw Ciel pressing his sole eye shut, face twisted with feeling. “He won’t die,” he muttered, voice suddenly hoarse. “I feel as if I’ve seen this before . . .”
“Where?”
Ciel turned his face away and strode up the stairs. “Don’t worry, Lizzie,” he declared without looking back at her, “I’d bet my life that Sebastian will be serving us tea tomorrow morning.”
As Ciel predicted, Sebastian served the tea the next morning, well-kempt and neatly dressed, but Elizabeth still watched him suspiciously. The convulsions had subsided, only to be replaced by a subtle, rapid shaking. His red irises in particular vibrated back and forth with frenzied speed, blurred like a string suddenly pulled too taut.
He approached her later. “Would you please fence with me?”
“Are you well, Sebastian?” she asked. When he opened his mouth to reply, she reminded him, “Remember that you can’t lie.”
“Do you remember . . .” Sebastian’s words were tumbling out too fast, and the whole world flickered as if lit by candlelight— damn those exorcists! “Do you remember how you knew the fencing would save you? From Ciel, from this house, from your grief?”
“How could I forget?”
“We have that in common, you and I, we are most ourselves when we are fighting. Please, my lady. Fence with me.”
Elizabeth studied him for a moment. “If you falter for a single second, we stop.”
Sebastian would not falter. He won the first match, though the victory came with surprising difficulty.
As they began again, he could feel his composure slipping— though his human body remained steady, he felt his demonic essence seeping forth and tainting his brain. And so his blows came more forcefully, and he danced around Elizabeth, flying, spinning inhumanly fast, like a child’s top.
He could hear her breathing hard, yet she stood firm and blocked each blow. He channeled a further reserve of fiendish strength into his movements, somehow unworried for her safety.
It seemed to Sebastian that everything slowed, as if the two of them were suspended underwater— he saw the curves of light traced by ripples on the walls. Then the world around them blended together, and he saw her alone. Behind her girlishness, he discovered strength— immense, if slightly chipped. Her every movement flowed with pure, ambrosial grace. Her limbs were endowed with a radiant divinity, rather as his own had once been . . .
The redhead reaper surfaced in his mind, slapping him back to reality, and he batted away the memory. There could be no comparison between Grell Sutcliff and Elizabeth Phantomhive.
Could there?
Sifting through the false perceptions, he found two facts. First, a death goddess— or part-death-goddess, at least— stood before him. Second, that goddess had just stabbed him in the chest.
He stumbled back, the breath jerked from his lungs, and she caught him before setting him softly on the ground and kneeling beside him. “I knew we shouldn’t have tried this so soon . . .”
“Do not fret,” he murmured, removing his mask. “I am unharmed.” He removed her mask, too, and gazed at those sparkling green eyes as if for the first time. “And I discovered an interesting truth in our combat.”
“What truth?”
Sebastian placed a gentle hand behind Elizabeth’s neck, pulled her close, and kissed her.
“Damn hallucinations.”
Now fully recovered, Sebastian muttered to himself as he cleaned the silverware that night, taking special pleasure in licking off spots of the exorcists’ blood. “Damn it all.”
His thoughts whirred inhumanly fast. Why did those meddling priests have to pick, of all rituals, that one? Why had his mind reacted by seeing things that weren’t there— or things that were? Why did those last visions have to center on Elizabeth? Why hadn’t the hallucinations bothered to say whether Ciel was part-reaper, too? And what, in the name of Hell, possessed him to kiss his young mistress?
He had answers for that last question, a surfeit of excellent answers. Elizabeth clearly required affection as much as food or water, and how could he be a Phantomhive butler if he did not fulfill that need? If neither Ciel nor he provided her with kindness, who would? A bottle of scotch? Elizabeth nearly turned to one, just months back.
What if she found comfort in the arms of another man? Ciel would not enjoy wasting his time with the scandal of that scenario. And if Elizabeth’s chosen lover was an enemy of the Watchdog, then Ciel would be at risk for more, far more, than mere public scandal.
Or what if Elizabeth’s hunger for love turned into a overnourished, glutted hatred? What if this sharp, swift daughter of reapers turned against the husband she had once sworn to love? Could Ciel truly order his demon to kill her?
To hell with the what-ifs. As things stood in the present, would Ciel order his demon to kill her?
After all, Ciel was rather . . . impulsive where Sebastian was concerned, and the servant knew too well that his lord's cruelty ran deep. He wouldn’t be shocked, no, would even admire it in a twisted fashion, if his young master demanded Elizabeth’s death at a demon’s hands.
Sebastian could feel himself starting to shudder again, just imagining the potential irony. The irony that part of him wouldn’t want to murder her. The irony that nothing but his own demon self had possessed him to kiss her.
The solution, of course, was blissfully simple. He would never tell Ciel about his relationship with Elizabeth. He would restrain himself around his young mistress, giving no more than she needed. Perhaps he could even bring himself, eventually, to sidestep his orders and give of himself to Ciel as well, assuaging any latent jealousy the young lord might feel towards his wife. It would be the strangest household arrangement he had come across, but the demon was almost looking forward to it . . .
It was then that his keen demon ears heard Elizabeth’s words drifting from Ciel’s study, voice clearly straining with emotion. “Yes, Ciel. I kissed Sebastian.”
“What the hell?”
“Please, young master . . .”
“What, in the name of Hell?”
"I had many clear reasons, young master . . .”
"You stopped her from drinking, from philandering outside the house, et cetera, et cetera,” Ciel fumed. “I’m fully aware of all your excuses. But what . . .” The earl stopped himself, clenching the cushion of the massive chair in his study, digging his nails into the cloth. “Fine. Tell me, did Lizzie tell the truth? One kiss, tinted with delusions on your part, and that’s all?”
“Indeed.”
“And what do you intend to do now?” Ciel asked, his tone suddenly clinical, as if he was simply interrogating Sebastian about one of the Watchdog’s cases.
The butler’s eyes widened with surprise. “I don’t know what you mean . . .”
“What have you planned for her? Don’t tell me, demon, that you think of her only as a potential lover . . .”
“I think of her as a demon’s potential lover, which is actually a rare distinction . . .”
Ciel recoiled. “You’ll break her heart, Sebastian.”
“Why would I bother, when you break it so effectively yourself?”
“Oh, stop evading,” the young lord spat, enunciating each word with brutal clarity. “What tortures have you in mind for her?”
“Young master, you forget that I am a connoisseur of souls,” Sebastian shot back. “As such, I have no interest in shattering a magnificent spirit— except by my devouring it, but that is not the matter at hand. And her spirit is magnificent, young master, much as yours is. You are both scarred by the grief of that month. You are both more capable and far more bloodthirsty than your innocent faces suggest. You are both dedicated to lofty but hopeless goals . . .”
“Hopeless?”
"You are seeking to restore the honor of your dead parents, and she seeks to restore you.”
Ciel watched Sebastian silently, a flash of jealousy— longing— flickering across his face. “So you intend to be unambiguously good to her.”
“Provided I am permitted to, yes.”
“I suppose it’s impossible for you to ever be so straightforwardly kind to a soul you’ve contracted with.”
“You suppose correctly,” Sebastian murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle. “The irony of the ending would overshadow our every interaction.”
Ciel stared down at his desk for a moment, before lifting his eyes back up and forcing himself to speak conversationally. "Did you know she called you an angel?"
"She means it rhetorically, no doubt."
"I am not so sure. Don’t you dare hurt her, Sebastian.”
“I have no intention of . . .”
“This is an order, demon,” Ciel slipped off the eyepatch, and a quiver that only a fiend could discern twitched at his chin. “Don’t hurt her, even after I am gone. Treat her better than you’d treat me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
A new enemy had attacked Phantomhive Manor, and all forces had been deployed in its defence. The butler loomed tall in front of the main door, black talons slashing, silver forks glinting as he hurled them into the night. A smaller figure stood behind him, two swords slick with blood. Ciel looked on from an upstairs window.
As he watched Elizabeth and Sebastian battle back-to-back, his own face flushed with double-edged jealousy. As always, he cursed his sick mind that never took an interest in feminine charms, even though Lizzie was attractive and lovely by all others’ accounts. Yet he also cursed the love he had— the utterly grey love for a black-and-white creature, currently laying low armies with a silverware set. So often, Ciel had imagined the feel of that soft, gloved hand on his own softer face, tracing the hollow of his cheek. He imagined Sebastian leaning forward to bestow a kiss, gentle, laced with only the slightest trace of mocking . . .
Mocking. As always, the image of Sebastian’s mocking smirk shook Ciel from his folly. No, he could never entrust his pathetic, human heart to his taunting, hellish mercenary.
And so the young earl had buried his raging affection and pretended disinterest, merely observing his butler from afar. When Sebastian looked at him, Ciel seized the opportunity to stare back, studying his butler’s expressions, at times discovering amusement, irritation, pity, resentment or— inexplicably— fear.
Yet Sebastian regarded Elizabeth with pure respect.
Ciel had commanded his demon to stay with Elizabeth through her life, praying that Sebastian might for once make a show of disobedience; after all, there was no obligation to take orders that could outlast the contract. Yet Sebastian had immediately, eagerly accepted.  A good man would have taken pleasure in that success, would have been glad to arrange the happiness of the one he should have loved and the one he did. But Ciel Phantomhive was not a good man.
Blinking the tears from his two-toned eyes, the Earl of Phantomhive watched from the window and pretended his wife and butler were mere pawns. For the rest of his short, short life, he pretended they lived and fought only for him.
Yet Sebastian and Elizabeth stepped and turned in timeless rhythm, concordant in their mismatched harmony.
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nlc-nessa · 3 years
Text
Taking Root
When a plant is pulled from the earth, their tie to life is not immediately severed. It is possible to keep them breathing for just a while longer, but only if they are nursed and cherished until they decide to take root in a new pot of soil. Take for example, the food scraps that cluttered my balcony floor. Various bulbs and root ends from my kitchen lived in plastic containers with jagged holes poked through the bottom, nestled in store-bought soil and haphazardly watered every now and then. The constant squatting was a chore, so I always gave them a quick sprinkle of tap water and prayed for stray drizzles of rain to finish the job for me. This hasty behaviour killed my parsley sprouts within a week. I never tried growing them again after that.
I must confess, this hobby wasn’t born from a compulsion to go green and save the earth. I started growing these discarded parts solely to fulfil my itching need to be some sort of a God, to be able to take control over something amidst the intractable pandemic. I yearned to watch something grow, something animate yet helpless enough for me to force my love onto. This desire had once grown so strong that I was tempted to kidnap unsuspecting snails who slithered out on rainy days. Fortunately for the innocent creatures, I never mustered the courage to pluck one off the damp cement. I had considered adopting other palm-sized animals such as terrapins or hamsters, but their prospective deaths swayed me from the idea of getting too attached to anything considerably cute. So, I thought: why not try to revive a dead thing instead? My first pet was a head of garlic whose sprouts grew monstrously fast and gave a pleasant aroma when stir fried with scrambled eggs and fish sauce. Spring onions came next, followed by some mint, ginger, and parsley. Over time, my army of resurrected supermarket veggies inhabited the right-most corner of our balcony – the only place in our house where direct sunlight could reach us. It was, unfortunately, also the space my retired father always occupied, peeping into neighbouring blocks and smoking his Camel cigarettes. I could sense his frustration every time he tiptoed through my plants to get to his usual spot, but he never asked for them to be moved. Mint leaves would tickle his feet as he puffed away, hunching over the railings and forcing every noxious cloud outwards and away from our living room. Sometimes I did pity the old man to see him compete with the puny sprouts for sunlight, but I told myself that if it were truly a problem, he would speak to me about it. He never did. At times I caught him peering down at the containers, looking for mosquito larvae to evict or perhaps devising a plan to murder them all in a feat to regain his territory. I had heard, on multiple occasions, the “accidental” kick of a pot followed by an exaggerated tsk and the cracking of knees as my father bent down to inspect for damage. I would hear him mumbling incoherently to himself afterwards, probably cursing at my scraps for being too stubborn to die. That’s just how we lived as adults – my father and I trudging around conflict because the two of us would rather simmer in mild annoyance than confront each other about our feelings.
Everything changed one night when a parcel arrived at our house. I didn’t think much about it as we would receive at least one parcel each week, all with the same cardboard packaging with the sender’s address printed in Chinese.
“So late then come,” my father complained as he hobbled to the door while the bell endlessly rang. He was proud of his latest installation: a doorbell that chimed a shrilly, robotic jingle of “Auld Lang Syne”, reminiscent of the nasally sounds emitted from battery-operated lanterns children play with during the Mid-Autumn Festival. My father hacked the doorbell to make sure the piercing tune did not stop until the front door was opened. It was his solution to rid my habit of pretending not to hear the bell in hopes of him answering the door first. His crazy idea worked because I hated that song, and he bloody loved it. So, it was a surprise to see him reach the door before I even planted my feet on the ground. I watched from the sofa as he signed the delivery order and dragged the oblong package to the living room. He bent forwards and the box slipped from his fingertips, landing on the tiles with a chilling clank. The smell of tobacco smoke wafted from his silver hair, irritating my nostrils.  
“Girl, open for me,” he said. Leaving the parcel at my feet, he went to the kitchen to pour himself a cold drink, as if the mere act of hauling the box ten steps from the gate had rendered him parched.  
“My penknife is behind the TV.”
With my eyes glued back at the screen, I forced myself off the sofa and shoved the package aside with my toes, airing my unhappiness to my offbeat father whose online shopping habits were getting out of hand. I thought I had done myself a favour by showing him how to shop for his own products online, but it disgracefully spiralled into an obsession for cheap junk. He’d always make me open the larger packages due to his bad back, and who was I to refuse a droopy old man?
With my armpit pressed against the warm TV, I reached over the screen and blindly swivelled my wrists until my thumb hit the side of his open-faced toolbox. I plunged my hand in and wiggled my fingers around, frantically searching for the blade before my armpit hairs singed off. After wading through three pairs of scissors, a screwdriver, a large tape measure and a hairbrush, I finally got a grip on the penknife. I pulled it out and was startled to see its rusty blade still drawn.
I dropped to my knees and examined the parcel as my father returned from the kitchen, soft drink in one hand and the other resting on his hip. A drop of condensation from his cup landed on the box and left a dark spot, as if telling me to hurry up.
He cleared the fizz from his throat as I pushed the blade through a layer of tape in one smooth swipe. I wondered if he remembered the time when I was nine and had slashed my palms open trying to pull the lid off a can of longans. I had planned to make him an after-dinner dessert, but it bitterly ended with a night at the hospital with him holding my right hand as the doctor stitched up my left. The package in front of me now brushed against the scar on my palm as I reminded myself to strike the knife away from me and not towards.
“Be careful,” said my father. I wasn’t sure if he was worried for me or for the contents of his box. After slicing through the rest of the tape, I opened the flaps and out sprang thick layers of bubble wrap. I sunk my fingers into the plastic sheets and yanked out a lengthy mass of what felt like dense metal rods. Picking up the penknife again, I stabbed through the bubble wrap and ripped the layers apart, fuming with a mixture of curiosity and restlessness to find out what idiotic appliance I had to live with this time.
“Not bad, looks just like the picture.”
My father’s satisfaction grew as I hoisted a massive iron structure from the shreds of packaging around my thighs. It was a large cuboid frame that glistened under our ceiling lights. No wonder it weighed a ton; This thing was a chunk of pure metal. I stared at the puzzling object, frowning.  
“It’s a rack, girl. For your plants.”
The realization that this package was for me took a while to sink in. It wasn’t my birthday, nor had I received any special promotion at work. There was absolutely no reason for this gift. My father had stopped thinking about presents years ago, ever since I turned thirteen and came home with my first pack of sanitary pads. “I don’t know what teenage girls want anymore,” he had reasoned. Every birthday after that simply involved a quiet dinner of delivery pizza and a red packet left on my desk. I was always grateful for the money and for the freedom to choose whatever I wanted for my special day, but as I grew older, I couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps my father had stopped noticing me. Whatever I liked or disliked did not concern him anymore, and the red packet was just an obligatory act for the occasion. The thing is, you can give anybody money, but gifting somebody a surprise is undeniable proof that you had been lingering in their heads for a while.
The present in my hands grew heavier. I suddenly felt bad for kicking it earlier with my feet. I didn’t dare look up at my father, but I imagined his face beaming with triumph that he had finally purchased something I couldn’t possibly frown at. Still, I refused to give in. My body, however, could not stay composed. Goosebumps rose along both arms as the cold metal pressed against my blushing skin. I quickly set the rack down beside me and studied it in its entirety. Its gridded base resembled a charred barbecue rack, designed for letting excess water drip through in case of careless over-watering. A decorative grill bordered the rack with curls that forged subtle heart shapes, forming a fence of dainty swirls that enclosed its contents with the illusion of tenderness. It was, I hated to admit, surprisingly beautiful. But the most essential piece to the contraption was yet to be revealed. While I was mesmerized by my new gift, my father tilted the box and poured out two large brackets along with a couple of nuts and bolts.
“Come, I hang for you.”
Despite his dry, peeling hands, my father could always fix anything up in a jiffy. He fastened the loose brackets onto the iron rack, transported it to the balcony (after staggering through my scraps) and hooked it onto the railing. It dangled precariously at waist-level before my father tightened the remaining bolts. He then proceeded to give it a few smacks and thumps to test the rack’s stability. It didn’t budge. My father turned around, grinning.
“Better now, right?”
I joined my father on the balcony. Without a word, we picked up my containers one by one and settled them within the heart-shaped walls of the flowerpot holder. Our knuckles bumped carelessly against each other, and I was suddenly sent twenty years back to a balmy day at the beach. Knees bent in the warm sand together, my father and I were building our kingdom. He constructed elegant castles complete with battle towers and windows, patiently carving them with plastic utensils we found littered along the shore. While he sculpted the fancy parts, I helped decorate the walls with broken seashells and colourful bits of trash. The icing on our cake was a glistening green flag: A piece of skewered seaweed hanging limply on a twig. My least favourite part of the fortress was always the moat encircling it. I ran back and forth to the ocean with my pail, fetching water in a futile attempt to keep the moat filled. But the water always disappeared, leaving behind a dark and empty ditch. I asked my father where the water went and he replied, “The princess in the castle is always thirsty, just like you.” I could not recall why we had stopped going to the beach.
Back on our balcony, we held our breaths as I hoisted the last vegetable off the ground and placed it on the rack. To my father’s relief, they all fit perfectly. No sprout or bulb was left behind to further subjections of vengeful kicks and snowing cigarette ash. We retreated into the living room and assessed the finished product from afar. The plant rack had transformed our balcony from an unkempt laundry area littered with food scraps to a charming corner where bright green sprouts could finally greet us at eye-level.
“Looks good,” said my father.
As he cooled off under the ceiling fan and marvelled at his ingenious purchase, I couldn’t help but imagine him three weeks before, lying in bed after his evening shower with his smartphone set to maximum brightness in his dim bedroom as he typed out the words “flowerpot rack for balcony” into his shopping app’s search engine. This was a man who scrolled through hundreds of results, contemplated the best design, read through numerous reviews, considered the dimensions of the rack, measured the width of our balcony’s handrail and wondered if the product was worth the price or if he should just ask his daughter to find a new hobby. This was a man who took a chance, who clicked Add to Cart not knowing if his daughter’s kitchen scraps would even live for another month.
This was a man who still loved me despite never having said those three words.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I finally said.
My father is a man of few words. I never know what he is thinking until I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke wafting through my bedroom windows. There is no doubt that my kitchen scraps will eventually outlive the old man. Squeezed into the only wee space left on the rack is my father’s bursting ashtray which I occasionally empty out during my watering sessions. Every now and then my father will ask me, “How’s the rack?” as if he doesn’t already know from his vigorous shakings to check for loose bolts. He never asks about my plants, nor does he ever ask about me. But seeing my elevated greens dance in the sunlight now reminds me that my father still thinks of me, even if he doesn’t admit it. Or perhaps I’m exaggerating it all, and my father merely wanted my plants to stop tickling his feet while he smoked in his solitary, sun-lit spot.
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hydrus · 4 years
Text
Version 402
youtube
windows
zip
exe
macOS
app
linux
tar.gz
source
tar.gz
I had a great week just doing cleanup and other small work.
all misc this week
Most of the pages in the client now have special status bar text for when they have no files. If your search results in no files, instead of the old '0 files', you'll get 'no results for this search', and 'search cancelled!' if the search was cancelled, and so on. It just adds a bit of quick feedback to some actions--like highlighting a gallery query with no new files--where the new blank page may just be replacing another blank page.
I added 'copy_xxx_hash' shortcuts to the media shortcut set, for 'md5', 'sha1', and 'sha512'. All the hash-copying code is neated up as well, so if hashes can't be found for some reason, you'll still get what could be found and get nice info on how many were missing and why.
The client's shutdown code is untangled. A variety of unusual shutdown situations should be smoother, less buggy, maybe a little faster, and when errors do occur, they should be caught and reported more gracefully.
Gallery and watcher pages' list right-click menus now have direct links to the selected query or watcher's file and gallery logs. It is just an easier shortcut than highlighting and finding the button.
Forced file maintenance jobs now list a correct total x/y progress on their popups. Previously, they would show x/256 in the batches of 256, with no total summary.
Most of the lists with clipboard/png import/export buttons now also support json files, which is just a straight copy of what would go to your clipboard, but to a file. You can drag and drop compatible json files on the lists as well, just like with pngs.
I have updated the Windows and Linux client to Qt 5.15, up from 5.13. We had a variety of problems with 5.14, but this version seems to be working well. Let me know if you have any trouble, or if any problems are magically fixed.
full list
in many situations--such as a search result that gives no results, or a search cancel, or a downloader page cleared of a highlight--pages will now report a special status text rather than '0 files', such as 'no results for this search' or 'search cancelled!' (issue #277)
new pages, and the first page of a loaded session, should now correctly publish their status text to the status bar immediately after initialisation, (previously blank until first change)
clicking the 'searching immediately' button while a search is ongoing now correctly cancels a search, cleaning up status and page and buttons, rather than just stopping current work immediately
added 'copy_xxx_hash' shortcuts to the media shortcut set for 'md5', 'sha1', and 'sha512'
when copying file hashes to clipboard, a popup appears for two seconds to verify what happened
when copying file hashes to clipboard, recovery from missing hashes is more graceful, with multiple error report states
the way the client shuts down is untangled. the order in which the gui, managers, threads, database are shut down is smoothed out, with better error handling and fewer potential logical holes
the 'should I do shutdown work?' dialog is now only presented in the clean shutdown pipeline
menu labels now elide at 128 characters, extended from 64 previously. hopefully this strikes a better balance between fixed texts we do want to read while still not letting long dynamic texts go nuts (issue #276)
gallery and watcher pages now have 'show file/gallery log' on their menus, which directly zoom in to the edit dialogs for the top-most selected query or watcher (issue #256)
when file maintenance is forced to run from the thumbnail menu or file maintenance job panel, it now provides x/y progress text and gauge based on total jobs, e.g. 1,234/10,000, rather than out of the 256-job batches (issue #264)
the simple downloader page now updates its pending jobs list more efficiently, and supports multiple selection, and presents a yes/no confirmation on delete
most lists with clipboard/png import/export buttons can now also do .json files. they also accept json files in a drag and drop. you can mix json and png files in a multi-file drag and drop
when selecting a parser for a url class in 'manage url class links', those parsers with example urls that match the url class are now separately listed at the top of the choice dialog
in the recent autocomplete rewrite, the hidden repository update file domain was accidentally exposed in the file domain button. after some testing, it actually works(!), but as this is an advanced topic, it is now hidden behind advanced mode
the way services are deleted or completely reset is now changed to what should be a significantly faster and smaller operation
the latest user-made nitter/twitter downloader is rolled in to the update. some little fixes and adds support for mobile.twitter.com url imports
fixed an issue where uninitialised repositories thought they were caught up
to reflect that it does nothing in this case, the mouse shortcut edit panel now disables the press/release choice on double-click or scroll
fixed file save dialogs not filling in the default filename properly
removed an old wx safety hack where new pages would silently not create while the client was minimised. this fixes issues with large session loading and subscriptions publishing files to page names that do not yet exist while the client is minimised
removed an old wx safety hack where some tag lists would not regen their current tag display while the client was minimised
in lieu of a future better bit of html subscription help that I link to from the subscription panel, the 'file limits' help button has temporarily briefer text so it doesn't make such a giant popup
moving back to pyinstaller 3.5 (from 3.6) for the windows build, which appears to fix some dll loading for some users (issue #244)
the windows and linux builds are updated to Qt 5.15 (from 5.13.2). it does not seem to have the odd problems 5.14 gave us. let me know if you have any trouble or if any weird graphical issues magically fix themselves
.
client api:
the /get_files/file_metadata call has a new true/false parameter, 'detailed_url_information', default false, that adds 'detailed_known_urls' structure to list the known urls results as in /add_urls/get_url_info. it has a help example and a unit test and everything (issue #235)
the client api version is now 13
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boring cleanup details:
reshuffled the shutdown code. now the controller takes the lead, booting splash as appropriate and commanding gui to save and close, and then proceeds to other shutdown
fast and normal shutdown code is unified, just run differently
shutdown calls should now always be idempotent
a catch for some OS-level shutdown commands, normally user log-off, also hooks into the newer UI-free fast shutdown
SIGINT and SIGTERM also hook better into the new shutdown, and are thread safe
performing multiple SIGINTS on shutdown should no longer throw an error after the gui is deleted
more potential startup/shutdown errors are now caught and presented to the user and saved to log, with subsequent shutdown urgency accelerated afterwards
critical errors on a fast shutdown no longer present to the user--they just save to log
updated how an emergency shutdown state is tested
updated how a 'clean exit complete' state is set and tested
various unusual shutdown states now skip human interaction and jump straight to guaranteed fast shutdown
refactored splash window to its own file
wrote a new qlistwidget subclass to do some common data storage/retrieval/selection. it will eventually replace most lists across the program
the 'queue' list widget that has up/delete/down and add/edit buttons beside a list has nicer backend code and now initialises with its buttons correctly disabled due to no selection
the similar 'add/edit/delete' list widget is updated to use the nicer backend
some wx->Qt list hacks, which were themselves using borked old display-string-based indexing, are deleted
the repository download/process daemon has been moved to the newer job scheduler. it should start up and close out on program exit a bit more neatly
untangled some messy value-change radio button code in the shortcut edit panel
updated the way page status text propagates up from the thumbnail grid to the main gui to Qt signals instead of the old inefficient pubsub
all UI file hash clipboard copying code is now unified and improved
added a new subscription file publish debug test to help->debug->gui
refactored some client specific time delta rendering code out of core to client
misc event cleanup code
misc code style cleanup
next week
Next week is a small jobs week. I'll push like this week, just clearing out small items. I'd like to neaten shortcuts as well, dropping_the_long_command_names for a proper shortcut action object that'll be easier to work with in future and have a nice name. I didn't get to string parsing improvements this week, so I'll see if I can work on that as well.
The new Github Issues workflow we set up last week worked well, I think. The users managing it helped me focus on some nice issues, including a couple that had previously fallen to the back burner, and I was comfortable with the balance of my time on it. As a reminder, if you are comfortable with Github Issues, you can find it here: https://github.com/hydrusnetwork/hydrus/issues
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totallyinedible · 7 years
Text
Mother's Blessing
It's true what they say; if you're mother is not happy with you, nothing will go your way until you please her. Myth or not, it's happening. I'm not sure if this is the case, really. What I know though is that this has been a hell week, and it hasn't ended yet.
Let me start with my freelance project from last week. Yousef came to me and practically threw a project my way. It's unpaid, which is fine as I am credited as an editor and author. My issue with entire project was the extreme lack of organization. I understand that everything was last minute and I would have been able to accommodate that well into my unusually long (and highly anticipated) weekend. However, Yousef did not brief me well on the project. In fact, I received the working emails from Omar and I still had no idea what they wanted from me. I texted Omar saying that I have no clue what I'm supposed to be doing. Omar was shocked and replied back telling me what I'm supposed to be doing. In a nutshell, Omar asked me to transcribe an hour-long audio that is spoken in 3arabeezi so that I can edit it into Classic Arabic and then translate it fully into English.
I'm not sure if at that point, Omar or Yousef were aware of how much time such thing requires, as well as how many pages that would take from their book. I complied, even though I was really in a dire need for that long weekend after working on the previous freelance project. I started on the project at home on Monday, visited their office on Tuesday to continue working in their presence, and then continued on the first day of my long weekend at their office. I got there at 16:00 and started transcribing again. I finished transcribing late evening and showed it to Yousef. Yousef was like, "we cannot have 4500 words in the book. We just wanted an introduction, not the interview as is." That wasn't told to me before I started working. Instead of transcribing 4500 words, I could have listened to the interview for one hour, while taking notes of the important things I'd like to discuss in the introduction. I wouldn't have wasted 3 days to work on something rendered useless at the end of it.
That by itself made me go nuts. I was already in a terrible mood throughout all of it, but this was like the last straw. Why would they make me do 3-days worth of work for me not to use it? That night, I wrote up a crappy draft of the introduction in English and called it a night... At 2.30 am. Next day, I really didn't want to see Yousef or Omar after what they've done to me and I decided to work from home. I did so, and I made plans that night to leave the house and take breather. I had to keep pushing the plans until it was 10:30. Hanna came and picked me up to watch a movie, but until then, I was going back and forth with Yousef about the text I've written and sent in English and Arabic. I decided to ignore my phone the entire hang out because I needed to take my mind off of things. As soon as Hanna dropped me back home, I find messages from Yousef asking me to join him at Starbucks. At that point, it was already 1 am. I wanted to murder him. But I said yes anyway. I went to Starbucks and ended up staying there till 5 am. I got in bed at 6 in the morning. It was not fun. I was furious. I wanted to kill someone. But at least the project was finished by then...
What wasn't finished by then though is my fluccuating state of mind. Earlier that day, and due to the stress, I ended up yelling at my mom for asking me her usual intrusive questions. As I just said, it's not uncommon for mom to put her nose in my business. But on Friday, she accused me of mistreating her friends, asked a million questions about my time at my friends' office, to which she knew the answers by the way, and then started asking me questions based on stalking me on Instagram. After that final question, I exploded and told her to stop asking me such questions and she yelled back the usual "I'm your mother, lower down your voice and watch your tone!" kinda thing.
She hasn't spoken to me since...
While it's really good that I am not getting questions for every move I make, this silent treatment is fucked up. On one hand, I'm not the kind of person who likes being on bad terms with his mother. I like there to be mutual respect. And even though I disrespected her 'authority', she did not have the right in the first place to question me like that. I usually play along, but I needed to be left alone on that day and that weekend. On the other hand, I expected her to calm down like she always does when we fight. I even got her Knafeh the next day as a silent form of apology, because she loves them and I never buy them for her. She refused to eat any of it, like she refuses to talk to me still. What's stopping from going and talking to her are two things; first is that my mom needs to understand that what she does is super nosy. I hate lying to my mom, but I am a private person. I have issues being fully open to my friends, let alone my control-freak of a mother. I don't want her to think that it's okay to keep meddling and asking things that I don't feel comfortable sharing with her.
Sometimes, I end up lying about things that are not worth lying about, such as who the friend I'm going out with is - simply because of the follow up questions. If I say something like, I'm going to Abdullah's, she won't ask anything afterwards for instance.
Am I happy with the current situation? Not one bit! It is weighing heavy on my heart and it's keeping my mind at an all-time depressed mode. My sleep is not comfortable, my work is distracted, and my presence with friends is passive. Which brings me to another topic; friends.
I've always had a deep problem with people who leave. October 4th, Karim, who's engagement party is today, leaves. On October 5th, Osama, who lives and works in Qatar but is here for a short vacation, leaves. On October 6th, Saif, who came back to Amman over a year ago and been having game nights with weekly ever since, leaves. That is 3 people that I interact with heavily. That is 3 people from IAA. That is 3 people I already said goodbye to before and was glad to find our ways back. I'm being selfish here, I realize that. Karim is in the middle of his pHD, and he needs to go back to UK to continue. Osama obviously cannot leave work, and in February embarks on his next adventure is a Master's student in Australia. Saif has got a super exclusive opportunity as a researcher at Harvard and he'd be an idiot to let it go.
I've said goodbye to the same people once we finished school, but this is not the same situation. Back then, I felt I was being left behind in terms of education. Everyone was getting top international education by some of the finest universities in the world. This time around, I do not have jealousy in me. I have accomplished a lot this year, and I'm sure that what I really want to pursue is coming down the line sooner or later. This time, I simply feel left behind - as a person, and as a friend.
This takes me to the next topic - work. For the past two weeks, it's been unstable at work. The atmosphere was too tense for my comfort and I ended up hitting up my boss's office for an open conversation about what's going on. While she told me I shouldn't be worried - and at this point, I no longer am - all of this opened the door for my mind to wander. As much as I love Bayt, I don't want to stay there forever. But there are big issues as to where I should head next.
For a while now, the idea of working in the video game industry has been dancing in my head. The only issue is that I don't know what I can offer the industry. I am an architect, not a designer. One great thing about working at Bayt is that it's giving me the chance to develop my design skills, but at this point my services will not be enough for anything any video game company would normally ask for. I would say writing is the way to go, but writing what exactly? This year I managed to have my name on 4 different publications, which should be a good support to help me land a position in a gaming company, but I cannot imagine what I'd be doing. Writing video game stories is something saved for experts and not newcomers. I can't say I have thought about it vigorously, but I am staying with Bayt for at least another year. As I said, I need to work on my design skills, and maybe now focus harder than before on that, so that when it's time to apply, I have a solid background to push me to the next level. In the meantime, I will try to find new freelance projects related to the gaming field.
I already feel slightly at ease after writing all this down. I have an engagement party to go to in a couple of hours and I was in no position to go with my state of mind. At least now, I am capable of maintaining a fake smile and maybe... Just maybe... Actually enjoy myself for the night. I hope my mom comes back to her senses before I end up losing mine...
Update: My dad fell off a ladder today, and my sister who is now in Paris was diagonized with anxiety and mild depression. I have no energy to discuss those after this post. I will try that later.
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yogapantsuk-blog · 7 years
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A New Breakdown Of No-nonsense Strategies For Yoga Pants Uk Sale
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