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senditcolton · 7 months

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If You Want It Done

summary: after a disappointing playoff loss, brady reappears on your doorstep eight months after he ended things. and he has nothing on his mind but taking out his frustrations by having you desperate and keening for him once again. however, you aren't about to submit without a fight.

song inspo: NFWB by Hozier & Rats by Motionless in White word count: 5.1k warnings: feminine reader. smut! hair pulling, fingering, unprotected penetration, spanking, slight choking, oral (m receiving), and - as always - a healthy amount of dirty talk. plus somewhat toxic and insanely cocky brady.

a/n: no tricks here. just a sweet treat in the form of long- awaited Brady Skjei smut. technically it's a continuation of this blurb, but i just combined the original and the addition into one fic for you all. enjoy and happy halloween.

Sadness. Humiliation. Shame.

Those should be the emotions running through Brady as the plane lands back in Carolina after Game 4 of the Eastern Conference Finals. Because he wasn’t back ready to fight for another win. He was here to pack his bags and go home.

The best team in the Metro. Swept. By a wild card team who barely made the playoffs.

It was a disaster, an embarrassment. And Brady should feel the heavy weight of that failure, even if he might only be responsible for one-nineteenth of the blame. Or, at least, he should feel the waves of sadness crashing over him about the way it ended, or the mere fact that it did end.

But he didn’t. Perhaps he had earlier, when that final buzzer sounded and the fans in South Florida cheered. But now, having sat with those feelings for the better part of 24 hours, he was no longer sad.

He was angry.

And so, when the wheels touched down in Raleigh and he collected his car, he didn’t drive home.

Instead, he drove to yours.

A tired sigh leaves you as you pull up to your quaint cottage-style home. A long work week was cause for an even longer relaxing weekend and you were ready to start that weekend by getting inside and having a long nap. Or a strong drink. Or perhaps both.

However, after hopping out of your car and wandering up the small path that leads to your front door, your plans placed on a momentary hold when you see someone leaning against your siding, their baseball cap pulled low.

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling,” you call out, ready for this stranger to flash you an award-winning smile and tell you all about how their company could save you money on roofing repairs after last week’s storm.

But when their head lifts, you stop in your tracks as you recognize the face staring back at you.

Hell, you used to wake up to it every morning for eight months. Until he ended things.

“Brady.”

His name falls from your mouth in complete practiced apathy. You didn’t need him to know how much time you spent crying over him in the last month. You especially didn’t need him to know how your heart still skipped a beat when his eyes connected to yours.

“Did you see the game?” he asks.

“I heard.”

“And?”

“And what? Do you want to cry for you?”

There’s a humorless chuckle that comes from Brady as his head falls before he takes a step towards you.

“You always knew how to make me feel better,” he says, the sarcasm lacing his voice. And when you hear it, that dry scathing tone, you realize that you didn’t recognize the man in front of you.

Brady was always soft, gentle, welcoming. It made the dichotomy between you even more obvious; you all sharp edges and harsh words and burning fire. It was part of the reason the two of you broke up.

But this Brady… there was something different. Something dangerous. it intrigued you. But not enough for you to give in.

“I’m not going to coddle you, Brady. You should know that by now.”

“I don’t want your sympathy.”

“What do you want then?” you ask, finally taking a few steps forward, closing the gap between you and your front door. “You want my pity? You want me to say ‘poor you, poor Brady’?”

It’s your turn to let a scoff fall from your lips as you reach into your bag for your keys, Brady now behind you.

“If you wanted someone to feel sorry for you, you came to the wrong fucking house,” you explain, unlocking the door.

Before you can even reach the handle, you feel Brady step forward, his hands falling on your hips as his body crowds you into the smooth wood. You attempt to take a deep breath to calm your heart but it doesn’t help because when you breathe in, your senses are filled with the smell of his cologne. A smell so familiar. One you missed.

Brady moves closer, his body almost pinning you to the door and you can’t stop your knees from trembling as you feel the heat of him behind you.

“I came here because I missed you,” he whispers into your ear.

“And it took you getting your ass kicked to realize that?” you shoot back. Although, the waver in your voice betrays you, revealing how much your body was responding to him; his touch, his words, his warmth. Brady just lets his previous sentence continue, as if he didn’t even hear you.

“And because I know you missed me just as much.”

You couldn’t let him do this – let him come crawling back to you when he was broken or bored. You no longer belonged to him. It was a recipe for disaster.

“I think you’ve forgotten that I’m not one of those girls that would fall on their knees for you.”

“You seemed to enjoy being on your knees for me when we were together.”

“And we’re not together anymore. So, find someone else to fuck your frustrations out on.”

“Is that what you did?”

“None of your business.”

You feel his grip on your hips tighten and you barely have time to react as he effortlessly spins your body until your back is pressed against the wood of the door, your eyes now looking up at him.

“You’re lying.”

Brady almost spits out the words, as if even the barest suggestion that what you said was true was poison to him. Your eyes follow the movement in his temple, the clenching of his jaw, the storm in his eyes. This wasn’t the side of Brady that you knew.

But it was a side that you were always curious to discover. Throughout those eight months, you wanted to know if Brady had that same fire hiding within him – a passion and intensity that could match yours. And now, you could finally see it peeking through.

You wanted it to come out completely.

“And you can tell?” you ask, wielding your words with edge and precision. “Does that make you feel worse? If I told you about all the other men that ended up in my bed?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I wouldn’t? Are you sure? You knew what you giving up when you left. Can’t blame me for moving on.”

“You wouldn’t,” Brady repeats, one hand falling away and you barely have time to comprehend where it had gone when you feel the steady weight of the door fall away from you.

Your body lurches back, the momentum pulling you until it is abruptly stopped by Brady’s strong arms, pulling you close and lifting you over the threshold. Your feet find the hardwood of your floors before Brady is spinning you again and you find yourself pressed against the door once more, this time inside your house instead of without.

“You wouldn’t,” he reiterates, “because no one could make you feel as good as I did.”

You hear the deadbolt click, the sound causing the heat pool in your stomach. Brady’s hand moves back to your hip, pulling you close again as he leans in until your lips are barely touching. It’s intoxicating, having him this close to you once again. You are about to surge forward, connect your lips to his, let your fire burn with his. Until Brady speaks again.

“No one could make you feel as good as I’m about to.”

That statement pulls all rationality from you and you don’t hesitate to close the gap between you, crashing your lips onto his. Brady returns the kiss with as much intensity, his hands gripping you tighter while yours move to trace over his arms, his broad shoulders before tangling into that salt-and-pepper hair. The kiss is frantic, all teeth and tongues and it takes a moment before Brady finally pulls away, connecting those brown eyes to your own

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “You always will be.”

The words cut right through you; as a threat or a promise, you weren’t really sure. But the instant that Brady crashes his lips back into yours, you find that you don’t care.

God, you missed this. You would be lying if you didn’t spend many restless nights reminiscing on how his hands felt on your body. How his lips felt on your skin.

But you wouldn’t tell him that. The words would never leave your mouth, not while Brady is standing in front of you. You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. At least, not yet.

Instead, you get lost in Brady’s kisses, your hands coming to tangle deeper in his hair, pulling him closer to you as your hips roll up to meet his. You think you can hear a dark chuckle rumble from Brady and vibrate directly into your body, sending sparks of electricity flowing through you. His hands roam across your body, up from your hips to the soft material of your blouse before landing on your breasts, giving them a squeeze, causing your head to fall back.

“Missed these perfect tits,” he mumbles, his movements against your chest continuing in response to the soft moan falling from your mouth. Your moan turns into a sharp gasp as Brady grips the center of your shirt and tears it open. The sound of the buttons scattering across the hardwood floor floods your ears and it inexplicably turns you on even more.

If this was any other man, you would be pissed off at him for ruining your one of your favorite shirts. But this was Brady. A new Brady.

In those eight months you were with him, he was nothing but a gentleman, both outside and inside the bedroom. And he was more than satisfactory. But you knew there had to be something underneath all that charm. An untamed animal just waiting to be unchained.

And if this was the key to its cage, you weren’t about to stop everything to cry over a few buttons. But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to complain at all.

“You’re buying me a new shirt,” you mutter against Brady’s lips. Brady swiftly removes his mouth from yours as he looks down at your newly exposed bra.

“Gonna buy you something new to wear under it,” comes his response as his thumbs trace over the edge of the plain nude material and this time, you can stop your eyes from rolling in annoyance.

“Do you really think I wear lingerie to work?” you quip, staring up at him.

You can see his eyes harden and it is in that moment that you realize he was enjoying this. The chase, the tease, the dare, the push and pull between the two of you.

“If you don’t like it,” you continue, your voice taking on a sultry tone as you continue to meet his dark brown eyes, “then take it off.”

The quick sparkle that appears in his brown eyes makes you think that he has taken the bait, that you might have gained some control over the situation at hand – a situation that you were wholly unprepared for but welcomed none the less. And when Brady leans back in to lock you lips together once again, his hands wandering around your ribcage towards your back, the confidence grows.

However, it takes a sharp plummet when you feel his hands drop from your frame. If Brady had given you a split second longer, you would have broken the kiss to question or quip him again. But you have barely any time to miss the sensation of his hands on your skin before you feel them grip the back of your thighs as Brady uses his athletic strength to effortlessly lift you off the floor.

You gasp, a gasp that Brady gladly swallows before he spins, tearing his lips away from yours to look around your house. There is a part of you that wants to tell him nothing has changed from the last time he was there – the furniture is the same, your bedroom is still two doors down on the left – but your lips have already busied themselves marking the smooth skin on his neck.

There was also a power in your decisions; forcing him to find his way through your space all while doing your best to distract him. And it seems to be working as you feel Brady’s pulse shudder underneath your mouth.

You feel him take a lurching turn right and a slight flash of confusion runs through you until you feel his body lowering. The soft material of your couch hits your knees and the skirt you had on flows out around you as you now straddle Brady.

“Forgot where the bedroom was?” you chirp into his neck, feeling his desperate hands return to your torso as he removes the tattered remains of your blouse from your waistband.

It seems that it takes a minute for your words to register but when they do, Brady’s hand lifts to tangle in your hair. Another gasp escapes from your chest as his fingers tighten before pulling your head away from his neck. He quickly reverses the roles, his own lips moving to your newly exposed throat, your breath transforming from gasps to soft sighs as his mouth works against your skin.

“Who says I’m not going to take you there after I’m done here?”

“Who says I would let you back into my bed anyway?” you retort to keep some semblance of control.

Your pathetic attempt is clearly read by Brady, who makes you falter once again as the hand not tangled in your hair effortlessly unclasps your bra. His lips depart from your neck as he helps slide the material down your arms, throwing it carelessly somewhere in the room. You both hate and love the smirk that appears on his face as he takes in your heaving chest, your pebbled nipples. His dark eyes dart back up to you briefly before he is tugging you into him for another animalistic kiss.

“Seems that you like it so far,” he whispers into your open mouth before he pulls away again, lifting your body upright and pulling you closer. “I’ll take my chances.”

You wish that you could say something back, something to knock his arrogant confidence down a peg but your mind goes blank as his lips move to your collarbone, leaving faint hickeys against the taut skin before moving down to your chest. His lips close around one of your nipples, tongue moving to tease the sensitive peak as his hands rest on your ribcage, his thumbs running across the delicate skin on the underside of your breasts. Your hands fly to the back of his head, keeping him close and you can feel his lips curl against your skin. The action both turns you on and pisses you off, a combination that you weren’t sure could even work until now.

You fly into action, hands moving down to grip the fabric stretched across his broad shoulders, tugging at the material and pulling it upward before he finally breaks away to help you remove the shirt entirely, tossing it away to join your clothes on the living room floor.

His lips return to your chest, moving to leave no skin unmarred with his love bites as your hands drop to his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle in silent encouragement. Brady’s hands lower before coming to grip your ass and you gasp as he pulls you forward, the action causing your hips to roll. You both let out moans at the sensation of you grinding against him and it turns you on more to feel his erection against your core.

“And here I thought I was the masochist,” you joke, moving your hips of your own volition, pressing deeper into him. The grunt that your actions pull from his chest has you grinning. “Who’d know you get this hard from getting your ass kicked?”

You must’ve struck a nerve, prodded at the memory he came here to forget, because the only thing you hear in response is what could best be described as a growl before he lifts you off of his lap enough to slip out from underneath you. Your brain recognizes the weight of his body disappearing from the couch and you attempt to turn, just to keep your eyes locked on him but Brady doesn’t give you a chance.

His large hand finds the space between your shoulder blades and pushes you forward, your torso falling until your chest meets the back cushions. You can’t stop the gasp that falls, your arms lifting over the edge of the couch as your back arches, your hips pressing back towards Brady now looming behind you.

A dark chuckle echoes throughout the room in response to your actions as he pulls the material of your skirt over your hips, exposing more of your body to him. He doesn’t waste any time, doesn’t even bother removing your underwear, instead choosing to move it to the side before he slips two fingers into your already soaked core.

You let out a moan, your head falling forward as Brady’s hand moves, winding you up and my God, you would be lying if you said you didn’t miss the feeling. His thumb quickly finds your clit, pressing against the bundle of nerves and you can’t stop the way your body responds to his movements.

“That’s what I thought,” he laughs. “You have no right to that attitude when you’re this fucking desperate for me.”

He emphasizes his words with a curl of his fingers, the tips grazing your g-spot and the combined sensation of his hands skillfully moving against you almost has you falling over the edge. Brady doesn’t give you your satisfaction that easily though as he removes his fingers from your core. You whimper at the loss, listening intently to Brady’s movements behind you, impatient to feel him once more.

Brady doesn’t leave you wanting for long as you hear the rustle of his pants hitting the floor and before you can blink, you feel his hands practically tear your panties down your legs before he enters you in one swift, harsh motion.

The moans that you both let out are delicious and desperate. You whine as you move your hips back, pushing him impossibly deeper. Brady groans, his hands quickly finding purchase on your hips, gripping you tight before he begins to move.

“Oh god,” you moan out as Brady fucks into you with quick hard thrusts, showing no mercy, your ass rippling every time it meets his hips. You are grateful for the couch cushions in front of you, helping to support your upper body as your fingers dig into the fabric so deeply that an irrational part of you worries you might tear it.

“Not God, sweetheart. Just me,” Brady replies, his movements barely faltering. “Come on, say my name.”

You wish you could tell him to fuck off, make a quip about his cocky attitude but your mouth doesn’t seem able to form the words or any words for that matter. The only thing you want is for him to continue. A sharp smack against your ass jolts your body forward and your head whips around in surprise, eyes connecting to Brady.

“Say. My. Name,” he repeats, now more command than anything else, every word punctuated by another spank and you are helpless to comply.

“Brady,” you whine, your desperation painted on every letter, your eyes staying locked on him, drinking in his reaction. He groans, his teeth coming to bite his lower lip, his gaze dropping from your face to connect to where his cock disappears into your pussy.

“Fuck, that’s it, sweetheart.”

His quiet encouragement is all you need to continue moaning his name over and over. One of his hands falls from your hips to join yours in gripping the back of the couch, his body now completely covering yours, the new leverage only increasing the strength in which Brady thrusts into you. Your head falls to rest against the back cushion, the sounds of your staccato whimpers and breathy curses filling the living room along with the continuous depraved slapping of skin against skin.

You whine as you feel his hand disappear from your hip and slowly trace up your body, the softness of his touch a sharp contrast. The gentleness doesn’t last long and your whine turns into a gasp as Brady’s large hand wraps around your throat, pulling your head upwards.

“Keep saying my name,” he says, his hot breath fanning across the shell of your ear. “Let everyone know who’s making you feel this good.”

“You are, Brady.”

“Yeah? Can anyone else fuck you like I can?”

“No. Only you.”

“That’s right. Only me,” he growls in satisfaction, emphasizing his words with his rhythm.

“Fuck, Brady, please,” you plead, your voice strained from how much focus it took to pry the words from your mouth. “I’m close.”

“Well then, come on sweetheart. Touch yourself. Remind me how good it feels when you cum on my cock.”

The speed in which your hand falls is reckless, frantic to get that additional pressure that you were craving. As soon as your fingers press against your clit, your head falls back against Brady’s shoulder in relief. His praise is muffled against your skin as he peppers your shoulder with kisses, only interrupted by quiet curses as he feels your core flutter.

It is hot, so unbelievably hot – how he’s fucking you, how he’s holding you – that it doesn’t take long for you to finally fall over the precipice, your own hand faltering against you as your orgasm rocks through your body. A groan falls from Brady as he feels you clench around him; a groan that he muffles by sinking his teeth into the flesh of your shoulder, the additional sensation causing you to moan louder, hips rocking back against him as his motions halt.

The haze that pricked at the corner of your eyes slowly dissipates and you can feel Brady’s hand fall from your neck. The cool air cascades over your back as Brady lifts himself away from you causing goosebumps to appear. A small whimper escapes when you feel him remove himself from your core and steps away. The submissive part of your mind, still in control, panics in fear that he might leave. But the concern is short lived as Brady sits down next to you, pulling you back into his lap.

He wastes no time capturing you in another kiss, stealing any remaining breath from your lungs. Brady attempts to break the kiss but you don’t let him, hands lifting to cup his jaw and pulling him deeper into the kiss. He doesn’t resist and allows you to continue to kiss him, his own arms wrapping around your body.

Eventually your hands move, trailing down his throat, dancing over his chest and you smile against his lips as you feel his abs tighten in response to your fingers sinking lower until they finally reach the desired destination.

You gently take his still hard length in your hand and stroke him a few times, which was easy to do with your prior release clinging to the silky-smooth skin. You grin as you feel the vibrations of Brady’s soft moan in response to your ministrations. The cloud of your orgasm had lifted and, in its absence, your own confidence returned.

“Want me to take care of that for you?” you question, only moving far enough away to ask, your lips brushing against his occasionally. Brady doesn’t respond; you knew he wouldn’t. He had worked too hard to give up the dominance he held over you so easily. But you weren’t deterred.

You kiss him deeply one more time before your lips follow the path your hands previously traced: down his throat, over his collarbones, across his chest. An occasional moan and curse fall from Brady as you continue your descent and you grin, knowing that his resolve was slowly cracking. Your body moves, shuffling from being perched on top of his lap to kneel on the plush carpet between his thighs. Brady’s eyes are needy when your own eyes dart up to meet his stare. Your hand strokes him again but you make no attempt to put your mouth on him, the dare hanging clearly in the air.

“Baby, please,” Brady finally speaks, his hips punching upwards.

“Who’s fucking desperate now?” you quip, unable to contain your excitement at regaining the upper hand. Your jaw drops open in surprise as Brady’s hand darts out, grabbing your neck once more, his eyes growing dark.

“You want to repeat that sweetheart?” he asks, that dominant energy rolling off him again. Except this time, it doesn’t make you back down. Instead, it just spurs you on, that heat and elation as it returns – the battle, the chase. Your dropped jaw just morphs into a wicked grin and you are ecstatic to see a similar smirk twist onto Brady’s lips; a quiet confirmation that he was still enjoying the newfound push and pull between you two.

“Come on Brady. Admit it. You are just as desperate for me as I am for you,” you explain, your voice dipping again into your lower sultry timbre. “Tell me, do any of those other girls have a mouth like mine?”

You flatten your tongue against his shaft and lick a bold stripe up his length before moving your lips to leave a lingering teasing kiss on the head. Brady groans, his head falling back as his hand moves from your neck to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer in an attempt for you to fully wrap your lips around him.

“No one can fuck me like you can?” you continue, hand wrapping around his cock. “Well, you’ll never find someone who can give better head than I can.”

You don’t give him any chance to respond as you surge forward, finally taking him into your wet mouth. Your tongue traces every vein that you could feel as your hand moves against the rest of him. Brady’s moans sounding from above fuel you and you continue to work your sinful magic against his skin.

It may have been months since you two were in this particular position but you feel like a part of you will remember everything about Brady, including all the spots that make him groan and twitch and throb. Your lips move to suck on the tip, teasing the area where the head meets the shaft with your tongue.

“Fuck,” Brady curses, his hips jumping causing his cock to thrust into your mouth. You gag a little before withdrawing – not completely but only enough to catch your breath. Your eyes dart to his and find that he is already staring at you, his salt-and-pepper hair falling over his forehead. The moan you release at the sight vibrates around Brady causing an identical moan to escape him. You inhale deeply before lowering your head, relaxing your throat until the entirety of his cock is nestled in your mouth.

“Goddamn, you’re so fucking good at that,” he groans, his fingers twisting in your hair. You move, shallowly bobbing your head as you feel him pulse against your tongue, a tell-tale sign he was getting close. The assumption was only confirmed by the next word Brady spoke. “Fuck, baby, gonna cum.”

You pull your mouth from him, replacing it quickly with your hand and continuing the pace you had set.

“I won’t waste a drop,” you say, keeping your eyes locked to his as you wrap your lips around him once again, your hands moving to the side his thighs and pressing your fingertips up into them. Brady understands your silent request, hand once again tightening in your hair as he moves his hips upward, taking control.

“Yeah? You going to swallow it all like a good girl?”

You nod your head, keeping your mouth open and accepting everything he gives, moaning against his skin as he increases his pace. It’s only a few more moments before Brady throws his head back against the couch cushions, a long groan emulating from his chest as his own orgasm hits. You feel his cum hit the back of your throat and you greedily pull him deeper, determined to keep your word.

You let Brady collect himself and take a few deep breaths before you slowly raise your head, sliding off of his cock. You wait until his eyes connect to yours before you swallow, releasing a satisfied exhale afterwards. You can’t help but make a show of it, licking your lips before opening your mouth to show him that you indeed didn’t let anything go to waste.

Brady grins, a smile which you quickly mirror before his hands are on your body, hauling you off the floor and back into his lap. Your lips connect and you sigh, savoring the euphoric glow that surrounded the two of you. The two of you continue to make out for a few minutes, relaxing before you pull away, looking down at Brady.

“D’you feel better?” you joke, the remembrance of why he came to your house in the first place – and what it all meant now – nagging in the back of your mind. You aren’t sure if you can see sadness lingering on the corners of Brady’s smile as his hand runs soothing circles across your spine.

“A little.”

“Need anything else?”

“Maybe a shower,” he replies, looking up at you with those brown eyes that always made you weak. A sparkle that spells nothing but trouble for you flashes in his irises as his smile turns into a wicked smirk. “And perhaps a round two, starting with my head buried between your thighs.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?” you breathlessly chuckle, your head shaking in playful disbelief as your tear your gaze from his.

“I just know what I want.”

“Which is?”

“You.”

His quiet declaration has your head turning back to him, connecting your eyes once again. The emotions displayed in his own stare are unfathomable and you know that this isn’t the place to attempt to decipher them. You don’t have time to unwind and unravel the mess that defined you and Brady’s connection: your prior relationship, the subsequent break-up, and everything that happened today.

So, instead, you gently climb from Brady’s lap, standing upright before stretching out your hand towards him. He accepts your offer and you help lift him off the sofa before dragging him down the hallway to the second door on the left, back into your bed.

Like he always belonged there.

Like he never left.

tagging the skjei-sy sluts (affectionate) who asked for a continuation + a few others I think would appreciate this: @smileysvech @pyotrkochetkov @cellythefloshie @comphy-and-cozy @laurenairay

#nicole writes #brady skjei fic #brady skjei imagine #brady skjei smut #carolina hurricanes fic #carolina hurricanes imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

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spacetimewithstuartgary · 2 months

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New SpaceTime out Friday....

SpaceTime 20240426 Series 27 Episode 51

How Pluto got its heart

The mystery of how Pluto got a giant heart-shaped feature on its surface has finally been solved with the cause being attributed to a giant and slow oblique-angle impact.

No gamma rays from nearby supernova

The explosive death of a star in a nearby supernova last year offered astrophysicists an opportunity to test ideas about how these powerful blasts accelerate cosmic rays to super luminal speeds.

Last ever Delta rocket launch

A bit of history was made this month with the last ever launch of a delta rocket.

The Science Report

More than one billion people in the world are now living with obesity.

Study says foods that contain resistant could help with weight loss.

The new automatic toilet flushing device that only works with the lid down to keep the nasties in.

SpaceTime covers the latest news in astronomy & space sciences.

The show is available every Monday, Wednesday and Friday through Apple Podcasts (itunes), Stitcher, Google Podcast, Pocketcasts, SoundCloud, Bitez.com, YouTube, your favourite podcast download provider, and from www.spacetimewithstuartgary.com

SpaceTime is also broadcast through the National Science Foundation on Science Zone Radio and on both i-heart Radio and Tune-In Radio.

SpaceTime daily news blog: http://spacetimewithstuartgary.tumblr.com/

SpaceTime facebook: www.facebook.com/spacetimewithstuartgary

SpaceTime Instagram @spacetimewithstuartgary

SpaceTime twitter feed @stuartgary

SpaceTime YouTube: @SpaceTimewithStuartGary

SpaceTime -- A brief history

SpaceTime is Australia’s most popular and respected astronomy and space science news program – averaging over two million downloads every year. We’re also number five in the United States. The show reports on the latest stories and discoveries making news in astronomy, space flight, and science. SpaceTime features weekly interviews with leading Australian scientists about their research. The show began life in 1995 as ‘StarStuff’ on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation’s (ABC) NewsRadio network. Award winning investigative reporter Stuart Gary created the program during more than fifteen years as NewsRadio’s evening anchor and Science Editor. Gary’s always loved science. He studied astronomy at university and was invited to undertake a PHD in astrophysics, but instead focused on his career in journalism and radio broadcasting. He worked as an announcer and music DJ in commercial radio, before becoming a journalist and eventually joining ABC News and Current Affairs. Later, Gary became part of the team that set up ABC NewsRadio and was one of its first presenters. When asked to put his science background to use, Gary developed StarStuff which he wrote, produced and hosted, consistently achieving 9 per cent of the national Australian radio audience based on the ABC’s Nielsen ratings survey figures for the five major Australian metro markets: Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide, and Perth. The StarStuff podcast was published on line by ABC Science -- achieving over 1.3 million downloads annually. However, after some 20 years, the show finally wrapped up in December 2015 following ABC funding cuts, and a redirection of available finances to increase sports and horse racing coverage. Rather than continue with the ABC, Gary resigned so that he could keep the show going independently. StarStuff was rebranded as “SpaceTime”, with the first episode being broadcast in February 2016. Over the years, SpaceTime has grown, more than doubling its former ABC audience numbers and expanding to include new segments such as the Science Report -- which provides a wrap of general science news, weekly skeptical science features, special reports looking at the latest computer and technology news, and Skywatch – which provides a monthly guide to the night skies. The show is published three times weekly (every Monday, Wednesday and Friday) and available from the United States National Science Foundation on Science Zone Radio, and through both i-heart Radio and Tune-In Radio.

#science #space #astronomy #physics #news #nasa #esa #astrophysics #spacetimewithstuartgary #starstuff #spacetime #nasa photos #jwst #hubble space telescope

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mighty-ant · 2 years

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future boy, part one

ao3

Concrete, smoke, the oppressive, sizzling ozone tang of recently discharged laserfire—the stench of decimation was the same in the New York City of 2020 as it would be in 2044. Or, was. Had been. Never would be.

He was new to this whole time travel thing, okay?

Casey was still white-knuckling the Key in one hand, adrenaline working a fine tremble down his arm and down into his fingers. Its weight was substantial, as a centuries old hunk of stone, an ancient prison should be, and even dim and powerless, it didn’t look real beneath his filthy, bloodstained glove.

It was the Key to his future. To the annihilation of a world he’d only heard about in stories.

It was the Key that Master Leonardo died for. And kept dying for.

The streets around Metro Tower—real streets , with those little yellow lines painted in the middle, surrounded by mostly intact storefronts where pale-faced civilians peered out of smashed windows, wondering if the end of the world had been prevented or merely paused—were caked in rubble, more so than the other parts of the city he’d seen. In this world, to these people, unused to decimation as the norm, it probably still looked pretty bad.

Chunks were missing from lots of buildings, fallen to the street in cavernous, splintering craters when they weren’t disintegrated entirely. Casey spied a helicopter sticking out of the glittering, glass side of a skyscraper, trailing smoke, and around the corner it looked like a tank had been picked up and dropped into the middle of a bank, its marble columns lying splayed out and scorched in the street.

But the world Casey came from didn’t have buildings that weren’t burnt out husks, teetering skeletons that couldn’t provide substantial shelter against a sandstorm much less a pack of Krang demon dogs. The land was scarred, dead, barren. Pockmarked ground was built on the demolished layers of New York City, every gleaming skyscraper and the Hidden City that had once lain beneath her, exposed by the Krang’s theft of mystic energy and burnt to cinders in the first year of invasion.

He knew, logically, that millions would had to have died to make the future that he lived, where a cave filled with a few hundred, starving refugees felt like a feat of survival. But until Sensei threw him through the time gateway, dropping him into the heart of a shining metropolis among more humans that he’d ever imagined existing in the entire history of Earth, packing the sidewalks in endless rivers, talking and shopping and living , he never could’ve grasped the sheer magnitude of loss. Of death.

Deaths that would never happen now, because he held the Key in his hand. Because Master Leonardo— Leo , young and impulsive and reckless as hell, and the greatest hero the world would never know—pushed the Technodrome beyond the reaches of the stars, dooming himself to a short imprisonment and long, excruciating death at the hands of an ancient, alien evil.

Casey doomed him to that fate.

The Krang were many, many sickening, hateful things, and merciful was not one of them.

Those that they tortured and turned and still survived never stayed that way for long, unable to live with the monsters they’d become. Casey had fought the mangled bodies that Krang possessed long after the host had died, empty puppets performing at their masters’ whim. He’d dragged comrades back to base with gaping holes pierced through them, choking on their own blood, nursing wounds that appeared small only to turn to them in the next moment and discover them gray and glassy-eyed. There were never enough bandages, enough medicine, and infection killed as many as the Krang did.

Casey would never forget the way Sensei screamed when Master Donatello had to amputate what remained of his right arm. Master Raphael had been gone for half a decade by then, so Master Michaelangelo held his left hand until he passed out from the pain, and many hours after. Master Donatello, already a taciturn teacher, barely spoke after that. And then, he was gone too.

As rubble and glass crunched beneath his boots, Casey heard Sensei’s scream reverberating in the empty chasm of his head. Somewhere, high above the technicolor explosion over Metro Tower and beyond this plane, Leo might be screaming the same way. Casey hoped that wasn’t the case. He hoped Krang’s revenge would be swift, that Leo would be at peace, secure in the knowledge that he saved his brothers, saved the planet , even if he couldn’t save himself. Again.

You’re a lifesaver, Casey Jones.

As if.

Twice now he’d abandoned Sensei. First to face annihilation alone, gone with a smile and a blinding laserblast that seared into his retinas, the afterimage lingering whenever he closed his eyes. The last Hamato, slain.

The second time, Casey damned Leo by choice, if not willingly. It was what his not-quite-Sensei wanted, begged him to do, even as Raphael (Master Raphael living, breathing, miraculously freed from Krang control, Leo did it) pleaded fiercely against it. But Leo trusted Casey to do it. To kill him. Because he finally understood what Casey feared he never would.

Get the Key.

Stop the Krang.

No matter the personal cost.

Behind Casey, something clattered and fell—precarious rubble, most likely—but by the way he startled it might as well have been gunfire. His mask dropped over his face and he brought his chainsaw staff to bear as his heart pounded in his ears and his muscles thrummed, reactions all delayed. What sloppy work; Master Leonardo would’ve had him doing flips until the second apocalypse for his lack of alertness on the battlefield.

Could he still call it that if the battle was over?

His aimless wandering had not taken him far from the base of Metro Tower. The smoke was densest here, the buildings dark, and the wind whistled mournfully through the shattered windows. Tendrils of the Krangs’ parasites lay frozen among the devastation, disturbingly organic among the wreckage once built by human hands.

It was so quiet. Casey didn’t think he’d ever known silence such as this. Compared to the dizzying rush of Times Square and the havoc of battle, this felt like he was the last person left alive in the whole of New York City.

His gaze caught on something that flickered, metal reflecting the glow of the obliterated Technodrome. Precision metal, a blue hilt. Casey dropped his staff with nerveless fingers.

One of Leo’s katana.

He lurched toward it before he was even conscious of moving. His legs shook, knees only holding him up until he reached the blade. He collapsed heavily before it, breath leaving him in a painful rush. Or maybe that was just his cracked ribs from the drone attack two days and a time gateway ago.

Even through his knee pads, the jolt of falling onto crushed concrete rattled through his bones. He couldn’t have cared less. Casey couldn’t remember the last time his hands trembled while handling a weapon, but now he had to move slowly to pick up the katana, lest he grip it too tightly and slice through his gloves, down to the flesh.

He’d been seven when he first saw Master Leonardo’s katana up close.

They were a resistance cell of a few hundred at one point, mostly families. They traveled through the ruins of the sewers back then, before the Krang wised up to the strategy and forced them aboveground, into the caves. Not many yokai survived the extermination of the Hidden City, and even fewer mutants, but they weren’t an entirely uncommon site around their scattered campfires.

Everyone knew the Hamato Clan—Commander O’Neil and her four mutant brothers were basically their de facto leaders. Casey had only ever seen them from a distance, and they amazed him even then.

Raphael, silent and lumbering as he made his rounds, was the biggest mutant Casey had ever seen, positive that he could take out a whole pack of demon dogs without breaking a sweat. Michelangelo could often be found in the middle of a game with the children of the camp (there was a surplus of orphans, after all), throwing harmless ribbons of light for them to chase or sewing balls for them to kick around in the dirt. Donatello was the turtle they all saw the least of, always holed up in his mobile lab where the shriek of wrenching metal and drilling could be heard at all hours. He would often emerge with weapons, demonstrate how they worked, and then vanish back into his lab with the deadpan warning, “Try not to blow your heads off.”

Leonardo could most often be found hunched over the war table, alongside Commander O’Neil and Mom.

On the day that they were discovered by the Krang and their bunker started to rattle apart around them, his mother forced her way through the screaming crush of refugees and shoved Casey into Leonardo’s arms.

He still had both katana back then, before he lost them along with his right arm, and Leonardo had to juggle the two swords and a seven-year-old Casey in a moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness. In a blink, he had one katana sheathed and Casey instinctively tucked into the crook of his arm.

“Jones, what the he—”

“I need you to take him, Hamato,” Mom spat, eyes blazing despite the gauntness of her cheeks, the bandages, her limp. She was one of a handful to make it back from a raid just a few nights ago, and just barely at that. “I’ll just slow you down.”

Leonardo’s grip tightened on his katana, but he still shook his head. “Don’t say that. I’ll get you some help, you can make it.”

“No, I can’t. Not anymore.” Whatever Leonardo saw in her eyes made his shoulders slump in defeat. “But I can stay here and take a few hundred Krang out with me.”

Leonardo chuckled once, a tired, sad sound. “There’s the Foot Recruit I remember.”

Mom glared. “So you’ll protect Casey? You’ll teach him?”

“You know I will.”

Terror struck Casey, and he’d reached out to his mother. Fear stole his voice, but Mom took his hand and pressed a kiss against his fingers. “You’re gonna go with Sensei. Listen to him, even when he’s being a blowhard, and you’ll be okay. Okay?”

An explosion shook the ceiling, raining dirt and chunks of stone down on their heads. Leonardo curled over Casey, protecting him from the falling debris.

“You need to go,” Mom said sharply. She turned away, snagging a bazooka from a passing fighter. Casey watched her disappear into the fleeing tide, toward the where the walls cracked under the Krang’s assault.

Master Leonardo spun his katana, the long silver blade glinting gold from the flickering bulbs they’d strung across their base. He grinned, grief tucked away, the streaks over his eyes red as blood.

“C’mon, Casey Jones. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Sensei lost his mystic energy years ago, stolen by the Krang in the first days of the invasion. Casey only had Master Michaelangelo’s stories of the portals he’d been able to create, and the bittersweet realization of how such an ability could’ve aided the Resistance. Now, having seen Leo’s portals in action, splendors of light and speed, escape and rescue, he knew what it meant to find one lying abandoned, miles away from the explosion that was all that remained of the Technodrome.

If he’d had any hope of Leo making it out of the Krang prison dimension, this just snuffed it out.

Casey bowed his head over the katana, eyes burning like he was staring down the smoldering barrel of a Krang blaster, but he didn’t cry again. He’d shed his tears for Leonardo—Leo, Sensei; the one no older than him, a familiar stranger, and the one he carried across decimated battlefields—and wouldn’t dishonor their sacrifice with more weakness. This was war . They’d had to abandon allies before, more times than he could count. Mom. Raphael. Donatello. Master Michelangelo. For the good of the Resistance.

He’d completed Sensei’s last mission. Find the Key. Stop the Krang. The world was saved, as impossible an idea as that was to wrap his head around.

Now Casey just had to contend with the aching emptiness that victory had left him with.

No probbles, right?

The new communicator on his wrist crackled, for the first time since he leapt off the crumbling Metro Tower with Key in hand. Casey barely heard it. He’d already borne witness to more of the turtles’ grief than he deserved, and not just as their unwitting harbinger of doom. Raphael taken, Raphael turned by the Krang, filling Mikey and Donnie’s head with delusions of grandeur without ever telling them that their greatness cost them their lives in his future.

Sitting here alone among the wreckage and ruin was the least of what Casey deserved. Not disturbing the Hamato Clan as they picked up the pieces of their life.

Shouting erupted from his communicator, startling in the eerie silence of the demolished street. Heart pounding, blood rushing through his ears, Casey strained to parse the frantic words. He’d nearly dropped Leo’s sword in his panic, and after scrambling to hold onto it for a terrifying number of seconds, grabbed it tightly by the blade. The sharp edge cut through the fingers of his glove, piercing the skin slightly.

By then, the yelling had narrowed down to one voice, Raphael’s. Not that it made it any easier to comprehend what he was saying.

“—alive! He’s alive!”

Alive? Who was…

Casey’s stomach plummeted, past his feet, beyond the sewers, falling down deep into the Hidden City. He felt cold all over, like he’d been struck with fever, because Casey Jones II was not that lucky. His misfortune was surviving while everyone around him, everyone better, died.

Another voice interrupted, silencing the frantic cries with a single word. “Raphael.”

Casey had never known Sensei’s sensei—Splinter’d been killed years before Casey was born, but the rat he’d met in their underground home seemed jovial, at least until he mentioned the Krang. Now, the rat's voice was brittle, and with one word Casey recognized the fear in it. The fear of hoping.

Raphael let out a rattling breath of relief, a sob disguising itself as a laugh. “Leo’s alive, Dad. We have him.”

Then, a tired, wry voice that Casey never thought he’d ever hear again (outside of his nightmares) warbled up from his communicator.

“The reports of my death were… greatly exaggerated.”

Casey’s face was wet again, cheeks hot with racing tears. He couldn’t stop staring down at his communicator, uncomprehending.

He’d abandoned Leonardo for the second time, doomed him, killed him, but…he was alive? This time…this time, did everyone get to live?

It was impossible to fathom. It was more than fairytale, of which he knew few, or any half-formed imagining he’d ever had of what peace might be like, curled up on cold stone ground with his threadbare cape for a blanket and a handful of underfed rats in his stomach.

“ —everyone okay?” Raphael was saying. “April, are you still with Pops? What about Casey? Casey! You there?”

On instinct, he opened his mouth to respond in the affirmative, but found that no sound escaped. Shame raced through him in a scorching flush; frustrated, he roughly scrubbed his free hand across his tearstained face, smearing it with even more bits of blood and dirt.

Since he was a child, he sometimes lost the ability to speak in the wake of their more punishing missions. He was perfectly capable in the heat of battle, firing off commands and accepting those he was given, but as soon as his blood cooled and the guns stopped firing, Casey would often find himself rendered mute.

After Casey got himself stuck at the bottom of a ravine with a broken leg for four hours, unable to call for help, Donatello had installed a little button beside his communicator so that he could still check-in with command using morse code. Casey tried to send such a message now, desperate and embarrassed at his failing, despite knowing that no one else’s communicator was configured to receive it. Not for twenty-one years, and now maybe never.

.. .----. -- / .... . .-. .

“C-Casey? You there, bud?”

His racing mind quieted at Leo’s voice, strained with worry that was both familiar and not. As Sensei’s most fastidious lieutenant, he was often uneasy when Casey missed a check-in, but hearing the same thing from his counterpart, who cracked jokes in the face of certain, unimaginable death and was an entire year younger than Casey, sent a half-hysterical, incredulous bubble of laughter spilling out of his mouth.

He set down Leo’s katana with reverent care, forcing his closed fingers to open with steady determination. The thin gash crossing the underside of his fingers wept lightly, and sung with mild, stinging pain that crescendoed when he clenched his empty fist closed. He focused on that sting, rather than his cracked ribs, aching bad knee, and every other cut and bruise that his armor couldn’t protect him from.

Maybe, this time, everyone did get to live.

Casey gasped a breath, muteness broken for now, and lifted the wrist bearing his communicator.

“I’m here."

#ant writes #i've made the final fandom leap #rip sensei leo #when your new found family is a younger version of your old found family #some violence/blood but just the krangs' usual bs #casey is full on stranded in a world that is NOT all terminatored #boy doesn't know what a bus pass is rn let alone money #rottmnt movie spoilers #rottmnt movie #rottmnt spoilers #rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #tmnt fanfiction #tmnt #casey jones ii #casey jones #leonardo #tmnt fic

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mmatigers2023 · 16 days

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theartistknownaslymond · 2 years

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As yet untitled Jerott/Danny...something. Flungst? Angff?

Still not writing anything anyone actually asked me for smh...

Setting: post-Checkmate by four or five years, so early-mid-'90s

Characters: Jerott Blyth, Danny Hislop

Background (for more on the characters in the band AU, see notes at the end of the fic): During his relationship with Peder, Jerott got accustomed to travelling to Denmark via Paris - it made the journey longer but it was an opportunity to see his mum and to catch up with Danny. Danny helped him navigate his first openly queer relationship and was there to try and help Jerott not relapse too badly when he broke up with Peder. Even though Jerott doesn't need to go to Paris so often now, he still does - just for a few days every couple of months - so he can see his mother and see Danny and maybe record some music with Danny or play a couple of gigs. The vibe is Married and they just don't know it - but Jerott always seems to have some pretty young thing he's dating after meeting them at a movie premier or something, so Danny figures they just don't stand a chance. It's really just never occurred to Jerott that Danny would be interested in him because surely Danny is far too wordly and experienced to think of Jerott like that.

They do not get together in this fic, but the idea is that it can't be too long afterwards tbh.

CWs: reference to severe weight loss from illness; references to the AIDS pandemic and deaths, plus associated horrors (families not letting friends grieve, doctors not wanting to touch patients, general relentless misery of losing so many people/worrying about the obituaries). Also gratuitous descriptions of food.

---

Outside the metro station, Jerott slung an arm over Danny's shoulder and pressed his friend close for a hug. As he turned his face to present each cheek for Danny's kisses and suppressed a cough at the cloud of Chanel he was greeted with, he noticed the difference in the body beneath his hold.

"Alright - Jesus you're skinny, Danny!" he pulled back and let his hand remain on the shoulder of his friend's jacket, squeezing gently to confirm the contours he'd felt - bone and sinew far closer to the surface than he remembered.

Danny tossed their chin and twitched an eyebrow, grey eyes dark and hooded. "Oh, merci, he's in early with the compliments this time. What have you done now, doudou?"

Jerott studied Danny more closely: they were immaculately styled as always, but the silk blouse and the corduroy waistcoat beneath Danny's jacket hung unevenly against their body, implying a rumpled and gappy silhouette beneath the folds of the Burberry trenchcoat. The lines around the top of their voluminous trousers hinted at a belt cinched tighter than the fabric had been tailored for. Danny's face was sharper than Jerott remembered, too: the jaw almost uncompromisingly square, cheeks a little hollow beneath a subtle hint of pink blush.

"It wasn't a compliment..." Jerott said with the frankness that Danny expected of him. "You look like shit. What's up?"

Danny's brows shot up at Jerott's pronouncement and they looked down at him with a half-vexed smirk. "I look like shit?"

"You look like shit," Jerott nodded.

It was guaranteed to get a rise, and thus guaranteed to provoke some measure of honesty. Besides, even if it wasn't entirely true - Danny could have styled a Saturday morning midden outside a chip shop into something quirky and compelling - it was still true that Jerott preferred to see Danny with softer edges, more of a curious, assessing twinkle in their eye, more warmth beneath the pale tones of their skin. In general - healthier. It was a natural way to feel about one's friend, Jerott supposed.

Danny's eyes narrowed and their shoulder moved a little beneath Jerott's touch. Their lips - a natural pink that looked too pale, especially when one was used to Danny's array of neon-bright lipsticks - pursed a little and finally, shortly, Danny replied, "I've been ill. I'm fine now, thank you for your concern."

Jerott's hand tightened on Danny's shoulder again and his jaw shifted. He didn't manage to get a word out before Danny added, "It's not that. It's not. I've had so much blood taken for tests I don't think I'd feed a midge. I'm fine now, really Jerott."

Jerott noted that his heart had quickened anyway - he'd heard from Francis that Turkey had recently taken a turn for the worse as the weather cooled; he'd had Dagbladet Børsen delivered to his newsagent in Glasgow for several years now and he read the obituaries in a state of suppressed terror once a week, faithful to people he no longer knew, sometimes catching himself praying to distant gods that he wouldn't read a name he recognised there. He regretted the scientific understanding that had almost led him into a different career and now called him to spend sleepless nights poring over articles in medical journals, because it was that or give in to the whiskey again.

He swallowed and made himself take a deep breath - he'd not realised how much worry he attached to Danny and their defiant, flamboyant Marais lifestyle in the present context. But there, for a moment, he'd felt like the street had opened up beneath his feet and the air had turned to hot ash in his lungs.

"Ok. Good. What was it then?"

Danny's eyes had widened again and light seemed to have returned to their pale irises. They smiled crookedly, but it was more fond than defensive now. "Believe me, doudou, you don't want the details. Just some bug." Danny turned away and began walking down the pavement, strolling slowly enough that Jerott had time to light a cigarette and catch up.

"Some bug?" he repeated in a mutter around his filter, making a show of returning his fags and his lighter to his jacket pockets and wondering whether Danny had noticed how worried he'd been, or if he'd managed to hide it.

"Mm," Danny agreed, gazing performatively up at the rooftops of the buildings they passed and ignoring the odd cry of recognition from passers by. "Not helped, of course, by the fact that half the people I know do have it. I'm so bored of funerals, Jerott. Stressed and tired and literally sick of them."

Jerott took an involuntarily sharp inhalation and coughed at the way the smoke prickled in his throat. He grimaced and glared at the pavement, and decided, savagely, that he needed to do something about this - he'd never once in the years they'd known each other heard Danny's voice thrum with such brittle rage.

"You know what, Danny? Screw the market. There's a place yemma and I always eat at not far from here. I'm taking you there to get some proper food in you."

Danny stopped walking and blinked at him with limpid eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Algerian. Tagine, couscous, dips, bread?"

Danny still looked like they were trying to figure something out, but Jerott's brows rose and he pointed at the front of their waistcoat. A distinct growl had emerged from that flat belly at the mention of bread. "I heard that. Come on - we can go to the market afterwards."

Danny's frown deepened and they pressed their lips together, but then they nodded and shrugged. "Yeah. Yeah ok, lead on." Their voice sounded somewhat strangled to Jerott, like there was some undefined emotion trying to escape Danny's fearsome, formidable control over it.

Two silent streets later, when Jerott had finished his cigarette, Danny sounded more like themselves again: "So, will I finally get to meet dear yemma there?"

"No," Jerott eyed Danny and smiled knowingly. "Kahina doesn't just...hang around in cafés, Danny. We eat here together when she's visiting family in the dixneuvième."

"Ugh, then what's the point?" Danny exclaimed dramatically. "You want me to believe you sprang fully formed from the brutalist architecture, doudou, but the woman who made you what you are exists somewhere in Paris, and one day I will meet her!"

Jerott smirked tolerantly and stepped into the entrance of a building to hold the door open for his friend. "The point is -"

He didn't need to finish, as Danny's hands were clasped against their chest and they were already exclaiming rapturously as they walked into the restaurant: "Oh, do you smell that?"

The owner, recognising Jerott, approached to make small talk about his mother, and Danny listened thirstily, totally unconcerned by the proprietor's less-than-subtle attempts to suss out their identity. They introduced themself with a shark-like grin and shook the owner's hand: «Danny. I'm Jerott's friend.»

Jerott closed his eyes briefly and sighed at the effortless way Danny fudged the pronunciation of the word ami(e), so that it might even have been any one of several similar terms meaning lover or darling. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers and smiled stiffly at the owner. «Danny's in the band I play in. Danny knows Lymond and played in Russia with him.»

The owner nodded and attempted his own, reassured, smile, and he did not flinch from Danny's enthusiastic handshake. «Another...» he had been about to say 'musician' Jerott supposed, but ran instantly into another question of conjugation. His moustache twitched. «You play an instrument, like Sidi Blyth. How nice. What do you play?»

«All sorts,» Danny chirped happily. «I like synthesisers, but woodwind is my first love.» Their eyes roved over the decor of the restaurant, past rugs and lamps to seek out the guitars and percussion instruments the owners had salvaged when fleeing their home and now displayed in pride of place. «You don't have woodwind instruments here?» Danny gestured to the wall.

«No,» the owner answered with some relief. He showed them to the table upstairs that Jerott usually shared with his mother.

Over mint tea, as they waited for the selection of dishes Jerott had ordered, Jerott watched Danny gaze out of the window to the other side of the street, their long, freckled fingers tapping on the tablecloth in time with the frantic beat of the music playing from a cassette deck in the corner of the room. The midday autumn light was drawn to the crystal pendant of Danny's earring, and faint spots of rainbow colour were cast in fragments across Danny's cheek. It occurred to Jerott all over again how tiresome it was that anyone bothered trying to define Danny - once he'd learned a way of speaking around the need for masculine or feminine conjugations, Jerott had soon forgotten how clunky he'd found it to begin with. He'd simply become used to Danny as a singular aspect of the world - language rearranged itself around Danny, and Jerott saw no reason why it shouldn't.

Generally, though, Danny didn't care what pronouns strangers used. Danny had made their resilience and self-awareness key aspects of their personality, and Jerott reminded himself that Danny was steely enough to have survived being perceived - in whatever way they had been perceived - by Soviet Russia.

But sometimes, Jerott had begun to realise, the carefully constructed armoury of Danny's identity grew heavy in the face of others' engagement with it. And now Danny did look drawn - bruised by recent sadnesses, nervy about what might come next, both younger and older than Jerott had seen them look.

"Have you had Algerian before, Danny?" Jerott asked, summoning Danny's attention away from the flock of pigeons on the opposite building's roof.

Danny smiled fleetingly and took a sip of tea, then paused to look Jerott over with a more customary, lascivious flick of their lashes. "Not for want of trying..."

Jerott rolled his eyes. "How have you lived in Paris for over a decade and never tried Algerian food?"

"Maybe I've just been waiting for a recommendation from an expert," Danny said snippily. "You always did curries back when we were recording Checkmate. You could have made...this..."

Danny's eyes lit on the food that was arriving and between them, Jerott and the restaurateur explained the dishes as they filled the surface of the table.

"I didn't have much experience cooking Algerian then," Jerott said, helping himself to bread and pickled vegetables. "Curry in Glasgow, curry in Pune, curry in Nevada - with so little seasoning it might as well have been rice pudding..." he trailed off, muttering imprecations in Urdu.

Danny folded their arms and watched him. "So which one of these innocent-looking beauties is going to blow my poor Ashkenazi ass off?"

Jerott pulled a face and bit on a pickled chilli. "They're not hot, Danny, they just have flavour." He pointed out the dishes he knew how to make and explained what was in them and Danny dutifully helped themselves to some of each. Danny loved to make a show of bitching, but they were also eager to express their appreciation: every first bite was accompanied by a moan of delight or some other sound that made Jerott want to kick them under the table. Eventually he gave into the desire and prodded Danny's leg with the toe of his sneaker.

"All right, Meg Ryan - you can just tell the restaurant owner you like it..."

Danny wiped a drizzle of paprika-red oil from the corner of their lips and pulled an exaggeratedly lusty face at Jerott before kicking him back. Then Danny sat back and chewed pitta, watching Jerott's expression and preparing their review.

"It's good, Maeve. Like some of Adam's funky Georgian dishes but..."

"Less walnut?"

"Less walnut," Danny agreed, sipping tea. "It's not as rich as I thought, either. Good choice of comfort food, doudou," Danny surveyed the bowls again and dove in for more helpings of a few select items.

Jerott watched Danny load their plate up and smirked with satisfaction. "Just because it has more seasoning than chicken soup..."

Danny held a finger up. "You do not get to insult Jewish penicillin, no matter how delicious your fancy beans are."

Jerott giggled into his bite of borek and repeated, "Fancy beans..." so that Danny kicked him again.

When the owner had taken away the empty starter bowls and refilled the tea, Jerott looked again at Danny's face in the shifting afternoon light. It seemed to have taken on a new colour - their lips looked redder again, their cheeks brighter, their eyes less like the washed-out grey of the few low clouds outside.

Jerott raised his glass of tea in a salute. "Well, the fancy beans seem to have done more for you in one sitting than however many weeks of chicken soup you've been living off..."

Instead of a filthy rejoinder, Danny pressed their mouth shut and looked away. "Mm."

"Danny, I was just -" Jerott began to apologise, surprised by the frown on his friend's face.

"I know, I know," Danny attempted a breathy chuckle. "It's fine. It...would be fine, only -" they looked down at the exuberantly patterned table covering and traced the patterns on its surface with one short, un-painted fingernail. When they looked up at Jerott the deep, serious pain on their face was such that Jerott hadn't seen since Francis' near-fatal encounter with the river.

"I'm the one who makes the soup," Danny said. The attempt at levity in their voice made Jerott's chest tighten more than if Danny had just let themselves speak bitterly. Instead, the lightness in their voice faltered and stumbled, and Danny swallowed. "Ok, Diamme - you remember, from the cabaret? - Diamme brought me soup and pletzls from the deli when I first got ill, but he shouldn't have been outside himself. Diamme's funeral was last week. The rest of us couldn't attend - the family wouldn't have any of it. They gave him a good Catholic burial. So we're holding our own wake next week and I need to cook for it. I promised I would."

Danny's arm was shaking a little on the table, their fist clenched. They looked down at it and moved it beneath the table, letting out a tut of disgust.

Jerott sat in silence, his arms folded and jaw locked, remembering again all the horror of that moment when he'd imagined that Danny had the illness. The only illness that mattered those days. Anything else was trivial, wasn't it?

"I haven't cooked for myself in months, Jerott," Danny let their eyes fall blankly to the tablecloth. "I'm a catering service for wakes and funerals. Meals on wheels for people who used to be..." nothing seemed to change about Danny's expression or the tone of their voice, but an invisible barrier blocked any more words from emerging.

"Why didn't you say something?" Jerott murmured, sitting as still as Danny, noting that he could barely hear his own words over the hammering beat of his heart. "How many times have we spoken on the phone since you got ill?"

Danny looked up and met his eyes, and, glassy and wide-pupilled, their own grey gaze made Jerott shiver. A bleak laugh made it past their lips. "What, you'd deliver from Glasgow?"

Jerott didn't understand how talking with Danny could so often make him want to laugh and weep at the same time, but he gave Danny a perplexed smile all the same. "Sure. I'm serious though, Danny - you could have told me. It's no hassle to come to Paris and help you cook."

Danny bit their lip and looked down again, wresting with a smile or a grimace - Jerott couldn't say which.

When the restaurant owner returned to their silence he looked alarmed and Jerott tried to smile in reassurance as the man set down hot dishes of stewed aubergine and tomatoes, chicken, olives and dumplings.

«Is everything ok?»

«M'sieur it's perfect,» Danny looked up swiftly, their throat white as a swan's, drawing Jerott's troubled gaze as Danny swallowed down their grief again and smiled for the owner. «My first time trying Algerian food and it's better than I could have imagined. Restorative and delicious.»

The owner left again, somewhat mollified, and Danny turned a wonky smile on Jerott. "Do you think he believes me, Maeve? Have I ruined it for when you come back here with yemma?"

Jerott shook his head. "He believes you. Nothing ruined."

Danny sighed and leaned forwards on the table to survey the new dishes.

"Danny," Jerott was thinking about the way Danny's demeanour had switched for the restaurant owner. About the performative body language and cheerful lilt to their voice. About the things Danny was used to hiding. "You didn't even tell me you were ill. Why didn't you say anything?"

Danny was slowly pulling apart one of the chicken wings they'd plucked from the top of the tagine, their mouth pressed into a sharp line, the look they shot Jerott an attempt to make him back off that was half-hearted at best. "I didn't think I'd be ill that long. Do you tell me every time you get the sniffles, doudou?"

Danny didn't let him reply - they rolled their eyes and swept a hand through the air. "Yes, yes, you do, I know...always complaining about something..."

Jerott ignored the toothless attack and waited.

Danny spooned a heap of olives and dumplings onto their plate and gathered some bread before looking up at Jerott again.

"I didn't want to tell you because it's been miserable here, doudou." Danny's fist clenched on the table beside their plate. "I feel...responsible? When you were with Peder and you started telling me things, I was...I felt like your guide to this wonderful world where anything was possible, anyone was welcome, and if we all just talked it out and understood each other things would be ok. Better than ok, they'd be mind-blowing. Amazing. Earth-shattering."

Danny rolled their eyes at their own words, and Jerott contrasted their pale, pinched expression now with the way they used to lean across café tables and excitedly demand details of the Copenhagen queer scene. They way they'd grab Jerott's hand and shamelessly reel off advice filled with clinically precise vocabulary that had made Jerott's mind reel with possibilities he'd never even imagined. Their smile - proud, filthy - when Jerott chose to report back on a weekend spent with Peder, and the way they'd regale him in turn with tales of leather daddies and kink clubs that left Jerott speechless and perched on the edge of his seat.

Danny shook their head and the gems dangling from their ears swung and twinkled in the sun again. "I feel like I sold you a lie, doudou. We've talked it out here so much and none of us have anything to say any more. We can't talk our way out of death. There's no understanding it, or making meaning of it. It's unfair, and it just is."

Jerott held Danny's gaze, and felt something icy and uncomfortable squirm in his chest. Danny didn't even look on the verge of tears now, their expression was suffused with frosty, brittle fury, something that wasn't nearly as hopeless as the image they were trying to conjure. Hopeless people, in Jerott's experience, weren't near as angry as Danny clearly was.

He took a deep breath and nodded. "Ok. I mean, I don't regret...what did you call it? Joining this 'wonderful world' - and I'd have shagged Peder with or without your advice Danny, no offence."

Danny's jaw twitched and a startled flush of colour spread over their neck above the collar of their blouse.

Jerott pressed on, unable to offer any answer to the bigger questions, but still stung by the idea of Danny forcing themself to suffer stoically in case actually saying anything about how bad things were frightened Jerott off. "Do you regret it? Would you go back to...where were you when you found your people, London? Edinburgh? Would you leave them, go back to Glasgow and put a suit on and do what your dad wanted you to do? If you'd known about AIDS?"

A flash of annoyance passed over Danny's face again - maybe at the mention of their father, maybe at the mention of the disease by name, maybe at the realisation that they'd shared quite so much about their past with Jerott over the years - enough to allow Jerott to ask a question like that.

"I can't regret what I just am, Jerott," Danny said curtly.

"So why do you think I would, if you'd told me how bad things had got here?"

Danny hissed, drawing a sharp breath in over their teeth. Now there was a glossy sheen over their eyes, and they tried very hard not to blink. "M'sorry," they murmured after a moment.

"Yeah. I know," Jerott said gruffly and broke their stare, looking down at the dishes cooling between them and giving Danny the privacy of a moment to flick away the water gathering at the bottom of their eyes. He explained the tagines again and then helped himself to some of each before letting out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and raising his eyes again.

Danny had returned to pulling apart the piece of chicken and they sighed deeply before saying, resentfully, "I can't believe you used my own tricks on me. I've taught you too well."

"I can't believe you 'talked it out' with everyone except me, you asshole," Jerott grumbled, but he smiled ruefully at his dish as he dunked bread in the sauce.

"To be fair, I also didn't tell Francis," Danny said in a voice more like their own, and Jerott had to snort with laughter. "Can you imagine? He'd have set up a Michelin-starred restaurant for my little crowd of queers and misfits. BDSM and brunch bar. Kink and croissants. Attached to an empty hospital building where the infected can get treated by all the experts we can find who are willing to touch our dirty, dirty bodies..."

Again, there was that lurching sensation, when Jerott didn't know whether he should be laughing along with Danny's smirk or weeping with fury at the image they painted. He grimaced.

"Would that be so bad though? Letting Francis help?"

"Perhaps not," Danny conceded. "I do still have some pride though. And I know he's already donating an unsustainable amount to research."

Jerott made a sound of agreement between bites of food, and was soothed somewhat by the sight of Danny voraciously attacking what was on their own plate.

"So what do we need to prepare for next week? When's the wake?"

Danny didn't miss Jerott's phrasing and looked up sharply. "We?"

He shrugged. "If you think my cooking's up to your standards..."

Danny narrowed their eyes. "It could be...if you can follow orders better than you used to..."

"And do you want company at the wake? I'm here to make up numbers, isn't that what playing second guitar to Lymond is all about?"

"Are you asking to be my date at a wake, Jerott?" Danny's eyebrow arched delightedly.

"Not a date, but a friend who isn't about to fuck off just because life's tough, puce."

Danny ran their eyes distastefully over him and pointedly pushed an olive stone out from between their pursed lips. They took it and deposited it on a side plate with careful deliberation. "Hmm, yes, and how is your lovely girlfriend? Kelly is it? The teenager?"

Jerott sat back and folded his arms. "She's twenty-three, Danny. And no gossip until you agree to my help."

Danny glared at him. "That's rude."

Jerott shrugged again.

Outside the restaurant, above the slate grey rooves, the autumn breeze nudged aside a cloud and the anaemic sun shone through, speckling the grubby window-pane with glitter. Abruptly, Danny let the act drop - just for a moment - and smiled warmly at Jerott.

It was agreed.

Jerott laughed in relief to see Danny relax.

---

Notes

doudou - teddy bear; puce - flea (because what kind of Married would they be without absurd nicknames for each other)

yemma - mother (Arabic)

Jerott Blyth

Band AU Jerott's mum is Algerian, a refugee who arrived in France during the war of independence, and his paternal grandmother was from pre-partition Lahore. He was born in Paris, where his dad met his mum while taking art classes between shifts on placement for medical school. His dad was a surgeon and his mother worked in an art gallery, but has always painted for herself too. Both his parents encouraged his musicality from a young age and he started classical guitar lessons as soon as he could hold a guitar. His parents divorced when he was around eleven and he lived with his dad in Glasgow - his dad's home city - until his dad died of cancer when Jerott was 18. Instead of joining Francis Crawford, who he met at the Solway Moss battle of the bands just before his dad's death, Jerott turned away from music to be a doctor like his father. He went to stay with his mother in Paris while studying and through her met a charismatic older man (Graham Reid Malett) and went off to find himself at an ashram in India instead. The medical degree was forgotten and he learned sitar, Ayurvedic massage, yoga, and some Hindi and Urdu at the ashram run by Rajneesh. He spent a few years in Rajneesh's cult and moved to a new ashram in Nevada with GRM - and none of it did his self-acceptance as a bisexual man any good. Having made a pass at GRM and been rebuffed, he later revealed his crush on Francis during a therapy session with GRM, who began to become obsessed with Francis through Jerott's recollection of him and through his music. GRM engineered a way for them to join Francis' new recording collective, St Mary's, and Jerott gradually realised the extent of the problems with the movement he was in, and with GRM particularly. He reaffirmed his loyalty to Francis, but GRM did him lasting damage that drove him to self-destructive alcoholism. He nevertheless tried to help Francis undo the mess GRM had done and in the process met Marthe - who it was easier to admit to being in love with than Francis. She needed a European visa and the potential for a passport, as well as a boost to her career, so she married him despite knowing she wasn't attracted to men. They had a deeply unhappy marriage and lived in France, using properties Marthe was able to inherit from a relative once she was resident in the EU. Jerott had a drunken one night stand with a Danish guy called Peder at a low point in his marriage, and then he ran into Peder again at another vulnerable moment (the end of Checkmate). He and Peder had a couple of good years together but it didn't work out. Since Peder, Jerott's seen some guys and some girls but hasn't really had anything long-term or meaningful - but at least he always had his best friend Danny to go to for advice!

Danny Hislop

Band AU Danny was born with PAIS and is intersex. The oldest child born to Rabbi Hislop in Glasgow, they were amab and given surgery to make their physical body allign with this assignation. While they were raised as a boy, they knew this wasn't right for them, and the bar mitzvah really cemented that feeling. Danny's family didn't understand their nonbinary identification (NB I know not all intersex people are nonbinary, but Danny is) and Danny left home at 14 with a clarinet and a grade 6 piano qualification and went to stay with a blue-collar, union-stalwart great uncle in Edinburgh. The great uncle helped Danny reconcile their faith with their identity somewhat - the discussions around tumtum (people of unidentified sex) taking place in rabbinic communities came a little late for Danny, but at least they became aware of the term through their uncle. At sixteen they made their way to London in search of a community that matched how they felt about themselves - they became bat mitzvah as well by choice, partly as a way of reclaiming what they felt was forced on them incorrectly by their father. They lived in squats and it wasn't initially a great time to be young and of indeterminate gender in a big city - it took a while to find the right people and they experimented with some stuff they regret. Then they found a healthier community, moved on again to Paris with a friend, became an apprentice in a kitchen and played saxophone and clarinet at jazz clubs. They settled in the Marais - which is both the Jewish and the queer quarter. When Lymond called for auditions to join his experiment in Russia, Danny submitted a klesmer cover of Lymond's song 'Crisco Disco', along with evidence of their fluent French and passable Russian (Danny tries to learn something from everyone they meet, and Paris has a big Russian expat community). They proved themselves resilient enough to travel the USSR with Lymond - though they probably had to deal with a lot of fuckery regarding pronouns and people's perception - and they remained a valued member of St Mary's afterwards, though they still live in the Marais near their drag cabaret friends. They've kind of been in love with Jerott Blyth since seeing him cover for Francis by playing a guitar solo that should have been impossible sober, while so drunk that he also shouldn't have been able to stand up. They are not proud of this fact. They also strongly believe that Jerott will never see them as anything more than a kooky friend who's into far kinkier shit than Jerott could stomach.

#everyday i write the book #band au: post canon #ship: a twinge of approval #character: danny hislop #character: jerott blyth #i mean it with those content warnings - i felt like that was kind of the elephant in the room in such a queer '80s au so.

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jessefferguson · 1 year

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A Perfect 10?

I was sitting in a warm, cloistered room when they came in to give me the news. They walked in and asked how I was doing. I responded with some non-committal, nonchalant answer like “living the dream and avoiding the nightmares.” It’s one of my regulars.

Then they gave me the update from the scans.

That described my latest visit to my oncologist on Wednesday of last week. It also describes my doctor visit 10 years ago, today. Ten years ago (May 21, 2013), the doctor told me that the scans and biopsy revealed cancer in my neck. It was aggressive, dangerous and a real threat.

At my appointment ten years later, the doctor told me it was still there. Then again, so am I.

Ten years ago, it was soul-crushing news that left my life forever altered. Ten years later, it was good news – a regular test every 6-months that shows the disease remains under control, in check and status quo. In other words, a chronic condition.

The same answer but 10 years apart. Expectations really are everything.

5,256,000 Minutes

So, today is the 10 year “anniversary” of my diagnosis. I’ve been thinking about it a lot but not really talked to anyone about it. I don’t bring up my health issues often any more as they’ve receded from the ‘headline’ of my life. But, like page B27 of the metro section, the news is still there.

As I’ve thought about the 10-year mark, it’s made me think about what changes have occurred in my life and what experiences I never experienced because of the disease. I’ve definitely lost weight from the nearly 350-lb person I was when diagnosed to about 200-lb today. But, I’ve gained weight in my face thanks to radiation treatments.

In 10 years, I’ve gone from thinking about my next career move and next opportunity to a life more focused on the work I’m doing now. As I’ve said before, I’m not much of a “stop and smell the roses” kinda person, but I have learned to noticed that there are flowers outside.

In 10 years, I’ve probably had 200 IVs and 350 blood tests. In 10 years, I’ve probably had 25 or 30 scans (CTs, PET scans and like). In 10 years, I’ve had 4 major surgeries and a lot of other ups and downs.

In 10 years, I’ve learned to live with it. Sorta.

CANCERING WHILE PANDEMICING

The last few years were hard for everyone. The tragic loss of too many people and the terrible loss of connection, interaction and basic humanity for too many more. It will take years and, even, generations to fully grasp what happened to us during the pandemic. For centuries, humanity has had biases and fears of each other based on skin color or background. Now, people feared each other because of what they might be breathing out of their mouth.

That fear has led to anger and the anger led to defiance. The defiance may now have led to some level of resignation.

You go through a similar emotional roller coast when you’re diagnosed with cancer. It didn’t emerge in you through some rational, easily traceable pathway. It’s more random. It feels like it floats on the air.

Throughout the heights of the pandemic, I was pretty careful and quarantined. Living in New York was eerie, as the city that is always alive but the noise went dead and silent. The noises you’re accustomed hearing on the streets were replaced with only the blaring sirens of ambulances. And, as someone who had a pre-existing condition, I lived in fear. I went months without interacting directly with any human being. Eventually, aided by vaccines, I got comfortable with the risk again and reentered the world.

I made it nearly 3 years without ever getting COVID but did get it in January of 2023. It wasn’t pleasant but I was fine thanks to vaccines. Wish we had those for cancer.

LOSS

Loss is hard on anyone. Whether it’s a loved one or a friend, a peer or a pioneer. We all feel it differently. Over the last 10 years, I’ve lost people for a variety of reasons but the ones with cancer obviously stand out to me – people like Mame Reiley and Tyrone Gayle. They were both taken too soon, in their 50s and their 30s, respectively. I learned so much from both of them but am left to wonder what I would have learned if I’d had more time with them. Both were diagnosed after I was, a reality that makes me uncomfortable to even type.

But, none of the loss can compare to June 3, 2020.

My dad has struggled with some health issues for a few years due to a blood cancer known as MDS (Myelodysplastic syndrome). He was diagnosed about a decade ago and had a stem cell transplant in fall of 2017. Doctors said his condition had no relation to mine.

On June 3, 2020, he passed away. He lived a full life – and a life well lived – but losing him at 73 was devastating. I’m not over it and don’t expect I ever will be.

But, one thing really didn’t come to my mind until a few months ago – as I started thinking about my 10th year with cancer. He was by my side through all of it – from months of treatment in Houston to daily reminders to put one put in front of the other to regular proclamations that we’d beat this thing.

There’s one very vivid memory that had somehow been stored in the recess of my brain until recently. It was when I was first getting treated in fall of 2013 and I was in a treatment room at MD Anderson. The treatments those days were long (6hrs) and fairly miserable in their side effects. I remember one day running particularly long and my mom had left the room for a bit. Dad and I were talking. And he said something that day and we never talked about it again. He told me he had asked in prayer that somehow he would be able to “take on this cancer for me” – that he would do it so I didn’t have to.

As I reach 10 years with this disease, I guess I’ve been asking myself lately whether his prayer had kind of been answered?

UPS AND DOWNS

I haven’t written much on this blog in the last few years because I haven’t had much “news” to update. I’ve had a few scary moments but none of them have amounted to much of anything in the long run.

In October of 2022, I started to feel weak. My stomach was uncomfortable. I had chills and sweats. I was running a fever. Finally, after putting it off for longer than I should, I went into the urgent care at Sloan Kettering. When I checked in, things were stable. Within an hour of checking in, things took a turn.

Apparently, I had an infection that likely came about through my tracheostomy tube. The infection had led to pneumonia and, at this point, I was dealing with sepsis. My blood pressure had dropped pretty dramatically and they took me into the ICU.

Fortunately, the doctors knew what they were doing. One of them was particularly arrogant. I liked him – having long believed that I like slightly arrogant doctors since they spend all day boxing with the almighty.

Through lots of days of antibiotics and other remedies, things became stable again. For a little while, my legs and feet were so swollen that I couldn’t put on shoes - I truly though I was looking at clown feet in my own bed.

For me, though, the worst part was the timing – it was 4 weeks before the midterms. I’d love to characterize it as some heroic gesture where I kept my phone by my side and my laptop on the table while I spent 10 days in the hospital. I’d love to pretend like it was an act of dedication that I carried my phone on walks around the hospital while building strength in my legs so I could walk again. Honestly, none of that is true.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the 10 years, it’s that the world – even in the political world – will function (or dysfunction) just fine if I’m not attentive. But, my work is my distraction. It is my therapist. Instead of focusing on what I might be going through, I’d much rather take a call about an ad campaign or send edits to a polling draft.

It’s why, after 10 years with this disease, I get daily reminders that I have to enjoy my work to make it worthwhile. If you have the privilege of doing something you love to do, hold onto it.

A PERFECT 10

So, the last 10 years haven’t exactly been a “perfect 10.” There have been some bumps (both figurative and literal). If you had asked me 10 years ago whether I thought I’d be here in 2023, I don’t know what answer I would have given. To be honest, I couldn’t think that long into the future.

But, the disease is status quo. No news is good news. I still get my treatments every 3 weeks. Those haven’t changed. But, I’m still here.

A few years ago, I used to spend time really thinking about the things that I’d lost and missed out on because of this disease. I’d been dwelling on the things I might have been doing – different trajectories on my career, my personal life, pr even a family.

As I look at 10 years, I think my perspective has changed just a little. Sometimes in life, the path of least resistance is also the path of least return and least result.

I'd obviously never wish an illness or a disease on anyone. I'd never wish anyone had to go through what I've gone through or face the even-harder road that so many others have had with this disease. This isn’t my effort to pretend that every cloud has a silver lining. It’s pretty clear that cancer is a nasty thunder storm. There’s not much silver lining to be seen.

But, maybe, you can occasionally step back and take some solace from the fact we only know about the existence of electricity because of a bolt of lightning.

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verygoodwellness · 1 year

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leloest · 1 year

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2022 Best Rap Albums/Mixtapes

1. Danger Mouse x Black Thought – Cheat Codes

2. JID - The Never Story

3. Denzel Curry - Melt My Eyez See Your Future

4. Ab-Soul - Herbert

5. Nas - King's Disease III

6. Kendrick Lamar - Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers

7. Freddie Gibbs - Soul Sold Separately

8. Rome Streetz – KISS THE RING

9. WESTSIDE BOOGIE - MORE BLACK SUPERHEROES

10. Future - I NEVER LIKED YOU

11. Pusha T - It's Almost Dry

12. Conway the Machine - God Don't Make Mistakes

13. Black Star - No Fear of Time

14. Benny the Butcher - Tana Talk 4

15. Vince Staples - RAMONA PARK BROKE MY HEART

16. The Game – DRILLMATIC Heart vs. Mind

17. Ransom - No Rest For The Wicked

18. Westside Gunn – 10

19. Che Noir - The Last Remnants

20. Westside Gunn - Peace "Fly" God

21. Joey Bada$$ - 2000

22. Phife Dawg – Forever

23. Elzhi – Zhigeist

24. Black Soprano Family - Long Live DJ Shay

25. Meechy Darko - Gothic Luxury

26. Smino - Luv 4 Rent

27. Metro Boomin - Heroes & Villains

28. Flee Lord - Ladies & Gentlemen

29. Cormega – The Realness II

30. Mach-Hommy - Duck Czn: Tiger Style

31. Lloyd Banks - The Course Of The Inevitable 2

32. Vado – Long Run Vol. 2

33. Duke Deuce – Memphis Massacre III

34. Billy Woods – Aethiopes

35. Open Mike Eagle - Component System with the Auto Reverse

36. Armand Hammer-WHT LBL LP

37. IDK - Simple_

38. Ka - Languish Arts

39. Symba - Results Take Time

40. Quelle Chris – Deathfame

41. Copywrite - The High Exhaulted II

42. Action Bronson - Cocodrillo Turbo

43. Lupe Fiasco - Drill Music In Zion

44. Maxo Kream - Weight Of The World

45. Roc Marciano - The Elephant Man's Bones

46. Drake & 21 Savage – Her Loss

47. Megan Thee Stallion – Traumazine

48. Cam'ron & A-Trak - U Wasn't There

49. Kxng Crooked x Joell Ortiz - Harbor City Season One

50. Lil Baby - It's Only Me

51. Quavo & Takeoff - Only Built For Infinity Links

52. Royce da 5'9" - The Heaven Experience, Vol. 1

53. Rod Wave - Beautiful Mind

54. DJ Khaled – GOD DID

55. Boldy James & Futurewave – Mr Ten08

#aoty 2022 #album #rap

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weightlossstrategies · 1 year

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What Are The Problems With Fad Diets | Most Fad Diets Fail Because

When you increase these levels, your body responds with stress-related cravings. Increasing your cortisol levels can also inhibit insulin processing, which can lead to Type 2 diabetes. Increased cortisol typically leads to increased eating, often followed by more fad dieting and then more crave-type eating.

Read More: What Are The Problems With Fad Diets | Most Fad Diets Fail Because

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biscuitisluv · 2 months

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Famous Biscuit and their 15 manufacturers

How and why biscuit is popular :

Biscuits are popular for several reasons, and their popularity can vary depending on cultural preferences and regional traditions. Here are some factors contributing to the popularity of biscuits:

Versatility

Convenience

Long Shelf Life

Variety

Cultural Significance

Ease of Production

Nutritional Value

Biscuit Manufacturers in India :

1. Parle -:

With 90+ years of legacy, 150+ product range, and 36 popular brands, Parle is not just a biscuit; it’s an emotion. From 1929, Parle has become the world’s largest selling biscuit and is continuously spreading to the remotest villages as well as metro cities of India. It symbolises quality, nutrition, and superior taste.

The House of Parle has different products that cater to all classes and age groups and are a perfect mix of nutritious and tasty. The brand currently owns 27% – 30% of its market share and has positioned itself as a value-for-money product with continuous expansion in the premium segment.

2. Britannia -:

Britannia is recognised as one of the most trusted, valuable, and popular brands among Indian consumers. The brand has been baking happiness for India since 1918 and has a legacy of over 100 years. It has been the most reputable biscuit brand in India based in Bangalore. Having a distinctive position in the biscuit industry, Tiger is the most popular brand of Britannia. It has a manufacturing & distribution network across India with 80+ manufacturing units, 2.8 crore packs made per day, 51 depots and over 36 lacs ac selling Britannia.

3. Sunfeast -:

Launched by ITC in 2003, Sunfeast is a rich and nutritious biscuit that caters to all segments of the market, led by Dark Fantasy at the premium end. The company has gained the public’s trust with its quality, innovativeness, and high-end packaging. It is a heritage brand in India. Because of its diverse tastes and varieties, it is loved by many. The brand offers oatmeal biscuits, digestive biscuits, cookies, etc.

4. Priya Gold -:

From the house of Surya Foods & Agro Limited, Priya Gold has been the first choice of consumers for years now. Launched in 1994, the brand sells its products such as cookies, cakes, confectionery, and juices/beverages at affordable prices and has expanded its operations to more than 20 countries. It is currently the topmost selling biscuit brand. Priya Gold’s largest manufacturing plant is in Noida.

5. Anmol -:

With a strong presence in more than 18 states and 4500+ distribution outlets, Ammol is India’s 4th largest manufacturer of biscuits. With its crunchy, scrumptious, and delicious biscuits, Anmol has never failed to amaze consumers with its taste and quality. It always maintains a quality standard and has the special tagline ”tasted, tested, and trusted“.

6. Unibic biscuits -:

Starting in 2004 with the help of Anzac and Bradman cookies, Unibichas introduced innovative flavours in digestive biscuits, choco and indulgence range biscuits, nuts range biscuits, snack bars, and sugar-free biscuits, as well as a healthier range of biscuits. It is rich in carbs and fibre and offers plain oats, which help in weight loss.

7. Patanjali Biscuits -:

With the tagline “Prakriti ka Ashirwad” meaning “blessing of nature,” Patanjali manufactures herbal biscuits, which are nutritious and offer quality. The company also manufactures biscuits for patients with blood pressure and blood sugar, which doctors recommend because of their trans fat content. It also produces delectable high fibre biscuits.

8. Ceramica Biscuit -:

Spread across 61 countries around the globe, Ceramica has never compromised on quality, providing the most elegant and premium products. Rich in oats, these biscuits provide both nutrition and good taste. It has quality recipes to suit everyone’s taste buds. If you are a chocolate lover, you shouldn’t miss its Magic Cream biscuit, which is a boon for all chocolate lovers. The brand never uses any kind of preservatives or added colours.

9. Cadbury Oreo Biscuit -:

Starting in 1912 as the National Biscuit Company in the Chelsea Manhattan factory, this brand is especially famous among children. This biscuit is previously known as an Oreo sandwich with two crunchy wafers with a cream filling. If you love chocolate, then you should opt for Oreo. These are available in over 100 countries.

10. McVitie’s Biscuit brand -:

Containing the goodness of wholewheat and fibre, McVitie’s is among the top biscuit brands. It also offers delicious McVitie’s Digestive biscuits. This best selling biscuit in India and UK contains fat, proteins, vitamins, and minerals. It was established in 1830 by Richard McVitie.

11. Dukes Biscuit -:

This brand offers biscuits, wafers, cookies, and chocolates. It owns 15 state-of-the-art manufacturing centres all over India under the names Dukes, Treff, and Dynas. These biscuits come with attractive packaging and contain various nutrients, minerals, and vitamins.

12. Rose Biscuit brand -:

Starting in 1987 in Hyderabad, this brand is not very popular but provides a variety of biscuits such as Glucose biscuits, Marie biscuits, Cream biscuits, etc. Veeramani Biscuit Industries Limited manufactures it.

13. Haldiram’s Biscuit Brand -:

Haldiram is a world-famous brand with stores all over India. These biscuits come in sweet, salty, and classic versions. Haldiram is famous for packaged foods such as sweets, namkeens, papad, pickles, diet snacks, dry fruits, etc. It always considers hygiene first, providing the best products.

What began as a small-town enterprise in India is today a global phenomenon. Haldiram is a way of life for Indians no matter which country they live in and wherever they are; those nations are also fast developing a penchant for these products.

14. Nature Valley Biscuit Brand -:

This brand uses the most natural products for production, such as whole grain oats, power-packed wholesome peanuts, almonds, and nut butter. Zero artificial colours, no high fructose corn syrup, and 0 grams trans fat are some of its characteristics.

15. Pillsbury Biscuit Brand -:

This brand has sweet biscuits with icing, refrigerated cookies, frozen biscuits, etc. The biscuits are highly processed with low fibre and high sugar, i.e., they are not loaded with nutrients, even if they taste delicious. This brand’s other food products are Pillsbury bread, crescent rolls, cookies, pizza crust, baked brownies, etc.

How can someone address that this biscuit is best ??

To assert that a particular biscuit brand is the “best,” you’ll want to provide evidence and reasoning to support your claim. Here’s how you can address why you believe a specific biscuit is the best:

Taste Test Comparison: Describe how you conducted a taste test comparing various biscuit brands, highlighting the specific qualities that set the chosen brand apart. Explain why the taste, texture, and flavor profile of this particular biscuit stood out to you.

Quality Ingredients: Discuss the quality of ingredients used in the biscuit, emphasizing factors such as freshness, natural flavors, and the absence of additives or preservatives. Highlight any certifications or sourcing practices that demonstrate the brand’s commitment to quality.

Positive Reviews and Feedback: Reference positive reviews and feedback from other consumers or reputable sources to support your assertion. Share anecdotes or testimonials that showcase widespread appreciation for the biscuit’s taste and quality.

Personal Experience: Share your personal experience with the biscuit, detailing memorable moments or occasions where it enhanced your enjoyment. Explain why you consistently choose this biscuit over others and how it has become a staple in your pantry.

Nutritional Value: If relevant, discuss the nutritional value of the biscuit, highlighting any health benefits or dietary considerations that make it a preferable choice compared to other brands.

Value for Money: Evaluate the biscuit’s price point in relation to its quality and quantity, demonstrating why you believe it offers excellent value for money compared to competing brands.

Brand Reputation: Consider the reputation and history of the biscuit brand, emphasizing any accolades, awards, or long-standing tradition of excellence that contribute to its perceived superiority.

Consistency and Availability: Discuss the consistency of the biscuit’s quality across multiple purchases and its availability in stores or online platforms, making it convenient for consumers to access and enjoy.

Cultural or Regional Significance: If applicable, highlight any cultural or regional significance associated with the biscuit, such as being a beloved staple in a particular cuisine or community.

Invite Others to Try: Encourage others to sample the biscuit themselves and form their own opinion based on your recommendation, offering to share your positive experience with them.

By addressing these points with confidence and specificity, you can effectively communicate why you believe a particular biscuit brand deserves the title of the “best.”

Varieties of biscuit :

Biscuits come in a wide range of varieties, each offering unique flavors, textures, and ingredients. Here are some popular types of biscuits:

Plain Biscuits: These are simple, unsweetened biscuits often used as a base for various toppings or eaten plain with butter or jam.

Sweet Biscuits: Sweet biscuits come in various flavors and can be enjoyed as snacks or desserts. Examples include shortbread, sugar cookies, chocolate chip cookies, oatmeal cookies, and gingerbread cookies.

Cream-filled Biscuits: Biscuits with a creamy filling sandwiched between two layers are a popular treat. Examples include sandwich cookies like Oreos and cream-filled biscuits with flavors such as vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry.

Digestive Biscuits: Digestive biscuits are semi-sweet biscuits with a slightly savory flavor. They are often made with whole wheat flour and are known for their digestive properties.

Savory Biscuits: Savory biscuits come in various flavors and are often enjoyed as snacks or accompaniments to cheese and dips. Examples include cheese crackers, sesame crackers, and crackers flavored with herbs or spices.

Shortbread Biscuits: Shortbread is a type of biscuit made with a high proportion of butter, which gives it a rich and crumbly texture. It’s often enjoyed plain or with added flavors like chocolate chips or citrus zest.

Filled Biscuits: These biscuits are filled with ingredients such as fruit preserves, chocolate, or nuts. They can be either sweet or savory and are often enjoyed as a indulgent snack.

Wafer Biscuits: Wafer biscuits consist of thin layers of crispy wafers sandwiched together with various fillings such as chocolate, vanilla cream, or hazelnut cream.

Specialty Biscuits: Specialty biscuits encompass a wide range of unique flavors and ingredients, often inspired by regional cuisines or seasonal ingredients. Examples include spiced biscuits, fruit-filled biscuits, and biscuits flavored with herbs or spices.

Healthier Options: With growing health-consciousness, there’s a variety of healthier biscuit options available in the market. These may include whole grain biscuits, gluten-free biscuits, sugar-free biscuits, or biscuits fortified with vitamins and minerals.

These are just a few examples of the many varieties of biscuits available. The world of biscuits is diverse and ever-expanding, offering something to suit every taste preference and dietary requirement.

Pros and Cons of a Biscuit -:

Certainly! Let’s break down the pros and cons of biscuits:

Pros of Biscuits:

Convenience: Biscuits are convenient snacks that are easily portable and require no preparation, making them perfect for on-the-go consumption or as a quick snack.

Long Shelf Life: Many types of biscuits have a long shelf life, allowing them to be stored for extended periods without spoiling, which can help reduce food waste.

Variety: Biscuits come in a wide range of flavors, textures, and types, catering to diverse taste preferences and dietary requirements. This variety ensures there’s a biscuit for almost everyone.

Comfort Food: Biscuits are often associated with comfort and indulgence, providing a sense of familiarity and satisfaction when enjoyed as a treat or with a hot beverage.

Versatility: Biscuits can be enjoyed in various ways – as standalone snacks, accompaniments to tea or coffee, or as ingredients in desserts and baked goods.

Economical: Biscuits are generally affordable, making them accessible to a wide range of consumers and suitable for budget-conscious households.

Cons of Biscuits:

High in Sugar and Fat: Many commercially available biscuits are high in sugar, unhealthy fats, and calories, which can contribute to weight gain, diabetes, and other health issues when consumed excessively.

Low Nutritional Value: Most biscuits lack essential nutrients such as vitamins, minerals, and dietary fiber, providing empty calories without significant nutritional benefits.

Processed Ingredients: Biscuits often contain processed ingredients, additives, and preservatives to enhance flavor, texture, and shelf life, which may have negative health implications when consumed regularly.

Potential Allergens: Biscuits may contain common allergens such as gluten, nuts, dairy, and soy, posing a risk to individuals with food allergies or intolerances.

Portion Control Challenges: It can be easy to overconsume biscuits, especially when they’re packaged in individual servings or when eaten mindlessly as a snack.

Dental Health: Biscuits are often high in refined carbohydrates and sugars, which can contribute to tooth decay and dental problems when consumed frequently without proper oral hygiene.

In summary, while biscuits offer convenience, variety, and comfort, they should be enjoyed in moderation as part of a balanced diet. Opting for healthier biscuit options with less added sugar, unhealthy fats, and processed ingredients can help mitigate some of the cons associated with traditional biscuits.

Conclusion -:

In conclusion, biscuits are a popular and convenient snack enjoyed by many around the world. With their wide variety of flavors, textures, and types, biscuits offer versatility and appeal to diverse taste preferences. They provide a quick and easy snack option, perfect for on-the-go consumption or as a comforting treat.

However, it’s essential to approach biscuits with moderation and mindfulness due to their potential drawbacks. Many commercially available biscuits are high in sugar, unhealthy fats, and calories, lacking essential nutrients and providing empty calories. Additionally, biscuits may contain processed ingredients, additives, and potential allergens, posing health risks for some individuals.

To make the most of biscuits while minimizing their negative impacts, consumers can opt for healthier alternatives with less added sugar, unhealthy fats, and processed ingredients. Balancing biscuit consumption with a varied and nutrient-rich diet, practicing portion control, and maintaining good oral hygiene can help mitigate potential health risks associated with regular biscuit consumption.

Ultimately, while biscuits can be enjoyed as a convenient and indulgent snack, they should be part of a balanced lifestyle that prioritizes overall health and well-being. By making informed choices and enjoying biscuits in moderation, individuals can savor the pleasure of these beloved treats while maintaining a healthy and balanced diet.

#biscuit

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leanblissweightloss · 2 months

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