#Reduced inflamation

[mokshalifestyleinternational]

PURE BALSAM TOLU ESSENTIAL OIL

It contains antiseptic properties that remove dust and irritation from the scalp while also reducing dandruff. It also nourishes the scalp deeply to relieve dryness. It can be combined with a carrier oil and rubbed into the scalp. It contains anti-bacterial qualities that aid in the treatment of skin infections, allergies, open wounds, and rashes. Toxins and bacteria are removed, and wounds heal faster. Its anti-bacterial and anti-microbial properties aid in the treatment of infections. Organic Balsam Tolu Essential Oil also aids in the treatment of inflammation and may assist in lessening allergies. It has been used to treat muscular aches, cramps, and redness, and its anti-inflammatory characteristics help to relieve stress in the afflicted region. It can be used topically to relieve joint pain and muscular spasms. It also lowers edema and inflammation on the skin.

[hitomisuzuya]

Can I have Scaramouche x reader, where it's Scaramouche's first time? Can either be while he's in the Fatui or as Wanderer 🫶🏻🫶🏻 thank you

Scaramouche x fem!reader. Smut. Riding. Creampie.

Fatui Scara for this one😌😳 Everyone, please enjoy your day and evening. My confidence is a bit shaky today, so bear with me. I think I got carried away though lol

Thoughts of you consumed Scaramouche every day and every night. It took him awhile to come to terms with the fact he was falling in love. He'd always thought love was a useless, filthy human emotion.

He didn't realize how much he needed it until he met you.

The intimate power you were starting to give to Scaramouche was intoxicating to him. Through a flurry of heavy, open mouthed kisses while he pinned you down on the bed underneath him, he asked if you wanted to fuck for the first time and you so readily agreed.

How delightful.

Your body was a blank canvas for him to mark up and explore. And that's exactly what his mouth and hands were. Exploring. Sussing out all the sensitive parts that would make you shiver and writhe if he focused on them.

Oh how Scaramouche had waited for this moment. To make you his in every way. Every filthy way he could imagine.

His hand traced the line of your throat, bringing goosebumps in their wake as they traveled down to her chest. His thumb skimmed over your nipple, marvelling at how velvety the nub felt as it hardened. The pads of his fingers closed around it, his teeth finding purchase on your neck.

Your body twitched, pressing up against his, your hips moving suddenly to grind against his cock. He smirked as he pulled a fold of skin between his teeth to suck on. He rolled and pinched your nipple, his ears keenly focused on the soft moans that were starting to meet his ears.

"So responsive," Scaramouche murmured in awe into your neck, pulling away and admiring the bruise he'd made so dominantly close to your throat. He prodded his tongue soothingly on your inflamed skin.

He licked a line down your throat, enjoying the way the body visibly tingled in his hands as he worked his way down to your chest. He slowly swirled his tongue around your nipple.

"Fucking hell, moan more for me," Scaramouche said softly, drool pooling down your breast as he took your nipple into his mouth to suck on.

You writhed on the bed underneath him. "Sc-Sca--" You wrapped your arms around him, pressing his mouth down onto your breast. The sensation of his mouth sucking on your sensitive nipple was making your head start to feel fuzzy.

Scaramouche's eyes snapped open. The audacity of you to sound so cute and needy for him. Had the burst of pleasure overwhelmed you so much that you were incapable of saying his name?

He needed more of that. His cock pulsed between his legs, and he suddenly came to a realization. That you are the only for him. And what almost sickened him was that he'd known it all along.

The way you relaxed so submissively under him as he put some of his weight on you to reach between your legs sent him reeling. Your body curled into his touches, your hips jerking up to grind against them as he parted your drooling folds.

"So wet," He marvelled, his fingers exploring on your pussy. How fast you were soaking against them made him harder. "Tell me how you want me," He plunged two fingers inside of you.

Scaramouche knew you wanted him, but he needed to hear it. Someone actually wanted him. And someone like you. Someone who he thought was way too good for Teyvat itself, the Fatui, and certainly way too fucking for the likes of him. He needed to devoir and swallow you whole. The world was a big, scary place full of things that would take you away from him.

But here the likes of him was, reducing you to a soaking mess while he pumped his fingers in and out of your cunt. Your walls squeezed around his fingers as they curled relentlessly into your sweet spot.

"Please, please. I want you, Scaramouche! I need you!" Your hands gripped his sheets tightly, your hips bucking in to his fingers. His other hand stroked and caressed your thigh, pleasure curling stronger in your core as he stretched your walls apart. You reached a shaky hand out to him.

"Good girl," Scaramouche purred, intertwining his fingers with yours. He hooked the fingers pumping in and out of your cunt into your sweet spot one more time before he pulled them out of you. He relished in the way your eyes lit up hearing his praise.

He gently tugged you up to your knees as he laid down on the bed. His hands found your hips as you crawled to straddle him. "You want to be on top, huh?" He chuckled, grinding up against you, teasing the head of his cock at your entrance. That was fine. He could still more than dominate you this way.

His hands squeezed your hips hearing the string of moan that tore for your pretty mouth as he lowered you down onto his cock. He bottomed out, groaning huskily as his cock pulsed between your tight, velvety walls. "Do you feel what you do to me?" His body shook as he started bouncing you on his cock.

He was fast getting lost in the feeling of your walls stretching and squeezing wet around his cock. He almost couldn't take it. "The way you are moaning. What a slut," He said huskily, thrusting up into you with more urgency as he guide your pace.

You could barely control the shameless noises sounding from you. You trembled in his hands as you rode him, clinging to him in a way that he needed. Your moans, your whimpers, the way your body responded to him and his cock sent him further reeling.

"Cum on my cock. Be the first," Scaramouche moaned, capturing your lips in a possessive kiss. He swallowed your sweet moans, curling your tongue into submission. "The only one," His teeth nipped at your lips as he pulled away.

A near scream of pleasure met with his ears as you creamed on his cock. He rubbed your clit, nursing you through your orgasm. He'd been holding himself back from cumming so he could feel you cum first. You deserved that and more for letting him be so greedy with you.

Scaramouche held your chin, his eyes eyes hazy with lust as he made you look at him. "I'm cumming inside, okay?" He purred. He would always remember the way you looked at him as you nodded, like he was the center of your whole world.

"Mhm," You turned your cheek into his hand as he caressed it. Scaramouche is the center of your world. He could feel you were throwing every ounce of passion you felt for him into the way you rode him, eager to feel him cum inside you.

"You are mine," Scaramouche couldn't help but growl, gripping your hips tighter as he thrust more roughly inside of you. "All mine," Your feeble whimpers of pleasure as you said yes, you are his made his cock pulse cum inside of you.

This wouldn't be the last time either.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Blood Ties Chapter 19

Series Masterlist

Warnings: strong depictions of illness; very minor suggestive situations

A/N: Super angsty with generous amounts of cuteness. Reader will eventually get to be a badass. But this chapter focuses on articulating the grave situation.

You were pacing outside the bedroom door, wringing your hands just to keep as many parts of your body as possible moving so you wouldn’t combust. Hershel had insisted you wait outside in case it was something possibly contagious that took Daryl down. Even though you’d spent a lot of time close to him, you were showing no symptoms, so the veterinarian thought it best to be safe rather than sorry. 

You could hear Daryl coughing through the door, the sound sudden and harsh, followed by a groan each time that gave you hope that he’d possibly woke up. He’d been dead weight in your arms when everyone had burst in to help. The others had returned just in time, a heavy coat and gloves in tow for Daryl like you had requested. Rick and T-Dog had carried him up the stairs while Lori and Carol put forth effort to keep you back. You had shrugged them off and followed until Hershel stepped in. 

“Y/N, you’re gonna pace a groove into the floorboards.” Carol stood by, watching you, refusing to go about her evening duties and leave you alone. “Y/N.”

You finally paused but didn’t look at her. She didn’t get a chance to comfort you before the door opened. Hershel and Maggie stepped out, whispering between themselves in a way that made your chest tighten. 

“I’ll go get Beth and Carol to help me make a list. Carol?” The eldest Greene placed a hand on Carol’s arm, giving her enough time to assess you before she reluctantly followed. 

“Is he okay?” You asked quietly. You and Hershel were alone outside the door now, the old man’s face smooth with a calm you wished you could muster. 

“He likely had a virus that developed into pneumonia from breathing in the cold air. His lungs are full of fluid and inflamed, which accounts for the rattle when he breathes and, of course, the cough.”

“I know what pneumonia it is.” You interjected, a hint of irritation lacing your tone. “What needs to happen?”

“Ideally, we’d start an IV with fluids and antibiotics. If we can get the fluids and manage some oral antibiotics, we can make those work too. He needs those two things for certain. Fever reducers and cough suppressants would be beneficial. I will check for Tylenol in my things, though I fear I may have given you the last.” 

You crossed your arms above your belly, hugging yourself tightly, and bounced on the balls of your feet, your brain running on overdrive. “Maggie’s making a list?” Hershel nodded, hanging the stethoscope around his neck. “Okay, I’ll go see when we can leave.”

“Y/N, wait.” For an old man, he sure moved quickly, stepping into your path. You knew what he would say. He would advise you not to go, that you shouldn’t put your baby in danger. For fuck sake, you knew that. “I can’t tell you what to do. We’ve established that. And I know that Daryl means a lot to you.”

“With the utmost respect, Hershel, please get to the point.” Your tone was level though inside, you felt like yourself crumbling. The world just took and took and when you would start to feel safe, it didn’t hesitate to remind you of the devastation it could bring. 

“I’d like you to stay with Daryl.” Your rebuttal melted on your tongue when he held up a hand. “I will do everything in my power to care for him but I need to be able to care for you too. Maggie is capable. She’ll have help. Daryl needs you here.” 

“I just—”

“There will be no getting him to cooperate if he finds out you left. You know this.”

You threw back your head and let your arms fall. Of course he was right. And once again, you felt useless. “I know.”

“You know, you are doing more for that man in there than anyone in this group ever could hope to do and I’m not just speaking of the child.” He smiled at you with such kindness. It reminded you of your father, your eyes burning. “Remember that.”

You nodded and sniffed. The old man’s footsteps retreated as you leaned your forehead against the door. Daryl was coughing on the other side. Hershel would have told you if you shouldn’t go in. Most strains of pneumonia were not contagious beyond the virus or bacteria that caused them. If you hadn’t contracted the cold or flu that Daryl had before this, it was unlikely you’d be infected now. 

Turning the knob, you pushed on the door, steadily controlling how quickly it opened to keep it from making a lot of noise. Daryl was under the blankets, one arm lying across his stomach and the other at his side. His face was tilted away from you.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt but if you ventured to guess, he was likely not wearing anything. Hershel would have checked for bites. The hunter wouldn’t have kept that hidden. You knew that but maybe they didn’t. 

His chest rattled and wheezed with each breath, appearing to take a lot more effort than should be necessary. You wondered if they would search for oxygen tanks. Maggie is capable. They would. You needed to stay right there and not try to micromanage. Daryl needed you more. 

There was already an old, cushioned chair next to the bed. Perhaps Hershel used it or maybe Maggie moved it there for you. Regardless, you lowered yourself into it, remaining on the edge so you could easily reach Daryl’s hand. 

His skin was overly warm and dry, the sound accompanying each labored breath was somehow worse at that proximity. Seeing him so still reminded you of finding him injured back at the farm, how afraid you had been at the thought of losing him. That fear had experienced then resurfaced with a vengeance, squeezing your lungs so tightly that you imagined Daryl could breathe with more ease in that moment. 

“Prolly shouldn’t be in here.” 

You visibly startled, nearly sliding off the edge of the chair. “Jesus, Daryl, don’t do that.” You had to take a moment to get your heartrate under control before meeting his scarcely open eyes. It was as if whatever energy, whatever stubbornness, that had been keeping him going had just drained out of him. “How’re you feeling?”

“How ‘m I lookin’?” He wheezed. He coughed without opening his mouth until he could get his arm to obey him and cover the lower portion of his face. He inhaled his food like a human vacuum but at least he covered his mouth when he coughed. 

“Fair point.” You took his hand again and held it between yours. He didn’t pull away. 

“Just need a night an’ I can get back out there.”

You instinctively began to heat up in anger. How could he even think he was fit to be out of bed, much less hunt or take watch? How many times were you going to need to remind him that he needed to care for himself as well? After the initial desire to throttle him had passed, you leaned forward to rest your elbows on the mattress. “We’ve been over this. You can’t run yourself into the ground to take care of me, Thumper, or anyone else. You've done that. You’re really sick, Daryl. And I’m scared.”

“Ain’t gotta be scared.” His fingers wiggled weakly, slowly between your hands. You moved one away so he could squeeze the other. “Ain’t gonna be in this bed long.”

“You’ll be in this bed until Hershel says you can leave it.” You replied sternly. Despite the tears in your eyes, you firmly held his tired gaze. 

He challenged you, indignation carved into every line of weariness. When you didn’t waver, he backed down, much to your relief. “Fine.” He coughed again, coming up off the pillow from the force of it. You released his hand and stood over him, grabbing the old pillow from the other side of the bed. Luckily the dust had been beaten from the fabrics before you were in that room. You slid an arm behind his neck to help him sit up a little, placing the pillow behind him. “Could’a done it myself. Ain’t a invalid.”

“I know you can do things yourself. You’re just not seeming to comprehend that you aren't alone anymore. That someone cares for you.” Loves you. You were still standing and took notice of the bowl of water on the table with a piece of fabric hanging over the edge. Very likely Maggie was trying to bring down the fever. Licking your lips, you dipped the damp material into the cool water and wrung out the excess. With the slightest hesitation, you sat down close to his hand and began to dab the feverish skin of his face. Daryl probably didn’t even realize he sighed when his eyes fluttered closed. “Just let me take care of you for once.”

Fever-bright blue reappeared to study you. He didn’t seem upset but the hunter was known for his sudden shifts in temperament. You simply continued what you were doing, moving on to his neck. He coughed weakly, bringing his arm toward his face while you moved yours to make room. The spell was brisk, your limbs trading again but you felt his fingers brush your swollen belly. 

After another moment, Daryl grunted with a look of absolute feigned irritation. Though you knew you had won this round, you kept your expression neutral and leaned close to press a kiss to his forehead. 

“Thank you.”

His eyes were closed but you didn’t miss the twitch at one corner of his lips. His only reply was another grunt. 

The night was nearly unbearable. You had moved to the other side of the bed and sat cross-legged at his side. His breathing was labored and loud, the coughs frequent and painful. The more he rested, the less lucid he became during moments of wakefulness. His skin burned hotter as the fever climbed, your attempts to lower it all for naught. 

Maggie and company were set to leave at first light but it wasn’t soon enough. Pleas fell from your lips each time Hershel came to check on each of you. He urged you to try and rest, even offering to bring Carol, Lori, or Beth to sit with the archer while you got some sleep. Your refusal was instantaneous. Eventually, he brought Beth with him and reasoned she could stay to watch over Daryl while you rested beside him, promising to wake you with any changes, good or bad. 

You were exhausted, that you couldn’t deny. The baby rolled and kicked, honing in on your anxiousness, Hershel said. It was with a yawn that you reluctantly agreed. The Tylenol had finally been located, and you insisted on helping get Daryl to take it before lying down. He was resistant for only a moment before complying, simply because you started to cry. Hormones and exhaustion were not a great combination. 

“You’ll wake me for anything?” You were propped on your elbows, preparing to curl up next to the furnace that was your boyfriend? Partner? Significant other? Whatever. You’d figure that part when he was better. 

“Anything at all. I promise.” Beth smiled reassuringly and patted your ankle. 

You had been made aware that anything not in use had been packed and was ready in case there was a need to flee. That would leave ample time for Daryl to be moved safely. The team of Maggie, Glenn, and T-Dog would go in search of what was needed, likely to be gone the entire day to venture further out. The local homes and businesses had already been looted. In essence, there was nothing more to be done except keep the archer comfortable and more importantly, alive. 

“Okay.” You conceded, rolling onto your side to face Daryl as he coughed, a spasm of pain on his face before he settled again. “I’m right here.” You wrapped your fingers around his and held on loosely, closing your eyes to sink quickly into sleep. 

You heard the coughs before registering that your name was being called—no. It was being shouted. You shot straight up, hands immediately fumbling for Daryl. He was upright as well, leaning over his lap and arms braced against his chest to hold the blanket in place, cognizant enough during even such a paroxysm of hacking to hide his marred chest. With both the candle, nearly spent after what most of been a few hours rest for you, and the moonlight reflecting off the snow outside, you could see the redness on his skin, veins and tendons bulging from the force. 

“It’s okay. Daryl, it’s—where’s Hershel?” Your eyes remained on him, hand rubbing circles over his upper back. “Beth?” You looked at her then, found her staring at Daryl with an expression you couldn’t quite read. Fear? Hopelessness? The girl flinched at the sound of her name, only then seeming to hear your question. 

“He went to check if we have any tea bags.” She had lost so many, so much already. So young, still a child in that world. She was frozen, her eyes beginning to shine with moisture. 

Daryl’s fit was calming, each wet, wheezing gasp making the vice around your heart clench tighter. “Beth. Beth, look at me.” You were scared. No, you were terrified of losing Daryl. When the girl swallowed hard and finally turned her head to face you, you smiled with as much reassurance as you could scrape up around the dread stealing your own breath. Whatever you had, you would offer to Daryl. And to her. “He’ll be okay. Your dad’s gonna make sure of it.” You almost failed to hide the quiver in your voice. “Can you go see if we have any more clean scraps of cloth? I’d rather not have him spitting what he coughs up onto the floor.”

Beth nodded and spared one more lingering glance at Daryl, then she left the room. 

“Nice.” Daryl said with a desperate inhale. “Almost—believed ya myself.” He was still sitting up with his shoulders slumped, nearly folded onto his lap. You were still tenderly rubbing circles over his back. 

“You will be okay.” You whispered, laying your forehead against his shoulder blade, smiling when he didn’t react to your skin pressing against a particularly deep scar. Each breath vibrated where you rested. “Here.” You sniffed and pulled away one of the pillows. “Lay on your stomach. It opens up your lungs.”

The hunter looked over his shoulder tiredly as if considering whether or not it was worth the effort. There was a small jerk of his chin that you perceived as a nod, and then he was turning languidly to stretch out on his stomach. He coughed and buried his face in the pillow. You hadn’t noticed he was shivering before then. The blanket was twisted around his legs, making it more difficult to pull it up to the middle of his back. 

“S’miserable.” The words were muffled but decipherable. 

“I know.” You were getting to your feet, pressing your hands into the small of your back to soothe the ache there. The baby moved in what felt like a roll. “Thumper’s doing gymnastics.” Daryl turned his head toward the chair on his side of the bed just as you sat down and dipped the cloth into the bowl of cool water, his arm immediately outstretched so that the back of his hand rested on top of your bump. “Let’s see if we can help the Tylenol with that fever.”

When the cool fabric touched the back of his neck, Daryl flinched. With his body fighting to regulate his temperature, it must have been quite the shock. You left it there for a moment before moving to dab the side of his face. Swiping the cloth over his back, you realized he once again was allowing you to see his scars, this time without the tension of rigid muscles that accompanied his shame and self-loathing. Maybe he just felt too horrible to care. 

By the time Hershel lightly tapped on the door, Daryl was sleeping. The coughs were still present but with longer reprieves, the hunter so exhausted that the fits barely roused him. 

“We found some tea. I regret not mentioning to Maggie that honey could be beneficial.” One plastic cup in one hand was steaming, a torn piece of flannel wrapped around it to ensure he didn’t burn himself. The other hand held a refilled bottle of water, likely from boiling some of the snow. 

Your mind drifted to how different this winter was so different from the ones before the turn. Georgia wasn’t usually a state to receive that amount of snow and such low temperatures. Maybe the lack of human activity had altered the weather patterns. Less cars, less pollution, less deforestation. You weren’t an expert but there had to be something different. If he was real, maybe god just saw fit to throw a few more curveballs at your little group. As if the threat of being eaten alive by the dead wasn’t enough. 

Shaking your head clear, you brushed your fingertips across Daryl’s forehead. “They left?” Hershel nodded. The sun hadn’t even begun to rise yet. 

“Rick seemed to think this was urgent enough to send them out before dawn. I can’t say I’m thrilled to see my daughter driving away into the night but I am inclined to agree with his judgment.”

Daryl could die. It was urgent but for more than any practical reason Rick could suggest. It was so much deeper than that. “He’s asleep. Should I wake him up to drink it?” You placed the fabric back in the water.

“As much as I’d like him to rest, he also needs to avoid dehydration.” He raised the cup slightly. “Peppermint tea is caffeine free but we had nothing to sweeten it. We can only hope he’s thirsty enough to not care. If he’d prefer, I also brought some water.”

Sighing, you nodded and leaned forward to be in Daryl’s line of sight once he awakened. “Daryl. Wake up.” You pulled the blanket up to cover his back. Hershel had seen the scars more than once, you knew that, but you were almost certain Daryl would have appreciated the effort. 

With a groan of protest, he opened his eyes to slits. “What?”

“Hershel brought you some tea.”

“Ain’t thirsty.” He closed his eyes. 

“Bullshit.” You challenged flatly. “Come on, sit up.”

His eyes opened a little wider then, sheer stubbornness driving him to glare at you. “M’comfortable.”

“Tough titty.” 

His expression smoothed out, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Nah, s’real soft.” The hand that laid on your stomach drifted up, the back of his knuckles pressing lightly across the swell of your left breast. 

Hershel cleared his throat. Daryl’s hand moved away at a speed you didn’t think he was capable of in his current state. You snorted when the fevered flush coloring his cheeks deepened with embarrassment. 

Reaching a hand toward the veterinarian, you waited for him to cross the room and pass off the cups.

“Try to drink as much as you can, son.” 

Daryl hummed, likely feeling too awkward to trust his voice. You smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Hershel.”

“No thanks necessary. I’ll be back in a couple of hours to check in, but call down if you need anything sooner.”

“Okay.” The door clicked shut while you sat the cup of water down by the bowl and cloth. 

“Why didn’cha—tell me the old man—was in here?” Daryl croaked, making a face so close to a pout that you found it adorable. 

You chuckled. “I didn’t think you were gonna feel me up from your sick bed, sir.” He grumbled something incomprehensible but you honestly weren’t paying attention. If he wasn’t willing to sit up, you could have him raise his head just enough for you to help. “If you won’t sit up for me, could you at least lift your head and let me help you drink?”

“Y’ain’t gonna—stop houndin’—me ‘til I do, are ya?” He turned his face into the pillow and coughed, staying there until he was sure it was over. 

“Nope. You might as well just do what I ask.” You were smiling sweetly and batting your eyes when he finally moved his face back to you. 

“All women nag—this much—or s’mine just special?” Along with the relentless wiggles of your unborn baby, butterflies stirred and fluttered. Even if it was difficult to look past the fact that he struggled to draw in enough air when speaking, you felt your skin—as well as your heart—warm. 

His. 

“You’re just lucky.” You nearly sing-songed, choosing not to question his verbiage. You knew you were his. He’d been rather clear about that, even if he hadn’t exactly used words to convey it. That was enough for you. Hearing it was just a bonus. 

Daryl dragged his limbs and began to push up onto his forearms, but he abandoned the movement before his chest even lifted from the mattress. When he sighed, it was likely from resignation. He lifted and angled his head for you to adequately position the cup and pour a small amount of tea into his mouth. 

“Needs sugar.” He commented a moment or two after swallowing. Shaking your head, you offered it again.

It took a substantial amount of time to finish the tea and a few sips of water. The sun’s appearance found you sitting on the edge of the mattress, running your fingers through Daryl’s hair. He had fallen asleep before finishing the tea, waking only just enough to cooperate with your efforts. Hershel had been in once, declaring that while the archer hadn’t improved, he hadn’t worsened either. 

When he began to cough, you moved your hand from his hair to his back, rubbing soft circles in an attempt to provide any measure of comfort. Once he had settled, you used one of the flannel pieces Beth had retrieved to clean his mouth and the pillow. Hershel seemed pleased that the cough was productive. It was a disgusting reassurance but you’d take anything.

Daryl groaned and shivered, the fever relatively untouched by the Tylenol. The veterinarian had cautioned you that without the aid of antibiotics and soon, it was likely Daryl’s condition would deteriorate. Your hand stilled on this spine, the rattling of his lungs vibrating beneath your palm. Nearly overcome with an intense notion of foreboding, you turned your face toward the window, almost as if to summon back the team by sheer force of will alone. 

“Please hurry.”

[reasonsforhope]

Paywall-free version

On the outskirts of Austin, Texas, what began as a fringe experiment has quickly become central to the city’s efforts to reduce homelessness. To Justin Tyler Jr., it is home.

Mr. Tyler, 41, lives in Community First! Village, which aims to be a model of permanent affordable housing for people who are chronically homeless. In the fall of 2022, he joined nearly 400 residents of the village, moving into one of its typical digs: a 200-square-foot, one-room tiny house furnished with a kitchenette, a bed and a recliner.

The village is a self-contained, 51-acre community in a sparsely populated area just outside Austin. Stepping onto its grounds feels like entering another realm.

Eclectic tiny homes are clustered around shared outdoor kitchens, and neat rows of recreational vehicles and manufactured homes line looping cul-de-sacs.

There are chicken coops, two vegetable gardens, a convenience store, art and jewelry studios, a medical clinic and a chapel.

Roads run throughout, but residents mainly get around on foot or on an eight-passenger golf cart that makes regular stops around the property.

Mr. Tyler chose a home with a cobalt-blue door and a small patio in the oldest part of the village, where residents’ cactus and rock gardens created a “funky, hippie vibe” that appealed to him. He arrived in rough shape, struggling with alcoholism, his feet inflamed by gout, with severe back pain from nearly 10 years of sleeping in public parks, in vehicles and on street benches.

At first, he kept to himself. He locked his door and slept. He visited the clinic and started taking medication. After a month or so, he ventured out to meet his neighbors.

“For a while there, I just didn’t want to be seen and known,” he said. “Now I prefer it.”

Between communal meals and movie screenings, Mr. Tyler also works at the village, preparing homes for the dozen or more people who move there each month.

In the next few years, Community First is poised to grow to nearly 2,000 homes across three locations, which would make it by far the nation’s largest project of this kind, big enough to permanently house about half of Austin’s chronically homeless population.

Tiny-home villages for people who have been homeless have existed on a small scale for several decades, but have recently become a popular approach to addressing surging homelessness. Since 2019, the number of these villages across the country has nearly quadrupled, to 124 from 34, with dozens more coming, according to a census by Yetimoni Kpeebi, a researcher at Missouri State University.

Mandy Chapman Semple, a consultant who has helped cities like Houston transform their homelessness systems, said the growth of these villages reflects a need to replace inexpensive housing that was once widely available in the form of mobile home parks and single room occupancy units, and is rapidly being lost. But she said they are a highly imperfect solution.

“I think where we’re challenged is that ‘tiny home’ has taken on a spectrum of definitions,” said Chapman Semple. Many of those definitions fall short of housing standards, often lacking basic amenities like heat and indoor plumbing, which she said limits their ability to meet the needs of the population they intend to serve.

But Community First is pushing the tiny home model to a much larger scale. While most of its homes lack bathrooms and kitchens, its leaders see that as a necessary trade-off to be able to creatively and affordably house the growing number of people living on Austin’s streets. And unlike most other villages, many of which provide temporary emergency shelter in structures that can resemble tool sheds, Community First has been thoughtfully designed with homey spaces where people with some of the highest needs can stay for good. No other tiny home village has attempted to permanently house as many people.

Austin’s homelessness rate has been rapidly worsening, and the city’s response has whipped back and forth... In October [2023], the official estimate put the number of people living without shelter at 5,530, a 125 percent increase from two years earlier. Some of that rise is the result of better outreach, but officials acknowledged that more people have become homeless. City leaders vowed to build more housing, but that effort has been slowed by construction delays and resistance from residents.

Meanwhile, outside the city limits, Community First has been building fast. [Note from below the read more: It's outside city limits because the lack of zoning laws keeps more well-off Austin residents from blocking the project, as they did earlier attempts to build inside the city.] In a mere eight years, this once-modest project has grown into a sprawling community that the city is turning to as a desperately needed source of affordable housing. The village has now drawn hundreds of millions of dollars from public and private sources and given rise to similar initiatives across the country.

This rapid growth has come despite significant challenges. And some question whether a community on the outskirts of town with relaxed housing standards is a suitable way to meet the needs of people coming out of chronic homelessness. The next few years will be a test of whether these issues will be addressed or amplified as the village expands to five times its current size.

-via New York Times, January 8, 2024. Article continues below (at length!)

The community versus Community First

For Alan Graham, the expansion of Community First is just the latest stage in a long-evolving project. In the late 1990s, Mr. Graham, then a real estate developer, attended a Catholic men’s retreat that deepened his faith and inspired him to get more involved with his church. Soon after, he began delivering meals as a church volunteer to people living on Austin’s streets.

In 1998, Mr. Graham, now 67, became a founder of Mobile Loaves and Fishes, a nonprofit that has since amassed a fleet of vehicles that make daily rounds to deliver food and clothing to Austin’s homeless...

Talking to people like Mr. Johnston [a homeless Austin resident who Graham had befriended], Mr. Graham came to feel that housing alone was not enough for people who had been chronically homeless, the official term for those who have been homeless for years or repeatedly and have physical or mental disabilities, including substance-use disorders. About a third of the homeless population fits this description, and they are often estranged from family and other networks.

In 2006, Mr. Graham pitched an idea to Austin’s mayor: Create an R.V. park for people coming out of chronic homelessness. It would have about 150 homes, supportive services and easy access to public transportation. Most importantly, it would help to replace the “profound, catastrophic loss of family” he believed was at the root of the problem with a close-knit and supportive community.

The City Council voted unanimously in 2008 to lease Mr. Graham a 17-acre plot of city-owned land to make his vision a reality. Getting the council members on board, he said, turned out to be the easy part.

When residents near the intended site learned of the plan, they were outraged. They feared the development would reduce their property values and invite crime. One meeting to discuss the plan with the neighborhood grew so heated that Mr. Graham was escorted to his car by the police. Not a single one of the 52 community members in attendance voted in favor of the project.

After plans for the city-owned lot fell apart and other proposed locations faced similar resistance, Mr. Graham gave up on trying to build the development within city limits.

In 2012, he instead acquired a plot of land in a part of Travis County just northeast of Austin. It was far from public transportation and other services, but it had one big advantage: The county’s lack of zoning laws limited the power of neighbors to stop it.

Mr. Graham raised $20 million and began to build. In late 2015, Mr. Johnston left the R.V. park he had been living in and became the second person to move into the new village. It grew rapidly. In just two years, Mr. Graham bought an adjacent property, nearly doubling the village’s size to 51 acres and making room for hundreds more residents.

And then in the fall of 2022, he broke ground on the largest expansion yet: Adding two more sites to the village, expanding it by 127 acres to include nearly 2,000 homes.

“No one ever really did what they first did, and no one’s ever done what they’re about to do,” said Mark Hilbelink, the director of Sunrise Navigation Center, Austin’s largest homeless-services provider. “So there’s a little bit of excitement but also probably a little bit of trepidation about, ‘How do we do this right?’”

What it takes to make a village

Since he moved into Community First eight years ago, Mr. Johnston has found the stability that eluded him for so long. Most mornings, he wakes up early in his R.V., feeds his scruffy adopted terrier, Amos, and walks a few minutes down a quiet road to the village garden, where neat rows of carrots, leeks, beets and arugula await his attention.

Mr. Johnston worked in fast-food restaurants for most of his life, but he learned how to garden at the village. He now works full time cultivating produce for a weekly market that is free to residents.

“Once I got here, I said, This is where I’m going to spend pretty much my entire life now,” Mr. Johnston said.

Everyone at the village pays rent, which averages about $385 a month. The tiny homes that make up two-thirds of the dwellings go for slightly lower, but have no indoor plumbing; their residents use communal bathhouses and kitchens. The rest of the units are R.V.s and manufactured homes with their own bathrooms and kitchens.

Like Mr. Johnston, many residents have jobs in the village, created to offer residents flexible opportunities to earn some income. Last year, they earned a combined $1.5 million working as gardeners, landscapers, custodians, artists, jewelry makers and more, paid out by Mobile Loaves and Fishes.

Ute Dittemer, 66, faced a daily struggle for survival during a decade on the streets before moving into Community First five years ago with her husband. Now she supports herself by painting and molding figures out of clay at the village art house, augmented by her husband’s $800 monthly retirement income. A few years ago, a clay chess set she made sold for $10,000 at an auction. She used the money to buy her first car.

“I’m glad that we are not in a low-income-housing apartment complex,” she said. “We’ve got all this green out here, air to breathe.”

A small number of residents have jobs off-site, and a city bus makes hourly stops at the village 13 times a day to help people commute into town.

But about four out of five residents live on government benefits like disability or Social Security. Their incomes average $900 a month, making even tiny homes impossible to afford without help, Mr. Graham said.

“Essentially 100 percent of the people that move into this village will have to be subsidized for the rest of their lives,” he said.

For about $25,000 a year, Mr. Graham’s organization subsidizes one person’s housing at the village. (Services like primary health care and addiction counseling are provided by other organizations.) So far, that has been paid for entirely by private donations and in small part from collecting rent.

This would not be possible, Mr. Graham said, without a highly successful fund-raising operation that taps big Austin philanthropists. To build the next two expansions, Mr. Graham set a $225 million fund-raising goal, about $150 million of which has already been obtained from the Michael and Susan Dell Foundation, the founder of the Patrón Spirits Company, Hill Country Bible Church and others.

Support goes beyond monetary donations. A large land grant came from the philanthropic arm of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, and Alamo Drafthouse, an Austin-based cinema chain, donated an outdoor amphitheater for movie screenings. Top architectural firms competed for the chance to design energy-efficient tiny homes free of charge. And every week, hundreds of volunteers come to help with landscaping and gardening or to serve free meals.

Around 55 residents, including 15 children, live in the village as “missionals” — unpaid neighbors generally motivated by their Christian faith to be part of the community.

All missionals undergo a monthslong “discernment process” before they can move in. They pay to live in R.V.s and manufactured homes distinguished by an “M” in the front window. Their presence in the community is meant to guard against the pitfalls of concentrated poverty and trauma.

“Missionals are our guardian angels,” said Blair Racine, a 69-year-old resident with a white beard that hangs to his chest. “They’re people we can always call. They’re always there for us.”

After moving into the village in 2018, Mr. Racine spent two years isolated in his R.V. because of a painful eye condition. But after an effective treatment, he became so social that he was nicknamed the Mayor. Missional residents drive him to get his medication once a week, he said. To their children he is Uncle Blair.

Though the village is open to people of any religious background, it is run by Christians, and public spaces are adorned with paintings of Jesus on the cross and other biblical scenes. The application to live in the community outlines a set of “core values” that refer to God and the Bible. But Mr. Graham said there is no proselytizing and people do not have to be sober or seek treatment to live there.

Mr. Graham lives in a 399-square-foot manufactured home in the middle of the village with his wife, Tricia Graham, who works as the community’s “head of neighbor care.” He said they do not have any illusions about solving the underlying mental-health and substance-use problems many residents live with, and that is not their goal.

“This is absolutely not nirvana,” Mr. Graham said. “And we want people to understand the beauty and the complexity of what we do. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on the face of the planet than right here in the middle of this, but you’re not fixing these things.” ...

From an experiment to a model

Community First has already inspired spinoffs, with some tweaks. In 2018, Nate Schlueter, who previously worked with the village’s jobs program, opened Eden Village in his hometown, Springfield, Mo. Unlike in Community First, every home in Eden Village is identical and has its own bathroom and kitchen. Mr. Schlueter’s model has spread to 12 different cities with every village limited to 50 homes or fewer.

“Not every city is Austin, Texas,” Mr. Schlueter said. “We don’t want to build a large-scale village. And if the root cause of homelessness is a loss of family, and community is something that can duplicate that safety net to some extent, to have smaller villages to me seemed like a stronger community safety net. Everybody would know each other.”

The rapid growth of Community First has challenged that ideal. In recent years, some of the original missional residents and staff members have left, finding it harder to support the number of people moving into the village. Steven Hebbard, who lived and worked at the village since its inception, left in 2019 when he said it shifted from a “tiny-town dynamic” where he knew everyone’s name to something that felt more like a city, straining the supportive culture that helped people succeed.

Mobile Loaves and Fishes said more staff members had recently been hired to help new residents adjust, but Mr. Graham noted that there was a limit to what any housing provider could do without violating people’s privacy and autonomy.

Despite these concerns, the organization, which had been run entirely on private money, has recently drawn public support. In January 2023, Travis County gave Mobile Loaves and Fishes $35 million in American Rescue Plan Act funds to build 640 units as part of its expansion.

Then four months later came a significant surprise: The U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development approved the use of federal housing vouchers, which subsidize part or all of a low-income resident’s rent, for the village’s tiny homes. This will make running the village much more financially sustainable, Mr. Graham said, and may make it a more replicable blueprint for other places.

“That’s a big deal for us, and it’s a big deal on a national basis,” Mr. Graham said. “It’s a recognition that this model, managed the way that this model is, has a role in the system.”

Usually, the government considers homes without indoor plumbing to be substandard, but, in this case, it made an exception by applying the housing standards it uses for single-room-occupancy units. The village still did not meet the required ratio of bathrooms per person, but at the request of Travis County and the City of Austin’s housing officials, who cited Austin’s “severe lack of affordable housing” that made it impossible for some homeless people with vouchers to find anywhere else to live, HUD waived its usual requirements.

In the waiver, a HUD staffer wrote that Mr. Graham told HUD officials over the phone that the proportion of in-unit bathrooms “has not been an issue.” But in conversations with The Times, other homeless-service providers in Austin and some village residents said the lack of in-unit bathrooms is one of the biggest problems people have with living there. It also makes the villages less accessible to people with certain disabilities and health issues that are relatively common among the chronically homeless....

Mr. Graham said that with a doctor’s note, people could secure an R.V. or manufactured home at the village, although those are in short supply and have a long waiting list. He said the village’s use of tiny homes allowed them to build at a fraction of the usual cost when few other options existed, and helps ensure residents aren’t isolated in their units, reinforcing the village’s communal ethos.

“If somebody wants to live in a tiny home they ought to have the choice,” Mr. Graham said, “and if they are poor we ought to respect their civil right to live in that place and be subsidized to live there.” But he conceded that for some people, “this might not be the model.”

“Nobody can be everything for everyone,” he said.

By the spring of 2025, Mr. Graham hopes to begin moving people into the next phase of the village, across the street from the current property. The darker visions some once predicted of an impoverished community on the outskirts of town overtaken by drugs and violence have not come to pass. Instead, the village has permanently housed hundreds of people and earned the approval and financial backing of the city, the county and the federal government. But for the model to truly meet the scale of the challenge in Austin and beyond, Chapman Semple said, the compromises that led to Community First in its current incarnation will have to be reckoned with.

“We can build smaller villages that can be fully integrated into the community, that can have access to amenities within the community that we all need to live, including jobs and groceries,” Chapman Semple said. “If it’s a wonderful model then we should be embracing and fighting for its inclusion within our community.”

-via New York Times, January 8, 2024

[thestoryofella]

sunburnt

summary: after spending a day on the beach to take a break from London's constant noise, you end up sunburnt to a crisp. In an attempt to avoid Sirius's teasing, you desperately try to stay hidden. However, when you're finally forced to ask for help, you're reminded of the importance of choosing love over embarrassment.

warnings: fluff, swearing.

sirius black x reader ✿ 1275 words

After getting tired of the near-constant noise in London and the lack of scenery, you planned a solitary beach day to do nothing but read, lounge, and enjoy the nearly ice-cold pineapple you’d prepped the night before. You sprawled out under the sun from sunrise to near sunset, only dipping in the splashing, cold water when you woke up from a snoozy nap spent on a beach towel. Once the sun nearly set and you’d finished the book you packed for the day, you packed up your things and started the journey home.

When you reached the bus station to return to central London, you realized the issue, catching your reflection in the large, circular mirror near the bus driver. You had gotten burnt to a crisp during your beach day, and Sirius would never let you live it down.

Before you left in the morning, Sirius, ever the caring partner, had packed face sunscreen, body sunscreen, and aloe vera into your oversized tote bag. He had even checked if you had applied some in the morning before you rushed out the door. You, torn between the desire to lounge on the beach and the fear of missing the bus, had lied to him before planting a quick kiss on his cheek and dashing to the station. 

Now, you deeply regret not listening to him. In addition to your current appearance, your skin is inflamed, hot, scaly, and hurts to the touch. When you pressed down on your irritated skin, your fingers left an unmistakable mark associated with a severe sunburn. 

“Perfect,” you sarcastically muttered to yourself. 

When you finally stopped at the station closest to yours and Sirius’s shared flat, you walked quickly to get home, eager to shower with cold water and hopefully reduce the inflammation your sunburn caused. The plan was simple: you’d get home, dash to the shower, avoid Sirius for the rest of the night, and then what? After some consideration, you decide you’ll have to sleep with a paper bag over your head and in pajamas best suited for a nun. 

Once you reach your shared flat, you can hear Sirius inside cooking dinner. The low sizzle of sautéing vegetables and gentle humming is his giveaway. Quickly unlocking the door and tiptoeing inside, you sneak past the kitchen without detection until a creaking floorboard gives you away. 

Your heart lurches into your stomach. It’s no use being this sneaky over a sunburn, but you wanted to avoid Sirius’s teasing for as long as possible–even though you sometimes secretly loved it.

Sirius’s head turns to look at you, but you do not turn to face him. “Hi, dollface,” he says. You hear the words come out of his mouth, and you really want to turn around and greet him with a hug, but you are determined to avoid detection. 

You suck in a quick breath before tumbling out the words, “I gotta go hop in the shower before dinner, love you!” With that said, you run to the bathroom, your feet smacking down on the floorboards with each step before loudly closing the door. 

Great, that wasn’t suspicious at all, you think to yourself. You have the urge to facepalm your forehead before remembering the searing pain that would follow.

You hopped in the shower, sighing in relief when the cold water hit your inflamed back. Showering after days spent at the beach was the best. 

When you finally finished showering, you had devised a regimen to defeat your sunburn and hopefully avoid pain. You put thick lotion on every area of your sunburnt skin, planning to top it off with a layer of aloe vera gel for added measure. 

Things were going swimmingly. You’d lotioned every irritated limb and your unusually puffy cheeks–resembling a hamster with too much food in their mouth. That was until you tried to lotion your back and realized that your short arms and the searing pain of trying to stretch them due to sunburn would not make applying products easy. 

“No, no, no!” You exasperatedly muttered. You must swallow your pride to take care of your severely sunburnt back. The issue wasn’t that Sirius would be mean per se, but he would undoubtedly tease you before dotingly helping you. Plus, you really didn’t want him to know you had lied to him this morning, evading his attempts to prevent this in the first place. 

Defeat clouded your brain. Swallowing your pride, you peeked out the bathroom door before feebly calling, “Siri, can you help me quickly.” It wasn’t even a second later that you heard him set down plates and footsteps approaching your location. 

Now, face-to-face with your raven-haired boyfriend, you offered him a coy smile that silently said, please don’t be mad at me. His eyes slowly took in the sight of your sunburnt face. Unbeknownst to him, your back looked a lot worse. 

You stood in silence for only a second before he reacted exactly how you thought he would. He let a bellowing laugh escape his mouth before pressing a smiling kiss to your inflamed forehead. “What the hell happened to you? You look like a tomato!”

You were sure you did at this point. The combination of inflamed skin, paired with your now red cheeks from Sirius’s affectionate teasing, was sure to have reddened your skin. Honestly, you were surprised you didn’t look more like a beet. 

You playfully shoved his shoulder before cracking the door wide enough for him to sneak in. “Can you please just help me put some lotion and aloe vera on my back?” You tried to sound stern, but a smile still graced your lips. 

He let another laugh escape his mouth upon observing your sunburnt back. “I thought I packed your sunscreen, and you said you put some on before leaving.” 

You huffed in response, crossing your arms over your chest. “I know; I was just so eager to get to the beach and forgot to put some on,” you complained, slightly whining. 

“You know what I always tell you?” He asks.

“No,” you lied. You knew exactly what he was going to say. 

“Sirius knows best!” He nearly sings out before pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. 

“Sirius,” you whined out, not wanting to be reminded of your unfortunate errors. He usually knew best, but you would never in a million years admit that to him. 

“Okay, okay,” He laughs, holding his hands up in mock defense before gently lathering both lotion and aloe vera gel onto your inflamed back. 

You nearly sigh at the relief but hold your tongue, a feeble attempt to humble his enormous ego. Instead, you opt for a simple “thank you,” turning around to envelop his torso in a tight hug. He responds by kissing your forehead, not wanting to press his hands into your irritated back.

♡ ♡ ♡

By the end of the evening, you were honestly sure you had managed to avoid most of Sirius’s teasing. After he had helped you with your back earlier, you two had enjoyed dinner together and were currently cuddled up in bed, about to fall asleep. 

Leaning over to kiss under your ear–possibly the only part of your skin protected from the sun’s wrath–Sirius wrapped his arms around your waist and whispered, “Goodnight, tomato.”

You rolled your eyes, letting a noticeable sigh escape your lips. You felt Sirius’s chest move with gentle laughter as he delighted in your feigned annoyance. 

You truly were never going to live this down. But you realized you were willing to put up with it if it meant you could stay wrapped in Sirius’s arms forever.

[eunjiahn]

Random Beauty Tips *ੈ✩‧₊˚ [under renovation]

shower tips ꕮ - If you have makeup on and you want to take a shower always remove our makeup before, because [if you like taking hot showers] sweat and makeup don't mix well. Sweat and makeup cold often cause acne and other skin problems. - I know taking hot - sometims almost boiling - showers can be very comfortable, especially in winter. But a cold shower has more benefits than any hot shower could ever have.

ꕮ Cold shower benefits: Hair

1.0 Hair - Cold water helps to close the hair cuticles. When cuticles are sealed, the hair appears smoother and shinier because it reflects more light. 1.1 Hair - sealed cuticles = less frizz. cold water can help in reducing the frizziness by smoothing the hair down. 1.2 Hair - when you rinse your hair with cold water, it helps to lock in moisture within the hair, which can prevent dryness and brittleness. 1.3 Hair - cold water can be soothing to the scalp, especially if it’s irritated or inflamed. This can reduce itchiness and discomfort. 1.4 Hair - Cold water can improve hair elasticity, reducing the risk of breakage and split ends. 1.5 Hair - Rinsing your scalp with cold water can help close the pores, which might reduce the risk of dirt and oil buildup that can lead to scalp issues like dandruff. Body 1.0 Body - While taking a cold shower at night might seem counterintuitive, the cooling effect on the body can actually help lower your core temperature, which can lead to better sleep. 1.1 body - Cold water immersion, such as ice baths, can help reduce muscle soreness and inflammation after intense physical activity. It can also speed up recovery by reducing swelling and muscle damage. 1.2 Body - Cold water can help close pores and cuticles, which can lead to smoother skin and shinier hair. It may also reduce skin inflammation and redness. 1.3 Body - Cold water helps tighten pores, reducing the chance of clogs and acne. It also reduces hair cuticle swelling, leading to shinier, stronger hair.

[covid-safer-hotties]

The Invisible Damage: How COVID Rewires Our Brains - Published Aug 20, 2024

University of Colorado Boulder scientists have discovered that proteins left by COVID-19 can significantly lower cortisol levels in the brain, leading to heightened immune responses to new stressors.

This research, focusing on the neurological symptoms of Long COVID, utilized rats to demonstrate how SARS-CoV-2 antigens persist in the body and alter brain function. This persistent effect could explain the severe and varied symptoms of Long COVID, suggesting potential directions for further research and symptom management strategies.

Understanding COVID-19’s Long-term Impact on the Brain Proteins left behind by COVID-19 long after initial infection can cause cortisol levels in the brain to plummet, inflame the nervous system, and prime its immune cells to hyper-react when another stressor arises, according to new animal research by University of Colorado Boulder scientists.

The study, published in the journal Brain Behavior and Immunity, sheds new light on what might underly the neurological symptoms of Long COVID, an intractable syndrome which impacts as many as 35% of those infected with the virus.

The findings come as COVID makes a striking summer comeback, with cases rising in 84 countries and numerous high-profile athletes at the Paris Olympics testing positive.

Cortisol’s Role in Long COVID Symptoms “Our study suggests that low cortisol could be playing a key role in driving many of these physiological changes that people are experiencing with Long COVID,” said lead author Matthew Frank, PhD, a senior research associate with the Department of Psychology and Neuroscience at CU Boulder.

Previous research has shown that SARS-CoV-2 antigens, immune-stimulating proteins shed by the virus that causes COVID-19, linger in the bloodstream of Long COVID patients as much as a year after infection. They’ve also been detected in the brains of COVID patients who have died.

To explore just how such antigens impact the brain and nervous system, the research team injected an antigen called S1 (a subunit of the “spike” protein) into the spinal fluid of rats and compared them to a control group.

Cortisol Reduction and Its Consequences After 7 days, in rats exposed to S1, levels of the cortisol-like hormone corticosterone plummeted by 31% in the hippocampus, the region of the brain associated with memory, decision making, and learning. After 9 days, levels were down 37%.

“Nine days is a long time in the life span of a rat,” said Frank, noting that rats live on average for two to three years.

He notes that cortisol is a critical anti-inflammatory, helps convert fuel into energy and is important for regulating blood pressure and the sleep-wake cycle and keeping the immune response to infection in check. One recent study showed that people with Long COVID tend to have low cortisol levels. So do people with chronic fatigue syndrome, research shows.

“Cortisol has so many beneficial properties that if it is reduced it can have a host of negative consequences,” said Frank.

Read the rest and get a link to the (paywalled) study at either link!

[grison-in-space]

A friend of mine has a dog behavior challenge they're seeking advice for and I thought you might be able to help if you have time or direct them to someone who can! https://www.tumblr.com/nemertea/760896232858271744/does-anyone-have-any-good-resources-for-dealing

Here's a link for ease of clicking, but the issue overall seems to be "how do you cope with what seems to be a desire specifically to control a secondary animal's access to social resources rather than fear that the other animal will prevent the focal animal from accessing them?"

I really wish I had a clear set of resources for your friend, because it seems really similar to something I have been struggling with between Matilda (21 months) and my 13yo dog Tribble, in which Matilda appeared to want to herd Tribble into her crate and control her access to humans and social outlets. Working on this has been on pause for the past six weeks since Matilda's eye abscess exploded on us, but I'm beginning to pick it up again now: the dogs have been on crate and rotate since just before the eye abscess blew up, and that isn't a good long term solution, so now we see if we can actually resolve the problem.

My current opinion on how to move forward involves making it clear that I, the human, am not tolerating the "herding" behavior in my space and that it will result in being removed from the situation entirely. This means that you have to be able to prevent the dog causing the problem from redirecting onto the cat and doubling down when corrected, which is one of the failure modes I ran into initially. (It also means you have to rehab your cats' trust that you can and will fix the situation, and prevent your cats from inflaming the situation further by redirecting onto the problem dog.)

IDK, y'all, I'm still sketching out my treatment plan beyond the current stage, which is using shared licky mats with one dog crated to reduce the tension and memory of conflicts between the two dogs and replace them with memory of time spent licking in low-stress situations. We will be then leashing both dogs and spending time in the same room with (you guessed it) more licky and chewing time, with each dog rewarded for glancing at the other and disengaging. Eventually, I'd advance to both dogs leashed + direct interactions of the sort the "controlling" dog has tried to veto, and then treat that stimulus like reactivity counterconditioning: the "controlling" dog must sit without barking or pulling etc and will be body-blocked and interrupted if she tries to bother the other animal, but can earn infinite high-value rewards from simply looking quietly while the other animal receives the coveted attention.

Comments and suggestions from other trainers with similar experience would be welcomed, I suspect!

[beautflstranger]

Would it be impolite of me to tell you how the night continued?

Of course not.

I know how curious you are.

There's something about taking a pristine girl on a journey. Albeit a dark one. That something so quiet and sweet can be reduced to guttural cries of passion and inflamed lust.

That it would get down on all fours to please me.

The trust placed in me.

My strength of its controlled obedience, as I lead it to an out of control place.

Eyes tearing. Makeup smeared. Drooling. Indecipherable sounds.

The purity of taking it apart.

It's a perfect thing.

- beautflstranger

[wonderlanddreamer]

[1923] Watery Lane, Birmingham.

In the aftermath of a violent ambush on their home, the Shelby family must act quickly to help Lydia, who has been struck by a bullet.

Warnings: Mentions of violence, injury, and blood.

[Part of The Lydia Saga]

The Shelby home, once a bastion of strength and family, now lay in disarray, its proud facade marred by the violence that had shattered its peace. The front door hung askew on its hinges, an ominous welcome to the chaos within. Shattered glass crunched underfoot, mingling with the splintered wood of furniture that had been upturned in the frenzy. The wallpaper, once pristine, was now marred with bullet holes and streaked with soot, a testament to the gunfire that had torn through the house like a relentless storm.

In the hallway, a mirror lay cracked and discarded, its fractured surface reflecting the turmoil in jagged pieces. Family photographs, once lovingly displayed, were now scattered across the floor, their frames broken, and images of happier times lying amid the debris. The once comforting hearth in the parlour now seemed cold and distant, its warmth extinguished by the violence that had invaded.

The betting shop, a symbol of the Shelby enterprise, fared no better. The smell of burnt paper hung in the air, mixing with the lingering scent of smoke. Betting slips and ledger pages were strewn about like leaves in a gale, their contents rendered meaningless amid the destruction. The counter, usually bustling with activity, was now a barricade of chaos, its surface scarred by stray bullets and splintered wood.

The shelves that once held stacks of coins and tidy ledgers were bare, their contents either pilfered or scattered in the melee. Chairs lay toppled and broken, a testament to the frantic struggle that had taken place. The safe, usually a symbol of security and prosperity, stood ominously open, its contents rifled through and discarded in the frenzy.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, its relentless patter a stark contrast to the silence now enveloping Watery Lane. It washed away the blood and soot, but it could not cleanse the memory of what had transpired. Despite the fear and uncertainty, the family was rallying as they always did—together.

The memory of the ambush replayed in Lydia's mind with vivid clarity. She had been running, heart pounding in her chest, when she spotted John ahead—a beacon of safety amid the chaos. But before she could reach him, a sharp, searing pain had exploded in her side, stealing her breath and sending her crashing to the ground. The world had spun around her, the sounds of gunfire and shouting stretching into a distant echo as she lay there, paralyzed by shock and pain. She couldn't quite recall which of her brothers had reached her side first, but there was no mistaking who had exacted vengeance on the man responsible for her injury. Despite her blurred vision, the sight of blood splattered across Arthur’s clenched fists was unmistakable. In a fit of turbulent rage, he had forsaken all weapons, choosing instead to unleash his fury with his bare hands. Each blow landed with ferocious intensity, reducing the man’s face to a grotesque, unrecognisable mess.

Now, Lydia lay curled on her bed, the very act of breathing a torturous endeavour. The bullet had left a jagged wound in her side, a cruel reminder of the violence she had narrowly escaped. Blood had soaked through her shirt, forming a dark, ominous stain that spread with each painful breath. The skin around the injury was angry and inflamed, radiating a heat that spoke of the body's desperate fight against the intrusion.

Her small hands, normally so full of life and mischief, clutched the sheets in a white-knuckled grip, as if anchoring herself against the tide of pain threatening to sweep her away. Her eyes, dulled by agony and fever, flickered to her Aunt Polly, seeking reassurance in her steady presence.

Polly Gray moved with the grace of someone who had faced crises such as these before. Her heart ached for Lydia's suffering, but she buried her emotions beneath a mask of calm determination. She gently dabbed at the wound with a clean cloth, her movements careful and precise, trying to soothe Lydia's pain even as she prepared to alleviate it further.

The room around Lydia seemed to blur, the world reduced to a haze of pain that refused to relent. Each breath was a struggle, a sharp reminder of the bullet lodged in her side. Her pale skin felt like it was on fire, the wound throbbing with a relentless, searing agony that no amount of reassurance could ease. The damp cloth Ada used to wipe away her tears was a fleeting comfort, offering only momentary relief from the feverish heat that enveloped her.

Ada remained a tranquil presence, her gentle touch a beacon of calm in the storm of Lydia's suffering. Yet, despite Ada's soothing words and soft whispers, the pain clawed at Lydia's senses, drowning out the world around her. It was as if the hurt had taken on a life of its own, consuming her thoughts and rendering her oblivious to everything except the burning insistence of the injury. She had truly never felt anything like it, and never wanted to feel anything like it ever again.

Across the room, Finn stood beside Polly, trying to project an air of calm he didn't truly feel. His hands trembled slightly with the weight of responsibility, but he forced them to remain steady as he passed tools to Polly. Each time his fingers brushed Polly's, it was a silent exchange of strength and solidarity.

Finn's voice wavered as he spoke, reaching out to Lydia with a promise he desperately hoped to fulfil. "It’s going to be okay, Lyds," he said, his words laced with a mixture of hope and fear. But even as he spoke, he knew that his assurances were no match for the relentless pain that gripped his younger sister. His heart ached with the helplessness of watching Lydia suffer, wishing he could do more to ease her pain.

The door swung open and Tommy stepped inside, his presence commanding immediate attention. He carried with him a bowl of water in one hand and a cloth in the other. His appearance seemed to ease the tension in the room, his usually calculating gaze softened by concern as he looked at Lydia.

There was a tenderness in the way he approached, a complete contrast to the hardened leader he was known to be. His shirt was stained with blood, sleeves balled up to his elbows revealing injuries of his own that had been hastily patched up by John downstairs. Yet none of that mattered to him in that moment, his own pain of no importance to himself considering the juncture they were at.

As Tommy reached the bed, Ada quietly asked, her voice tinged with worry, “How are the others, Tommy?” He gave a brief nod as he set the bowl down with a gentle clink, his words concise but reassuring. “They’re managing,” he replied, not wanting to dwell on anything but Lydia at that moment.

Tommy carefully positioned himself on the bed so that Lydia could rest partially on his lap. His arms wrapped around her shoulders with a gentle strength, cradling her close against his chest. As Lydia settled against him, Tommy became acutely aware of the tremors coursing through her small frame. Holding her close, Tommy could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat against his arms, a frantic rhythm that echoed the turmoil within her. The sensation of her trembling tugged at something deep within him, a mixture of protectiveness and helplessness that he rarely allowed himself to feel. Tommy Shelby was accustomed to being the one in control, yet with Lydia in his arms, he was harshly reminded of the fragility of life and the limits of his power.

Lydia’s fear was palpable, a living thing that wrapped itself around her like a vice, squeezing tighter with each passing moment. The anticipation of having the bullet removed loomed over her like a dark cloud, and she was dreadfully aware of the pain it would bring.

"T-Tommy," she whimpered, her voice barely rising above the fragile whisper of her breath. It was a plea born of desperation and fear, her small hands clutching at his arms as if they were the only thing anchoring her to this world. “Please don’t. Don’t let them touch it. It hurts so much.”

Tommy's heart clenched at the painful vulnerability in her voice, an abdominal ache that resonated deep within him. He wanted nothing more than to take the pain away from her and take it upon himself, but he knew this was a battle she had to endure, and all he could do was be there, steadfast and unwavering.

He kept his voice steady and soothing, a lifeline in the tumultuous sea of her fear. "I know, love. I know it hurts," he murmured, brushing his lips against the top of her head with infinite tenderness. His breath was warm against her skin, a tangible promise of his presence. "But you're the bravest of us all, you know that? You're our little soldier."

Lydia sniffled, her tears soaking into his sleeves as she clung to him, drawing strength from his presence. She could feel the steady beat of his heart, a reassuring rhythm that spoke of safety and love. "It will all be alright, little one," he whispered, his voice a soft rumble, each word a balm against her fear. “We're all here with you, Lydia. You're not alone, alright?"

Her sobs quieted into small, hiccuping breaths as she clung to him, drawing strength from his presence. Tommy nodded to Polly, signalling that Lydia was as ready as she could be. Ada and Finn moved to help hold her steady, each offering murmured words of encouragement, their touches gentle and sure.

The moment Polly began her work, time seemed to slow, stretching each second into an agonising eternity. Lydia's scream tore through the room, a raw, anguished sound that pierced the air like a knife. It was a sound that clawed at Tommy's heart, each note of her pain resonating deep within his soul. He held her tighter, as if his embrace could somehow shield her from her suffering.

"It's okay, little one. I'm here. I’ve got you. Just a little longer," he whispered, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. He stroked her hair with a gentle hand, keeping her as steady as his strong arms would allow.

Polly worked with expert precision, her hands steady even as her heart ached for Lydia. She murmured soft reassurances as she carefully probed the wound, her fingers deft and sure despite the gravity of the task. The room was tense with anticipation, each person holding their breath as Polly continued her delicate work.

John and Arthur appeared in the doorway, drawn by the sound of their sister's distress. Their faces were grim, shadows etching deeper lines into their already weathered features. Each of them bore their own marks of the recent clash, Arthur’s knuckles were completely wrapped in bandages while John’s skin and clothes were still streaked with blood. They stood silently, knowing that too many hands would only add to the chaos, their presence a silent vow of solidarity and strength. Tommy caught their eyes, a brief exchange of looks that spoke volumes. At that moment, words were unnecessary.

Time seemed suspended, each moment stretching into an eternity filled with Lydia's cries and Tommy's whispered reassurances. Polly's focus was unwavering as she worked, her hands moving with a surgeon's precision despite the emotional weight of the task. Finally, with a deftness born of experience, she extracted the bullet.

The metallic clink as it fell into a dish was a sound that seemed to echo with finality, a signal that the worst was over. Relief washed through the room, palpable and profound, like a wave breaking against a weary shore. Lydia's cries subsided into soft whimpers, her body relaxing slightly as the immediate agony began to fade, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

Polly bandaged Lydia’s side with meticulous care, her touch embodying both the clinical precision of a healer and the tender affection of a mother. As she tied off the bandage, she leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Lydia's forehead. "There now, darling," she murmured, her voice a soothing lullaby. "It's done. You're such a brave girl."

Tommy's hold on Lydia did not waver; he kept her close, his cheek resting atop her head, his heart swelling with relief and pride. The tension that had gripped him slowly began to ease, though his arms remained wrapped protectively around her, a fortress against the world. "You did it, Lydia," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, each word a gentle caress. "It’s over, you did it."

Lydia nestled deeper into his embrace, her small body fitting perfectly against his. She was exhausted but comforted by the familiar presence of her family. "I was brave," she murmured, a small, tired smile playing on her lips, the pain of the moment already beginning to fade, replaced by the warmth of her brother's love and the safety of her family.

"The bravest," Tommy agreed, shifting slightly so she could rest more comfortably against him. His hand continued to stroke her hair, his touch gentle and reassuring, his presence a sanctuary of safety and love. As the room began to settle, the tension slowly dissipated like mist under the morning sun.

Ada leaned forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lydia's face, her touch tender and full of affection. "You were amazing, Lydia," she said, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to wrap around them all. Finn stood at the foot of the bed, his shoulders relaxing as the crisis passed, his eyes filled with admiration for his little sister's courage.

Gradually, the others began to leave the room, understanding that what Lydia needed most now was rest. They departed quietly, their footsteps soft against the floorboards, leaving Tommy and Lydia cocooned in the quiet intimacy of the dimly lit room.

As Lydia's eyelids grew heavy, her body finally succumbing to the pull of sleep, Tommy adjusted his hold, ensuring she was as comfortable as possible. In the quiet aftermath of chaos, as the candlelight flickered softly and the shadows danced less ominously, they were reminded once again of the power of family. Lydia drifted into a much-needed sleep, feeling safe and cherished, her brother's words echoing softly in her dreams.

Tags: @novashelby @lau219 @peakyswritings

Please like, comment and reblog.

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

Tess' Sharpuary - 26. Prickly (*)

Aesop very much enjoys making you fall apart below him.

chapter specific tags: 18+!, explicit, established relationship

relationships: aesop sharp x reader

[FULL PICTURE]

26. Prickly (0.8k)

tw: explicit, oral sex, age difference (reader is an adult)

You loved feeling his beard upon your skin. 

It was a completely dizzying sensation, the feeling of his lips dancing upon your sensitive skin, hot tongue caressing and soothing, while his beard stung and burned, leaving you inflamed in more ways than one. The moment he purred his desire against your skin, the sting of his teeth like the first bolt of lightning on an unbearably hot summer night, you felt yourself dampen with lust. He was well aware of the effect he had on you, his kisses deep and intimate, his face nuzzling into the soft skin of your inner thigh, his nose dragging over the plush flesh, inhaling your scent as if he was a man starved for air. He knew just how to move so that you’d be in heaven and in hell at once, yielding to the pleasure and to him so very quickly.

As usual, he took his sweet time riling you up, your poor nipples red and sensitive from his devilish teeth, your forehead already covered by a light film of sweat from his ministrations. Giving you a smug smile which looked simply delicious upon his handsome rugged face, he once more flicked his tongue over your pebbled teat, prompting you to release a shaky whimper. His hands gently massaged your breasts and he observed them with a look of deep appreciation. They moved lower then, skimming over your ribs, your waist. His head dipped down, and his bearded face snuggled against your stomach, leaving you with a prickling sensation that made shivers roll through your aroused body.

His tongue circled your belly button before dipping inside teasingly, and teeth then once more closed around some of the soft skin, squeezing it to the point of light pain. “You have to forgive me, my love,” he whispered, his voice low like a predator’s growl, “but I find myself feeling very much the starving beast whenever I’ve got you in my grasp… All spread out for me - you are the perfect canvas for me to work on.”

And then, finally, he lowered his head further, his sharp inhale audible even over your loud breathing and even louder beating heart. Your back arched off the bed slightly when he buried his face between your legs, the prickle of his beard against your most sensitive place enough to make your toes curl, and he seemed intent on having you fall apart for him entirely. He devoured you firmly, roughly almost, turning your gasps into moans and making you squirm within seconds, those slightly crooked teeth of his reducing you into a proper mess. 

He knew exactly how his nose and moustache felt like on your nub, and he revelled in leaving you visibly ravished, if only for a little bit. And ravish you, he did. Using the considerable strength in his arms, he trapped your hips in one position, not allowing you to seek any purchase - you would come on his terms and his terms only. Even as tears of pleasure rolled out of your eyes, the sensations soon becoming too much, he didn't stop. And you didn’t want him to stop.

He liked having you look at him while he shoved you over the edge, he liked your eyes connected with his own as you plummeted towards the mind-numbing bliss - he was the only one who could make you feel this way, and you were his, and his only. He didn’t stop even after you released against his lips, your legs shaking, and your cries of gratification unintelligible. No, Aesop carried on, wanting more. Again and again, he’d tear you into pieces with pleasure, only to put you back together and start again.

And then, when you felt nearly delusional from the continuous bliss, oversensitive and pulsing all over, did he finally start ascending back up your tired body. Even as his lips once more teased at your nipples, as his clever hands stroked at your skin, you weren't certain if you could go again, his sweet torture having left you in a state of utter exhaustion. 

However, when his mouth connected with your neck again, when his beard once more teased at the tender, reddened skin, when his body covered your own completely, pressing it into the mattress, you could feel he found his own pleasure already, just by giving you yours. The knowledge that your scent, your taste, the sounds you made were enough to bring him over the edge was what you needed to replenish your energy. It made you crave him again. 

You brought his face up, made him look at you, and your eyes spoke louder than words ever could. His grin told you he heard exactly what you didn’t say.

“Hm, my love… aren’t you tired?” he purred, the unmistakable stirring of his front against you making you grin in return.

Your hands tangled in his hair shortly before moving down, towards his shoulders and back. Your fingernails dug into the muscles, leaving angry red crescent moons in their wake, like they did so, so many times before: “No, not tired… hungry.”

You were going to be sore all over tomorrow...

---

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed ❤

[AO3] - [Sharpuary 2024] - [Masterlist]

[hitomisuzuya]

Can I request having Scaramouche worship the reader's body? Just planting kisses all over and whispering soft praises. It can be either fluff or smut

Scaramouche x fem!reader. Very soft Smut. Body worship.

I really hope I am not losing my touch. My confidence in my writing as been a little shaky recently.

You could feel the heat of Scaramouche's lust filled gaze as his eyes roamed over your body. He put a hand on your cheek, skimming his thumb over your lower lip. "Such perfect, pouty lips," He said, leaning down to steal your lips up into a kiss.

He was not only good at praising you with words, being extremely adept at physically projecting praise on your body. His tongue pushed passed your lips into your mouth, curling and gliding around yours as he explored your mouth.

He could practically feel you melting into his kiss, your breath stolen away.

Pulling away, he his trailed his fingers down your throat, humming as his eyes scanned your neck. "Skin so pretty, it's a shame that my marks are fading," Your body was a canvas for him to splash bruises of passion on.

Scaramouche was more than going to fix that. His lips were soft and tender on your neck, his licks long and languid, like he was savoring the very taste of you.

His fingers delicately stroked down the other side of your neck, his teeth nipped and pulling folds of skin into his mouth to suck on. He knew your body better than anyone. He knew exactly where your most sensitive spots were, having no trouble in reducing you to shaky sighs and soft moans as you squirmed a little underneath him.

He only further indulged himself as your hand found the back of his head, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He knew your throat was especially sensitive, and it always sent him reeling that you let him to bite and suck so close to it. The throat is a very intimate and vulnerable spot.

The fact that you exposing it to the likes of him, showing how much you trust and want him made him feel weaker for you.

Scaramouche pulled away slightly to admire his work, his tongue prodding soothingly at the inflamed skin. "Beautiful," He murmured in quiet awe.

He took his time trailing his fingers down your throat to your breasts. You shivered, moaning softly as the tip of his finger circled each nipple. "Good girl, so responsive for me," He looked approvingly at the goosebumps doting your skin.

He pressed a quick kiss to your lips before turning his attention to your breasts. He brought one of them to harden underneath his thumb, leaning down to take your other nipple into his mouth.

Scaramouche practically purred as your back arched off the bed, swirling his tongue around your sensitive nipple as he sucked. Your throbbing clit was getting harder to ignore, soft whimpers of need keening from your throat.

"Such pretty noises," He released your nipple with a wet pop, his fingers travelled slowly down your stomach. "You'll make more of them for me, yes?" He parted the folds your pussy, the pads of his fingers rubbing slow circles on your clit.

Your hips bucked up to grind into his fingers, seeking that blissful friction that they more than promised to provide.

"My good, sweet girl is so wet for me," Scaramouche purred in approval as he pushed two fingers up inside of you. He stretched your walls apart and hooked them into your sweet spot, his eyes soaking in the sight of your legs shaking as louder moans spilled from your pretty lips.

His good girl always deserves to be worshipped.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Look for the Soul and the Meaning

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Early Alexandria

Warnings: Depictions of illness

Summary: You’re sick. Daryl makes sure you’re not alone.

A/N: I have been uber sick this week and just needed some self indulgent comfort. Idec if he’s ooc this time.

*gif is not mine

Groaning, you rolled your head from side to side, even the soft cradle of the pillow intensifying the ache in your skull. Your throat was a tunnel of razor blades, your lungs trying their best to eject themselves over your tongue. Your body ached and protested, skin sensitive from fever. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think.

“I feel gross.” You whimpered. You raised a hand toward your face but found it to be too much work, letting it drop to the mattress beside you.

“Know ya do.” His raspy whisper acted as a balm to your pain.

A blessedly cool cloth touched your forehead, remaining there for a moment before it was pressed against each cheek and then your neck. Your sigh came unbidden, shameless and sudden.

“That’s nice.” You croaked before being seized by a coughing fit. It was dry and unproductive, the mucus coating the inside of your lungs like slime, unmoving. It hurt. “Daryl.” You whimpered.

The flu hit Alexandria during your first autumn within the walls. Though some fell victim, just as they had at the prison, the community had medicines readily available. IV fluids, oxygen tanks, and fever reducers. This virus was different, thank god; a less intense influenza. That, however, was not a comfort when it came to feeling the symptoms.

“M’right here, Sunshine.”

The coolness left your skin to burn, but once his fingers began carding through your hair, his lips touching your forehead, you could no longer feel the heat. And for one moment, coherency filtered through.

“Daryl—Daryl, your bandana.” You wheezed, reaching for the fabric he had pulled down to hang around his neck. Looking at him, even your eyes felt like they would singe out of your skull. “You’re gonna get sick too.”

“M’gonna be fine.” He caught your hand easily—your movements too sluggish—and kissed the inside of your wrist. “Means ya gotta get better so ya can take care’a me.”

You chuckled weakly, triggering another cough. It jostled your sore body, earning a whine and a few tears. Your eyes had screwed shut to ride out the ordeal, but opened when something touched your lips. The bottle felt odd, warm and scratchy.

“Gotta drink for me.” Blue eyes flickered up to the bag of fluids hanging from the bedpost but didn’t linger. “Help them fluids do their job.” You reluctantly obliged, fearing the feel of the water against your already irritated throat.

Turned out, it was heavenly.

You drank greedily, not even thirsty but lost in the relief the cool liquid was providing. When it was suddenly taken away, you chased it with desperation.

“Gimme.” You pouted.

“In a bit. Ya gonna make yourself sick.” The cool cloth was back and the water was forgotten. With weak uncoordinated movements, you pulled the blankets up further, your entire form trembling with chills.

“Tell me a story, Daryl.”

The cloth ceased its travels. “A story?”

“Mhm. Don’t care what it is.” Sleep was standing in the corner, pulling at you incessantly, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier despite the heat and pain. “Tell me about your chupacabra.”

It was Daryl’s turn to laugh, a sharp exhale through his nose. “Nah, that ain’t no sickbed story.”

“Tell me—something.” You yawned, wincing when you could feel the pull on your inflamed throat. It was quiet in the room, your eyes closed and chest wheezing. But then:

“Once upon a time—”

You mimicked his earlier laugh, your eyes remaining closed. “So cliché.”

The man at your bedside scoffed. “Ya want a story or not?”

“Mhm. Sorry.” You whispered, already fading, the cloth pulling away to be replaced by his fingertips in your hair, ghosting over your face.

Daryl cleared his throat, the deep breath he sucked in was unsteady. “Once upon a time, there was a woman. She was a smartass. Pigheaded as all get out.” The corner of his mouth lifted when you began to snore, your stuffy nose making it impossible to breathe properly. “She met a redneck drifter, a real asshole.” Leaning down, he pressed his lips to your overly warm forehead, letting them linger there. Pulling back, he stayed close, just watching you sleep, stroking the hair on the crown of your head. “An’ somehow, she changed him.”

Sitting back, he grabbed the cloth and dipped it in the bowl of water, back to battling the flames beneath your skin.

“S’far from the end, Sunshine.”

[sgt-tombstone]

Ocean Eyes

A few months ago, I started writing a Call of Duty/James Bond crossover fic because I was endlessly fascinated by the idea of Ghost and 007 interacting with each other and, maybe, having a shared past. Unfortunately, I hit a brick wall soon after and I’ll probably never finish it, so here’s the first chapter, which is the part that I’m most proud of. It’s comic canon compliant up to a point, so be mindful!

Cw: torture, death (not main characters), comic canon backstory and all of its associated traumas, implied sexual assault

————

They’re kept in the same room.

Roba calls them his “blond English boys” and they’re kept in the same room at all times.

Whenever his skin is sliced through, whenever he’s forced to fight his own teammates, whenever his body is violated, the other man is there. Bound and gagged, still and quiet, the other man has no choice but to watch through blackened eyes almost swollen shut.

He doesn’t know why Roba has forced them together like this. Their pale hair, perhaps, or their somewhat similar stature, he thinks, when his mind is clear from pain enough to muse over such patterns. More often than not, he doesn’t care. Roba’s intentions mean little in the face of the reality of his actions, and he has long-since given up trying to parse out his torturer’s twisted logic.

All he knows is this: the man has blue eyes.

Piercing blue eyes, as cold as ice, nearly aglow in the dim light of their cell.

Relentless blue eyes that have seen every inch of him, inside and out, have borne witness to every agony, every injustice, every humiliation.

Unflinching blue eyes that have faithfully watched the beatings that left more of his skin red than white, the knife edges coated in hallucinogenic drugs slicing thinly across vital veins, the white-hot metal pressing over and over to smooth inches of skin between inflamed gouges.

More often than not, that blue, the startling intensity, the singular pop of colour in the Stygian catacomb, is the only thing that keeps him from breaking, from babbling every secret that has been entrusted to him since basic training in the face of Roba’s inventiveness. He has been torn to shreds, down to the foundational, microscopic level, and every time that his cellmate whispers to him in the aftermath, too quiet for the guards to hear, his steady, stalwart gaze never recoiling from their shared agony, he knows that those blue eyes are being stitched back into the underpinning that makes him who he is. He doesn’t know who he is anymore, but he knows that his soul is navy bright-blue.

Blue keeps him strong.

Blue keeps him sane.

He knows, when he is forced, in turn, to watch his cellmate’s own torment, when his cellmate can’t look away from his own honey-brown eyes, that the reliance, bordering on dependency, is mutual. His cellmate, whoever he is, whatever he has been reduced to, has a soul the colour of army green-brown to match.

That makes it all the worse when, six months and seventeen days after his capture, he is dragged from the cell by Roba. It’s the first time he’s been outside of his cell, the first time he’s been without his cellmate.

Without his strength.

Without his sanity.

The last thing he sees before finding himself unceremoniously buried alive in his former commanding officer’s casket is pain-terror-desperation shining in bright blue eyes.

————

When Simon pushes his way to the surface thirteen hours later, jawbone in hand, dirt covering every inch of his skin, coating his mouth and lungs, sucking in burning breaths of dry air, the first thing he sees is blue, brilliant blue sky.

It is not the same. It will never be the same.

It is not strength. It is not sanity.

But it is close enough for now.

————

The subsequent five months are spent in a haze of agony.

He pushes all thoughts of anguish-filled blue eyes from his mind. It takes him a month to reach the border of Texas and four more months to summon the courage to step foot in Credenhill.

When he finds his family a week later, bled out like pigs, laid like Christmas presents under the still-flashing tree, red viscera soaking into the rug, dying the red wrapping paper an even deeper shade of crimson, he doesn’t allow himself to grieve. He laughs, maniacally, hysterically, and adds their names to his mental list of people stolen from his life by Roba, alongside the blank space left for the other blond English boy. Family in every way that had mattered. He considers suicide, goes so far as to test his jaw’s capacity to open against the muzzle of his own pistol, but the harsh scrape of metal against his teeth only triggers his gag reflex.

He calls the police and refuses to think about blue eyes that never got justice. He answers the detectives’ questions and refuses to think about blue eyes that had slowly broken, drops of truth scattered amongst the waterfall of lies that had fallen from his lips under Roba’s knife, impossible to parse out. He attends the funeral and refuses to think about blue eyes that likely ended up in an unmarked grave, just another MIA soldier. He returns to his flat to drink himself into reckless oblivion and refuses to think about blue eyes waiting for him on the other side. If he thinks like that, he might as well crawl back into Vernon’s coffin and let the maggots finish what they had started.

He hunts down Sparks and Washington with single-minded determination. Washington’s life drips from his slit throat, Sparks’ life splatters against the wall, and Riley’s life goes up in smoke.

He boxes up the anger, the despair, the numbness, and he returns to work.

————

Simon Riley dons the mask, and when his new captain, freshly promoted, pulls him into his office, quietly murmuring about a joint task force targeting the Zaragoza Cartel, he volunteers on the spot.

————

James Bond pulls himself back from yet another brush with mortality, and when M pulls him into her office, bluntly informing him of a joint task force targeting the Zaragoza Cartel, he volunteers on the spot.

————

When their eyes meet across the airstrip, everything else ceases to exist. All Simon, not-yet-Ghost, can see is brilliant blue, and nothing in the world, not the strongest restraints nor the harshest orders, could keep them from collapsing into each other like dying stars, like desperate men clinging to the familiarity that their very souls yearn for. It is the first time they have touched. They have seen every inch of each other, have witnessed each other’s agony and atrophy, could identify each other by their scars and screams alone, but this is the first brush of skin and it is more vulnerable than anything they saw in that basement. The tarmac is sweltering but neither of them move, army fatigue green-brown pressed to Tom Ford navy-blue, the bulk of each other’s bodies clutched together, physical for the first time.

It should be awkward. In the six months they had spent together, Simon had never even known the other man’s name, yet here he is, clinging to him like a burr, and it is the first voluntary human contact he’s had since he crawled out of Vernon’s grave. The other man is clinging back just as strongly. The hard press of bodies should be distressing after six months of watching each other be violated in every way imaginable, but it’s not sexual. It’s hardly even physical; the squeeze of their bodies is a meaningless byproduct of their true intention, to fill the aching void in their souls that Roba had carved and they had been forced to fill with each other.

It should be wary. It has only been two months since Simon discovered Sparks’ and Washington’s loyalty to Roba, since he was betrayed by those he thought he could trust to sympathise and support, since he slit Washington’s throat and shot Sparks. It has only been two months since Simon Riley was forced to die because of Roba’s brainwashing and he should not trust the blue-eyed man clinging to his fatigues. Sparks had had blue eyes. He should take a step back, distance himself from this stranger who is returning to Roba’s lair with him. He should not trust that bright blue eyed gaze, but he does.

It is strength.

It is sanity.

————

When Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley takes the shot, his rifle aimed directly between Roba’s eyes at 600 metres, it is with Commander James Bond, 007, on the scope at his side, calling the shot, and Simon has never trusted anyone more in his life.

————

Seven years later, Ghost catches a glimpse of Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish’s blazing blue eyes, nearly aglow in the dim light of the night-darkened airstrip, piercing, relentless, unflinching, and he knows that he is fucked.

Blue keeps him strong.

Blue keeps him sane.

His long-buried soul is navy bright-blue, and it thrums in his chest, resonance reverberating beneath his ribs. He has never trusted anyone more in his life, and he will burn the world to keep pain-terror-desperation from shining in those bright blue eyes.

[reasonsforhope]

"One in five Americans will experience major depressive disorder in their lifetime, and many will not find relief from current therapies. But now researchers have identified an unexpected source of the problem: inflammation.

Inflammation in the body may be triggering or exacerbating depression in the brains of some patients. And clinical trial data suggests that targeting and treating the inflammation may be a way to provide more-precise care.

The findings have the potential to revolutionize medical care for depression, an often intractable illness that doesn't always respond to conventional drug treatments. While current drug treatments target certain neurotransmitters, the new research suggests that in some patients, depressive behaviors may be fueled by the inflammatory process.

It appears that inflammatory agents in the blood can break down the barrier between the body and the brain [and specifically the blood-brain barrier], causing neuroinflammation and altering key neural circuits, researchers say. In people at risk for depression, inflammation may be a trigger for the disorder.

Research suggests that only a subset of depressed patients - roughly 30 percent - have elevated inflammation, which is also associated with poor responses to antidepressants. This inflammatory subgroup may be a key to parsing out differences in underlying mechanisms for depression and personalizing treatment...

The inflamed body and the depressed brain

...A number of studies show that depressed patients tend to have increased inflammation compared with non-depressed subjects, including more inflammatory cytokines and C-reactive protein — which is produced by the liver in response to inflammation — circulating in the blood. Patients with autoimmune diseases have inordinately high rates of depression. And postmortem brain samples from people who died by suicide showed more activation of the brain’s immune cells, which release inflammatory agents.

Crucially, pro-inflammatory drugs can induce people to become depressed, which suggests a causative link. In one seminal study published in the New England Journal of Medicine, Miller and his colleagues conducted a double-blind study of 40 cancer patients undergoing treatment with interferon-alpha, an inflammatory cytokine.

Though none of the patients had depression to begin with, the inflammatory agent had a striking effect: Many became depressed, a finding that has been consistently replicated.

"The patients recognize pretty much immediately that, 'Hey, you gave me something, and now I feel this way. I don't know why I feel this way,'" Miller said.

Can treating inflammation treat depression?

If inflammation can induce or exacerbate depression and its symptoms, then reducing inflammation could provide relief.

Even if inflammation is a disease modifier rather than the cause of the problem, “you have to take care of it in order for you to be able to get your therapeutics working to restore your circuitry and what’s happening in the mind,” said Eleonore Beurel, a professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at the University of Miami Miller School of Medicine.

Anti-inflammatory drugs, used alone or in conjunction with a standard antidepressant, may help some depressed patients. A 2019 meta-analysis encompassing almost 10,000 patients from 36 randomized clinical trials found that different anti-inflammatory agents, including NSAIDs, cytokine inhibitors and statins, could improve depressive symptoms...

“We’ve come to the tipping point,” Miller said. “And we know enough at this point to begin to target the immune system and its downstream effects on the brain to treat depression. We are there.”

How to manage your own inflammation

Experts agreed that people should not take anti-inflammatories without talking with their health-care provider. Your doctor can order a C-reactive protein blood test to measure your level of inflammation.

“There are so many patients who do not respond to antidepressants,” said Ole Köhler-Forsberg, a physician and associate professor of psychiatry at Aarhus University who has given anti-inflammatory drugs to his patients in addition to antidepressants. “So there is the issue of how can we improve the individual outcomes.” Tailoring treatment for each individual on a holistic basis may add some benefit.

More clinical tests for inflammatory markers may be a way to differentiate the effectiveness of antidepressant treatment. If confirmed, it would “be the first actual biomarker in psychiatry,” Raison said. “I mean, we’ve been looking for biomarkers for 50 years and had zero luck. And it’s ironic that it’s not a brain chemical.”

In the meantime, “you get much more mileage out of the lifestyle changes than you would out of supplements or any other over-the-counter drugs at this point,” Miller said."

-via The Washington Post (via Yahoo News), February 24, 2023