#a sprinkle of salt‚ a smatter of words

[from-the-working-classman]

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…shutting down, shutting down

[asteria49]

We’re so back. 3 am sad solavellan drabbles? Absolutely. I’m sorry for whatever this is in advance. CWs: a light sprinkle of body horror toward the end, mentions/allusions to death

He had watched her from across the endless distance, always just beyond her reach. 

She had drifted through the world of dreams like a specter, her bare face turned ever toward him. Her wide, silver eyes always searching, always discerning. Her hope had filled the spirits with song. Her anger had fueled the demons with rage. 

And he… he was the wolf that had nipped at her heels, had sunken its jagged teeth into her heart, had clawed the dark ink from her face. But so, too, was he the predator that had hunted her enemies. 

For nearly a decade now, he had flitted into her dreams just to gaze upon her face again. It never grew easier— if anything time and distance had made it more difficult. He had nearly forgotten the tenor of her voice, the deep, melancholic symphony. He had nearly forgotten the smell of her skin, of salt and pine and citrus. He had nearly forgotten how the corners of her eyes wrinkled when she laughed. And here, among the whispers of memories and spirits of dolor, he would find none of these. Just wistful hopes among gaping regrets. 

Always, she reached out to him. Always, she extended her hand, her fingers craning to meet the warmth of his skin. Always, the spirits sang out to him, ma vhenan. 

Ir abelas. Ir abelas, ma vhenan. 

The words never formed on his tongue and so she never knew the depth of his sorrow. She never knew how the Dread Wolf sundered mind from body among those who sought to destroy her. She never knew the body count he had amassed to protect her from the consequences of loving him. Just one more mistake, just one more misstep he had to atone for. 

This, at least, had given her some peace before his anchor finally claimed her. 

For nearly a decade he watched his lover from across the endless distance. Sometimes he wondered if she could feel the quake in his heart, the fissure that split through the septum. He wondered if his pain chilled the air around him, if his regret weighed on her shoulders. 

For nearly a decade he watched his lover from across the endless distance within the world of dreams. She had been exactly as he remembered her: piercing silver eyes, long raven hair pulled back in a messy braid, a scar on her left brow, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. 

This, at least, torturous as it was, could ease the loss which shattered his heart, selfish as it was.

For nearly a decade he watched his lover from across the endless distance. Now, the distance was not so endless. 

Ilariya Lavellan met his gaze from across the crowded study. Her shoulders heaved as she sighed, her lips curved into a soft, wistful smile. 

Twisting, churning, knotting— the turmoil in his stomach made him ill. He had watched her from across the endless distance but within the comfort of dreams she had been exactly as he remembered.

Now, in the flesh, he could discern what that time and distance had wrought. A few silver streaks threaded through her long, raven hair, which she pinned away from her face. Laugh lines from smiles he had never been the source of dented into her cheeks. 

It might have been cruel enough to witness the effects of his mistake, to see age wearing down on a mortal body, but this was not the worst of it. No, he had so thoroughly condemned his lover.

Her left eye pulsed green. Dark veins snaked down her cheek and neck before plunging beneath her robes. Grey, flaking, necrotized flesh had climbed up her left arm, nearly reaching her shoulder, now. 

But still, she smiled. Still she chose to act upon the kindness in her heart and not the wolf. 

“Hello, Solas,” she greeted, no louder than a whisper. 

What was it that she had always said? Ah yes, acknowledge the pain, accept the pain, then forget the pain. 

He could not bring himself to speak. Twice over she had suffered from his mistakes. Her body— her divine, perfect body— was deteriorating with age, her magic only a flicker in the dark. Every strand of gray was a garrote around his neck. Every wrinkle, a scar carved into his flesh. But the anchor— it was his arcana flowing through her veins, his arcana finding a home within her body. His arcana, which was consuming her until nothing would remain. 

And now they would hunt her. The evanuris would hunt her to punish him, for he could not hide how deeply he loved her, cursed as his love was. 

“Ir abelas, ma vhenan.”

People die. That is what they do. 

No, no that wasn’t right. 

People die. That is what he did. 

And no one would suffer more than Ilariya. 

“I know.”

[readyforthegarden]

Season of the Witch - Part Four

Masterlist

Pairing: Sam Kiszka x F!Reader, Danny Wagner x F!Reader

Synopsis: Danny always told you, you shouldn't play with things you don't fully understand. When trying your hand at magic, you accidentally summon something more than you bargained for. Now stuck, you try to find a way to rid yourself of him, but what if the only way of ridding yourself of him is dying?

Warnings: mentions of witchcraft, angst, 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI!

A/N: I just want to say a quick shoutout to @earthlysorrows for helping me get through a wording wall with this one, and always being such an amazing sounding board and creative inspiration. If you've never read any of her fics, please do yourself a favor and go read them, Madi is an unmatched talent and her fics are some of my favorites I've ever read!

WC: 2947

The next morning had been almost as surreal as the first. You were greeted with the smell of toast and bacon wafting through your apartment, both things you knew you didn’t have in your fridge when you went to sleep the night before. 

Crawling from under your covers, you slowly opened the door to your hallway, peeking out, hearing a soft humming over a sizzling sound. The melody of the hum was almost enchanting, coaxing you closer and closer towards it. It sounded old, older than any song you had heard. The tone was low, sending a warm vibration through you as your feet planted firmly in the kitchen. Sam glanced up from his position at the stove, stirring around eggs in a pan, scrambling them to a fluffy perfection. He didn’t stop the song as he smiled at you, merely hummed around it and finished the song before he formally greeted you.

“Good morning, darling,” he scooped some eggs from the pan, placing them on a plate that was already filled with triangles of perfectly golden brown toast, butter melting into the crispy dough. There were a few slices of bacon, and a small smattering of fruit. Sam set down the pan and spatula, dusting the eggs with a sprinkle of salt and pepper.

“Good…morning….”you watched him warily. “Where did all this come from?”

“What do you mean?” Sam picked the plate up, offering it to you. You took it gingerly, still eyeing him.

“I know I didn’t have all this last night…and you have no money…” Sam just smiled, waggling his fingers before going back to the stove.

“I don’t need it.” 

“So you just steal?” while you were pressing him regarding morals, you still picked up a piece of toast, biting off the corner of a triangle while waiting for his retort.

“I mean,” Sam opened his palm, and in front of your eyes, a perfectly ripe peach materialized in his hand. “I have no need for your money.” you nearly dropped the plate in your hands, and Sam laughed. “Go on, take it.” you reached out with one hand, pausing before continuing, feeling the fuzz brush against your fingertips. It was as real, and you couldn’t help the awe-filled gasp as you took the fruit from his grasp.

“How did you do that?” your voice was soft as you turned the peach over in your hands, looking for some sort of flaw to tell you it was fake, all a trick. 

“The same way you can,” the moment was gone, and you glared up at Sam, and he reached out, taking the peach from your hands and taking a bite, as if to confirm to you it was indeed real and edible. “Don’t give me that look. Go eat, you barely touched your dinner last night.” 

“If you can do that, why can’t you conjure up a spellbook to un-bond us?” you grumbled as you walked to the living room, taking a seat on the couch. Sam had already deconstructed his bed and set the bedding to the very last cushion. 

“If I could, I would have done so by now.” 

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, darling,” the sarcasm dripped off your tongue, making Sam chortle as he plated his own breakfast. 

“And forgive me if I enjoy the idea of being bonded to a beautiful young woman,” Sam sat down next to you, popping a grape in his mouth and chewing as he watched the tips of your ears turn pink. “There are far worse fates I could think of.”

“You really think you’re a charmer, don’t you?” you bit into your toast again, matching his bemused expression. 

“I’ve been told a time or two it’s one of my strengths.”  you went to reply but there was a knock on the door that caught both you and Sam off guard. Placing your plate on the coffee table, you made your way to the door before checking the peephole and tugging the door open. Danny stood there, brown eyes immediately scanning you for any sign of injury.  He had a large backpack slung on his shoulders, and his curls were frizzy from a restless night. 

“Hey, come in,” you ushered Danny inside. He flicked a short look towards Sam, who was still lounging on the couch, enjoying his breakfast, ignoring him. 

“I have a lead,” Danny started as soon as you shut the door behind him. 

“Really?!” Your gasp was sharp, the inhale almost stinging your throat as you came around and grabbed hold of Danny’s arm, squeezing tightly with both hands, as if you were afraid the hope you now had would cause him to vanish and leave you shattered. 

“A friend of a friend has heard of something like this, has some texts that he can loan me.” Danny nodded. 

“That’s great!” you were nearly humming with excited energy. 

“Unfortunately, he’s out in Nevada.” Danny sighed. “He says the texts are too fragile to send physically and even scanning them could destroy them.” Your grip loosened on Danny’s arm. You weren’t prepared for a trip west. You didn’t have the money to spend on a plane ticket, let alone a full tank of gas.  As if reading your thoughts, Danny lifted one of your hands from his arm and held it in his. “I’m going to go see him. I’ve already booked a ticket, I need a ride to the airport, if you don’t mind.”

“Now?” 

“My flight leaves in three hours, I got a ride-share here because I wanted to go over some details again before I left.”

“And you couldn’t do the same to the airport, Daniel?” Sam simpered from the couch, taking a bite of crispy bacon as he spoke. Ignoring Sam’s question Danny pulled something from his front pocket, the paper Sam had drawn on for him the morning before. Unfolding it, he held it out to him. 

“You’re sure everything on here is accurate?” Danny asked. Sam simply kept eating, making Danny huff, before setting the plate down and dabbing his mouth with a paper towel napkin. Glancing it over, Sam nodded. 

“Came all the way here just for that?” He blinked up at Danny, who in turn rolled his eyes and faced you. 

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” nodding, you led Danny into your room, shutting the door behind you. “Are you going to be okay while I’m gone? Here with…him?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” you nodded. “I’ve slept two nights and have still woken up. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have by now.” Danny looked at you again, his eyes softer. 

“I don’t like leaving you here,” he glanced towards the door. “If I could, I’d have you come with me.” 

“It’s okay,” you gave Danny a soft smile. “How long will you be gone for?”

“I don’t know, I hope only a few days,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ll need help from him deciphering the texts. That could take a while.” 

“If you’re done, she should return to her breakfast. Even I cannot keep it warm.” Sam’s voice was muffled through the door, causing Danny to glare at it. 

“He refuses to let us have a single conversation.” he mumbled. 

“I’m not sure I’m a fan of you alone in a bedroom with my-“

“Your what?” You whipped open the door to Sam’s shocked face, though the shock turned into a smarmy grin as he saw you flustered. 

“My little fawn, of course.” he grinned. “Please eat your breakfast. I worked very hard on it.” 

“Stop being so obsessed with my eating habits,” you rolled your eyes, pushing past Sam and back to the living room. Much to his happiness, you picked up your plate, but Sam frowned as you offered the rest of your toast to Danny, who in turn grinned at Sam before taking a large bite of the softened bread.

You finished the plate and left it on the coffee table, getting up and sliding your shoes on, grabbing your purse and keys. The ride to the airport was mostly quiet, only a few grumbles from Sam who had been forced into the backseat after Danny took the passenger seat. A few times Danny would say something to you, about where he was headed exactly, and there would be a short conversation. 

It wasn’t until you were standing at security that it hit you Danny was leaving you alone with your mess, even if he was going to find a way to help you out if it. In all the years of your friendship, you’d never really be apart from each other for longer than a weekend. Throwing your arms around Danny’s shoulders, you hopped up on your toes to hug him. He bent at the waist to wrap his own around your middle and lifted you up, hugging you just as tightly back. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Danny whispered into your hair. “I promise.” 

“Be safe, okay?” you murmured back. “Don’t get murdered by some weird witchy dude on the internet.”

“I can hold my own,” Danny laughed, pulling back. He glanced behind you, where Sam stood, watching him with a blank face. “I want you to be careful with him. We don’t know him, we don’t know exactly what he is.” 

“I will be.” you vowed. “I’ll call you every day to check in, too.”

“You’d better.” Danny leaned forward slightly, his eyes jumping between each one of your lips. The gears were turning as you watched him lean in closer, and closer, but then a delicate peck was placed between your eyebrows and for a reason unbeknownst to you, you let out a soft sigh. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

Nodding, you stepped back, jumping slightly at how close Sam was behind you now. Danny stared at the tall man at your side warily. 

“If you do anything to hurt her, I’ll make sure I come back with something that will tear your soul to shreds.” Danny’s voice was low as he took a few steps towards you and Sam. The latter smiled coolly, stepping forward and murmuring something into his ear. Danny’s face reddened slightly as his eyebrows knit together tensely and Sam pulled back, clapping a hand a bit too hard on the taller man’s shoulder before stepping back next to you. Danny’s eyes stayed on him for a moment before he cleared his throat and set them back on you. “I’ll let you know when I land.”

You said a final goodbye, watching Danny start to file through the security line. When he was almost out of sight, Sam touched your arm, nodding to the exit. Sam reclaimed his spot in the passenger seat, settling in and rubbing his back against the fabric, as if he were marking it with his scent. 

“What did you say to Danny?” you asked as you got onto the highway. You glanced over at Sam, who merely shrugged. 

“I told him to have a safe flight.” 

“Bullshit.” Sam just rolled his eyes with a soft smirk, as if he was proud of whatever he said to make Danny look upset. “Listen, Danny is my best friend, and he’s doing all of this to help us. It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to him.”

“Have you ever considered that him helping you get out of this bond does nothing for me?” Sam asked, the retort simple, and you weren’t sure why, but a small knot of guilt formed in your stomach. 

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Sam sniffed indifferently, looking out the window. 

“Maybe I should have let you buy those body sprays yesterday.” you mumbled. Sam shot you a look. “You’re acting like such a moody teenager.”

Sam gave you another snotty look but seemed content to leave the conversation at that, which you were glad for. Once back at the apartment, you shuffled toward the bathroom, tossing your bag on the table. 

“I have to get ready for work,” was all you muttered, closing the door behind you. You took a quick shower, mentally preparing yourself for a shift at the small coffee house you worked at. It was much, but between tips and a surprisingly decent minimum wage, you made enough to scrape by on your own. A small voice in the back of your head nagged at you, telling you that you’d have to start picking up more shifts if you couldn’t get out of this mess. You pushed down the feeling and finished getting ready. 

“Okay, you have the TV, I just have an antenna so you’re stuck with The Waltons or old movies. You might get lucky if there’s a nice breeze and a game show will be on.” Sam looked up at you, a slight flash of pity in his eyes. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Can’t I just come with you?” Sam asked, blinking up at you. 

“No,” you shook your head. “I can’t babysit you and do my job. And I would really like to keep this one for now.” Sam stayed silent, and looked back at the television's black screen. “I’ll be back soon.”

“If I don’t die of boredom.” Sam huffed quietly as you left. You opted to walk to the shop, it only being a few blocks from your apartment. The sun was peeking out between wispy clouds and warming the morning air around you. You hoped it was a sign of a good day at work as you pushed open the door to the cafe. 

You were greeted by your coworkers, and quickly got set up and clocked in, ready to take the orders from the gaggle of college students pouring in. Your shift was busy, you barely had time to register the faces of your customers, not that you cared after burning your hand when you spilled some of an espresso shot on it. It took everything you had to not leave after that, but eventually you made it to your break, and sat down in the back, a small baggie of ice pressed to your skin. Spending most of your time icing the burn on your hand, you didn’t have time to eat anything, though your stomach rumbled. You found your bag, searching blindly with your good hand for anything. Sometimes you were smart and kept a granola bar or two in your bag so you wouldn’t have to take from your paycheck and eat something from the cafe.

“Hey,” you glanced up and your coworker, Henry, was looking at you from the doorway of the breakroom. 

“Oh shit, is my break up?” you looked at the time on your phone, you still had about three minutes left.

“No, there’s someone out front asking for you?.” Henry nodded behind him. Confusion flooded your face. The only person who would ever visit you at work was Danny. Getting up, you moved to the doorway, peeking behind Henry and held back the groan that wanted so desperately to leave your throat. Moving around your coworker, you made your way back to the floor, moving around the counter, taking Sam by the hand and tugging him away from anyone's earshot.

“What are you doing here?!” you hissed. Sam just looked down at you with a satisfied smile on his face, watching you grow red with frustration. “How did you even find where I work?”

“I followed your scent,” Sam shrugged as if the statement was nothing. “I was so bored, the television had nothing to offer in the way of entertainment and all of your books…well some of them were interesting, to say the least.” he waggled his eyebrows, making your cheeks burn further. 

“I told you that you couldn’t come here!” you seethed quietly, glancing around. Henry and your other coworkers were doing everything they could to look occupied, but you knew they were trying to eavesdrop. 

“Ah-ah! You said I couldn’t come with you. Not that I couldn’t come on my own.” you rolled your eyes, shifting the now-melted bag of ice on your hand. His smile fell as he took your injured hand and pulled the bag away. “What happened?”

“I just spilled a little espresso on it.” you shook your head. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before. It’ll fade in a few days.” Sam’s lips were downturned as he clasped his other palm over your hand, enveloping it between his. You felt your skin tingle and itch, your fingers twitching gently against his before he raised the hand on top of yours. The red, stinging burn was gone. 

“Looks like you’re a fast healer.” Sam winked at you. “How much longer until your work is done?”

“A few hours, Sam.” you muttered, still staring at your hand. 

“Hm, then I think I’ll stick around here for the time being.” he looked around the cafe, taking in the decor that hadn’t been updated since the early 2000s. “At least people watching may be more interesting than reading your smut collection.”

You heard your timer going off from the backroom and took a deep breath, rolling your shoulders back.

“My break is over. If you’re going to stay here, don’t touch anything, don’t bother me, and don’t bother the customers or my coworkers, got it?” Sam rolled his eyes and gave you a mocking salute, but settled down into one of the lumpy, soft chairs at the back of the cafe. You turned to leave but stopped when Sam spoke.

“Fawn, one thing?” you turned your head to glance at him. He batted his long eyelashes with a cheeky smile. “Could I trouble you for a hot espresso?”

“Fuck off.”

Taglist: (feel free to add yourself!)

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[inkykeiji]

i’m about to show you the beginning is the end

anonymous said: touya-nii reader def had to reason with him as to why he cant mark her neck (school, friends) and hes all wtf? he spirals for a good hour as to why u dont want him to leave those pretty love bites u cry for + adore for the world to see? awww how funny and cute would touya-nii be overthinking this.. he just cant understand & u have bring natsuo in to help u

character: todoroki touya | dabi

genre: angst with the teeniest, tiniest sprinkle of fluff

notes: aaah okay!!! this is set in my touya-nii AU, approximately a few weeks after part three of the main series. you don’t have to read the main series before reading this to get the gist of it, but it would help to have a little knowledge about what happened & why their relationship is in such a volatile state! | title credit: this is love by air traffic controller

warnings: no smut but still 18+ minors do not interact, stepcest/pseudocest, verbal fighting, extremely toxic relationship, marking/bruising/hickeys, drug use

words: 4.8k

synopsis:

“I love you!” he nearly chokes, the proclamation a mangled mess in his mouth.

It’s clear you aren’t used to hearing those three little words, chest deflating with the softest little whimper, your own brilliant love shining through your glistening eyes, so bright it blisters his skin.

It’s clear he isn’t used to saying them, either, the wooden sentiment feeling foreign on his tongue—uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but correct nonetheless.

“Don’t you love me?” His voice tapers off into a whisper, that solitary tear finally, finally breaking free of his lashes, rolling down his cheek and leaving a gleaming stream in its wake. A thumb swipes through it viciously, smearing salt water across his cheekbone, his jaw clenching twice as he swallows thickly. “I thought you did.”

Wisps of smoke curl through the air, effused from a slow-burning cigarette held with artful carelessness between Touya’s lithe fingers. Twisted on his side and propped up with an elbow digging into his mattress, he idly scrolls through his phone, irrelevant news articles and celebrity gossip blurring past his eyes while you stand in front of his full-length mirror, getting ready for your class.

Rei hates it when he smokes in the house, says it irritates her eyes and nose, says the scent triggers headaches.

But what his mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

There’s a lot of things she doesn’t know, after all, isn’t there? A lot of things she willfully ignores about her son, pretends she doesn’t see or smell���the small smattering of crimson on the sleeve of his jacket, the stinging stench of metallic copper than sews itself into the fabric of his t-shirt and twines itself through the strands of his hair—so, really, what’s one more?

Nothing she won’t learn to tolerate.

He can feel your gaze on him, bouncing off the reflective mirror and gliding over the bare skin and lean muscle of his chest, journeying down to the still unbuttoned jeans sitting low on his jutting hipbones, waistband loose and exposing the elastic of his briefs.

“You’re so beautiful, niichan,”

The compliment is murmured out, nothing more than a mesmerized huff of breath, words infused with a sort of whimsical appreciation that sends one of those unfamiliar rushes of warmth surging through his chest.

He’s never felt this way about anyone before. 

His stare lifts to meet yours, lazy and half-lidded, clear sapphire slow and purposeful as he traces the contours of your face—the curve of your cheek (sticky with dried salt from your sobbing), the slope of your nose (still twitching with residual sniffles), the shape of your lips (raw and swollen from his tongue and teeth)—then drifts down to the busy fingers fussing around your neck, delicately pressing a powder puff against your marred flesh.

It takes him a moment to fully comprehend your intention, brows knitting together as his eyes narrow, squinting in concentration then widening as the realization hits.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He’s nearly choking on the question as he shoots up from the bed, half-smoked cigarette stubbed out in an instant, feet slapping against the hardwood and long legs crossing the room with a few quick strides. Slender fingers cuff your wrist, squeezing firmly and halting your ministrations, a cry of pained surprise catching in your throat.

“Niichan!” The honorific slices through the air as your gaze flies to his, hand going limp in his grasp, puff falling to the floor. “I—I don’t—”

“Oh, don’t play fucking stupid,” he spits, grip around your wrist tightening as he yanks you closer to him. “My marks. Why are you—Why are you trying to hide them?”

The words splinter in his throat, breath exhaled through flared nostrils in short, hot puffs as he frenetically glances between your face and your neck, blood gone thorny in his veins.

“O-Oh.” Blinking heavy tears from your vision, you look back towards the mirror. “Well, I-I love them, Touya-nii, I really do—they’re so pretty, and I—”

Your voice fades softly, eyes wistful, almost dreamy with the mist filling them, as they unhurriedly scan the blooms of periwinkle and blue-black painted across your exposed throat—golf-ball sized welts of lilac and violet that climb their way to your jaw, just shy of crossing the line onto your cheek—savouring them with admiration.

“And I wish I could show them off; truly, I do. But—” your eyes dart back to his, partially obscured by your lashes, bashful even as you search for his acceptance, his approval. “But they’re too dangerous, don’t you think?”

“Too—” Too dangerous?

The word claws it’s way through the inked flesh of his cheek, shoving itself past the wound and down his throat to churn the acid in his stomach, the hand around your wrist going lax as he stumbles backwards from the impact.

Too dangerous? But how could that be? This is what you wanted; this is what you wanted, what you begged and cried for, what you committed such an atrocious act of indecency for, isn’t it?

Unless…

Azure descends from your neck to your breasts, your hips to your feet, pausing for a moment before sliding back up your body, slowly, slowly, scrutinizing.

“Were you…” he trails off, roughly clearing his throat to rid it of the incessant tremble fusing itself to his voice. “Were you lying to me when you said you wanted all of me?”

“What?” The gasp is kicked from your chest by shock, eyes widening and head shaking with vigour as you step towards him, fingers griping through the air, reaching for him. “No! No, Touya-nii, of course not,”

“No?” he laughs, and it’s harsh, strangled, broken, wet. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, strong in your conviction. “You don’t even need to ask, you know—”

“Do I!?” He questions, and now his tone is sharp, hard, loud, smooth, feet beginning to pace. “Do I, really? Because—Because you whined, and you bitched, and you pled for me to be yours, for you to be mine, and now that you are I can’t even claim my favourite person? Because, what? It’s too fucking dangerous? What the fuck does that even mean!”

“Niichan,” you whimper out the honorific, head beginning to shake again, crystal teardrops rolling down your cheeks. “I—I just mean—Well, you know, your mom and my dad had so many questions the last time this happened. They asked me where they came from and why I was allowing someone to do such a thing to me. How am I supposed to respond to that? What am I supposed to say? I never leave or enter the house with anyone but you!”

“Nothing!” he explodes, feet skidding to a stop as he whirls to face you, blue flames flickering behind the water shielding his eyes, any signs of weakness incinerated in an instant, burnt up in the flames with a single blink. “You aren’t supposed to say anything, because none of this is any of their business anyway!”

“My friends at school, they asked, too,” you continue, words tumbling from your mouth at such a fast pace they collide and crash against one another, desperate to explain, desperate to be understood. “Who gave you those? and we didn’t know you had a boyfriend! and why didn’t you tell us about him before? I couldn’t even respond, because I know you don’t want me lying about having a boyfriend—”

“No,” he seethes, the word blistering his throat. No, of course he fucking doesn’t. “You shouldn’t have to lie about them at all!”

“But I can’t—I can’t tell them the truth, and I can only evade these questions for so long before people begin to get nosy, before people begin digging…”

“Who cares what other people think? What does it matter?” Two large hands rake through his tousled hair, fingers knotting in ink and tugging hard, hard enough to have his own features crinkling in pain, hard enough to momentarily calm the confusion roiling in his skull, the hybrid between a laugh and a yelp hitching in his chest. “I want to show the world that I belong to you, and you belong to me, and you’re—you’re fucking covering them up!”

“Touya-nii,” you whisper entreatingly, reaching for him again, falling short once more as he gracefully slips from your grasp. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t think it’d be this big of a deal…”

Something cracks in his chest at your words, procuring an ache so deep, so dark, so fucking devastating he’s terrified it’s going to swallow him up whole, suck him down from the inside out and drown him in its agony.

Because that fucking hurts, knowing that you truly don’t understand; don’t understand why he’s so upset, don’t understand why this is so important to him, don’t understand what those hickeys symbolize. 

These are marks of love, these are marks of ownership, marks that have been crafted and carved into your skin with utmost affection, he makes sure of it; each sink of sharp incisors engraving his passionate possession onto your flesh, each lave of his slick tongue sealing the blossoming bruises with a declaration of devotion.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Why the hell wouldn’t you want to proudly wear the little masterpieces he’s so conscientiously sucked and bitten into your supple skin, created with such care and attention to detail? Why the hell wouldn’t you want to tell the whole world, boldly and bluntly, that you are taken? Especially when you beg and plead and shout and scream to have the rest of your body sculpted with his teeth?

Honestly, how else are others supposed to know that you belong to him?

Do you not love him as much as he loves you? Do you not want the world to know you’re his? Do you feel ashamed to be so beautifully tinged with his markings? What other reason could you have to want to hide them away, to conceal them and pretend they don’t exist, except for feeling regretful and humiliated by them? 

Everything burns, stings, like each question tearing through his mind is a talon ripping through his body, shredding his organs to ribbons.

Strong arms wind themselves over his body in a pathetic attempt to keep it from unraveling, fingers curling tightly around his biceps, nails scraping against his smooth skin, leaving red, raw tracks in their wake.

Was this the wrong choice? Was it a mistake to let you into his heart? He loves you; this much he knows for certain. He’s never felt this way about anyone else before—not even close—and he’s never found an angel as perfect as you are, but—but is it worth it? Is it worth this kind of terrifying, uncontrollable anguish? Is it worth allowing you to have such control over his emotions?

“Touya-nii! Hey! Touya-nii!”

Your voice cuts through the tide of chaos, beseeching eyes searching his face. Concern has woven itself into the wrinkles of your forehead, tears still steadily streaming from your eyes, small hands working to uncurl his own from his biceps, dislodging his nails from his flesh.

“Where did you just go right now, baby? What happened?”

Baby. Baby. You’ve never called him that before.

But he can’t tell you; he doesn’t know how to. His head shakes in response, eyes shutting tightly, a singular teardrop clinging stubbornly to his bottom lashes.

“That’s—That’s okay,” you murmur softly, a half-suppressed sniffles stuttering your words. “You don’t have to tell me, that’s okay,”

God, you’re so soft, so sweet, so good to him, dainty fingers rubbing soothing little circles into his gouged muscle, each caress eradicating a little more tension, his body beginning to slump into yours, transgressions melting from his mind.

But then you speak again, and it all comes hurdling back, all of the fury and the betrayal, eroding the pleasant fog you had temporarily instilled in his brain like some sort of caustic acid.

“I just—I just wanted you to know that I don’t care about what anyone else thinks. It isn’t about that; it isn’t about that at all. It’s that I don’t want you to get into trouble—”

“Trouble?” His nose scrunches with the word, features puckering as if it’s the most sour thing he’s ever tasted. “What kind of trouble could I possibly get into, that I haven’t gotten into already?”

“But that’s exactly the point!” you cry, frantic for his cognizance. “What we’re doing might not be illegal in a technical sense, but it’s definitely heavily frowned upon, and it raises further suspicions! Red Flags!”

A growl rattles his ribs as he glowers at you. He hates how you’re trying to make this about him, as if you’re somehow doing all of this in his honour and not for yourself, for your public image, for everyone but your big brother.

“I’m so—so worried, Touya-nii, I can’t imagine—”

“Oh, save your pity, I don’t fucking need it,” sapphire rolls in his skull as he rips himself from your grasp. “Acting as if this is somehow for me—”

“It is, niichan! It is!”

“You know, after everything, after all of the crying and the chasing, I finally give you what you want—what I thought you wanted—and you have the goddamn audacity to act with such disrespect.”

Slender fingers are back in his hair again, nails scratching audibly against his scalp as they tangle in onyx tufts, yanking at the strands as his head shakes in disbelief, a terrifying smile stretched abnormally wide across his face.

“I—I finally tell the world, Hey! She’s mine!, finally leave something everyone can immediately notice so they all fucking know, and you—you—”

His voice snaps with a hiccup as he watches it dawn on you, as you realize he’s never once bothered to mark your neck—something visible, something everyone can see all of the time—before he declared that you officially belonged to each other, only a few weeks ago.

A delicate hand flits to encircle your throat, the pads of your fingers stroking the bruises in a way that’s almost tender, affectionate, a newfound appreciation for them, for what they truly mean, settling in your glassy eyes.

“Touya-nii,” you begin, voice hoarse as it grates on your throat. “I didn’t—”

“No, of course you fucking didn’t.”

His heart slams fast and uneven against his ribcage, unsteady beats forcing a razored, ragged breath up his throat, each one slicing his flesh on its exhale, each one forcing honesty from his lips.

“I love you!” he nearly chokes, the proclamation a mangled mess in his mouth.

It’s clear you aren’t used to hearing those three little words, chest deflating with the softest little whimper, your own brilliant love shining through your glistening eyes, so bright it blisters his skin.

It’s clear he isn’t used to saying them, either, the wooden sentiment feeling foreign on his tongue—uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but correct nonetheless.

“Don’t you love me?” His voice tapers off into a whisper, that solitary tear finally, finally breaking free of his lashes, rolling down his cheek and leaving a gleaming stream in its wake. A thumb swipes through it viciously, smearing salt water across his cheekbone, his jaw clenching twice as he swallows thickly. “I thought you did.”

“Absolutely, I do! Niichan, I love you so much—”

“Sure doesn’t look like it,” his words drip with vitriolic acid, his eyes glinting in the diffused afternoon sun as they dart back to the partially concealed bruises.

“Touya-nii, you’re breaking my heart!” Your lashes glitter with diamonds as you blink rapidly, a poor attempt to clear your vision, face adorned with fat glistening tears, and oh, how gorgeous you are when you cry. “Please, I’m sorry, let’s fix this, we can fix this, I just—I don’t kn—”

But he isn’t listening, the blood surging in his ears drowning out your shattered voice, tumultuous thoughts crashing against the walls of his skull, so brutal they must crack the bone and seep through the fractures, cascading down his body like wet cement and bonding to his muscles, so heavy, so stifling, and—and—

And he needs to get the fuck out of here, he needs to get the fuck out of here now, cement stuffing his airways and clogging his veins, vision swimming with distress as he stumbles towards the bathroom, quivering hands already beginning to claw through his pockets.

Then the door is slamming behind him, and the rumbling impact is echoing around you, and you’re all alone.

The hiss of water against ceramic engulfs you a moment later, but you know he’s not showering.

It’s faint, cushioned by the steady stream and muffled by the wood of the door, but if you listen close enough you can hear it, can disentangle it from the knotted sounds and pluck it from the pile, that sharp snort as he stuffs his nose full of white powder.

Stabs of guilt shoot through your stomach, their sting compounded by the molten panic that immediately follows, tar-like tears obscuring your eyes, thick and sticky and clumping your lashes with each rapid blink in an attempt to clear them.

You have to fix this. You need to fix this, now.

But how? How?  

The tingling urgency to act burns in your veins, growing spikier with each passing second as your gaze darts around the room, that toxic concoction of terror and trepidation inching up your throat, sludgy and suffocating.

The familiar sound of plastic buzzing against oak cuts through the mayhem and you rush towards Touya’s phone (he had taken away your own after the Tomura incident), cradling it between your palms.

NATSUO: how are they?

Natsuo! Natsuo can fix this. Natsuo has more credence than you, has more credence than everyone, really, and if there’s anyone who can help you fully articulate the points slaughtered during your fight, it’s him.

You can’t unlock the device—you haven’t a clue what the passcode is—but you don’t need to.

A trembling thumb slams down on the text notification, pressing until the conversation opens up, clumsy fingers hastily tapping out a response.

Call me.

Ever the obedient little brother, Natsuo complies almost instantly, the phone resuming its vibration in your hand mere seconds after the text is delivered.

“Alright, look, I know they aren’t brand name, but they’re gonna get you high just the same, I promise—”

“Natsuo,” you cut him off, his name nothing more than a huff of breath on your lips.

The line goes silent for a moment, your breath held stagnant in your lungs with anticipation.

“Oh. Uh, hey,” he finally responds, slow, tentative, unsure. “What’re you—”

“Natsuo, I need your help,”

“Help?” he questions, and you can almost see his spine straightening, authority and alarm bleeding into his voice, that pre-med school training snapping into action. “What’s wrong?”

“Touya—Touya-nii and I had a fight—” You can’t help the way the word shatters with a pathetic sob, your eyes squeezing shut against the thought, exhaling a shaky breath and pushing forward. “And not a normal fight, Natsuo; a big fight, a bad fight—”

“Okay, okay,” Natsuo’s saying, the professional calm in his tone disrupted by the underlying tremors of personal concern. “Is he alright? I mean, is he safe?”

“I don’t—He’s—I think he’s doing lines in the bathroom,”

For some reason, this seems to placate Natsuo, a faint sigh of relief slithering through the speaker. “Tell me what happened.”

Even with your broken hiccups and slurred sobs, it doesn’t take long to relay the situation to Natsuo, who vows to handle it when he arrives before ending the call. You hadn’t wanted him to hang up—there was something about having him on the phone that felt comforting, that felt safe, as if his mere voice could protect you from the wrath of your big brother—but Natsuo had insisted, assuring you that it would be much worse for Touya to emerge and find you on his phone before Natsuo had reached the house than to keep him on the line.

If Natsuo’s being honest, he thinks it’s pretty cute, the way his big brother just can’t seem to comprehend why anyone, let alone his precious little baby, wouldn’t want to proudly display the marks her niichan gifted her; the way Touya seems to think he’s invincible, untouchable, because he breaks the law habitually with leisure and practiced ease, thus somehow rendering him immune to any law enforcement at all.

Natsuo understands better than their poor baby sister does, though. Natsuo understands that heady power that clogs Touya’s brain and cloaks his thoughts, the heavy, hazy veil of authority permanently shielding his gaze.

And Natsuo understands how to deal with it.

As it turns out, Natsuo makes it to you before Touya’s left his little sanctuary, the muddled sound of his little brother’s voice more than enough to coax him from the bathroom.

“What are you doing here?” Voracious pupils rimmed with crystal search the younger man’s face, staggering towards his younger brother and clapping a hand on his broad shoulder.

“Came to see if you were okay,” Natsuo responds a little breathlessly, placing a palm over the hand clamped down on his shoulder and squeezing, his body a source of reliable stability for his niisan.

“I’m not,” Touya’s face twists, the words bitter on his tongue, casting a glare your way.

“Hey,” Natsuo says softly, using a gentle hand to guide Touya’s gaze back to his own. “She told me what happened—”

“Oh? Did she? Did she tell you how fucking disrespectful she’s been?”

“Of course,” Natsuo soothes. “Of course she did, niisan. You know she’s never anything but honest,”

“Honest,” Touya snorts, eyes rolling. “Honest. Is that what we’re calling it? Is that what she was three weeks ago, when she went and fucked—”

“I’m not here to talk about that, Touya-nii,” Natsuo says, the words somehow both firm yet gentle. “You know why she did that, and you’ve moved forward, haven’t you? It’s in the past now,”

Natsuo knows it isn’t that simple, though. Shards of Touya shoot through his mind: how his voice had been thick with tears through the staticky speaker of Natsuo’s phone; the potent panic that had imbued his confessions and explanations as they raced from his lips; the way his niisan became small, scared—smaller and more scared than Natsuo had ever seen him before—when he admitted that he was downright petrified of what was happening to him; all of those strange, unknown feelings coursing through his body, the sheer vulnerability and loss of power, the anger and hatred and terror and heartache, the inability to bear the mere thought of losing you, of you leaving him, forever.

Touya shifts, shrugs, looks away, and nods once, jaw flexing.

Shifting on the edge of Touya’s bed, your eyes look between the two of them, narrowing a little, as if trying to decipher the unspoken memory passing through their eyes, in the air between their chests.

“Maybe I should—”

“No,” Touya snaps instantly, broken from wherever Natsuo had just taken him, eyes blazing. “You stay.”

“She has a point about the hickeys, you know,” Natsuo says cautiously, eyes trained on his big brother’s expressions, ready to revise his statement at the slightest hint of recoil. “Marks such as these put your whole relationship at risk, Touya-nii.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Touya sneers. “Incest isn’t even illegal in Japan, alright? Especially between fucking step-siblings. I checked.”

Oh, Natsuo doesn’t doubt that one bit; Touya’s practically got Japan’s criminal law memorized backwards.

“It isn’t about the incest, though,” Natsuo continues in that slow, soft lilt. “It’s so much more than that, niisan. Incest might not be fully illegal here, but what if the police begin to dig more, dig further, find some dirt with your DNA all over it…”

You can both see it, that smug self-assurance plastered across Touya’s face paired with a dismissive scoff in response, arrogance shining in his eyes—yeah, right, as if they could ever catch him—but the thought still manages to sew a few thin threads of fear through him.

Touya is careful, sure. Touya works for the biggest Yakuza in the fucking country, though. Touya’s currently at war with said Yakuza’s fucking son.

If the authorities come poking around, who’s to say Tomura won’t sell him out, at least in some capacity? Who’s to say Tomura won’t frame him for something, won’t make some sort attempt to get rid of him if the opportunity presents itself? Because with Touya out of the picture, that leaves you, his poor, precious little baby, helpless and all alone…

“Besides,” Natsuo continues after a beat, drawing his big brother’s attention back to him. “You know the hickeys are there—”

“It isn’t the same,” Touya growls, eyes flashing. “I’m not the one who needs to know they’re there! They aren’t just for me!”

That’s right; they’re more than just bruises on flesh. They’re a claim, a stake to ownership, a bold statement.

“You’re right, niisan, I’m sorry,” Natsuo’s saying immediately, pacifying hands finding Touya’s wounded biceps and squeezing gently. A hum vibrates in his throat as he thinks. “What if you bought her something a little more permanent, though? Bruises fade fast and raise a whole ton of questions no one wants to answer, but something physical—something like a piece of jewellery, something she can wear every day—will not.” 

It’s easy to tell that Touya isn’t totally in love with the idea—what makes the hickeys so special is that they are made by him—but he has to admit, Natsuo makes a good point.

“Please, niichan,” you chime in, and your voice is small, hesitant, terrified of shattering what Natsuo has just precariously repaired. “I love you so much, I love you more than anything on this earth, I swear I do, and I’d love something that could help me show it off—something that isn’t as hazardous, because—because—” The words catch on a suppressed sob in your throat, but you power through, voice garbled. “Because I can’t live without you, Touya-nii, I need you to survive now, and I—I don’t want to do anything that puts us at risk; that puts me at risk of losing you, even if it’s tiny. I can’t go on without you by my side!”

Bursts of pride race through his veins, coming to collect into a concentrated ball of glittering sunlight behind his ribs, encasing his heart in its warm embrace.

“I’d do anything for you, Touya-nii. Anything. You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” you stare up at him with such devotion, such sincerity, so much so that it’s spilling from your eyes and mixing with your tears, staining your cheeks and bearing your soul to him with such obedience—so willing to serve, wanting to serve.

And suddenly, he remembers. He remembers why he decided to open his heart to you, why he fell so irreversibly hard, so irreversibly fast for you, why he knowingly took that chance to be vulnerable, fully aware of the potential perils that come packaged with love.

No, it wasn’t wrong to let you in, to let you stay. Yes, it was worth it—is worth it—being honest and raw with you; giving you all of him, just like you begged him to not so many nights ago, in the dark of his bedroom with tears in your eyes and your heart in your voice; becoming wholly and completely yours—and you, wholly and completely his.

A calloused hand cups your cheek, rough fingers running across your sticky skin as he gazes down at you with so much love it aches, this love he’s never allowed himself to show you before, beautiful and vulnerable and so fucking bright it scalds your skin.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he murmurs, revelling in the way you whimper and nuzzle into his palm. “Who will guide you, who will take care of you, if niichan isn’t there? You can’t do it on your own, can you?” he clicks his tongue, like you are the most pathetically precious thing he’s ever owned. “You need him, don’t you, princess?”

Affirmatives are spilling from your lips in an instant, both hands wrapped around his strong wrist and gripping it like a lifeline, keeping his palm pressed almost painfully to your cheek.

“I know, baby, I know,” he’s saying softly, just shy of a whisper. “You need him, I know.”

And he needs you, too.

✰          ✰          ✰

Natsuo’s words ring true in his head, and it isn’t more than a day or two after the argument when he presents you with one of those pretty blue boxes, an ivory ribbon tied in an immaculate bow around it. The small package houses a Tiffany key, the base a heart-shaped locket, a scrawled ‘T’ engraved in the platinum; a cheesy symbolism that you own not only the key, but his whole heart, too—but it isn’t what he truly wanted to gift you with; not exactly, anyway.

A diamond choker—a subtle collar—that’s what you need. That’s what he wants to give you.

But the collar is something that’s special; the collar requires a significant amount of consideration and contemplation on his part, an excruciating amount of searching and studying in an effort to find one that’s just right. This isn’t something he wants to carelessly rush into.

It isn’t perfect, but the Tiffany necklace will work as a placeholder for now, enough to declare his love and ownership until he finds something flawless, something faultless, that suits you—and his proclamation—exquisitely.

[watchend76-blog]

Sheet Pan Black Bean, Sweet Potato, & Kale Breakfast Hash

February 6, 2019

I’ve come to realize I am an aspiring meal prepper. “Aspiring” being the key word. I love the idea of having all that healthy food at the ready, but the truth is, I kind of hate doing the actual “prep” part of the equation. Not even kind-of, to be quite honest.

Yes, it’s glorious to start out the week with a fridge brimming with gloriously healthy meals in perfect glass containers. But to be honest, in my opinion, getting to that point is such a chore!

I’ve spent entire Sundays meal-prepping for the week and wondered afterwards where half my weekend went. Sunday evening, I flop on the sofa in a heap, feeling like I’ve just prepared a Thanksgiving meal. No one wants to feel like they’ve prepared a Thanksgiving meal every single weekend! Well, at least not me.

A sneaky, much easier way to prep for me is to make a meal bigger than I need, then save the rest in the fridge or freezer. Another, less fancy word for this, I suppose, is “leftovers.” Leftovers are the best!

Also, I just like to make the meals I do make easy. This hearty, savory Sheet Pan Black Bean, Sweet Potato, & Kale Breakfast Hash works perfectly on both fronts.

It cooks up one sheet pan and also – if I’m the only one partaking – gives me three mornings’ worth of breakfasts. The first, hot out of the oven, and the next two days worth in the form of leftovers. No lost Sundays, just 30 minutes or so one morning – most of it hands off. Win!

I’ve found that for me, the most satisfying breakfasts with the most staying power involve lots of protein and fiber. Lentils or beans are perfect for that. Sweet potatoes – tossed in a few spices then roasted – lend a nice dose of carbs and vitamins. Lastly, some kale. Because kale!

I kind of feel like some avocado on the side is mandatory, not only because it adds some nice healthy fat to the equation, but also because it’s delicious. I also like a smattering of scallions, maybe some salted pepitas, and – if I really want a rib-sticking situation (vegans, avert your eyes) – perhaps a poached egg on top.

Go ahead, turn on your oven and give this one a try one morning. It’s worth it! Or make it on a Sunday for breakfasts during the week, because if you’re into it, this really is a great meal prep breakfast situation. And if you are into it, please know I envy your meal-prepping dedication and stamina and I wish I was you. 🙂

Yield: Serves 2-3

Prep: 10 minutes

Cook: 20 minutes

Total: 30 minutes

An easy, hearty breakfast that cooks up on a sheet pan (and makes perfect leftovers for later in the week)!

Ingredients:

1 medium sweet potato (about 3/4 pound or 12 ounces), peeled and cut into 3/4-inch dice

1 tablespoon olive oil

1/2 teaspoon onion powder

1/2 teaspoon garlic powder

1/4 teaspoon ground cumin

1/8 teaspoon smoked paprika

1/2 teaspoon salt + more to taste

1 (15-ounce) can black beans, drained and rinsed

2 cups shredded curly kale

Freshly ground black pepper to taste

Suggested accompaniments:

Sliced avocado

Poached egg

Salsa

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit and pull out a large rimmed sheet pan.

Place the cubed sweet potato on the sheet pan and drizzle the olive oil over the top. Sprinkle the onion powder, garlic powder, cumin, smoked paprika, and 1/2 teaspoon salt over the top. Toss with a wooden spoon or (easier) your hands to distribute the oil and spices. Try to give each piece of sweet potato as much space as possible.

Bake until tender and beginning to brown, 15-20 minutes, tossing once halfway through. Remove from oven and add the beans and kale to the pan. Toss with a wooden spoon to mix everything together. Place in oven for another 5 minutes until the beans are warmed through and the kale has wilted.

Remove from oven. Taste and add additional salt and pepper if desired. Serve with avocado, salsa, and/or a poached egg if desired.

Vegetarian option (if you’re a vegetarian who eats eggs):

Add a poached egg if desired.

All images and text ©Kare for Kitchen Treaty.

Kare

Kare is a vegetarian home cook living among carnivores. She loves creating irresistible and flexible recipes that help multi-vore families like hers keep the peace - deliciously.

Source: https://www.kitchentreaty.com/sheet-pan-black-bean-sweet-potato-kale-breakfast-hash/

[from-the-working-classman]

Forget about love languages. I just want to buy my friends things.

Things I know they'd love, and edify their soul. I want to buy them a copy of my favorite book (a hardback not even I own), and wrap it like the gift it is; make them a custom bookmark a say, You'll love this. It will feed your soul the best stories, please ─ take it.

I want to teach them how to knit, and give them a pair of mittens on their birthday, mittens I've labored for weeks to make; though I don't have, and probably will never make for myself.

And… I don't need these things. No one ever gave me these things; but they deserve it. No strings attached.

[from-the-working-classman]

No, no, no, no!! The Tumblr bots have found me-

*Drowns in fake friend requests*

[from-the-working-classman]

Why did we think suicidal ideation would be a good outlet for grief? I was loving Farscape so far, but that episode — nah man.

[from-the-working-classman]

Not that I'm touching that feature with a ten-foot pole, but I'd love to know who is.

[from-the-working-classman]

Currently swamped, and checking all blogs I follow after two days of inactivity. I can't for the life of me understand how people follow over 150 blogs in this site.

[from-the-working-classman]

Getting older is looking at greens (lettuce, cauliflower, you name it) and having your taste buds immediately go zing. I'm so sad my childhood self squandered such delishes away

[from-the-working-classman]

Welp. That's it folks. I have officially reached over 120 posts in drafts.

[from-the-working-classman]

When you use a romantic song to emphasize platonic/familial feelings, it's just — the best, you know?

[from-the-working-classman]

Downloaded Tumblr (app) today. Was having the absolute worst experience. Then I remembered the floating pencil slinky and the skies cleared.

[from-the-working-classman]

We went from anthropomorphizing a Roomba to dehumanizing actual human beings, and let me tell you, I've never seen two brain cells decompose at the exact same rate but in completely opposite directions.

[from-the-working-classman]

I'll always associate tranquility with mindlessness. Maybe because in the worst of times, you are literally doing everything. Maybe because when the worst of your efforts is gone, time stops.