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grim-faux · 3 years

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07_A Small Echo

First

The air was heavy and muffled, every step he took echoed. The reverberations strummed through the back of his thoughts, weighing on his senses. It was wading through deep water, the resistance heavy and he needed to be somewhere right now but no matter how much effort he put into each reaching step, the air itself restrained him. Confined his body in a tight coil, choking air from his lungs. His stride became heavier, he wasn’t sure how much further he could go, or if the next step would be the last he could endure.

At the end of the gnarled corridor a door loomed tall, watching him. A lone and massive eye judged his progress, as if daring his resolve to reach the handle and trip the lock. Something awaited him. Answers, possibly. All the answers he could ever want.

But the closer he came to the door, the harder his heart throbbed, the more intense the pressure of the everything around him. The colors became intense and their flavor palpable, tart and thin. If he reached the door though, it would be better. He was certain. It would be okay. Somehow, it would solve everything.

A methodical chime crooned, tallying down the moments that he had left. Warning him that what is set in motion cannot be undone. A trick.

His eyes snapped open, and he had to confront the delightful truth that he was not dead. Wonderful.

Out there somewhere, the rain drummed against the boards of a window. He was so tired of the rain, so weary of gasping on the mist and only being slightly damp, but never fully dried; of his clothing being an outer skin, rather a barrier against the vicious onslaught.

He dragged an arm beneath the stiff cloth and smacked himself in the face. Mask still there. He didn’t normally take it off for rest, it was strange his first impulse was check for it, though he felt it crumpled around his face. He tried breathing calmly, but his sides buzzed. It could have been so much worse, he was sure, but being thankful for anything wouldn’t improve his mood.

Should sleep? He had to find Her. The Six. Tower. She was there, he didn’t know if she was all right let alone alive, but he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t do anything until he found her. The thought stung his eyes, and he emitted a faint crooning. He wanted to be there, he so badly wanted to. But he was so lost, so hurt, and afraid they were both going to die. And he didn’t want to lose his friend. He let her down too many times. He let them all down.

Drawing on some pathetic refuse of energy, he pushed himself up from the weighted fabric and edged forward. It was unbearable now, but this wasn’t unusual. Once he got moving and warmed up, he wouldn’t notice the tears or breaks. It didn’t stop the tremors in his arms. Slow first. Be careful.

He was badly tangled up, and it took more effort than it was worth to just get his legs free. Where was he? He adjusted his mask and gave the area a look over.

A room.

Window. He heard that. Too high.

Some furniture. Good. Not a lot of shadows, no visible spaces or notches, but furniture was good. At least it could be moved, with some force and a slice of lunacy. Furniture made noises.

He was on a busted sofa, not his first choice. Absolute worst. A novice, idiot, suicidal choice. The sofa was not in the middle of the room, but it might as well have been. Across the room, a doorway. He took a deep breath and looked over to his side on the cushion. And tilted his head.

Foods. Bits of what looked like meat and some wafer things, piled onto a napkin. Reflexively he cowered, but his lesser sense of self-preservation won out. Injuries forgotten, he tore into the foods. Half gobbling and choking as he sought to breathe and eat altogether. The whole choreography never worked well, since food was a rarity and having the chance to eat the food you did secure was rarest of all. It did enter his mind that this wasn’t quite right, and so kept his eyes cast off, barely paying mind to what he was shoving into his mouth.

Until a creaking board sent him scuttling to the arm of the couch. He shoved the bag over his face and continued to gnaw, as he cast his eyes toward that doorway.

The tall thin man in the hat entered, with a deep bow. Mono swallowed and swayed on the chair arm, already letting his eyes dip to the floor. It wouldn’t take long to tear the place apart searching for him, though he did already connect up who brought him here, who left the food.

This was the worst situation. Horrible. He set another glare on the figure, as it positioned itself by the wall. Not near enough to warrant anxiety, but not far enough to be safe. Everything moved normally – the tall man was not alarmingly swift, and Mono was not crawling through the air. A plus there. Not likely to last, so he tensed up and watched.

The Thin Man shifted closer, and Mono climbed to the back of the sofa. He strafed along the wall, rooting for a gap between furniture and plaster where he could get down. There was none—

A harsh screech splint the room; intense and more punishing than thunder screams. He tumbled to the chair arm and clutched at his bag, the electrical pop whittled at his ears like a cold spike. No amount of huddling or defense was enough, he didn’t think he could stand much more….

“C̸̖̟̖͖̻̼͆͋̋̕͝ạ̷̢͎̖̬͇̗̃̽n̴̦̝͔̲̎̿̆̀̍͑͜ ̴̬́̌̈̔̔̈́͋́̈́ý̸̙̜͕̯̟͓͉͇͚͇̈́́́́̒͐̍̒̉͝ơ̵̝͈̝̼̜͓̥̩̺͙̲͔̮̅̆̾͑̀͋͂̔̒͒̌̕͠ͅu̸͓̗̯̮̹͔͎͈͍̥̪̻̐͑͗͆̉͋̓́̽͌̊͗̚͝͝ understand me?”

Mono perked and tilted his head. Yes he… could. The ideal that he could put connection to the speek, given that it was his speek, was most worrisome of all. It was altogether, and with the way the adult always seemed to know where he would appear, and set a trap. This was wrong and concerning, and told him how little his chance for escape was.

He tumbled over the sofa arm to the nightstand and dropped to the floor, then, set himself beneath the piece of furniture. Now on the floor, he cast his eyes around searching for something more promising. If he could slip out of view for a few seconds….

“You want help to your… ‘friend’. Yes?”

Mono hissed in his throat but kept silent, instead opting to shake his head. The floorboards creaked with that terrible familiarity, and he poked his head up. No place to run. No place to hide. The man in the hat was thoroughly focused on him. Bad.

“You could resist, but chose didn’t. No fight.” The child glanced his way, and then back to the floor, rooting for fresh cover. “You should be dead, do think?”

Mono couldn’t stop his lips from twitching. Think he didn’t know that. Of course! This wasn’t fair. He pressed his head against the leg of the nightstand and crouched down. Should run? Floor open. No cover. Flee.

“Twice over,” the Thin Man posed. As reply, the child scooted further around the table leg. “It’s not like you to give up. It’s not what you’re made of.”

Mono tucked his head down. The Thin Man leaned over, peering under the table and trying to find the tell-tale mask.

“What is it then? You’re running out of chances.” The child muttered a sound. “Come again?”

“Want back,” he wheezed. “Want back her.” He coughed, more from shock than the discomfort of trying so hard to make words when it was not safe.

“Well, that won’t do. She belongs to the tower now. As do I.” And an unspoken, as do you. “You forfeited your time for negotiations.”

Mono poked his head up. “For-feet?”

“Gave up.” He reached to the napkin on the sofa and picked out a piece of wafer, and held it out for the child. Mono skittered behind the table legs, pressing into the walls surface. His gaze darted up, inspecting the hand and the figure beyond it. “You will need your—”

Faster than a whip, Mono snatched the bread and inhaled it. The Thin Man wondered if he was lucky to have kept his arm.

“Why take? Why is her stole?” Mono continued to dip and paw at the wall beneath the furniture, distressed and unable to keep still. His flight instincts on overdrive, but he hadn’t the opening to safeguard his exit.

“I’m not keeping you here,” the Thin Man offered. “But I won’t let you enter the tower.” He moved back from the table and gestured the room. “This place is on the outskirts of the city. You are miles and miles away from your goal.”

Mono crept out from behind the nightstand, checking the tall thin man and then dropped his eyes to the floor level. There was only the one doorway. “Then have start again. So what?”

This child…. “I said miles. Miles. Do you know how far a lone mile is? How much abuse and setbacks did you suffer, to come within a city block?”

“Don’t care.” Mono shrugged. While the adult was turned away, he clambered up the sofa side and bounded across the cushions. “She trapped. I’m not leave, especially friends.”

This idiot child. “You single-minded, stubborn, relentless fool. You are going to destroy yourself.”

Mono stood there and actually bristled, fists clutched by his hips. “So. WHAT? Hurt more in to leave! That desT-Roy me! S’not right!”

But he did have a point. As their twisting paradox was uncontestable, so was this urge to… do something. Anything. Even if it was self-destructive. Children didn’t know any better.

“I have an obligation to remove you,” the Thin Man cautioned as he wound back, the air vibrating with the sinister static. “If you insist on being a nuisance about it.”

Mono climbed back over to the nightstand, the piece of furniture swayed under his weight. As if the floor might’ve shifted during his absence, he once more skimmed below. “You won’t though.”

This tiresome child. “And what makes you so… assured?” In response, the child held up three fingers.

“Caught, woke up.” He set down the third finger. “Gave foods.” He leaned backwards over the armchair, looking down at the scraps.

The Thin Man tipped his head. “Is that really all it takes to gain your trust?”

“No….” Mono plucked at the callouses on his finger with his teeth, removing splinters. “I get friend mine back, and you won’t work stop me.” He turned the bag, so that it lowered and the eye holes peered at the Thin Man. “You for-feit?”

The Thin Man frowned. “No. I expected more from you. I anticipa— was prepared for the different outcome.” Mono’s response was lift his shoulders.

“Let me go the tower.”

Sighing, he tried once more. “It will destroy you. There will be nothing left of you, of who you are, strange child. You cease to exist, once you enter.”

Mono looked away, and he could almost picture the concerned twitch of his eyebrows as the strange child examined the room over. “I think… would okay to that.”

“ Wͪͩ̍̋Hͤ͛Y̆̊͆̊̈́͛͒!̵ͬͬ̌̆͂̍҉ ” His shout made the boy dive off the couch and flatten himself into the nearest corner of the room, where he huddled, his paper mask gawking. But given a moment and no action, the child calmed by a small amount. He continued to fidget and inch back. It took a minute longer for a response.

“I don’t believe. You are lie. And I to have do myself.” He shoved his hand up under the bag and rubbed at his cheeks. “Have nothing… else. I, um….” He curled down into the corner, hugging scrawny knees to his chest and trying not to look at the Thin Man. There was probably more he could say, but he didn’t know how to convey it.

It was painful. He didn’t do enough. It was his fault. He had to fix this. Was it fixable? She probably hated him, he was taking so long. She could be dead. He might never see her again. He did this. He should be dead. He could fix this. It should’ve been him, not her. This wasn’t fair.

The Thin Man sighed through the static and brought a hand to his face. The action caused Mono to recoil a bit, though there was no longer space for him to creep into. “Very well. I admit, I am curious to witness how you go about this. If you so desire, I will escort you.”

Quietly, Mono inquired, “You think can I stole back?”

“No.” He spun away, moving to the doorway. “As stated, your life will end there, and that is the sum of it. But I am exhausted of this fantasy.” He turned back when Mono remained rooted. “Are you coming?”

Mono tugged at his coat, gaping at the tall man in the hat, but unresponsive. At last he did uncoil, and bounded right over to the sofa cushion where the food was abandoned. He kept his shoulder to the Thin Man as he chewed on the remnants, then plucked up as many of the crumbs as possible until there was hardly any dust left. Cautiously, he climbed off the sofa, and gave his coat a shake off.

“Any time now.”

Mono finished checking his coat for snags or loose bits, then tentatively walked over to the Thin Man. Not getting too close, but near enough he could peer up and announce his preparedness with an unreadable expression. The Thin Man stooped and entered into the corridor. He was certain Mono was right behind him, though he couldn’t hear the footfalls at all. Children had ways of vanishing once a gaze was dropped. But he knew without a doubt the child would find his way to the Signal Tower, as he was initially instructed.

If not for Mono’s retaliation in the first place, and in his inability to destroy his youth, that all along was the primary goal. That was all that mattered. Deliver him, replace himself. Either way, the events twisted in a manner the Tower demanded. But he was curious now to see how this hitch in the pathways worked, and what its finality would mean. It would be interesting nonetheless.

Might as well bend the paradox further.

#little nightmares #mono fanfic #little nightmares fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #spoilers?#mono #the thin man #the man in the hat #the tall thin man #little nightmares fanfiction #mono fanfiction

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starfirette · 4 years

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Hello! Can u please write Helena Bertinelli with a Fem!reader tomboy that's a muay thai fighter and look like super cool and cold,but in the apartment its a very soft and lovely girlfriend with Helena? (And how the birds will react when them met her) Thank you,I Love you writing and HELENA IS SUCH A BAE!!! THIS GAL NEED MORE LOVE AND SUPPORT!❤

masterlist | word count: who fucking knows | 🏷 @kurreapormaranet @emofairygay | a/n: ;0 There are some things you might want to look up on youtube so you have a general idea of what’s happening. Clinch positions, tactical stand ups, thips

The rink’s seats filled massively, stretching to every wall that bounced the cheering back and forth.

The overall mission seemed simple, but it had Helena dreading this moment since Harleen explained what needed to happen.

The trust fund brat of the devilish Rossini family kidnapped the Rossini’s pride and joy: their little baby girl, Ayala. Ayala Rossini, four years old, is the Brat’s younger half sister and the new written in heir of the Rossini fortune. The Brat, Carmen, had been written out of the will after she kidnapped the new little bird Batman was keeping under his wing. She’d been sloppy and left behind all marks of her family’s (unbeknownst) involvement. She made serval costly mistakes which included Batman’s uncovering of the Rossini family’s plans of Gotham, Star, and Jump city. Half the family became arrested.

Carmen was all but disowned by her father, whom she already resented for marrying another woman so quick after the death of her mother. To get her revenge, she kidnapped Ayala.

So, Mr and Mrs Rossini employed Harley and her rag tag team of anti-hero thugs.

To get Ayala back, the girls would have to go undercover.

Their heroic deed would get them 30k each, so that was good enough. The Rossinis are precise and focuses; they’d been willing to pay as much as they had to in order to ensure the safety of their little crime lord baby.

Now Harley had her connections. She knew a guy who knew a guy who saw a friend with a girl outside of the 31 Flavors ice cream shoppe, and this girl just happened to know that Carmen spends her free time hosting epic fights in the secret tunnels of Smallville.

It’s a long ways away from Gotham, but is a perfect place to host such gatherings. The fights are frightfully violent and brutal. Also very illegal. No one would ever know that beneath the wheat and corn fields of Lil’ Ol’ Smallville county lays an intricate mafia maze.

Carmen Rossini is notorious for entertaining the winners to a “fine dinner with wine”. The rumors go that she runs an entire harem of Thai Fighting women, using them for sexual favors and personal security.

The entire mission is actually depending on that rumor.

The plan was to send in Dinah as a participant in the rink and hope she would win and earn the attention of Carmen.

But then Dinah got bronchitis. It was a nasty case, too, in which she wouldn’t stop coughing and hacking up green stuff into tissues.

The entire thing would have been called off if you hadn’t admitted that you are, in fact, trained in Muay Thai.

You’re positive that Helena would have rather kept this a secret, because she doesn’t like putting you in harms way. It’s a nuisance to have the world’s most protective girlfriend. Heaven forbid you even get a paper cut, else she’d make you wear rubber gloves while you read a book.

The entire group (save Helena) jumped for the chance to replace Dinah with you. You’d do perfect, Harley said, sounding so confident.

You intended to be flawless in the ring.

You’d not competed since high school, when Muay Thai was still just a recreational hobby. You’d had your wins and losses, but that was before you grew up to spend majority of your time fighting mafia crime lords.

Once Dinah officially relinquished her role of the mission, you took to the heavy bags. The repetitions became intense and harsh in the following weeks. You spent every night limping into bed.

Your sweet whispers that begged Helena for a soothing massage fell onto her deaf ears. She is stubborn, and she had been attempting to force you out of this competition since the day you’d agreed to it.

You were not afraid of Carmen, or anyone else she’d make you fight against. For the sake of the little Ayala, you would do this. Besides, you tell yourself, what’s the worst that could happen? With the Birds and their abilities, there isn’t much that could happen.

Nothing would slide through the cracks.

Hopefully.

The day did come faster than you’d imagined, though. The drive to Smallville was tense, especially in the backseat where Helena was frostily ignoring you.

Harleen was road raging, passing every trucker on the two way road that didn’t exceed 65 miles an hour.

“You know the speed limit is 45, right?” Montoya asked after she had taken a long drag of a cigarette. She had her legs propped up on the dash. Between her and Harley sat Cass, who was oblivious to the chaos around her as she sang along to a pop Spanish song. “Yeah, and?” Harley quipped. She cast her bright eyes towards Montoya, a wicked smile playing on her lips.“You gonna arrest me?”

Montoya couldn’t do much but sigh in defeat. If Harley didn’t mind crashing, then she didn’t either.

Between the bickering and the loud singing of the three front passengers, you and Helena were sitting silently in the very back seats. Your head was leaned up against the window which rattled as the tires of Harley’s ‘64 Starfire rolled across the gravely road.

Helena had been refusing to speak to you since the fight you got into last night. It was a real fight. She’s made it clear that she’s against you fighting in Carmen’s ring, and is especially against you joining her harem.

You’d first thought she was afraid of disloyalty; you had promised her that you wouldn’t ever cheat on her, even if it was for a mission. But it became revealed that’s not what Helena was worried about.

She feared for your life. She fears for your life every single day. No matter how small of a task, she can’t help but worry. She lost her mother, father, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles; everyone. She’d been so helpless. She could only watch as she became the sole Bertinelli.

Helena couldn’t live on if something happened to you.

The fight ended on a confusing note. It didn’t end, per say, and you two did sleep in the same bed. However, neither of you has said a word to each other. You tried this morning, but she’d given you the snippy, cold shoulder.

As much as you hate putting her through so much anxiety, you know that you can’t back down. A girl’s life is at stake; it’s not the money you care about. Not to mention Carmen Rossini is about to make the top 50 worst criminals in Gotham County.

Harley rolled the car to a stop around a patch of gravel and dust. Everyone climbs out, rocks crunching under their shoes as they stretch and look around.

“Where is it?” Cass asks, shoving her hands in the pockets of her loose denim jacket. Her chapped lips are stained blue from the tootsy pop that she’d crunched on in the car. The soggy stick now hung from her lips, as if she had been imitating Montoya’s cigarette.

Harley locked, double checked, then re locked, then triple checked her car. She turned around, using her hands to shield her vision as she scanned the open wheat fields. “Dunno,” she admitted. “I guess I supposed someone woulda been here to meet us.”

You shifted on your feet. You wanted to try and make Helena happy before you’d at least go inside and get in the ring. The only issue is, she’ll only be happy if your forfeit now.

You would not.

Across the way, by a few yards at most, a rustling came through the wheat that came at least up to your hips.

A young man emerged; he approached the Birds with a guarded look that furrowed his thick, blond eyebrows. “You are Carmen’s guests, yes?”

He spoke with a thick accent. His honey blond hair contrasted his coffee brown features. He had a handsome face with a strong jaw, but something about him seemed off. He seemed intimidated despite being taller and broader than most.

“We are,” you answered for the Birds. “I am Y/n. I am the contestant.”

The man beckons you all forward. Helena glared at him, her hand steadily tapping the outside of her thigh. She was prepared to draw her gun and shoot anyone that could get in her way. In your way.

You tasted a bitter foam in your mouth as you attempted to stop Helena without raising too much attention.

“We––I––am here for the Carmen’s...event.”

The honey blond man tallied the Birds on his fingers, visibly distressed. “I do not thinka’ Miss Rossini expected so many of you...”

After a brief, strangled silence, the man shook his head and waved his arm along to escort you. “The bunker is just this way,” he explained. Harley and Cass walked after him.

Helena meets your eyes. Her gaze is firm, and maybe even angry. No way could you defuse that situation while still heading into the rink.

The wheat and grass crunched under your boots as you marched across the pace-by-pace clearing. A trap door in the ground lifted up swiftly, silently, as if they grease the hinges every damn day.

You remembered how this turned out for Suzie Salmon; casting one more look over your shoulder, you assured yourself with the presence of Helena.

Down the hatch, under the ground, you, Harley, Cass, Helena, and Mr Cannoli over here shuffled down the hall to a big dressing room. The entire layout felt more like a stadium then an underground crime rink. The dressing room has lush sofas and fur blankets; in the corner a SodaStream is mounted on an Ikea book table.

“Miss Rossini will join you shortly,” Cannoli-guy told you, nodding his head regally. He bowed out of the room, shutting the heavy oak door after him.

Cass jumped on the sofa. She sprawled out over the furs, kicking her muddy Chuck Taylors up. “Luxury.”

Harley snipped to Cass to get her dirty little feet off the merchandise.

You took a seat in the swivel chair in front of the large mirror. It looked like pure Broadway with the heavy lightbulbs that wreathed the glass.

“Can’t say they don’t know how to entertain a guest,” Harley squealed as she migrated to the SodaStream. “They got homemade cream soda!”

Cass jumped off the sofa to run after Harley.

Instead of facing you, Helena took a heavy seat on the couch. Her legs spread out, looking spectacularly muscular in her tight, black pants.

Unfortunately, you’re too annoyed with her to go lounge in her lap.

As much as you’d like to make amends, you know the only way to do that would be to back down. You’re going into that rink.

The door flew open at the second Harley had poured herself and Cassie a drink.

Carmen Rossini strutted in and you stared in awe. You tried not to let your jaw drop. Tall, voluptuous. Her hair is wavy auburn, her eyes deepest green.

She looked at you immediately. Reaching out for you as if you were the messiah, she chuckled. “You’re even cuter in person! Oh, sweetie, you––you do know how to drive a hard bargain. Your agent Harleen contacted me, where is she?”

Harley waved her hand from the corner. “That would be me. Ain’t Y/n a real figure?”

Scowling, Helena crossed her legs. She glared up at Carmen, and you remembered that Carmen is doing what Helena hates the most; complimenting you.

It’s not so much that Helena doesn’t like that you receive compliments; it’s just that she prefers giving them to you.

“I’m so happy to see you all here tonight,” Carmen said, clapping her hands loudly. “There’s nothing more exciting than tonight’s event. Did you know,” she cooed as she ‘boop’ed your nose, “that I’ve got people betting about two million dollars that you’ll win? I am so, so pleased that you’ve chosen to make your debut in my arena.”

You nod, your neck stiff. “I guess I’m excited?” you mumbled.

Carmen snapped her fingers. She signaled to one of her lackies to come forward. A box Is presented at your feet.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought you a little something. A uniform of your own, courtesy of moi. Don’t you love it? I had your photos analyzed by a fashion expert, and they designed your shorts to compliment you perfectly.”

The high waisted, Thai shorts are a deep ivory shade, with black flowers sewn into the design. They’re the most beautiful Thai shorts you’d ever seen! Your own were cute, but simple, considering that you didn’t usually think to be a fashionista while working out.

“They’re amazing,” you admitted. Over the top? Definitely. Did you expect anything else? Honestly, you’re not sure. You weren’t sure what to expect.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Carmen, as she smiled, reached into the deep pocket of her red silk kimono-blouse. In her hands is a thickly wound prajoud, made of fine threads and paracord. The black and red jumped out at you like an old friend.

“I hope I got the rank right?”

“You did,” you say as you took the prajad from Carmen. “I could have brought my own if you’d asked.”

“It’s really not a big deal, my darling,” Carmen purred. She ran her hand through your hair, taking note of the silky feeling of each strand. “I will be watching. There will be people outside the door waiting to escort you to the arena when you’re done dressing.”

Her fingers are heavy with her bejeweled rings. The heavy tear shaped gems get tangled in your hair.

“You have ten minutes,” Carmen adds.

Helena glowered after her as she flitted out of the room. Her heels clacked down the hallway following the click of the door shutting in place.

Montoya took a long drag of her cigarette before she chortled.“You just gonna let her mark her territory like that?”

Helena didn’t say anything.

“Oi, Katniss,” Harley said loudly.

Helena’s cloudy eyes finally look to her friend. “What?”

“Carmen Rossini basically stole Y/n from you, and you let her!”

As you pulled out of your jeans, you sent Harley a little glare. “No one owned me to begin with,” you snapped.

“Hey, I’m all for women’s rights,” Harley exclaimed. “But it just seemed like—,”

“I know what it seemed like,” you snapped. “That’s the entire goddamn point, isn’t it? Get in her good graces?”

Case choked back her soda. “If that’s your idea of getting in Carmen’s creepy ‘good graces’ you gotta do better than that. You didn’t act sexy or flirt back at all!”

Helena stood to her feet. She brushed down the front of her black zip-up sweater. “I’m waiting outside,” she declares before stomping out with a frown wrung on her mouth.

Harley grimaced as the door slammed shut.

“Kid, come on,” Montoya sighed.

“I’m right,” Cass scowled. “You know that I am. We knew from the start that in order to get the little girl back, sexual favors would probably have to be granted.”

You pulled up your shorts. “Can everyone shut up?” You asked.

“What’s that?” Cass proceeded to ask, given she couldn’t talk about Carmen anymore. She pointed at the arm band that lay over the counter.

“Prajoud,” you tell her. Thank you pulled out of tour shirt. The heavy duty sports bra was already in place, but it gave you major uniboob.

“What does it do?” Cass asked again. Unable to contain her curiosity, she grabbed it off the vanity and fiddled with it.

“It’s like a belt,” you explained. “Instead of wearing a black belt, I wear a black prajad.”

“Who come up with that?” Cass asked.

“Uhm, Thai people?” Harley said as though it should be obvious. She snorted and jerked her thumb towards Cass. “Get a load of this guy.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s alright to ask questions, guys, just try not to be annoying. ‘M a little stressed out already.”

Harley took a final gulp of her soda. “Well, I guess we know who’s not getting action tonight. And that’s Y/n!”

“Why is Helena so upset anyways? Because Carmen was flirting?”

“No,” Harley explained. “See, she’s angry because Y/n’s going out and doing this fight, one, without asking her to begin with, two, for some other little kid, and three, with a evil Italian mafia tigress. She’s projecting her childhood fear that she’ll never be able to protect anyone she loves. She’s also rash, irritable, and possessive, so it’s just a cherry on top that the plan includes Y/n using her charms to sway Carmen.”

“Bravo,” you plainly say. “It’s almost like you’re a doctor or something.”

“Yeah,” Harley grinned. “Or something.”

You pulled the prajad over your forearm. You pulled the band tight, holding the laces in your mouth so you could knot it tight with one hand. You looked in the mirror, unsure of what to think of yourself.

You kicked your boots off next.

In socks, you turned to look at Harley and Cass. “Let’s do this,” you sighed.

Helena had been waiting loyally outside, leaned up against the jamb. Her eyes flitted up and down your figure, before rolling up towards the ceiling. “Let’s do this,” you said, sounding as if you’d already lost.

Marching down the hall in tow of the honey blond Italian, you tried to make eye contact with Helena. She was good at ignoring you. You’re not sure if it’s because she’s angry, stressed, or both.

Riddled with anxiety, you wish that she would look at you, or hold your hand at the very least.

At the entrance of the arena, you could see it was filled massively to the brim of its walls. You hadn’t realized how far underground you really are until you looked at the expansive seating. The rink’s seats filled massively, stretching to every wall that bounced the cheering back and forth.

You stepped to the stairs that wound up to the cage. You could smell the sweat and the matts; above the sound of the crowd cheering, you could hear your blood rushing fast in your ears.

“Find Ayala,” you muttered in Harley’s ears. “I don’t want to be here longer than we have to be.”

Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief, but they were momentairly dulled by a silent question. “I thought...?”

“No,” you said firmly. “We shouldn’t be here any longer than we have to be,” you tell her. “I’ll stay here, I’ll do my thing; you take everyone and look for that girl. If you’re not done by the time the match is over, I’ll distract Carmen.”

Harley couldn’t respond by the time you were dragged up the stairs. Outside the cage’s gate, you were given a little table at which you could rest at. It had a pitcher of ice water, some glasses, a washcloth, and a bottle of brandy. You took a large drink of the brandy first. You peeled off your socks.

It felt like a blur as you stepped into the cage.

Your opponent was your size; she looked your weight, too. You suppose that’s fair, at least. It’s not like in the movies. The real competitions are done by weight and height.

You turned your head to give one last glance to your friends.

Helena stood beyond the cage, her hand resting over the gun holster. Her eyes were fixated on you.

You had to look away.

Tying your hair up in a tight bun, you walked out onto the mat. Your opponent did the same; meeting you half way, you two shook hands.

You didn’t exchange names; that would only make it harder.

“The rules,” a voice boomed around the stadium, “are there are no weapons to be permitted in the arena. Please watch as the fighters return to their corners then begin the match on the sound of the bell. The match will consist of two rounds, each lasting seven minutes.”

You hovered in the corner of the cage. You stretched and jogged in place. You have enough training for this. You do. You know that you can do it; hopefully, you will.

The bell rang. You take a massive sprint out into the middle of the ring where your opponent had already paced out.

You wound up a punch. Your feet lifted off the mat as you leap into the air, and you delivered the blow to the side of her face.

Her teeth crunched under the impact. It was such a hit that you saw it spew out of her mouth, and hit the cage.

The crowd exploded into a frenzy.

Hovering at your face your hands remained in constant motion. Her kicks were well calculated and her movements tactical. She gave away all of her tricks, though, by looking twice at the target she would next go for. If she looked at your side once too many times, you would crouch and use your arms to block your ribcage.

The sweat that built up made the more precise attacks difficult. Your punch began sliding off her face, keeping you staggering forward, and in her wide open range.

You were struck once, twice, then thrice on your left cheek. It sent blood and saliva dribbling down your chin.

Your prajad began to slip as you struggled to regain your balance.

The girl’s long leg extended forward. Her foot jabbed a strong thip into the center of your stomach, practically digging against your bladder.

The bell rang, then, marking the end of the first round.

You fell into your corner with a wheezing gasp. You crawled for the little table. You drank directly from the pitcher.

You looked back to the crowd, half expecting to see a flash of unfamiliar faces.

Helena still remained at the ringside. Her hands are clenched through the cage, and her eyes are desperate to meet yours. You were confused. Why hadn’t she left with Harley? Did Harley not need her? Or did she want to stay and watch?

You felt stronger with her just a few yards away.

You staggered to your legs, where your knees wobbled like jello on a plate.

The two minutes of rest time had ended, and the bell rang once more. You slid back rather than go for her first.

She sauntered to you like a bear, her shoulders hunched and her fists close to her face. She swung hooks and uppercuts that you could just barely dodge. You were close to slipping backwards a few times.

“Y/n, watch out!” Helena shouted suddenly.

You couldn’t see the girl racing towards you like a battering ram through your blurry vision. Her fist slammed over your temple. You swore you could feel your brain tumbling around your skull as you fell to the floor.

You clutched your ear with your bare hands. Pain gushed out of you like water. You thought you could see it, visibly, as it poured down bright green and crystalline.

It wasn’t there; it was the spots dancing in front of you. Disorientation is a real bitch.

One tactical standup later, you’re back up on your feet. You pushed yourself forward, forcing the remaining energy you had out of your hands. You grabbed the girl by her long pony tail and dragged her into a tight clinch. She attempted to swim out of it; the friction of her wrists against your neck burned.

You tugged her down, driving a sharp knee into her stomach. She stayed in your clinch for a long time, gasping for air as she couldn’t evade the knees. You finally released her. She staggers back. She falls onto her ass, visibly shaken up and at a loss for breath.

The crowd began to scream at you. Some did a countdown, others urged the other girl to get back up.

It was too late for her.

The bell rang, marking the end of the seven minutes, as well as the second round. She had lost, and you had won.

You limped towards her. Despite your own pain, you lifted the girl onto her feet.

“Good game?” she rasped.

“Hell yeah,” you wheezed.

It felt like the ultimate orgasm to go back and gulp down the water. The cold, damp washcloth made a good compress for your busted lip. You judged by the twitching of your left eyelid that you had a pretty sizable welt there.

Helena ran to meet you as you limped down the stairs out of the cage. She threw her arms around you tightly. “You’re alright,” she gasped.

You tried to hug her back. Your arm hung loosely over her lower back as you tried to laugh. “Did you doubt that I would be?” you asked her. “Where’s Harley and Cass? Montoya?”

“They went to find the girl,” Helena said in your ear. “I couldn’t leave you...I had to stay and watch. I had to make sure.”

She pressed a kiss into the crook of your neck. “Let’s go,” you said firmly, “before Carmen comes for us.”

Helena helped you leave the arena. By the time you vanished, the stadium was already announcing it’s second match, featuring a woman named Selina. The people went into a hectic frenzy of excitement when Selina’s name was announced over the speakers. You knew as you were walking out she would never be able to escape this place.

Honey-blond-haired Italian guy jogged to keep up with you. “Miss Carmen asks that you wait in the dressing room,” he called out. “Yeah, yeah,” Helena called out. “We’ll be there.”

He followed you down the hallway, keeping several paces back to maintain a steady watching distance. He paused as he watched you and Helena head straight into the dressing room.

Sitting on the sofa inside is Harley, Cass, and a little girl sleeping in Harley’s arms. You were shocked. For a four year old girl, Ayala was incredibly small and fragile looking. Her olive skin and auburn hair is just like her elder sister’s. The hollows beneath her eyes are dark and colored by her greenish veins.

“Let’s scadadle,” Harley hissed as she rose to her feet, though struggling to keep Ayala in her arms.

You all rushed out of the hallway, quickly as to make it before Carmen could come back from the arena.

“Where’s the exit?” Cass asked.

“It’s this way,” Helena says. She pointed straight down the hallway. “The car’s waiting for us above the trap door.”

“Yeah, unless someone stole it,” Cass mocked. “What if we get locked in? Like in Hotel California?”

You could hardly begin to understand what Cass was saying. Her words were jumbles of sounds and her figure a blur of her dark hair and red jacket.

“We’re not getting locked in,” Harley exclaimed. “Let’s just get outta here!”

Helena climbed up the ladder first. She punched the door up, then open. “Give me the kid,” she said quietly.

Harley struggled to lift Ayala up.

Helena scooped her easily into her strong arms. Ayala stirred awake and whined as she became more and more aware. “I want to go home,” she mumbled, her voice quiet and empty.

“We’re taking you home, pumpkin,” Helena assured the little girl. “I’ve got you.”

As Cass was going up the ladder, a loud clatter arose down the tunnel. “Uh oh, spaghetti-os,” Harley whistled. She pushed you up the ladder next. “I’ll meet you guys up there,” she promised, sounding entirely confident. “Montoya,” she whistled between her teeth. “Feel like doing some target practice?”

It was the first time all day that Montoya smiled.

As you climbed up, you heard Harley’s shrill laugh between the shots of two, little handguns.

“Into the car,” you wheezed to Cassie. She looped her arms around your waist to help you limp into your seat. “Buckled in?” you heard Helena ask the little girl. She looked so shy despite all that’s going on. The curls of her hair were brushed behind her ear as Helena held her tightly. “You’re going back to your parents.”

Harley came running out seconds later. “Let’s get this show on the road,” she exclaimed.

“You have the keys!” Cassie shouted back.

Harley jumped into the drivers seat. She honked the horn loudly. “Renee, let’s move it!”

Montoya was limping a few feet away, struggling to keep up Harley’s pace. She crawled inside and as soon as she did, Harley pressed the gas, and sped away.

“Smoking is so bad for you, you know that, right?” Harley chastised. “Maybe if you just used the nicotine patches I bought you for Christmas, then you wouldn’t have so much trouble keeping up with us.”

“Take the patches,” Montoya huffed, “and shove them up your ass.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. You leaned back into the headrest of the rear seats. Helena held Ayala beside you, stroking her hair gently as she held her cellphone to Ayala’s ear. Her parents were on the other end, and you could hear the cries of relief.

You met Helena’s gaze, and you managed a smile on your busted mouth.

“I love you,” you mouth to her.

“I love you, too,” she replied.

#helena bertinelli x reader #helena bertinelli imagine #my helena babes #crossbow killer #crossbow killer x reader #huntress x reader #huntress imagine #dceu imagine #dceu x reader #birds of prey x reader #birds of prey imagine #birds of prey #mary elizabeth winstead #starfirette writes

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izzy-b-hands · 4 years

Text

Ink

Consider this like a future snapshot in the Get Down timeline, all the way up into current times. The reader (our same trans reader from You Send Me) has kept up the poly monogamous relationship with the band, as well as working as part of the road crew in addition to various freelance work in the downtime between tours. In this particular captured moment, it’s Roger to the rescue to give the reader a few moments of relaxation.

Also, written a bit because I’m in love with his tattoos, and would die to have a chance to talk ink and the stories behind them with him.

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

The agreement was fairly simple; Roger split his time as he wanted and as he was able between yourself and Sarina, more often with Sarina. It worked out well though, since you spent a great deal of your time on various tasks for your own career, writing for yourself and others and for the various freelance assignments you took on whenever Queen didn’t need you for tours.

But on occasion, nights like tonight were good.

Sarina had texted you to let you know he was on the way, but it was still faster than you expected that your doorbell rang.

“You need a break,” he said as he walked inside, and took stock of your less-than-clean flat. “Have you done anything aside from work in the last few days?”

You tried to casually tuck away the pile of first, second, third, and onwards handwritten drafts that were stacked messily on the floor near the couch. “Of course I have!”

He gestured to the basket of clean laundry in the hall. “You do know laundry doesn’t count, right? That’s just different work.”

“It’s necessary work, like the writing,” you protested weakly.

“Right,” he said. “But have you sat down and done...nothing? Watched a show, taken a breath, relaxed?”

You shrugged. “How important is that answer, really? How about I get us something to drink, and you sit down?”

“With that, you made it even more important,” Roger replied. “What about food?”

“No,” you muttered weakly, but he was already at the fridge. “In my defense, I have a lot of rice, and it has to be eaten up eventually...”

“Dinner, a movie, and relaxing,” he said, shutting the fridge door, shaking his head at the lack of contents in it. “Those are your only goals for tonight, alright? No arguing with me.”

“I don’t argue,” you said.

He smirked. “Really?”

You opened your mouth, then paused. Any rebuttal was just that-arguing. And you truly didn’t want to argue with him. It wasn’t that relaxing sounded bad, but all the same, you had work to do, and the flat could seemingly never be clean enough-

His hands slipped to your waist and interrupted your train of thought. “You aren’t saying anything, but you’re doing it now, that thing. Where you want to argue, but you don’t, and there’s one hundred other ‘buts’ in your head, running at a million miles a minute. Let yourself stop for the night, take things one minute at a time.”

You nodded, but he laughed. “Your laptop is still on, isn’t it?”

“In my room. I’ve got I don’t know how many things open right now, for work, and then just for myself, and a coworker needed help on something and I couldn’t say no, you know how it is-”

“Go turn it off,” he interrupted, and gave you the gentlest push towards your bedroom. “Go on. Then you come back out here, and we’re figuring out dinner. Actual dinner, real food, not rice and whatever sauce you’ve had in the cupboard for the last year.”

“It was only six months old!” you shouted down the hall. “And I froze the left overs, so it lasts that long!”

“You’re lucky you aren’t sick!” came his reply, and you knew he was at least slightly right. In theory, most things kept decently when frozen, but leftover sauces like alfredo maybe weren’t meant to be in that category. Or used with rice, for that matter.

You saved your various drafts as quickly as you could, your laptop fans whining and hot to the touch, and attempted to spruce up your bedroom before heading back out to him.

He had laid himself on your couch, the stack of drafts retrieved from where you had shoved them almost underneath it, a few pages of them in his hands. “These are good. Just because, or for something else?”

“Someone else,” you said. “A commission that I’m behind on, actually. It needs work.”

“I think maybe you need to take your eyes off of it for a few days,” he said. “Because to me, who has literally never seen it before, it’s good. And you know I don’t toss that out for everything.”

You shrugged. “It’s getting there.”

He sighed. “Come lay down. Come on, look at you. Tense as can be, tired. The world won’t end if you lay with me for the next ten minutes.”

You settled down beside him on the couch, and tried to relax, to stop the constant running tally of things you needed to start, needed to finish, needed to fix so that they could be considered finished.

“I can feel your heart speeding when you’re overthinking things,” he whispered. “Just a few seconds, for me. Think of nothing.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” you admitted.

“Then think of something other than work,” he said. “What about the last time all of us went to Japan, hm?”

“That was nice,” you hummed. “Busy, but what tour isn’t?”

He nodded. “In particular, I’m thinking of the afternoon you fell asleep in the garden of that house we rented. Do you remember that?”

“Vaguely,” you smiled. “I was so out of it the rest of that night though. But it was a really good nap. Not too warm or too cold, and the rain...”

“I won a decent amount off of Adam with that,” he chuckled. “He was so sure the rain would be the thing to wake you up. I told him that was a bad bet to make; he was so confident though...ah well. He’s learned now, hasn’t he?”

“That I can sleep anywhere if I’m tired enough?” you asked, fighting to keep your eyes open.

“Yeah,” Roger smiled as your fingers traced the lines of the tattoo on his arm. “Speaking of...what’s a round estimate of the hours you’ve slept in the last week? Fully slept, I mean, not interrupted by work or anything else.”

You held up a hand.

“Five?”

“Give or take a few,” you mumbled.

“Jesus,” he sighed. “You know, you can sleep now. Dinner can wait.”

“But you’re probably hungry, and if you give me a minute-”

He shushed you, and his other hand dropped over your eyes. “Rest, old man.”

“I’m not old,” you protested. “I’m younger than you by a bit, and you aren’t old.”

“I’m not old?” he laughed. “I’m certainly not young.”

“You’re always young to me,” you murmured. “All of you. Freddie and Jim too, if they were still here. Young and ready to get into trouble. Just because your hair has gone white or gray, doesn’t matter. All I see are those young men, somehow made of boundless energy and talent and intelligence, who I could keep up with on a good day if I made an effort.”

“That makes you young then too,” Roger said decisively after a moment. “Family might argue with us some on this-”

“Young people that haven’t gotten old enough to understand this yet,” you interrupted. “They’ll learn.”

“You say that,” Roger said, and you felt him slip his arm from under your neck as he got off the couch. “And yet you still don’t eat enough, or sleep enough, or take enough breaks.”

“I’ll learn eventually too,” you muttered, eyes still shut, aching back curled against the couch to fill the open space he left. “Are you coming back? I won’t be able to sleep if you don’t come back.”

“I think you’ll be able to,” Roger said. “But yes, I will.”

---

He didn’t keep his promise, but the scent of warm food made you forgive him.

“I thought this might be a decent alarm clock,” he said, helping you up off the couch despite your protests. “Pizza, because then I know you’ll have leftovers to eat for the next few days.”

“If you send Sarina over here with food-”

“I don’t send her, she sends herself,” he said. “You know that. Like it or not, everyone keeps their eye on you when they can. Hell, if I sent a group message out to everyone now, you’d probably end up with food for weeks.”

“Oh lord, please don’t,” you said. “It would be very sweet, don’t get me wrong-”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “But then they’d worry over you and you don’t like it when people worry over you. I won’t, but you might get another pizza sent to you randomly next week.”

“Randomly? And anonymously too, I’m sure?”

“Well I don’t know if Brian would tell you or not that he was doing it, but he might, if only to tell you that I told him to send you one,” Roger grinned.

You shook your head. “You’re all ridiculous, you know that?”

“Ridiculous out of care for you,” he replied. “And there’s nothing you can do about it!”

The to do list that had been wracking your brain slowly melted away as you ate, and if he had asked, you would have had to admit that you did need this. To have someone dear to you there, with good food and time to rest.

After, when the food had been put away and a random show turned on your TV for background noise, you lay again with him.

This time, in your room on your bed, your head on his shoulder, one hand tracing the lines of his tattoos again.

“Never told you much about these, have I?” Roger mused.

“No. But I’ve never sat down and told you all about any of mine,” you replied. “I mean, I told you all when I was getting them or what it might look like. But I don’t think we’ve ever had any sort of intensive meeting about the stories behind them, or any of yours.”

“We ought to,” he said. “I know I’m not normally one for it.”

“I have to admit, I didn’t think I’d ever hear you wish for something like that.”

“But...I don’t know. Would be nice. I mean, some of those you got before you met up with us, so we really have no idea the story behind them. Though I’m starting to think you just like toying with mine!”

“I can stop,” you said, your finger stilled where it was on his hand.

He shook his head. “I like it. But I’ve never seen you do that with anyone else, not any of the boys you met up with after you and Freddie cooled down that had tattoos.”

“None of those boys were all that good,” you tutted as you resumed your tracing. “Or worthy of something that intimate. Freddie always told me I had a habit of getting carried away with the first cute thing I saw, then being frustrated when they weren’t interested in anything more stable. He was right, and he knew it, but I should have told him so more.”

“He knew, even if you didn’t say it,” Roger said. “Or you wouldn’t have been in his circle of friends, or kept on as road crew. You know that just as well as I do. He didn’t suffer a fool, and he knew you were up to the work of being his friend, and friends with all of us.”

“Do you think he’d have any?” you wondered. “By now? Maybe of the cats, if anything...”

“I don’t know for sure,” Roger said. “He didn’t much like things like that, doctors and dentists and all of that, unless it was necessary for his health. But then again, you don’t much like those things either, and you’ve got some. Maybe you would have convinced him, or I could have gotten him to my artist.”

“Just a bunch of old ladies, covered in ink,” you sighed.

“Excepting Brian and Deaky,” Roger said. “Now that would be the real test for you. Could you convince them to get something done?”

“Make it a band and crew bonding thing,” you replied. “We could all get one, something to symbolize touring so long. So many years, so much hard work. I don’t know exactly what, but I figure if we could make Freddie feel comfortable with it, he could help us convince the others. Adam as well; I think he could easily talk us all into something like that.”

“Maybe we’ll have to do that anyway,” Roger said. “We have time to think on it, at least. Figure out a design, offer it up to anyone on the crew who wants to get it with us.”

“Brian might just agree to it then,” you said. “But Deaky? I wouldn’t want to bother him, but I’d feel bad not offering it to him as well.”

“He’s never gotten mad at us for messaging him about sillier, lighter things,” Roger said. “At worst, he would ignore it and not answer, and that would be answer enough. Who knows? He might surprise and reply back with a picture of the design done. After all, what have we all got to lose at this point?”

You let his arm wrap around you and pull you close, and tried not to think about that, about the fears that occasionally raced through your mind as to what exactly you had to lose, what they all did, what everyone did, with the state of the world.

“Nothing except some blank canvas,” you replied. “And I don’t know about you, but I think I’d like to die absolutely covered. Not a square bit of free skin.”

“You’ll have to learn to take breaks then, so we can keep you going long enough for that,” Roger said. “Now, I’m simply too tired to go back home, and I daresay I might be too tired for the next few days...”

“Sarina told me you were spending the next week with me, to keep an eye on me and make sure I eat and sleep or whatever,” you smiled. “You can be tired with me.”

“And you’ll actually rest, and relax?”

“For you? I could manage it,” you replied. “Thank you, Roger. For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me, you know that,” he smiled. “It’ll be thanks enough to hear you snoring.”

“I do not snore!”

“Arguing that since 1978,” Roger tutted. “There’s no shame in it, it’s very cute.”

You groaned and pressed your face into his chest. “I’m snoring extra loud, just for that.”

“And you’ll make me all the happier,” Roger laughed.

You couldn’t be sure if you actually did snore or not, but you were confident it was the best sleep you had gotten in weeks.

The food helped, and the break, but more than anything, you knew it was Roger’s presence that let you finally rest.

And that was why your next tattoo would be something for him, and you were going to be sure to let him know.

#text post #LeeH writes #queen band fic #roger taylor fic #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor x trans reader #roger taylor x male reader

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rookieinbflat · 5 years

Text

Stowaways

AN: I feel much better about this short fic than my last one, so I hope you guys like it too!

Ethan x MC (Levin Stern)

WC: ~2000

Levin is asleep in the front seat of Ethan’s Jaguar, she’s not been sleeping well since the start of the second trimester of her pregnancy, often complaining of headaches, nausea and back pain. All very common for a woman of her age, height and weight carrying twins but nonetheless, Ethan feels completely and utterly helpless to do anything to ease her pain. He tries to ease the uncomfort as much as he can but there’s only so much raspberry sorbet and shoulder massages can do. Levin is grateful never the less, she knows how far out of his way he goes to please her, like going to the linen store to get a soft blanket and cushion to keep in his car for drives like this. The older doctor doesn’t mind it when she falls asleep in the car, he loves driving, it's cathartic for him. He would drive across the country if he could. He plays Clouds by Debussy on the car's speakers and though he is yet to find enough scientific journals to confirm the long term neural effects of classical prenatal music exposure, he’s sure it can't hurt.

They’re going to spend the weekend with Levin’s family in Fairhaven, she gets very homesick when she’s feeling ill and this week has been riddled with headaches and cramps. So he took the weekend off to spend it with her, even though she’s fully capable of driving and it’s still very safe, Ethan feels much more at ease when he accompanies her on trips like this. Her parents live on a small block of land only a few minutes drive out of Fairhaven, the land is lush and green and whenever they’re there, Levin and Ethan feel immensely at peace. The stress and weight of the hospital are not on their shoulders, they spend their days on the farm soaking up the sun or horseback riding, though Levin might have to wait a bit longer before she can get back in the saddle. Ethan loves it here, the smell of fresh cut grass is his favourite but it’s not something you smell often in Boston. Levin’s older siblings are spread across the world, so it’s only the four youngsters occupying the house but Isa has made sure that Levin’s room remains untouched, awaiting her next visit patiently. Ethan loves Levin’s teenage room, the decor is green and lush like a forest with stunning photos she’s taken from her global living adorning the walls, lit up by strings of fairy lights. He’d never imagined he’d love the look of a room like hers but that’s what it is: hers. Ethan feels like he’s taken a step inside her mind, the serene part of her brain, that dreams in the sound of crashing waves and foggy mornings, dew on the long grass and rain hitting the roof.

Ethan loves Levin the most when they’re here.

The drive to Fairhaven is without trouble or excitement when they arrive at the small hobby farm just outside of town, Ethan shakes Levin’s shoulder gently, surprised she wasn’t awoken by the bumpy trip down the dirt drive. Levin rubs her eyes and pulls on her scarf before stepping out of the car and as if on cue, the front door to the farmhouse blasts open and Isa and Edda run up to greet the pair. They’re about to attack Levin with affection until they stop just a couple of metres short, remembering the two extra guests, stowed away beneath layers of skin and cashmere.

“Woah, your belly is really big,” Isa has a look of awe across her face and Ethan chuckles, moving to tousle her hair. She has obviously dressed herself today as she sports a bright silver skirt with farm boots and a Batman shirt.

“Our little stowaways are getting pretty big aren’t they?” Isa wraps her hand in Ethan’s as he leads the Stern women back inside the house, where Levin’s mother is now standing by the door, holding the dogs from escaping out into the yard.

“It’s rude to call out someone’s weight you big dork,” Levin retorts to the ten-year-old who laughs softly watching Levin navigate the stairs going up to the porch with a careful pace, leaning back into her steps.

Edda pipes up beside her, she had the biggest, most beautiful brown eyes and anyone who’s ever seen them says so, “I think you look gorgeous Levy,” Edda is beautiful inside and out, she’s a soft, empathetic soul and a bit of a sad sack at times, but she levels out the craziness of the Stern clan. Levin squeezes her hand as she makes her way over to the door, her mum enveloping her in a warm hug, she smells like Christmas morning - cinnamon and nutmeg. She must be making cinnamon rolls.

“Oh my lord, Levin, look at you!” Kina exclaims and holds her daughter at arm's length, Levin will be the first of her children to give birth to twins, “How many weeks now?” She asks as she leads Levin into the warmth of the farmhouse.

“Twenty-six weeks, not long to go now,” Levin replies as she walks towards the kitchen, on the hunt for something - anything to eat. The pregnancy cravings have got her eating more now than when she stress ate her way through the medical entrance exams and the final season of True Blood. Levin plants herself on one of the cushioned stools surrounding the kitchen bench, pulling a banana from the fruit basket less Ethan throw a fit over her not meeting prenatal nutritional needs. “Actually, I was hoping you could come up to the city next weekend, Ethan is going away for a medical conference and I’ll need help setting up everything in the new house,” Levin asks Kina as she brews a pot of tea, Edda has disappeared but Isa remains faithfully and loyally attached to her sisters side.

“Can I come? I promise I’ll be the biggest help!” She looks up at Levin with puppy dog eyes.

Levin has already demolished the banana by now, “Gotta ask mum dorkface, she’s the one that’s got to deal with you,” She hands the banana peel to Isa who dutifully disposes of the scrap in the compost bin.

Ethan is leaning against the kitchen counter chucking to himself, Levin has Isa completely entranced, ready to go to war for her fearless older sister, no task is too big or small for Isa to show her unending adoration. He knows that Isa has the same effect on his Rookie, who just last week, cried when she heard that Isa had the flu and she couldn’t go and take care of her little sister.

“I’m sure we could find something for you to do at the new house, maybe you could help set up the nursery?” Kina replies and Isa squeals with excitement, scaring the dogs and every human within a five-mile radius.

Ethan helps Kina make lunch, roast chicken with all the accompaniments and they take it out to the dining room to serve everyone. Marti, who is sixteen now has come out of her room to socialise, she’s studying hard to get into sports medicine and the ACTs are coming up soon. Jos, Isa’s twin brother, only speaks in four-word sentences and doesn’t sit still for long, he’s got pretty intense ADHD and keeping his attention for more than five minutes is more challenging than anything Ethan has encountered in his medical career. They sit around the table and debate on what to do for the rest of the afternoon - Isa wants to play board games, Edda wants to play lawn bowls outside, Kina thinks they should all sit in the sunroom and paint. Levin’s mother is an amazing artist, using art as her therapy on a daily basis, more often since she quit smoking cigarettes last year.

They decide on board games on the porch, so that Edda and Jos can run around as much as they please when they finish up with lunch, Levin forgoes boardgames to nap on the hammock, its the comfiest she’s felt in days. Isa and Ethan set up a game of Scrabble and as the game progresses, he’s sure this kid will run the world one day. How the hell does she know the word ‘liaison’?

“Are you excited for the babies?”

Ethan puts down his next tiles then looks up towards Isa, “I’m extremely excited but I’m also a little nervous,” he tells her truthfully, “I didn’t grow up in a large family like you and Levin, I haven’t had much experience with babies,” it almost feels like he’s talking to Levin when they have conversations like this, it’s like she has managed to clone herself into a pocket-sized version of Levin, though this version is almost more sassy than the original.

“I think you’ll be a good dad and me and Edda and Marti will help you, we know all about babies,” she nods with strong assurance, “plus you’re a doctor so you’re super smart so you can be good with babies,” Ethan chuckles at this as he tallies up the new score.

“I know a lot of babies in theory but the practice is a new field for me, Isa, I can tell you how many fingers and toes they have right now, but I don’t know how to stop them from crying when they come out,”

A look of wonder crosses Isa’s soft brown eyes, “You know what they look like right now?” Ethan can tell she’s completely forgotten about the board game as she leans across the table, “You have to tell me.”

Ethan leans across the table now too, resting his weight on his elbows, “Well,” he begins, “they have a thin layer of hair over them called lanugo which keeps them warm and they can hear things fairly clearly now - they know how to cover their ears if there’s a loud sound out here in the environment. They also open their eyes soon and they’ve fingerprints now as well,” the more he goes through the specifics of the babies life in utero, the more Isa’s face lights up, Ethan can see the cogs in her brain turning, trying to figure out what they look like and what it all means.

By the time they begin to finish their conversation, it’s well into the afternoon and almost time for the kids to wash up before dinner, the Scrabble game is long forgotten. Levin wakes from her slumber on the hammock and makes her way over to where Ethan is sitting, gently perching herself on his lap.

“You know we still haven’t thought about baby names,” Levin muses, interrupting Ethan from the trail of kisses he’s laying along her soft shoulders and neck. They haven’t asked the obstetrician about the sex of the twins, they want it to be a surprise.

“Hm, I guess you’re right, I haven’t been thinking about the names I do like so much as the ones I don’t,” he tells her, pulling her long hair back so he can kiss more of her décolletage, “but for what it’s worth, I like the name, Allegra,” Levin ponders this.

“I love that, I think its a gorgeous name, I like the name Laurence for a boy, Laurie for short,” she is hoping for two boys but she knows a girl would please Isa the most.

“Like Little Women,” Ethan points out, one of Levin’s favourite childhood books, she still keeps a copy given to her by her great aunt on the bookshelf, its pages yellow with age. Ethan would be happy with any combination of boys or girls, he just can't wait for the next and possibly most challenging chapter of his life to start. They sit out on the deck for hours, talking until Levin is almost falling asleep again. He takes her into the bedroom, turns on the strings of fairy lights and tucks a sleeping Levin into bed before sliding in next to her, the room is calm and peaceful with the soft, white glow of the lights as he places a kiss on her hair, “I love you, Rookie,” he murmurs into her hair, she smells like peaches and vanilla, “and our little stowaways.”

#ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #open heart #choices open heart #oh #fluff #babies #love #edenbrook #dr ethan ramsey #play choices #fluff central #im not kidding #twins

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maniibear · 7 years

Text

AA!SteveTony; You know you say everything out loud.

Word Count: ~2800 Warnings: none?

Seventy two hours after Tony disappeared into his lab and failed to come out, Steve found himself outside the doors, punching in his entry code. He wasn’t the first Avenger to come knocking, but he was the first to come bearing food-- ham sandwich, baked chips, and, at Natasha’s insistence, a bottle of coconut water. Because fluids were important, and nothing improved a mood quite as fast as sugar.

She was right in guessing that Tony’s mood would need improving. As soon as FRIDAY waved him in, Steve was greeted with a sharp, “What?”

Setting lunch down on the nearest flat surface, Steve grabbed the coconut water and headed toward the bank of screens where he heard Tony’s voice. He boldly shook the bottle in the man’s face and commanded, “Drink up.”

Tony scowled, potently, for all that he looked wrung out and exhausted. “I’m a little busy, Cap,” he said, distantly. “So, unless you need something…”

“I do,” Steve held up the bottle again. “Drink.”

Tony’s jaw tightened, like he wanted to argue just for the sake of it, but then he took the coconut water and while he fairly downed it in less than a minute, Steve took the opportunity to look around the lab. He saw the familiar shape of Natasha’s Bites, glowing a dangerous blue, and rows of ruthlessly streamlined flechettes for Sam. On a far table, Steve even spotted electronic entrails spilling out of what he was sure were his combat gloves. The whole thing looked savage and it made his chest ache.

“You have to stop, Tony, come upstairs with me.”

Tony set the empty bottle down.

“I can’t. The team...you...almost--” Tony gestured helplessly to avoid saying it. Steve didn’t miss how he still looked a bit wild around the eyes. He was suddenly angry at himself for letting Tony barricade himself without an argument, but, as the fading burn across his abdomen reminded him, it had been a bad night for the team. Steve was so busy battling his own terror for Falcon and Hawkeye’s wellbeing that he had no mind left to spare for their co-leader.

“I’m fine,” he assured Tony now, and spread his arms out for inspection. “See? Come upstairs.”

Tony smirked wanly. “Well, next time, you might not be so lucky.”

“It’s the chance we all take, doing what we do.”

“You were this close to throwing Sam off the team for his own good,” Tony replied and cast his eyes back to the combat gloves. “You have to admit, Steve, I let you down.”

“Take it from a guy who went to war, Tony, I’d follow you on that mission again,” Steve let himself smile at stricken brown eyes. If he was sure of anything, it was that he could believe in Tony when the genius himself couldn’t. “I know you.”

Predictably, Tony started to argue. “You--”

“I know you,” Steve insisted without remorse. “Come upstairs with me.”

And Tony did, to copious applause from everyone when Steve herded him into the common room as proof to the others that Iron Man was still with them.

“Welcome back,” Natasha said, and nudged Clint’s plastered foot with her’s. “Told you it’d work. Cap’s a negotiator.”

Steve wanted to laugh, but that was before Tony flopped on the couch between her and Sam and said, “You just knew I wouldn’t say no to a hot blond.”

Thor looked up from his checkers game with Bruce. “If that were true, my friend, the lady Widow would have sent me.”

A pillow swiftly hit him in the face, followed by Clint screeching, “What am I, chopped liver?”

The ensuing argument was ridiculous and chaotic and conveniently noisy, but not enough that Steve couldn’t hear Sam whisper to Tony, “You know you said that out loud, right?”

Tony shrugged, and grabbed an apple from a bowl on the coffee table. “I say everything out loud.”

In retrospect, Tony should have known something was up when Steve, who hated all events that required schmoozing, invited himself to a private unveiling gala of new Stark tech. In fact, Tony hadn’t even known he was on the guest list until Steve dangled a painfully outdated dark linen Armani suit in his face and asked if it met dress code. Nevermind the fact that Captain America could have shown up in a fur thong and not heard any objections, Tony had just been flattered that Steve wanted to watch him show off in the first place. He’d been riding high on the thought all through the dinner and his keynote, right up until Batroc rappelled into the venue like an unfashionable purple twister.

There was no point in continuing the party after that. Even the most enterprising investor was hard-pressed to cut a check while running for their life.

Tony himself ran, albeit against the press of the crowd, while fuming silently to himself. Was it too much to ask for Evil to take a break during demo night? He understood the temptation of a chance to grab Stark tech, but surely A.I.M could have waited until he was done before making their pathetic attempt.

Good thing Steve had a sixth sense about these things. By the time Tony reached the vault, he is none too surprised to see Captain America already engaging Batroc and a dozen AIM goons.

“Looks like you picked the right suit after all,” Tony commented, sidestepping a blast from a ray gun that nevertheless missed him by a mile.

Steve chuckled, probably enjoying the chance to punch something after all that awful schmoozing. He did a series of complicated acrobatics that let him kick Batroc in the face twice, stick a perfect landing, and assess Tony’s own dress choice.

“You too,” Steve replied, like he didn’t just physically caress his teammate with his eyes.

“Sure did,” Tony agreed dreamily. “It's a Tom Ford, 3-piece, 2 button.”

And a wristwatch that turned into a gauntlet with fully functioning repulsors, but why ruin the surprise?

“Stay close.” Captain America commanded, and honestly, it was just easier to give in to the shivers. It was a minute before Tony could aim his repulsors and take out a couple of beekeepers.

“I can take care of myself, Cap.”

“Sure,” Steve agreed, and hurled his shield at the remaining AIM agents. “Can’t I still keep you safe?”

Oh. Well. When Steve said things like that, and Tony’s heart began tapdancing behind his ARC reactor, largely missing Batroc’s villainous threats seemed inevitable. Luckily, Tony had just enough wits about him to question why a mercenary would try to flee empty-handed and was answered by a ring of blinking lights rigged to the vault. Oh, bombs; that made sense.

“Tony!”

“Cap, get out,” Tony retorted urgently, eyes pinned on the dwindling timer. “You can’t cover us both!”

Steve didn’t reply. He just put relentless pressure on Tony’s shoulders until he buckled down behind the shield, hands clamped over his ears. Steve enveloped him like a fortress, solid and large, and impossibly strong just as the vault exploded. Tony felt the shockwave in his bones, and the subsequent crash of steel and concrete against vibranium sat like an ache on the edge of their teeth before Steve even relented in his hold. He didn’t fully let go until all that was left was dust, settling on them like a white veil.

Screams drifted in from the distance. Tony found himself staring after a drift of fine particles across the lower half of Steve’s face where the cowl didn’t reach. Steve casually wiped them away with the back of his hand and asked, “Are you ok?”

His lips were starkly pink against the surrounding gray dust and Tony, ears ringing from the blast and from intense face time with Steve's star spangled pecs, smiled sloppily and thought, “Kiss me.”

It didn’t occur to him that it may have been more than a mere thought until Steve startled. Tony immediately copied the sentiment, eyes going wide with panic. “Oh, fu---frogs,” he lifted a hand to his mouth. “Did I say that out loud?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. He straightened on one knee, but his militant lines were soft, and the shield hung loosely by his side as he scrutinized their resident genius in the midst of the mess. “That depends, did you mean it?”

That. That set off fireworks at the corner of Tony’s eyes and made the whole world slant with joy. Strong arms caught him effortlessly when he pitched forward after the joy proved too much; Tony clutched at them for dear life. “Of course, I did.”

Team co-leaders didn’t play favorites, but if Steve had to pick someone to spend a while with in the jungle, Clint would easily be at the top of the list. Hawkeye was adaptable, hyperaware of his surroundings as a non serum-enhanced person could be, and, dare Steve say it, he was fun.

The rest of the team had their own quirks, but Hakweye, Steve felt, really shared his enthusiasm for complex acrobatics. They just needed to work on their timing. To that end, Steve brushed an entire tree’s worth of leaves from his hair, made a mental tally of his bruises, and reminded himself to schedule some synergy training with Clint when they got back to Avengers tower. Now, he just needed to figure out how to explain his shredded uniform to Tony...

Speak of the devil; Clint’s Starkphone buzzed obnoxiously and answered itself so Tony’s face already graced the screen before Clint could even pull it out of his pocket.

“Status check, from your friendly neighborhood Iron Man.”

Tony’s voice was muffled by some sort of a dull roar in the background and Hawkeye peered closely at the phone. “Where are your clothes?” he asked. “And what is that noise?”

“The sound of fifteen ambient-lit, temperature controlled, and perfectly pressurized water jets treating me right,” Tony sounded extremely pleased. Steve held back an envious noise because giving personal ammo to weapons traffickers was generally bad form, and he was nothing if not a professional.

Clint, who had no such qualms, groaned loudly. “You’re checking up on us from your shower? I hate you.”

“Jealous?” Tony teased.

“You know I am! Do you know where I had to pee today?”

Ok. Steve pointedly cleared his throat over their prisoners’ heads. “Stick to the report, Hawkeye.”

Clint sighed, but acquiesced. “Fine, we’ve got a couple of Klaue’s associates,” he reported. “But they won’t talk, so Cap and I are keeping them company in a very high tech mobile containment unit, on our way to the local cops.”

“You and Captain America are riding around in a windowless van with some boring goons,” Tony translated, because he was clever like that and Steve had to make a valiant effort to keep from smiling like a dope.

Not that he fooled Clint, who glanced at Steve, then leered at Tony. “Jealous?”

“That you’re booking lowlifes in the jungle while I’ve got running water?” Tony replied over a steady patter. “Not exactly.”

It was a lie; Tony was never happy to not be part of the action. Clint smirked deviously. “Well, since you’re not doing anything, think you can synth us up some new uniforms? I think I got a couple more uses, but Cap’s suit is all torn up.”

“What!?” Tony squawked. “What happened?”

“Local wildlife,” Clint replied breezily. “Anyway, I’m thinking something with a little more tensile strength…”

“You—put him on, Hawkeye!”

“...more pockets.” Clint suggested instead.

“I’m coming over there,” Tony threatened and he sounded serious enough that Steve finally grabbed the phone.

“No need, Iron Man,” he declared. “I’m fine. Do not leave your post.”

Steve turned the Starkphone so Tony could assess the real damage without Clint’s influence. A sharp inhale whistled over the speaker. Ok, admittedly, there was a major tear across the star on Steve’s chest, but it was hardly unsafe. The seams were holding pretty well. There was hardly any skin visible unless Steve took a really deep breath and--

“Wow,’ came Tony’s voice, low and mortifyingly husky. “Glad I’m already in the shower.”

Steve gaped. He could feel his face go red, and any wishful thinking that the others might not have heard went right out the proverbial window when the snickering began.

Tony frowned at the sound of what was, by now, full blown laughter. “What’s going on? Why are Klaue’s guys laughi—” Then, silence as realization dawned. “They heard me, didn’t they?”

Hawkeye grinned widely. “Loud and clear, lover boy.”

“You like them because they remind you of you,” Tony flopped on to the bed and curled up into a ball, but his eyes remained open. He needed to sleep, but not so badly (never so badly) that he couldn’t wait for Steve to join him. “Gotta say, that’s pretty vain of you, Cap.”

“It gives me hope,” Steve slipped out of the uniform and draped it on a nearby chair. “We won’t be around forever, so it’s nice to see someone like Ms. Marvel know what it is to be good.”

“They’re too young,” Tony grumbled. The tiredness stole some of the fight from his voice.

“I wasn’t much younger when--” Steve began to say, then realized that he’d just admitted to Tony’s accusation of nostalgia. “Ok, maybe you’re right.”

The smug retort he expected didn’t come. Instead, when Steve finally climbed into bed, all Tony did was sidle up to his chest with a contented sigh like a ritual was finally complete.

“But I get where you’re coming from, too, Tony. I don’t want to take away their childhood either; I just think good potential should be guided.” Warm as the bed was and with Tony in his arms, Steve let himself get a little dreamy. “I can’t help but think they’ll be great people someday.”

“Of course, they’ll be great,” Tony mumbled, curling further into Steve’s chest. “They’re our kids.”

A second later, he opened a bleary eye. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

Steve laughed. “Of course, you did,” he said, and sweetly kissed Tony’s head before drawing the blanket over them both.

When dimension hopping, warp and disorientation were par for the course. Strange’s pocket world was no different. Somewhere in there, Steve found himself weighing the same words against each other. Tony made good armor. Tony made good armor.

The irony of Ultron using Tony for a human shield wasn’t lost on anyone; the smartest decision that fanciful pile of scrap metal ever made was a slap to its own creed, but it judged rightly. What was a suit of armor to the man inside it? What was vibranium against love?

When he reached out on instinct, his fingers didn’t dream of crossing the barrier. Steve was no magician or a tech genius; he couldn’t make promises to pry apart space or coax the flow of time. He only loved Tony, as naturally as he breathed, and even then, Tony loved him first. Tony met the real Steve Rogers long after the homemade capes and toy shields and a slew of tragedies thereafter, and loved him enough to give him a home.

But Steve didn’t beg him to stay. He didn’t say, there’s no one else like you, or I don’t want to wake up without you.

He said, “You’re the best friend I’ve had,” so wherever Tony went, he would know he was priceless.

Bonus

“Truth is: I’m better because you’re my friend.”

It was the cleverest thing Tony ever said. No irony or wordplay, just a distillation of all that made Steve precious to him over the years into a neat little line. Tony wished he’d thought of it earlier, so he could have said it against Steve’s lips, or whispered it to the hollow of Steve’s throat, but he settled for volleying it over from his side of the pocket dimension to his lover’s.

There was a lot of time to think, hopping the multiverse. A lot of time to miss Steve and his daily insidiousness—a proud smile there, some sincere praise here, a casual sprinkling of monumental faith in between. Soon, Tony found himself wondering how he ever got things done before a stubborn old war hero emerged from a glacier and insisted on believing in him no matter what.

Even in the last universe, where the Avengers all went to some sort of Academy for superkids, a teenage Tony Stark put it this way, “It’s like I already know I’m a genius, but better.” Teenage Captain America (how fucking adorable was that?) had beamed and kissed his boyfriend’s cheek.

Yeah, they were sweet. His theory that Steve was priceless in every universe gained about 30% more traction, but Tony doubted present company was in a mood to appreciate that.

He watched the defeated reflection of himself kneel on cracked ice and gingerly touch the abandoned shield with its silver star and familiar red bands.

“It’s worse when you love them,” this Tony murmured, then bit his lip. “Sorry, it’s been a long couple of days. Didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

#stony #superhusbands #steve rogers #tony stark #avengers assemble #my writing #bymani

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jesseneufeld · 4 years

Text

Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training

For today’s edition of Dear Mark, I’m going to be answering questions about Maximum Aerobic Function, or MAF. If this is your first time hearing the term, MAF refers to a method of endurance training that maximizes the function of your fat-burning aerobic system. I’ve come down hard on conventional or popular modes of endurance training in the past for being too stressful and reliant on sugar. MAF training is the opposite: low stress and reliance on body fat.

Let’s dive right in to the questions:

What is MAF training?

MAF trains your aerobic fat-burning system to be more efficient and produce greater output at the same “intensity.” It means slowing the hell down to go faster. It means the slower you go, the more fat you’re burning and the better your mitochondria are getting at utilizing fat for energy. It means training up to but not over your maximum aerobic heart rate.

MAF was coined by Phil Maffetone, who came up with an ingenious way to calculate your max aerobic heart rate: subtracting your age from 180. 180 minus your age gives you the heart rate at which you’re burning the maximum amount of fat and minimum amount of sugar.

Say you’re 30 years old. 180 minus 30 is 150. To burn the most fat possible, you maintain a heart rate equal to or lower than 150 BPM. Now, and here’s the trick: It doesn’t sound like much. It doesn’t feel like much. It probably feels way too easy. But bear with me. It works. This is where the magic happens, where you accumulate easy volume, where the “base” is built, where you begin building more fat-burning mitochondria.

The hard truth is that if jogging spikes your heart rate past your aerobic max, you’re not very good at burning fat during exercise. Even if you don’t “mind” pushing that heart rate up. Even if you “feel fine” jogging at 153 bpm. 180 minus age is where you have to be to improve fat burning. That might look like jogging, or walking, or walking uphill, or running pretty briskly, depending on where you’re starting. It’s all relative to your aerobic fitness.

It takes patience to stay at the aerobic zone, but over time, if you’re consistent, you’ll notice that you can handle a higher and higher workload at that same “easy” MAF heart rate. You’ll be going faster while still burning mostly fat—and it’ll still feel easy.

What are the benefits of cardio using MAF training?

In some parts, I’m known as the anti-cardio guy. I coined the phrase “chronic cardio,” and the entire reason I got into this Primal business is that decades of elite endurance training—marathons and triathlons—wrecked my body and drove me to develop and pursue a different, more sustainable path to health and fitness.

But I’m not anti-cardio. In fact, moving frequently at a slow pace in all its incarnations forms the foundation of my Primal Blueprint Fitness philosophy. And MAF is just about the best way to do it.

When you build your aerobic base, you don’t just get better at running (or cycling, or rowing, or swimming, or whatever it is that you’re doing). There are more benefits that aren’t as overtly noticeable:

You get better at utilizing the fat you eat and the fat you store, paying huge dividends in other areas of your life.

You get steadier energy levels throughout the day. There’s always that big bolus of energy hanging around, ready to be consumed and converted into ATP. And you’re very good at burning it.

You have a lower propensity to snack. It’s easier to stick to a healthy way of eating and refrain from snacking when you can cruise along eating your own adipose tissue in between meals.

You have more mitochondria, and the mitochondria you have are better at burning fat.6 This is what everything comes down to. Mitochondrial dysfunction and subsequent energy overload lie at the root of many degenerative diseases. The better your mitochondria work, the more energy you can handle, and the less likely you are to suffer the negative ramifications of chronic energy overload.

This seems to confer benefits to longevity. Although we can’t establish causation, moderate exercise—jogging up to 20 miles a week at an 11 minute mile pace—offered the most protection against early mortality in one study. Running more than 20 miles a week, or running at a 7 minute mile pace, offered fewer mortality benefits.7

Plus, having that large aerobic base helps with any physical pursuit, and not just endurance sports. A large aerobic base helps in CrossFit. A large aerobic base helps in football or martial arts or rock climbing. Whenever you can burn more fat, save more glycogen, and still get the same amount of performance, you’re winning.

When you’re aiming for MAF, how much cardio is too much?

As long as you stay in the MAF zone, it’s very hard to overdo cardio. You’re deriving your energy primarily (90/95%) from fat, a virtually inexhaustible energy source, and very little from carbohydrate. You have thousands of calories at your disposal. Your relative intensity is lower than the person who’s out there burning sugar, so your joints aren’t falling apart and your muscles aren’t getting as fatigued. You’re accumulating less stress overall.

When you start hitting intensities that elevate your heart rate beyond the 180 minus age MAF zone, your tally begins. The stress and joint damage begins to accumulate. You become more reliant on sugar compared to fat. You can still train like this, but your margin for error is a lot smaller.

If I had to put a number to it, I’d say that you shouldn’t burn more than 4000 calories a week from cardio.

How should you eat while doing maximum aerobic function?

MAF is most effective when paired with carbohydrate restriction. It doesn’t have to be keto reset levels, although that’s a great option. Standard Primal low-carb, staying under 150 grams per day, is good enough.

When you combine MAF training with carb restriction, everything is enhanced. You build more mitochondria after a single carb-restricted MAF training session than after the same session without the carb restriction. 8

Going low-carb while MAF training also continues the work when you’re at rest. If you burn primarily fat when endurance training but go home to a high-carb diet, you’re squandering a lot of progress.

What if I’m too slow?

One of the most common questions I receive comes from people worried they’re too slow. “I feel like I am going too slow. I can run a 7:00 minute mile no problem at race pace and a higher heart rate, but if I stay at 180 minus age, I can’t get my speed past 10 minute miles.”

You can keep doing the higher HR runs, but you’re not building a base and you may be setting yourself up for damage down the line. That means you are good at burning glucose/glycogen and have a good tolerance for discomfort, but it also means that in this current configuration, you suck at burning fat. The whole point of MAF training is to train at the highest heart rate you can handle (and highest speed) while still getting 90-95% of your energy from fat. Over time, you’ll find that as you get better fat adapted, your mile pace will come down at that same MAF heart rate. That’s the indicator that you are becoming more efficient with your burning of fat over glucose.

Track things over months, not workouts. It may take a long time to improve, but improve you will. Pro tip: if you are a well-trained runner or cyclist, you could probably add 5 to that 180-age number and be OK.

Isn’t my MAF pace way too easy?

It seems way too easy, and that’s the whole point. It’s also where people get tripped up.

You think you can handle a bit more, so you push the HR up. I mean, running at an easy pace couldn’t possibly make you faster.

Over time, you’ll find that as you get better fat adapted, your mile pace will come down at that same MAF heart rate. That’s the indicator that you are becoming more efficient with your burning of fat over glucose.

Just be sure you are always able to carry on a conversation and not get winded as the “guard-rail.”

Folks, that’s MAF training. If you want more details and a specific plan of attack, check out my book Primal Endurance.

If you have any more questions, ask down below! Thanks for reading, everyone.

(function($) { $("#dfHrrHk").load("https://www.marksdailyapple.com/wp-admin/admin-ajax.php?action=dfads_ajax_load_ads&groups=674&limit=1&orderby=random&order=ASC&container_id=&container_html=none&container_class=&ad_html=div&ad_class=&callback_function=&return_javascript=0&_block_id=dfHrrHk" ); })( jQuery );

References

https://mi-psych.com.au/what-your-brain-doesnt-know/

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/in-practice/201301/cognitive-restructuring

https://journals.humankinetics.com/view/journals/jsep/33/5/article-p666.xml

https://www.verywellmind.com/negative-bias-4589618

https://ift.tt/2MsAdzb shows

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1540458/

http://health.heraldtribune.com/2012/06/06/moderate-exercise-may-be-better-for-you-than-vigorous-workouts/

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3823511/

The post Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training appeared first on Mark's Daily Apple.

Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training published first on https://drugaddictionsrehab.tumblr.com/

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lauramalchowblog · 4 years

Text

Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training

Let’s dive right in to the questions:

What is MAF training?

What are the benefits of cardio using MAF training?

You get better at utilizing the fat you eat and the fat you store, paying huge dividends in other areas of your life.

You get steadier energy levels throughout the day. There’s always that big bolus of energy hanging around, ready to be consumed and converted into ATP. And you’re very good at burning it.

You have a lower propensity to snack. It’s easier to stick to a healthy way of eating and refrain from snacking when you can cruise along eating your own adipose tissue in between meals.

You have more mitochondria, and the mitochondria you have are better at burning fat.1 This is what everything comes down to. Mitochondrial dysfunction and subsequent energy overload lie at the root of many degenerative diseases. The better your mitochondria work, the more energy you can handle, and the less likely you are to suffer the negative ramifications of chronic energy overload.

When you’re aiming for MAF, how much cardio is too much?

If I had to put a number to it, I’d say that you shouldn’t burn more than 4000 calories a week from cardio.

How should you eat while doing maximum aerobic function?

What if I’m too slow?

Isn’t my MAF pace way too easy?

It seems way too easy, and that’s the whole point. It’s also where people get tripped up.

You think you can handle a bit more, so you push the HR up. I mean, running at an easy pace couldn’t possibly make you faster.

Just be sure you are always able to carry on a conversation and not get winded as the “guard-rail.”

Folks, that’s MAF training. If you want more details and a specific plan of attack, check out my book Primal Endurance.

If you have any more questions, ask down below! Thanks for reading, everyone.

(function($) { $("#dfUtvsJ").load("https://www.marksdailyapple.com/wp-admin/admin-ajax.php?action=dfads_ajax_load_ads&groups=674&limit=1&orderby=random&order=ASC&container_id=&container_html=none&container_class=&ad_html=div&ad_class=&callback_function=&return_javascript=0&_block_id=dfUtvsJ" ); })( jQuery );

References

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1540458/

http://health.heraldtribune.com/2012/06/06/moderate-exercise-may-be-better-for-you-than-vigorous-workouts/

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3823511/

The post Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training appeared first on Mark's Daily Apple.

Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training published first on https://venabeahan.tumblr.com

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prep74mike · 6 years

Text

Farewell, my lovely

When I compare

What I have lost with what I have gained,

What I have missed with what attained,

Little room do I find for pride

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

In June 1974 I graduated from high school. Growing up as a young boy and all thru school I had been an always enthusiastic and sometimes very capable athlete. I had spent my senior year as a starting offensive guard on our championship football team in the fall and played soccer on our spring soccer team.

By June, I was playing soccer in the college summer league and preparing for the upcoming Fall college club soccer

season. During this glorious first summer of my young manhood, my days were simple: get up and work from 8-4 (I was a painters helper....aka grunt) go home and change into my shorts and spikes, pick up my girlfriend and goto the soccer complex to play in one of five games a week.

After our games, my friends and I and our girlfriends would go down to the river to drink beer, listen to BTO, skip rocks and run up and down the rocky banks.

In fact, most of my life was spent on my feet, running, kicking and trying to out throw, out hit and out run other boys (and sometimes some athletic girls).

40 years later, on a warm summer August day, I was painting a friend's house as a favor. Again I had BTO playing on my radio.

I was alone, painting and grooving in the morning sun. Birds chirped along with me. I had recently retired from full time work and life was good.

For some unknown reason, I stepped off my ladder into thin air and onto the hard concrete patio 4 feet below. I fell hard. My nose broke and bled, I scratched my hands and bare legs. I was covered in my own blood. I also noticed that my left foot had a deep gash. It didn't look too bad tho so I washed and bandaged it and then kind of ignored it. Two weeks later I was in the hospital and was very sick. I had a raging fever and was sick to my stomach. My foot had become seriously infected .

After a week in intensive care, I was told that they couldn't save it. They would have to amputate my leg, just below my left knee.

I was stunned.

Long ago, Raymond Chandler wrote a crime thriller called " Farewell, My Lovely". It is a pulp detective story about love and deception and in the end, loss and redemption.

It is a melancholy and sad story written in the noir style popular in that era.

It follows of course, the fictional LA private detective Phillip Marlow. In this story Marlow loses something very valuable but in the end finds something greater and in fact more important. I loved reading this and of course watching Robert Mitchum play it in the movie. It always reminds me that while some things can be lost, all is never lost.

When one loses a body part it takes away something else. Something not physical but mental. It takes away ones sense of completeness.

Thus, although my stump didn't really hurt too much, I still felt wierd. Something was literally missing.

The loss was sometimes overwhelming.

I would reach for my foot, it wasn't there.

I tried to hop and fell.

I woke up one night, got out of bed and stepped into nothing.

I used a wheelchair and a walker and crutches.

Then I got an expensive fake leg and soon learned how to walk again.

At fist, I hobbled around like an ancient pirate on the bridge of his rickety ship. Then I got pretty good at it. Although I now walk slightly funny, with long pants on, no one can tell that I am missing a leg.

I know however.

Did I feel like half a man after my amputation? No, but maybe 3/4 of one.

To be sure, the person I had been was gone. I was no longer him. Poof.

I am kinda embarrassed to say it, but I cried alot after my amputation. I am not sure why or what it meant. I guess that sometimes I just missed my old self. I liked him. He was cool and tough and fast.

I knew that I would never again run and jump and play in pure physical joy.

After more than 60 years, I was now an old man who walks kinda funny.

That's the loss, to be sure.

However, in time I realized that, like Longfellow's poem, and Chandler's story, I actually gained more than I lost.

That gain is more important to me and quite remarkable really.

It started in the hospital where my daughter Shannon, her husband Chad, my son Bill and my brother Pat all sat with me before my surgery and then waited for me to come back out. (Son Jack was still in school).

I could see in their faces that they too were in pain and that they loved me.

After I was discharged from the hospital, they packed me up and sent me to recover at Shannon's house.

My loss helped me grow closer to my kids, Bill and Shannon and Jack. They helped me in ways I can't even describe. They nursed me and took me out to eat and went to movies with me. They told me how much I meant to them in so many different ways. I adore and enjoy them.

I grew closer to my grandkids, Taylor and Sophia and young Mikey. They ignored my disability and showed me how to laugh and play and pretend.

My brother Pat and I became best friends again after many years apart. I, in fact, moved a block away from him and now see him every day.

My sister Mary prayed for me and took me to church to ask for divine healing. She cried and asked God and God listened.

My older brother Greg went with me for coffee and walks in the mall.

I made new, close friends and when I healed I moved to a new place, 300 miles away, after a lifetime in Spokane.

When added up then, the tally has me way ahead of the game.

Every day now ends the same. At bedtime, I carefully take off my Prosthetic leg and set it aside. I clean my stump and carefully stand on my one leg to put on my PJs. This is the time of my day when I most feel disabled. Nothing can hide my sagging pajama leg. If I had to leave the house fast I would be in big trouble.

To help in case of an emergency, I keep a walker by my bed.

I typically fight sleep for an hour or so. I think of my family and friends and old girlfriends. I wonder what they would say if they saw me now?

I then fall into a deep sleep.

And I dream.

When I dream I always have my leg. I dream of running and jumping and sometimes a simple thing like taking a shower.

One recurring dream I have is from that long ago summer of 1963. JFK is still President. In a couple of months, the Dodgers will sweep the Yankees to become Champions of baseball.

Bonanza is in living color.

In my dream it is a long, warm, summer evening and the neighborhood sounds surround my dad and I as we stand on the side of our house and play catch. (We love baseball and have our old mitts and a well worn ball.)

Sprinklers woosh in the air.

Cars can be heard speeding only blocks away on busy Sprague Ave.

Dogs are plentiful and bark at each other while they play.

The buzz of a small plane comes from above.

My sister Mary can be heard organizing a group game of kick the can. 5 year old brother Pat is on the porch crying. Brother Greg is playing his latest Elvis record.

Plop....plop...plop goes the ball hitting our mitts. Dad's smiling face glistens with a touch of summertime sweat. He is in pure joy, playing catch with his adoring son.

Looking at dad, I think of Koufax and Mays and Mantle. Hero's for sure but none bigger than the handsome man patiently throwing me the ball.

In my dream, as we play, I envision what the future will hold for me: It will be hours playing in fields of glory and schoolboy battle. It will be games where I can run and jump and hit. I know that cheerleaders will yell my name and fans will cheer my teams.

I know that no matter what, my kids will be pretty and my dogs jolly. My life will be good. I will go to college and wear a suit to work.

Evenings will be warm and light and thier breezes soft.

My sun will always shine.

They can never cut that away from me.

Plop....plop.....plop.

0 notes

jesseneufeld · 4 years

Text

Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training

Let’s dive right in to the questions:

What is MAF training?

What are the benefits of cardio using MAF training?

You get better at utilizing the fat you eat and the fat you store, paying huge dividends in other areas of your life.

You get steadier energy levels throughout the day. There’s always that big bolus of energy hanging around, ready to be consumed and converted into ATP. And you’re very good at burning it.

You have a lower propensity to snack. It’s easier to stick to a healthy way of eating and refrain from snacking when you can cruise along eating your own adipose tissue in between meals.

When you’re aiming for MAF, how much cardio is too much?

If I had to put a number to it, I’d say that you shouldn’t burn more than 4000 calories a week from cardio.

How should you eat while doing maximum aerobic function?

What if I’m too slow?

Isn’t my MAF pace way too easy?

It seems way too easy, and that’s the whole point. It’s also where people get tripped up.

You think you can handle a bit more, so you push the HR up. I mean, running at an easy pace couldn’t possibly make you faster.

Just be sure you are always able to carry on a conversation and not get winded as the “guard-rail.”

Folks, that’s MAF training. If you want more details and a specific plan of attack, check out my book Primal Endurance.

If you have any more questions, ask down below! Thanks for reading, everyone.

(function($) { $("#dfV8Sss").load("https://www.marksdailyapple.com/wp-admin/admin-ajax.php?action=dfads_ajax_load_ads&groups=674&limit=1&orderby=random&order=ASC&container_id=&container_html=none&container_class=&ad_html=div&ad_class=&callback_function=&return_javascript=0&_block_id=dfV8Sss" ); })( jQuery );

References

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1540458/

http://health.heraldtribune.com/2012/06/06/moderate-exercise-may-be-better-for-you-than-vigorous-workouts/

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3823511/

The post Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training appeared first on Mark's Daily Apple.

Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training published first on https://drugaddictionsrehab.tumblr.com/

0 notes

jesseneufeld · 4 years

Text

Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training

Let’s dive right in to the questions:

What is MAF training?

What are the benefits of cardio using MAF training?

You get better at utilizing the fat you eat and the fat you store, paying huge dividends in other areas of your life.

You get steadier energy levels throughout the day. There’s always that big bolus of energy hanging around, ready to be consumed and converted into ATP. And you’re very good at burning it.

You have a lower propensity to snack. It’s easier to stick to a healthy way of eating and refrain from snacking when you can cruise along eating your own adipose tissue in between meals.

When you’re aiming for MAF, how much cardio is too much?

If I had to put a number to it, I’d say that you shouldn’t burn more than 4000 calories a week from cardio.

How should you eat while doing maximum aerobic function?

What if I’m too slow?

Isn’t my MAF pace way too easy?

It seems way too easy, and that’s the whole point. It’s also where people get tripped up.

You think you can handle a bit more, so you push the HR up. I mean, running at an easy pace couldn’t possibly make you faster.

Just be sure you are always able to carry on a conversation and not get winded as the “guard-rail.”

Folks, that’s MAF training. If you want more details and a specific plan of attack, check out my book Primal Endurance.

If you have any more questions, ask down below! Thanks for reading, everyone.

(function($) { $("#dfSNaNu").load("https://www.marksdailyapple.com/wp-admin/admin-ajax.php?action=dfads_ajax_load_ads&groups=674&limit=1&orderby=random&order=ASC&container_id=&container_html=none&container_class=&ad_html=div&ad_class=&callback_function=&return_javascript=0&_block_id=dfSNaNu" ); })( jQuery );

References

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1540458/

http://health.heraldtribune.com/2012/06/06/moderate-exercise-may-be-better-for-you-than-vigorous-workouts/

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3823511/

The post Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training appeared first on Mark's Daily Apple.

Dear Mark: Maximum Aerobic Function (MAF) Training published first on https://drugaddictionsrehab.tumblr.com/

0 notes