#-they keep getting into my tallow

[petermorwood]

Recent article on NPR about the history of artificial light somewhat frustrated me -- they portrayed all of pre-kerosene history as dark and heinously expensive at all times. Thing is, the writers based their findings solely on tallow candles, & ignored oil lamps, beeswax candles, clever use of refraction & outdoor light including moon/starlight... Also seemed to ignore the ubiquity of hearths / cook fires. Was wondering if you'd be willing to talk about non-tallow light? This isn't to ignore that truly, artificial lighting WAS much more difficult & expensive for much of human history, but acting like tallow candles were the ONLY light source seems very silly! (Plus your other lovely post about bottles of water used to make those candles more efficient via refraction & focus)

I'm betting the article you mean is this one - which refers back to this one.

For matching reference, my own posts about period lighting are here, One and Two, including observations about painting walls white, how to light candles and lamps without matches, and several other matters.

*****

It didn't take too much listening before I got tetchy, because the first half of this podcast seems more about mocking how WEIRD and PRIMITIVE old-time people were, than passing on any useful information.

Despite the presence of Jane Brox (author of "Brilliant: The Evolution of Artificial Light") whale oil only gets touched on in passing, and olive oil isn't mentioned at all.

Instead she starts talking about using oily seabirds (stormy petrels) as "candles", despite this scholarly study concluding that it was something talked about far more than done, besides being so very, very localised that its relevance to the history of lighting is very, very small.

But hey, WEIRD and PRIMITIVE, right?

*****

By contrast, making candles was so commonplace that it was another of those jobs which created surnames. Fletcher once put feathers on arrows, Cooper made barrels, Fisher, Miller, Baker and Farmer are obvious, and Chandler used to make candles.

Lampier, of course, made lamps, which helped keep those naked candle-flames away from anywhere they shouldn't touch. The man on the left is making the lantern bodies, the one on the right is shaving sheets of horn as windows.

It's cheaper than glass, less easily broken yet is translucent enough, when shaved properly thin, to give quite adequate light.

*****

The podcast has a digression about measuring the light output of a reproduction Ancient Babylonian lamp. Here's an original and a repro.

Yet that too says nothing about what fuel the lamp is or should be burning - olive oil, traded all over the Mediterranean by ancient olive-growing cultures.

These are Roman oil-lamps, from simple and cheap to elaborate and costly.

As for beeswax, so far as the podcast is concerned might as well not exist, despite being a by-product of honey, which was THE principal pre-sugar sweetener for centuries when not being made into all that mead whose existence, production and quaffing nobody questions.

Oh yeah, and then there was the amazed discovery (2:40 / 1:25, depending on which you're listening to) that melted beef fat "...smells really nasty, like, ANIMAL nasty,"

Why is this guy surprised? It's part of an animal!

*****

It's the same sort of infotainment ignorance as displayed by this TikTok twit, right up to complaining about the effort involved in preparation of anything because not having powered appliances was so labour-intensive, oh woe. Yes, it was, welcome to any historical period before about 1920. That's where "the daily grind" originates.

However the implication (listen, it's there) that cattle were raised just to provide fat for candles is ludicrous. The fat was a by-product, not a main one, and was often a butcher's side-line, while members of the Chandlers' Guild only worked with superior beeswax.

I don't think you could make candles like these with tallow:

...and you definitely couldn't make one meant to be hand-held.

Picture evidence shows, by their clothing, the class of society who bought these, and tallow-greasy fingers would have been a no-no.

A Chandler didn't make individual candles. By the time that fresh batch is hung up, the first batch away down at the end is cool enough to be dipped again.

A chandler's shop in a medieval city would look very similar, and often had a horizontal wheel on which to hang each batch of candles, rotating them up and around to cool, then back to the dipping pot. Non-modern people may not have had modern tech or time-and-motion studies, but they weren't stupid.

*****

By contrast, the podcast's disparaging attitude of WEIRD and PRIMITIVE is emphasised by what seems a deliberate avoidance of anything which counters it (examples of that in my own posts) and finally at 11.24 / 9:50 came this:

"Even when you get all the way to the 1700s (...) most people are still subsistence farmers, living in some kind of hut, trying to grow enough food not to starve to death (...) and light? Light still comes from finding stuff that's lying around and just lighting it on fire."

Some kind of hut...

Stuff that's lying around...

After making such a declaration, I'm surprised - since they'd been implying it for half the podcast - someone didn't just go ahead and announce that "there's some lovely filth down here..."

That's when I stopped listening.

Enough is enough, and I'd had it.

*****

ETA:

cc: @asmuchasidliketo :->

Here's a photo of what purports to be a Petrel (not petrol, that's something else) Candle, held in the Pitt-Rivers Museum, Oxford. It's mentioned in that scholarly article I linked above.

Just as "one swallow doesn't make a summer", so one - and only one - known example of this, which may have been a fake-up to spoof the Southerners, doesn't prove it was a common or even rare practice.

There's another reason to take this with a big pinch of salt, so maybe Jane Brox was on a low-sodium diet when she wrote her book.

Creatures with a layer of fat or blubber for insulation all have it like any other form of insulation, on the outside, where it does some good. A wick passed through the inside couldn't draw on it for fuel since there's a layer of muscle and another of internal organs for the oil to get through first.

The cropped-off bottle just visible to the left is a far more likely way seabirds became lamp fuel: by rendering out their oil. This oil is from the Northern Fulmar, Fulmaris glaciaris (or glacialis, I've seen both. Same bird regardless).

Incidentally, the Wikipedia article on European Storm Petrel mentions a supernatural connection, that the petrels were the souls of drowned sailors, and killing them is unlucky.

Not just killing them but making them into candles sounds like A Bad Idea, and is yet another reason why, IMO, the candle thing may be a folktale, or a deliberate leg-pull, or...

Let's just say "improbable" and leave it there. :-P

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: double chapter day?

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The summer sun brings little warmth to the castle of Debray. Those left behind in the shadow of their lord’s march to war, bide their time with baited breaths and unspoken worries. The duchess sinks into her cups, a nectar to her already sharp tongue, as her daughter buries herself in her wardrobe. 

Lady Jazlene hands you dress after dress, demanding a stitch here or there, only to snatch it back and have you cut the cloth of another to alter yet a third. And a fourth, fifth, sixth. Strips of fabric and loose buttons litter the drawing room table as you and Merinda put your needles to work. 

“Motherrrr,” Jazlene swirls around, swaying her hips back and forth, “it has been a fortnight already.” 

“Your father will return soon,” Lady Rezlyn slurs before she empties her goblet. She has no husband to chide her away from excess. “Never fear, dearest.” 

“That is not—mother, what am I to do? I have no wedding dress!” 

“You have no mind,” Rezlyn snickers, “you will have only rags by the time you decide.” 

“Hm,” Jazlene approaches the table with her hands on her hips, “mother, that gown with the gold lace. The one you wore last solstice--” 

“My gold lace,” Rezlyn sneers, “no!” 

“But mother. I only want the lace. You can have it re-trimmed. It would look much nicer with pearls,” Jazlene whines, “do you not understand? I am to marry a king. I cannot look as some simple countryside daughter.” 

Rezlyn clucks and shakes her head, “if it hushes your endless moaning, have the lace.” 

Jazlene gives a triumphant grin and turns to you. She grabs your arm and the needle catches in the fabric, slipping from your grasp, “go fetch mother’s dress. It is rosy satin.” 

“And wine! Bring more wine,” Rezlyn interjects. 

Jazlene rolls her eyes and flicks you away with her fingers. You hastily retreat as Merinda grimaces at her labour. Your fingers hurt from the endless hemming and seaming and you’ve noticed she’s jabbed herself more than once as the noble daughter changes course back and forth. 

You flit from the chamber and sweep down to the kitchens. The descent into the cellar is lit by only the candle in your hand, the flame wobbling dangerously before you. You find a bottle of the duchess’ preferred and climb back into the light. 

You snuff the tallow and quickly press on you. You climb the stairs again but falter as the wail of a horn breaks the afternoon din. You spin and turn to the window. Several other servants cluster beneath the arched opening as they try to see the horizon. The blast comes again, three in quick succession, followed by a long blare. 

The noise of chain and mail comes from the courtyard below. The few men left behind to man the castle walls are quick to action. You can see the flap of banners and nothing more between the other curious bodies. 

“Who is it? Enemy soldiers?” Waldon wonders. 

“I cannot see, my eyes are dim,” Margite shields her vision from the sun as leans over the sill. Their chatter swirls at the approach. 

“It is them! The Lord’s banner!” Stellan exclaims, “I can make out the sun and the sword on the banner. And the Winter King’s white crown.” 

“They return! They return!” Another cries out, “are they victorious?” 

You shuffle away. You forget about the golden lace and return to the drawing room. You enter and look down at the bottle in your hands. You blink, trying to recall what you were about to do. You set the wine on the table near the duchess as Jazlene seizes your other arm. 

“Where is the dress?” She snarls, “ugh, are you so useless--” 

“They’ve returned,” you utter cluelessy. 

“They...” Jazlene begins. 

“The king and your father, my lady,” you explain, “we saw them through the window. I thought to say so before I went to your mother’s wardrobe--” 

“Quiet!” She shoves you away, “I need a different dress. The crimson slit with ivory. Yes, yes, now!” 

She pushes you again and you stumble to the door. 

“And slippers,” she calls after you, “Merinda! Get over here.” 

You scurry back out and to Lady Jazlene’s chamber. You enter and sort through the mess of her clothing strewn and heaped about. You find the red and ivory dress and a pair of slippers of a similar hue. You are certain to bring a selection of jewels and pins to assuage any further remonstrance. 

In the drawing room, Jazlene has Merinda fixing her hairpins. You approach with your armful and lay it on the table. Outside the walls, you can hear the chaos unfurling. You can hardly keep the noises straight as cogs grind, ropes groan, and the noblewoman carry on their tittering. 

You help Jazlene step into the dress, Merinda holding the other side. As you work at the sleeves and skirts, she fidgets around. 

“The king? The king is with them for sure?” She breaths. 

You nod, “yes, my lady. His banner--” 

“Mother! They have won. They must have.” 

“Do not be too presumptuous,” the other lady rises and nears the table, snatching up a string of pearls, “come. Put these around my neck.” 

There’s banging and knocking and footfalls and voices yelling. The walls cannot keep out the rising fervour. Horse hooves and rusty hinges. They are close, in the castle or more. You pull tight the laces of the dress as Merinda clasps the pearls around the duchess’ thick neck. 

There is someone before the door. A shadow darkens below it for just an instant before it opens. No permission is asked as Lord Dustan clatters in. His eyes is swollen near shut. 

“Daughter, wife, you must come down to the--” 

Heavy, steady steps follow him. You continue to weave the laces through the eyes, going as fast as you can. 

“Father, I am not dressed. I am not ready to receive--” Jazlene protests. 

Dustan looks behind him and backs away from the doorframe. King Geralt fills it with his large figure, a dark cut along his hairline though he hardly seems bothered by it. Otherwise, he is untouched, unblemished. You knot the laces as you peek over Jazlene’s shoulder and his gold eyes shimmer in the low lantern light. 

“Your highness,” Jazlene gasps and drops to a curtsy. You stand, dumbfounded for an instant before you bend your neck and your knee to his status. “We were not warned of your coming. I pray you have tasted victory,” she raises her head slowly, “and we may wed in celebration to ring your reign in the Summer Kingdom.” 

He grumbles as his eyes search the space. Dull yet vibrant at the same time. He tilts his head as his jaw squares, “a king’s wife mustn’t fret so much about silks and wine,” he growls as he breaks the threshold. He marches to the rigid high back chair and lowers himself, “victory is mine but that does not mark the end of my efforts. I have no kingdom until all that which has broken is repaired.” 

“Certainly, your highness, and I will be by your side to help you amend what has been injured. As your loyal wife and queen,” she wilts as she wobbles just a little, “I am only so happy to see you alive and returned.” She rises as straight as she can and sweeps over to him, pushing out her chest, “but not unharmed. Your highness, you have been wounded.” 

She goes to touch the gash along his forehead and he motions her away with a flat palm. 

“It is not dire,” he insists, “Lord Dustan, where is your bishop?” 

“I sent away for him. He will come,” the duke avows. 

“The bishop?” Jazlene looks to her mother. 

“For the vows, precious,” Dustan assures. 

“The vows? Now? Today? But father--” 

“I haven’t time to wait around on paltry feasts and drunken hordes,” the king insists. 

“But-- but--” Jazlene stammers, “I am a queen, I should have a wedding.” 

“You are still but a duke’s daughter,” the king snaps, “a wedding you will have. Let us swear the words as was arranged. Then we must away.” 

“Away? Away?” Jazlene echoes again. 

“Take this parrot away from me,” King Geralt barks as he slams his fist into the arm of chair, “I tire of her squawking. When the bishop arrives, fetch me and I shall keep the oath I made.” 

The edge in his voice cannot be missed on that single word. He is a man who would not break a promise given, not the like the one cowering by the door. You glance up slowly as you notice Jazlene quaking. You can tell by her fists that she is not so much afraid anymore as she is angered. 

“Daughter,” Rezlyn girds and touches her daughter’s arm, “a wife should learn first to obey. Let us go paint your lips and await the bishop.” 

“This cannot be...” Jazlene hisses. 

“Quiet,” Lord Dustan snaps, “you want to marry, you marry as you are told. Out.” 

Lady Rezlyn keeps the duke from grabbing his daughter, instead steering her through the door herself. Merinda follows first and you trail after. The king grumbles, “Debray, leave a maid. She may fetch me that wine.” 

“My lord,” Lord Dustan points you back tersely, “the wine.” 

“Leave me,” King Geralt demands of his fair-weather lord. 

Dustan retreats and shuts the door heavily. You turn and cross to the table where you left the sealed bottle. You put your hand around the neck and lift it. You face the king and cross to him with your head low. 

“Your highness, would you like a goblet?” You ask. 

“I am not interested in imbibing,” he reaches beneath his mail and pulls free a grey handkerchief, “pour it on this.” 

You crack the wax seal of the bottle and grab the bulbous head of the cork. You wiggle it but cannot dislodge it. You struggle with it and he wraps his large hand around the pregnant bottom. 

“Little maid,” he slips it from your grasp and puts the kerchief in your hand. 

The uncorks it with only his thumb, flicking free the stopper, and he reaches out to you. You press the cloth to rim and he tilts it slightly, wetting the fabric. He pulls it away and reaches to place it on the floor. You look at him curiously. He leans forward and runs his index below the gash in his head. You get his meaning and daintily press the damp cloth to his head. 

“The alcohol cleanses,” he says as he leans heavier into your touch. 

“It looks rather painful, your highness.” 

You wince at your own careless words. You don’t know why you said anything at all. He sits in silence, breathing slowly. At last, he sits back and looks at you. You drop your hand and your chin. 

“Might I get you anything else, your highness?” You offer as you fold the cloth into a tight wad. 

“Tell me, how do you fare?” 

“Your highness?” You peek up at him through your lashes. 

“Are you well? Have you rested? Are you fed?” He prompts. 

You raise your head, surprised by his questions. 

“I am well, your highness. I have a roof above me.” 

His cheek ticks, “same as you were. Same as I remember.” 

He puts his head back and closes his eyes. He sighs deeply. You waver before him, unsure what to do next.  

“I don’t mind the cold. My land is frigid most days but I felt a true shiver out there on that road. Even Roach could not ease it.” 

You watch him, awaiting an order, not so well attuned to conversation. More often than not, a response is not warranted, just action. He gives you little direction though he is a man who easily commands. 

“My horse. Stinky steed,” he muses as he keeps his eyes closed, “valiant nonetheless.” He lets out another heavy exhale, “will you mind the door? Wake me when the bishop arrives should I doze?” 

“As you wish, your highness,” you go to the door, taking your usual stance beside it. 

He is still. The amber light of the lantern limns his large figure as he reclines in the stiff chair. He does not move but a man who has ridden to war has slept on worse. You cannot tell if he truly slumbers but you know it is not appropriate to stare. 

You remain in silence. It isn’t so bad to the duchess and her daughter. Almost serene if not for the tension of the man’s presence. A king. A wintry figure with his icy hair and colder demeanour. You do not envy Jazlene, he will be a rigid husband. She will not bowl him over as her mother does the duke. 

You listen beyond the walls, trying to track the activity beyond. There are softer voices you can’t make out, creaks which could be only the wind, and footfalls which are most certainly only servants about their tasks. The tedium stretches on as the lantern light wobbles. 

You stare at the wall opposite. The summer hue breezes in with a hint of pollen between the open curtains. Still the chamber remains dim in stone and mortar. 

There is the crank of the gates and you shift. You turn your head to hear better the entry of a new party. A man’s tenor from below assures you of the arrival. You wait until the footfalls reach the stairs. You do not relish waking the king should he have managed to sleep. 

You look to the king in the chair but find him alert. His eyes are centered on you as he sits straight, golden irises blazing. You gulp and shy away. 

“I believe the bishop has come, your highness.” 

He doesn’t speak or move. He just watches you. His gaze bores until it burns. You fear you might have strayed somehow. 

Finally, he slides to the edge of the chair and stands. He does not seem eager as he makes slow progress towards the door. As he crosses the room, he stops, just before the door, right beside you. 

“A war for a wife,” he mutters, “a barter, I suppose.” He reaches for the metal loop on the door, “come, little maid, we might need a pillow should the lady faint again.” 

[hardly-an-escape]

Stormy Weather, or: Outside, the Wind (Inside, the Light) | Dream/Hob | 1600 words | Rated T

tags: I recently spent an evening without power therefore I must put the blorbos in a Situation, love confessions, first kiss, getting together, power outages, Hob Gadling throughout history, gratuitious use of mildly accurate Middle English

The wind tears around London like a living thing, a wild animal, a predator, intent on the hunt. It chases birds into their nests and people into their homes, moans around corners and rattles shutters, sending piles of leaves whirling into miniature hurricanes and whipping branches into a frenzy, sharpening its claws on roof tiles and telephone poles.

Except in Hob Gadling’s flat.

The New Inn, and the cozy home above it, is in one of those old buildings that’s actually been loved and maintained – thanks in no small part to Hob’s own care and attention. The walls are thick and strong, the roof is solid. The shutters may rattle, but the windows are double-pane; the curtains and carpets are warm and soft, and no drafts encroach on the sanctity of his living room, where Hob and Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, are having a movie night.

It’s part of Hob’s concerted effort to introduce the Prince of Stories to the stories he’d missed during his imprisonment. Tonight it’s Blade Runner – the final cut, of course – which isn’t necessarily one of Hob’s personal favorites, but seemed to fit the stormy, rainy vibes of the weather. They’re installed on the couch, with hot chocolate and wine and snacks, which Dream has deigned to pick at. Harrison Ford is eating noodles and wandering through wet, moodily-lit streets. The wind is howling outside, but they’re safe and warm and surrounded by soft things and life is about as good, Hob thinks, as it ever gets these days.

And then his lights flicker. Once, twice; there is the impression of a sort of electrical last gasp, and the room is plunged into darkness.

The wind whips and the shutters rattle. A volley of rain spits itself against the windows.

“Bugger,” says Hob.

Dream says nothing, merely brings his wineglass – which had already been cradled in one elegant hand – to his lips.

“Hang on,” says Hob. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere.”

He gropes his way to the kitchen. In one drawer he unearths some beeswax tapers and several tea lights, which he arranges on a plate. He rummages in one of the deeper cabinets and makes a triumphant noise as he discovers his prize behind disused mugs and a fondue set from the 1980s: a pair of old-fashioned brass candlesticks equipped with round reflectors, highly polished to catch the light and bounce it back out into the darkness.

“You are remarkably well-prepared for an event such as this,” says Dream, as Hob lights his various prizes and returns to the living room with his hands full of flickering flames.

“Well, you know,” Hob demurs. “When it comes down to it, I’ve lived a lot more of my life without electricity than with it.” He arranges the tea lights on the coffee table and sets the brass candlesticks on a nearby bookshelf. “You never really get out of the habit of preparing for the worst. Although I will say, these beeswax ones beat the hell out of the old tallow jobbies we had when I was young. Got ‘em from a local bloke who keeps bees not half a mile away, isn’t that cool? A beekeeper in the middle of London. There, now,” he says, and having arranged the lights to his satisfaction he plops himself back down on the sofa.

Outside, the wind wails. The lack of lamps on the empty street below and the gentle candlelight within make the night seem even darker, and turn Hob’s living room into something even softer and cozier than it already is.

Dream’s face, in the flickering candles, seems even more otherworldly than usual; and Hob, for his part, truly looks as though he belongs in another century. The very shape of his face has changed, somehow, into something older; taking on a new appearance in the candlelight the way a man’s tongue might curl differently around the syllables of another language.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says lowly. “This kind of world. Before the wires and the phones and the cars. It was… quieter.”

“You speak often of your delight in change and progress. Do you truly long for your past lives?” asks Dream.

“Yes and no,” answers Hob. “Some things are better now, no question. Antibiotics, wouldn’t want to live without those again. Vaccines and X-rays and chemotherapy and antidepressants – almost all the medical stuff. Mass transportation. Cars and planes have never been safer. Honestly, I’ve never understood the people who moan about the olden days and oh, life was simpler back then. Don’t they know how many people died? How many kids? Because they caught a cold or fell out of a tree or had a case of the runs that lasted a little too long?”

He leans forward to adjust one of the candles, which is dripping unevenly, and when he sags back into the couch there is just the hint of a frown between his strong brows.

“And yet…” he says, staring into the flames, voice quiet. “Nights like this. I do sometimes think…”

Hob trails off for a long moment.

“There was a rhythm to life, back then,” he says finally. “You counted hours by the church bells and days by the tasks that needed done. And there was so much that needed to be done… cows milked and fields planted and clothes knitted or mended. And it was all so important, so… necessary. Regimented. But in the in between time – Christ! your time wast thine.” As he speaks, his voice has slipped into an older register: his Rs grown rounder, his vowels longer, curling from his mouth to mingle with the candlesmoke hovering over his coffee table. “I remember fair hours as a lad, even into my manhood, of which I spent lyende in th’ fields, watching ants in th’ grass. And later, too, we’d hie us to bed with the sonne, the fire banked in the hearth. An’ it happen that if we awakened before dawn, ’twas a simple thing to pass the time in simple ways, be it in prayer or in pleasure…”

The innuendo in his words is clear, but Hob is not looking at Dream; his eyes are unfocused as he stares into the middle distance, revisiting the past via candlelight. Until one of the wicks lets out a small pop, and flares, and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

“God, sorry,” he says, voice back in the 21st century. “Woolgathering. I’ll go on for an age, me. More wine?”

But Dream’s eyes have also gone unfocused, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with unnecessary breaths as he stares – no, gazes – at Hob. He, too, must shake himself into the present moment at Hob’s offer of more wine. He silently holds out his glass.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Dream says.

“Anything. You know that.”

Dream pauses. Sips. Outside, the sound of the wind has not abated; has grown, if anything, even more dramatic. There is the muffled sound of branches scraping against the side of the building.

“Why,” asks Dream finally, “do you pretend to yourself that you do not want me?”

Hob chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you pretend thus to me?” Dream pursues. “Who has known you longer than any being on this planet or any other; who can know your innermost dreams?”

“What do you mean, other planets?” Hob demands. And then: “Have you been peeking at my dreams?”

“I need not peek, as you put it, to see the truth of the matter. It is writ plain on your face and in your every word and deed. I merely wonder why this truth has hovered before us for over six hundred years and you have yet to press your suit. Do you doubt, after all this time, my affection for you? Do you find me – unworthy?”

Dream sounds, impossibly, almost uncertain. Even vulnerable. Hob sighs heavily and leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

“I – God. Dream,” he stammers. “Yes, Christ, I am full of doubts. You stormed away from me when I implied you might be lonely, I… I have never, once, thought I had a suit to press at all. What on earth has brought this on? Now, of all times?”

“I do not know,” Dream murmurs. “Perhaps… this darkness is working on me, as well. Perhaps I am as susceptible to candlelight and nostalgia as the next anthropomorphic personification.”

He smiles, a little quirk of the mouth that contains worlds, and Hob leans over, listing helplessly into Dream’s space as the tapers flicker.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, turning his head to butt his cheekbone against the sharp line of Dream’s nose. “Art thou rēal? Speak you treue?”

“Aye, my Hob,” answers Dream. “Min herte is treue and bilongeth to you.”

A sob catches in the back of Hob’s throat at the words. “Fuck,” he whispers again, “Dream, I’m yours. I am. I always have been. My Dream, min sweven, my leof. Alwei, allesweis…”

Their mouths find each other, then, finally, lip against lip and breath against breath. They kiss for a long, long moment, desperate and hungry and soft all at once, as outside the wind howls coldly around the corners of the New Inn, and inside the light cast by Hob’s candles bathes their whole little world in a cozy glow.

“Take me to bed,” murmurs Dream against Hob’s mouth. “Make me your lover. Show me how you pass the time by candlelight, and in darkness.”

“Oh, darling. Dearheart,” Hob answers. “Nothing in this world or any world past could make me happier.”

And he suits his actions to his words.

[foldingfittedsheets]

i know you get a lot of random asks asking for advice but. Do you have any tips for leather boot care? I oiled mine once a few months ago and I have no idea how often to oil them. The Internet is full of contradicting and vague advice

Get ready for some vague contradictory advice! I oil mine when they look dry. I do a damp paper towel to wipe the boots off then spread a beef tallow oil on them. I’ve tried other oil conditioners and honestly this is the best. Then I just let it soak and call it good. My boots are nearing eight so I think it’s going alright.

I got the oil off a weird religiousy website but sadly they no longer seem to carry it. That said of the leather conditioners I’ve used the ones with animal fat have been the absolute best results.

My beloved got me a leather kindle case that shipped with a tiny honey scented animal fat conditioner to keep the case in good shape. I am going to be so sad when it runs out, it smells so nice and the shop doesn’t sell it on its own.

Edit: I found the one I use! They have an orange-vanilla scent too but I haven’t smelled it. The unscented one is truly no smell and works amazing.

[taradactyls]

The full Bennet Family Finances endnote from Ch33

I’ve been doing some more maths (ch26 has the initial discussion) on the savings that our characters might do/should’ve done since it’s fascinating to me and some of the comments I’ve been getting have been making me think more about it. One of the common themes is surprise at just how negligent the Bennets were at saving, instead of merely being stretched thin by expenses. I understand this completely, as it isn’t something that’s explicit in an easily recognisable way for modern audiences.

So, where could they have been more economical? They don’t go to London, no one has a gambling addiction, all travelling (which was EXPENSIVE) is done cost effectively, and they certainly didn’t spend all the money on tutors and the like for their daughters. I’m sure there’s actual academic papers by historians on this (I miss my uni access to those so much) but I can take some educated guesses.

We know Mrs Bennet is just bad with household management. Part of which might mean ordering too much food (it’s mentioned she keeps a good table, so this is as close to canon as we can get) and perhaps not being efficient with what she does order, ie wanting different meats from night to night, instead of having the leftovers served as stews or whatnot, not keeping an eye on the prices of sugar, salt, etc to buy when they’re cheap, making special orders instead of purchasing what’s readily available, etc. We know none of the Bennet women assist in the kitchen (as the Lucases do) so that’s more work for servants and thus likely to contribute to the need of an extra servant or higher wages. Household management could also be more innocuous things like always buying the expensive bees-wax candles, instead of using tallow when guests aren’t around or in out-of-the-way rooms. And being inefficient with candle usage (this is likely a Mr Bennet flaw too, if he enjoys reading in his library at night) in order to have a room better lit than strictly necessary. There was a reason families all tended to gather in one room after dark, and the Bennets notably don’t. Also having fires in all the principal rooms instead of just the ones likely to be used that day. If there’s ways to be inefficient with funds when it comes to cleaning, I’m sure they found a way there, too. Basically, anything that requires forward planning to help with economy would be lacking.

 But that’s all ‘essentials’ just done inefficiently, what luxuries might they have had? They have the income to warrant their carriage, horses, and it seems Mr Bennet does hunt, but that’s also a standard expense for his wealth, so let’s focus on what might be pushing them to their limits. Other than the over-provisioned dining table, which we’ve mentioned, nothing about their socialising habits seems excessive. Mrs Bennet’s love of fashion could be pushing her wardrobe bill up, Mr Bennet’s love of books could be a VERY expensive hobby, and of course – five daughters out at once. Having five daughters out (especially unnecessarily as Lydia and even Kitty were quite young to be out) cost a LOT of money. Lady Catherine was rude as anything, but her surprise at the fact was warranted. Other than money, it also meant the daughters were in direct ‘competition’ for the same limited amount of suitors, which theoretically might hurt the elder girls’ chances. Five distinct wardrobes for young women which needed gowns for all occasions, going through dance shoes and gloves very quickly, bonnets, etc, all added up. At the start of the book multiple hundreds of pounds a year would be going to keeping their daughters looking the part while mixing in society.

But Jane’s only twenty-one or twenty-two at the start of the novel, and came out at fifteen at the earliest. Yet the Bennets still never saved money, and never overspent their income, so there were other expenses they were able to drop which had been preventing them from saving money for the first sixteen or so years of their marriage. I think it’s fair to assume there’s random, one-time bigger expenses that were undertaken with any substantial spare money: perhaps the hermitage Mrs Bennet mentions is a newer addition, was the coach (which are normally ordered around the start of a marriage) refitted more recently, how often is the décor of Longbourn updated (and on that note, are things like the sofa reupholstered or completely replaced), do they impulse buy vases and sculptures, make sure whatever alcohol they do buy (which appears to be a reasonable amount for their class) is the expensive stuff, etc. Whatever it is, it’s a both parent problem. Mrs Bennet is bad at money management and instead of changing her habits or preparing her daughters for financial hardship puts pressure on them to marry (preferably rich, but she doesn’t seem to have a complaint about Wickham in that regard). Mr Bennet is smart enough to see that there is a problem and how to fix it, but after his first idea fails (have a son to break the entail and thus provide for his widow and other children – which doesn’t even necessarily mean the girls would get a dowry, just that they would never live in poverty) does nothing to reassess the issue or find a solution. He essentially shrugs his shoulders and lets his daughters shift for themselves. One parent is too stressed about money and only addresses it negatively, and the other isn’t stressed enough and doesn’t address it seriously at all. Neither do anything productive, even though changing their habits would be enough to fix it. I love them, but MASSIVE parenting failure on their end; and hinted to occur because the parents were too used to comforts and different themselves to be able to work together and act on a solution.

Now for some actual MATHS! Which, yes, I realise I am strangely excited about.

The idea that most of the Bennets’ money is spent by having so many daughters out at once seems to keep popping up in my time on the internet. So, I thought it would be interesting to see what their dowries could be if that five-daughters-out-at-once money wasn’t spent on other things before any daughters were out. Costs of this could vary a bit between families, and though we know Lydia’s expenses were almost £100 per annum that includes board and food as well as little gifts from Mrs Bennet, so we can’t simply multiply that by five and be done with it. But, given Mrs Bennet’s desire for fashion and the poor financial management we see from her and some of her daughters, it’s quite possible clothes were being bought new rather than pulled apart and remade more than they ought to be, so spending £50 to £60 a year on each daughter being ‘out’ seems reasonable. For the purposes of this, let’s look at a total of £250 and £300 a year for all five, and in the 4%s because that’s where the money settled on Mrs Bennet apparently is. After sixteen years of marriage (when we will assume Jane comes out) that’s £5,456 or £6,547. Meaning that just doubled their dowry, even if they save nothing else after that. If the interest is left alone, that’s more than £1,000 that’s added to it before the novel even begins. Suddenly Mr Bennet dying at the start of the novel would leave his widow and daughters with between £11,500-£13,000 instead of the meagre £5,000 they actually have.

And the girls didn’t all come out at once, so just to put some numbers to it for math purposes, let’s say Elizabeth came out one year after Jane, Mary two years after her, Kitty another two years later, and Lydia the following year. For simplicity, each girl coming out is going to remove the same amount of money (when realistically it’s likely Jane, who needs everything new, and Lydia, who’s spoilt, would have cost the most). With the lower estimates of expenses, that’s £8,062 saved at the time of the novel, taking the total for Mrs Bennet and the girls to £13,602 or £2,612 each, assuming nothing else is saved. At the higher cost for the girls being out, that’s £9,676 saved and £14,676 that they’ll eventually inherit a share of. Still below what they should have as dowries, but a vast improvement, and proof of why having five daughters out at once was an additional strain but not THE strain. It was just another element in a mountain of problems.

“But what if it was in the 5%s?” asks no one but me. I think they would stick to the more stable bonds Mrs Bennet’s dowry is in, but if they didn’t, the same situation as above would save £9,243 (or £14,243 total) or £11,090 (£16,090 to share or £3,218 each).

For pure funsies, the numbers if Mr and Mrs Bennet had also saved the interest of the £5,000 settled upon her (which by itself would grow to £12,324 in the 4%s) in addition to these savings are:

£20,387 (£4,077 each at the start of the novel) with the £250 expenses estimate. At £300 for all five daughters out, we get to £21,998. Both of these numbers suddenly mean the Miss Bennets would never have to fear poverty when Mr Bennet died and they would individually each be as rich as their mother was, and though they wouldn’t be counted as rich themselves, would at least have something respectable. They might not cost their husbands money to marry.

AND THEN if everything is in the 5%s but that original £5,000, and the interest it gains is also moved to the higher interest account, the grand total would be either £22,528, again assuming the £250 expenses, and £24,376 at the £300 estimate.

I’ve been doing some equations for Darcy, too. So, let’s talk about that next chapter, to give me time to really figure it out.

[its-in-the-woods]

Coyote Head - Part 7 - Bloodied Kiss

master list

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Pairing: Cooper Howard x Lucy Maclean 

Includes many other characters from Fallout

Synopsis: The nightmares are finally catching up to Lucy.

MINOR GET OUT. Rating/Warning:  Animal/people death, Blood, Gore, Body Horror,Violence, Nightmares, Monsters, Alternative Universe, Slow Burn, Death, Aging, Family Feuding, Older Man/Younger Woman

Note: that I will not be spoiling any of the reading. So you have been warned. I will keep my tags relevant without spoiling what is happening in the story.

*Mind the tags

*This had been clawing at my mind for dayssssss I needed to post it early or I was going to explode

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As the dust of the car faded, Lucy felt her shoulders drop, it was barely past mid-day and she was already feeling worn out. She was proud of herself, for not backing down and holding her ground. Max had been the first boy she’d really fallen for, and it sucked it had ended the way it did. It was time for her to move forward, to let that part of her life go. Move onto what was coming next for her, hopefully, something that won’t end as tragic.

Lucy turned to her two companions as they started to move, happy that they had stood at her back despite having no idea what was going on. She gave a weak smile at the two, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of dread.  

“Ya’doing okay?” Cooper asks as he moves towards her, the way the afternoon sun shone on his skin making her heart speed up. Her eyes unabashedly went over his body, the man was well-toned. The day-to-day work is evident on the hard lines of his muscles covering him; a crooked grin on his face when Lucy finally catches her eyes. 

Lucy glances away, as Dane grins at her, “Yeah, just, wasn’t expecting him to show up. Ever.”

“Well, shirtless. Could I get a hand movin’ some stuff around to get the mower.” Dane chuckles, Cooper smirking at the comment, the tips of his ears going pink. Lucy smiling at the two ribbing each other.

“Yeah, I can help the greasemonkey,” Cooper throws back, with raised eyebrows. “Shirt got wet. But pipes should be fine.” He said just loud enough for them to hear.

“Sure it did,” Dane rolls their eyes as turning to head to the other shed. Cooper gives them a sideways glance before following, a smile on his lips as he looks back at Lucy.

“I will go turn the water back on for the house,” Lucy chirps, her face was going to be stained beet red at this point. She was feeling happy that she had friends like these.

***

Lucy is once again sitting on the counter, the pipes are now running without leaks. Cooper had actually laid in water, which had given Lucy an excuse to toss his shirt into the dryer. She’d take any excuse to see the man move around her home and property shirtless. Dane had teased him endlessly about it much to Lucy’s amusement. Dane had taken off about an hour ago with the promise to come back on Monday to continue the work. Lucy had half a mind to figure out how to keep them on a more permanent basis. Something she’d run by Harris, see if it was worth doing, and if Dane wanted to stay of course. 

Cooper walks in, putting the caulking gun down beside the sink. He’d decide after finishing the pipe to fix up several issues around the sink. Lucy was positive she could have figured it out but Cooper was insistent. Really who was she to refuse the offer from a shirtless cowboy in her kitchen. She hands him a beer, he pops the top off with a ring on his middle finger. Lucy adds that to the list of things she found way too hot. 

“I can make up some dinner?” Lucy offers, she was pretty sure she could find something worth eating in the freezer. She also needed to make sure that she got Cooper some tallow too.

Cooper leans against the counter right beside her, taking a sip of the beer. Lucy can’t help but watch how he drinks it. “If ya don’t mind. Grandparents are taking the kidlets to d’pool and pizza after. Figured, we’re going to have a long day. ”

Lucy couldn’t help the smile that crosses her face, liking the idea of the two of them having an evening just for them. “Were you planning something, Cooper?”

Cooper’s sliding over so that he was leaning against Lucy, “Well, I was goin’ to ask ya out Ms. MacLean, but ya kinda jumped me.”

Lucy's head tipping back in a laugh, taking another sip of her beer. The two of them looked the other over, her eyes trying to memorize the way he looked out of his shirt.  “I don’t seem to remember you complaining,”

The man puts his beer down shifting so he is standing in front of Lucy, she swallows under his gaze. He leans forward putting a bare arm on either side of her, eyes wandering up her body, their face just inches from each other. Lucy’s breath catches in her chest as his hazel eyes stare into hers. 

“M’no, I certainly didn’t.” Cooper hushes, leaning forward to kiss her again. Lucy can’t help the little whine that escapes as she pushes back against him. Her hands ran up his arms, feeling his muscles twitch under the attention. He tastes so good, their tongues finding the other as they pull each other closer.

Her hands come up to cup his face, his hands resting on her thighs, fingers gripping against the flesh there. Lucy lets her legs open so that Cooper can move closer to her. He breaks the kiss, moving down along her jaw, small kisses down her neck. Lucy whimpers as he licks down her neck, his large hands rucking up her shirt. The callous on his fingers makes her body vibrate as he touches over her skin. 

“Cooper,” Lucy whimpers, her hands running up into his hair, as his hands cup her breast through her bra. “M’maybe we should-” His head ducks down, mouth going along her stomach. It feels so good, but it’s so fast. “Cooper, we shouldn’t-”

His teeth sink into her flesh, “Fuck- Ow- Cooper-” Lucy tries to pull him away but he bites in deeper, Lucy can feel her skin tearing. The sound of teeth in flesh, the wet sticky pop, her face twisting in a grimace. 

Lucy is scrambling, a scream finally leaving her throat at the pain, trying to get him off of her. “Stop. Stop-p it.” Lucy cries out, her hands finally pushing him off of her. The skin is not skin anymore, but rough and lizard-like under her hands. Cutting into her palm as she does her best to get it off of her. 

It’s not Cooper. Looking up at her, with blood painting its chin like a crimson river, is something that looks like Max. Its features are the same, but eyes instead of brown glow like orange flames, skin darker than shadows. Skin Covered in layers and layers of never-ending shifting scales that move in the light. A bloody grin spreads across its face. There are too many teeth, so sharp, in neverending rows, the pink spit glistening as it grinned up at her. Stomach oozing blood over her pants and dripping on the floor. 

“Just wanted a taste.” It growls at her, suddenly lunging forward to latch onto her neck.

Lucy is howling and fighting to get it off her struggling, as she falls to the floor. Her body protested as she hit the ground with a thud, the whole room going dark. She is pushing and struggling, but it’s soft now. Her hands are not grabbing at scales but material, eyes adjusting to the new surroundings. She was on the floor of her bedroom; chest heaving as she tries to make sense of where she was, and how she got there. 

Pushing the blanket off of her, she takes in the room around her. Her bedroom, she had fallen off the bed and landed on the floor. Lucy flips on the light and looks down, pulling up her shirt to look at her stomach. Hands running over where there should be torn tissue, before going up to her neck. Nothing. 

It had felt real, she could still feel the way it’s teeth had dug into her, the pain that had shot through her body. Looking at the bed Lucy expected to see blood, expected to see something. Throwing off the sheets there was nothing but sweat stains. 

Lucy collapsed onto the floor, her body trembling at the memory. It looked so much like Max, but it was all wrong. His face had been too round, eyes too far apart, hair too spiky, so many teeth. The eyes, orange fire-filled eyes, glowing like embers burning into her soul like hot ash on ice. Her hands scramble to the side of her table gabbing for her phone. 

For the first time, she doesn’t hesitate, hitting Cooper’s number. Pressing the phone to her ear, she hadn’t even looked at the time.

***

Cooper was there in a matter of minutes, Lucy opening the door for him, still in a state of shock. He had immediately gathered her up into his arms, hugging her tight against his chest, refusing to let her go until he got her over to the couch. He had her sit, covering her with several blankets, before moving into the kitchen. A hot cup of coffee with hot chocolate was put in front of her, along with some toast. He slid in beside her, bundling her up and tucking Lucy into his side. Her hands wrapping around him as she shivers, her whole body felt like it was frozen.

“You doing okay, sweetheart,” Cooper murmurs, his voice rumbling against the side of her head. Lucy could feel herself melting into his side, wanting to find some way to stay there forever.

Lucy swallows, nodding, “Just-” She wasn’t even sure how to put it all into words. It wasn’t exactly normal to have eighties horror movie dreams every night. “Nightmares have been really bad.” 

Cooper rubs his hand down her arm, Lucy lets her eyes close for a moment and enjoy the comfort.“How often have you been having them?”

Lucy snuggled in closer, reaching for the coffee mug and taking a sip. The warm caffeine and chocolate drink heating her insides. “Since the house got ransacked, it’s been nightly.”

Cooper’s chest grumbles at the words, arms somehow pulling her closer to him. “What was it about?”

“I don’t, I-” Lucy takes a sip of more coffee, before telling him what she’d dreamt about. Not skipping any details, the warmth of the coffee and his body made it easier to get it off her chest. 

Cooper hums, he takes his hat off, setting it beside him on the couch, hand running into his hair. He scratches at the stubble for a second. “Well, that wasn’t the dreams I’d hope you’d have of me.”

Lucy smacks his stomach at the joke, a small smile passing on her lips at the jest, “You think I like this? I’d much prefer no dreams, or well other dreams.”

Cooper grins, Lucy pouting a little, as he chuckles, “No, I don’t think that, I do worry about the nightmares. Can’t ‘member the last time I had a night-terror. Why you’re tired all the time?”

She nods, her eyelids weighing heavy despite the coffee and mind-bending visions.“I feel like I am losing my mind, Cooper.” 

“You’re not goin’ crazy, I think ya need sleep. Maybe some time away.” Cooper mumbles into her ear, pushing hair out of her face. “Why don’t ya let me take ya to my home.”

Lucy’s brows furrow, she didn’t want him to leave, but she also felt like she should stay. Why did she want to stay? The nightmares never stopped her, the shadows, the taping, the knocking? Yet the thought of leaving made her stomach turn, but when Lucy left she felt lighter. 

“You promise you don’t think I am going crazy?” Lucy whispers, wondering how much he would believe. How much did she even believe? None of this made sense, not really. 

He shifts so he can look right at her, eyebrows making his forehead wrinkle.“I promise I don’t think’ya’re goin’ crazy. Anymore than am goin’ crazy.”

“I feel like I am supposed to be here, even with all the nightmares, the shadows, the house being tossed. I keep comin’ back.” Lucy states, her fingers fiddling with the edge of the blanket. Saying it out loud made it seem even more ridiculous than it had in the confines of her mind.

Cooper nods, placing the mug on the coffee table, hand running up and down her arm more. “It’s not surprisin’, this place is your home. It’s where ya grew up.”

“It’s not just that,” Lucy said, sitting up a bit, clutching at the mug, trying to hold onto some shred of reality. “It’s like something is pulling me here. Like I can’t leave.”

“So, leavin’ would probably be wise,” Cooper replies, his hand finding hers. “You’re sleep-deprived, runnin’ on fumes, Lucy. We have a spare room ya can stay in. Until ya can catch up on sleep, have a better view on thin’s with a clear head.”

Lucy sat back, the thought of being off the farm made her stomach twist, but she also needed sleep. Actual sleep sounded amazing, to not feel like she was burning at both ends. 

She nods her head finally. “Yeah, maybe I do need to leave.” 

***

Lucy was sitting at her family's dinner table, watching the kids outside to play on the deck. She had slept most of the day away, her exhaustion not feeling nearly as pressing as it usually did. The spring air was warm today, the hints of summer shifting in the air. She’d slept most of the day, Cooper had brought her to his place at about three am, the two tiptoeing upstairs. Initially, he’d offered her the spare bedroom, but after opening the door and seeing a pile of laundry, his room was the next best. Cooper had insisted on sleeping downstairs, despite Lucy’s best attempt to get him to stay. Traumatizing the children wasn’t high on her list. She was a little peeved he hadn’t woken her up, but she was also grateful for the extended rest. 

Stephanie sat down across from her, glancing out at the kids. They were running back and forth across the deck, possibly paying tag. “How’s it going, Lucy.”

“I am doing okay,” Lucy lies, there was no reason anyone needed to know any more about her problems. “Did you ever talk to Betty?”

“Oh! Yes, Betty.” Stephanie smiled, digging through her phone. “I sent her the photos.” She lets out a sigh, “Unfortunately no dice. Seems like it’s still a mystery.”

“Dang was hopin’ we’d get somethin’ more,” Cooper said, sitting beside Lucy. She desperately wants to crawl onto his lap and fall asleep, but instead, she shuffles a little closer. Steph watching the two of them closely, one eyebrow up. 

“Yeah. probably something diggin’ like you said.” Steph says, shutting her phone off and leaning back into her chair. “Had any more weird stuff happen?” 

Lucy shook her head, not wanting to get into the details, “Nope, hoping it stays that way really.” 

Bert sat down beside Steph leaning in to give her a quick kiss, “Y’all heard about the Roths.”

Cooper and Lucy looking at each other, shaking their heads. It wasn’t like they had had a free moment lately.

“Last night something came and killed two calves. Did some damage to some of the cows too.” Bert sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Like we needed more loss this year.”

Lucy's mind ran over the property map. The Roth's had a section leased from her that was back half on parkland and half onto her farm. There was also the nightmare last night.

“Which section was it?” Lucy asks, already knowing the answer.

“The section southwest of your place, actually,” Reg's brows furrowing. “Weird huh.”

“Do you know what time?” Cooper asks, his hands taping at the table.

Lucy realizing that Cooper was also putting two and two together. 

“Not sure, I know it was overnight.” Reg replied, “Why? Something happened with you guys too?”

Lucy swallowed, her hands going to cover her stomach. The feeling of her flesh ripping out, the haunting image of its eyes, the sound of its voice. 

“Nothing of note, we did have a mummified calf. But Barry figures it was just a bad pregnancy.” Cooper shrugs, the action supposed to be of disinterest, but his shoulders stay tight. Lucy is happy that he didn't bring up her nightmares until she got some more sleep it wasn’t worth mentioning. Right? 

“Maybe it's the weird spring. Warming up too fast. Animals reacting to it,” Steph adds, her hand covering Reg's. Her eyes looking between the two of them. 

Cooper is up and moving as the sliding door opens, Mathias holding a frog in his hand. The little boy had a grin from ear to ear as he holds it up to show his Dad the little critter he'd found.

“Can't bring it in here, buddy. Why don't we go take it to the pond,” Cooper tells him with a smile, petting the little creature his son held up. Lucy smiling as the two wander out of sight.

“So how long you two-” Steph raises an eyebrow, with a cheshire smile,

“Been a thing?” 

Lucy’s cheeks burn at the words, not realizing how obvious she had been. “No. Well. Yes. But not that long. Didn’t realize I was that transparent..” 

The couple chuckle, Steph smiling at her cousin, as she squeezes Reg’s hand. Free hand waving at Lucy as if it was nothing.

“You both need a little light in your lives,” Reg states smiling at Lucy, before looking at his wife. 

“Keeping things quiet for now. Haven't really talked about it much.” Lusy confesses, Marge coming over to sit at the table.

“Keeping what quiet hon?” Marge questions, holding a cup of tea in her hands. Cooper comes back in through the sliding door, walking over and kissing Lucy on the cheek. Marge chuckles and makes an ahh sound, Lucy doing her damndest not to slide under the table. 

“As long as you're both happy,” Harris says, patting Lucy on the shoulder. Lucy having a hard time keeping her cool, it wasn’t as if they’d put a label on things. They’d kissed once for crying out loud.

“Could I speak to you for a moment, Lucy?” Harris asks, kissing Marge on the top of her head before moving towards the hallway.

“Absolutely,” Lucy smiles, looking back at Coope who nods before following her Uncle into the big house. 

Down past the bedrooms a door leads into a well-lit office, the far wall has three large windows that face out into the backyard and forest line. A large old desk sat in the middle, along with several large filing cabinets and bookshelves. The room was bright against the dark wood, space big enough for two large overstuffed chairs beside the bookcases. On a well-worn stool were three faded bankers' boxes. Lucy recognizes her Grandpa's handwriting on the front. Harris puts a big hand on top of one rotating so he is facing Lucy.

“Me and Margie have,” He pauses looking out the large windows towards the forest. “Debated about whether we should give you these. Tim asked me to burn them. But it didn't feel right.”

Lucy crossed her arms, hugging herself a little as she looked at her Uncle. His usual nonchalant demeanor now scrunched together in tight lines across his face. Pacing back and forth in front of the window as he spoke. 

“These are Tim’s journals. Going back to a month after your Dad and Uncle went missing.” Harris replies, Lucy, feels a wave of dread wash over her as he moves over to his filing cabinet.

“They didn't go missing- '' Lucy goes to reply, Harris placing a newspaper in front of her. Headline read Two men killed in farm accident. “Yeah, this is what Tim showed me.”

“Flip to page four,” Harris said, Lucy did as he asked, unable to get a read on his emotions. Page four has a smaller blurb, Search for brothers ends. Lucy reads through the blurb, a cold pool of dread weighing in her guts. 

“They went missing in the forest. In the forest around my house.” Lucy whispers, her hands shaking as she rereads the words. “They never found the bodies.”

Harris meets her eyes as she looks up at him, “What is going on?” Lucy demands dropping the paper on top of the boxes. “Why? Why? Did no one tell me?”

“Tim made us promise,” Harris said, placing his big bear paw-sized hands on her shoulder, it felt like the weight of the news pressing down on her. “He didn’t want you or Norm to know. He figured that if you thought they were dead you could move on. In ways he never let himself move on.” 

Lucy moves away from Harris, a deep sense of betrayal washing over her. “You’re telling me he didn’t think they were dead? It’s been decades since they went missing.”

Harris had sat himself down in one of the overstuffed chairs. “We searched and searched for weeks. Even after search and rescue stopped, stuf-,” He rubs one of his big mitts across a day's worth of stubble. “Stuff happened during the search. Stuff that doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

Lucy sighs, flopping into the chair beside her Uncle, “Could we not be vague, please? I can handle whatever happened then.”

“While we were searching, people heard things.” Harris’s face went pale.

“They kept hearing Hank call out, or Shaun. It sounded like they were close, but we could never find them. It would go quiet for days, then Me and Tim would go out and hear them again.”

Lucy swallows, “Like it was calling you there.”

Harris looks at her, a knowing look passing over his face. “It scared some of the volunteers. Hearing them, but never finding them. Then a week before your Mom checked out it stopped. These journals are the first time I even had any idea that it had continued after you both got there.” 

“We spent our entire childhood in and out of those woods.” Lucy’s voice was raised, her heart thudding in her chest. “Why would he let us in there if he thought it was dangerous?”

Harris looking older than his year. “Lucy. If I thought you were in any danger I would have taken you and Norm out of there.” Lucy stands there staring at him, anger subsiding at the honesty in his words. “No one. Not one of us. Thought you were in any danger there.”

Lucy swallows, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. “Once you kids arrived, Tim didn’t share anything. I thought. I thought he was dealing with the loss of his sons. In his own way, never finding the bodies made him want to hold on to hope. So I let him. Then when he got the cancer diagnosis he brought me these boxes. Telling me to burn them once he was dead. That it would all be over, I didn’t know what he meant. But it was like a weight had finally been lifted off of him. ” Lucy shifts in her chair, unsure how to feel. “When your place got tossed I pulled them out, I read a few.” Harris shifts in his chair, staring at the boxes. “I don’t know what I was expecting but you should read them.”

“What is in them?” Lucy pushes, feeling like she is waiting for a bomb to go off. Her hold on the world was sliding, and she wasn’t sure if she would make it.

“Memories, stuff about your childhood. But also. Other stuff. Stuff I don’t know if I can believe.” Harris’s voice going soft. “I should have told you a long time ago and I am sorry for that. But maybe this will help, maybe put things to rest finally.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

PART EIGHT

Tag list: @toogaytofunctiondangit , @hiddlebatchedloki , @whatsorceressisthis @dichromaniac @autumncryptids

*I am gonna say we are onto act 2... it's only gonna get darker from here < 3

**As always likes, comments, shares are soooo appreciated, you can find me Ao3 as well

** Want to be on the tag list let me know

[hassians-sernuk-boyfriend]

okay so we know, canonically, that they don't have rubber and presumably plastic either in palia. if you look at the soles of the character's shoes, they're leather coated and presumably wooden heeled.

so without polymer technology there's a few things they hit limitations on that I keep rolling around in my head.

medical care - anything that needs sterile work becomes a lot harder. presumably this is compensated for by Weird Magic Shit but it still makes a lot of surgeries a lot more dangerous

elastics - everyone's clothing has to be done up with drawstrings, buttons, etc. tight fitting clothes has to be tailored, and tailoring only lasts a short time before bodyshapes shift, generally

no cooking gloves, so food is only as clean as the chef (reth)

Humans show up in full modern clothing, rubber soles and tight pants included. this makes them the only way to get an extremely useful resource. consider: spawn camping??

beeswax and tallow presumably are very relevant, then. I aggressively want to see more beehives

[jiubilant]

12 (candles) if youd like :)

12. candles

The lawman’s desk is a heavy old thing, hard-cornered, strewn with billets, bills, and bobs—and tall tallow-candles, pale and slender as a gentry-mort’s throat, standing in ship-shaped silver chambersticks. The urchin stands tippy-toed to stare at them. If she snatches them and bolts, she thinks, she could fence them dockside for a rum sum. Her hands twitch. Her own mug, blank with terror, stares back at her from the polished plate.

“The contracts are in order,” says the lawman, reaching for his quill. Then his hand stops. Through silver-rimmed spectacles, he sizes up the urchin: her togs, her scabby ears, the bald tip of her tail. The hard corners of his mouth turn down. “And—this is the child in question?”

The clerk to whom the urchin will be prenticed, unless she darts out with the chambersticks, drums two calm fingers on his cane. “Yes.”

Auntie, the urchin reminds herself over the hammering of her heart, had told her to mind him. She wouldn't disobey Auntie, never. But Auntie hadn't known, surely, that her turncoat-toff brother would march the urchin straight into a cunning-man's office, where rogues like her get their fortunes read—

"—right, hla?" the clerk is saying, for some reason.

He’d told her outside to bow to the lawman when addressed. Now they’re both looking at her—the clerk with furrowed brow, the lawman fitting her for a noose with just his eyes—and the urchin’s back feels like a wooden beam, and her tongue feels like something growing on it. She manages to nod.

“Well.” The lawman gives the clerk a pointed look, then scans the contracts again. “No bond of surety. No pension provided for the child’s upkeep. You understand that you are, therefore, obliged to provide for her out-of-pocket for the duration of her indenture?”

The urchin, half-listening, imagines the ship-shaped chambersticks sailing away: candle-flames flickering, silver prows carving the sea. She imagines herself in one. The clerk's curt voice drifts down to her as if through water. “Yes.”

“That you are, for said duration, liable for her in every particular—"

“Quite.”

“Well.” With an ironic flourish of his quill, the lawman makes his mark. “You Company people dredge up your prentices from the damnedest places. All right, Master Rano, she’s yours if you sign.”

She’ll do it, the urchin thinks, eyeing the silver glims. She’ll kick the stick out from under the old scribbler, so as he can’t grab her, and be out the door like that. She shifts her weight in preparation—

"My thanks," says the clerk breezily, and whisks the contracts from the lawman's desk. He blows on the ink to dry it—the candles sputter, as does the lawman—then drops the rolls into the wide-eyed urchin's arms. "Hold onto those, for now, and let's be off. Stuffy in here."

"Why—" The lawman, turning red, straightens his spectacles. "You've not signed!"

The clerk's cloak swirls about him as he turns. The look with which he fixes the lawman is one of perfect, polite concern. "Need I do it now?"

"A notary must witness the signature—"

"I'm a notary," says the clerk brightly, and billows out the door.

They're halfway down the street before the urchin realizes that her legs are moving. Wobbling, too. She hugs the contracts close and slows to a practiced stroll, keeping to the scribbler's shadow, because only the greenest dabbers get caught hurrying in broad daylight—

The clerk, she realizes, is talking to her again.

"—all right?" he asks, looking down his long nose. She's never seen such a beak on any bird. He doesn't look like Auntie at all, she thinks, her chest all tight. Auntie had never stared at her like that, brow creased, as though the urchin had been put together wrong.

Whatever he'd said, twice now, he wants her to agree. She swallows and drops her eyes to his boots. "Right."

The clerk studies her. Then he sinks stiffly to one knee.

"I asked if you're all right," he says, still looking at her in that odd, painful way. "It's a bit much, I expect, all this. How old are you?"

The urchin doesn't know. She wants to cringe away. She flicks her ears back instead, trying to come off fierce. "I were the biggest of Auntie's lot. Quickest, too. She"—her voice cracks, and she squares her shoulders to compensate—"she wouldn't have shipped me here if I weren't best."

It's true, she tells herself, trying not to breathe too funny. No lilligut would stroll into a lawman's office, swell as you like, and connive to nab his chambersticks besides. No coward would swimmer to far Haafingar to learn a dayman's trade, and be a prentice, and all. She won't run off. She can't cock this up, she thinks, peering over all the tickrum in her arms, or she's every sort of stupid.

She's starting to understand the look on the clerk's face. It's sad, somehow.

"What did you do," he asks, "for my sister?"

The lawman's isn't twenty steps behind them. The urchin's lie comes prompt and proper; not even a tail-twitch betrays her. "Errands."

"Really?" The clerk's voice is dry as ash. "When I was your age, she had me crawling down outlanders' chimneys to steal their limeware."

The image is so ridiculous—this spindly cove, Auntie's selfsame kin, folded up in a flue like a concertina—that the urchin barks a single startled laugh, involuntary as a sneeze. The clerk blinks at her, astonished. Then he grins.

"Hold onto those," he says again, and levers himself to his feet. "I shouldn't have hurried you to the hiring-hall straight off. At the end of the day, if you find the prospect of a Company apprenticeship, ah, amenable, give them back to me." His voice goes gentler. "There's a place for you to sign, too."

It's a lot of binnacle-words. The urchin blinks up at him, warily fascinated, and mouths one: men-a-bull.

"I know some already," she says hesitantly. "About the Company. About—stuff."

"Stuff."

"And fustian."

"Ah." The clerk's smile is canny as Auntie's. "Well, to supplement your knowledge—why don't we begin with the market rate for silver?"

[send me a number, and i’ll write a microfic using the word or phrase!]

[blubushie]

Please give us your World Famous Omelet™ recipe Bluey 🙏

BLUEY??

That's a new one and it made me giggle so ok.

Ok the secret ingredient is:

Nothing. Seriously, it's nothing. My omelets come out delicious because I don't fucken add anything. At home people often add milk to their eggs to get more out of them but DON'T DO THAT YOU'RE JUST DILUTING THE EGG!!

Here's how I make them.

Chop some green onions. Do this first cuz you won't have time later. Set 'em aside.

Get a tin of roast beef hash. You can use corned beef hash but roast beef hash works best. Now fry that up in a skillet. Don't add anything—it'll cook in its own tallow. Let it sit so it gets a good sear on the bottom, then scrape and stir. Keep repeating this until it's cooked thoroughly—will take about 8 minutes. Set it aside in a bowl when you're done, and keep the skillet on heat.

Take two large eggs, crack them into a bowl, and stir viciously with a fork until homogenised (whites and yolks blended thoroughly).

Spray skillet with nonstick cooking spray—I use canola oil spray.

With fork, drop a drop of the egg into the skillet. It should immediately begin frying. When it does, pour in the rest. If it doesn't, your skillet isn't hot enough. Make that shit hotter.

With egg in the skillet, begin slowly rolling the skillet to evenly distribute the egg over the bottom of the skillet while keeping the skillet over heat. Keep rolling the skillet until most of the liquid egg has turned firm.

Place skillet back on heat and get shredded cheese. I just use the bagged sharp cheddar, I'm not Gordon Ramsay. Get a fistfull and sprinkle it evenly around the egg—y'know, like you're cheesing a pizza.

TURN OFF HEAT NOW OR YOUR SHIT'LL BURN!!

Take your hash and add half of it to the omelet ON ONE SIDE ONLY. (Yeah we're only using half—use the other half for someone else's omelet, or tomorrow.)

Sprinkle on your green onions to your specifications.

With a spatula—or a fork, you heathen—work it under the lip of the side of the omelet WITHOUT the hash and carefully fold it over onto the hashed side.

Bring skillet to plate and omelet should slide right out.

That's it. You can add anything to these but the biggest thing is just not seasoning the fucken eggs. The eggs have enough of their own flavour. 🤷‍♂️

[garagesesh]

A Bushel of Oranges for Thee

gif: notalicent ↸

Pairings: Criston Cole & Rhaenyra Targaryen

Summary: Everything he did, he did for her. And now he will die for her.

Warning(s): Violence & Death

A/N: Honestly I really cannot tell you why I wrote this. I don’t ship them. I don’t even like him. I was just rewatching HOTD and found myself intrigued by their dynamic and I guess with tbosas just being released, the theme of men being rejected by women they love turning them into spiteful people has been running through my mind lately. I have also been finding myself unable to sleep nowadays so this is how I spent my evening yesterday.

⌘ this is also available on ao3

␛ to masterlist

part one of the begging for rain series | go to part two ⌦

✦ looking for more asoiaf stories? check out my wintering series! ✦

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　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 　

Ser Criston Cole surrendered himself to the black army at the second battle of Tumbleton.

He knew that his fight was over as he laid down his sword in the scorched field. Removing his gilded helmet on his own.

Stripped of the rest of his armor and of the Hand’s sigil by the Tully army under the looming threat of Addam Velaryon’s dragon. Lord Tully and Velaryon had not taken long to sentence him to face the Queen one last time but not before they made him reap what he had sown.

He was further stripped to his smallclothes, tied to a post and lashed for his sins until they deemed him worthy to be brought before his judge.

The tight iron chains rubbed his wrists raw, blood seeped out of his blisters making them only more irritated. The chill in the air made his wounds fester and he had once tried to wash them in the river before he was concussed with the heel of a Blackwood sword

“Get on.”

So he marched for weeks. From the Reach into the Crownlands until his exhausted, bloodshot eyes saw the Red Keep.

Where he would undoubtedly meet his end.

At the gates of King’s Landing, they leashed him. A rope around his neck that just like his chains were too tight, choking him. What was left of his small clothes were also relieved from his body.

A walk of shame to welcome him back to where he once considered home.

Through the gates, hundreds of peasants waited for the parade of the victors and their prizes. They threw anything and everything at him. Food, mud, stone, animal excrement. Human excrement. They screamed and mocked. They exposed themselves. He had nothing left of his ego.

Kings- no, Queensguards awaited him at the end of his shameful return. They had no care for their once brother. Pushing and shoving him along. Pulling at the rope around his neck.

He used to patrol, to protect the walls from monsters. Monsters like him that he used to throw into the cavernous dungeons they were now confining him to. The pride that came with the clink of his armor heavy on his once muscular, built young body and the feel of the heavy white velvet cloak on his shoulder that was now long ripped from his person.

He spent days chained to the wall unclothed. Meager rations of water and food were given to him when the guards felt like it. Rats ran across the floor and his flesh when he slept.

It was a fortnight before they let him down.

A moon before they gave him some sort of robe.

Two moons before they had given him anything other than stale bread.

Three moons before they changed his hay.

Just shy of the fourth moon when they gave him a bucket of water to wash. That’s when he knew that the Queen was ready to sentence him.

“Clean your filth, mutt.”

He peered into the bucket and saw his reflection for the first time. His black hair was stringy and outgrown. A beard covered his face. Dirt and excrement caked all over. He scrubbed his skin raw with the bar of tallow given. Trying to bring forth some sort of good appearance for her.

He wished he could have shaved.

After, he was dragged to the dark halls of the dungeons and into the bright keep. His eyes took long to readjust to the soft light.

“Ser Criston Cole the traitor.” Corlys Velayron was older but his wrath was still strong and his hatred still burned, wearing the very symbol he used to flaunt. “You stand before Queen Rhaenyra, Princess of Dragonstone, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

His eyes shifted upon the throne.

Rhaenyra.

She was stoic on the iron and unmoving before him, her face was shadowed by the haze streaming through the window. Anonymous to those who had not been graced to look upon her features. Her quiet presence dominated the grand hall, like he should completely submit himself to her again with vows of obedience. Like they all should.

Like a true Queen.

The throne had been waiting for its rightful owner and it finally had it. She commanded the throne, the throne did not command her.

Or was he just a man back from the battlefield looking upon the woman he loved for so long? He surmised it was both.

“You are charged with treason.”

Criston recalls when he made a King of Aegon in spite of her.

“Murder.”

He can’t recall names or faces of the dozens he had killed but he had killed for her. Both those who wished her dead and those who died in her name.

“And for breaking your sworn vows of the Kingsguard.”

He looked up at the last of his crimes.

Once again betrayed by her for something he had done for her.

He has been replaying the night of which she guided him gently to her bed. Kissed him. Undressed him. He hadn’t made love since then.

He had fucked and whored himself to the green queen. Locked himself away in pleasure houses on the street of silk and buried himself in maids but he never let go of that moment with her.

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” She finally spoke. He couldn’t tell whether she was challenging him or pitying him.

He had nothing, nothing but empty air when it came to her and instead just shook his head.

“Ser Criston Cole, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

Now he will die for her.

All for her.

He spent his life still avow to her, even through his betrayal.

He made no move, made no indication of his thoughts or feelings at his doom.

“Bend the knee to your rightful Queen.” Corlys barked but Rhaenyra’s fingers lifted from the pommel of Blackfyre, stopping her Hand.

“He has already resigned himself to me, Lord Corlys.” She rose, now completely haloed by the light. “The terms of your execution will be determined by the small council.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Queen.” His shackles shifted as he hung his head in unmitigated submission to his queen.

“Take him away.”

He was dragged back to his damp cell like before. His withered and broken body was thrown into the old hay and chained to the wall once more and despite being condemned to the grave, sleep found him easily.

He dreamed of her. Accepting his proposal of running away to Essos. He saw her clearly in the grove of oranges they planted together at their seaside home, isolated from the rest of the world. Orange blossoms in her hair as she swelled with their child. Them in the ocean and devouring orange slices on the rocks in the warm sun afterwards.

“Kingsguard.” He jolted awake from the dream. “A Princess’s and Queen’s sworn guard. Hand of the King. Coward, traitor, prisoner. How far you have fallen, Ser Criston.”

“Rhaenyra-“ He croaked. He couldn’t see her at first in the dim light but her voice he would remember even in death.

Rhaenyra stopped, meeting his eyes in the torch light before nodding to her sworn guard. The cell door closed swiftly behind her just as quickly as it had opened. “Leave us.”

The guard bowed his head and clanked down the dark hallway. Leaving only the two of them in the dungeons.

“Ser Criston Cole.” He remembered when she used to say his name full of honey and attention back when he used to delude himself into believing she had felt the same toward him. He almost smiled.

“The council has decided.” He hung his head. ” You will die in a fortnight. I thought that I should tell you myself.”

He stayed silent, for he had nothing to say. Only his dark bruised eyes watched her as she paced in the soiled hay. No longer wearing her crown and stripped of her own regal gowns for rough woven trousers and a starched blouse underneath a crimson doublet.

“I hope you are satisfied with your time on this short life journey, for I’m sure you have enjoyed the years spent as a traitorous dog.”

He flinched but finally found his voice. His throat was dry from the lack of water and felt coated in sawdust. His voice broke. “I was o-nce a traitorous dog for you.”

“Yes, I remember it all too well. When you broke your vow of duty, of honor for me.” She stopped pacing to kneel in front of him, pausing. It was then he could see the scars from dragon fire puckering at her neck and up upon her left ear. “For Jaecerys.”

He met her violet eyes with her words, first confused at what the Queen had meant before understanding. His mind for the hundredth time that day thought of when she stole his helmet all those years ago. When they had spent weeks together reveling in each other, he fell harder for her than he already had. When she had married only a moon after she rejected him, where he stood in the corner unable to look at the princess without his heart unequivocally breaking. He can still hear the echoes of her screams in labor only to see the babe she birthed lacked the Valyrian features of what was expected of a Targaryen and Velaryon coupling.

He, like the rest of the court and of what the green queen told him, had assumed Ser Harwin Strong as the father.

He would watch the young boy with disdain. Remembering how disgusted he felt whenever the Prince would pick up a sword in the training yard. Telling Aegon to hit him hard. Hit the bastard hard.

Bastard was dirty in his mind now. A black spot that has forever now tainted him.

Alicent had directed and manipulated him with her sweet voice. Telling him of the ways Rhaenyra was a whore.

Another dirty word.

Visions of the battle in the Neck began to blur his mind. Visions of where he plunged his sword into the Prince’s back. Jacaerys had died before he even reached the floor.

His son.

Ser Criston Cole had been a father all this time.

Bringing his own son into the world and taking him out of it. For all he had endured in the years of his now realized meaningless life, this was the worst torture of them all. Cruelty in its highest form.

Murderer of his son.

“Forgive me, Rhaenyra.” He wasn’t asking, he was begging.

Rhaenyra hummed. “You murdered your own son. For what? Traitors?”

“Rhaenyra-“ The only water he has tasted in days was from the tears streaming down his face. “If only I had known-“

“If you had only known what? Ser Criston?” She stood, her shadow flickering in the firelight above him. “Hm? Known that you had a son? What would have that changed?”

“Everything-everything would have changed!” He sobbed.

“Is my claim to the throne valid now? Is that what it takes for you?” Rhaenyra sneered at him. “A child dead in the grave!”

“F-forgive me!” He strained against the chains, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry-“

“I think we are far past the time for apologies and forgiveness between us.”

“Kill me then.” He was almost incoherent through his sobs. “Please! Kill me!”

“You had begged me once, remember? But I think it’s time you forget your dreams of oranges, for you had squashed them when you betrayed me.”

He had no response. His chains rattled as he strained against them, trying break free of the confines before he was consumed.

“Ser Cerwyn?” The guard appeared, “I think it’s time for my bath.”

“Certainly, my Queen.” Unlocking the cell, he held it open for the queen and extended a gloved hand for her to take.

His chest heaved, unable to breathe through his tears and guilt. The walls closed in, pushing him against the wall with an imaginary force. He continued to plead but it came out as a gurgle into the void as the light that was Rhaenyra disappeared. “I’m sorry!”

“Rhaenyra!”

He spent his last days completely mad. Murmuring his apologies to his dead son and to the queen. Cursing the green queen and all of those who were traitors.

When the sun set on his last evening, a covered platter was brought before his decrepit being.

“Eat, mutt.” The guard commanded as he opened the cell, all but throwing the concealed meal on the floor. The cover flew off, clattering against the stone to allow the ochre meal roll away from him.

His last meal was an orange.

Tears rolled down his cheeks silently as the guard freed a single arm from the confines of his chains. A kindness for his last night.

Picking up the orange from the soiled floor, it took effort and strength that he no longer had to peel back the citruses layer. The smell of the fruit overcame him and he was reminded of her. Taking his time with each of the slices, sucking their juice, smelling and savoring each one.

The orange lasted until apologies spewed from his mouth when the guards came to collect him at dawn. He put up no fight as they sheared off his lice infested hair to be able to get a clean swipe. They paraded him in empty halls to the outside chopping block in the cold pouring rain.

Ser Criston Cole was beheaded in front of a single witness, a gold cloak.

Some say no one showed up at all.

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go to part two ⌦

␛ to masterlist

✦ looking for more asoiaf stories? check out my wintering series! ✦

[sugoiney-weaver]

A Guided Tour of the Fortress Blizzardpaddles

Starting from the top of the fortress, I have a mist generator on the roof

Above the entrance I have a public tavern and a small library. Archer towers surround my fort, though they've never been put to use.

Before the archer towers, I build this platform for my archers. Also never used. The platform in the center was originally just meant to keep snow and rain from falling into the fortress.

At ground level, we have corpse and refuse stockpiles, beehives, nest boxes, and a garden.

On the main floor, we have the trade depot right at the entrance. I separate my trade goods into two stockpiles: one for elves, and one for everyone else. I recently overhauled my military and relocated some of the barracks and archery ranges. at the south is my fishery, which is protected with iron grates in the river and glass blocks above. I'm not sure why but I have perpetual ice in the river. To the east are some new farms I'm building to scale up my dye and cloth production. I also have my surface hospital here, seed storage, and a mist generator.

Below I have archery ranges, soap making, my citizen's/residents tavern (recently rearranged) milling and pressing, farms, and farmer workshops. I'm proud of that tower sticking up out of the water. The river here freezes from mid-autumn to early spring but it was a race against the clock to get that watertight.

Here I have food & Drink storage for the tavern above. I also have a large library with hundreds of written works. Beneath the soapmakers workshops is a stockpile of lye, oil, and tallow. Below the farmers workshops is a stockpile for wool, milk, and processable plants.

Food and drink production, including butchers, ashery (supplying lye upwards), stills, and kitchens.

Storage and supplies for food & drink production, and block & brick storage. meltable objects are above the smelters for recycling.

Manufacturing level. I try to keep workshops grouped by supply chain, with stockpiles above and below in a way that makes sense. See below for an example.

Wood feeds the carpenters and the wood furnace. Fuel is near all the furnaces, kilns, and forges. Textile industry is grouped together. This requires quite a bit of planning, and learning from experience from previous forts.

TEMPLES! I started making quadruple-size temples for the faiths with ~100 followers, because the smaller ones were getting very crowded. Every temple has a bunch of instruments, and almost all of them have a dedicated performer. The large temples are built with steel block walls.

Nobles apartments, and museum.

Guildhalls. I'm starting to build more even if the guilds aren't established yet. As my economy grows more complex, there are a lot more job titles, so there are fewer guilds being established.

Residential quarter. This is my first time giving everyone a 4x4 bedroom. I used to do 1x3 bedrooms, which allowed me to fit 12 rooms per block. I think the dwarves prefer the extra space though. I spent several years renovating the bedrooms by replacing stone walls with porcelain brick, and they LOVE it!

Tombs. Too many tombs. Most of them are full, a lot of them are pets though. My dungeons is here, with my Cask of Amontillado'd werelizard in the northeast corner.

And finally, several layers below, is my cavern hospital. It's really nice to have a second hospital down below for when the Amphibian Folk come and fuck with us.

That's all for this fort. My FPS hovers between 8 and 15 so it takes about 15 hours to go through a single year. I don't want to be done with it, but it's getting unbearably slow.

[imperialkatwala]

4. Twi teaches Wars how to honor spirits (Guess who 🫶)

Ah. The handheart. Who could this possibly be. (🫶)

This one needs some context, it's based on a headcanon that Wars had a girlfriend before the war started, but she was killed at the very start of it bc Cia sucks. Surprise though the girlfriend (Aria, I love her, she's so cool) stuck around as a ghost! Twi found out about this and immediately offered to share some of Ordon's traditions around honoring ghosts and other spirits. Lots of headcanons and worldbuilding, plus Twi being a good brother. My favorite things

Twilight holds a candle in his hands.

It's small and plain - tallow, not wax - and though he always carries his lantern with him, he keeps a candle like this tucked away in his adventuring bag in case of emergencies.

Or spirits.

"So," Warriors says quietly, his own candle in hand, "what do we do?"

"Well, it depends," Twilight tells him. There is the memory of a hundred moments like this in his lungs and under his skin, echoes of other times and other spirits and other hopes. "There's a lot of reasons to honor the spirits, and it gets more complicated on festival days, but for somethin' like this... She's a protective spirit, and for them, we usually say a few words to thank them for their blessin's and their protection. I can go first, if you want?"

The list of wips

[mslanna]

Three Out of Nine Ain't Bad

Chapter 16 of Be My Guest now up on AO3

In which Tav spoils their own surprise but gets sexy fiend from Raphael as compensation. Also, Mel is too lazy to invent Infernal and just uses German instead. 🤷

Special of the day? Raphael in full battle regalia 👀🥵😳

Tav is flabbergasted at how easy the eavesdropping is. They need nary any cover to be ignored. A book helps as good as a scroll of invisibility. Whatever secrets Haarlep wants they are not being discussed in public though. Tav's limited vocabulary may expand lewdly, but those words never come up at all.

They have an easier time making out parts of Raphael's overall strategy. Since travel between the layers of hell is restricted to specific paths, controlling them takes up a great amount of the invasion work. The lower the hells Raphael conquers are, the more important it is to have trustworthy fiends on the back-end of the operation.

It seems the Crown of Karsus is guaranteeing a lot of the trustworthiness. It makes Tav uncomfortable but Raphael is confident. Tav likes him confident, the swagger translates directly into his tail. Not that they'd dare call him cute to his face. Yet.

"I thought you have Yurgir on the portal from Dis to the City of Chains already?" Tav sits cross-legged on their bed and watches Raphael get ready. He is vain. But he looks gorgeous, so Tav enjoys watching his routines and rituals. His fingers massaging balm into his horns mesmerise with memories of how they feel against their skin.

"I do." The devil turns, hands still working the rough surface of his horns to a soft shine.

With an effort Tav pries their eyes loose from the sight. "Maybe make sure all your people know that? Some seem to be under the impression he's supposed to be vanguard for Minauros itself."

"And how do you come to that conclusion?" He wipes his hands on a soft cloth.

The subtle scent of tallow and cherries reaches Tav and sends a sharp pang of home through them. "Your subordinates have mouths and they use them to speak occasionally."

"In common?" An impeccable brow raises.

"If you say so."'

"You are avoiding my question."

"I am." Tav slips off the bed. Now the devil towers over them even taller which is strangely comforting.

"Warum?"

"Weil ich kann." The words feel rough on Tav's tongue.

Raphael smirks. "I see. A welcome development. With a horrible accent but it will do."

"Lucky for you that your minions are idiots that can't keep your strategy straight." Tav sighs and leans against his chest. "I was hoping to catch you flat-footed with this one."

"Some other time." Raphael returns the embrace and drops a quick kiss onto Tav's hair. "Does Haarlep know?"

"Unfortunately." Tav rubs their face into the expensive doublet. "And if he teaches me more helpful expression like 'Muschi putzen' or 'Pfosten einschlagen' I will scream. I swear."

Raphael pushes them away at their shoulders. "What are they teaching you that for?"

"So I can pick up naughty gossip for them. Not that there is any. I tried."

"I think I will have a word with them." The devil lets go and turns to leave. When he reaches the door, Raphael turns around. "No pleas for kindness this time?"

"It is utterly horrible," Tav sighs. "Go get them."

Raphael shakes his head as he leaves.

Tav waits for a while before they follow. The throne room is unusually full and they have to weave their way towards the stairs. Devils get in their way and Tav can't shake the feeling of being watched. But they can hardly turn to look around. They can't even see very far amidst the fiends towering at least a head or more over them.

The library is a safe retreat. Raphael encourages them to keep going though Tav could read just as well in the suite. They grab a few books and look towards the secret exit longingly. But the devil is right. A change of scenery now and then is healthy.

In search of other views, Tav returns to the portal room. The shimmering surfaces show no landscapes but they can lose themself in daydreams with travelogues and collections of prints. Maybe they will be able to leave the House of Hope for a little. Only one moment of blue skies…

Tav still dreams of the ocean when two devils enter the room. They are in high spirits, probably about to embark on some atrocities.

"Oh, das Haustier!" one calls and they veer off to where Tav sits. "Are you lonely and longing? Do you want to come with us?"

They jostle as if there is only one front row seat for looking at Tav.

"Don't worry," the other adds. "We will protect you." A red wing extends in Tav's direction. They step away, taken aback by the careless display of intimacy.

"You scared them." The first devil laughs. "No worries, little human. You are perfectly safe with us. It will be fun to get out a little, won't it?"

"Wasn schlapper Lauch." The wing is retracted but now both devils approach, herding Tav towards one of the portals. "Überhaupt gar kein Problem und mit so fein festen Routinen. This one goes to Icewind Dale,"they add towards Tav."We will make sure you're not cold. Promise."

"Ah." Tav stumbles a little and uses the manoeuvrer to duck away under the approaching devil. "I, uh, I think I left my cat on the stove." They make a beeline for the exit while the devils puzzle over their reply, still laughing and shoving each other.

"It's to be expected, I guess." Tav say later when they watch Raphael armour up for battle. His helldusk armour is exquisite and the crown completes it beautifully. "If they keep tabs on my whereabouts they might just as well come to annoy me. Not sure what they get out of it."

"If you'd remember what they looked like, I could look into it." Raphael turns and his cape swooshes impressively.

"I can describe them," Tav quips. "Let's see. They were about this tall." They stand on the bed and hold a hand at the level of Raphael's height. "They had red skin, and black hair, both of them actually. One had hair like this but the other had more of a side part. And horns! They both had horns, the twisty kind. An-"

"Impossible." Raphael shakes his head at his human. "You must learn to look for the sigils on their armour."

"Hmm." Tav leans in to run their hands over the spiked plates of infernal protection covering their devil. "Would you believe me if I said they didn't wear any?"

"No. Unless they looked more like this." Raphael morphs into his ascended form. It is a slow, deliberate show that leaves Tav breathless. Where Raphael's cambion form is sturdy, the fiend is lean, long-limbed and slender. And completely naked. If fire cast into iron brambles can be called naked.

The ascended fiend towers over Tav, the crown now more part of his body than add-on. The flames move under their black cage, restless and deadly. Unthinking, Tav reaches out and runs their fingers over a black tendril of bone. It is hot, but not unbearably so.

"Really?" Raphael asks. "This form tends to instils fear."

"Yeah, well it didn't last time I saw it," Tav argues.

"I remember."

"Curiosity, of course." Tav's hands move over the fiendish chest and feel the fire burn faster around the heart. They smile. "Give me your hand."

Raphael complies and Tav presses their small, soft palm against the monstrous claw. They intertwine their fingers and are only stopped, when the devil lifts their chin with his other hand.

With a smile, Tav leans up and slips their head between the sharp mandibles framing the tree skulls. Their hands clasp them as well as they can. Then they breathe a kiss over the fang-framed mouth.

"Had you done that the first time you saw this form, things may have gone very differently." Raphael's long claws close around Tav's back tenderly.

"Yeh. I would have been felled by the hands of my own companions within seconds." Tav chuckles.

"They can't help you here."

"Do I look like I need help?"

"Not yet. But it can be arranged." The low growl hums through Tav's bones. "After the battle, though. I still have a war to win."

Tav sighs. "I am starting to get annoyed by this war. But since it is the third hell and it means you're one third done, I shall be lenient."

"Take the time to think over how you would like the help to look." Three skulls leer at Tav.

"I will. Be safe." Tav kisses him gently.

"For you." Raphael returns the kiss, proving that his ascended form does indeed have a tongue and knows how to use it.

Tav watches him leave still breathless, legs useless under them as they sit on the bed. Alone again.

But it’s not the first time, Tav is left behind with too much time on their hands and too many thoughts painting the most gruesome of possible futures. After having a good desperate melt-down and a nap, Tav takes a long, hot bath and visits Haarlep.

It is difficult to let the seriousness of the situation go. Tav loses at lanceboard several times in quick succession, their thoughts miles away.

“You worry too much," Haarlep scolds. "If the worst comes to pass, you will find out soon enough. Might as well enjoy the time. Could be the last fun you ever have."

With a sigh, Tav grabs their wineglass and starts pacing the room. "I know. I know. And. On the one hand, it isn't much. Small fry. But on the other hand it's a third. One third of the hells under Raphael's rule. Kinda big. Somewhat. I think."

"It will start to become really interesting once he goes up against Asmodeus." The incubus weaves around the pacing human and flops down on the bed.

"No worries about Mephistopheles?"

"Why? He's just an arch devil and if he had a trump card apart from your soul, he'd have played it by now. Instead he's scrabbling for alliances with other hells. None of which will last of course."

"They only have to last until Raphael is defeated." Tav exhales heavily. "How I hate this war and the waiting. I never feel more trapped or useless."

"Rightfully so." The incubus is unperturbed. "As long as your soul is bound to Mephistopheles, you are just a liability. An exciting one, but you know my stance on that."

Tav does and just resumes pacing. "That's why I'm here," Tav says almost to themself. "I'm safe here."

"Oh, little mouse, still so naive." Haarlep laughs. "All it takes is one tiny accident, one fall guy and you are out of the picture."

Tav thinks back to the two devils in the portal room. One careless moment. Maybe they'd better cast Mage Armour over themself when they ventured out into the halls of the House. But if they give in to that fear, the House of Hope will turn into a complete prison. They shiver and wrap their arms around themself.

"How do you live like that?" they finally ask. "Always expecting betrayal, always one step away from a knife in the back, nothing to fall back on to, nobody to trust?"

"Oh, honey, I think you may be talking to the wrong person here." Haarlep shrugs.

Tav stares at the incubus. But Haarlep is right. Such thoughts don't occur to fiends. For a moment, Tav hurts for them, deep and endless. The only consolation is that the fiends don't know what they are missing out on.

Only, Raphael is a cambion. Tav sucks on their lower lip. Half human. The worst of both worlds. "Alright." Tav straightens and joins the incubus on the bed. "Tell me about devils. About fiends, incubi and succubi. Tell me everything about their lives."

"You won't like it." Haarlep pats the space next to them and wraps an arm around Tav's shoulders once they settle. "You won't like it one bit."

"I know." Tav nods. "Tell me anyway."

At some point, Tav has to leave. The lives of devils are bleak even if Haarlep disagrees heartily. It doesn't help and the warm buzz from the wine dissolves around the hopeless stories the incubus tells.

Sitting in the library, chugging tea and twisting their tongue around infernal words is a relief. Tav keeps telling themself that this language is also spoken by tieflings. Not everybody using it is trapped in a merciless web of competition.

When their head starts to spin, Tav wonders how long they sat here. Time is a slippery beast at the best of times but in the orange soup that is Avernus it is extra elusive. Moving their toes and shoulders, Tav tries to guess by how tense they are. Not that it helps. A nap, they decide, finally feeling their head tired enough again not to spiral.

When Tav reaches the stairs, a familiar figure is already walking down. The gangly limbs hang tired, blazing fires dimmed into a warm yellow under dusty and bloodied black bone. "Raphael." Tav is certain to have breathed the word to low to hear. But the fined turns, wings and horns brushing against the stone of the stairs. Tav takes another step towards him.

They stare, taking in the ascended fiend and their hands move unthinking. Of course they cannot reach. The fiend towers over them, tail snapping restlessly behind him. "Back?" is all Tav gets out.

The skulls lower, slip between their hands easily. "It is over." The voice rasps deeply, echoing the burning form of the fiend's body.

Tav rises on their toes and presses a kiss to the toothy mouth. Their head fits snugly between the black mandibles framing the three skulls and long teeth. In an attempt to steady themself, Tav curls their fingers around black bones.

The human is tiny before him. Raphael has to crouch to level with their head and is immediately pulled into a kiss. There is no hesitation in Tav, only eager acceptance when he pushes his tongue between their lips. On his body of fire and coal, their touch is even colder than usual.

Raphael slips an arm around the small body and lifts them up, never breaking the kiss. Tav hangs suspended by his grace, leaning into the touch. He presses down, teeth grazing soft slips, claws cutting through fabric and skin.

But Tav doesn't mind. They kiss him eagerly. "Dem Sieger," they repeat their lines from after his fist victory, "gebührt die Beute." Tav sucks at him desperately, wrapping their legs around his waist as soon as they are able to.

Raphael growls a reply void of words and long strides take them to their suite, disregarding any audience.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

Lord Flea Bottom's Heir: A Silver Dragon Story

Word Count: 1334

Story Summary: Daemon had expected to be welcomed with the news of his wife's demise when he returned to King's Landing. Instead, he is greeted with the decidedly unwelcome news that the Bitch was to give him an heir. His plans to finally take Rhaenyra to wife thoroughly dashed, he leaves the Red Keep behind to wallow in his own domain: Flea Bottom.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

This is a spin-off POV from my main Aemond/OC story, The Silver Dragon. But it can be read as a one-off, standalone look into Daemon's mind.

Warnings: Allusions to rape. Daemon being a dick.

Author's Note: Oof, it was hard to write such mean things about Rhea. Forgive me!

Series Masterlist

Lord Flea Bottom's Heir

The stench of Flea Bottom was invigorating. The competing smells of ale and wine and sweat and sex sent a thrill through his blood. Even the reek of tallow candles and vomit in the streets was as comforting to him as the smell of a warm fire and a hearty meal was to most. It made him want to drink until he finally felt full, fight until there was no more blood to spill, and fuck until there were no virgins left in all of King’s Landing.

It was, after all, his domain. He was Daemon Targaryen, Lord Flea Bottom.

So why could he not get his ass out of this godsdamned chair?

He had sat down over an hour ago and had yet to finish even his first pint of ale. The gold cloaks he had brought along with him – only the handful that remained that hadn’t been corrupted with “righteousness and honor” by their insufferable new Lord Commander Strong – had already provoked various brawls, but none tempted him enough to join. And while several lovely whores had come his way, he had turned them all down.

Daemon couldn’t get his mind off his Bronze Bitch.

He would never get hard so long as she was in his head.

She had sapped him of his desire to drink, as well. There was no telling where his mind may go should he let himself get drunk while thinking of her.

And though he would like nothing more than to pummel the next person to look at him wrong into the ground, he couldn’t.

The last time he had tried to break someone – to break her – he had failed spectacularly.

It was supposed to be quick and easy. He would fly to the Vale one last time, when he was sure she would be alone, and rid himself of the bronze shackles of his marriage. Finally, he would be free to take the wife he truly wanted. The wife he deserved.

But then the fucking horse hadn’t done the job. There was no reason why not; it was an obscenely large beast. It had certainly made quite the meal for Caraxes.

He had been content to let her die where she lay. To allow the elements of her beloved Vale to take her. Her boring, soggy, primitive, sheep-ridden Vale.

Gods, what an agonizingly dull place. He had only lasted weeks in her pitiful excuse for a castle before he went out of his mind with boredom. The Bitch had been smart enough to give him leave to do as he wished.

She hadn’t been smart enough to keep her mouth shut, however.

“I knew you couldn’t finish.”

A Bitch indeed.

He had run hot enough with anger that he’d gotten hard, a feat he never thought to accomplish when faced with his wife.

That had been the greatest disappointment when they finally met on their wedding day. She was old and ugly. At least ten years older than him – he’d never bothered to find out exactly.

Her many hours spent in what little sun appeared in the Vale had aged her prematurely, so her painfully plain face was tanned and rough, and bore many lines. Her dull gray eyes were too far apart and framed by thick, bush brows, her lips too small, and her nose pointed up like a pig’s. Even her hair was unappealing. As bushy as sheep’s wool and the color of burnt wood.

In short, she was precisely what a virile young man of twenty, a Prince of the Realm and the Blood of the Dragon, did not want for a wife. And yet, he was stuck with her.

He still was.

Dropping her off at her pathetic keep was supposed to be the final insult. To paint the “Warrior Lady of Runestone” as no more than a damsel in distress. So that in her last hours, she could wallow in the knowledge that she would only be remembered as the poor girl rescued by the Prince.

But she hadn’t. Fucking. Died.

Maybe there was some magic in those stupid little Runes.

And still, that wasn’t the worst of it.

He was supposed to be free, and now, he had never been more shackled to the cunt.

“I hear congratulations are in order, my Prince,” Mysaria’s accent was perhaps the most gentle thing in Flea Bottom. But today, it grated in Daemon’s ears.

He took a great gulp of his ale. Bitter, but bracing. “Condolences would be better appreciated.”

Mysaria took the seat across from him. She had continued to do well for herself, judging by her clothes. Only the most influential whores showed that little skin. “As I recall, you were once quite eager to have children of your own. Heirs to strengthen your claim.”

“Heirs, yes,” Daemon conceded. “Bitch-spawn, not so much.”

“I see,” she smiled politely, but he could tell his words bothered her. For a woman who assured her own barrenness, she was quite protective of children. “So, you are not here to steal another egg, then.”

“No. If she doesn’t die before the runt is born, it can claim a dragon for itself – if it’s worthy of it, which I doubt.” He chuckled as a dark thought entered his mind, the kind he could only voice here in his vile little kingdom. “Sheepstealer may be a good fit. Though for a child of the Vale, ‘Sheepfucker’ would be a more apt name.”

Mysaria did not laugh with him.

“Oh, come on,” he sighed. “That was funny.”

She only frowned. “No matter your opinion of the mother, this child will still be yours. Your family, Daemon.”

He scoffed, turning away from her. But she did not relent.

“You have always been so careful not to leave bastards in your wake,” she insisted. “Yet now that you have the chance of a trueborn heir, you have no interest. I know you better than perhaps anyone, my Prince. But I do not understand this.”

Daemon scowled, his brow forming a hard line over his violet eyes.

“Whatever this child is, it’s worse than a bastard. Because it’s hers, and I hate her. I don’t want to live my life being forced to look at whatever crawls out of her wretched cunt. I don’t care if it is the very image of me – of a trueborn Targaryen. Because it will be, and will always be hers.”

He leaned forward, close enough that even the White Worm showed a glimmer of fear. “I have spent nine years of my life chained by my ‘marriage’ to that Bronze Bitch. The very worst thing I can imagine is having to live the rest of my life tied to her because my seed somehow found purchase in the arid desert of her womb.”

Even after all the years he had spent with her, he could not tell whether it was pity or disdain that now sparkled in Mysaria’s eyes. Perhaps both.

She stood and refilled his mug. “If she makes it through the pregnancy, she will not survive the birth.” When he raised an eyebrow in question, she clarified. “I have heard vivid accounts of her wounds. Tell me, was that you or Caraxes?”

“Bit of both, I suspect,” he snickered. “It is dangerous to ride a dragon without being properly strapped to the saddle. I must have forgotten.”

“I have only one last question.”

He gestured for her to go on. However personal and maddening this had gotten, it was at least mildly entertaining. A vent for his frustrations.

“Why give her your seed? Even to humiliate her, why take that risk? Why not just kill her?”

Silence fell in their little corner of the brothel.

“That was three questions.”

“Yes, but I seek only one answer.”

Daemon’s eyes grew ever dark. It was a darkness only a Targaryen with dragonfire in his blood could muster. The darkness that had made Visenya and Maegor, and many of his ancestors before, so fearsome.

“She mocked me.”

[gabessquishytum]

Y'all I. I really tried to write a fic using the 100 words, but I made it to 50 and. I just can't carry on. I'm losing my marbles. I invite you all to try the challenge for yourselves.

Anyway here's a fic. ⚠️ MASSIVE NSFW WARNING ⚠️

It's called 50 Shades of Hemulsion.

Hob has never been this interested in another man's jazz before. As far as he used to be concerned, one man's love liquor was much like any other. But now he's with Dream, he's obsessed with wet paint. Maybe there's something addictive about his lover's wad, or maybe Hob is just stupidly in love. Either way, Dream’s tallow is just the best thing on earth as far as he's concerned.

Hob loves the taste of Dream’s choad nectar on his tongue. He swallows it down eagerly every time, like it's the last meal he'll have. He also loves it when Dream spaffs on his face so he can feel it dripping down his chin. Dream likes to scoop up the string of pearls on his fingers and hand feed it to Hob. Either that or he smears that oil of man over Hob’s chest until the monkey juice clings to the thick chest hair.

Hob often walks around smelling like soap – and not the type that you might be thinking of. Any sentient being with a nose can smell Dream’s liquid silk on his skin. It would be embarrassing if Hob wasn't such a slut for that letchwater. 

Dream doesn't have to get soft after he has his man period. He can spill his live cultures into Hob multiple times per night. The man foam drips out of Hob’s arse, except when he's plugged of course. Sometimes he takes so much wank paste, he gets bloated with it. Even when he's crying with oversensitivity, Dream just gives him more spendings to keep inside.

So maybe it's no wonder that Hob is obsessed with salad dressing, since he's surrounded by it all the time. He has cute toys filled with fake white honey, but it doesn't feel or taste the same. So he has to beg Dream for his clam sauce and hope that he's feeling generous. Even when he's dreaming, he craves Dream’s spume. If he's a good boy, he gets amazing dreams where his lover gives him the jam at both ends. He wakes up still tasting like cock snot.

He does love it when Dream makes him beg for his daddy sauce. Dream is so cruel and harsh, he refuses to fuck Hob properly unless he begs. "Do you not want my white heat in you? Is my flour water not good enough for you? I thought you wanted my cream?"

So Hob has to whine and squirm and beg. "Yes, please give me your custard! I want you to put your jamba juice in me. I won't feel good until I'm stuffed with your man seed!"

"Are you sure you want my fun gel in you? Not someone else's? You are such a slut for spunk, I am not sure mine alone will be enough for you." Dream is so good at teasing. He'll only move his cock a tiny bit, refusing to give Hob the splashback he needs.

"No, Dream, your prick liquid is the best! I don't want any other dongwater in me. I've tried so much erectoplasm in my life, I just know that your buttermilk is the only thing that can satisfy me."

Dream is always merciful and fills Hob with his cock droplets over and over, until Hob spills his own layonnaise without being touched. Dream milks him of nizzle-drizzle until he's dry, and then inspects his hole. He only stops fucking Hob when the sink bubbles are leaking out of him, and he physically can't hold any more man tears. Then he pushes a plug into Hob to keep the population paste inside.

Hob’s addiction to prick liquid doesn't seem to be fading. In fact, every time Dream fills him with tail juice, Hob remembers exactly how much he loves it. He's so lucky to have Dream, who can provide all the protein shake Hob could ever want, and keeps him full up with willymilk every day. And Dream can't help but think Hob’s love of jizz is so sexy. One might even say, it makes him cum.

The End, please pray for me.

[apartmentstead]

Homemade Beef-Jerky

Good morning my little pierogis

This is my favorite home-made jerky recipe

Use as much or as little beef as you want to make - I personally bought a beef brisket that was on sale for about $40 that yielded roughly 10 pounds of jerky.

Now - I am not perfect. My very first batch I made a couple mistakes, and I’ve made this recipe before. I should have trimmed more of the fat off, and I should have sliced it thinner.

Don’t get me wrong, I still ate the fuck out of them, but I just couldn’t preserve them or hang onto it longer term. Learned my lesson though 😊 keep in mind even people with experience can get it wrong too.

Recipe

1 cup of soy sauce

2 tablespoons minced ginger

2 garlic cloves

Salt - hella (I measure with love)

Juice from half a lime

Cracked black pepper - measure with love (1 tbsp is fine)

1 pound of sliced brisket

So here’s the beauty of beef jerky; It’s completely customizable. You can add things into your marinade, take them out, change the amounts, the world is your oyster.

After you trim down your preferred slice of meat (I’ve found that tougher cuts like brisket or chuck do well as jerky because they’re full of collagen and keep their shape well), pop it back into the freezer for about 30 minutes or so. The reason for this is that when you’re slicing it, you’ll be able to achieve a thinner more consistent cut because it will be on the solid side - something I forgot to do when I made this first batch. Oops.

Hang onto those fat trimmings by the way, mamas gonna show you all how to make some lovely tallow with that

You’ll put your sliced beef into a bag or bowl (ziploc or otherwise, as long as it’s water tight) and add your misc. seasonings (see above). Leave the salt out - the soy sauce has got that taken care of initially. Leave that to marinade for at-least 2 hours. Personally, I leave it over night so the acidity of the lime/soy sauce and the saltiness in the soy sauce can break down some of that elasticity that tougher cuts of meat generally have. Like I said though - the worlds your oyster. Yolo.

Once the meat is done marinading go ahead and pull it out, and dry any excess marinade off the slices of beef using a towel or wipe.

Once the beef slices are dry, sprinkle salt on either side of the slice. This isn’t necessarily required, but I’ve found it pulls more of the water/moisture out and can speed up the dehydrating process.

If you’re using a dehydrator go ahead and set your racks up, try to space them out as much as you can do ample air flow can circulate - if you’re using an oven, preferably you should have a rack sitting on a sheet pan so drippings if any can flow away from the meat.

As is with any meat product, it needs to be cooked to an adequate internal temperature to kill any bacteria or disease. You’ll want to start with your oven or dehydrator set to 165 degrees. Once the meat has reached 165° Fahrenheit, promptly turn the oven/dehydrator down to 140°.

After the heat has been turned out now you get to wait, and suffer while you smell delicious food you can’t eat yet. Sorry. The drying time can take anywhere from 8-12 hours, depending on the meats thickness, oven/dehydrator type, etc. honestly you’ll have to play it by ear a bit. Once it’s done though, you can keep it on your shelf for up to 3 months with silica packets or something similar to keep out moisture in an airtight container. I personally put it in jars and pressure cook them to sterilize and seal the jars, but that’s another convo for a different day.

If you keep it in the fridge - 1 to 2 weeks

If you keep it in your pantry - maybe 1 week

Freezing - 3 months + however long the storage method after thawing is.

Keep in mind it’s still meat - she can go bad

Happy hunting, and remember to do a sniff test if you forget it for awhile lol.