#it was like… honey glazed hams

[kiradical]

Had a dream where I had a brother in the mob and he was trying to get hams from rivals and then they wanted to kill him? But then he got the jump on em, and then we went and asked for the hams still.

What is my brain doin?

[powdermelonkeg]

Slowpoke Tails - Shed vs Chopped

Okay, so there's something of a discrepancy between how Slowpoke tails are treated by the Pokémon franchise. Initially, it was understood that these are a tasty, unethical luxury item, starting in Gold/Silver/Crystal and mirrored in Heartgold/Soulsilver:

The whole plot here is that Team Rocket has taken the Slowpoke in the Azalea Slowpoke Well and chopped their tails off to sell on the black market. These run for a whopping 1,000,000 PD a pop ($10k in USD).

But then, in later generations, it's said that Slowpoke tails fall off naturally. In fact, they're a crucial part of both Alolan AND Galarian cuisine:

The curry ingredient even sells for a measly 2,200 PD ($22 USD).

So what gives? Why is it a Million-Poké black market item when you can get a package off your local hiker?

Easy. Sweetness.

Slowpoke use their tails to fish for food. Typically, they do this by dipping their tails into the water, then letting the current catch the sweet sap they give off and bring it to hungry Water-types.

When a Slowpoke sheds its tail, it's because the tail's ability to generate sap has dried up. It's no longer useful as fishing bait, so the Slowpoke has to either get rid of the tail, or starve.

Shed Slowpoke tails, the ones commonly available for cooking, aren't sweet in the slightest—they're more like heavily-marbled tuna steaks, somewhere between beef and fish with a lot of fat dripping from them, and a rich umami flavor.

Chopped Slowpoke tails, the kind you find on the black market, are a completely different experience. The meat is more tender, the flavor a lot more delicate, with a sweetness permeating it that's a lot like the honey glaze on a ham.

Naturally, chopped Slowpoke tail then becomes a novel experience. Because you have to take it from a Slowpoke, you can't just find it lying around.

So why, then, is it illegal enough for Rocket to move in on? Why is Slowpoke farming or hunting for those sweet tails not a thing? They still grow them back afterwards, so what's the deal?

The problem with chopping a Slowpoke's tail off is that, even though it regenerates, its body wasn't ready to do so. This can cause a whole lot of complications for the poor thing.

A tail doesn't regenerate from nothing, for starters: every time you cut a tail off unexpectedly, the Slowpoke's body rushes to make a replacement, using up its body's fat reserves. This causes VERY rapid and dangerous weight loss, and a frankly ridiculous amount of stress.

Incorrect cuts can cause deformities, like a tail growing back too short, not being able to make enough sweetness to bait fish Pokémon, or even Espeon-tail syndrome, where the tail splits into two at the end.

And, perhaps most egregiously of all, a cut too high might mean the Slowpoke never regrows its tail at all. If you cut into anything that's not specifically tail tissue, the body will begin the scarring process over the wound, removing the Pokémon's ability to fish and evolve. And while it can learn to survive by fishing manually, like its evolutionary counterpart is required to, oftentimes, Slowpoke will just sit by the water and starve, not realizing that they aren't getting a bite because there's just nothing to bite.

In short: Shed = ethical, chopped = unethical, possibly lethal.

Slowpoke responsibly, guys.

[frogchiro]

The Hunter and the two Bunnies

Day 3!! Yay! I won't lie I was super excited for this one so I hope you guys like it too!

Warnings: heavy nsfw, fem!Reader and Graves are bunny hybrids, Simon is a hunter, mentions of murder and gore but not much at all, Simon is a possessive and obsessive man, it's implied that both reader and Graves didn't have much choice to stay with him at first but it's really up to you ^^

Autumn was near, it was clear as day. The leaves started turning all sorts of oranges, reds, yellows and started to fall, the warm summer days turned to cool and bleak weather with a chilling howling wind and cold rain hammering against the wooden roof of Simon's cabin. Despite the bleak and unforgiving weather outside, the inside of the wooden house is a picture of warmth, coziness and pleasure.

With the roaring fire in the hearth, the leftover uneaten honey-glazed ham, fresh bread and fruits and of course the two warm, glistening bodies of two lovely bunnies currently warming Simon's weary muscles.

"Ahh...Yeah, that's right...Use your hips more-Perfect, fuuuck...", came the low, growly voice from the scarred, blond man sitting in his well-loved, warm armchair as your pretty, soft body continued to move above him, your whines and moans like music to his ears, your soft tits pressed tightly to his sweaty, hairy chest and all Ghost could do was let out a groan as he felt his swollen tip hit your cervix, potent cum leaking out and he could feel his balls tighten at the delicious fantasy of his sperm being right in your most intimate place, doing its job and breeding you with his baby.

"S-Simon please-it-it's too deep! Ah-! Si I feel it in my belly..." came your whined response as you gently ran your hand over your lower belly and pressed, both you and Simon moaning out at the intense, pleasurable feeling of him right there inside you and you couldn't help but tighten up, your cunt squeezing the large male like a vice making him let out a loud moan and thrust his hips up more roughly.

The wonderful, pleasurable scene was lazily watched by Philip, another bunny Ghost managed to catch last winter. The blonde male hybrid was laying on his back on one of the numerous fluffy furs in front of the fireplace, surrounded by more pelts and pillows arranged in the form of a nest. Philip continued to watch the display with a warm smile, happy that his mates both can feel all the pleasure in the world in this little cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere, the three of you can calmly and safely mate and be happy, not to mention the possibility of making your small family a little bigger by next spring. The blonde couldn't help but wince at your high pitched whine as Simon let out a matching loud growl, he probably was right up against your cervix bruising it and making you sore for the next few days, and Philip had to lift hips own hips slightly, the achy feeling settling in his hips and he let out a quiet whine as he felt Ghost's cum leaking out of his hole and wetting his thighs but he quickly used his fingers and stuffed the precious semen back inside him, nothing could go to waste...

After finally cumming deep inside you with a triumphant roar, his balls squeezing and twitching along with his dick lodged deep inside, he held you close to his hot, bulky body and caressed your back and ass, gently palming at your floppy (H/c) ears and fluffy tail before finally gently lifting you up and putting you down into the prepared nest, Philip gratefully accepting you back into his strong arms and immediately getting to nuzzling and licking at your tear-stained cheeks, muttering something sweet making you giggle tiredly and nuzzle into the scruffy stubble on your mate's cheek.

Simon sat back in his armchair with a cigar and a glass of whiskey and just watched you in a comfortable silence, not even bothering to put any clothes back on, only throwing a warm, silvery wolf pelt over his shoulders. He was a proud man, not afraid to show his body to his loved ones, especially you and Phil, it made him happy to be able to shed everything and just let loose, not to mention that sooner than later both of you will recover and want to go for another round and any layer of clothing would be torn off anyway with your small, but sharp claws.

It's a good thing that Simon won't have to go out anywhere for the next two or so days; your supplies and pantry is overflowing with herbs, spices, dried meats, forest fruit and vegetables and anything else you'd ever want. It's also a good thing that he dealt with that pesky little visitor who wandered a little too close for him liking to his territory. Was the guy a lost tourist who wanted to just get back on the trail? Or was he a filthy little thief who wanted to steal his bunnies away...? Well it's doesn't matter now anyway, at least not to Ghost.

The guy's head was basically shot off with the military grade rifle Simon still kept from his military days and now he was probably dragged away by the neighbouring pack of wolves deeper into the dark forest. It will be just Simon's dirty little secret, after all it's no use for him trouble your pretty little bunny heads with something like that.

The rain continues to patter against the cabin, and everything fell silent once again.

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 1.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

a former ward of alicent hightower and aemond's childhood companion, shera stark, returns to king's landing after ten years. ten years after the incident at driftmark that left her and aemond permanently disfigured. after so many years apart, shera and aemond are almost strangers. almost.

a/n: i posted the first two chapters of this story before, but they're being reworked -- so just poof what you know about them out of your mind when reading it now and think of it as a clean slate.

wordcount: 3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage

story playlist

The wind had finally died down that day, the trees somewhat still over the horizon. Their branches still wobbled with some errant breeze, whistling through the wood like a song. 

The window was pushed outward, the crisp air crossing paths with the smell of smoke, whirling and mingling like lost friends. A small fireplace was warming the room as the lady perched on her windowsill, dark copper curls hanging around her like tendrils. Shera took in a deep breath of air— it was crisp and refreshing, pushing away the errant effects of sleepiness. 

Her skin prickled in goosebumps beneath her nightgown as she turned to her bed. A large black mass was snoozing softly still, taking up the majority of the mattress. Slinking over, she snuggled herself close to the giant canine, blowing softly on his muzzle to wake him. Large amber eyes met brown and milky blue, pupils dilating and constricting in tandem, before the wolf let out a sleepy chuff. 

“Wake up, my love,” Shera whispered, fingers digging into his shaggy mane as she scratched just the right spot. “Moongeist, we must start the day.” she hummed. 

The direwolf rolled over onto his back, belly exposed to the chilled air. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, one leg kicking as his companion got the one itch just out of reach of his own claws. 

“Oh, you’re a ham,” Shera mumbled into his fur, peppering him with kisses. “You’re no wolf, you’re a honey glazed ham,” she tickled his belly, causing him to let out an almost laughing whine. “With a side of sweet potatoes and winter chard.” she rolled next to him, snuggling into him like he was a person. Sprawled out from the tip of his outstretched legs, up to his nose, he outmatched Shera’s height by about one and a half feet. Westeros would surely need to watch out if her wolf ever learned to walk on two feet! 

They lazed together for the better part of an hour before Shera called in the maids— but not before donning her veil and choker. The maids would only help dress her from the neck down, and were ushered out after for Shera to do her hair alone. She took in a deep breath as they fastened the corset around her form. 

“May need to lay off the blueberry hand pies , my lady,” one of the maids murmured. “‘Tis getting hard to lace you up.” 

Shera felt a swirling pit in her stomach at the comment— it wasn’t a secret that she was no svelte ermine. She had curves and a bit of extra mass in the softer areas of her body, coupled with scarred stretch marks around her sizable bosom and thighs. “… hm.” she snorted, not wanting to dignify the maid’s comment with a response. This was, unfortunately, the norm. The jabs, the pokes, the insults between sentences— even the serving girls have become brazen, snickering as Shera walked past. She didn’t exactly understand it— mayhaps it was because she could hardly speak to defend herself, mayhaps they think her daft and non-understanding of their less than tactful barbs. 

As normal as it was, it made it no less tiring. “Just… lace it up,” she quipped, a bit too harshly, as she held her thumb and forefinger to her throat at the scratch of pain. “… I have things to attend to…” 

“Yes, my lady.” the maids responded in tandem, squeezing poor Shera into a corset much too tight. 

After they left, Shera picked up a shoe and threw it at the door, startling Moongeist. “Damned ptarmigans… clucking hens… when do they cease?” she groaned, patting the wolf on the head as he, ever dutifully, retrieved her shoe. “I’m… we’re the wolves— they’re supposed to be afraid of me.” she continued, as it usually went. She would whisper and murmur to herself (to Moongeist) while she readied herself. Sitting in front of the open window, her fingers deftly weaved through her auburn locks, working absentmindedly into a braid. She pinned the braid upon her head, glanced at the mirror, then unpinned it. 

It became a back and forth task as she meticulously decided on a hairstyle— she wasn’t usually so vain, but apparently, Prince Jacaerys was arriving for a meeting. She’d spent some time with him the past few moons as they ‘courted’. He was polite, of course, and had grown into himself well since their childhood. But… Shera felt nothing for him, princely charm be damned. And she was increasingly sure he felt the same, more inclined to enjoy the company of Cregan rather than her. 

But that was the way of the world, wasn’t it? To be trapped in a loveless box for titles, for armies and alliances, for oaths— that was fate. And fate… was usually unchanged. Shera oft cursed the Gods, the Old and the New, for weaving her tapestry of life in such a bereft and depressing manner. If she were to look upon it, it’d be dreary and uncouth, not fit to hang upon a wall, destined to rot and mold in a cellar for eternity. 

But what did Shera know of love, anyhow. How could she— for who would love a banshee?

She settled on twin braids that settled upon her back, pinned up into two loops. Adjusting her veil in the mirror and assuring she wasn’t too visible, she made for the door, Moongeist pressed to her. 

The winding halls of Winterfell had become second nature, muscle memory— but her mind wandered, imploring herself to think… Did she remember such paths at the Red Keep? She hoped her memory, if nothing else, would serve her well one day. 

None of the denizens she passed by in the corridors spoke to her, only gave her stiff nods before avoiding her eye line. Was she such an abhorrent sight? Her heels clicked against the stone, fingertips skimming the walls as she stayed close to them, using the familiar winding gait to guide her to the Great Hall. Her stomach grumbled under her tight corset– she hadn’t even had time to break her fast before already being shoved to the dragon’s maw. She heard the whispers of the ‘dashing dragon prince’ arriving early, upon his dragon which was the color of a witch’s brew, green and sprightly. Shera couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she pushed the heavy oaken door to the hall. 

Cregan was there, beard trimmed so as to not be unsightly, and laden in dark aurochs fur. Their ancestral weapon, Ice, was strapped to his back like a second spine, rigid and unyielding. He was faced towards the fire in the hearth, while Jacaerys was to his side, the two already deep in conversation.

The sound of the door opening was as good of an indication of her arrival as she would get, and they both turned to her in tandem. Jacaerys, gallant and princely as ever, rushed to her side, but not before stopping a few paces before, as Moongeist was pressed to her thigh with a wary look in his eye.

“My lady,” Jacaerys exclaimed, flashing his dazzling smile, his brown mop of curls bouncing as he approached, albeit cautiously. “You look radiant as ever.” 

Shera’s brow rose from under her veil– her facial expressions were hardly seen, and she was able to give her unabashed reactions to things quite often. She was woe to master the art of masking, so she simply did not. He called her radiant– an alluring lie if she ever heard one, he couldn’t see her face, how could she possibly be radiant? She presumed his mother had been schooling him in the art of politics. That is what this is, isn’t it? It’s all just… politicking. 

“My prince,” Shera responded softly, giving Moongeist an ever subtle command to sit to the side, allowing Jace to take her arm. She didn’t much like being touched by other people, it made her skin crawl, but she too needed to… continue the charade. “Thank you– you are quite early, I hope I look… presentable.” 

“We were waiting for a bit, Shera,” Cregan commented offhandedly, cracking his knuckles slightly. He was a bit annoyed, she could tell. “But, ladies do take long to get ready, do they not, my prince?” 

“It wasn’t a long wait, no worries,” Jace responded coolly. “But yes, it takes a small army and frequent turning of an hourglass for my mother to finally be ready, I imagine it’s similar for most ladies.”

Ah, yes. As if it doesn’t take Cregan an hour to pick out his furs for the day, pompous ass. And did Jacaerys don himself in that heavy dragonscale plated armor? Doubtful. Shera suppressed the urge to give an indignant huff. “My… deepest apologies,” she murmured. “I do hope my dear brother wasn’t such a terrible conversationalist.”

Cregan snorted as Jace guided Shera to her seat, pushing it in for her. “My mother– she wishes to meet you, of course,” Jacaerys prattled, scooting into the chair next to her (and Cregan). “We are going to go to the Queen for approval for the official betrothal… and subsequent wedding.” 

Shera blinked slowly as she absorbed the information. She expected to have to meet Princess Rhaenyra at some point and for the Queen to become involved in the betrothal– but the wedding? Subsequent? The nail on her pointer finger dug into the nail bed of her thumb idly, picking, picking, picking as she mulled over her next words. “... will the wedding be soon, my prince?” she asked, sneaking a glance at Cregan, who had a glazed over look in his eye.

“... my mother wishes to secure the… union before her ascension, my lady.”

“The King is not yet dead– I don’t understand the rush.” Shera blurted out, her nail sinking deeper into her flesh. She felt like there was some sort of secret she was not a part of, some undisclosed plan that she wasn’t privy to Oh, yes, of course– she was just the pawn, wasn’t she? 

“That is well and true– my grandsire, the King, has been in poorly health for the past few years. It is… only a matter of time.” Jace stammered, trying to regain the upper hand in the conversation. 

“Rhaenyra’s ascension will happen sooner than later, Shera. It is only a wish that you and Jacaerys are well bonded by then, mayhaps even producing an heir.” Cregan interjected. 

She wanted to vomit, she wanted to scream, she wanted to lash out at everyone– she was a vessel, a puppet for a greater vision of Westeros that nobody cared if she was specifically a part of– ‘twas only her luck she was the sister of the Warden of the North, who held an amassing army and ferocity for those he was bidden for. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Warmth spread onto her fingertip and Moongeist shuffled at her feet, a low whine coming from the back of his throat. She felt such a rage come over her for a split second, her vision blurring as she felt the overwhelming need to sink her teeth into someone and make them feel her despair. 

“Okay.” she finally said, her voice sounding far away and small, as if it wasn’t even hers.

Jacaerys and Cregan conversated further while Shera stared off into some small point in the distance until her eyes watered from not blinking, blood pooling and staining against her nails. 

“Thank you. I must break my fast now,” Shera suddenly spoke up, not caring if the two of them were in the middle of a conversation. “We will leave within a fortnight.” 

The journey from the hall back to her room was a blur, she remembers curtsying to Jacaerys and bidding him goodbye and some other innocuous pleasantries. Sitting back at her desk, she tore off her veil in frustration, bracelets and earrings alike jingling. She put her head in her hands, feeling the all too familiar ache of tears building. 

She didn’t want to go— why did she have to be married? Why was it her destiny to be a pawn? To be a wife? Especially to someone who was there. Her throat clenched as she tried to hold back the tears— to no avail. They burned and stung, her already tender demeanor withering. 

Prying her hands away, she looked over her desk. It was strewn with miscellaneous books to which she struggled to read, along with some half-done charcoal sketches of prospective sewing projects. Shera wasn’t known for outbursts, as her quiet and ghostly prefecture was one that stayed in the background of things. But, she felt a roiling in her stomach, wrought over like forged castle steel, molten and aching and hot— it burned in her like a plague, working its way through her and exiting her body in the form of a wail, coupled with her arms sweeping off the contents of her desk to the floor. 

The momentary feeling of anguish subsided as soon as it came and her throat ached from her cry. Her eyes felt heavy as she tried to get up and subsequently failed, sinking to the ground like a discarded rag. Moongeist let out a whine, propping his head under Shera’s arm, having her rest some of her weight upon him.

“I’m pathetic, my love,” she whispered, feeling all the part of a fallen porcelain doll, placated on her bottom upon the floor, legs out in front of her as if she were a child on a playroom floor. “Nothing like the Winter Kings of yore. I’m sorry.” Shera’s thumb rubbed on the wolf’s ear as she wallowed momentarily in self-pity and self-loathing. 

Gathering some strength, she pushed the papers below her desk to the side. The sweeping motion befell something new— no, not new. ‘Twas old, upon inspection. It was a stack of letters, covered in dust now, but neatly tied together with wool twine. Unveiling one, she skimmed it over to the best of her ability.

Dearest Shera, 

It isn’t the same without you here. My head hurts all of the time, I keep bumping into things and I can scarcely write. In fact, I am having Helaena pen this to you right now. She says hello. 

Mother is in shambles, frayed at the ends like your old blue dinner dress. Her and grandsire are constantly whispering and she cries more often. I think she misses you. 

As does Helaena. As do I. Mayhaps even Aegon.

Does your head hurt as well? What do you do to help with the pain? Are you able to walk without bumping into things? 

I hope to hear from you soon. 

Best, 

Aemond Targaryen

That had been the first letter sent to her from King’s Landing— Cregan, to his own dismay, sat down and read it to her after she had spinned herself into a crying fit, sending the maesters into a tizzy as she threatened to reopen the stitches upon her throat. 

In her poppy-addled young mind, she hadn’t recognized that it was not Aemond’s writing or words, but most definitely Helaena’s, as the letter Shera sent back were those of Cregan, and not hers. 

Prince Aemond, 

It is an honor to hear from you. I’m recovering quite well, at the behest of my brother. Winterfell is very different from the South, but I am finally finding my footing here in the cold. 

I have been a wolf at heart this entire time, like my forefathers. 

My ability to walk has been improving, as the maesters here are excellently equipped for such a feat. 

It is my hope that we can both find a sense of normalcy in our lives once more. 

I wish you well. 

Regards,

Shera Stark

She’d hardly remembered when Cregan read it aloud, and she didn’t catch the cold, rigid wording, bereft of any warmth and camaraderie that she would have included. Truth be told, at the time of it being written, Shera couldn’t even hold her own spoon to sip at bone broth, much less walk. 

It was unclear to her still, to this day, why Cregan felt the need to lie about her condition— but it was apparently a well placed one, as the next letter to come was in another tone all together. It was about three moons afterward, and the handwriting was different. It was a bit shaky, but proper and dignified. 

Lady Stark, 

I am most gracious for your reply. It is a balm to the Queen to hear you are doing well. 

Let us both hope we are well on the road to our full recoveries. 

Stay warm.

Signed,

Prince Aemond Targaryen

Shera’s fingers traced over the letter, she could still recognize it as Aemond’s handwriting— but the tone seemed clipped and cold, colder than even Cregan’s letter was. 

There were a few more envelopes in the stack, but if she remembered correctly, there was nothing of substance. Her chest ached occasionally when she thought about it all— did Aemond think of her still? Or was she just a silly footnote in his life? She abhorred to admit to herself, much less anyone else, that she still did. Aemond Targaryen still had a place in her mind, an undeterred host in the recesses of her brain that she couldn’t rid herself of— if she even wanted to. She wondered what he looked like now. Was he finally as tall as Aegon, mayhaps more? Did he finally get his hands upon the book he had been wanting to read? She hoped he spent his days flying upon Vhagar’s back— a gift that he had paid the price for. 

She did as well. But her price wasn’t for Vhagar. It was for Aemond.

Her throat burned and constricted with the threat of tears once more as she pulled herself from the floor, Moongeist’s body pressed to her hip to guide her. Padding to the fireplace, which was nursing a few hot coals and sparse flame, she fed the letters into the fire one by one. The flames grew as they burned, the ink upon the pages fettering into nothing but ash and sickly memory. 

Were they strangers now? 

Does he remember her? 

… why does she still wish to see him? 

A wolf travels south at the behest of one dragon– but her mind upon another.

How sordid.

[overstuffd]

So, feedee werewolf won, obviously, because you're all a bunch of bottoms (loving).

So here are some more thoughts.

When I find you in the woods you're cold, scared - and hungry.

I bring you back to my cottage, offer you some clothes to replace your soaked rags. They're a few sizes too big but you're grateful.

Slowly, you piece together last night. The transformation - the gorging yourself on chickens from the farmer a few miles over.

I smile and offer you a firm, gentle hand. Don't worry - I'm here to help. You're so relieved you don't notice how deep my nails dig into the flesh of your arm.

First, I want you comfortable. I draw you a warm bath to shake off the night before. The fire is crackling, and the incense I light leaves you feeling dozy and calm.

After your bath there are more soft, large clothes - you wonder who they are for - and a proper meal, you look like you need one, poor thing!

You don't realise how late it's gotten, but I've prepared a King's supper. A roast ham and a whole cold chicken, a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, a huge tray of butter roasted potatoes, pumpkin and carrots, glazed in honey. There are soft fried eggs in a dish, and jars of cramy sauces and pickles. You set about making yourself a huge sandwhich, and you're almost done before you realise you didn't wait to be invited to eat.

You blush as you look up at at me, but I wave your concerns away. I set the table for you, enjoy it.

As you eat, I explain your condition, and the words are so distracting you barely notice how many brick sized sandwiches you're gulping down.

You're a werewolf, poor little lamb, I explain. The fellow with the dark eyes you let take you home from the bar a few weeks ago - those bite marks aren't the only thing he left with you.

Your curse is to transform every full moon into a creature controlled purely by desire and animal need - yourself in an unihinited, bestial form, with power to do as you will. I know, it must be scary sweet thing - here, try one of these custard buns.

The good news is, as you've probably guessed, I'm more than just familar with the arcane and supernatural. I'm quite a skilled practitioner of magics, and with your cooperation I can make the next full moon much less dangerous for everyone.

You're so grateful to hear - the memories of the night before that are flashning through your mind scare you, as much as they stir something else, deep at the root of your stomach.

I tell you to eat up and get some sleep, I'll begin your training - your instruction, that is - tomorrow.

-

You wake and breakfast is ready - cooked meats, more eggs and poetatoes, and pastries, fruit - you don't take it all in before you start eating, you're ravenous.

Your hair is longer, you notice as I idly play with it, and is spreading down you neck and across your shoulders. You shovel more eggs, another chocolate stuffed puff-pastry treat, not thinking it at all strange as I work out one of the stress knots in your shoulder.

After breakfast - the third plate of which you eat at my insistence - I start teaching you about herblore.

Your wolf form - I explain - is an extension of your self. Don't think of yourself and them as separate creatures, they are your needs and desires made flesh. The better state you are going into the full moon, the more docile your wolf form.

As I talk, you are distracted by my fingers rolling thumb-fat herbal cigarettes into tight cones. My voice watches ovr you as the repetitive movement makes you feel dozy.

Lavender, or course, and chamomile, for calm and stillness. Mallow root for dreaminess. Oatflower for - making you open to influence. My, postitive influence. Heather for appetite - you're going to need your strength. Mugwort to enhance sensation, to keep you in touch with your body. A few others from my garden - I'm passioante about creating potent cross strains.

I place one of the joints in your mouth and light the tip, flicking away the ash as your hungry mouth starts the cone before your conscious mind has time to realise what's happening. I pull the joint away and take a hit myself, you taking a moment to greedily gasp air, before I press my lips against yours and shotgun the herbal mixture directly into your neuro-cortex.

Your head swims, and your brain short circuits as I place a hand on your thigh. You stuggle to regain your composure, as a bell in the kitchen goes off.

Oh - lunch is ready!

As I sidle off to the kitchen, you realise how warm you feel between your thighs from the contact.

-

Lunch is a shepherds pie, and I make no move to serve a portion, just place the whole dish in front of you with a huge spoon breaking the crisp crust and fragrant steam spilling into the air.

You don't hesitate, you pick up the spoon and start digging in. The food smells delicious, and you're already ravenous despite the huge breakfast. You swallow mouthful after mouthful of rich, savoury food as I explain more to you, slowly and clearly like you've realise you need.

Fullness is important. I explain, gently. I'm across the table but my foot is playing with the inside fo your thigh. The hungrier you are, the more dangerous your wolf is. It's so important that you stay full. I'm going to do my best, okay, but you need to tell me as soon as there's any room in your belly, sweet thing.

You nod happily, barely looking up from you pie.

Good dog, I say, as I ruffle you hair.

-

Dinner comes, pinning you to you chair in the kitchen, and as you eat I explain how important it is that you indulge all your needs now, while you're still a soft, safe human.

You are barely listening, enjoying dragging more of the soft, fresh and heavily buttered bread through more of the delicious, spiced stew. It's one again full of my specially chosen herbs, but you don't need to know that. You've found yourself needing to know less and less all day.

You look a little pent up dear, I say, softly, walking round to your end of the table. No - you keep eating. I know just what to do.

I slide under the table and gently pull down the trousers I leant you. They're loose - for now - and come down easily so I can take you in mouth. I gently suck as you swallow more food.

I don't know if you realise how much you're moaning, but I suspect it has as much to do with the meal as it does with my fingers teasing your hole.

You finish your dinner before you finish in my mouth, already such a good pet. Tomorrow we'll have much more to do to make you safe, but for now I'll walk your heavy, drowsy form to the bed and rub your bloated belly till you sleep.

[syrupfog]

Law being the most anemic fucking vampire. 

Like he doesn’t pick up on hunger cues, especially when studying in med school and during his fellowship time. Will go days without feeding because he doesn’t notice he needs to until one day he stands up and just falls the fuck over

Like he becomes well known in his apartment complex because of the number of times he’s passed out on the stairs. 

He doesn’t change his ways though until he comes to on the landing with his neighbour looming over him.

“Zoro says you’re a vampire” the neighbour says. 

Law doesn’t know his neighbours he has no clue who Zoro is. “I’m a vampire,” he says, groaning as he sits up. 

Neighbour nods, walks over and fucking HEADBUTTS the wall. Some cement crumbles.

Law gapes at him. 

The neighbour walks back, looking mostly fine (definitely has a concussion) with a trickle of a bloody nose. 

“Here you go!” He says brightly. 

Law gives him a horrified face. He scrambles back when he thinks the neighbour is going to headbutt him too.

But the man just walks up to him and swipes the blood off his face and onto Law’s face, like you’re supposed to do to get kittens to eat. 

He’s grinning. Very wide. 

“Please don’t ever do that again,” Law says. He wipes the blood off his face.

The man frowns “I worked hard for that!” He says. 

“I’m not rewarding bad behaviour,” Law says petulantly. 

“You passed out on the stairs!” 

“That’s beside the point.” 

Law has blood bags at home. He doesn’t need a weird stranger’s blood. He probably has mad cow.

The man crosses his arms. “Well I think that’s rude,” he says. 

Law sighs. He’s still lightheaded. “How about next time you want to donate blood, you ask me first? I can take some WITHOUT giving you a concussion.” 

The man brightens. “Okay!!” He says, excited now.

“Im Luffy! It’s nice to meet you, vampire!” 

“Trafalgar,” saw Law. 

“Traffy,” says Luffy. 

Law narrows his eyes. He senses arguing is futile.

Law never actually means to take Luffy up on his offer. He HAS blood, he just forgets to take it. Every time Luffy offers, he tells him he’s got blood at home, maybe next time. 

That all changes when a summer storm rolls in and they lose power.

They’re out of power for almost four days, a sickly still and wet heat settling in the city. And when Law wakes up after passing out in his kitchenette, he realises he’s actually in need. 

He doesn’t even know where in the complex Luffy lives, but it turns out not to be an issue.

He’s just made it down the stairs when the fire door in front of him opens and— 

“TRAFFY!”

 “Luffy,” Law groans despite himself. 

“Do you need—“ 

“Yes.” Law grabs his wrist. “Come with me.” 

Luffy obediently follows him back up the stairs to his apartment.

Law drags him in and sets him at the table. “You’re going to want to refill on protein and sugar after this,” he says. 

“Okay!” Luffy says, expression bright. 

Law sighs. He wipes down Luffy’s forearm with an alcohol pad before grabbing his wrist and sinking his teeth in.

Usually humans taste gross. Blood at the best of times is a neutral flavour, but skin and arm hair and sweat are disgusting. 

But Luffy?

 Luffy… tastes like honeyed ham. 

Law pulls back, a wet noise as he pulls his fangs out. “Why do you taste like that?” He asks, alarmed.

“Like what?” Luffy asks. 

“Like… glazed ham?” 

Luffy laughs. “Silly,” he says. “Because I was eating glazed ham, of course!” 

Law bit close to Luffy’s elbow. He also sanitised the area. How on EARTH did the taste permeate his skin so well?

With trepidation, Law goes back to feeding. It’s with horror he realises he… likes the glazed ham taste with the blood. It’s like drinking flavoured coffee; useless accoutrement but pleasing nonetheless. 

When he’s drunk enough he’s confident he won’t be falling down stairs,

Law cleans Luffy’s arm and attaches two small round plasters to the holes. 

“Fun!” Luffy says, looking at them. “Fang sized!” 

“Thanks,” Law says. “You can go now.” 

Luffy blinks at him. “Let’s hang out,” he says. 

Law blinks back at him. “I have to—“ he gestures at his apartment.

Considering they are IN his apartment, he’s just sort of gesturing at everything. 

“That’s cool,” Luffy says. “I’ll just stay here.” 

Law… nods. “Okay,” he says. The power’s still out, it’s not like he was going to actually do anything anyway.

What Law doesn’t know is that once Luffy’s gotten into Law’s apartment once, he’s gonna always assume he’s welcome. 

Even when Law tries to kick him out. S

ometimes (often) Luffy is just. Here now. 

And unfortunately, like the glazed ham taste, Law realises he sort of likes it.

[hunn1e-bunn1e]

Katakuri; The Most Adorable Husband...

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•

If only... ಥ_ಥ

Haaah~ Katakuri... He loves doughnuts, he's tall, muscular, strong, and cute... and he's a mama's boy! What's not to love?

I dunno what it is about him; he's just so adorable to me. I just wanna sit on his lap so I can pepper kisses on his nose and cheeks and watch how his face heats up in embarrassment and steam bursts from his ears.

I myself know have to bake a variety of pastries irl, so I'd love to make him something. Maybe some peach or cherry turnovers, a salted caramel cheesecake, or some cinnamon sugar dusted beignets.

But of course I'd make him some doughnuts, they are his favorites after all. But I'd try to sneak some savory pastries in there as well probably with ingredients like candied or honey glazed ham with vegetables and whatnot.

Only if he's comfortable would I like him to let me feed him during his merienda. I was wanna hear him gush about how good my food is while his cheeks are fat like a chipmunk. He's just so precious!

I wanna lay on his chest when he's done eating and wipe his mouth and cheeks free of any leftover crumbs or frosting. Or maybe even lick it off and see him become flustered all over again.

When he's done with all his duties for today I'd let him lay his head on my thighs and run my fingers through his hair or across his cute fangs. Whispering how handsome and hard working he is and how much he means to me.

Haaah~ that'd be the life wouldn't it? Katakuri why do you have to be fictional!!! (╥﹏╥)

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Fun fact! Katakuri is a type of lily (its also called the asian fawnlily) that is native to Japan and is used as the traditional basis of katakuri-ko, which is a powdered starch used in cooking; the starch itself is made from finely ground lily bulbs. This is what I think of instead of dog tooth.

Below is the lily in question \/

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•

Wanna see similar content? Check out my Masterlist!

[coopers-kitchen]

Here's a tip for any aspiring longpigs: nothing will buy you a one-way ticket to the oven faster than an apple in the mouth.

It's the perfect way of saying exactly what you are, and what you intend to become - a delicious longpork dinner.

This hog is particularly eager. In fact, he's gone so far as to write his meat grade on his side - a little cocky for sure, but I can't help but agree. Would you believe that this pig isn't even 230 lbs? I almost didn't, seeing the size of that gut or those fat rolls.

This pig desperately wants to be roasted in the oven, and based on that first photo I agree. It makes his best assets stand out, accentuates that juicy belly, and makes his hams look fat enough to keep me fed for a few days. Still, I'm not one to turn down a little extra meat.

As soon as he gets to my place I'm going to cage him for a while. In fact, I have one coming free in a few days - a little cramped, but as long as he's comfy in that position who cares? A week or so being forcefed my 100% efficient pigfeed and he'll definitely pack on a few pounds before it's time to slice off his oysters and graduate him to housepig status.

Still, I don't think that status will last for long. Sometimes you see a pig who's perfect for a big event like Halloween, Thanksgiving, or plain-old Thursday. This pig doesn't need much work, so I'd say he'll be around for a few days before he's shaved, stuffed, and roasted.

For this pig I'm going to go with a nice honey, apple, and whisky glaze. For the stuffing I'm going to go for longpork, fresh apples, berries, and honey. After all, you don't always need exotic stuffing ingredients, Longpork is already the most decadent ingredient there is, and the most important thing is always to find the right recipe for the right pig. I can't wait to dig into this succulent Porkboy. It's just a shame I can only cook him once.

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

A Night At The Christmas Market - Modern! Helaena Targaryen x Reader

Summary: You and your wife, Helaena, spend your first Christmas as newlyweds at a Christmas market.

Pairing: Modern! Helaena Targaryen x Fem! Reader

Warnings: fluff

Word Count: 1.6k words

A/N: hoe hoe hoe! a very merry late Christmas and Happy New Year in advance from me to you :) this one is for all the Helaena girlies out there. I hope you enjoy! ;)

lovely dividers credited to @firefly-graphics !

Snow was falling across the city of King’s Landing, as you and your wife, Helaena, bundled in the most comfortable winter parkas imaginable - her in pink, and you in purple - made your way to the largest Christmas market in Westeros at the heart of the city. 

Helaena thought you had never looked more beautiful, cheeks flushed and slightly puffed lips from the cold, yet eyes flashing with excitement as you took in the sight of the streets decked out with Christmas decorations. For as long as you remember, growing up in the Vale, a mostly mountainous country area, you always wanted to come to live in the city. While you did miss the rolling green fields and idyllic lifestyle sometimes, you found something way better here. Grinning, you took Helaena’s hand, and she smiled at you, eyes shining with affection. The love between the both of you was as bright as the morning snow. 

When you finally reached the Christmas market, you were so excited that you practically dragged Helaena from stall to stall, seeking some food to nourish your bellies. Helaena indulged you, wanting to see you happy. After all, she had been to the Christmas market so many times as a little girl with her brothers, Aemond, Aegon, and Daeron, that she didn’t feel the need to get excited over everything. 

She did, however, love watching you get excited. It was one of the most beautiful things in the world, aside from getting to see you wake up next to her in the morning. 

Armed with a handful of small bites that you had gotten from the stalls, you and Helaena found a table near the outskirts of the table area set aside for people who wished to dine on the Christmas market’s many edible delights. You opened the bags to be greeted by a mouthwatering smell: deep fried cheese balls, fried calamari and onion rings, steaming hot reindeer stew, a meaty slice of honey glazed ham, some roast turkey, two cups of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, and fresh out of the oven gingerbread cookies.  

“By the Seven, how are we going to finish all this?” Helaena laughed. You grinned, opening your first packet of food. “You married a woman with a bottomless appetite, you know. If you don’t want anything, I’ll be happy to snatch it up.” 

“Okay, okay, you blackhole,” Helaena said affectionately, before unwrapping some cheese balls. She was surprised when halfway through, you slung a hand around your shoulder, pulling her closer to you. “Hey, you’re okay with all this, right?” You asked her in a gentle voice. Helaena had always had anxiety when it came to large crowds, and you didn’t want to overwhelm your wife. 

A radiant smile slowly spread across Helaena’s features, as she looked at you fondly, kissing you on the lips. You returned the kiss eagerly, tongue tangling with hers, before the both of you pulled away, cheeks red not just from the cold now. “I’m fine, my love. Really. You know, I used to come to this market every year with my brothers?” 

You tilted your head, an inquisitive gleam in your eyes. “Really? What was it like?” Helaena mulled over her response, “Chaotic.” You laughed, somehow it didn’t surprise you after you had met Helaena’s brothers. Your first question to Helaena after meeting her family was how her mother managed to keep up with all of them. Helaena had shrugged playfully as the sounds of Aegon drunk tackling Aemond to the ground while a spectating Daeron cackled in the background echoed behind you, “I have no clue.” 

“How long has it been since you last came here then?” you blew on your spoonful of reindeer stew, laden with carrots and celery, before putting it in your mouth. Helaena thought carefully while chewing on an onion ring. “I think around five years, or when Aemond moved away to further his studies at Riverrun University.” 

“Well, is it less chaotic experiencing it with me then?” you asked teasingly, leaning in for Helaena to pop a calamari in your mouth. Helaena bopped you on the nose, eliciting an indignant huff from you, before she popped the calamari in your mouth. “Nope. Just as chaotic.” 

The two of you finished your food, and continued strolling around the Christmas market. To both of your delight, they had somehow managed to invite and set up a husky-sledding rink here, and you and Helaena enjoyed being pulled around by the zealous huskies, though Helaena did complain a little about the snow that kept blowing in her face. You had won a game of toss-the-hoop-onto-the-reindeer’s-head, and you handed the prize - a stuffed octopus - to Helaena, who hugged it happily. Helaena stopped by some craft stores, buying some woodworked mini figurines and snowglobes. 

Helaena was about to go over to a stall selling hand woven mittens when she heard your squeal. She whipped her head up, initially thinking something bad had happened, but you soon ran up to her, safe and sound, and began pulling her away. “Where are we going?” Helaena barely managed to ask, too overpowered by your eagerness. “You’ll never believe what I found!” 

Helaena gave you a deadpan stare as you stopped in front of a tent. “A fortune teller? Really, love?” You rolled your eyes, “It’s not like I actually believe them. I just think it’ll be fun. Come on, pretty please?” You gave her your best puppy eyes, and she eventually relented, letting you lead her into the tent. 

The fortune teller turned out to be a kindly looking old lady, wrapped in colourful shawls lined with fur. She looked at your fresh, eager face, and Helaena’s more reserved one. “Are the both of you friends?” she inquired. You shook your head, “Oh no, ma’am. We’re married, actually.” 

Helaena was worried for some lashing out should the old lady turn out to be one of those conservative grandmothers, but to her relief, her wrinkly face lit up. “You are? How wonderful!” The old lady leaned forward, her voice dropping in a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, I used to have a wife too.” Your eyes widened, “Really?” The old lady nodded, a bit sadly. “Yes, she was the great love of my life after my husband had passed. Unfortunately, she followed the Stranger last year.” 

You clamped your hand over your mouth, a little chagrined, as Helaena said quietly, “We’re sorry for your loss.” The old lady waved it off, her expression brightening again. “Tis’ alright, child. Let me read your fortune, how about that?” The old lady took out a deck of cards, shuffling them deftly in her hands, before spreading it out on the table before you. 

“Pick two cards each,” the old lady instructed, looking at the two of you. Helaena did it quickly, you much slower, as you deliberated on which card you felt more drawn to. “Hurry up, dearest,” Helaena playfully thumped you on the arm when you took nearly two minutes to choose your second card. “I have to see which one my intuition feels most drawn to, okay!” you protested. 

With the four cards drawn out, the fortune teller observed them, before laying them out in front of you. “Well, the first one here tells of a happy marriage,” the old lady looked at the both of you, her smile turning mischievous. “Though I’m sure the both of you don’t need it.” Helaena smiled slightly at that, gripping your hand under the table. 

“Ah, the second one,” the old lady’s voice turned a bit serious. “It spells a bit of trouble in the future, especially in the workplace. Perhaps one of you will have a disagreement with your boss?” 

You snorted, “Well, it can’t be Helly, since she runs her own business. Guess that’s for me then. I’ll live.” Helaena patted your hand soothingly, “She didn’t say it’s just for bosses. Maybe it could be me having a dispute with a customer, who knows.” “I'd rather have this fortune befall on me than you though, Helly.” You said sincerely, your eyes shining fiercely. Your wife had suffered enough throughout her life. Helaena only smiled, touched. 

The old lady also shared Helaena’s smile as she moved on to the third card. “The third one is slightly more tame, don’t worry. It just speaks of travelling to an exotic place. Do the both of you have any travel plans next year?” You looked startled, turning to Helaena. “We were planning for that trip to Qohor, so that you can see the art of their hand woven and dyed tapestries. Helly, she’s got it on the nose.” Helaena stifled a small laugh at your amazement. “Yes, dear. She really did. What does the fourth card say?” The old lady’s finger moved to turn up the fourth card, and her eyes widened. 

“Oh, the fourth one,” the old woman exclaimed, with clear joy in her voice. “It says that…a child will be coming into your lives. And very soon at that!” 

“A child?” Helaena’s eyebrows furrowed. “A child!” you piped up excitedly next to her, turning to your wife. “Maybe next year we’ll finally find that dream daughter we always wanted to adopt. It’s a sign, Helly, it’s a sign!” You were nearly jumping out of your seat, as Helaena tried in vain to quell your elation, while the fortune teller looked at the young couple with a knowing smile. 

And indeed, during the next year’s Christmas market, a new addition had joined your little family, her dark eyes gleaming with impish excitement as your new four year old daughter, Irina, dashed around happily in the snow, while you and Helaena sat at one of the benches at the side of the Christmas market, smiling as you rest your head on her shoulder, relishing in your little family, and your joy. 

“Merry Christmas, my love.” 

“Merry Christmas, my darling.”

let me know if you wish to be added to a general taglist for helaena related works, or just my works in general in the comments or through this form! :) 

thank you for reading! if you liked it, likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! merry late xmas guys 😘🎄

[twilight-saga-headcanons]

The Cullens don't eat, but what were their favorite foods when they were human?

Sources for more reading: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6

Carlisle - So, foods in the 1600s weren't exactly the greatest. Carlisle ate better than most, but it was still meager. There was a lot of mutton and venison, oats and other grains; lots of spinach and sorrel and stews. He was quite fond of fruit pies as a dessert, when they could afford them.

Esme - Honestly? Esme was quite fond of Oreos; the little cookies were first released in 1912 and she adored them. In fact, she liked most sweets, especially Angel Food Cake and these apricot biscuits that her mother used to favor.

Edward - Edward remembers liking pork a lot as a child, when his mother would cover them in bread crumbs and fry them in oil. He was also a fan of glazed carrots and liked caramel candies.

Rosalie - she loved baked apples, especially when drizzled with honey. Grapefruit was also quite popular then, and she remembers eating them a lot for breakfast when they were sprinkled with sugar. They were very lucky to have food on their table at the time, and she remembers eating a lot of fried egg sandwiches, glazed ham, and potato soup.

Emmett - They didn't have access to a lot of foods, so there was a lot of tinned meats and vegetables that his mother grew in their garden. His family is Scotch-Irish, so he ate a lot of cabbage and corned beef, which he loved. He remembers colcannon most fondly, that spiced mixture of potatoes, turnips, and carrots.

Jasper - food was rationed for Jasper as a soldier in the Civil War. There was a lot of molasses, hard tack, and salt. Wheat and cornmeal were quite common, so if he had to choose, he thinks that he misses cornbread the most. It was such a simple dish back then, a rare delicacy when they could have access to sugar.

Alice - she misses seafood most of all. She vaguely remembers eating fried fish and brown rice. She also misses certain fruits, like cherries and strawberries.

[cassieuncaged]

All That Matters (Wyll Ravengard + Female Reader)

BG3 Reader Insert

Summary: You impatiently await the arrival of your betrothed the eve before a masquerade ball.

Warnings: None :)

Word Count: 3.5K

A/N: A gift for @chadillacboseman. The Wyll lovers out there need to be fed too :) Please enjoy this offering of fluff!

p.s: i'm dabbling in reader inserts again. Do with this what you will...

“Have you heard from Wyll?” Ulder’s gaze doesn’t meet your own as he carves into a thick slice of glazed ham. While the Grand Duke has been kind enough to allow you to stay at the Ravengard Estate while your beloved is away, he remains painfully stoic. You oft try to melt his icy demeanor to no avail.

“I received a letter yesterday!” You add cheerily, swallowing another mouthful of such a lavish breakfast. Years of dwelling in the pits of Rivington has made your new life of luxury all the more rewarding. The man’s brows rise steadily, lips an unmoving line. “I was surprised you didn’t know; the foyer stunk of the cinders from Avernus itself.”

“I had my suspicions,” he hums, a smile ghosting across hard features. “Though yesterday was rather hectic for me.”

You nod, actually thrilled you can understand his plight. Rebuilding the city was no small feat. Any leader would be rightfully overwhelmed. You joined the many citizens in removing the wreckage the Elder Brain wrought across the city. It was the least you could do. Not to mention that you were the most active of the three heroes that remained in Baldur’s Gate. Shadowheart was busy attending to the many refugees with Aylin and Isobel while Astarion preferred watching you work instead of chancing a splintered fingernail.

“Understood,” you say with a full mouth, forcing honeyed ham and fresh berries down your gullet. As a child who begged for scraps on the streets, you ate as though the feasts consistently served would vanish if you didn’t immediately gorge yourself. The Grand Duke found your lack of manners primitive. “The Blade of Frontiers and the Fury of Avernus are to arrive home on the morrow.”

There was a long pause as you continued to gobble down salted meat and foraged fruit, wiping sticky fingers on the simple peasant skirt you insisted on wearing. Afterall, this grandiose lifestyle felt so foreign. You never wanted to completely relinquish your personality and had insisted on securing a simple wardrobe from clothiers across the city.

Ulder studies you silently, fingers steepled as his dark eyes follow every manic move you make. He knew your nerves were jumping ferociously, long awaiting the return of your betrothed. You still wore the woven acorn ring on one finger, refusing the finery of plated gold.

“You’ve missed him.” It isn’t a question, merely an observation. You nod vigorously, thinking about how painfully empty your chambers are when you settle in for the evening. The memory of being curled in the warmth of his tent invades your mind, a muscular arm wrapped around your middle protectively. “I have too.”

There’s a passing thought of Ulder’s years without Wyll, likely stewing in the regret of banishing his only child. Surely he had his reasons, even if you’ll never understand them. The Grand Duke’s gaze is wistful, staring through you.

“He’ll enjoy the masquerade,” you say suddenly, breaking the man’s concentration. This time a stern expression softens into a grin, followed by a nod encouraging you to proceed. “He taught me courtly dance, when we were in the wilds.”

“Rather different than the lavish ballroom at High Hall,” he chuckles before growing serious once more, pushing a fancifully etched plate aside. “Though we’re lucky the Sashenstar’s have volunteered to host the ball; it will be a long while until most of the halls and citadels in the city are rebuilt.”

“Even in ruins, it’s all more luxurious than I’ve ever known.” You remember the days of grovelling for coin, sleeping on the cobblestones of narrow alleyways to hide from the Rivington Rats that enjoyed terrorizing you for sport.

“I often forget the life you led before the rise of The Absolute.” he hums as he thinks, rubbing his chin. “See Leticia in The Lower City. She’s a dressmaker that prepares garments for practically the entirety of Manorborn. Get anything you’d like and have her forward all charges to me.”

“Really?” Your eyes widen to the size of planets, shocked by the Grand Duke’s generosity. Providing you a simple wardrobe was an act of kindness. But offering a custom gown from one of the most popular clothier’s in the city? That was astonishing. “I’ve heard she uses only the most exotic and luxirous fabrics that Faerûn can provide.”

“Indeed.” A proud smile lightens his face; it’s becoming obvious that The Sword Coast’s leader admires you greatly. “I’d like you to experience all of the finery the nobility of this city can offer you. It’s the least I can provide for the city’s savior. For my savior.”

“Thank you, sir.” You consider scrambling to your feet to curtsey before pushing the thought away.

“Call me Ulder, my dear.” He chuckles, a deep rumble ruminating from his chest. His timbre is comforting, almost fatherly. “You’ve earned it.”

“I thought you didn’t like me,” you admit bashfully, shoveling a spoonful of berries off of your plate. It’s must better than the fish head and potato stew the seven of you had once shared the morning after a particularly brutal battle.

“I must admit,” he sighs, smoothing the lapels of his doublet. “I was wary. But I’m in a position where I need to be. A street urchin and former member of The Guild Hall was the last person I thought I’d be inviting to stay at my grand estate, to be promised to my only child.”

The words stung in your ears, painful as you stared at the normally brusque man. His demeanor had softened, venom no longer lingering in his voice like when he saw Wyll’s bedeviled form. No, this was a man seeking to repent his misgivings.

“You have proved yourself a valiant defender of this city, even when it has been so unkind in the past. There are many who would’ve abandoned me in my position, to let me drown with a plethora of innocents at the command of a tyrant. But whatever prejudices you may have of nobility were swallowed as you came to the aid of those who needed you. For that, I’ll be eternally grateful.”

“And I’ll be endlessly indebted to you for such generosity.” It feels strange to accept so much from such a powerful man. But when his lips finally stretch into a pleased smile, you know you can believe his every word.

“You’ll never be indebted.” He pulled his plate close again, fork spearing another slice of ham. “Afterall, you’re practically family now.”

……

Leticia’s boutique is inviting and warm, filled with polished antique furniture while beautifully woven rugs cover the slatted floor. A bell chimes as Astarion enters the shop after you.

“I could’ve gone alone, you know.” You remind the elf who hungrily eyes the endless bolts of expensive fabrics.

“True.” He considers this for a moment, “Though I think it’s only fair you bring your most fashionable confidant with you for such an outing. Afterall, your current wardrobe leaves quite a bit to be desired.”

You want to argue but know the haughty vampire is being surprisingly truthful. Astarion is rather educated considering clothing fads. Even the cloak he wears to ward off the sun is decadently embroidered velvet. Your simple clothing consists of a plain cotton blouse and scuffed leather boots. But clothing in itself has always been a luxury, no matter how homely the garment.

“Hullo!” A gnome appears from a curtained doorway, long face punctuated by pink cheeks and golden curls. She looks more like a jovial mother ready to bake a treacle tart than the city’s most sought after couturier. “What an honor to serve two heroes of the Gate!”

Your ears burn while Astarion excitedly preens at the unexpected praise.

“Th-thank you,” Never in a millenia would you even entertain the thought of stepping into such a beautiful and undoubtedly expensive shop, “I believe Duke Ravengard spoke to you on my behalf.”

“Mine as well,” Astarion chimes in with that roguish charm, ready to take advantage of Ulder’s kindness.

“He only mentioned the one.” Leticia winks knowingly but doesn’t seem to mind the ruse, “But I’d be happy to offer my services to you both. Free of charge. It’s the least I can do. My livelihood still stands because of you..”

“Are you sure?” You cock your head, earning a jab to the ribs from your companion.

“But of course!” The woman sashays further into the parlor, perusing her own inventory. “Dressing the city’s saviors for the masquerade is an absolute honor. Besides, I’ve already made a bundle for this event. Anymore, and I’d feel like a miserly dragon hoarding my fortune.”

“Yes. Let’s not question Leticia’s generosity.” Astarion adds pompously before swaggering forward, “Do you have any periwinkles? I think a generous brocade with silver stitching will compliment my pallor quite nicely.”

“As you wish,” Leiticia chuckles, obviously acclimated to dramatic and demanding customers. “And you my dear?”

“Um, I don’t know.” You shrug, fighting the burgeoning anxiety creeping up your spine. This was all so overwhelming. Destroying a bloodthirsty cult felt simple in comparison to rubbing elbows with the upper echelon. You hadn’t the slightest which color would compliment your skin tone best. Wondering where the next meal would be coming from was far more important a thought for street wise orphans.

“Hmmm,” Leticia circles you like a predator might its prey before stopping toe to toe. Her round eyes narrow, round chin resting atop a curled knuckle as she peers upwards. Astarion stands behind the woman, staring at you with amusement, “How do you feel about green? A deep, rich emerald?”

“I like green,” And you did, enjoying its beauty in the leaves decorating trees like baubles or the lush blades of grass sprouting in sprawling meadows. Small hands clasped together excitedly.

“Perfect!” Leticia practically squeals. “I could craft a matching doublet for the young Ravengard. Perhaps a lush onyx with emerald embroidery. In velvet.”

“That sounds absolutely perfect.” Astarion coos, , enjoying how pink you’d become, not unlike a ripe sunmelon. “You’ll be the most lavishly dressed couple the city could ever hope to boast.”’

“Your friend is right,” Leticia’s warm smile gleamed upon you, golden curls shimmering beneath tendrils of sun. The vampire adjusted his cloak thoughtfully; you were grateful, preferring not to sweep your friend up in a dust pan. “You and Wyll shall be dazzling together. I have his measurements stowed away. But yours I’ll need to get. Same with your rather fanged companion.”

“Have you draperies in the back room?” Astarion piped up as the gnome wrapped a warm hand around your own, propelling a rigid body forward. Leticia chuckled slyly:

“Don’t worry, dearie. You shan’t burn to cinders today.”

……

His body is tense when the threads between Avernus and Faerûn are breached, frayed edges ripping apart time and space when he and Karlach are devoured by a pool of molten darkness. Mizora’s lip quirks as his patron disappears amongst blazing hellfire. His body fizzles as though he’s on his own blazing pyre. Yet mortal skin doesn’t burn, still smooth ochre when blade and fury reimerge.

“Holy shit.” Karlach looks down at her chest, a flame inside no longer glowing. Beneath the gnarled skin is a beating heart like the one that had been brutally carved out. “This is bonkers. I can actually feel my own pulse. Not sputtering or flaming.”

It’s nothing short of a miracle, one that Mizora owed him after violating many terms of their agreement. Besides, the cambion was the closest to her mistress and was more likely to convince Zariel to accept their offer. To free Karlach from the binds of Avernus and allow her the freedom Gortash robbed her of.

Wyll continued to sacrifice his own freedom to avenge those who deserved it more than he.

“Congratulations, Kar,” Wyll smiles with a grin only a jaded nobleman could sport, proud yet lacking any arrogance. A large hand flattens on the center of the tiefling’s back, patting at her gnarled leather armor. “You deserve the best that this life can give.”

“You amazing bastard! C’mere!” she squeals before pulling her companion into a back breaking hug, easily lifting him from the ground. Their horns clack for an instant before Wyll lets out an unrestrained chuckle. “I owe you my fucking life.”

“Nothing is owed,” He gently pats broad shoulder, signifying that he was ready to be sat down. Fine leather boots collide with cobblestones outside the Elfsong. “Unless you’d like to treat me to a pint.”

“It’s a deal, mate,” an amber eye winks mischievously before her arm bent gallantly. The warlock smirks, shallowly bowing before he loops his arm in hers. A few stragglers outside the tavern gawked at the literally blazing arrival of two more of the Gate’s heroes before Karlach led the way into their old stomping grounds. Flagons of mead sounded unapetizing, especially as he longed to see only the face of his beloved.

The thought of you plagued him nightly in Avernus as ravenous imps chittered outside his tent. All he craved was to have his love safely wrapped in his arms once more. With the Elder Brain relinquished and the Dead Three destroyed, he knew no harm would come to you while he was away. So he wrote every other day, to assure his own safety.

He blinks hard, finding a gaze locking on his own. Familiar and warm, your eyes. His heart shudders with excitement; by the hells below, he conjured you. You fling yourself from a rickety chair as Astarion and Shadowheart roll their eyes. You had likely been a terror to the most emotionally witheld of the group, blubbering about his long awaited return. He chuckles at the thought of how many sending stones Gale received concerning the matter.

“Wyll!” you screech in excitement, practically launching yourself into his arms. He catches you quickly, arms looped beneath your thighs as ankles knot at the small of his back. Your own latch around a lean neck before kisses are peppered across face and horns alike. “You’re early!”

“Karlach and I were able to make a deal with Zariel and Mizora sooner rather than later.” His nose nuzzled against your own, brows plastering together as he sways beneath your weight. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I, you.” A calloused thumb swipes an unshed tear from your cheek. The barbarian silently slinks away, joining her friends at their table. Afterall, you and Wyll were lost in your own world.

……

You wake the next morning, swathed in buttery bedclothes you’ve become accustomed to. A warm figure lays sleeping at your side, chest rising and falling delicately. Its surreal to see him again, safe and plastered at your side.

Breaths are expelled through flared nostrils, arm covering closed eyes. A grin whispers across your lips, heart fluttering as you study your betrothed. He’s stunning, scars and horns be damned. A rugged prince who deigns to wed you.

I’d forgo the decadent weddings that are tradition for the noble folk of the Upper City. His gaze was wistful as you strolled the gardens, arm and arm. It was a well known fact that the blade harboured a prominent distaste for his inherited wealth and power.

Where would we elope to? You’d hummed contently, watching as nimble fingers unwound a blushing rose from a wrought iron trellis. Wyll carefully tucked the bloom behind your ear.

That clearing in the wilds. Where we camped. He leaned back, studying you as though he gazed upon a masterpiece. Our druidic friends could decorate the lands with wreaths of flowers and laurels. Shadowheart could bind our hands with ribbon and declare us one, Karlach and Lae’zel would out drink each other on fire whiskey while Gale bore us all with droll stories…

You had giggled though the image had your heart skipping a beat. You could wear a flowing dress complete with ribbons and eyelets, a crown of wild daisies and violets resting atop wild hair. A sprawling ceremony with lavish garments attended by droves of strangers sounded ghastly.

Maybe we could convince your father that tradition isn’t always necessary. You’d cooed, stroking a muscular arm covered by a simple jerkin. Sour laughter reverberated through his body.

You act as though you’ve never met Ulder. He tried to hide deep seated bitterness yet failed.

I think I’ve grown on him. You concurred sweetly, feeling that you were slowly melting the Grand Duke’s exterior. He could be convinced.

You’re as sweet as you are naive. It had been a sweet sentiment, one shared in the quiet dusk as fireflies began to twinkle to life. Wyll had brace your hands in his and pressed a kiss to a clammy brow.

It had taken a long while before returning to your chambers. Even then you only passed the time sharing stories, tucked cozily in his lap. A calloused finger traced unintelligible circles in soft skin. The same fingers that had taken countless lives for a cruel patron, the same that caressed his beloved gently.

You smirk at the thought, eternally amused by the incongruity of him. Not unlike the shallow dimples and cheeky grin offset by horns and a blazing red eye. Wyll Ravengard would never be the devil Mizora had attempted to stitch together.

Becoming a monster was an impossibility.

So you press a kiss to his upturned palm, watching as long fingers flexed.

“Tickles…” he mumbles groggily, voice gruff with sleep. So you repeat yourself, this time tracing the skin with the tip of your tongue, “Heathen.”

“Not all of us were born to high lords,” you reason before gently straddling his hips. “Some of us were raised without manners.”

“Maybe I’ll teach you some,” his good eye winks before large hands swallow your own. “Starting with not rousing your lover from a pleasant dream.”

“I’m sorry,” you groan dramatically, reeling back before careening into a broad chest. “You’re just so sweet. I couldn’t help myself.”

“I suppose I’ll forgive you,” he chuckles before burying a long nose in a nest of sleep sodden hair. “Hells, I’ve missed this.”

“We’ve never really had this.” a small hand runs a hand across a muscled chest, scars raised beneath the pads of your fingers, “At least not yet.”

“Come to think of it, you’re right.” he hums, lost in thought. “Karlach and I did leave right after the brain fell. Though I hope you’ve been enjoying your new luxuries.”

“It’s strange,” you wrinkle your brow, enjoying the steady thud of a strong heart beneath a flattened ear. “I’ve dreamt of living with such riches but it feels so out of place. I’m hoping you’ll help me adjust.”

Wyll’s about to answer when there’s a deafening knock at the door.

“May we enter m’ lord and m’ lady?” One of the servants announces cheerily, “It’s time to prepare for the evening’s festivities.”

It’s fortuitous that he arrived in time for the masquerade, that Leticia was likely up until dawn finishing his doublet. Regardless, you don’t want to leave the warmth of his arms. So you bury your nose in the crook of his neck when Wyll calls out:

“Five more minutes!” ……

You feel like a princess, swathes of emerald velvet heavy on your limbs, a string of pearls dripping down exposed shoulders. The mask hiding your face looks like a raven, accented with a sharp beak and sable feathers.

It’s a relief that no one recognizes you, no small talk required with stuffy aristocrats as you watch the dense crowd from the marbled balcony. Your companions dot the ballroom, though Aylin is the easiest to spot with golden tinged wings. Lae’zel and Shadowheart enjoy endless goblets of wine while Karlach has convinced Astarion to join her for a dance. Intricate masks enjoy their faces though your favorite is Gales: feathered and cat like, not unlike Tara the Tressym.

“My, my,” his voice is a whisper in the shell of one ear, sending a shudder up your spine. “You are gorgeous.”

You spin on one heel, grin broadening at the sight of his gorgeously gilded lion mask. It perfectly matches the deep green and golden threads decorating his black velvet overcoat. His teeth are pearlescent in the light of flickering candles, hands tucked at the small of his back.

“So do you,” you practically salivate, craving him more than you have the entirety of the day. “Utterly gorgeous.”

“You’ll make me blush brighter than the fires in the hells.” he extends a bent elbow. “Shall we, my dear?”

You say nothing, linking your arm with his, floating as he leads you down the yawning staircase. The prying eyes can hardly be felt prickling on your skin because all the matters is the man at your side.

All that has mattered is Wyll.

[wassertoffatom]

Hello! Massive fan of the MacCready fic you just posted. It's excellent work!

How about either 22 or 23 from your prompt list with our man Deacon? If not, it's all good! Take care, and have a great day!

Christmas Dinner (Deacon x F!Reader, F!Reader & Shaun)

Main Master List || Prompt List

Author's Note: Thank you for this request!! I hope you enjoy!!!! Also I know it's not Christmas but it just made sense.

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: Teen and up, Mentions of Guns, Language

==========

The room is quiet, the faint dripping of water splashes against the deteriorated ceramic sink as neither members of the party stir. Both people have their guns on the table, fingers resting on the trigger. 

Deacon was less than thrilled when you had mentioned that you’d be bringing Shaun to your place in Sanctuary Hills for Christmas dinner. Shaun was equally unamused at the prospect of having dinner on the surface with the person who wants him dead. 

The smell of cooked radstag wafts through the air, causing Deacon’s stomach to grumble, even if he feels nauseous. There’s no way of knowing if Shaun will have synths storm in at any moment and corner both him and you, but you swore up and down that he wouldn’t do that. The both of you are sitting in a bear trap, and the bear is right in front of you. 

“The surface is even more volatile than I thought,” Shaun comments casually, dusting off dust from his pristine white coat. “How do you manage to survive up here?”

“We manage,” Deacon grumbles out, finger tapping against the trigger, ready to grab the gun and shoot at any given moment. “Sure must be comfortable down in your palace. Hell won’t be as nice.” 

Shaun raises a gray eyebrow, scoffing at the man. “If hell is real, it’s this. The Institute wants to make it better. For everyone.”

They continue to stare each other down as you walk over to the table from the kitchen area, setting down a radstag roast. “Now boys, let’s not do this. Christmas is about spending time with each other,” you grit through your painted red lips, dress hugging your frame as you lean over the table, carving the meat. It’s not exactly how you imagined your first Christmas to go in a Nuclear Apocalypse, but you didn’t really expect to survive an apocalypse in the first place. “Back before the war, ham was mostly used at Christmas Dinners. People would add honey glaze over it, brushing it periodically and making sure it's evenly distributed. Food back then was so good,” you ramble mindlessly, placing some meat on the cleanest plates you could find. “When Nate and I first got married, our first Christmas just consisted of us watching movies, opening presents and ordering Chinese. Then we started hosting parties for our friends and celebrated it together. It was always so nice.” 

Deacon can tell that you’re taking a trip down memory lane. When you get like that, you also get sad and then start thinking of all the things you missed out on. Namely getting Christmas presents for Shaun as he grew up. Deciding to change the subject, Deacon shoves a forkful of radstag into his mouth, slightly moaning at the taste. That’s one thing he loves about you, your ability to make anything taste more than edible. “This is really good, Charms.”

A smile blooms across your face, lighting up your eyes in appreciation. “Thank you, Deacon. I’m glad you enjoy it.” You turn to your own food, gently cutting the meat but Deacon’s eyes focus on Shaun, and his disgusted face as he inspects the fork.

“How can you eat this mother?” You look up at your son, a frown forming on your face at his clear disgust. Deacon hates that. Deacon knows that you had hunted, killed, skinned, dragged the meat back, hacked away at it to be edible and then slaved over the kitchen to cook it for him. Deacon knows that all you wanted is to spend some time with your son before the cancer took him. Have at least one Christmas with your son.

“Well, it’s really not that bad. It takes some getting used to, but it’s not completely bad.” Your voice sounds small, almost as if you’re second guessing yourself.

“I think it's great. I bet everyone’s mouth in a 5 mile radius is drooling at the smell.” He offers you a small smile, reaching over to squeeze your arm in comfort, gaining himself a smile from you that instantly drops the second Shaun scoffs. 

“I’m not sure what will kill me first, the radiation or this food.” 

That’s it. Deacon doesn’t hesitate to reach across the table, grabbing fistfuls of Shaun’s coat and pulling the older man out of his seat. “You’re paying a small price compared with what she’s going through. What she’s been through, just to find you. So sit down and eat the damn food and be grateful to have a mother who literally went through hell and back, for you.”

“You and your Railroad friends are going to die a slow, painful death unless you unhand me right now.”

“Boys.” Deacon reaches for a gun, pressing it to the side of Shaun’s head while Shaun points his to Deacon’s chest.

“Give me a reason I shouldn’t kill you right here.”

“Go ahead. Do it. See what happens to mother and all those people.” “Boys!” 

“I am going to make you eat lead.”

“And what would mother think of that? You would kill me, but at what cost? Surely she would never trust you again after you kill her only son.”

A slam on the table causes their gaze to rip away from each other, both eyes turning to you, whose eyes are brimmed with tears. “I just wanted one fucking meal together and the both of you ruined that.” A hiccup escapes from your chest as you wipe tears away with the back of your hand. “Thank you for ruining Christmas.” You don’t say anything else before taking the meat and walking out of the house, leaving Deacon and Shaun there alone. 

Shaun is the first to let go, the safety of his laser gun clicking back on, dropping it to his feet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” his voice almost sounds apologetic. “If you could let me go?” Deacon hesitates for a moment, letting his grip loosen but keeping his gun trained on him. “I should head back. I don’t want to cause any more strife. I also don’t want any more radiation.”

“Doesn’t radiation help with cancer?” Deacon’s face remains apathetic as Shaun straightens out his coat.

“In some cases, concentrated amounts can help things like tumors, but not in this case. I would say it was nice meeting you, but it wasn’t,” Shaun fiddles with a device in his pocket, leaning down to grab his gun. “Do tell mother that I am sorry for ruining Christmas.” A blue static light begins to appear in the house as Deacon gives a one finger salute.

“Kill you later.” A moment later, Shaun disappears from the room and Deacon is left alone, mashed radstag from his body on his plate. How is he going to make this right with you?

[serpentsurgency]

Eliiii? What does Henry taste like?

... I don't know. ... Weirdly specific but kind of like fucking. Honey glazed ham or something?

[bonefall]

Besides tunnelbuns, what other clans have traditional dishes?

Ok well, WindClan's out of the way! Here's the closest thing to a traditional dish in the other Clans.

ThunderClan: Honey-glazed Ham

You could argue that barbecue in general is their thing, but a smoked boar leg, wetted with juice over many hours, and glazed with a sweet drizzle is the Ultimate ThunderClan dish.

Through cunning, any Clan could deal with a smaller boar. But it's ThunderClan that firmly stands as Top Banana of pigsticking. They're also the best at getting the carcass home, probably because of experience.

ShadowClan: Scum Soup

Because they have so many dishes it's impossible to pick one. They make sausage, vinegar, stir fry... but they love their soups and turning weird things edible.

Scum Soup is just any bits and bobs you've accumulated, tossed into a pot and boiled with juniper and rosemary. Prawns and frogs are used traditionally for the 'perfect' version of the soup, but it really can be anything.

RiverClan: Salmon Skin Dumplings

The big thing to understand about River is that they like RAW food. They believe it's healthier than cooked! They think the River is a sacred, powerful being, an extension of Silverpelt itself, and so any animal that lives in the waves is a magical creature.

They cook any mammals or birds they catch. But fish? Very rarely. It's trained out of adventurous apprentices and socially shamed in adults

(However. Mmmmhmnnh crunchy roasted fish drives many RiverClan Kitties to extreme lengths to hide delicious lunch)

So when they "cook" it's usually combining organs in unique ways, sundrying, or adding spices to raw meat. Smoked and cooked meats are for occasions, like parties, celebrations, food preservation, or in times of famine.

One of these is a sort of "dumpling." It's the skin of a salmon, stuffed with meat and organ and tied at the top. It's impossible to eat just one of the little goody bags.

SkyClan: Meemaw's Special

Ancient SkyClan had a totally different dish lost to time. Modern SkyClan's dish has a morbid story.

For the time they were forced to live scattered, they were unable to maintain their StarClan and it fell apart. Their ancestors were cursed to horrible earthly prisons, as rats.

Firestar and Brokenstar helped them finally put their ancestors to rest, in a massive battle where they slaughtered hundreds of these cursed rats. But earthly prisons are made of, well, earthly meat.

Not just gonna let a free meal go to waste, are you?

On SkyClan's "reformation day," they hunt rats and make a meal with everything they had on hand. At the Gorge, there was lots of kibble to steal, soften, and re-fry. At the Lake, they mimic this with WindClan breadcrumb imports.

The rat is kept completely intact, like a roast pig. It's meant to be kind of shocking!

[michellemisfit]

⛄️❄️ Weekly Tag Wednesday, on a Thursday ❄️⛄️

Kindly tagged by @mikhailoisbaby @metalheadmickey @mickeysgaymom @lingy910y @sleepyfacetoughguy @crestfallercanyon @creepkinginc @mybrainismelted @energievie @deedala @jrooc

It's Festivus for the rest of us so grab your Chanukah bush, your mistletoe, your pagan ritual or whatever brings you joy and come gather round the fire 🪵 and celebrate your pocket friends 🤶🏻

❄️ Favourite nickname you’ve ever been given:

Any film or TV set I’ve ever wrangled animals on I’ve been dubbed ‘Rabbit Girl’ or ‘Alpaca Lady’ or whatever other animal I’ve got with me that day, and it makes me laugh. I’m also quite fond of school kids calling me ‘Farmer Michelle’. It’s cute. Otherwise it’s just the usual. Myska. Mys. Myskalump.

Oh! Oh oh oh!!! Ruth’s brother calls me his Swisster, and it’s the CUTEST THING!!!! 🥰🇨🇭

��️ Where are you located? London, UK

❄️ What season is it where you are now? 🥶

❄️ Favourite tradition this time of year: I love baking and decorating cookies and giving them to people. I also love giving and especially wrapping presents. I’ve made my own wrapping paper for the last few Christmases and birthdays, and it makes wrapping extra fun!!

I just like doing things that make other people happy 😊

❄️ Favourite holiday food: Leftovers Casserole. It’s literally what it says in the tin, so turkey meat, any left over roast veg and potatoes, caramelised garlic carrots, Brussels, and stuffing all put in the oven to heat through and let the top go crispy, and then you eat it with gravy. Yum yum.

❄️ Mulled wine, eggnog or hot apple cider? Mulled cider all the way!! We basically have a large pot of mulled wine and a large pot of mulled cider on the go for all of December lol

❄️ Turkey, Ham or Nut Roast (Or Tofurkey?)?

I have always wanted to make a nut roast and never have!!! 😭 We do turkey on Christmas Day and Honey Glazed Ham on “House Christmas”. They’re both awesome.

❄️ Would you rather spend the December holidays in: A cabin in the woods surrounded by snow, or a house on the beach with sun and sand?

Cabin!!!!

❄️ Are you pro-snow or anti-snow?

Pro. Farming is tough in winter, but it’s still pretty beautiful. Even if my fingers fall off.

❄️ Have you ever built a snowman? Of course! I also built a snow dog with Poppy one year.

❄️ Skiing or Snowboarding? I used to be a pretty decent skier. I’ve snowboarded twice and could not get on board with the concept. Just like I am great on roller skates and suck on a skate board 🤷🏽‍♂️ Also? All of my best scars and bloodiest injury stories are winter sport related!

❄️ Do you decorate for the holidays? Have you met me??

No neighbourhood ivy is save this time of year!

❄️ Favourite holiday movie? I’m not too big on movies generally, but we often watch A Knights Tale at Christmas, so probably that?

❄️ Favourite holiday fanfic? One of the things I adore about fandom at Christmas is things like Christmas Gift Exchanges and people writing Christmas spin offs for their popular fics, or amazing people like @sam-loves-seb doing a whole 12 Days of Christmas!!! Which I cannot wait to have time off to binge my way through to get in the Christmas spirit!!! 🥰

❄️ If you were to star in a Hallmark movie, who would be your love interest? Where would it take place?

Bradley James! Once and Future Love of my Life.

I would be hired to supply the animals for his latest movie, which would have some cringeworthy puntastic title like ‘You’ve Goat to Be Kidding Me’ or ‘Only With Ewe’.

Forgive my lateness and likely double tagging. Work has been a lot in the run up to Christmas. If you’ve already done this please tag me so I can read yours, and if not then this is your invitation to be fashionably late, just like me! @suzy-queued @heymacy @heymrspatel @callivich @faejilly @greentealycheejelly @rutherinahobbit @depressedstressedlemonzest @look-i-love-u @crossmydna @too-schoolforcool @darlingian @rereadanon @lupeloto @gardenerian @sam-loves-seb @francesrose3 @bawlbrayker @vintagelacerosette

[peterlorres21stcentury]

a birthday feast

I couldn't finish everything I wanted to do for Peter's birthday, but I was reading my unreadable draft file (seriously, even I hate reading my own notes sometimes, it's like a lunatic wrote them. It's me, I am the lunatic) and I found a tasty little morsel that was intended to open my next kink story, during the wedding feast for the Baron and his bride. (yeah, I'm not wasting any time getting to the part with the foooood, lol) Since this feast takes place in the town square, the villagers supplied a good deal of their own food so it's an assortment of simpler dishes among the fancy rich-people fare, and everyone gets to eat as much as they can hold. Which is no different from any other day of the year in this town, but, uh, now there's even more food! I apparently tried to write out a crude menu, which includes but is not limited to:

wedding soup, cream soups, noodle soups, all kinda soup

roast beef, roast turkey, glazed ham, fish filet in garlic butter

bread rolls, both the light yeasty rolls and the dense chewy ones

fresh fruit drizzled in honey. Or candied fruit! I love that

walnuts and almonds rolled in brown sugar and cinnamon and baked until crisp

maybe an extra (large) platter of salty snacks like stuffed olives and gherkins and melted raclette cheese over veggies

cake, like a LOT of cake, all different cakes: strawberry shortcakes and airy meringues and Sachertorte and a tall white wedding cake, each layer stuffed with a different jam filling and slathered with thick layers of lemon and orange flavored buttercream

of course every single dish contains copious amounts of The Spice, making it a festival of enhanced flavors and heightened appetite.

This is, of course, a sort of stream of consciousness intended to answer the question "what would I like to eat?" and also more importantly, "what would Peter Lorre like to eat?" since I'm essentially writing about him in the role of a true hedonist. Which I like to think he was in real life, too, just a bit. ^_^

Sooo, even if I couldn't write out the entire scene yet, consider this an offering of sorts for Peter's birthday feast. I like to think that our fan creations, including descriptions of illusory food, sustains him somehow in the afterlife (which is perhaps silly of me, but it does tap into a certain prehistoric belief about funeral offerings and immortality).