#the venison that’s served because I have NEVER liked it

[t-tomuras]

i just have a lot of questions about radiofox i hope that’s ok hehe. you ofc don’t have to answer em i’m just spinning you two around in my smooth brain.

how would you describe your dynamic?

No pls!! You’re so cute I love you Hasjjcb and it’s actually making me think a little more too because I’ve been noodling around on lore but hadn’t solidified anything until you’d asked!

The dynamic is definitely.. something. Him being a chaos gremlin that enjoys people’s suffering and thinks the worst of them constantly while I still try and see some good within a reasonable doubt. He thinks it’s a misguided but obviously I don’t have a problem with dolling out my own sort of punishment post judgement so there’s already a bit of common ground.

It starts out with him very interested in my appearance following helping mimzy whenever I didn’t know her.

He wanted to know my angle and was curious about my wariness of him until mimzy seemed comfortable and I relaxed. I don’t like my personal space invaded and it’s his favorite thing to do but it was fine with him. He doesn’t like to be touched but allows friends to do so but I typically get /just a bit more/ leeway with him.

So it definitely started out with testing waters and trying to gauge the other but we ultimately found common interests. I love to cook and so does he, and he likes some spice so I always tried to kick up the heat the more I lingered around the hotel.

I guess, in the most roundabout way I could’ve said it lmao, is were a push and pull, our personalities are vastly different but it works and steadily continues to do so before even he really realizes what the hell the odd fascination is— attraction and affinity.

[mjolnirswriststrap]

Trying To Derail My One Track Mind

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader Masterlist Part 2

Summary: Part 1/2 Life was simple, till you met your boss.

Word Count: 3,300

No warnings till part 2

You wake up to see sun rays peeking through the curtains. Rolling over to face your fiancé you smile at his sleeping form, he looks so peaceful. Too bad you have to go to work and couldn’t just stay like this with him.

You would lie in bed all day with him, if that’s what he wanted. You reach out and pet his beard, pecking his lips before you get up to get ready for work.

You threw on your recycled outfit. Discerning no difference between the black skirt and white button up you wore yesterday. You pull on the dreaded pantyhose that were required for your uniform. Black or tan, you couldn’t express yourself at all.

You look in the mirror, tightly pulling your hair into a high ponytail, leaving out a strand to wrap around the elastic. Makeup was allowed, and recommended during your orientation. Guests prefer being hosted by someone who looks put together.

You work in the kitchen, managing the cooks and wait staff. Sometimes it felt like a real restaurant, and you dreamed of having your own one day. But with the pay you get from the manor, you won’t be following that dream anytime soon.

You give your fiancé one last kiss before you leave. Breakfast is served at 8am, so that means you should be in the kitchen by 6. Most of the people renting it out stroll in well after 9.

You always have to remake half of what you’ve already prepared, with a smile. The owner didn’t care about costs, or you. You never met him, just talked over the phone weekly.

You remember bringing up the food waste after a month of working. He laughed and said “It doesn’t matter what time I serve breakfast, they will find a way to be late. They’re paying, they know they have the luxury to be late.”.

Maybe he was one of them. He sure sounded like it. Like he agreed that money lets you by with things. The people that eat at your table get by with far more than you could imagine at the manor. You’ve been told more than once not to mention a thing that happens inside these walls.

Screams and gunshots have been heard. Guests walking around naked in masquerade masks. One guest brought his own meat, insisted on preparing it himself for everyone. You never saw anything like it, it wasn’t pork, beef, or venison, it reminded you of that page in your biology textbook with the skinless human body.

You don’t like to think about what happened before. The only way you can go back is to forget what happened the day before. You never felt fear, you couldn’t describe it. Like you were apprehensive of every new face you met, but they never snapped their fingers at you. You were never in the room when you heard fights happening, your staff was always well on their way home before dessert finished.

You stayed till the last dish was clean. They’re notified when all the staff goes home, because then there’s no one to wait on them. The bells in the kitchen fall on no ears at all. Leading no one to see which room is ringing.

You saw when they began to turn rowdy. Their drinks from dinner finally hitting them. Drunken debates often broke out, causing the last remaining person on staff to clean up broken glass and wine stains. They were always apologetic and moved the argument to a different room, leaving you alone to clean up their mess.

You sped down the country road, you were running late, today is New Year’s Eve, meaning you’d be staying the night here. You tried to go home last year, but you only spent an hour in bed with your fiancé before you had to return for breakfast.

The owner didn’t care that you had a personal life. Telling you no when you asked to take your paid leave, you told him your fiancé planned the trip as a surprise. Causing him to scoff and deny you again. You knew you should’ve quit then, but you didn’t know what would happen to you if you did. You knew too much, and the mysterious owner was a dick, so you didn’t want to test it.

Pulling down the gravel driveway you park behind the house. Entering through the backdoor that only you have a key to. You prepared for the day, making it easier for your cooks when the guest start ordering things.

The day goes by normally, like there wasn’t a party planned for the night. The owner got it catered by this famous new chef, who wouldn’t be arriving till dinner. You had to wait to be ordered around your own kitchen. The guys French accent was so thick you couldn’t understand a word he said.

Somehow you pulled it together, and your servers were carting out a stuffed bird you’d never heard of. These guests might be the fanciest of any that darkened the doorstep of the manor. They held their heads high, and drank wine that was imported in a big wooden crate you broke a nail opening.

They laughed about politics, and argued pharmaceuticals. You’re about to return to the kitchen when the front of the house man, Bruce, approaches you. “Mr. Barnes will be here at 9. He asked that you be in the library when he gets here.”. He gives you a tight lipped smile, leaving you before you have a chance to respond.

You’ve worked here for two years and the night he decides to meet you is your busiest night. You groan as you walk into the packed kitchen. Dishes being tossed into the sink and metal skillets scrapping the stove causes you sensory overload. You’re already irritated and it’s only 7.

When 9 hits, you decide nows the time you should make your way to the library. You didn’t have time to wait around for him, that kitchen would burn down without you, especially tonight.

When you get there, the doors already cracked open, and there’s a glow of lamplight emitting from it. There’s a man standing with his back to you. “Mr. Barnes?” You ask, not sure since the man seemed younger than you expected.

“You’re late.” He says, you roll your eyes, as if this was planned. “I was busy.” You curtly respond. Taking this as a chance to get off your feet, you sit in the velvet chair across the desk. He turns around once you’ve made yourself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other.

He’s handsome, and like you said, way younger than you expected. He has dark blue eyes, the kind that make a girl act a fool. They had no effect on you though, since all you were focused on is your fiancé. You didn’t really look at other men that way, you could admit when they were attractive, but nothing more. You’re better than that.

He sits down opposite of you, unbuttoning his jacket. “So I’ve been going over your monthly reports. You’re meticulous, you know that?” He gives you a genuine smile. It broke down your wall, filling you with pride at the compliment. “Thank you, I try.” You look down at your hands, picking at your broken nail.

“I know you must be busy with the party and Francois in your kitchen,” he says, causing you to raise your eyebrows. He called it your kitchen, you’re happy the two of you are in agreement. ”, so I don’t want to keep you long. I just thought I should finally meet the person keeping this house afloat.”. You take his compliments like knives. You don’t know if he means them, but you find yourself hoping he does. Causing a pang of guilt to hit you.

Why should you care if another man complimented you. You’re engaged to marry the best guy you could ever ask for. You force the blush down, not letting him see any effect he has on you, you don’t want to give the wrong idea. “If that was all, I think I should be going, like we both said, I’m busy.” You stand up, brushing down your black skirt as you do.

“Of course.” He ignores your attitude, standing to escort you out of the room. You give him a weird look, you know where the door is. “Before you leave tonight I’d like to speak to you again about a pay raise, maybe even a promotion.”.

You stop at the door and turn around and he’s only a foot away from you. You can smell the expensive cologne rolling off him, it almost makes you dizzy. “I’m actually staying tonight.” He seems surprised. “Yeah, it’s just, after I finish closing up the kitchen it will be 2, and it’s almost an hour drive home. I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep before work tomorrow.”.

“Where exactly did you plan on staying? All of the rooms are spoken for?” He asks. “The couch in the break room. It’s employees only, so I was hoping no guests stumble upon me in the night.”. He nods, looking deep in thought. “We’ll talk more later.” He says, like it was a fact.

You return to the kitchen. Things had calmed down a lot, only one cook was left, sprinkling lemon on a platter of hors d’œuvres. You got caught up on washing dishes, and cleaned the messy floors. When you were done, you heard the guests counting down, you walked to the doorway, peering in at them. No one wanted to be alone at this moment, even if you had to spend it with people that didn’t look your way. You watched as a few couples kissed and older men raised their glasses high. Mr. Barnes raised his glass towards you. Keeping his eyes on you as he takes his first sip of the new year.

You flick the kitchen light off. Walking across the dark kitchen you hear the party goes laughing and dancing to thumping music. You know you’d be picking up your champagne flutes out of the carpet in the morning. You smile when you enter the break room, you asked Bonnie, the maid, if she found time today to put you a blanket in here, she didn’t forget. Completely forgetting that your boss wanted to speak to you, you close the door behind you. Grabbing your bag off its hook on the wall, you pull out shorts and a tank top to sleep in.

You quickly change and fall face down on the couch, you don’t even cover up, liking the way your bare legs cooled your body down after sweating in the kitchen all day. You’re out like the kitchen light. That is until you feel a hand on your ankle, shaking you awake.

“Huh?” You say, raising your body up on your knees, causing your ass to lift in the air. “I wanted to speak with you.”. You blink your eyes open, and realize who it is. “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot.” You say, pulling up the loose strap of your tank top.

You cross your arms in front of your chest, wanting to keep this professional. He sits down on the couch beside you, your heart starts beating a little faster than it should. You haven’t been this close to another man since you started dating your fiancé. It felt weird and taboo, you know you should scoot away, but you don’t.

“I appreciate the work you put in here, and I’d like to show my appreciation by hiring you on as a live in manager of the manor.” You look between his eyes, trying to see if he’s serious. “I- what?” You say, utterly shocked.

He turns, throwing his arm over the back of the couch. “Everyone would report to you, Bruce, security, the maids, a new kitchen manager. You’d be making a lot of the decisions in my place, I think I can trust you.” He says, you think over his offer for a second, you know the money would be out of this world, but “My fiancé, I can’t just move out, we’re getting married soon.” You know you have to turn him down.

“Do you want to see your room?” He stands up and starts walking out of the room, just like Bruce, not waiting on a reply. “I don’t think that’s necessary, sir.” He looks back at you, like he can convince you otherwise. “What’s a look gonna hurt?” He says.

He leads you to the end of the guest hall, the last door in sight. You hadn’t been upstairs since your tour of the mansion, so you weren’t really familiar on which room was which, but you’re pretty sure this is the master suite.

He takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the door, opening it to reveal none other than the master suite. “Mr. Barnes, this is the master suite, what are we doing here?” You say, taking in the giant poster bed and red velvet.

“I know where we are, this would be your room, if you were to accept my proposal and if you do, just call me Bucky.” He says, walking around the room, studying it, as if he didn’t know what every inch of his bedroom looked like. You’re at a loss for words, you never imagined living like this, or having such a high paying job. “I can’t, I want to, but I can’t.” You say, feeling like you’re making a mistake.

He crosses the room, standing infront of you. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?” He says reaching out to touch your arm. You lock eyes with him when you feel his hand on your skin. This was inappropriate in so many ways. Here you were half naked at 2 am in the master bedroom being touched by a man that wasn’t your fiancé. You can’t move, just like on the couch.

It’s like you can’t act on what your brains telling you, step away, tell him you’re not okay with this, feel uncomfortable. But you can’t, and you won’t, your body wants to. But there’s something inside of you keeping you close to him like a magnet.

Your heart beats rapidly, fear rushes through you. Not fear of him, but what you could do in a state like this. You’re not thinking clearly, you can’t even remove his hand from your arm. The hand that was numbing the skin on your bicep.

“Like I said, Mr. Barnes, I can’t accept. I hope this doesn’t interfere with my current employment.” Finally, you put your brain on autopilot, jutting out a professional declining of his invitation.

He drops his hand, seemingly letting you win this battle. “Of course not,” he ushers you out of the room, locking it behind him. “I shall let the offer stand, as long as you keep up the good work.” You nod your head, knowing you would never bring it up again.

He insists that you join him for one last drink in the lounge. All the guests were in their rooms, fast asleep. “I’ll just have water thanks.” You say, sitting infront of the roaring fire. He walks over the the bar cart, pouring himself bourbon, and you a glass of water from the crystal pitcher.

He sits down beside you again, you notice he’s closer now than what he was in the break room. You clear your throat, “So how did you come by this place?” You ask, wanting to keep your mind off of the heat radiating off of him.

“Inheritance.” He answers curtly, like exposing any further detail was an invasion of privacy. You find yourself nodding your head yet again tonight. You look at the flames tickling the brick walls of the fireplace, they remind you of your fiancés eyes, and in that moment you feel a bullet create a hole in your chest.

If you found out he were having a drink at 2am with his boss, while she was wearing her pajamas; you’d be furious. How hypocritical, that you find yourself sipping your room temperature water, bumping knees with a man you’ve never even met before.

“What do you want in life?” He asks out of the blue. It shocks you, you don’t know if you should tell him the truth or not. You figured, he knows what he’s paying you, it would never buy a restaurant anyways. “Uhm, first and foremost a family, which I’m currently working on. But in the future?” You say, knowing that’s what he meant.

He seems unbothered by you constantly bringing up your fiancé, like it wasn’t a factor in his motives. “I want my own kitchen. My own tables and menu. My guests sitting in my restaurant.” You say, averting your eyes from him. It’s not everyday you tell your boss you don’t plan on working for them forever.

“If you accepted my offer, you’d have that. You would have say over the menu, you would greet the guests and get to know them as if they were your own. You could redecorate, whatever you wanted.” Your mouth drops open slightly, you don’t know if you should believe him, but he hasn’t given you a reason not to.

As soon as fireworks start popping in your head, they die out. “Missed opportunity I guess.”.

“Well it’s getting late, I should be getting to bed.” You say, leaving your empty glass beside his. You make a beeline for the swinging kitchen door, “I don’t think in good conscience I can let you stay on the couch, employee or not, hosting people is my profession after all.” He stands, giving you a smile that reads in different ways. One could be a business man, just doing what he does best, faking a smile.

The longer you stood on opposite sides of the room, silence growing thick between you, the charming smile read differently, like you were prey, caught in a trap. You could retreat and lick your wounds or stay, and be healed and coddled.

“I insist.” He puts his hands in his pockets, walking to the bottom of the stairs. You could see him waiting from the kitchen door, leaning on the banister. It was nonnegotiable, you huff out a breath before grabbing your bag and shoes from the break room. Might as well let this be the first and last night you every get to stay in one of these rooms.

You follow him back up to the master bedroom, he unlocks the door and leads you in yet again. “Where are you staying? I thought we had a full house?” You say, finally realizing, this locked room was the only free bed. He turns around and shrugs his shoulders, “I just thought, we could share, this beds big enough for the two of us, with plenty of professional space for a pillow wall.”. He says, throwing back the covers, tossing the decorative pillows in the middle of the bed.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You say, crossing your arms. “I don’t think the couch is a good idea, seeing as you’re scheduled till 7 tomorrow.” He argues. You’re frozen again, like you should fight against him but you can’t, you just let it happen.

Without another word you drop your bag and shoes on the chest at the foot of the bed. You tuck yourself in close to the edge, facing away from him. You set your alarm and close your eyes when he flicks the light off. “Goodnight.” He says, and you try to pretend you’re already asleep, but “night.” Slips from your lips before you could rethink it.

[chaosheadspace]

A little birthday gift for @seiya-starsniper. May your new year of life be full of happiness and joy! Also tagging @ginoeh, because the start of this is technically me misinterpreting one of her prompts, lol.

Without further ado, have some Dream raiding Hob's dreams post-fishbowl.

Stars twinkle through the window as Hob stands in his kitchen and cooks. It is late, but he is hungry, having forgotten the time grading. He’s got a day off tomorrow though, and so he is making himself a rather elaborate feast, because he feels like it. Because he can.

The light summer breeze coming through the window stirs the various smells about, sauteed onion and tomatoes and beef, spices and fat and broth, warm milk for hot chocolate and the dense, syrupy sweetness of baking apples. He’s never been good at moderation, least of all with food. Sue him. There’s a few candles burning on his kitchen table, decked out with earthenware, and through the speakers of his radio is playing a song he’s quite convinced he’s heard some time in the seventeenth century. It’s really crazy what musicians nowadays dig back up and incorporate into their music.

Just as he stirs the pumpkin soup bubbling on the back burner, there’s a low sound behind him. Hob turns, the dripping spoon still in his hand. “Oh,” he blurts out, “I am dreaming.”

Because there, in front of him, stands his stranger, who snubbed him at their last appointment, who he hasn’t seen in much longer than a hundred years. Who definitely, positively, has deep, black pits for eyes, who looks even more gaunt than usual, malnourished, even, and who is absolutely bang naked. He has to be dreaming. The music suddenly makes a lot more sense. The dishware, too, really.

“You are,” his stranger says, and even his voice is different, cavernous, deep and soft like his eyes.

“You’re welcome here, regardless,” Hob tells him. “You can have a shirt and sweats from me, if you want. Soup will be ready in just a tick.” He can see him swallow, hard, the movement of his Adam's apple on his slim neck stark.

“Very well,” he says, turning away. “See that it is.”

When he comes back, he’s wearing one of Hob’s old band shirts that’s somehow black now, and a pair of pajama pants with little yellow stars on them. Hob smiles, motions for him to sit down, and puts a bowl of the promised soup in front of him, steaming and fragrant, spiced with curry and nutmeg and roasted sesame seeds.

His friend wastes no time, forgoes the spoon entirely and lifts the bowl to his face to drink, his bony fingers clutching the glazed dish tight, uncaring about its heat. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t breathe until the heavy bowl is empty. Then he holds it out to Hob, the rim clutched between three fingers as if it weighs nothing. “More,” he demands, and Hob obliges.

This goes on four more times, and then the pot is empty. Next Hob serves up venison pasties, and he’s more than a little smug as his stranger devours the first one in just three bites, but Hob figures he’s allowed. “They’re good, right?” he says. His friend just glowers at him and reaches for the next one. When the pasties are gone, there’s dumplings and omelette and the apple pie.

It all vanishes, piece by piece, bit by bit, bite for bite, into his stranger. Afterwards, they look at each other in silence, Hob stunned at the speed it all vanished, his stranger apologetic for some reason. Then the silence is cut by the rather loudly growling stomach of his friend.

“I. uhm. I could make you some pasta?” Hob offers. “Maybe some pudding, too, let’s see…”

“No,” he’s interrupted just as he gets up. “I am afraid I have to hurry. There are things I have to tend to rather urgently. I thank you for being so hospitable.”

Suddenly they are standing in the doorway again, from one second to the next, Hob blinking up confusedly intovast, starlit eyes. They’re close, closer than they’ve ever been. There is no warmth emanating from his stranger, just a heavy, almost humming sense of presence that draws Hob in.

“Do you have to go?” He pleads. “Maybe I could—”

“I am afraid I cannot delay my task any further, Hob.” His stranger shakes his head. “I thank you for this.”

“Wait,” Hob says, desperately. “This is a dream, right?”

His stranger turns back around, the look on his face incredulous. “Yes,” he confirms for the second time, “it is.”

“So there’s no harm in doing this then,” Hob murmurs, stepping closer, gently placing one hand upon a lily-white neck. His friend shivers. Hob gets up on his toes and slowly, gently kisses his brow. “I hope you fare well,” he whispers, “and I will not give up hope to see you again when I am awake.”

From one moment to the next, Hob is alone. There is a relieving sense of loss in him, like a splinter being drawn from a wound.

Hob wakes.

[squerlly]

Fair Exchange Chapter 2

----------------------"love has an edge, don't fall off"---------------------

Alastor x (F! doe wife reader)

The Buck----------------------------------------------------

y/n served me my plate of venison for this morning's breakfast, she was wearing a 1950s retro-style dress. it was brand new, perhaps something she picked from Rosie's while getting my food for the week. Charlie has been bombarding me with ridiculous ideas for the hotel, but I'm more concerned for y/n. Angel has been extra close to her, I don't need him raising questions about her ties to me.

"y/n" her Marilyn Monroe curls bounce as she turns her head to me, fluffy ears twitching. I never knew how to feel about y/n being a doe, I find it quite fitting for her as my wife. Rosie says that I'm the luckiest demon for having a wife as kind and gentle as y/n. but the truth is she is right, y/n is kind and gentle... but that's because she's not supposed to be here.

"is there something I forgot?" she looks at me confused as she grips the tray in her hand "Not at all my dear, I would just like you to keep your distance from the others" Her shoulders fall slightly before she nods. she always puts my needs before her own almost as if she's afraid of me, I wouldn't be surprised if she was. y/n is very... obedient, I have never had an issue with her like with Husker.

she leaves the room with soft clicks of her heels on my wooden office floor, closing the door behind her I look down at my plate, the fresh deer meat glistening with blood. y/n always shows her gratitude in ways that some might not always see such as observing how I like my food prepared, or waking up early so I always have a cup of coffee at my desk. I find it all very strange.

she holds no complaints and does everything without having to be told almost like it's second nature, it has always been like this for as long as I can remember. eventually I finish my food and head downstairs to the lobby, seeing Niffty and y/n giggling and laughing together. they have always been great friends, coming from the same timeline they have quite a few things in common. I know y/n has greatly missed the company of others, she has read almost every book in our library trying to stay occupied while I'm gone. I'm... glad she's at least enjoying herself.

Charlie wanted to do trust exercises today, but she had a meeting with heaven, leaving me with the others. vaggie had this idea to create an advertisement for the hotel, asking me for assistance. normally I would have said no but, vaggie and I made a deal. she won't ask me to participate in their frivolous technology and ill help, and the deal was set.

as a few hours passed and Charlie returned looking quite upset, we sat down to watch this commercial before the news came on earning groans and grumbles from everyone. apparently the next extermination day was set a few months earlier, how troublesome. I glanced over at y/n who had a worried frown on her face, my manor was on the far side of the pride ring hidden from danger. most exterminators don't fly close in range to spot it, it came in handy when waiting out the purge.

she was never out there to see the danger, but it still upsets her. y/n forgets that hell is a punishment, she thinks there is still a salvageable soul in this dammed place, a lot like Charlie.

everyone stands to head to their room for bed, y/n walks to my side following me to the upstairs floor of our rooms. "don't worry my dear, everything will be fine" She whips her head around to meet my gaze looking surprised before her eyes soften. I'm not one for comforting others, but my reassurance seems to work. she walks into her room closing the door as I head to mine...

it took so long for me to get this out, my apologies. I was trying hard to stick with the show while adding bits of the storyline but I think this turned out pretty great. I hope you guys have a wonderful day/night!!! love you all

-squerlly

@pooplyface1423 @strippezzz @kimmis-stuff

for more content please click this masterlist

[imminentinertia]

Hei! What kind of foods you eat at Christmas in Norway? Are there some traditional foods, some new favourites? Are there regional changes?

This is a pretty good article on Christmas food in Norway, complete with regional variation. They get some things not exactly wrong, but odd, like "meatballs" - no, they're more like small patties. We have medisterkaker (pork suet patties) and medisterpølser (pork suet sausages) or saucisses with the pork rib, not meatballs. Also we serve a lot more veg with it than the article says.

I definitely prefer pinnekjøtt, by the way, although I'm born and raised in a pork rib region. I think most Norwegians have tasted most Christmas food and many aren't stuck on tradition, although it can be a right bother to change something. I never got my in-laws to understand that saucisses (what I grew up with) are vastly superior to big thick pork suet sausages (what my husband grew up with), for instance.

We don't have rice pudding for dessert, although I get why the writer calls it that. It's rice cream, rice porridge (leftovers from dinner on the 23rd or lunch on Christmas Eve) mixed with whipped cream/vanilla/some sugar. I prefer Danish risalamande with finely chopped almonds mixed in. Swedish apelsinris is really good, too.

The article fails to mention that nut roast is the go-to for vegetarians and vegans. It's tasty and it goes well with the traditional sides for both pork and lamb rib.

Wildly un-traditional Christmas foods here are venison, turkey or duck. I prefer duck to everything else, I love duck. Wouldn't mind goose either. One year I had hare on Christmas Eve, because I was visiting a relative who lives in a hunting area, and that was great too.

Side note for people in other parts of the world: Norway is one of the countries that has the Big Celebration on Christmas Eve, not Christmas Day. On Christmas Day and Boxing Day traditions vary enormously.

[jomiddlemarch]

My thanksgiving is perpetual 

For the first time in Grace’s memory, watching Joel unbuckle his belt and unbutton his jeans was not erotic. 

At all.

“Oh, that’s better,” he sighed and closed his eyes, which also was usually erotic as hell. She had no impulse to jump his bones, to drag his jeans down, to get on her knees and rest her hands on his bare thighs…

“I will not be insulted if you fall asleep,” she said, settling herself down at the other end of the sofa, a squashy pillow at the small of her back. He reached over and grabbed her feet in their wool socks and set them on his lap. “Though don’t blame it on tryptophan. That was debunked a long time ago. Before.”

“I thought we were going to play cards or charades or something,” Ellie said. She displayed no signs of lethargy and in fact, seemed like she might literally bounce off the walls. The fire was already burning merrily and there was plenty of wood split, otherwise Grace might have suggested Ellie go work off some energy restocking the woodpile, despite the sleet beginning to tap against the windows. There wasn’t even sugar to blame, since they’d decided to follow tradition and serve all the pies (Why were there seven? Why were three some variation of sweet potato? What if the mincemeat one was good?) at their regular dinner time.

“Gimme me an hour,” Joel said. Grace snorted. The hand that wasn’t wrapped around her left ankle was splayed across his belly, breaching the divide between the sides of his plaid flannel shirt. She didn’t doubt he could leap into action if there were cause, like a full-on invasion of clickers, but nothing less would get him off the sofa.

“I didn’t think this would happen,” he remarked. “I thought, after the world ended, at least there’d be no more fucking turkey to choke down—”

“You ate a drumstick and like half the breast, Joel. You ate that pope’s nose thing and that was disgusting and not even on a dare. Didn’t seem like you had any trouble, ‘choking it down,’” Ellie said, really emphasizing the air-quotes. She’d rather play charades, Grace could tell, and she’d probably be on the winning team, not only because she was the most alert. If the school decided to move ahead with their Shakespeare production, it would be a crime if Ellie wasn’t cast.

“That’s because Ted can actually roast a turkey properly,” Grace said. He’d arrived soon after dawn, fully kitted out with his white apron underneath his heavy coat, a chef’s toque in place, Beard beside him looking like Death, if Death carried two large string bags filled with root vegetables, a dishtowel over his shoulder in lieu of a scarf. “I don’t know what Ted did and before you start to explain, I don’t think I want to. I want there to still be miracles in the world.”

“And the miracle is turkey?” Ellie said. “No offense, but I preferred the venison pie.”

“Yeah, the miracle’s the turkey. And being here, people in the kitchen fussing over basting it, someone setting the table, lighting candles. Sitting together and finding something to say when you’re asked what you’re grateful for. Meaning it. Eating yourself into a food coma,” Grace said. “Fighting over the wishbone—”

“That wasn’t a fair fight,” Ellie said.

“It never is. Not supposed to be,” Joel said. His cheeks were flushed even though he’d taken off his sweater before they sat down for the meal and his five o’clock shadow was making an early appearance, one Grace had no problem with. “Wasn’t ever like this in a QZ. FEDRA couldn’t risk it—”

“Risk what?” Ellie said.

“People rememberin’,” Ted said from the doorway of the kitchen, toque off, hands shoved in his pockets. “Who was gone, how much everybody lost. People liable to just lay down and die or start a fight to feel somethin’ else.”

“Also, they didn’t have an adequate supply of turkeys,” Beard said. “Trying to breed wild turkeys in captivity’s a bitch.”

“As usual, Coach Beard speaks the truth, Baby Ruth,” Ted said. “This is probably as close to Before as anyone’s likely to get. Except Joel must’ve forgotten—‘’

“Forgotten what?” Ellie asked. She either knew Ted well enough not to ask about the Baby Ruth remark or it was one he’d made before, she’d asked, and she was now entirely familiar with the history of the candy bar and specifically, Ted’s childhood encounters with it.

“To wear elastic waist pants to Turkey Day if you can swing it,” Ted said. “So you’ve got plenty of room. For pie and leftovers.”

“Did people actually have special pants just for this?” Ellie said. The adults all smiled at her earnest tone and expression, one the children often used, as if Before had been a thousand years ago, subject of archaeology and speculation, a culture so far distant they might as well need a new Rosetta Stone to decipher its intricacies.

“Nah,” Joel said. 

“Lots of people would wear sweats,” Grace said. “Or change into them. Scrubs were good for Thanksgiving too—I don’t think there were any doctors I knew who didn’t have a spare pair for kicking around in at home.”

“So, it wasn’t fancier Before,” Ellie said. 

“Thanksgiving wasn’t a fancy holiday,” Joel said. “New Year’s, Christmas, folks had big parties for those, but Thanksgiving was just more about family. Making enough food for the whole block. Football.”

“Turkey trots,” Beard called out.

“Thanksgiving-themed races, usually for charity and to work-off all the carbs or justify them,” Grace said, before Ellie could ask whether he meant turkeys suffered from loose bowels and if that was why turducken had been invented. Beard had been sure to explain turducken at a recent soccer practice. Grace yawned and saw Joel’s eyes were drowsy. Trying to convince Ellie to take a nap seemed to be a miracle beyond all hope.

“It’s clearing up,” Ted announced. From what Grace could see, Ted’s was a generous interpretation of the current level of precipitation, but she wasn’t about to quibble as he seemed to have some ulterior motive. “Let’s you and me and Coach go for a walk, Ellie. We can fetch Tommy and Maria and whoever all’s at their place and bring ‘em back for dessert and charades.”

Beard gave Grace the slowest wink that could still merit the name (as opposed to evidence of a stroke induced by the roughly nine hundred pounds of butter Ted had used on the bird) and heaved himself up from the chair he was in. Within a matter of minutes, all three had bundled up and headed out. Their departure made the house seem all the cozier, the brief glimpse of the rapidly approaching dusk dissipated by the firelight’s gold and amber painted on the walls, the floorboards, the planes of Joel’s face. His hand tightened around her ankle, then stroked up the curve of her calf.

“I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think I’m up for much of anything,” Grace said. “I definitely overindulged in those mashed potatoes. And the stuffing and that squash gratin thing. The gravy, good Lord, that was like Michelin-star level

“Well, I want you to be on my team when we play charades. And later, I’d like to split a piece of Ted’s apple bourbon pie,” he said.

“Split a piece?”

“I’d like to get hungry again, darlin’. Once everyone goes home,” he said. “I’d like to be grateful, together.”

[tastesoftamriel]

You've mentioned food enjoyed by young children, so let's go the opposite route; what are some foods from across Tamriel that are infamous for being Old People Food?

Ah, of course. There's always that food that inexplicably only old people like. I'm never here to knock anyone's favourite foods though, so here's a showcase of some of Tamriel's dishes most beloved by its aged population.

Altmer

Heron liver pâté is, in my opinion, the least palatable Altmeri food there is. Mushy yet inexplicably chewy, this pâté has a distinctly muddy smell and texture that old Mer seem to love. If you've still got teeth, it's common to dip grissini and crudités into the pâté, but if not, the pet food texture is fine to eat with a spoon.

Argonians

Older Argonians love their papaya! It's good for the health, and...bowels, especially? This mighty fruit is often pounded into a pulp with fresh turmeric root and scuttlebloom nectar, a bit like a very thick juice, and the mixture is happily inhaled by the geriatrics throughout Black Marsh. I love papaya, but not so much when it's served this way.

Bosmer

Timber mammoth milk soup is very much an old Mer dish in Valenwood. Simply put, it's just a bunch of meaty ingredients boiled until they fall apart in a soup base made from salty timber mammoth milk. The dish is definitely an acquired taste, from the slightly slimy yet frothy texture to the practically liquid meat bits.

Bretons

Master confectioners in High Rock are always in the business of pumping out sweets that almost nobody eats, bar the older population. Whether it's violet sweets, liquorice drops, musk sticks, or butter mints, for some reason, every Breton over the age of 60 develops an inexplicable craving for these sweets. I think I'll stick to lemon sherbets, personally.

Dunmer

I know that I talk about saltrice porridge a lot, but saltrice congee infused with ginseng and gingko nuts are right up there in terms of ancient Dunmer food. Add some pulled trama root (boiled until soft), pickled comberries, and ash-cured kwama egg, and you have a strongly herbal-scented meal with the texture of snot.

Imperials

While not as old people-y as most other dishes on this list, classic dishes, like my Emperor's Venison Fricassee, are hardly considered to be exciting food on the Cyrodiilic gastronomy scene. The humble fricassee is a palatable, if slightly boring dish with a stew-like texture, but doesn't contain any particularly strong flavours. Said to be the ultimate old-person dish in Cyrodiil.

Khajiit

Age isn't going to stop any Khajiit from imbibing moon sugar, but the way it's served is slightly different. Peanut soup, which is literally just a hot slurry made from boiled peanuts, is a nutritious dish often served for dessert. However, the taste is, at best, horrifically boring, and the only way to fix that is with lots of moon sugar. The end result is something akin to eating runny peanut butter, to which I can only politely say 'no thanks, Clan Mother'.

Nords

Just because we honour the older members of our communities in Skyrim doesn't mean that we're above making jokes about what they eat. If you think pickled fish is bad, try the trout that's been fermented in a barrel for a few months, then cut into slices and served atop flatbread with beets and sour cream. It sounds worse than it is, but this is the sort of food that makes me flash back to Granny Matilda's cottage when I was a child.

Orcs

The fact of the matter is that many Orcs don't live to see old age as an adversary, but those who do develop some curious dietary habits. Steamed potato pudding with wrathberry raisins is definitely one of them- a pungent dessert that's absolutely nobody's favourite besides probably the stronghold elders. It's basically a regular steamed pudding made from potato flour and densely studded with wrathberry raisins, something like a New Life pudding. Very filling, kind of bland, and perfect for the geriatric Orsimer in your life.

Redguards

A mild Alik'r curry made with snake eggs and okra would be my pick when it comes to describing the favoured food of elderly Redguards. Whole boiled snake eggs and slices of okra float in a thin goat's milk-based curry, which is served with a side of cous cous or rice. It's simple food, but so bland and boring you'd hardly recognise it as Redguard cuisine.

[marta-bee]

Good Omens time! (Isn’t it always?) Today I read the start of the “Friday” section, when Famine gets his object of the Apocalypse, his brass scale to match War’s flaming sword. It’s a cute scene anyone who’s worked in fast-food or a customer-facing job like retail will probably appreciate. Or for that matter anyone who’s actually stepped foot in a McDonald’s; which is, you know, all of us.

Sable sauntered in to the Burger Lord. It was exactly like every other Burger Lord in America. [But not like every other Burger Lord across the world. German Burger Lords, for example, sold lager instead of root beer, while English Burger Lords managed to take any American fast food virtues (the speed with which your food was delivered, for example) and carefully remove them; your food arrived after half an hour, at room temperature, and it was only because of the strip of warm lettuce between them that you could distinguish the burger from the bun. The Burger Lord pathfinder salesmen had been shot twenty-five minutes after setting foot in France.] McLordy the Clown danced in the Kiddie Korner. The serving staff had identical gleaming smiles that never reached their eyes. And behind the counter a chubby, middle-aged man in a Burger Lord uniform, slapped burgers onto the griddle, whistling softly, happy in his work.

Sable went up to the counter.

"Hello-my-name-is-Marie," said the girl behind the counter. "How-can-i-help-you?" "A double blaster thunder biggun, extra fries, hold the mustard," he said.

"Anything-to-drink?"

"A special thick whippy chocobanana shake."

She pressed the little pictogram squares on her till. (Literacy was no longer a requirement for employment in these restaurants. Smiling was.) Then she turned to the chubby man behind the counter.

"DBTB, E F, hold mustard," she said. "Choco-shake."

"Uhhnhuhn," crooned the cook. He sorted the food into little paper containers, pausing only to brush the graying cowlick from his eyes.

"Here y'are," he said.

She took them without looking at him, and he returned cheerfully to his griddle, singing quietly. "Loooove me tender, loooove me long, neeeever let me go...."

The man's humming, Sable noted, clashed with the Burger Lord background music, a tinny tape loop of the Burger Lord commercial jingle, and he made a mental note to have him fired.

It’s so predictable; so dehumanizing. Intelligence and even basic education to the point of literacy isn’t needed; bland mechanization and the ability to not stand out is.

Famine actually owns the joint, not to make money (though the end result is pretty much indistinguishable from chains with that goal) but to get people who aren’t diet-crazed and faddish enough to willingly give up nutrition to to be thin. This is his unique brand of starvation brought to the masses.

The Newtrition corporation had started small, eleven years ago. A small team of food scientists, a huge team of marketing and public relations personnel, and a neat logo.

Two years of Newtrition investment and research had produced CHOW. CHOW contained spun, plaited, and woven protein molecules, capped and coded, carefully designed to be ignored by even the most ravenous digestive tract enzymes; no-cal sweeteners; mineral oils replacing vegetable oils; fibrous materials, colorings, and flavorings. The end result was a foodstuff almost indistinguishable from any other except for two things. Firstly, the price, which was slightly higher, and secondly the nutritional content, which was roughly equivalent to that of a Sony Walkman. It didn't matter how much you ate, you lost weight. [And Hair. And skin tone. And, if you ate enough of it long enough, vital signs.]

Fat people had bought it. Thin people who didn't want to get fat had bought it. Chow was the ultimate diet food-carefully spun, woven, textured, and pounded to imitate anything, from potatoes to venison, although the chicken sold best.

Sable sat back and watched the money roll in. He watched CHOW gradually fill the ecological niche that used to be filled by the old, untrademarked food.

He followed Chows with Snacks junk food made from real junk. MEALS was Sable's latest brainwave.

MEALS was CHOW) with added sugar and fat. The theory was that if you ate enough MEALS you would a) get very fat, and b) die of malnutrition.

The paradox delighted Sable.

There’s something very gently sad about all of this, really. People buying this mass-produced slop and not realizing what they’re putting in their body is quite literally useless. It’s non-food; anti-food, even. I don’t blame the people making that “choice,” they’re certainly no more or less deceived than the folks stopping into a KFC down the road. It’s just very ad that this is what the system drives us to. Now even more than twenty-odd years ago.

This started out as a cute scene about the banality of being trapped under the thumb of capitalism. It is that to be sure, but a little too near the truth to be laughed off, at least for me. Famine isn’t a starving child in Africa with his ribs protruding out from his skin, or at least it’s not just them. It’s the workaday person being ground down into just a cog in the machine, and whose real value is an ability not to stand out.

That’s tragic in its way, and all too true to life. It’s not just a truth for low-wage workers; I’m a definite white-collar middle-class knowledge-worker and thinking about how much of my own employability relies on something rather similar, though the privileges and benefits I get through my own ability to work in the system do make for a much more comfortable life.

I think I need to stop here and sit with this a bit. Definitely whichever one of Neil or Terry wrote this particular scene, they knocked it out of the park. There’s more with the Them coming up I see, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Aziraphale and Crowley were waiting in the offing a well, but they can wait until next weekend.

[ophexis]

Redguard Rice time!

Hello! It's been one hell of a few weeks but I did in fact make the Redguard Rice last week lmao. And had the leftovers today!

"Alright friends, let's get cooking!"

So this recipe was a first for many things! First time cooking with wild rice, first time cooking with lamb, and first time using molasses in something like this.

You start off with butter and onions, a classic. You get them nice and soft with some browning. I used way more onion than called for because onions are delicious. Then you add the ground lamb! It has a very "barn" aroma lmao.

You then add spices! This uses hot paprika, coriander seeds, molasses and chicken broth. Now I couldn't find hot paprika at all, so the plan was to use a little less paprika, and fill in the rest with cayenne pepper. But I kinda blacked out while putting in the paprika and instead I put twice as much paprika as the recipe asks for lmao. Then I still added some cayenne peppers. More paprika can't go too wrong. I also had ground coriander instead of whole seeds so I looked up ratios and used that! (I was also worried than coriander seeds would taste like coriander which I don't like!!!)

Once your stuff is seasonned, you add the rice and cook! I've never worked with wild rice before, and I'm pretty sure mine came out undercooked, oops. When I had the leftovers, I reheated them for like 10 mins in some extra boiling water and it really helped the texture.

This recipe is in the "sides" category, and it does feel a tad incomplete on its own so I steamed some brocoli (because life is hard and I couldn't bring myself to prep more veggies for the side) and added them to my plate. The recipe serves this with parsley, so I sprinkled dried parsley flakes that I had!

It came out pretty well, despite the slightly undercooked rice lol. The lamb flavor was very strong, so if you don't like lamb I would recommend just using a different protein, I'm sure it will work fine! I didn't hate it but if I was to remake this I'll probably just use beef or pork, which is also way easier to find (and probably cheaper) but it was worth it to try something new! I still have molasses and wild rice so I'll probably try it with pork soon.

This was pretty nice! New flavors, and it's easy to make as it only needs a single pot! And seems easy enough to customise to your tastes! Not a huge fan of lamb alas.

For some reason the recipe doesn't call for salt or pepper, but I did add salt to mine. And next time I think I would try to add garlic. (I don't remember if it had garlic but I feel like it didn't....).

If I was to rate it against the one other recipe I made from that cookbook though, the orsimer venison wins by a landslide haha. But I'm looking forward to trying this one again!

Thanks for your patience if you were one of the few looking forward to this!! Last few weeks have been a lot (Got sick! Changed projects at work!) and my mood has been a rollercoaster (downward) but I'd like to make a new poll for the next cookbook soon hopefully!

[pagiecakewritesstuff]

9. MORPHEUS|DREAM OF THE ENDLESS X READER/OC

SEASON 2 IS COMING!

SERIES MASTERLIST

He always seemed to be the happiest when he went to visit Hob Gadling. On that day in every century, nightmares eased and the air was light with daydreams and fantasies in the waking world, because he walked amongst them, the people he served. He descended to humanity's level, all because of one exceptional man, who boldly declared his wish not to die. Exactly two hundred years ago. 

Since then I visited him only once, in complete secret as I noticed his prose flying back to me, still alive, yet muddled. It needed some adjustments. Then Death was kind enough to inform me about the bet she made with Morpheus and asked me to patch up my writing if it was not too much trouble. Hesitantly I agreed to do it, unsure whether I'm doing right by my job or not, up until I saw how happy it made Morpheus. Even if the Dream King would have never admitted this out loud. In that tavern, his eyes shone like when he was young and bold, his soul unscathed. Able to openly show love. 

He wanted me to come to their third meeting. Why? He did not clarify. Must have been the same reason he was so adamant about showing me the Dreaming first eons ago. To gain a form of acknowledgement I still couldn't offer. Still, I didn't have it in my heart to refuse, so I found myself on the mortal plane in the year 1589. 

"I've never seen you with this hairstyle before." We walked towards the White Horse, soft mud sloshing around our boots. He just shrugged, pursing his lips. 

"I quite like it, it suits you." I just about caught the slight red tint spreading across his cheeks as he turned his head away, expression remaining cold. He would have said it was only the icy wind cutting into his skin and nothing more. And of course, that would have been a lie. 

"Have you met him before?" He changed the subject. 

"Not properly," I said. "I went to him in his dreams a long time ago just to reattach his prose, but I did that while he was asleep." 

He opened the creaking door for me, one that had seen better days, but did a decent job keeping the warmth in still and we stepped into the alcohol-induced haze accompanied by the heavy whiff of roasts and pastries. Dream without hesitation headed towards the back, lingering for a moment at a conversation about how dreams relate to the arts when a strong voice called towards us. 

"My friend!" 

That's when I could take him in the first time. Hob Gadling was a vigorous man with a broad grin that beamed across the room. Based on his clothes I supposed he gained a generous amount of wealth in the past century, his table overflowing with all kinds of meats confirming my idea. Morpheus only hummed to himself quietly, dark clothes draining out the light around him. 

"And who this would be?" Hob asked as we joined him at the table. "A partner of yours?" 

Keeping his mouth shut, Dream eyed me intently. He let me decide how I present myself. 

"A close friend," I answered, nodding my chin in greeting. "Nice to meet you Hob Gadling."

"Hob? Faith, that takes me back some few years." The man stood up to perform an elaborate bow. It did not succeed to impress Dream. "It's Sir Robert Gadlen now." 

"You had good fortune I take it?" I smiled politely at his semantics, eyeing the piled plates. "It's quite the feast you prepared for us here." 

"The gods have smiled on me as they smile on all England where no man is slave or bondsman." Hob's voice turned dreamy. "Venison pasty? No? They are good." 

I took one of them, the layered dough flaking between my fingers. I couldn't remember when was the last time I tasted human food. The juicy meat exploded in my mouth and I had to agree with Hob. They were good. 

"Let's see. Last we spoke I was working with Billy Caxton. Made some gold from that. Put it to work in Henry Tudor's shipyards.' Hob began his tale without prompting. "I made a small pile. Then I went north for a year or so, came back as my son. Done that twice now. Girl, more wine!" 

I glanced at Morpheus, who didn't even bother to feign interest. He sat there, legs crossed, semi-facing away from the table. 

"When fat Henry had gone to the monasteries, I bought my estates, and a healthy gift of gold to the crown saw to a knighthood. That's not all, here." The man hastily produced a small framed canvas from a piece of cloth that he kept next to his plate until now. It was a painting, I couldn't see it properly, since he only held it towards Dream. "My fair Elanor and little Robyn. My first son born over 200 years on this earth, that I know of."  

Pain flashed in Morpheus' eyes before he could hide it from me. Hob didn't notice of course, but I couldn't have missed it. The anguish of an ever-mourning father. I prayed for his rage, hand in hand with his grief, to keep slumbering. 

"It's funny." Hob continued, oblivious to the wounds he uncovered. "This is what I always dreamed Heaven would be like, way back. It's safe to walk the streets. Enough food, hood wine. Life is so rich." 

It hit my ears at the same time as it did his. It was art in one of its purest forms. Theatre. A monologue. 

"To god? He loves thee not. The God thou servest is thine own appetite, wherein fixed the love of Belzebub. To him, I'll build an altar in the church and offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes. I would give anything to have your gifts. To give man dreams that would live on long after I'm dead." 

Our gazes linked, and to my relief the pain in his eyes lessened, replaced by a crafty sheen, the sort that leads to great things and discoveries if you let it bloom. I knew what he was thinking of. 

"He recited Faustus rather well. I like that one." Lazily I popped a bite of pasty into my mouth. 

"Does he have it in him though?" Morpheus leaned forward, like a cat ready to pounce. He already had plans. 

"Maybe. You are free to do what you like. His song is definitely promising." Truthfully it drew my attention as soon as we stepped in. Looking back at it, it was obvious that the young man would later become a big name. "Sometimes even I can surprise myself with my own work."

"So be it. Who is he?" Asked the Dream King from Hob, who only stared at him dumbfounded for a moment. 

"His name is Will Shaxberd. Acts a bit. Wrote a play." He muttered finally. 

"Is he good?" 

"He is." I quipped in. 

"No, he is crap." Hob side-eyed me confused. ‘How could I ever think Will Shaxberd is good?’, I read from his expression. "Now that chap next to him, with the broken leg, he is a good playwright. Anyway, I saved the best bit for last. The queen herself slept at my house this summer. That was expensive." 

Holding up his hand, Dream effectively silenced the man. He lost all interest in his boasting tale, so he stood up and headed for the table at the other end of the room. 

"Don't take it to your heart." Disappointedly Hob shifted in his seat, gaze flickering between me and Dream. Grabbing one of the pitchers I sloshed the wine around in it a bit, the deep scarlet colour swirled around invitingly. "He does that sometimes, and to be fair Shaxberd needs him right now." 

"Tell me," he leaned forward, "who is he really?" 

"My friend?" 

"Yes." 

"There must be a reason for it if he didn't introduce himself already." 

"Well," he raised his cup to drink. "I suppose there is no point in asking you to introduce yourself either." 

"I don't mind." Surprised by my answer he perked up a bit and I felt better too. Dream was unintentionally harsh with him, so I took it upon myself to try and change the mood. "You may call me the Writer. If you want to be formal the First Writer will do. Bur through existence I had all the names you can think of." 

He pouted, not entirely satisfied with the answer. 

"So you live forever too?" 

"Nothing lives forever Hob Gadling. Not even you. We just live longer than others." 

"So how old are you?" 

"Older than you can comprehend." Patting my lips with a napkin I finished my meal and prepared to leave. "I think I will see you again Hob Gadling. I like your character. However, I cannot promise to be regular, expect me even in the most unexpected moments." 

He rose with me politely, smiling unsurely. 

"I will. I'm glad we met." 

"Farewell, Hob Gadling. You have great things ahead of you." 

The welcoming warm light ushers the newcomers into the bustling little world of the inn from the street, bright and sunny, rare even during the warmest London summers. It's not even midday, yet the small establishment is overflowing with guests eagerly waiting at the bar to secure their choice of beverage, while chatting with friends, mostly about the unexpected good weather or other local news. My otherwordly impression blends into their simple, everyday humanity, making me invisible amongst them. The familiarity of the feeling comforts me, even against the reminding chokehold of the collar around my neck. 

Inns are strange places between other places, in them, time only applies to some or ceases to exist completely. You may think it's because people simply forget themselves between their walls, but believe me, they have their magic. They alleviate life, closing around people like a capsule, refusing to acknowledge what's outside, concentrating the energy brought in into a special atmosphere, like a magnifying glass. Now, this is not true in every case, there are those run-down, mouldy spaces, so repulsive not many dare to enter them. But here I contently wander around the tables, breathing in the heavy aroma of simple cooking and beer, the loud chatter tuning out my thoughts. Delicately carved wooden arches curve from the central bar to certain directions of the room, encompassing cushioned seats, barstools and all chairs, gently leading the eye towards the milky glassed windows detailed with bent iron decorations. The inn has an old aesthetic, despite being quite new. The floor creaks with my steps, worn by hundreds of boots scuffing against it due to the high traffic. This establishment has no problems with popularity. Foaming, the beer tap hisses and the space is filled with a warm, brownish haze.  

I head towards the furthermost corner from the door, shadowed by a pillar supporting a beam reaching across the ceiling, holding it up. I follow the unique hum of my song, covering many ages all in one, filtering through the clattering of the patrons. I'm pleased to hear it sound still so loud and clear, there are a few false notes, but nothing major at fault, the melody is unbroken and thriving, which is remarkable given its old age. I notice him right away as he hunches over a sheaf of paper with a red pen in hand, I notice him right away, his dark chocolate hair falling in front of his face in stylish locks, longer than last time. I send a delicate signal towards him, a note that blends with the others well, to which his pen quivers slightly before making a mark on the essay. 

Hob looks up, guarded gaze scanning over his pub. 

"Fear not Hob Gadling." I take the seat across him, his eyes now glued to me. The shine of disbelief reflects in them. Of course. I was not expected. "It's just me." 

He wets his lips as they part with a quick swipe of his tongue, head tilted to the side. Features softened immediately, he leans back as if studying me, his papers forgotten for now. Timidly he places the pen just far enough from the edge of the table so it doesn't roll off. However he tries to hide the smile tugging at his lips, but he can't. For some reason, he has the idea that he has to be serious and composed around me, more respectful than usual, something he did not reserve for Morpheus, just for me. No matter that we have met a good couple of times before. 

"I would have never thought I see you again." He breathes out, coming down from the shock, as he tames his locks with a practised move. "I can't remember when your last visit was." 

"Two, maybe three hundred years ago. A lot happened since, it's hard to recall, even for me." 

"What brings you here? Just asking, you are always welcome of course." 

"I have a request concerning your friend." 

Suddenly Hub turns deadly serious and the smile hiding at the edge of his lips disappears. 

"Do you know what happened to him?" He asks. "Where you go he is close to follow." 

"He is okay, Hob," I answer. "He was hurt, but now is okay." 

"Hurt?" Bewildered and fidgety now, he reaches for his pockets to occupy his hands with something, fierce anger rising in him. Admirable for their friendship is one of the most distant ones ever seen. "Who hurt him?" 

"You need not know, he is dead for a long while now." A cold breeze lurks in the warmth of the inn, it centres itself around me. "And me, I hurt him too." 

"What?" 

"This isn't a social call, I'm afraid, there is no time to explain everything," I say. "My request, Hob, that's why I'm here." 

Even before I go into the details he eagerly nods along. The chatter seemingly quiets as if we made a bubble for ourselves. 

"I suspect he will soon come to meet you. He needs to." I begin. "In the knowledge of our acquittance, he will ask about me. Tell him to stop searching. I can feel him doing it desperately, he will talk to you about it, I'm sure. Be gentle though, I don't want to crush his heart even further." 

His brows furrow, trying to make sense of what I just said. His experience throughout the years was that I and Morpheus were permanently close no matter what. 

"I don't understand..." 

"You don't have to. Just suggest to him that it's not worth running after an old love." 

"Why can't he find you?' 

I push myself away from the table. The bubble bursts. 

"Goodbye, Hob Gadling. I can't promise I will see you again." 

The inn now suffocating I escape through the closes backdoor, 'FOR STAFF' written across it. The bright sunshine burns my cheeks and I have to shield my eyes with my hands. My free time is coming to its end, but I'm hopeful that I can stretch it out a bit, even against the forceful tugging of my chains, all invisible. Picking a random direction I begin to walk, skipping steps in a hurry, trying to savour the last breaths of fresh air I can get for a while. And without realizing I let a low hum, streaming down the streets gracefully, guide me. The hum turns into a melody, then a hymn, constantly switching in a harmonised beauty, loud and blooming with life. By the time I figure out that the composer is me, she catches up to me. I hear the sound of her wings. 

"Talos?" 

I halt, inhaling sharply, it hurts the back of my throat. It smells like summer, like sunshine and freedom. Behind the cage of my teeth, my tongue is tied. 

"Is that really you?" She rounds me, gentle eyes overflowing with concern. As she reaches out for me I pull away, chain links clinking against each other. "What happened?" 

"Nothing. I don't know what you mean Death." I avoid her gaze, but she sees right through me. 

"My brother has been looking for you for quite some time." Her fingers brush against my collar before I can avoid them, and I feel a jolt of flames running along my spine, soaring heat forcing itself between my vertebrates. "And don't think your chains are unnoticed. Who did this?" 

"I cannot say." I try to walk past her. She grips my shoulder. 

"You are unlike your usual self. You always greeted me as a friend, but now as a stranger. Why?" She leans closer, maybe aiming to comfort me, but my heartbeat picks up panicking. "Morpheus needs to know about this." 

"No!" I snap and the birds cut to silence around us as the wind ruffling the feathers on her mighty wings quiets. Her hand retreats. "By telling him you would bring great danger upon Dream and possibly his realm. 

When she raises her chin to object I stop her. 

"You have to understand." To my sincere pleading Death's eyelids flutter, her first time hearing me so vulnerable. "By telling you what happened I can put you in danger too, so please don't even mention to him that you met me here. And it's better if you forget about this too." 

"He suffers in your absence." 

The timid searching power caresses my skin, gently taps into my mind, undeniably his. He is close. I mask myself so he can't suspect my presence. 

"He has to give up on me. He can't move on like this, this is unhealthy." 

"He is in love with you." 

"And I am with him." This I admitted to myself during the endless hours of my imprisonment. Saying it out loud, however, fills me with a new surge of dripping warmth and sticky anguish. Secretly uttered whispers in the dark have a strange power in daylight. "He mustn't know." 

She bows her head in respect for my wishes, as a child respects her older sister. Death readies herself to go, but before that, she turns back and asks: 

"Will I ever see you again?" 

For the first time after a long while, I let myself smile, clawing at my hope so it doesn't grow too big. So my disappointment, in the end, is less. 

"Only Destiny knows." I breathe out at the edge of tears. "And he won't tell you." 

[redshift-13]

https://www.joemygod.com/2022/09/trump-shares-meme-comparing-himself-to-jesus/

I wrote the following (with a couple of subsequent revisions) a couple of years ago, an exercise in parody in response to a person who almost forecloses the space reserved for parody.  Now, I’m not entirely sure that if this speech were to be read by Trump that it wouldn’t still elicit clapping and cheering.  

Dear MAGAs,

We are facing a trying time.  But this is also true: You have a glorious destiny with me, your national savior, me, Donald Trump.  Devote your lives to me, and you shall be hailed through the ages as patriots supreme, those who in times of national crisis shed their lives if necessary.  For America.  For the flag and our holy pledge of allegiance.  For my election.  What you have done today to achieve patriotic immortality?

Haven’t I made America great again?  Have I not placed venison and squirrel on your table?  Haven’t I done what no one else could ever do?  Would this morning in America have ever happened without me?  Had not those MAGA caps existed, those crowns of patriotism that adorn your whiteness and restrict cerebral vasculature, where would we be?

Know that I love you, and I know you love me.  I saved America in the same way that Jesus saved you.   I gave up business opportunities for you.  I came among you as the most successful businessman the world has ever known.  I came in glory, because how could I not, in order to begin the remission of America’s sins under the man from Kenya.

Obama gave you health insurance you didn’t want, and I took it away.  You owe me for that, but as I’ve always said, I serve you selflessly and expect no reward.  I’m the most humble man you could ever imagine.  The best at humbleness.  That’s what they say.

Lay not your treasures up upon the earth, ask not for more food or unemployment benefits, for now America needs patriots.  Patriots for Wall Street, patriots for our sacred businesses who labor in the fields of the Lord by producing all sorts of stuff, great stuff, stuff we need, the best stuff.  Be that patriot that saves the economy and all its beautiful stuff.

As I came down among you, there you were with open mouths in anticipation, and I showered down upon you my golden blessings.  And you were fulfilled, as I promised.  America is great once again.

So now I ask of you but one thing: Defy the virus; be braver than the socialists.  Go out and mingle among yourselves, ignore the virus hoax, the fake media lies, and go back to your jobs.  Attend my rallies, attend church this and every Sunday and be among your kind, the True Americans.

My dopey ruminants, the very best of patriots, I am your president, the First Patriot, the Monument to Whiteness that will never be torn down.  If you do so defy the virus like a true patriot, you will reign in magnificence with me among the best patriots: the guarantors of my re-election.  You will find a reward in heaven.   We will keep America great for our children.

We can not defeat the virus by going around it. We must go through it.  We must not cower in fear from the virus but charge into it with courage.  Think of your 401(k).  What of our great shareholders, which many of you are?  Place your trust in Jesus.  And me.

Out of my blessed passion as your president, the blood I sweat for your on the courses of golf, I give my loyalty to thee if you give your life for me.

Making America Great Again, and remember, my genius surpasseth all understanding.

Yours for America,

Dear Leader Donald Trump

P.s.  Would I ever lie to you?

[wispstalk]

vengeance

excerpt. read the rest of this chapter on AO3

Coradri awakes well-rested. There is a slight nip to the air around her uncovered face, but this far south of the Jeralls, the late autumn mornings are pleasant and refreshing.

The bedroll next to her is empty. Irathi, in a huff, slept outside bundled in his cloak. A luxury, one night of space in the otherwise cramped tent. She twists and stretches, wringing the stiffness from her limbs, then drapes her cloak over her head and pokes her head through the canvas flap.

It’s a splendid morning in the West Weald. They set up camp in a small thicket on the edge of a vast vineyard, and the golden light of dawn glimmers off the heavy-laden vines.  Wisps of mist linger in the low hollows between the sweeping hills, slowly evaporating with the last strains of the night. Far in the distance, a rooster crows its morning greeting— or tries to. It must be a young one. Its proud call is quavery, ending in a sort of strained gurgle. Good on you for trying, little man, she thinks, and climbs out of the tent.

Irathi is already up, stirring the fire, with his cloak draped over a nearby bush to dry the morning dew.

“Did you sleep well?” Coradri purrs sweetly.

“No,” Irathi grumbles, and places his cookpot on the coals to reheat last night’s venison-and-rice stew. Two steaming mugs wait on a stump beside the fire, and she picks one up and inhales deeply. Fennel and citrus peels, with a little peppery bite from lady's smock leaves. Irathi always makes the best morning tea.

“You’re such a baby. It was only a few little slugs.”

“Leaving their slime all over my bedroll, yeah. I’m going to have to burn the damn thing now thanks to you.”

Coradri peeks in at the bedroll. There are a few silvery trails left behind on the fur, completely dry, that flake off when she brushes the hide with her hand.

He lifts the cookpot lid to stir its contents. “You know how I remembered you, out of all of Yena’s kids? It was because you put worms in my boots once.” A full-body shiver overtakes him. “Fuck, I still remember putting my foot right in them. That was the nastiest, most disgusting—“

Coradri bursts into laughter, and Irathi shoots her a glower. She must have been quite little then— she doesn’t remember it, but it sounds right. Terrorizing the haggard, serious mercenaries of the Rootless band was one of her top three favorite activities.

She can’t help herself. When they fish for their dinner in the icy mountain streams of the Jeralls, he never baits the hook, and always has some mysterious task to attend to when it comes time to gut the trout. He likes to think he’s the toughest in all Tamriel, but he pales at the sight of anything slimy and wriggling. If she had loftier aims, she’d tell herself that these pranks teach him a lesson in humility, but really, it’s just funny.

“How’d you not starve to death in Morrowind? The cooks for the Rootless probably served scrib every third day.”

“Never could stand them raw. If they were served on stakes, I made my own damn dinner. They don’t squirm when they’re roasted, or turned into jerky.”

“So if I put dead slugs in your bedroll—“

“Then I’ll put you in an early grave,” he says darkly.

“You wouldn’t. You love me. I’m your best friend in all the world.”

Irathi only grunts in response, but when he turns, she sees the flash of his gold tooth from his grin. “Come get your breakfast, you little shit.”

He reaches behind him toward a cluster of plants with thick, broad heart-shaped leaves, plucking one to use as an ersatz plate. They’ve been meaning to get her a mess kit of her own, but between closing Oblivion gates and earning his University recommendation, they keep forgetting.

 “Fuck!”

He squawks and flings the leaf to the ground, shuddering and rasping his palm along his trouser leg. Coradri picks it up curiously— near the stem, there is a yellow slug the length of her pinky. Nestled in the deep vein, likely there to drink the morning dew. Timidly, it pokes its little antennae out, testing the air to see if the cataclysm is over.

“Oh, it’s pretty!” she exclaims. “I’ve never seen one like this. Look, it’s got green-and-brown stripes along its back—“

But when she brandishes the leaf at him, he backs away, eyes wide. She grins and bears down on him; he tears away from the camp, Coradri following closely at his heels and waving the leaf like a war-axe.

[art-of-manliness]

Grandaddy’s Sunday Dinner Bacon Pepper Burgers

Note: The following is an excerpt adapted from Love Language of the South: A Celebration of the Food, the Hospitality, and the Stories of My Southern Home by Stacy Lyn Harris.  I don’t remember when it started. I don’t remember when it ended. I just remember that for years during most of my childhood, we’d eat Sunday dinner at Grandaddy’s house. Everyone was there: my immediate family, my uncle, and the cousins. I’d get an adrenaline rush as soon as we turned the corner in my stepdad’s red Toyota 4Runner. As soon as the car pulled up on the curb (we parked on the curb, so the driveway was clear for the others), I’d race over to one of my favorite spots on earth—the landing strip of lush green grass between my grandad’s house and the neighbors. To me it was the most empowering green gymnastics mat.  As my parents walked in the door, I began my tumbling pass with the imagined onlookers as my audience. Over and over again I’d tumble with the utmost precision: roundoff, back handspring, back handspring, back layout, back handspring. I felt invincible! “Stacy, it’s time to eat,” my mom would call out the door, bringing me back to reality. I’d run inside through the kitchen, head straight for the blue swivel chair at the end of the den, jump in the chair, and spin until I couldn’t see straight. About the time the world stopped spinning, I’d see my grandfather pulling the most amazing burgers off the grill.  The second he’d enter the door, I’d make a beeline to him and throw my arms around him, almost knocking his town-famous peppered burgers to the floor. Grandaddy wasn’t super affectionate and was kind of quiet, like my dad. He was half-blooded Creek Indian and half Greek. His olive skin had been darkened and wrinkled by the sun, and he never tired of telling me, “Stay out of the sun, Stacy. You don’t want to end up looking like this.” Maybe it was because I loved him so much, I thought he was good-looking. I don’t remember him telling me that he loved me, but I do remember him telling me that I look exactly like his mother. I felt that meant something special to him, and that in turn made me feel special.  We’d all overfill our plates with simple but delicious food: hamburgers, French fries, fried pickles, and fried green tomatoes. The adults and kids would squeeze around the kitchen table to discuss my grandad’s favorite topic: politics; Yes, politics was the topic of our discussions almost every week, which made for exciting conversation—mainly because no one agreed! The only thing that could get Grandaddy off the topic of politics was dessert.  Historically significant Southern desserts were always served at his house: banana pudding, coconut cream pie, ambrosia, lane cake, coconut cake, key lime pie, pineapple upside-down cake, caramel cake—and let me tell you, the caramel cake was the real deal! The desserts were never ending, nor did I want them to be.  After dinner I would often play hide-and-go-seek with my cousins. My favorite hiding spot was way up in the top of an oak tree. I could sit up there and dream for days, until I’d hear “Stacy, get out of that tree, there’s heat lightning.” Just about every Sunday there was heat lightning, and then a summer shower would move in, drawing me back indoors. Summer Sunday showers were our cue that the weekend was over and it was time to go, but I knew I’d be back next Sunday. Those weekends have never really been over for me. When I smell a burger cooking, or I run my fingers along a rough wool fabric, I’m back on that swivel chair at Grandaddy’s house waiting for him to finish my burger and feeling lucky to be by his side. Ultimate Bacon Pepper Burgers With Cheddar and Remoulade Serves 9 Ingredients For the Burgers * 11⁄2 pounds ground chuck steak * 11⁄2 pounds ground venison loin * 1⁄2 cup freshly ground black pepper, plus more for seasoning * 2 tablespoons kosher salt * 4 tablespoons (1⁄2 stick) unsalted butter, melted * 9 brioche hamburger buns, split * 9 slices sharp cheddar cheese  For the Remoulade… http://dlvr.it/T44Pbc

[wordtowords]

What They Really Ate on Thanksgiving

inedible - adjective - not able to be eaten (Google).

Thanksgiving has a tendency to creep up on you. And like any other holiday, once it is upon you, it stays for a few hours and then vanishes unlike the wild turkey (I'm talking the fowl here, not a hyper idiot or whiskey) of New Jersey that can decide to have a picnic in front of your car and refuse to relocate even when you lean on the horn. Most who celebrate the Pilgrims and Native Americans being united in good cheer for the first time up in Massachusetts in the early 1600s, adhere to their own set of traditions, which almost always includes a turkey (not a stubborn one, a defrosted Butterball). That being said, there is some controversy as to whether the original celebrants included the turkey on the menu.

Yesterday, as I was eating a hardboiled egg (a safe choice for any meal), I read TIME's "Her Tribe Fed the Pilgrims..." which is all about a Mashpee Wampanoag chef who is perpetuating the recipes of her people at her restaurant. The Mashpee Wampanoags were the friendly tribe who joined the refugees from England, some of whom just wanted to practice their religion sans any conflicts, which is nothing new even in this age. It is probably true that the natives chose the food for that initial dinner as the English have never been known for their cuisine although the last time I was in London, I did notice a vast improvement. What I am trying to impart here is that according to Sherry Pocknett, the Wampanoag cook featured in the essay, the vast, diverse party of diners probably didn't eat any turkey because the tribal people respected the "intelligence" of the turkey way too much to sample its edible wares. Instead, they most likely consumed the first two of which I consider to be inedible: venison (I don't eat deer because I feed them everyday on my front lawn; I try not to serve up animal friends to friends), duck (another pal) and various fish in addition to cornmeal, the latter most on the list being the only thing I have ever served on Thanksgiving. You must know of Jiffy corn muffin mix? Yes, that's it. The packaged cornmeal makes a great loaf of cornbread and only costs about a dollar.

I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed after reading the article. The acumen of the turkey must have gone down considerably over the centuries as I have never met a smart one. And it's a good thing because I enjoy eating turkey on Thanksgiving Day. I don't know what I'd do if I were forced to start thinking of them as friends.

Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate it!

#word-to-words, #slice-of-life, #literature, #blog, #blogging, #books, #editorial, #reading, #vocabulary, #history, #ReadersMagnet, #spilled thoughts, #good advice, #personal-essay, #writing community, #writing

[bomberqueen17]

long drive

for the record it takes almost exactly the same amount of time to go up thru western PA and come up 219 to come back from Baltimore as it took to go down via 90->390-> wherever that gets you. So. Avoiding the Thruway is possible!

Ironically enough we were only inspired to try this to avoid the snow. i know! Drive up thru ski country and the Snow Belt? But from the weather maps, the lake effect seemed to be mostly in a long corridor right along the Thruway, so like. It’s easy enough to avoid lake effect if you just don’t go where the wind is. Normally the wind angles down southward, that’s why that’s the snow belt, but when it doesn’t, it’s perfectly save to drive there.

Unless the wind shifts. Which it didn’t. So we left Maryland in 55F fog, and arrived in Buffalo at 20F ice, and I still haven’t chipped my car out. Dude said he wasn’t going in today so I just took his. Mine is like. Encased in ice.

It’s convenient that it’s cold though, BIL gave me a pile of nicely-packaged venison since he has too much in his freezer now, but Farmsister had just given me a bunch of beef from their last cow processing, and I do not have a chest freezer, and my regular lil freezer is kind of full of.... I’m not sure what. So I need to do a cleanout and rearrange, and meanwhile it’s 15F and I have a cooler sitting outside with venison frozen solid in it. Very nice.

(I’d been saying on Discord I couldn’t live anywhere that never let me use the outdoors for cold storage at least occasionally. That, and killing off all the bugs. When I mentioned this to my sister she had a third thing that winter gets you but I forget now. Anyway as we drive into our next whiteout I’ll chant my lil mantra of porch fridge, kills bugs to remind myself why anyone would want to live somewhere like this.

This incidentally marks the first time this winter I’ve located my winter coat. I did wear it today. I do own a down parka. I should’ve dug it out a week ago for that COVID test where I waited two hours in the parking lot, but I didn’t know I was gonna wait two hours.

By the way. It is now seven days and I never received the results of that test. Thank heavens I did not need them! The rapid test served my purpose.

God, we’re all fucked, we’re all so fucked.

Anyway I’m back at work and I’m just exhausted about it. I might take a couple of days off sometime this month. I’ve taken tons of days off work but like. None for me, and anyway there’s not that much work for me to do here, I’ll be caught up with the post-Christmas WTFery in no time.

I need a day to sit at home. I need like, three days; two to sit around and feel guilty, and one to actually do some shit. I did manage to get a lot done last night-- I got out of the car and immediately made dinner, since it was 3pm and we hadn’t eaten since 7am, and then I did all the dishes from dinner, and then I put together a loaf of bread to rise for today’s dinner, and started rearranging the freezer, and then Dude went grocery shopping, and I pre-packed today’s lunch and got the meat out of the freezer (well out of the cooler in the driveway) for this week’s meals (BIL for some reason packages everything in 2-lb increments which is an insane amount of meat for two people but I have a plan, at least for this package), and anyway we’re having hangover soup and venison hot dish this week because it’s fucking cold and I need to expand my horizons, culinarily.

[howtodisassembleyourdeviant]

eleven questions for the mun!

01.  alias or name: Arsenic or ‘Seni’ for short

02.  birthday: March 13th

03.  zodiac sign: 🐓 🐠 

04.  height: 5′6″

05.  hobbies: RPing, drawing, crafting, coloring, and I always thought I would enjoy mushroom hunting, not for eating but to catalog them. I like how fungi looks. 

06.  favorite colour: blue, green, and everything inbetween. The more earth-toned, the better. 

07.  favorite book: For fiction, I’ve always liked ‘Unwind’ by Neal Shusterman. I never read the whole series as by the time it came out, I felt too busy to really delve into a book and enjoy it. It’s about a future where parents can send their children to be ‘unwound’ or essentially taken apart, for their body parts to be used for medical purposes. One of the main characters in that book is also named Connor. 

For Non-Fiction, I wouldn’t call it a favorite, but I found Hiroshima Diary to be informative and emotional. It was the diary of a doctor (Michihiko Hachiya) living in Hiroshima at the time of the bombing, giving details of the hell that the first ever nuclear bomb used in war had unleashed. Any book about the bombing is not for the faint of heart, but this one is a little more tame than other, such as To Hell and Back: The Last Train From Hiroshima (Which is a compiled account of the bombing, written by Charles Pellegrino, who believed it was important to put every gory detail from the survivor’s accounts to show why nuclear bombs should never be used again.)

I promise I’m not a bad kind of freak! I just explore dark themes a lot as both morbid fascination and to understand the human mind. 

08.  favorite food: I also enjoy sushi, particularly spider rolls, unagi, and the king crab crunch roll they serve at Sakura’s here (king crab, white tuna, and salmon, slightly fried and topped with spicy mayo and eel sauce). It’s the only time I willingly eat mayo. I also enjoy BBQ venison heart, which my old redneck stepdad introduced me to. Haven’t had it in years, nor do I hunt anymore. Still, it was a favorite when I was younger. 

09.  last film or show watched: Well, I usually have The Simpsons playing in the background since there are so many (I’ve actually gone through all the seasons several times now) and for the nostalgia. However, the last show I actually watched was Squid Game with my mother, which I greatly enjoyed. My favorite character is No. 001. 

10.  inspiration: I listen to music sometimes to find the right mood for Connor, or I might re-watch some scenes, particularly when I’m trying to focus on dictation and how he would phrase something (though I also listen to Hank’s phrasing as I’m certain Connor would pick up habits from him post-deviancy). Other than that, I try to put myself in his shoes. 

For my AUs, they’re a way I can explore different aspects of his personality without effecting the main verse. My human AU is for exploring his emotions and the trauma from Amanda (while she is far worse in this verse, I do believe Connor suffers from PTSD due to her and Cyberlife), along with neglecting oneself that, while android Connor does, is not nearly as visible because he does not require food, drink, or sleep. My Naga AU (and to a lesser extent Demon AU), is more or less exploring Ruthless/Machine Connor, who has no issue causing other’s pain and takes pride in knowing he is the best of the best. My Mer-Verse and Cow AU explore the cinnamon roll that he can be, and is probably fanon Connor, in all honesty. I could never write Canon Connor being so soft, fun-loving, and sweet, but I do enjoy indulging on that sugar high. 

11.  story behind url: Well, Connor does send deviant androids to be disassembled, and I had been watching a lot of ‘how-to’ videos at the time. I can sit here and pretend it’s something deep like I’m disassembling deviant Connor’s personality and learning about what makes him human, but I’d be lying. I was just doing a lot of wood painting and baking at the time, trying to survive at a failing restaurant, living on a farm with no electricity or running water. 

Tagged By: @spiritistanchi​ (Thank you!)

Tagging (Only if you want to!): @technxlogic​ @trepidaticn​ @deviate-exe​