#I saw so many recipes over the years that tell you to use 'cider' or 'instant cider' in a way that didn't make sense. I understand now

[alphaori]

the replies on this post are how I found out that "cider" means apple juice in the US and normal cider is "hard cider". this explains so much

hard cider was invented when someone decided to make beer that tastes good instead of bad

[bloodycassian]

LEATHERBOUND - Reader x Cassian - (I think I missed this request but I think someone req’d something similar) Reader is a librarian in Illyria when Cassian comes in asking for help finding something.

Cassian's favorite time of year in Illyria was the winter days where the sun was out. The winds were harsh enough to stun his wings, but the rays from the sun were warm enough for a perfect contrast. Not letting him freeze, but not letting him get too hot either. 

The muddiness also became packed ice instead of the mess it had been over the summer. It was still messy in the more trafficked areas, but not nearly as bad. He couldn't hide the joy that rept into his heart at the sight of so many Illyrians taking joy in the season. Small winged children threw snowballs at passerbys from a ledge. A broad winged male scared them off with a flyover. Cassian entered the small shop, the smell of dust and worn carpet whirled around him. It was comforting in a strange way. It reminded him of being a child. Innocent and curiously exploring different shops at his home.

The bell above rang in a dull tone. He looked up and saw the shotty repair job on the ringer. Not exactly as it had been when he was a child, it seemed. "Stay right there!" You called from the back, putting away the stack of books you held. They clattered into the bin loudly. The sound of rustling made him curious.

"I'm just here for-" He called, starting to step further into the room. The books lined the short walls, and the stacks in the middle looked percaiously stacked. They were organized, but the bottom of the stack seemed stained. He doubted the resources for another bookcase were available. 

"I know, just dont move. I just cleaned the carpet." You brought a towel from the front desk over and placed it beside the small outcropping of hard wood you had laid out for anyone first entering the store. "This is the last building in Illyria with carpets. I'd like to keep it that way." You said when the dark haired male gave you a pinched look. He bent and began taking off his boots. Boots that looked far too new for the likes of an Illyrian. 

Watching him do so, you noticed the two Siphons on his hands. Then the one on his knee. Your head went fuzzy. What had you done to deserve a visit from the Lord of Bloodshed? He noticed your stare and gave you a wolfish smile. You didn't flinch away from it. The wind howled at the gaps in the stone, and you cleared your throat.

"So what do you need?" You asked, crossing your hands behind your back. Ready to be of service. Hopefully he wouldn't demand too much of your small store.

"You said you knew. So you tell me." He said with a sly smile. You stammered, sweat slicking your palms. "I didnt mean- We have several ah..." You looked away, at the different categories of spellbooks and history of Prythian. Shame fell in your gut at the bottom layers of books that made the stack in the middle of the room.

"I'm looking for a cookbook. One with Illyrian recipes." He stepped to the carpet, his dark socks immaculate against the worn pattern. 

"Is the high lord a fan of home made treats?" You laughed at the odd request. Then covered your mouth, the embarrassment turned your ears red. "I'm sorry-" "No, its fine." Cassian chuckled, pulling a book off a shelf. It was of the first war, and was bound in dark leather. "He does. But the book isn't for him. The high ladies sister, actually." 

The one of hellfire and stone or the one that seemed to be a ghost? You dared not question him. "A solstice gift?" You asked, showing him over to the small cooking section you had obtained over centuries. They weren't of much use in Illyria, but the few travelers found them fascinating. 

"Yes, she's had a rough year." His voice was somber, but the hope still lingered in his eyes.

You let the words sink in. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, his presence was warm and welcoming, actually. As if he was putting off a vibe of 'I'm safe.' You handed him a complete cookbook full of basic recipes and baking. The cover was so worn the title was unreadable. Dark spots stained the inner pages, you knew because you'd borrowed the book several times. "We all have." He flicked through it for a moment, smiling. His teeth were immaculate, and a bit extra pointy on his canines. The sight of them sent a thrill through you.

"I recommend the sweet dough. It's spice free, the only thing you need for it is pine needles and sap." You flicked the pages to one you had bookmarked. The opposite side was full of different types of cakes to make with minimal ingredients. 

"I'm too familiar with it." He laughed, shaking his head. Some fond memories from long ago lingered there. He could recall the scent of the bread with full accuracy. The way it the needles would char on top of the dough if there were too many. 

"How much do I owe you?" He pinned the leather under his arm and pulled a satchel from his pocket. Your heart raced at the glimpse of so many gold coins there. 

"Ah- it'll be Twenty silvers." You said, embarrassment coating your tongue. He didnt even look like he was carrying and silver. He eyed you speculatively. "Twenty silvers for a full book?" He asked. You nodded, trying not to wring your hands. He fished a gold coin from the pouch and held it out to you. "Let me get you some change... it may take a second." You fumbled to the desk where you kept your coin inside a spellbound box. 

"Dont worry about it. I'll be back another time." He called, setting the book on the floor to pull on his shoes. "Lord Cas-" You began to protest.

"Just Cassian." He corrected, grunting as he pulled on the boots. "Call it a tab." He winked and eyed the ripped, hole filled curtains of the front window. How they swayed in the breeze that drifted in from the rocks. 

"I'll be seeing you." His eyes scanned you, and you nodded. "Be seeing you." You said back, your mouth dry. He was intimidating in the ways you'd never thought of. Not in a scary way, but in a sly way that made your heart race. The bell over his head dinged hollowly as he exited, shoving the book into his backpack. You tried not to stare as he left. 

+ The Solstice party was a success as it normally was. Nesta kept to herself in the corner with Amren while everyone else exchanged gifts. Elain's eyes lit up at the book, and she hugged Cassian with heart. "I'll be making you something tomorrow." She promised. Cassian felt the flicker of cold over him and shot Az a look. They glowered at one another. 

Rhys leveled a look at both of them that got them to straighten up. Feyre handed out mugs of hot cider. Mor brought around a bottle of liquor to mix with it. The night was warm with friends and joy. Besides the cold corner where Nesta sat. Cassian did his best to ignore it. As did everyone else. 

He was nearly the last to leave. The cider had effected him more than he thought. But it warmed his insides against the cold wind of Velaris. He wrapped his wings around himself to shield from the cold. He thought of the librarian who had given him the book. His mind drifted to the rest of that day, how Devlon had even seemed cheerful. 

He wondered if you were doing anything, if you had any family celebrating with you. If you had a mate that spoiled you. His heart kicked up at the thought of it. He hadn't noticed a ring...or any tattoos to signify a mating bond. He couldn't recall much else. He had been stunned by the beauty and simplicity of you and your shop. He couldnt remember if you had wings. 

The frustration ate at him. He had to know more. He needed to know if you had a good solstice. He made a plan. "It would be good karma" He told himself, entering one of the several shops on the way to the townhome. His excitement made it nearly impossible to sleep that night. + "Happy solstice." A voice called from the front door. You hadn't heard the bell chime. 

You rushed to the front, making sure that the carpet hadn't been ruined. The curtains whipped from the wind outside. The enormous Illyrian shut the door with a firm gentleness that made your heart race. His hands wrapped around a small wooden box. Well, it was small in his hands. 

"It's the day after solstice. Happy late solstice." You corrected, striding over to him and giving him a look about the shoes. They looked incredibly clean. "You still need to take them off." 

"I know. You need to open this first." He forced the box upon you and stooped to begin unlacing the boots.  "What-"

"Just open it." He stood and followed you to the counter. Heat flooded your cheeks, you hadn't gotten him anything. Not that you could afford it, or even knew what he would want. "Why did you get this?" You asked, trying to hide the tension in your voice.

"So you dont have to cook that sweetbread again." He said with a grin, staring at you. At how your hands delicately removed the lid from the box. Then at your stunned reaction at the waft of spices that spilled from the box. "Cassian-" You breathed, utterly speechless. 

"I have a request too...So you can't say its too much. It's for me too." He went to the shelf where he'd gotten the cookbook for Elain. "Make us these, and we'll call it even."

"Cassian... I'm not a cook. I dont bake." You laughed when he pointed at the spice cakes in the book. "Maybe ask the sister-" You pushed the box toward him, the heaviness of it screamed 'expensive' to you. Guilt marred the joy of receiving the gift.

He pushed it firmly back to you, locking eyes. He noted the way you tensed at that stare. He eased, trying to ignore the scent mixing with the smell of leather and spice. "I want you to make it, using these." He patted the top of the box. 

You debated with yourself. The male carried around more gold than you'd ever seen. And he wasn't worried about it. You figured if it was a gift then he genuinely wanted you to have it. You sighed and took the box, placing it under the shelf beside your bag. Your wings pinched at the movement. 

You ignored how his eyes lingered on your scarred members. You were used to it from some males, but never one as important and high ranking as him. He shook himself and refocused, pulling himself out of the rage he was feeling at the sight of your ruined wings. 

"Any other requests?" You sighed, feigning annoyance. His toothy grin made your stomach do flips. 

[foodbytesback]

Mocktail Monday #1- The Golden Delicious

This week’s drink is, admittedly, 90% an invention of necessity.  First, I offhandedly offered to host New Year’s Eve festivities for my friends, one of whom remarked that she probably wasn’t even going to drink. All this means that I knew that New Year’s would be the perfect place to debut the first of the mocktails I do for the site… the only caveat being that I had basically given myself 2 days to formulate something (A quick, post-NYE side note: I was the only person who ended up drinking at said party, yet also didn’t make too much of an effort to promote this mocktail.  Oops.).  I took to my fridge and pantry to see what I had to work with: apple cider, cardamom syrup (that I had originally made for a gin-based drink months prior that everyone ended up hating, because gin), a tube of ginger puree, and an ungodly amount of turmeric.  

Naturally, I decided to throw all of these things together in a cocktail shaker to see what would happen.

And it, much like pretty much any of the cursed bullshit I put on this blog… was actually pretty good.  The turmeric sort of serves the same purpose that a bitters would in an alcoholic drink, something that I think many mocktails seem to overlook.  And even without the turmeric, all the other flavors obviously work well enough together as a relatively classic fall/winter drink.

I do want to point out that I’m still not 100% happy with this.  The raw turmeric still tends to leave a chalky mouthfeel that no one seems to acknowledge on any of the sites I saw after googling “best way to add turmeric to a drink and not have that chalky mouthfeel.”  Also, since most of the solids get strained out, it’s hard to tell if the ginger puree is really doing anything.  The ideal solution to both of these would be to make a turmeric, ginger and cardamom syrup, but that would also be a little less useful for recipes that aren’t this.

Either way, I actually measured everything for once (That’s right, I bought a jigger and pony for this.  I did this, for you.) so you can make it yourself and adjust to your tastes.  More turmeric? No turmeric?  Your fate is in your hands. 

[Also, in other, Dry January news, many Gen Zs are going “sober curious,” which, as a person who dabbles in being cringe as hell, is cringe as hell.  It feels like the Dry January equivlant of how 10 years ago we called any straight guy who dressed well and used deoterant “metrosexual.”]

The Recipe

 3 oz apple cider

¾ tsp turmeric

1 tsp ginger puree*

1 oz cardamom syrup**

~2 oz sparkling apple cider

*According to the package, this is equivalent of 1 Tbs of freshly grated ginger.

**Boil 1 cup of water, 1 cup of sugar and ¼ cup of cardamom pods together until the mixture has reduced to a syrupy consistency. Let steep for 3 days, then strain out the cardamom pods. 

Combine the (flat) cider, turmeric, ginger and syrup in a cocktail shaker.  Shake, then pour into a mesh strainer over a rocks glass (turmeric and brown sugar rim garnish and obnoxious round ice cube optional).  Top off with sparkling cider.

*WARNING: Turmeric-rimmed glasses may result in you getting turmeric stains all over your nose, as I found out about half an hour after drinking the one in the picture.*

[kerwritesthings]

Subway Surfing

Summary: When a literal run in changes the course of a day, let alone of a life…

Word Count: little bit over 2.2k

Warning: adorable, fluff and funny

Author Notes: A bit of a birthday surprise for @fallinallincurls​ - Happy, happy birthday Bre! Big birthday deserves nothing more than the start of a new verse for the hockey boy I forced at you last year. Umm sorry not sorry.

Things have been a lot of not ok around here for a good clip, I’ve been really not ok. It’s been hard. Writing hasn’t come, life has just kept throwing me down and down. Trying to fight the way back up, not easy but I’m trying. This was a nice way to try to get back some of that light. I had been poking at this for a beat, the idea gnawing at me with some pieces written, notes scribbled around, but birthday sparkle helped get it over the finish line. Part two already has some bones, as does part three - but please to bear with me if you will.

You hate that it’s a Saturday and you’re trekking your way into the office. It’s finally truly fall in the city and it’s a gorgeous day. The last thing you want is to be stuck at your desk behind a computer screen. You want a hot spiked apple cider, a book, a good playlist and your plaid blanket on the grass in Central Park.

It looks like the rest of the city is awake early on this day for the same reason. The subway, which normally is slightly more bearable at this time on a weekend, is the furthest thing from that. It’s packed with people including the grimy, sweat-ladened guy in the chopped-up joggers and crocs who keeps trying to “accidentally” bump and grab you every chance he gets.

The next stop, you try to move but too many people are coming on and off as the doors only quickly open and shut. You just end up jostling as the car jolts in its start. You can’t fall forward. It would land you right into the situation you’re trying to flee. Instead, you try to lean back but you slip. Fully prepared to wipe out, a hand comes gently to steady your elbow while another holds you at your shoulder.

You hear a mish mosh of “careful there” and “are you ok” crossing together as you get back steady on your feet.

“Thanks for saving me for either face planting or landing in that sweaty creep’s grasp,” you say, sliding your bag back securely on your shoulder before turning.

You know those faces. You’ve seen them on billboards and most definitely on TV. Shit, shit and shit. Of course, the two star, absolutely adorable bestie forwards from the New York Islanders have come to your rescue. This would be your luck. At least you pulled yourself somewhat together for this Saturday jaunt to the office. You keep a straight face, smiling normally and not letting anything on.

“Couldn’t let you risk that. He’s been a bit of an ass since he got into the car. We said if he were still acting a fool at next stop, we would jump in. Plotted a rescue mission and everything,” the one explains, hand running through his hair.

“His mission was to cross his arms and give him the eye,” the other mocks, shoving at his friend’s shoulder. “I mean I guess he can look threatening, like a puppy maybe.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. These two are exactly as they’ve seemed in interviews. Mathew and Anthony really are as thick as thieves.

“That sarcastic asshole is Anthony and I’m Mat. We’ll stay close until he leaves, or you need to,” he remarks.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s the subway. That happening unfortunately is just another day that ends in y, you know?” you explain. “I also don’t want to take up more of your time or ruin any of your plans.”

“You deal with that? Often?” Anthony asks, eyes a little wide.

“Welcome to New York,” you shrug. “Not every day thankfully. But it’s often enough.”

“I hope you know, that wasn’t, and we weren’t...” Mat tries to stumble through.

“No, no, no. Totally. I didn’t get that whatsoever,” you respond. “Not that from either of you guys. Promise. It’s sweet to know there are still gentlemen out in this world.”

They both get a little bashful smile across their pretty faces.

“Glad to help,” they practically say in unison which causes you to bark out a laugh.

Time to shoot your shot, you think to yourself. Worse case, it’s a moment you get to have for a fun bar story.

“I think we need to become friends, boys,” you start. “Or at the very least, I owe you a drink for saving me.”

“Yes,” Anthony jumps in, nodding his head with a wide grin. “You should come to brunch with us.”

“If I didn’t have to get to the office I would,” you reply. “Unfortunately, it’s stuff I need done before a Monday morning meeting.”

“Office work on a Saturday? That’s no fun. Play hooky! We can promise a bottomless brunch,” he teases.

“Maybe after though?” Mat chimes in with a soft smile. “Get what you need to done, give you something to look forward to after?”

“I don’t want to ruin whatever plans you’ve had for the day,” you begin before the boys both shake their heads.

“It’s just brunch and shopping to try to get this one to up his style game,” Mat chides while Anthony rolls his eyes.

You bite your lip fighting back yet another giggle. These two, at the very least, would truly make some good friends. You dig around in your tote, finally snatching your card holder.

“Not sure how long I’ll be stuck. I’m hoping only a couple hours. But. If you’re serious. Text or call me,” you say, handing one off to each of them.

They both nod, each pocketing your card as the subway comes to a halt.

“Oh shit, this stop is mine. Thanks again for the soft hands and clutch assist guys,” you wink, dashing away quickly before the doors close.

“What is my life,” you mutter, the boys waiving as the train pulls away. “I need to get to the office.”

“Ok, I think that’s the first time we’ve ever had someone realize who we are in public, without a whole big scene or making a blatant ass grab type pass. We’re keeping her. Plus, you like her,” Anthony teases, shoving at Mat’s shoulder as they hit the sidewalk coming up from the subway.

“I could say the same thing to you Tito,” he snarks back, shoving in return. “You were batting the eyes. I’m not blind.”

“She seems cool and yeah she’s pretty, but I’m not jaw drop like you were when you saw her,” he chirps back. “I was trying to get a rise out of you dude. And it worked, you actually stepped up the game. And now you have her info. Don’t make me text her too. Cause I will.”

You’re just about to settle into your email with a cup of what your office likes to consider coffee when your phone starts buzzing about in quick succession.

“Looks like this is a thing,” you mumble to yourself, lips quirking up into a half smile as you formulate a reply.

“You knew?” Anthony grins over his beer. “From the start?”

You nod, sipping at your cider. You pushed through your work to be able to meet the two downtown at this tiny spot in NoLiTa that was tucked away from the crazy of the neighborhoods it was snug between. It wasn’t as sleek as you thought they’d choose; it was something much more comfortable and lower key.

“Really?” Mat questions.

“Yep. One of you not with the other? I would have had to do double take. I would have noticed, but probably would have questioned. However, the two peas in a pod together? That was a no brainer,” you explain, fighting back a bit of a giggle.

“You didn’t say anything,” Mat replies.

“How many times does that happen and it turn into a thing or a bit of a scene?” you circle the bottom of the cider bottle around on the tabletop. “There was also no point to, either. You were just trying to enjoy the day and you were being super kind keeping me from wiping out. I get it’s New York, so it’s a less likely thing but it still happens.  So, if I could keep it from another one of those moments...”

“Told you Barzy, we’re keeping her,” Anthony taps his beer against yours. “Welcome to the crazy, Evangeline.”

You can’t help but tinge a little pink.

“Well then. If that’s the case, my friends call me Evie,” you smile.

“Evie,” Mat lets the name roll around his tongue.

A couple rounds later, of both beers and darts, you realize how tight the two are and more so, how easily you could become entangled in friendship with them. And you do. Texts and memes and random photos fly back and forth, you all hang when all your schedules align. You’re also fostering relationships with each of them separately too; sharing recipes of things you want to try to bake and longing about the places you miss in Quebec with Anthony while Mat was trying to teach you more about basketball (with little luck) and in turn you trying to expand what he calls music and what actually is music. You also share some of your favorite places in the city that the two really didn’t know about. It was easy with them, together and individually but you were getting a bit more of a tug, a bit of a warmer burn with Mat.

A Saturday morning a few weeks after the afternoon drinking funtivities, you wake up to a few texts, photos really, from the group chat with the boys. First is a pair of tickets and passes to their game that night. Second is two jerseys: a blue Barzal and a white Beauvillier. The third, a text from Mat.

Choose carefully…

We’re also not taking no for an answer. You’re coming. Game and drinks after.

“Oh shit,” you exhale, quickly jumping to your closet.

“Beth?” you call out from your room, tossing through your clothes looking for two specific items. “Please tell me you don’t have plans tonight.”

“Hot date with a bottle of pinot noir and trash tv, why?” she pokes her head into your room.

“Good. You do now. You’re coming with me to the Islanders game tonight,” you mutter, flipping through more hangars.

“Wait excuse me?” she flops down, cross-legged on the end of your bed.

“So, I may have left a tiny detail out from when I told you about the two cute guys who saved me on the subway,” you explain.

“Ok and?” Beth prompts you to continue.

“They’re Islanders…” you trail off.

“What?” she screams tossing one of your throw pillows at you.

“I’m trying to not make a big deal, cause you know. But, at the same time, well you know,” you reply, finally finding the long sleeve you wanted to wear as well as one of your hockey jerseys.

“You need to give me more than this, Evie,” Beth pries.

You lean back against your closet door.

“It was Anthony Beauvillier and Mat Barzal,” you say.

Beth screams and throws another pillow at you.

“You just casually didn’t tell me that you met the damn Calder winner and his like bromance bestie,” she laments. “Evie, what the fuck?”

“This is exactly why,” you sigh. “Like it started out as ok I could have a moment, a cool story to tell. But honestly, they’re two really great guys.”

“You’re not telling me something, I can see it in that wistful look,” she pokes. “Oh god you’re sweet on one of them, aren’t you?”

You shake your head at Beth, not acknowledging the question. Shoving her over a little, you fold the jersey on the bed next to her, so the logo was perfectly visible, but no giveaway of the name on the back or numbers on the sleeves.  

Fine if you two summon I guess I must go. I’m bringing Beth, my roommate, so you need to behave. She’s already a pretty big hockey fan so I apologize now in advance for any of her crazy. She’s great but gets excited. Also, easy answer: where’s the Ebs jersey? ;) Or I can always wear this one.

You snap a quick shot of your Dallas Stars jersey.

Mat of course chimes in first.

That’s cold Evie, really cold. And that thing? That’s even worse. Who is on there? Do I wanna know?

Then Anthony.

Non. Non. Non. Why do you even have that jersey!?

“You’ve got that look,” Beth pokes at your thigh. “I’ll leave you be for now. Need to be at the arena what 6? We should leave here at 4:30. Worse case we get there early, we can snag a drink nearby. I don’t trust the train or the subway on a Saturday to be on time. Thanks for bringing me, Roomie. I’m excited and I get to meet these boys of yours.”

I have favorites across the league, you both know I liked the sport well before you two came along. I have the appropriate jerseys for my boys. Well, almost. You guys making me choose is mean af. Rock paper scissors it between you both, whoever wins that’s what I’ll wear.

“Just leave her yours, you know you want to no matter who would win at that little challenge of Evie’s,” Anthony smiles as the text comes through, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “And I know you’d pull shit to do it no matter what. She’s really your girl anyway.”

“What…” Mat starts before Anthony jumps in.

“You know it’s never been like that with her for me, dude. She’s awesome and I’m so glad to have her as a friend,” he replies. “You though? Since moment one, she’s been something else for you. You need to make a move. You’ve got game, I’ve seen it.”

“Evie’s. She’s Evie. There’s more there...” he leans back into his locker.

“More reason to then Barzy,” he volleys back. “Come on, get your shit together. We can drop everything to leave for her on the way out.”

[swan--writes]

A Very Mr. Finn Christmas

There was something about ‘Dewey Christmas’ that just sounded...wrong. Anyway, Merry Belated Christmas to those who celebrate! ❤💚

Warnings: none

Words: 1,936

The year had been a bastard. First was your dog dying, then Dewey getting sent home for last school year because of the pandemic, then the spike in visibility of police brutality and the protests. The summer had been brutally hot, you weren’t working, you and Dewey had had to quarantine separately for more than a month and neither of you had been able to see any of your friends. You spent so much time on the couch at your parents’ place upstate before your partner eventually joined you, once his own lease had run out. Despite both of your relief at Dewey getting out of the city, that had also been when he found out for certain that he wouldn’t be able to see his kids in person. California had caught fire, one of your grandparents died of lung cancer and had a funeral you couldn’t attend because of COVID, and another was all set to spend Christmas in the hospital.

Yes, the year had indeed been a bastard, but thankfully, it was almost a dead bastard.

Since your parents had broken down and gone to visit your aunt, you and Dewey had the large house to yourselves for two weeks. The two of you had been pleasantly surprised: despite both needing a healthy amount of alone time, you still weren’t sick of each other. Not only that, but your relationship had fully survived the year. If anything, you were closer now. You still loved his soft eyes, the give of his chubby stomach when he held you, the way his arms felt like your own personal radiators.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have been surprised. Dewey Finn was the kindest man you knew, and the best partner you could have asked for. As immature and rambunctious as he could be, he was also sweet and soft and – though he would never admit it – quite sensitive. Dewey hadn’t seemed to want to talk about it, but he was pretty clearly heartbroken that he couldn’t see his students face-to-face this year. He had held most of his frustration in, since he knew how much it bothered you that you couldn’t work at all with the pandemic happening. Still, you could hear him grumbling in the office your parents had set up for him.

Now, at Christmas, you were trying to find ways to make the season special for your partner. By the last week, you were holding yourself back from writing out a literal Festivities Schedule. You had made a plague year Christmas playlist, trying your best to channel him as you arranged it. It was far from perfect, but you thought he appreciated it.

Your dad’s studio was full of art supplies, so you and Dewey painted ornaments. Neither of you were particularly skilled, but he didn’t care, so you decided you didn’t care either. Fortunately, you had thought to wear clothes you could get paint on because, naturally, it had taken all of ten minutes for your painting session to turn into a full on paint battle to the death. You were fairly certain Dewey had started it, though he insisted on his innocence. Either way, you wound up with Shining Stars gold on your nose and Dark Winter Skies blue all over your sleeve. Dewey got a streak of Santa Red on his arm and splashes of Sparkling Snow glittery white across his shirt and pants. You were sure you still had some glitter in your hair from when he had tackled you and, in a gruff Muppet voice, insisted that you had turned him into the Glitter Monster. Dewey had tickled you until your tears of laughter had soaked into his shirt.

Eventually, you thought to tap out and, breathlessly, you kissed his hand in surrender. Dewey had kissed your nose in return, and come away with a smudge of gold paint across his lips. So he left to wash his face, and you left to make Christmas cookies, and he joined you in the kitchen. You spend the rest of the night playing Mary Lambert’s new holiday EP and singing at each other, harmonizing at all the best parts. He, of course, had no patience for ‘Ave Maria,’ and took the opportunity to wrap his arms around you – getting yet more glitter all over you – and gently sway with you.

The next day was when the snowstorm hit. Your parents’ plow guy cleared the driveway (twice), but you and Dewey were responsible for the walkway. You woke up early to shovel first thing in the morning, despite Dewey’s unconscious arm trying to prevent you from getting out of bed. Peeking through the curtains, you almost let him.

One hour after you went back inside, you could hardly tell that you had shoveled at all.

The snow was lighter on the walkway, however, when you went back outside with Dewey to shovel again. You got the sense that he was enjoying it far too much, and you wondered if he had ever had to shovel before. You imagined that growing up in NYC didn’t leave many opportunities, but you didn’t ask. In fact, you were especially quiet all day.

Finally, when you lost power, Dewey asked if you were alright. It wasn’t until he asked that you realized that the seasonal depression had snuck back into your brain. Dewey was predictably wonderful, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to hold back tears. Your partner stood back while you lit up the stone fireplace in your mother’s library, then rolled you up in a blanket on the floor, scattering a few pillows around you.

Dewey heated apple cider over the fire. He picked out a small copy of A Christmas Carol, bound in soft red leather, with gold leaf decorating the cover. It had your mother’s name in it, and just below that, yours in shaky lettering. That did make you cry, but only for a moment. Dewey leaned back against your legs and read the first stave to you while you drank your cider. You took over for him after that, for the next stave. Since you were both musicians with decent vocal stamina, you managed to get through the entire book before you had to call it a night.

When you woke up the next day, it was Christmas Eve. The power was back on, the decorations were hung, the tree was decorated, the presents were wrapped, and the cookies were soft. All that was left was to prep dinner for Christmas Day and dance in the kitchen. As far as Dewey was concerned, there was no type of dancing better than kitchen dancing, and you had to agree. Your parents’ kitchen had plenty of open space, and you could twirl each other around or slide in your socks without running into counters or corners.

The plow guy came by to do one more pass over the driveway and throw down some salt. You donned your mask for the first time all week to bring a box of Christmas cookies out to his truck. It surprised you, how thrilled you were to speak to a new human.

When you returned to Dewey, it still felt as cozy as ever. He jumped around to what almost felt like sacrilegious renditions of Christmas songs, including – though not limited to – a truly perplexing version of ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ by a supremely emo band from the early 2000s. Dewey had insisted it be added to your playlist, and who were you to argue?

He brought out his guitar while you made the sweet potatoes. You were particular about your grandmother’s sweet potato recipe. When he rolled up his sleeves to make pie dough, you hopped up onto the counter, sufficiently out of the way. Dewey wouldn’t give you his exact recipe, though considering his tendency to use bowls instead of measuring cups, you weren’t entirely certain that he knew his exact recipe.

By the time you were both finished with all of the dishes, it was pitch dark out. There was butter underneath his fingernails and French bread underneath yours, flour on both of your shirts, and tension in both of your backs. You fell asleep long before midnight.

The next morning, you heard Dewey’s voice before you saw his face.

“Hey,” he said. His lips brushed against your ear.

You groaned and snuggled deeper under your Christmas quilt.

“Hey,” your partner said, more insistently. He squeezed your waist, and you groaned again but opened your eyes.

“Yes?” you muttered.

Dewey nosed at the skin below your ear. “Merry Christmas.”

Your eyes sprung open now, and you sat up. “It’s Christmas.”

“Yeah.” You could hear the smile in his voice. He must have been awake for a while now.

“Merry Christmas.” You looked at him then. There was a cold gray light filtering into the room, and you could see snow falling gently through a gap in the curtains across from the bed. Dewey’s hair was mussed, and a few waves hung in his face. His stubble was coming in full force. His tee shirt was wrinkled. There was still some Christmas Tree green clinging to the edges of his fingernails.

“What are you lookin’ at?” he asked you playfully.

You suppressed an eye roll and settled for tapping his nose. “You, wise guy. You’re cozy.”

“I’m cozy?”

“M-hm.”

“Can a person look cozy?”

“Well obviously, ‘cause you do. You’re cute.” You tapped his nose again, twice, very lightly. Dewey scrunched up the bridge of his nose, but didn’t lose the soft joy in his expression. “Oh! I have something for you.” You reached blindly for your phone, feeling around on the bedside table while Dewey straightened up.

“Didn’t we set out all our presents?”

“Yeah…” you dragged out the word. “This was sorta last minute.” Your partner waited while you found your phone and opened up your photo gallery. When you found the video you wanted, you opened it and held up the phone between yourself and Dewey.

“…baby?” he said when he saw what was on the screen,

“Yeah?”

“What is this?”

“I may or may not have conspired with your students behind your back.”

In the video, Summer was yelling at his band, trying valiantly to get them all into some sort of order. It seemed to be working. The students seemed to be in their band room, but most of them wore masks. The only kids who were unmasked were Dewey’s singers, and they were spaced apart from one another.

“Is that legal?” Dewey asked. You elbowed him, and he laughed. It was a quiet laugh, though. Almost astonished.

“Hi, Mr. Finn!” Summer said in the video, now facing the camera. “We wanted to do something for you, after all your hard work during these times. So we–”

“She means your–”

“Freddy! Shut it!” Summer snapped. After a short breath, she turned to the camera once again. “We put a little something together for you.” With that, Summer practically touch-stepped offscreen.

When you glanced over at Dewey, he was watching you.

“What?” you laughed.

“I love you.” You heard cymbals playing through your phone’s speaker.

“Shh, it’s starting!” You snapped your attention back to the screen. Dewey shook his head, but followed your gaze.

“I love you too,” you muttered quickly, as the first chords of ‘Faith Noel’ began to spring from Lawrence’s keyboard.

Outside, the snow fell softly to the ground. Inside, beside Dewey, you were warm, and he was cozy, and he loved you. What more could you ask for on Christmas?

.

.

Please reblog, if ye are so moved.

Tags List: @skiddyyo @a-okay-rj @geeky-marie @darkblueeyedperson @hannah-de-lioncourt @ironmansuucks @missihart23 @ballerinafairyprincess @thewolfisapartofmysoul

[ihearthes]

Farmers’ Market

Author: @ihearthes Pairing: Harry x y/n Rating: Fluff Word Count: 2.8k

Summer Feeling Challenge sponsored by @helladirections

Vibrant yellows, pinks, greens, and red catch my eye as I take in the variety of fruits and veg in front of me. Wow. How is it possible to have this much beautiful fresh produce in one spot? Placing the essential ingredients for my favorite salad in a basket, I approach the counter. Having ridden a bicycle to the market, I’m fairly confident it will all fit in my knapsack for the return to my flat. 

Hearing his voice causes my entire body to freeze. Well, not completely because my heart is like a wild animal trying to break free from captivity. Regular beats, steady, but louder than my friend Steph had been at his concert in Philly. 

“Hi, I’m looking for some kale, and you don’t seem to have any,” His voice is as deep as the grooves in one of the gravel roads back home in Springfield, and the shiver that travels up my spine is a violent and silent storm. 

Shit. Had I taken the last of the kale? Maybe I can surreptitiously put it back so he doesn’t notice? Wait just a doggone minute! Why the fuck should I give up my kale? Just because he’s my favorite musician in the whole world and he’s somehow standing at the very same green-grocer’s as I am? That makes zero sense. 

A statue, I debate my options. 

Buy my produce and leave before he notices me. But then he might realize that I’ve taken the last of the kale. 

Put the kale back and choose spinach instead? My strawberry salad will taste lovely with spinach. But it truly is best with kale. 

Wait until he leaves and hope he doesn’t spy the kale in my basket? Suddenly, I’ve got the urge to pee. What if he’s here for a long time? 

Put on my sexy voice and offer to share my kale salad with him? This option causes me to smirk while my tummy resembles a popcorn popper with kernels scattering in every direction. Stepping to the counter, I quickly throw my items at the woman while he’s engaged in conversation with a different clerk. 

“That’ll be £14.35,” the woman says, and I withdraw a £20 note, quickly passing it to her, holding my breath that I can escape before he approaches. Not daring to look backwards, I squeeze my change in my fist as I rush to fit in with the crowd strolling the Parliament Hill Farmers’ Market. It’s not until I’m at the end of the stalls and near my chained bicycle that I slow down, breathe, and risk a glance behind me. 

“What did you think? He was going to chase you down and tackle you for the kale?” Steph screams at me through the phone. Naturally she had been my first call as soon as I arrived back at the flat my company had rented for the duration of this London business trip. 

“I didn’t know, Steph! It’s like sixty degrees out there, and I’m sweating like I’ve just run a marathon in ninety-degree heat.” Removing the items from my knapsack, I wash them, laying them out to dry on a towel. Using my fingers, I pull my shirt away from my chest and shake it to allow air to flow better. 

“You’re the only person I know who can meet Harry fucking Styles on her first trip to the farmers’ market! And you’re deffo the only one who would turn and run away! How did he look? What was he wearing?” Her words are BB pellets like my brothers used to shoot at cans back home. 

My words are quiet and stutter as they emerge like a new butterfly from a cocoon. “I didn’t look.”

“WAIT JUST ONE GODDAMNED MINUTE! What do you mean? How could you not look?” Her volume has increased to the level that I might need to remove my Airpods so as to not damage my ears. Then her voice lowers. “What if it wasn’t him?”

Shit. I hadn’t considered that. “No. It was definitely him. Come on. How many times have I listened to his voice?”

“Maybe it was just the British accent.”

“Steph, I’m in London. Everyone has a British accent. I’m telling you. It was him.”

My best friend sighs. “Okay. I believe you. The fact that he was right there, though, and you didn’t say or do anything…” 

“I got the hell out of there. What do you mean I didn’t do anything?”

“Maybe you’ll see him next week. Will you talk to him?”

A soft smile crosses my lips. “Nope. Come on, Steph. You and I have always had a pact that we wouldn’t bother him if we saw him in the wild, and I’m sticking with that.”

----------

“My boss and his wife are coming by tonight, so I want to put together a fruit and cheese plate.” I tell the vendor at Bath Soft Cheese. “Can you give me some suggestions?”

“Oh. I can!” A voice next to me says, and I’m a rigid piece of lumber. What are the fucking odds? Shit. 

“Thanks, Harry,” the gentleman at the table says. “I’m going to help this couple.” With that, I’m left alone. 

Carefully, I swivel my neck to make sure I’ve not lost my mind -- or the plot as my colleagues might say. But no. It’s him. Definitely him. 

I drink him in. Wearing a hoodie with his own name over the heart and a pair of shorts that are more for walking than jogging, Harry (fucking Styles!) points towards one of the cheeses sitting on the bed of ice. 

“This one is a vegetarian cheese, and it’s my sister’s favorite. Best paired with thin apple slices because they make the cheese with apple cider. So delicious.” He glances at me, and I feel faint from the deep green of his eyes. Fuck. Up close and in person, they’re brilliant. They shine (Shine! Step into the light! Shine! So bright sometimes!), and I have to blink so that I can nod. 

“Awesome. Thanks,” I move to take the cheese. 

“Oh, but this one,” he points to the next one over, “is their Bath Soft, and it’s best served with grapes.” Harry Styles, explaining cheeses like he’s an expert cheesemonger, makes me smile. “Personally, I wouldn’t serve a blue cheese to guests unless you know they like it. So many people take offense to blue cheese.”

“Right? I love blue cheese. Especially in a salad. It’s got that bite to it,” I blurt out, and then clamp my mouth shut as I realize I’ve started to relax in his presence. Which is downright stupid as I might inadvertantly disclose something incriminating. Like how many of his concerts I’ve witnessed live.

“Yes! I’ve got this great kale salad recipe with blue cheese and walnuts!” His excitement is the same as that of a puppy spotting a treat; tail practically wagging the whole backside. 

From deep in my belly I feel the giggle build up, and I fasten both hands solidly over my mouth in a pathetic (and useless) attempt to contain it. 

His joy is contagious, though, and I can’t help myself. “Does it have a balsamic vinegarette? Because I have one that’s so good I can eat it every night for a week. Oh. Never mind. That’s the recipe I have with candied pecans. Not walnuts.”

Holy shit. I’m actually standing in a farmers’ market in London discussing recipes with Harry Styles. Perhaps I’m going to pass out? Or maybe I’m hallucinating? Or dreaming? 

“Candied pecans? Sounds yummy. There’s my friend. Gotta go! You can’t go wrong with those two cheeses I mentioned! And maybe treat yourself to some blue cheese too. Just for you.” He winks with his right eye and flashes the dimple my way before he disappears.

----------

My third week in London, and I climb onto my bicycle a full two hours before the usual time I had traveled to the farmers’ market the last two weeks. My license plate should read “Determined to Dodge” because it’s freaking me out a bit that I’ve seen Harry twice in the same place. And they say lightning doesn’t strike twice. Ha! I’m making sure it doesn’t strike thrice. 

“I’ll take the plain goat’s cheese,” I instruct the vendor, and after money is exchanged, she hands it to me and I move to place it directly into my backpack. After nearly a month, I’ve got the hang of this farmers’ market shopping, it seems, and I’m pleased to have arrived with a set shopping list for the first time. 

“Yum.” Harry’s voice comes over my shoulder, and I’m startled enough to nearly drop the damn cheese. HOW IS HE HERE? “What’s your plan for that?”

“Um,” I bite my lip. “Goat cheese, honey, and fruit crostini.” Feeling emboldened, my lips continue speaking as though this superstar and I are friends, “I’ve been debating the two beekeepers, but I don’t know which has the better honey.”

Today he’s wearing a pair of blue jeans that fit wide on his hips along with a peach button-down shirt and a newsboy cap. “Oh, then I think we should definitely go have a taste at each. My lady?” He holds out his crooked arm, ready for me to take it like we’re in a 1940’s movie. 

What’s even crazier is that I follow his lead and add, “Lead the way, sir.” It’s ridiculously silly. And so much fun. His playful side makes me feel charmed, less like a fan and more like an acquaintance. At the first beekeeper, we each taste the regular blossom honey. 

“Oh, that’s fantastic,” I whisper as I slide the wooden stick across my tongue. 

“Hey, you can’t give in yet. We’ve not tried the other one. We’ll be back,” he says over his shoulder to the vendor as he escorts me away. “Maybe,” he adds once we’re out of hearing, drawing a giggle from me. 

Holy shit. I’m relaxed around Harry Styles. What is happening to me? Boundaries! I need boundaries. 

“Oh, my!” I breathe as we arrive at the Local Honey Man’s booth. “There’s too many options.”

Knowingly, Harry nods. “Indeed there are. So maybe we need to back up. You’re doing plain goat cheese on what kind of crostini?”

“You mean what bread am I using? Oh, I was thinking either a thinly sliced sourdough or a baguette.”

“Mmmm...excellent choice. I can recommend some bread next. What fruit are you planning to use?”

His question makes me laugh involuntarily. The great performer and entertainer Harry Styles is asking me what fruit I want on my crostini? Why?

“Well, I’m thinking it’s that time of year for peaches or nectarines. Either of which would be amazing.” Placing a finger to my chin, I survey him. Fuck. He looks so wonderful. Fresh. Friendly. Not at all like a celebrity. Just a normal Joe -- or Harry -- that one might meet at a farmers’ market on a Saturday morning. As I observe him, I feel myself starting to shed some of the barriers between us. He’s just like me, I think. A food connoisseur. Someone who enjoys the local atmosphere. 

“Oh yes,” he pauses, smacking his lips. “I can taste that now. Okay, so with that combination, I would recommend either the lemon zest infused honey or the British Borage Honey. Personally, I think the cinnamon honey might overpower the flavor of the goat cheese.”

“You know what? I think you’re right. My goal is for all of the local flavors to come through, so perhaps going with a non-flavored honey is the best decision. Thanks, Harry.” And then I freeze again because I know I’ve let my tongue get away with a horrible slip by saying his name. Wanting to cry, I bite my lip and turn to the vendor. With tears in my throat, I ask, “I’ll take a jar of the British Borage please.” 

The merchant wraps it quickly, handing it over in exchange for my money, and I nervously twist towards Harry, expecting his glare over my rudeness. It’s almost like he’s oblivious. As I place the jar of honey in my bag, he grabs my hand. 

“Let’s check out breads!” 

Running behind him, I’m puzzled by what had just occurred. Shouldn’t he be upset? Freaking out? Wondering if I’m a stalker?

“Here’s my recommendation,” he says as we stop at a stall with a sign reading ‘The Flour Station’. They’ve got a wonderfully tangy sourdough baguette. If you slice it thin, then layer on the goat cheese, honey, and finally the peaches, it will be a perfect meal.”

When I request the baguette, the owner nods and wraps it for me. As he hands it over, I turn to Harry and extend my hand. “Thank you for your help, kind sir. I’m confident this will be the most amazing meal.”

Staring at my hand suspiciously, he ignores it. “Nearly lunchtime,” he announces. “Any chance you’ll join me for some Indian food?” With his head, Harry gestures towards the Mumbai Mix stand. 

As I consider the implications, my head starts to move from side to side. Never meet your idols. That’s what the voice in my head whispers. 

“Please?” His eyes take on a look that is as close to begging as I’ve ever seen in any human. “Look. I’ll be honest. These days I don’t meet many fans who would go out of their way to avoid me like you do. Most want to move into my house immediately. It would be nice to extend our time a bit. After all, it’s just a meal in the middle of a crowded London farmers’ market. How scary can it be?”

Blinking, I carefully think about my response, but instead the words that escape are “You knew I was a fan? For how long? And how did you know I was avoiding you?”

“Fair questions. Place your order, and we can talk about the answers over lunch.”

Now my curiosity has been peaked. At the vendor, Harry requests the Dosa Wrap while I order the samosas, and we step to the side while they’re being prepared. 

“That first time.”

“Last week you mean?”

“No, the first time. You remember. At the green-grocer’s.”

My face likely flames red. “You saw me? You noticed me? I didn’t even so much as look at you.”

His hearty laugh makes me tingle. “Noticed you? Of course. You’re gorgeous and golden and stunning. And your American accent grabbed my attention. Why did you run?”

The giggle starts at my toes and bursts forth like a bird flying from a cage. “Um...because I’d taken the last of the kale.”

Resting his hands on his knees, Harry chuckles loudly, drawing the attention of other patrons. As the restauranteur hands over our plates, Harry carries both to a nearby table. 

“And last time? You jumped a mile when I suggested helping you with the cheeses.”

Burying my face in my hands, I groan. “Harrrrrrrryyyyy. Before I came to London for work, I made a promise to my best friend that if I saw you in the wild, I’d leave you alone. So it was quite awkward that you were the one who approached me. And holy hell! How did you know I would be here today at this time? I came early so I could shop before you arrived!”

He picks up his wrap and takes a bite, chewing carefully. Taking guidance from him, I gingerly grasp a samosa and tear into the dough, immediately savoring the potatoes and spices inside. 

“Mmmmm,” I murmur, and my tongue flicks out to rescue a bit of flavor still on my lips. 

“‘In the wild’?” he inquires, and I’m confident the blush now covers my entire body. 

“You know. Like if I saw you at a show or a public event, it would be different. Then I could fangirl and ask for an autograph or a photo or whatever. But at the market, you’re not working. You’re just like everyone else -- shopping.” 

Knowingly, he nods. “I appreciate that. Truly. Not everyone respects my private time. So thank you. But the truth is…” There’s a pause, and I nervously nibble at the samosa in my hand, worried about what he will say next. “...once I noticed you, I couldn’t ignore you.” Clearing his throat, he smiles in a friendly manner. “How did your boss enjoy the cheese and fruit plate?”

“Wonderfully,” I respond, “But not as much as I enjoyed my kale salad with blue cheese, blueberries, strawberries, and candied pecans.” A smile tilts my lips upwards, possibly exposing my own dimple. 

“I’m sure,” he murmurs, “I’d love to taste it sometime. Care to make it for me?”

“Hmmm,” I playfully consider his request. “Are you confident you’d prefer that to goat cheese, honey, and fruit crostini on sourdough baguette? It’s all local.”

A/N:  Thanks for reading. Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this. 

[drpepperwithcream]

Marinette completes her Guardian training

I’m bored and this shit is cute so lol enjoy!

So this happens a couple years later and more people get their miraculous

Mari completes her training and is now a guardian

Part of the training is to learn all power-up recipes, and Marinette decides to experiment and managed to create a non-useful power-up: Elegant

Basically, it’s a fancy outfit with a mask.

“Elegant Tikki! Spots on!”

Ladybug in a red dress with black spots with a mask. Up to your imagination how she looks, I just think of cute stuff

Marinette designed it of course

Master Fu sees Elegant Ladybug and she freaks out and quickly says spots off to detransform.

She apologizes for “messing around” but Master Fu says not to worry and it gives him an idea: A Miraculous Party!

It would mostly be for Ladybug becoming a guardian, but all of the holders get to go (except for Hawkmoth and Myaura of course)

Tikki is all for it because Marinette deserves it for working so hard

Marinette agrees.

Fu starts planning the ceremony and Marinette designs all the elegant costumes with the respective Kwamis (minus Plagg, because she knows what Plagg and Chat would like) to give the Kwamis something to go off of and because Marinette knows what everyone would like.

They plan the ceremony late at night because there would be less of a chance Hawkmoth would cause an akuma, less chance of news crews or people to catch holders hopping roofs all dressed up, and because it’d be easier for everyone to sneak out if everyone is asleep.

She also makes the Kwami power-up food as well

After three months of planning, it’s time for the party

PARTY TIME!

Ladybug and Fu deliver the miraculouses and power-ups along with a note explaining the event, note disappearing soon after being read.

Then badabing badaboom we got fancy-ed up Miraculous holders hopping across Paris rooftops to a hidden speakeasy or an old building idk

We got Rena Rouge, Carapace, Queen Bee, Viperion, Ryuko, Bunnix, King Monkey, Pegasus, everyone else who’s received one

Ladybug is greeting everyone and thanking them for coming

THEN fashionably late is Chat Noir in his fancy black tux with green accents

“M’Lady?”

“Chat, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Bugaboo.” Pulls out a couple red roses and sticks them in her pigtails (or other hairdo if you imagine something else, idk I’m just a content dealer provider).

“Evening, Chat Noir,” Master Fu greets.

“Evening, Master.”

“It’s a big night tonight.”

“I’m so glad everyone showed up, the party looks awesome!” Chat said.

Chat is the only one who knew about the party in advance, like a couple weeks before. He knows what it’s for. Rather WHO it’s for.

“Congrats, Ladybug, On everything.”

“Thank you, Chat.”

Master Fu then exclaims “LET’S PARTY!”

Carapace starts the party because he’s a DJ. He DJs for a few songs then leaves a playlist so he can go interact with people (*cough* *cough* Rena *cough* *cough*)

Everyone is dancing, having fun, eating snacks, drinking soda/sparkling cider

Then a slow song comes on. Rena and Carapace are slow dancing already, others sit out or ask each other.

“M’Lady, may I have this dance?” Chat asks.

“Of course, Chat.”

They go dance together.

Chat asks Ladybug if she’s nervous about her speech

She confesses that she is and Chat tells her that she’ll do great

You know how Alya became the ultimate wingwoman in Despair Bear? Rena did the same thing with Chat and Ladybug.

But this time Ladybug shugs and pulls herself closer to Chat and he blushes before pulling her closer to dance how they did in Despair Bear.

Everyone just brushes off the De ja vu from it.

The song ends then Fu asks everyone to take their seats.

Fu talks a bit and thanks everyone, then proceeds to talk about Ladybug and Chat Noir and how far they’ve come, going into Ladybug becoming the new guardian then he asks Ladybug to come up and speak

Ladybug is nervous, but Chat’s smile calms her down.

“Thank you, Master. Thank you, all. It’s been a pleasure to be your Ladybug and an honor to be the new guardian. You all deserve to be here tonight, each of you has proven yourself one way or another, so thank you for helping us, none of us would be here without each of you. But most importantly, I want to thank the one who’s been by my side all this time, the one who in the worst times kept me going, and thank him for the many sacrifices he made to save Paris and to save me. The one who blindly trusted me from the first day we met, I want to thank my partner, Chat Noir.”

Ladybug extends her hand to her partner and Chat stands up and makes his way to her. Ladybug pulls out her yoyo and opens it up and pulls out a small bag.

“These are Forget-Me-Not seeds. They mean that you forget me not.”

Chat smiled at her, and her reasoning.

“I don’t want you to ever forget all the times we shared together or how much you mean to me. You’re the best partner I could have ever asked for.”

Ladybug puts the seeds in his hand as they hug, kissing his cheek.

“Thank you, Ladybug.”

Half the audience is crying at this point at how sweet that dedication was.

They hug for a while and Chat wipes a tear when they pull away.

The party continues after that. More dancing, more chatting, more partying

Eventually, the party ends. Everyone has specific instructions to put the miraculous back in the boxes when they get back home and Master Fu/Ladybug/Chat Noir will come pick them up while they sleep.

They get all the miraculouses back and clean up in an hour and then Ladybug and Chat Noir head home.

“M’Lady, thank you. What you said means a lot.”

“You mean a lot to me.”

They hug again then go their separate ways.

BONUS

Adrien is now into gardening, his favorite is his patch of Forget-Me-Nots

Forget-Me-Not flowers are usually blue... do what you want with that information.

Half the class is extremely tired the next day and no one knows why

Alya, Nino, and Adrien go to Marinette’s to play video games. They look through her scattered papers and find Ladybug, Chat Noir, Rena Rouge, Carapace, and other superhero sketches in fancy outfits.

They’re all impressed at first then they realize that they match the ones from the party.

“Marinette, what are these?” Alya asked.

Marinette glances over. “Those are just sketches.”

Then she realizes what those sketches were... and that Alya and Nino were here, and saw them.

Oh, shi-

“I wanted to see what it would be like if they were all dressed up, you know.”

“The detail on this is amazing!”

“Adrien, look at this Chat Noir one!”

“This Ladybug one is beautiful, there’s so much detail.”

Marinette internally panics

She can see Alya glance at her then back down at the sketches, gears turning. 

Tikki is literally behind the three doing charades for Marinette on how to defuse the situation.

“Well um... those were kind of... commissioned...”

That caught Alya’s attention. “Who commissioned you to do these?”

“You guys can’t tell anyone!”

“We won’t, we promise.”

Marinette sighed. “Ladybug asked me to do them.

“What?! When?!”

“Uh... A few months ago. She knew that I did stuff for Jagged so she asked me to do a sketch for her in a dress so she could test something out. Then she asked me to do it for all the other superheroes. I don’t know what it was for, though. I think it was for a party or something.”

Alya is literally holding back everything about the party. She’s flipping out that her best friend designed outfits for an entire exclusive party.

Nino is trying to calm his girlfriend down.

Adrien then chimes in, “If they were designed by you, I’m sure they turned out great! Ladybug made the right choice in coming to you.”

“Thank you, Adrien!”

Later that day, Chat Noir asks Ladybug about the outfits while they were on patrol. 

Same story, she commissioned the girl who did amazing work for Jagged Stone to design outfits for the party.

Chat asked what Ladybug did in exchange was.

“Marinette wanted to do some sketching from the very top of the Eiffel tower and she wanted to know what it was for.”

Chat offered to do it for her.

So the next day, Chat Noir picked up Marinette and they went to the top of the Eiffel tower. He told her about the party, then he gushed about Ladybug and her designs.

Marinette blushes

No one questions a fucking thing.

[carbrakes-and-stakes]

Waterloo || Evelyn & Alain

Location : Evelyn’s home - Harris Island When : Evening - 18th of April

Birthdays are as good an excuse as any to cross something off a to-do list, aren't they?

Alain had just finished preparing samosas and a bunch of small bites they could have over a glass of god knows what. Ever since he had taken the decision to stop drinking so much, he had come to realize that there were many casual moments like those in which he would have usually have had a glass not too far from him. He shook the thought out of his head and glanced at the oven then at the timer on the counter. Even if this was not his kitchen, this being the second time he was cooking here, he was already feeling quite comfortable being here. Of course you could not say that he had completely gotten used to it, but he finally had memorized where the pans were stored, which was an achievement, considering the amount of drawers Evelyn’s kitchen counted. He was mincing garlic thinly when he heard footsteps getting louder. Even if he had told the birthday girl to keep out of here while he was cooking, he was impressed that she had waited a good hour to take a peek at what was going on here. “So much for a surprise,” he commented, shoving the garlic into a pan. Obviously the cake was concealed in the fridge, and it was the only thing he did not want her to see yet. As a matter of fact, her showing up was perfect timing, as she could help him shape pasta with him. This was something he had never done, and if all failed, they would have tagliatelles tonight.

Years ago, she would have balked at the idea of her birthday being anything but a large event. Even at Cambridge, she’d had parties with dozens of people. However, White Crest had changed multiple things about her, and Evelyn had yet to have a big birthday party or anything since moving here. Four years ago, now. She’d invited Alain over because they were friends, even though Kaden’s line of questioning still stuck in her mind. She wasn’t going to focus on that too much, because the last thing she wanted to do, for one of the first times in her life, was to screw up a friendship. So she’d listened when Alain had kicked her out of the kitchen, gone up to her bedroom and changed from the more casual outfit she’d had on when he first came over and into a new dress, which seemed more festive and appropriate for her birthday anyhow. She’d gotten bored though, and so after only a little more time she made her way back over to the kitchen, grinning at his comment, “yes, well, I do have the ability to be patient, but I also sometimes get impatient, and it is my birthday, so you have to indulge me.” She walked past him, tapping him on the shoulder. “So, what are you cooking? It smells brilliant.”

“You are not getting anywhere near that fridge,” Alain pointed his index briefly at her, before looking up and noticing the change of clothes. If he first wanted to comment on the outfit being quite a disappointment, just to pick on her, he figured that considering that this was her special day, he would stick to the truth : “You look nice,” he smiled at her and glanced back at what he was doing as she asked what was in the oven. “Well, I’m not about to tell you, but I can promise that it will taste as good as it smells.” He took the dough from the bowl and brought the pasta machine closer to himself, turning the ball of dough slowly into a thin sheet of pasta.  “Alright, so this is the fun part.” It was absolutely not the fun part. “We’re going to try to make pasta,” he offered with a smile that only show how little he was sure about what he just said. They were really going to try here. He detailed the sheet of pasta dough into 2 inches circles. “So, I prepared the filling last night,” he explained, pointing at a pastry bag on the counter. “I’ll put a bit of that in the middle of each pasta, and then we’ll fold them, alright?” It took him a good ten minutes to get filling on each pasta, and when he was done, the kitchen towel tied to his apron was not as clean as when he began. “Alright, look,” he took his time to fold the first tortellini, following the instructions he’d scribbled in his cooking notebook, and invited Evelyn to do it at the same time as he did, when he started to fold the second one.

“See, that just makes me want to.” She said, a light laugh crossing her lips. “Nice music, by the way.” It was faint, but she could appreciate it. Perhaps it was a cooking thing, something that aided in concentration. Either way, it was nice. Though she knew that her music taste was nothing to talk about, she did sometimes enjoy having music around, even if it was just scores from movies or from ballets. Evelyn glanced down at her dress at his remark, “thank you, it is new. I like the dark blue.” She bit her lip for a moment as he continued talking. “Make pasta?” She replied, her eyebrows shooting up. “Well, this will be a first for me so I should hope that you do not judge me too harshly.” Her gaze flicked over to the pastry bag as he described it, nodding along. “Well, alright, that sounds okay. It is sort of like decorating, and I am good with delicate things, with my hands.” She shot a glance over to him, a small smirk crossing her lips, though she wasn’t entirely sure if he would catch the double meaning. If maybe half-flirting with someone who she valued deeply as a friend was a stupid idea, but she shook her head and focused back on his words. Besides, she was good with her hands in many other ways, she had to be, to feed in the way she did, and it had always been her nature, though she was extroverted, she had rarely been the loudest person in the room. She waited as he filled the circles, tapping her fingers against her thigh, and then watched him as he began to fold the first one. “I think I can do this.” She moved closer to where he was standing and began to quickly fold one of them, careful to get the folds as precise as possible. “How did I do, teach?”

Alain stared at her right in the eyes, his eyebrows raised and his chin tilted down as he waited patiently for her to step away from the fridge. “Merci,” he wiped his hands clean on the towel, and picked up the pastry bag, turning the plastic end around his thumb and getting rid of the air inside of the bag. He froze in his motion as she joked about having capable hands, and gave her a glance. Obviously she looked like she was quite proud of herself, and he couldn’t help but laugh when he saw her expression. “You are unbelievable,” he shook his head, and with still a thin smile on his face went back to work. Folding those things weren’t as easy as it would have looked, and with his hands, they weren’t exactly looking as good as they should have, but all he cared for was that they would not open up when he’d throw them in hot water. Glancing over at Evelyn’s tortellinis, he pursed his lips to the side. She may have done less of them than he did, but hers looked much better too. “You’re cheating, you’ve got ten fingers and I only have nine,” he scoffed, glancing at his work then hers. “You think you can fold the rest of them while I start making the sauce that goes with those?”

She’d been worried, for a moment, that her remark had gone too far. Which wasn’t something that Evelyn usually thought about, if she threw a half-flirtatious (or even more) sort of remark out there. But he had a small smile on his face and he’d laughed, so that was good, right? “I like to think of myself as just believable enough, thank you.” She smirked at his next comment. “Well, I apologise for the number of fingers I have, but I think you do a bang-up job with what you are given.” A small pause, before she added, “besides, I did tell you I am good at decoration, you made all of this and it looks delightful. So yes, feel free to begin the sauce, I also have sparkling cider if you would like to drink that with our meal? I figured, well, I do not want to drink for two, so…” she bit her lip again. “I just thought that would be nice. There is a shop here that makes it locally, so I promise I didn’t get any fancy imports.”

“You did not lie about your decorating skills,” he agreed, turning on his heels to get his pan on the stove. He frowned, turning around again to get his notebook from the counter. “Right, okay,” Alain muttered to himself, focusing his attention on the ingredients, although Evelyn’s voice pulled him from his notes : “What ? Oh, sure, that sounds nice. The local products always taste a lot better too,” he bit his lip and picked up a wooden spoon, adding parsley and butter to the garlic. Letting it all caramelize a little, he had a look at Evelyn’s work, figuring that she would be probably almost done by now. “Looks like you’ve been making those your whole life,” he observed. His attention went back to the stove when he started hearing noise in the pan. Adding diced canned tomatoes to the rest, he explained, “It’s not really tomato season, but I promise it won’t matter much for this,” otherwise he would have picked a different recipe for her birthday. “What do you think, smells nice, right?”

“I try to avoid lying if at all possible, even if it makes me seem as though I am bragging.” She shrugged. “But thank you, I appreciate this.” She continued to fold the tortellinis together, savoring the smell from the sauce that Alain was cooking. Even if actual proper food was not Evelyn’s favorite, she certainly was permitted to enjoy the smell of it, at least, and the taste too - especially if Alain’s other baking was even half a show of his talent. “Well, I used to watch my cooks back home sometimes, if I got bored, so maybe I picked up skills I never knew that I had.” She nodded at his explanation, “Do not worry, I bet that the canned tomatoes will taste utterly divine as well.” She brushed a stray strand of hair from in front of her face. “I think it smells utterly wonderful.” She said, folding the last tortellini. “What do you know? We are quite in sync, once again.” 

“I wouldn’t call this bragging,” Alain commented. Coming from him, who never knew how to react to compliments, and never liked to talk too much about what he did, that was rich.  Anytime he spoke about things he did well, he felt like he was bragging, and that was why he did not speak about it too often. “That must have been nice,” he paused. He did not really want to mention that he too grew up with cooks, watching them because then he would have a lot of explaining to do. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you learned a thing or two just by watching,” he left the spoon in the pan and opened a drawer, looking for a pot where they could cook those pastas she was just done folding. “Ah, there it is,” he exclaimed, speaking to himself. The pot was soon filled with water, the water salted, and placed on the stove. “So, how did you like folding those,” he took off the apron, figuring that he wouldn’t get too dirty putting pasta in the water, and approached the kitchen island, where she was. It was nice, spending time with her. She was always curious, and for someone who did not usually cook, she even managed to get the job done well. He couldn’t hold back his smile as he looked at what she had made, and then at her. “The water’s going to take a few minutes to boil, we should probably clean up…” He corrected himself, “No, it’s your birthday. I will clean up my mess.”

“Okay, I accept this.” Evelyn grinned. “It was nice, even if once I - well, not every experience in the kitchen was lovely but this certainly is.” She was incredibly appreciative of the fact that he had agreed to come over, that he’d agreed to cook for her and spend her birthday with her. Even though some of Kaden’s messages still swirled around in her mind. There was no way he liked her, not like that - even though he did agree to spend a lot of time with her, which had to at least mean that he liked her in some capacity. It was weird, too - she so rarely had any doubts about whether or not people liked her, because she knew most did. “I did like it.” She glanced over to him as he took off his apron. She smiled at him, too, for a moment - “Well, I can help, if you want.” She bit her lip again, taking a few steps toward him. “You know, it only seems like the nice thing to do.” She glanced over to where everything was cooking, before grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer to her and pressing her lips against his before pulling away for a second, looking down. “Sorry. I  - well, maybe Kaden’s questions had more validity than I thought.”

He had a jar of flour in one hand, and the pastry bag in the other when she pulled him into a kiss. She looked down, he put down the jar of flour, and couldn’t help his smile as she mentioned damn Kaden and his stupid questions. “I cannot believe that you just proved him right,” his hand reached for her cheek, and he kissed her back, forgetting about his hunter friend, and thinking about all these times when he had wondered if she was messing with him, or actually interested in him. He had been wrong, apparently. “Shared blame,” his shoulder shook with amusement. Biting his lip, Alain looked at Evelyn. “Is this your attempt at distracting me from cleaning all that up ?” He kissed her cheek this time, and handed her the pastry bag. “We’ve got a birthday dinner to finish cooking, Evelyn,” he raised his eyebrows, although he had trouble not to smile at her.

“Yes, well,” she looked over to him. “I have to say, I am alright with proving him right in this case.” Evelyn liked the feeling of his lips against hers as he kissed her back. But then he broke away and she frowned for a moment. “Good to have balance.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, at the risk of sounding too cheesy, I think you taste better, even if this does smell fantastic.” She pulled him toward her for another kiss, this time biting his lip with her teeth, gently. “I suppose we can finish, but only if we can continue this later, if you are okay with that. My couch is nice for kissing.”

“You are right… About this sounding cheesy,” sure her comment made him laugh but he gave her the same look he had given her earlier as she told him that she would look inside the fridge. “I’ll get the appetizers out of the oven,” he didn’t have time to add another word for she was kissing him again, “Really? Well, we’ll have to clean and eat first, don’t you think?” He reached for her hand, and put it on the bowl where the pasta dough used to be. “If you help, it should not take too long,” winking at her, he took a step back and headed toward the trash can, getting rid of wrappers and empty paper bags. The oven. Merde. Alain hurried toward the appetizers, cursing at himself for not using a timer that beeped. Taking his time to put them on a nice plate, he heard the water boiling behind him and glanced over at Evelyn, on the other side of the kitchen. “You can put the pasta in the water if you want…” He would have added that she should be careful with the boiling water, but she could probably handle making pasta. She had mentioned that she liked that, and that’s why he had picked that dish for tonight after all. “I’ll set the table, alright?”

“Yes, well, I have layers.” She smirked at him. “Apparently some are a little, well,” she gestured vaguely in the air. “Yes, really. It is good and soft and I am more than happy to show you how good it is for other sorts of things and longer kisses later, after dinner. You know, if you want?” She let him guide her hand. “Well, I have always believed that being given motivation for doing a task well is excellent, and this, any of this, is more appealing than some silly sort of sticker.” She watched as he moved the appetizers to a plate and nodded at his comment. “Yes, of course.” She said, carefully placing the pastas into the water.” Evelyn nodded. “Yes, if you - well, you do actually know where some of my dishes are already, so feel free to use any that you please.” She went over to one of the cabinets and got out the sparkling cider. “We cannot forget this, especially given that this evening has turned out to be even lovelier than I thought it would be.”

“Questionable?” She certainly did not want him to finish her sentence, but he could not help it. “One thing at a time, alright?” Searching through the cabinets for plates, he picked up two small ones for the appetizers and two larger deep ones for the rest of the meal. The table set, he asked her for table napkins, and then took care of the pastas, adding them to the sauce and setting the heat to the lowest setting. “Let’s have dinner then,” one plate in each hand, Alain pecked Evelyn’s cheek and invited her to follow him into the garden. He had figured, since it was a warm evening, that they could have dinner outside. They would probably have to head back inside for dessert, but that was not something he had thought of yet. The table looked quite simple, compared to those you could find in fine restaurants, but anything that was free of mimes would probably suffice.

“Not what I was going to say.” She replied, but her eyes and lips conveyed that she was not at all mad with him. “Yes, one thing at a time. We could even make a list for tonight.” Another smirk crossed her lips. He kissed her cheek again and she couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. It was nice, though admittedly more than a little bit surprising, that he seemed to be nearly as receptive as she was willing to give. She gladly followed him out and through part of her garden, winding around towards her beach and a small platform at the back of her house; not one she used frequently (though again, when did she use anything frequently for eating actual meals?). Evelyn sat down as Alain did, and she poured each of them a glass of the cider. “Well,” she began, holding her drink up, “here is to new beginnings.” After tapping her glass against his, she took a small sip before placing it down and taking a bite of one of the appetizers. “This is wonderful. Thank you. For more than I was expecting, even.” She took a few bites of her pasta. “We do seem to make a good team.”

“We could make a list for tonight,” Alain raised an eyebrow, “but I’m pretty sure I can remember all that is planned so far,” even if he had a bad habit of forgetting things, even sometimes important ones, his short term memory was rather decent. Sitting down at the table, he had a look at the ocean for a moment, just long enough for Evelyn to serve them drinks. Taking a sip of cider, he picked up the bottle to have a look at who was making it, and listened to her as she commented on his cooking. “Careful with the samossa, I don’t want you to get burned,” he warned, disregarding the compliment (as per usual), putting down the bottle and starting to have a bit of the food cooked. “We do make a good team,” he agreed, finishing the appetizers before he started having his pasta. Being used to eating his meals quietly, he remained silent for a while, although from the moment they had met, several months ago, Evelyn had been warned that he was never the most talkative.

“Me too,” she said, pursing her lips to the side. “I think I can forgo a list for tonight.” She nodded at his words regarding the samosa, careful to have only taken a small bite of them, allowing them to cool down. She glanced over to him as he began to eat, and so she, too, took a few more bites of the pasta, and another sip of her drink. Evelyn put her fork down and looked back over to him. She was never nervous. Well, that was not entirely true; she did have the capacity to feel nervous but it was not usually in regard to any of - whatever this was. Hanging out with someone in any capacity; but then again, it was new, in some way - because usually she was fine with kissing someone and asking questions later - or not at all. “Are you - are you still okay with more of what we were doing earlier? For longer periods of time?” She took another sip of her cider. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to just not, that is fine too.” She grabbed another samosa and shoved it into her mouth, waiting for his reply.

“You did not scare me away, yet,” Alain put his cutlery down and looked at her kindly. “So yes, I suppose we can make more pasta later,” he raised his eyebrows, examining her reaction. It was the first time since he had met her that she did not seem so confident in herself, which was actually rather reassuring. He currently had no idea of what he was doing right now either, and winging it was a nice way to describe everything that had happened since that first kiss in the kitchen. “I will tell you if I want to change my mind, until then…” He picked up his napkin to wipe an imaginary crumb from his mouth, and get rid of the sweaty hands feeling. “Anyway, would you rather open your present before or after dessert?” He hoped that she would like it, although considering how interested she seemed every time they had done that, it could only be well received, right? Or maybe she didn’t really like it and just liked spending time with him, which was an option. “I mean, we have to do that before the mime strippers arrive, right?”

“Not what I meant.” Evelyn raised an eyebrow at him. “I think we have more than enough pasta, and I would not want to make more and have it go to waste.” She glanced down at her plate, taking another forkful of pasta to give herself something to do. “Okay. Okay, just, um,” she hated filler phrases, “let me know.” She glanced back over to him at his next question. “Well, I think dessert first and -” she rolled her eyes. “If you brought stripper mimes I will walk up and leave right this moment.” But she let out a small bit of laughter - she had grown to at least partially understand his humour in the few months since they had known one another. “But yes, I think dessert is good, first - if you are full?” She pushed a few of her pastas around on her plate, taking another small bite of one, grateful that Alain was a good cook, and even if proper food was still not her favorite, these were quite lovely. “That will be a proper surprise, too.”

“Fine, I’ll cancel the mimes then,” he gave her a shrug although the blank look on his face didn’t last long and was soon replaced by a thin smile, again. “Sure, I’m good,” mainly because he had nibbled on most of the things that were needed to cook this whole meal, which was not the best habit one could have. Standing up from his chair, he picked up her plate and cutlery first, then his, and headed back inside. He breathed out heavily as he closed the door behind him. For someone like himself that had never been fond of the unexpected, this was a rather pleasant surprise, although one that still seemed to him like a mirage, too good to be true. He shook the idea, but it still lingered for a moment in the back of his head. When he walked back to the table with the strawberry cake in his hands, Alain had not completely forgotten his anxious thought from the kitchen. “I decided against going with 28 candles,” he explained. There were indeed a total of 7 candles on the fraisier, mainly because he wanted to avoid wax ending up on the top of it. “Well ?”

She watched as he made his way back inside her home, and while he was in there Evelyn fiddled with the hem of her dress, trying to calm her breathing. She liked him, in a way that was admittedly confusing for her, for someone who might have liked people before but so rarely liked them enough that she didn’t feel a need to just have them over for one night or two just for fun. Of course, she told herself, if that was what he wanted, she would happily comply, but he didn’t quite seem like the sort to do that. If he was though, she would be fine with it. Luckily, she didn’t have to focus too much on her thoughts because he was back out with the cake and - “Oh, it is beautiful,” she said, her eyes lighting up as she smiled, “I think seven candles is perfectly acceptable, twenty-eight would be quite a lot, I am getting so old, after all.” She glanced up at him, the smile still present on her face. “Do I get to make a wish?”

“Thank God,” he put the cake before her, sighing with relief. Alain had mentioned to her a couple days ago that most of his cooking looked … okay, without ever looking beautiful, and he had actually gone through several youtube tutorials to get his cake to look good. “Absolutely,” now whether or not the candles would grant it was another question. He could not remember the last time he had seen someone do that. There was something very normal about all of this, and he actually liked it.

“Bakery-window worthy, though also it looks as though it will taste good as well.” Evelyn nodded at his allowance of her making a wish before she closed her eyes and blew out the candles; they stayed in place and she held a finger up to her lips. “Well, this worked - but shh, my wish is secret, lest it not come true.” She began removing some of the candles from her cake, placing them between her lips to remove some of the icing from them and she looked up at Alain. “Will you do the honors of cutting us each a slice?”

“Of course,” he replied, carefully getting rid of the candles and placing them on the edge of his plate. The hunter furrowed his brows. First in two halves, then quarters, and once again. The cake now cut in 8 pieces, Alain picked one up with the edge of the blade and placed it in her place with caution. Even if he could be trusted with a knife, delicateness was not his main quality. It was not surprising to see his own slice end up on the side although he was okay with that. “Bon appétit,” he waited for her to start eating to pick up his own spoon. “I’m not too sure about the strawberries,” it was a bit early for them, but his first bite made him change his mind about that. It did not take too long for the plate to be emptied.

She watched him cut the cake into eight pieces, appreciating the neatness of planning that he used, and gratefully accepted a piece of cake onto her plate. “To you as well,” she replied, digging into the cake. “I think that the strawberries are wonderful.” She said, placing one into her mouth. Evelyn ate the cake slower than Alain did, savoring each bite. After a bit, her plate was empty as well, save for a little bit of icing that had spilled out while she was eating. She ran her forefinger across it, before bringing it to her mouth and wiping it off of her finger, looking right at Alain. They had kissed - three times, already - she was allowed to take another step of flirting, wasn’t she? “This was utterly delightful.”

Alain raised an eyebrow as she dragged her finger against her plate to get the last bit of icing. If it first went over his head that she was flirting, it was as he was about to comment on it not being good manners that it hit him. He scratched a spot next to his nose in an attempt to hide, just a little, the faint redness that made his cheek feel warm. “I’m glad you liked it,” he cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Do you want to have tea or something, or…?” Or she could open her present and then, who knew. He could have enjoyed going by the shore to walk with her, but this was her day.

A small smile crossed her lips as she noticed his cheeks growing just slightly red. Evelyn gave a quick nod. “I did, absolutely. I still think that the Victoria Sponge is my favorite, but this was quite delightful as well.” At his question, she thought for a moment. “I think, if you are alright with it, I would like my present. Then we can see how the evening goes?” She paused for a moment. “Do you have to be back home at any particular time? I remember you were taking care of Abel as well as, of course, your own dogs.” Evelyn smiled at him. “Though of course, you are welcome to stay as long as you would like.”

Alain shook his head. He should have known that she would not change her mind about her favourite cake, and he had to admit that this was one thing the British knew how to cook. “Alright then,” he held out his hand to grab hers, squeezing it lightly. “Let’s go open that present then,” his eyes travelled across her face, lingering on her lips for a moment. Yeah, no, now was not the time. Besides, she had just asked him a question. Walking with her toward the living room, where he had left the wrapped present, he considered what she just asked. It was not reasonable to stay for the night, was it ? If things headed naturally toward this, then fine, although he could not tell her that the rest of his plans for the night consisted of taking care of a spawn nest he had been told about. If she knew about the supernatural, she probably would disapprove, and if she did not, she would think that he was insane. “My dogs are used to being alone,” he finally answered. Now, she did not have to know why. “I don’t know, we will see. I still have to prove that you do snore,” he let go of her hand and glanced at her with an innocent look on his face.

She liked the feeling of his hand against hers, and she followed him toward her house, even though she frowned slightly when his gaze moved toward her lips but he didn’t kiss her. Well, all the more reason to give him reason to later. “I look forward to seeing what it is you got me.” she went and sat down on her couch. Evelyn crossed her legs and looked at the wrapped up box in front of her for a moment, responding to his remark. “I have already assured you that I do not, but if you want to see me sleep, I do have a number of bedrooms that I could show you.” She matched his innocent look with one of her own, a simple grin crossing her lips. “But I also would not want to tear you away from your dogs so, you know, it is up to you. I can give you a reason to come back over again if you would like.” With that, she opened the card he had attached and read it, another smile, softer this time, crossing her lips. She began to carefully tear open the wrapping paper, her eyes growing wide as she saw what it was. “Thank you so much.” She said, motioning for him to sit down, and once he did, she pulled him into another kiss, longer this time.

“I guess I asked for those sorts of comments,” Alain looked down at his shoes for a couple of seconds before he looked down at her, tilting his head to the side. “That is very kind of you,” it was true that recently he had found all sorts of excuses to spend time with her, the latest one being picking her up for Kaden’s birthday party because he wanted to retrieve a baking pan he had forgotten in her kitchen. As she began to open her present, the hunter’s feelings were balancing between expectation and concern. She could either love it, or be really disappointed. His worries faded quickly enough, although her wide eyes managed to bring a frown to his face for a short time. “I wasn’t sure you would -” her kiss cut him off, although since he was about to ramble, it wasn’t such a bad thing. His hand moved to her cheek, carefully, as if he was afraid that she would vanish, his fingers slipping through her hair.

She gave him a bit of an ‘I told you so’ shrug in response to his remark. But then when she had kissed him he responded, he didn’t pull away and she only deepened the kiss as his hands found her hair - and she liked how they felt there. It was one of her favorite and most solid someone else is here with me things. She pulled him down against the couch, almost as though she was desperate to make sure that this was real, that his hands and his weight were not just some sort of false comforting part of her imagination. Which was also weird. Evelyn wasn’t usually the sort to need this sort of comfort, not since Melanie, not really. Having people appreciate her was fine without deep and solid confirmation. Not now, though. She broke away from their kiss for a moment, her cheeks warm and her gaze soft on him.

Alain felt as if his heart had sunk in his chest, as he was briefly brought back years ago. He had had time to grieve, and it was hard to feel melancholy with these little things bringing him back to reality. Warmth, the faint smell of lavender, the touch of her hair under his fingers. When she pulled herself away from him, he met her eyes and his expression softened. He rubbed reddened cheeks under his fingertips and sat up. “That’s…” Trailing off, his eyes were distracted by a Bluray case. Rear Window. “Weren’t we originally supposed to watch this,” he wasn’t against spending the rest of the evening in a .. cooler environment, after all.

“We were.” Evelyn looked up at him, “though it makes it a little difficult to watch given our current predicament.” She grinned, watching as he sat up. She pushed herself up too, grabbing the disc and making her way over to the television, placing it into the Bluray player before pressing play and making her way back over to the couch and sitting right next to Alain again, resting her head against his shoulder. “Thank you, I do not know if I have said this enough. This has been one of my loveliest birthdays.”

His eyes followed her as she went toward the television and came back to his side. Alain shifted a little as she leaned against his shoulder, lifting his arm to give her more room. Her comment made him bite the inside of his cheek. She must have thanked him at least ten times since he had arrived. Although rather than to give her shit for it, he kissed the side of her head and glanced at the screen as the music started, announcing the beginning of the movie.

[destiel-love-forever]

15.3 CODA: Part 2

Read part one [HERE]

Castiel wakes just as the sun is rising. Despite not getting much sleep, he feels rested and ready to take on the day. As rested and ready as possible under the circumstances, anyway. The coffee pot is full of dark liquid that’s still warm. A yellow sticky note is stuck to the front of the machine, neat writing informing him that Jody had to go into work early, and telling him to help himself to anything he needs until she’s back at four P.M.

After pouring himself a cup of coffee, Castiel walks over to the two large sliding glass doors by the kitchen table and heads outside. The air is cool and crisp, but it feels nice. Refreshing. Castiel leans on the railing of the wooden deck and looks out at the brilliant colors of the back yard. The leaves are breathtaking.

“It’s freezing out here,” Castiel hears from the sliding doors. He glances over his shoulder and forces a smile when he sees Claire standing there.

“I don’t mind.”

She gives him a critical look before stepping out onto the porch and offering him a blanket, hat, scarf, and mittens. When he stares at them instead of taking them from her, she rolls her eyes. “You’re such a doof. Come here.”

When Castiel approaches her, she tugs the burgundy hat over his head, then winds the scarf around his neck. He gets with the program and gives her his coffee so she can hold it while he puts the mittens on as well. After, she wraps the flannel blanket around his shoulders and pats him on the shoulder.

“Much better,” Claire declares. Castiel just now notices that she’s dressed similarly, her black jacket matched with a black hat, a gray scarf, and a pair of mittens that are black with white and gray polka dots. She gives him his coffee back and smiles. “Now, you go ahead and do your weird staring off into space thing that you were just doing, but when you’re done, come inside. We have a long day ahead of us.”

“We do?”

“Yup. All sorts of plans.”

“We have plans? You and I?” Castiel asks, trying to clarify.

She rolls her eyes. “And Alex, too, yup. Chop chop.”

With two claps of her mitted hands, she heads back inside. He stares at the sliding door for another moment before turning his focus back to the trees.

“What in the world could they have planned with me?” he asks the myriad of red, yellow, and orange.

The trees don’t answer.

Just another reason to hate Chuck.

----

The first stop on their schedule is to a bakery. Castiel, Alex, and Claire all get something to drink and eat before hopping back in the car. As they drive, Claire and Alex talk to each other in a constant babble, letting Castiel be as he enjoys his hot cocoa and blueberry muffin. He's feeling much better now that his stomach is full and he's decently rested. Claire must be able to sense this, because she broaches the subject they've all clearly been avoiding as Alex pulls the car into a store parking lot.

"How are you, Cas? Jody said it was a rough night?"

"Rough few days," Castiel says quietly, looking down at his empty to-go cup. "I'll be fine, though. I am always fine."

There's a pause long enough for him to glance up. He finds that both girls are now frowning at him. "What?"

"Well, you're talking to two experts on pretending to be fine when you're really a fucking mess, so don't bullshit us," Claire says matter-of-factly.

"What Claire meant to say in a much kinder way, I'm sure," Alex says with an eye roll, "Is that you don't have to pretend with us. We don't have to talk about it, but feel free to do so. Or to just be sad or whatever else you feel like being. Okay?"

Castiel nods, understanding. "Okay."

"Great. Now, let's fix your coat."

Looking down at his trench coat, Castiel asks, “What’s wrong with my coat?”

“First of all, it’s thin, and you’re clearly more human now considering the way you scarfed down that muffin, so you need something warmer,” Alex explains. “It’s nearly winter now. You’re going to be too cold in that, Cas.”

“Oh.”

“Plus, that thing is atrocious, and old. My dad got that for Christmas when I was like… five. Time for a change, dude.”

Castiel doesn’t like change. He’s had enough damn change in his life recently. Eleven years ago, he commanded a garrison. He was one of Michael’s chosen few. Was given the privilege to save the righteous man. Michael’s true vessel. It was one of the highest honors.

He was respected.

He was feared.

Then he fell in love with humanity. With Dean, if we’re being honest. Those freckles that were like a galaxy on pale skin. Those green eyes that held so many questions and even more answers.

Castiel lost it all.

But he’ll tell ya what - he still has this trench coat. It’s been to hell and back - more than once. It’s all he has left.

That’s why, even though he’s shown multiple options, given at least a dozen eye rolls, and told twice that he’s a doof, Castiel walks out of the coat store with something very similar to his trusty trench coat, just made of wool instead so it’s warmer.

----  

Pumpkin patches are wondrous places. Castiel had assumed it'd be a small farm with pumpkins everywhere, but that's not the case. At least not here. Yes, there are pumpkins. Many, many pumpkins, all of different shapes, sizes, and even colors. But there are also apples - an entire orchard of gorgeous red apples. There’s a corn maze, which Castiel finds both entertaining and frustrating. He gets lost so many times before a five or six year old child takes pity on him by leading him out. It was still a lot of fun, even if Alex and Claire teased him for being terrible at it.

They went for a hayride, too. The farm provided them with big flannel blankets and hot cocoa as they rode in the back, brought around the entire farm, the man driving telling them fascinating information on the crops and harvest, as well as the history of the area and the farm. Then they got to pet the farm animals. Castiel became fond of a horse that enjoyed licking his face. He even giggled, which felt very good to be honest.

Of course, Castiel’s favorite part of their day at the farm was the Bakery & Farm Store. He’s never tasted anything so delicious. They sat at a little table for over an hour, stuffing their faces until Castiel nearly got sick. Between the three of them sharing their treats, they all tried apple cider donuts, cinnamon rolls, strawberry crepes, apple pie, strawberry cream cheese danish, chocolate covered croissants, strawberry rhubarb pie, blueberry muffins, and caramel apple pie. The little old lady running the place liked them so much, she shared her pumpkin pie recipe with Castiel, who promised he’d go home and make it that night.

They left the farm with seven pumpkins, two bags of apples, a dozen apple cider donuts - which were Castiel’s favorite - and caramel apples to-go. By the time Castiel got to the car, he was full, happy, and exhausted. It was the perfect combo to curl up in the backseat and take a little snooze during their long ride home.

He fell asleep smiling.

----

Dean is wide awake despite it being the middle of the night. He's been stalking Castiel's Instagram. Yes. Instagram. Apparently Claire and Alex thought he needed one. Dean only has the damn thing to stalk Dr. Sexy MD actors, but now he's using it to stalk a certain falling angel he can't stop thinking about.

Since he saw the first picture, Dean has been refreshing the page every other minute. It had been a picture taken by Claire, which is how Dean originally came across it, with Castiel tagged in it. He was standing outside, wrapped in a flannel blanket and drinking something from a mug as he stared off at the colorful backyard. Claire's caption had been: Finally finding his peace.

That was at 4:07 P.M, though clearly it had been taken much earlier in the day.

Suffice to say, Dean has gotten nothing accomplished tonight. He hasn't even eaten dinner. All he's done is sit in his room, drink whiskey, and refresh the page.

At 4:37 P.M, there had been the first two photos uploaded by Castiel himself. One was of him reaching up to pluck a leaf off of a tree. The other was just his mitted hand holding the same leaf. The caption for the two was a simple: My favorite.

Dean ached at the fact he wasn't there. He wondered what Castiel's face looked like when he caught sight off this one perfect leaf. Wondered if he had smiled when he finally got it in his hands. Wondered if Castiel still had the leaf, or if he had easily tossed it onto the ground after the photo, just like Dean had done to him.

At 4:42 P.M, Claire uploaded a few photos. One was of Castiel in his new coat and winter gear Dean noticed in the previous photos. He was smiling at something off to the side, a pumpkin patch lined by colorful trees behind him. The next was of Castiel's mittens holding a blue travel coffee mug. Then a photo of Castiel's torso as he holds a pumpkin. Dean knew it was Castiel because of the tiny scar on his thumb. It was from nicking himself with an angel blade last week. With his lowered grace, it hasn't healed properly. Dean had to choke down a new wave of guilt at that reminder before he could look at the final photo. It was of the girls and Castiel around a table where they seemed to be carving pumpkins. They were laughing.

Castiel was wearing a new sweater.

At 5:13 P.M, Castiel posted a photo of a carved pumpkin. It was quite awful. The eyes were different sizes, the nose was partially cut out, but the piece of pumpkin was still stuck inside of it for some reason, and the smile was… unique. The caption was: Claire said I 'nailed it.'

Dean had to wait two hours for another photo. And that's what he did. He waited. Did nothing but drink and hate himself. And, of course, refresh the page.

At 7:22 P.M, Castiel finally posted another photo. It made Dean's heart skip. Well… the caption had, anyway. The pumpkin pie itself was a bit shaky, considering the darker-than-they-should-be edges. But the caption had brought tears to Dean's eyes. It would have tasted better with you.

Dean had tried calling Claire after that. Then Alex. Then Claire again. They ignored him. When he tried calling Jody, she sent a text back saying she was at work, asking if it was an emergency.

With a fresh glass of whiskey, he had waited.

At 8:36 P.M, Castiel posted two more pictures. One of someone making a s'more, a bonfire in the background. The other, two pairs of feet wearing wool socks as they rest up against the side of the fire pit. To the right were blue socks with little snowflakes on them. To the left were bright yellow socks covered in bumble bees.

Dean knew which one was Castiel.

The caption was a simple: Happy.

It made Dean curl into his pillow and cry.

The last one that Dean saw was at 11:57 P.M. It showed Castiel sitting on a bed, holding a purple mug with Witch Please written on it in one hand, and holding an open book in the other. He was in a gray hooded sweater, his legs covered with a blanket the same color as his gorgeous eyes. It was captioned: "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

It's at 3:09 A.M. that Dean realizes Castiel must have fallen asleep.

He crawls under the covers and closes his eyes after, heart racing even though it has no reason to be. It takes a while for the whiskey soaked exhaustion to win over his mind, but eventually Dean slips into a dream.

Castiel is there. In a pumpkin patch. He looks at Dean with a smile and hands him a beautiful leaf. "My favorite for my favorite."

And Dean kisses him.

He kisses him like his life depends on it.

He kisses him like he knows, deep down, that he'll soon have to wake up.

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[skyeventide]

the Dagor Dagorath is near. we set the scene a few centuries before the final battle and follow the story of some elves you do not know... and some you very well might.

gon post this on AO3 when it’s finished but have the first part here in the meantime.

*note about “laiqendi”: I’m not missing a U, the word is in qenya

-------------- 1

Cemenien was daughter to parents who had worked the earth in a far hamlet of the south of Aman, dwelling in the plains of Yavanna, on the edge of the thick woods of the Lord of Forests and just west of the circling Pelóri.

She was born during the Noontide of Valinor, a time half mythical, half forgotten to those who had come after. She had been named daughter-of-the-earth by her mother, and Valinë by her father, who wished for her happiness. In later years, both names bore great irony to her, who had risen tall and proud to the chance of leaving for a new home.

Hilyatúrë Nildur was born in Tirion in the same age. His mother named him a loving servant and his father, for he had strong opinions about the Princes and their Houses, named him mighty-follower. Nildur followed indeed, and he wielded the sword with the same strength with which he used to wield the pen.

But why he should be a servant of the loving, he never quite understood.

Cemenien and Nildur never met during the wars of Beleriand; she died during the Dagor Bragollach and he during the Nírnaeth Arnoediad.

When Nildur at last returned to his likeness in Aman, he lay himself to his parents’ feet, on the steps of their house, and asked that he be freed of all his duties, of all the pain that it had brought him. Thus, he kissed them and his brother goodbye and left Tirion through the southern gate, setting forth towards the arduous task of forgetting.

Cemenien yearned for a body longer and more bitterly, and it was not until she had sweated and cried out that bitterness as mortals would a fever that she was allowed to return. She did not go to Tirion, she did not breathe the sea; instead, she headed home, for there were things that she regretted, and she had deliberated that the highest form of healing for herself and those she had most hurt was not expecting that they grant her forgiveness.

Both Cemenien and Nildur had loved, once, but had never married. Though some say that love is like the mountains, weathering storms and time unchanged, an immortal soul may find itself too altered by the passing of the eras. As they both had grown into another maturity, born of grief and betrayal, they found that seeking solace in each other was perhaps a deserved sort of peace.

When she birthed their firstborn son, as she lay exhausted by labour on their nuptial bed, Nildur wrapped the child in their richest piece of cloth, dyed with the crunched shells of the coasts and threaded in gold, and placed him in her arms.

Inspired as often are those that are come newly into motherhood, she named him Culdaner.

A name in Quenya was perhaps uncommon in the southern pastures, where elves who were not Eldar or had not crossed the mountains in nights long past were now in great numbers. They had come to Aman either through death or through the journey on the Straight Road, and had brought with them ancient dialects, mingling them with Sindarin; children of woods and moors and yet drier lands, they had picked the forests and the fields as their dwelling.

Indeed, it was in the north that Quenya was still spoken, that had never ceased being spoken, for the Vanyar still sat gladly at the feet of Taniquetil.

But Cemenien’s hamlet too had those who had never left and Quenya, in greetings and in names, was oft still in use.

Nildur and Cemenien’s neighbour had recently had her second child, a daughter much wanted. Lothril thus came to their house with a cordial of sweet mead and a knowing smile.

She said to Cemenien: « Drink it and recover from that pallor. »

With weary arms, Cemenien took the cordial and sipped miruvor, its new recipe brought back from Middle Earth, spreading vital strength in her tired limbs.

« I would happily tell you that the second time is easier », Lothril said also, « but I’d be lying. To me, it truly was not. »

Cemenien laughed. « There will not be a second time, believe you me. »

For she felt that she had given this one her everything.

As she nursed the new-born, Nildur worked their land and picked up the quill again, and during their nights he sat by the babe’s cradle, his attempts at bringing him sleep varying between caresses, songs, repeated pleas, and a curious form of market bartering.

He oft returned to his wife with a great sigh. « Blessed Irmo when he brings slumber. »

« You know what they say about sleep, that it is only for the weak and the reasonable. »

« …Who says that? »

« …Just me, dear. Just me. »

So they toiled, but joyfully, and they thought their new life satisfying and their serenity sufficient.

When Culdaner was but a child who could only walk by holding the hand of his mother, an elf came to the house approaching down the dusty path that twisted and turned between the crops gardens, and he had dark hair and blue eyes that shone of lost light, and a short beard grew on his face, for he was in the third age of his life.

« My name », he said, « is Ondomacil. I came to see Cemenien, as I understand she is returned and has a child now. »

Though Nildur did not call her, for he wondered at the stone-hard set of the stranger’s brows, she soon was on the threshold of her house, her hand against the door she had herself carved anew. Bare-footed, a shadow over her eyes, she descended to the gate.

« Nildur, this is my grandfather. » Thus Cemenien opened the gate and welcomed her kin with restrained gestures and slow steps. Long did they speak inside the house and long did Nildur wonder at what was said, as his hands parted the soil to plant seeds.

In the shadow of the kitchen, Ondomacil sat without drink or food, for his granddaughter had never been one who favoured politeness above all else, and the most delicious apple cider could not sweeten whatever words they had to share.

At length, he begun: « Has your mother, or your father, returned? »

« Neither has », Cemenien answered, « and if they did return, should they be permitted to and should they want to, I did not see them. »

« It has been many ages, many years. Enough that I no longer count them. »

In the darkness of Mandos, Cemenien had watched the tapestries of history unfurl; little else there was for her to look at but her own sorrows. « They died in Doriath », she said, and added nothing.

« Did you find what you sought across the sea? »

Cemenien could forgive the question but did not forgive that he was he who asked it. All words she may have spoken reached Ondomacil as bile rises to one’s stomach after an ill-considered feast, so he bowed his head, his movement stiff but his apology true.

« I did not come for your anger », he said.

« Then do not ask me of what we sought or what might have been. I sought everything and found nothing, and was left with the shell of me. But you spoke rightly, it has been many ages. »

Her grandfather lifted his head and gazed upon her, a softness now mellowing in his voice. « I do not know for how long you have been here. I left this place a long time ago and now dwell in the forest with the Laiqendi and some of the Ingwi. But words fly as the birds – I hear you have a son. »

« Yea, he is but a toddler still. »

Ondomacil smiled; Cemenien recalled how her grandfather’s smiles sat upon his face as something chiselled with great and gentle care from harsh rock: the years had not changed them.

« May I see him? », he asked.

Culdaner sat on the bedroom floor running his small hands on the crotchet of the sheets’ rim; she picked him up and brought him to see his great-grandfather, who held him on his knees like a precious gift.

Ondomacil only left when the Sun had begun descending with her chariot and the Star of Eärendil shone radiant in the red forge of the sky.

Nildur found his wife with Culdaner on her legs. They sat in front of one another as she relayed her conversation with Ondomacil.

« He was not in Beleriand, I take it », he said softly.

Cemenien shook her head. « Nay, but he has seen it. He has no father nor mother, for he was of the Tatyar, and once he had left Endor he chose not to return. »

« I did wonder at the scars on his arms. »

Ondomacil had taken his name as an epessë during the Great Journey, when the darkness encroached upon the host of the Eldar. Stone-sword, first after the weapons that the elves had devised out of sharpened rocks, and in later times after the blades that Oromë gifted them, so that they may protect themselves against the nameless dangers of the long unwinding road.

More at home among the Avari that had come to Aman, he invited the family that he had left among the woods upon his departure. Later, Nildur and Cemenien sat with their son in their garden, to gaze upon the bright stars.

It was in this age that Mandos came to Manwë atop Taniquetil and made it known that his Halls were at last emptied of all souls. Thus Manwë turned to Eru’s plan and saw that the time of Arda Marred was coming to a close and the cycles of the world were near their end.

[prolestari]

The Monster of Britannia

Published on AO3

Summary: It's All Hallow's Eve, and Liones is filled with all sorts of ghouls and goblins for the holiday fun at the castle. But in the middle of trick-or-treats and enjoying sweets, the three misfits decide to get to the bottom of Princess Elizabeth's fears. Is this just the overactive imagination of a four-year-old? Or is there really a monster roaming the streets of Liones?

Thanks for reading this oneshot! This was written for a challenge in the writing server where a group of wonderful creators was paired with a Halloween trope. I got monster, and out of that this fic was born. It's also my third entry for NNT week, "Favorite Holy Knight". Since I love Howzer and Gilthunder, I figured this was fitting!

Thanks a ton to @penumbrcge for help with brainstorming and reading this over for me. Please enjoy!

At Castle Liones, All Hallow’s Eve was in full swing. The children of soldiers and staff scurried about in costume, the adults talking and laughing over cups of hot apple cider. The stone walls were decorated with ribbons of red, orange, and yellow for the autumn, the little chill in the air made brighter by fires dotting the courtyard. Those too old for tricks or treats but too young to indulge in cider roasted pumpkin seeds and marshmallows, daring one another to play tricks on the younger ones or giggling over shared ghost stories.

In the streets beyond, homes and businesses had their doors open, the groups of ghosts and knights and witches hurrying from building to building with shrieks of laughter. The streets were well-lit with Merlin’s newest idea: gas lampposts that stood beautifully on each corner. The city belonged to the children that night, at least until their parents began the task of shooing them indoors to indulge in their collected chocolates and pastries as they counted their coins before finally falling asleep from the fun and adventure of the night.

Everyone was enjoying the pleasantly cool evening—except for three boys who waited impatiently on a certain terrace at the castle. “Where are they!” the old man cried. He adjusted the fake mustache that hung from his lip, pulling at the robe his mother had sewn from a potato sack. “We’re gonna miss all the good stuff if we don’t get going!”

“I promised Princess Margaret we’d wait,” protested his companion, dressed in a wild blonde wig and an oversized knight’s tunic. “I don’t want to disappoint her!”

“Perhaps we should go see what is taking so long?” offered the tallest, an animal pelt draped over his clothing, long dark hair braided down his back. On his head was a helmet with antlers protruding from either side. “Maybe they forgot or something?”

The old man huffed and sat on the ground. “I’m giving them two more minutes! I’m not missing those sticky buns the cook was making. They smelled amazing this morning!”

The knight stood over him with hands on his hips. “Howzer, it is our duty as Holy Knights to escort the princesses through the festival!”

The old man—or rather, Howzer—rolled his eyes. “We’re not knights yet.” He frowned up at his friend, spying the pink hair sticking out of the wig. “What are you, anyway?”

He puffed up his chest and grinned. “I’m the greatest Holy Knight in the kingdom: Meliodas!”

The other two exchanged a glance and laughed. “Gil, you are so weird,” Howzer snickered. “I mean I know you love the guy but—”

“I don’t!” Gil protested furiously, and as the two began to scuffle the Viking—who of course must be Griamore—shouted, “Hey, here they come!”

Wigs and mustaches were rearranged quickly as the three boys stood at attention. The royal princesses emerged from the doorway, two of them hurrying forward while they dragged the youngest behind. “Come on, Elizabeth!” a witch said impatiently, but the little angel protested, stomping her foot and yanking her hands away, the wings on her back going slightly askew with her tantrum.

“No!” she squealed, the sort of volume and pitch only a four-year-old could achieve. “Don’t wanna go with monsters!”

The boys hurried forward, the group gathering around the girl. “What’s wrong with her?” Howzer asked, folding his arms with a frown.

The oldest girl, whose hair was swept up into a beautifully braided twist and whose dress was modeled after Leonia, the first queen of Liones, sighed. She smoothed the brown smock she wore with nervous hands and gave the boys an apologetic look. “She’s just scared. We keep telling her there’s candy and fun, but she’s too worried.”

“She thinks she saw a monster last night,” the witch mocked, sticking her tongue out at the little one.

“Veronica, that’s not nice,” Queen Leonia scolded. Then she turned to Gilthunder and asked, “What should we do? We can’t just leave her.”

Gilthunder thought for a moment, and then knelt. “Hey Elizabeth, do you know who I’m dressed like?” The girl looked at him suspiciously. “I’ll give you a hint,” he said slyly.

Pulling up the sleeve of his shirt, he grinned as her face lit up. “You’re Sir Mel!” she squealed.

“Yup,” he said, patting the circular dragon design on his arm. “So you’ll be safe with Sir Mel, right?”

“Mmm hmmm.” Elizabeth took his hand and peered up at him. “Can we get candy now?”

The children finally headed out, hurrying through the castle to get to the festivities outside. They received many compliments from the adults, who especially took note of the ladies. The kitchens provided hot chocolate and the sticky buns Howzer had craved, the head butler gave pennies by the handful, and many of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting walked around handing out apples and chocolates from baskets.

Soon the children each had a sack filled with goodies, and were about to head out to the streets for more when Howzer elbowed Gilthunder. “Hey,” he snorted nodding to the side. “Check it out.”

Gil followed his gaze but groaned when he recognized his nightmare come to life. “Come on!” Howzer called to the group, leading them across the courtyard as Gil grumbled and followed behind.

When they reached a little stand where a tall, broad man with wild hair was dressed with mismatched clothes and what looked like rouge on his cheeks. The children blinked up at him in confusion, but Gilthunder whined, “Dad, what are you doing?”

“Welcome, children!” the Great Holy Knight boomed. “You all look so wonderful! Can I offer you each a fish pie? It’s my own recipe, perfect for warming chilled hands!”

A chorus of “no’s” began, but Margaret interrupted very loudly, “Of course, Sir Zaratras! How very kind of you to go through so much trouble!”

He grinned and began to hand them each one of the little pies, and Veronica leaned over to whisper to Griamore, “Hey, if we do run into a monster, we can use these to throw at it.”

“Monster? Where?” Elizabeth squealed, latching onto Gilthunder.

“Nowhere,” he said, glaring at the other two, but the Grand Master frowned and asked, “What was that?”

Gilthunder sighed. “Princess Elizabeth says she saw a monster. She’s been frightened ever since.”

“A monster, huh?” He rubbed his chin with a gloved hand. “I have heard stories of things that live in the sewers under the castle. Nasty, dark creatures that would eat you as soon as look at you!” To punctuate his story, he grabbed at Veronica, who practically leapt into Howzer’s arms with a screech.

“You’re not helping,” Gil said through gritted teeth, Elizabeth practically burrowing into his tunic.

“Oh, sorry.” The knight had the good sense to at least look sheepish as he leaned forward. “There’s nothing to fear, little princess. The knights of Liones can dispatch a monster like that!” he assured her with a snap of his fingers. “Just say the magic words and one will come for you!”

“What’s magic words?” Elizabeth asked with wide eyes.

“Uhh…” He thought a moment before raising a finger. “If you see a monster, just yell, Holy Knight come stop this fright!”

The others looked at one another skeptically, but Elizabeth clapped her hands and chanted: “Holy Knight come stop this fright! Holy Knight come stop this fright!”

“Thanks, dad,” Gil groaned, and they said their goodbyes as they headed back towards the gates. On the way the group deposited their fish pies in a garbage bin despite Margaret’s protests. But then Veronica dared her to eat one, and after a bite of her own the princess turned a bit green and tossed hers in as well, and then finally they were off once again.

Elizabeth was still chanting her phrase as they headed door-to-door, the adults making a great fuss over the princesses and complimenting their escorts. More goodies were collected: spiced donuts, sugared lollipops, peppermints, popcorn balls. An hour later they began to head back for more hot chocolate and sort their things, when Elizabeth squealed, “Holy Knight! Holy Knight! Take fright! Holy Knight!”

She tugged sharply on Gil’s hand, nearly knocking him over. “What is it, Elizabeth?” he snapped, but the girl continued her shouting.

He followed the line of her trembling finger which pointed at the crowd. Gil narrowed his eyes, and finally caught an unusual shape hanging at the side of a building. It was dark now, the buildings and lampposts providing enough light to illuminate the streets, but the figure stood back in the shadows. It was taller than an average man, and larger too—but it must just be a costume!

“Hey,” he said, nudging Griamore, and nodded when he caught the boy’s attention. “Do you know who that is?”

“Is monster!” Elizabeth insisted.

Griamore just shook his head. “I dunno. He’s tall though.”

“Come on, let’s go find out,” said Howzer.

Gilthunder looked down at Elizabeth. “It’s probably one of the knights. Let’s go show you there’s nothing to be scared of.”

“I’m not sure, Gil,” whispered Margaret, drawing a laugh from Veronica. “What’s wrong?” she taunted her older sister. “Scared of the monster?”

“No!” Margaret shot back.

“Okay, okay,” Gil snapped. “Let’s just go.” With a worried look, Elizabeth followed his lead, her hand gripping his tightly, and the others did as well.

The six children weaved among the crowds on the streets, and Gil kept a close eye on their target. But as they were bumped into by another rowdy group, they paused for Howzer to shout a few choice words he picked up from his dad’s friends, and by the time they pulled him away the figure was gone.

Gil was ready to give a choice word himself, but then Veronica shouted, “There he is!”

She took off in a flash, leaving the others to scramble after her. They found her standing at the entrance to an alley, scratching her head. “I could have sworn he was here,” she muttered. The princess stepped forward to enter the alley, but Griamore grabbed her shoulder. “Let us look,” he said solemnly, flashing a look to the other two boys as he pulled three practice swords from his pack.

Gil nodded and handed Elizabeth to Margaret, while Howzer groaned. “How come it’s always us that ends up doing this stuff?” he muttered under his breath.

The three banded together, Gil in the middle, and they started down the dark alley. The light was behind them, but muted, the buildings on the side blocking the streetlamps. It made the shadows long, the crates and containers of trash along the walls providing plenty of hiding places for a monster, but not for a man. “Where is he?” Griamore hissed.

“Shh!” Howzer threw an arm out, halting their steps. They were about three-quarters of the way through the alley, and they paused to listen.

Suddenly a crash made all three scream, the boys clutching one another as something small and black raced by their feet. “It’s just a stupid cat!” Howzer howled, laughing as he bent over and rested his elbows on his bent knees.

“Gil?” The princess’ voice sounded very far away, and the boy turned and waved.

“We’re fine!” he called. “It was a cat!”

“No, Gil!” He squinted his eyes to make out her silhouette. “Back there!”

The three boys turned together. At the end of the alley, against the back wall, stood the hulking knight. Only it wasn’t a knight, or it couldn’t be, because there was nothing knight-ish about it. It was bent over as if on all fours, its back arched like an alley cat’s, its breathing ragged. No armor, no shield, no weapon, no words. Nothing to give them a clue as to who was beneath the costume.

Shaking himself, Gil threw up a fist. “Hey, you!” he called. “In the name of the Holy Knights, show yourself!”

The figure did not move. “Oi!” Howzer shouted. “Didn’t ya hear him?” When there was no response, he looked at the others. “What’s with this guy?”

“I don’t—”

Gilthunder was cut off as the mystery knight seemed to start… growing? “What’s happening?” Griamore hissed, all three taking a step back. Soon he was six feet tall, then seven, then eight—and then it darted into the shadows, snaking over a fence.

“After it!” Howzer shouted, and at once the boys took off. They ignored the calls of the princesses behind them, finding a hole in the fence to shimmy through. The figure was moving fast, forcing them to run, their feet slapping on the cobblestone ground as they headed after it down one alley, then turning down another.

The chase went on another minute, until all three boys were panting and sweating. “There!” Gilthunder yelled as they turned another corner—only to come face-to-face with the southern wall of the castle.

“Where did it-?” Gil’s question was stopped with a tug on his arm, and he saw what the others did as well: it was a monster indeed, with paws for feet and hands, covered in dark brown fur, claws at the end of its limbs and sharp teeth that stretched around its long snout. Great whiskers fell from the sides of the small black nose, its ears pointed and visible now that the creature’s hood had fallen. The boys froze in fright as it let go a low growl, the hair on the back of Gil’s neck rising as his body began to tremble. “What is it?” he whispered.

“A monster,” Howzer whispered back,

“I’m not a monster,” the thing said.

All three boys gave a little scream, and Griamore dropped his weapon. “What the hell!” Howzer shouted, stepping forward with his sword out and pointing at the monster. “You can talk?”

“Yes I can talk, and please put that down,” it growled. “You’re liable to poke out my eye, and then I’ll really show you what a monster can do.”

That was enough for Howzer, who stepped back and a bit behind Gil, placing his weapon behind his back. Gil grit his teeth and demanded, “Tell us who you are, and how you did that. My father is the Grand Master and I demand to know which of his knights is scaring children and climbing fences!”

The monster gave what could only be a chuckle. “I’m no knight,” he answered. “And I wasn’t scaring kids. You three chased me.”

Before they could answer Veronica’s voice called for them, and the boys turned to see the princesses running towards them, Margaret carrying Elizabeth on her hip. But once they were close enough to see, the girls stopped short with a little scream of their own, the youngest princess pressing her face into her sister’s neck and crying, “Holy Knight! Holy Knight! There’s monster!”

“I’m not a monster. I’m just—”

Suddenly the alleyway is illuminated as Veronica lights a lamp. “Hey look!” she exclaims, stepping between the boys.

And look they did, took a good look at the monster who was more of a man, but a man who was also a great rat. “What… what are you?” Veronica asked.

Sighing, its shoulders dropped. “I’m a member of the Beast Clan,” he said reluctantly.

“Beast Clan?” Howzer frowned. “Never heard of it.”

“Probably not, seeing how we’re nearly all wiped out.” His voice held a tinge of anger, his hands clenching momentarily. “The reaction from you humans is usually to chase and hunt us, so we like to keep it that way too.”

Sheepishly the boys put down their weapons. Margaret approached as well, still carrying Elizabeth, who was holding on to her tightly but no longer fearful. “That’s terrible,” the eldest princess said. “Is there something we can do?”

He blinked in surprise at them and then cleared his throat. “No,” he replied. “But uh… I suppose I could ask that you don’t tell anyone you saw me.”

“Why not?” asked Griamore.

“Well, like I said, you humans aren’t always so uh… nice as you kids,” he answered with a hint of embarrassment. “And I’m a bit of a wanted man. Rather not get the authorities involved ya see.”

Gilthunder swallowed thickly. Keeping a secret from his father and helping a fugitive did not sit well for the boy, but the others agreed eagerly. “Not a problem!” Howzer said enthusiastically. “We’ll help you out, Sir—uh—”

“Just Zhivago is fine,” answered the man with a chuckle.

“Mr. Zhivago,” Margaret asked, “if the humans are dangerous, why are you in the city tonight?”

He scratched his head, a very human-like gesture that Gil found fascinating. “I was hoping to find someone. My—uh, friend. I heard he might be around here.”

“What’s his name?” Griamore asked. “My father knows everyone, maybe we can help.”

“Oh I doubt that,” laughed Zhivago. “He is an old thief. His name is Ban.”

“Ban!” the children squealed excitedly.

“You mean the Fox Sin?” asked Veronica.

Zhivago frowned. “The what?”

“The Seven Deadly Sins!” They started talking at once before Veronica shouted them down. “They are Holy Knights and they work for the king and they are the best ones in the whole kingdom! And they have animals and there is a Fox Sin of Greed and his name is Ban!”

“Sin of Greed, eh?” Zhivago snorted. “Sounds like him.”

“We can introduce you if you’d like,” Howzer assured him.

But the beast shook his head. “No, I’d rather not. If he’s a Holy Knight now, then I don’t want to cause him trouble.” Then he grinned a small smile. “Ban, a Holy Knight! Who would have ever guessed.”

Then Elizabeth shimmied down from Margaret’s arms, walking over to Zhivago and peering up at him shyly. “Sir Ban is friends with Sir Mel. And I’m friends with Sir Mel. So I will give him a kiss for you.”

Zhivago smiled, his small round eyes going soft. “Will you now?” He knelt down to be at her height. “You remind me of him, when he was little. He had spunk too.”

“Spunk?” Elizabeth repeated.

“Mm hmm.” He shook his whiskers and smiled when she broke into a grin. “Will you do that for me, princess?”

“Uh huh!” Then to the surprise of all she kissed him on the nose.”

Zhivago huffed a laugh before quickly standing. “I’ll be off then, while I can get away with looking like this,” he joked. “Thank you, children. You’ve made this old dog very happy.”

He tipped his head to them and took off, returning to the shadows and scurrying out of sight in an instant. They stood watching for a long moment before Howzer said, “He was a dog? I thought he was like a hamster.”

“No,” Griamore argued. “He was a mouse.”

“Rat, probably,” Veronica offered.

“Bumblebee!” squealed Elizabeth with a laugh.

“Let’s get back,” Margaret interrupted, taking Elizabeth’s hand. “There is still some time until the end of the night and you boys dropped your candy back in the alley.

“Oh crap!” Howzer shouted, taking off, the others following as Gil shouted a scolding about using foul language around the princesses.

That night, Elizabeth was settling into her bed when there was a knock at the door. Nanny opened it and smiled, gesturing the visitor inside. The princess clapped her hands and jumped on her bed until she was swept up in two strong arms, shouting, “Sir Mel! Sir Mel!”

“Hey there princess!” Meliodas laughed. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and he looked at her with a warm smile. “What’s that for?” he chuckled.

“For Sir Ban,” she answered.

He lifted his brows in amusement and nodded, assuring her the message would be delivered before putting her back down in bed. This was their routine sometimes, when he was in the city. The nanny slipped out with her arms filled with dirty clothing as Elizabeth crawled under her covers. Meliodas tucked her in the way she liked and then sat on the floor next to her small bed. “How was tricks and treats?”

“I saw a monster!” she told him excitedly.

“You did? Was he scary?”

“Nope,” replied Elizabeth. “He was nice. He knows Sir Ban. And he was a bumblebee dog.”

Meliodas nodded. “Sounds pretty neat. Now where were we in our story?”

“The princess!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he answered. Meliodas leaned forward and placed his arms on the bed. “So the princess was in the forest, helping the creatures, when suddenly she saw a handsome demon among the trees.”

Elizabeth let out a loud yawn. “What’s demon?” she asked sleepily.

“A monster. Kind of like your bumblebee dog.”

The girl nodded, and eventually her eyes began to droop closed as she fell asleep listening to Meliodas tell her of the princess and the demon, her favorite bedtime story.

[chaletnz]

Belgrade: Day One

I arrived very late to my hostel in central Belgrade welcomed back to the sight of more Cyrillic letters. I realised that I didn't even know which kind of alphabet the Serbian language uses. This was reason enough to go for a free walking tour the next morning! After my free breakfast - that was actually amazing because it was just a voucher to get a breakfast dish from a nice restaurant up the road where the owner of the hostel knows the owner of the restaurant and arranged a good deal for us! I went for the "eggy bread" with clotted cream and got something like less sweet French toast which was delicious but the portion was huge! I'd also ordered a mocha so by the time I'd finished I was waddling to the meeting point for the tour! Our guide was a sweet local girl called Jovanna who gathered us together at the clock tower to tell us the first good news of the day - the National Museum had reopened its doors after a 15 year closure, and the art gallery was also opened again this year after a 10 year closure. She also gave us a back story of the city of Belgrade; situated on the confluence point of two rivers it was the site of 114 battles which resulted in the city being destroyed 20 times. We walked down the oldest street in Belgrade which is still a pedestrian only street filled with traditional Serbian style restaurants that has become an "artistic" area of the city. We stopped outside the old house of Serbian poet Đura Jakšić and there Jovanna told us about the traditional foods of Serbia such as the pepper spread ajvar but more interestingly, she told us about the live musicians that played in the restaurants. Apparently there was a whole system for it that everybody just knows, the musicians go table to table and also you which song you want played and they'll play it loudly as you enjoy your meal. Tipping is the protocol and there are three methods on which tips are accepted;

1. The money can be rolled into a ball and thrown into the trumpet.

2. The money can be carefully placed between the folds of the accordion.

3. The money can be stuck onto the sweaty forehead of any of the performers and if it sticks until they've finished the song they can keep it. If not, they weren't sweaty enough!

Jovanna opened her backpack to reveal a plain plastic bottle filled with a whiskey coloured liquid which she introduced to us as "Serbian moonshine" or a homemade rakije. This one had been brewed by a friend of hers with honey added for sweetness. She poured us all a generous shot and we had our first alcohol in Belgrade together at 11am. Around the corner my question from last night was answered as we were educated on the topic of language. I did already know that Serbian is the same language as Croatian, Bosnian and Montenegrin but the difference in Serbia is that the Latin alphabet and Cyrillic alphabet are used equally and interchangeably. To Serbian people there shouldn't be any difficulty from one alphabet or the other and it's the same language after all, just two ways of reading and writing it. Latin alphabet is becoming dominant because of the advances in technology that have increased the use of Latin characters on the internet and on computer keyboards. As a result to combat this and practice preservation of the Cyrillic Serbian language, all official documents and texts must be written in Cyrillic. Around this neighbourhood we saw a lot of portraits painted on walls and Jovanna told us they were famous Serbians who supported the local football team from this area. Our next stop was the crossroad which was the only road that connected the two rivers and this became the trading route. It also had a church, a synagogue and the practically named Flag Mosque which had the important duty of raising the flag at the five Muslim prayer times each day as a signal for the other mosques in the area. We walked up the hill to the Belgrade fortress; it had been built originally by the Serbs, then reinforced by the Ottomans and finally reinforced again by the Austrians, and there are traces of each of them left. From a hill at the top inside the fortress we could get some amazing views over Belgrade and see where the two rivers meet, and get our first good look at Great War Island. The island is covered in bushes and trees and is home to many species of bird, developers want to turn it into the usual hotel, restaurant, shopping complex but due to the fact it floods every year this is too impractical. The island was the historical "middle ground" on the First World War and gave headway to the troops arriving after the assassination of Franz Ferdinand which is said to be the catalyst event that sparked the entire war. A monument has been built as a memorial to all fighters in the war regardless of uniform - the statue is naked. From our viewpoint on the hill we could see Belgrade's main bridge which came under threats of bombing during the war. Some brave citizens designed tshirts with targets on them and stayed on the bridge for four days so that it could not be destroyed. During this time several bands would come and play music to keep the protestors entertained and as a result this area near the bridge is now home to a network of bars and club with live music. After the walking tour I went on a sort of street art search with a guy from Melbourne called Pete. We wandered all over the hip districts to find the coolest murals and then went for a gyro each for lunch. We were a bit tired so we went back to the hostel for a rest and Pete poured us each a glass of beer from the big 2 liter plastic bottle of it that he'd bought for about 1 euro. It wasn't too bad considering the price! We sat on the rooftop and chatted until it was almost dinner time, leaving just for a few minutes to pick up some ciders from the supermarket. Our dinner was a home cooked Serbian style feast prepared by our host Dragan (he had been slaving away in the kitchen for about 3 hours to get everything ready. There were salads, spicy sausages, spicy rice, roast chicken, potatoes, and beans among the many dishes served to us. My personal favourite dish was the rice, I don't know what herbs and spices he put on his secret recipe but it was so tasty!

[peacefulheartfarm]

Pickled Quail Eggs

Let’s get back to the quail and pickled quail eggs. So much has happened. Many changes since the last time I talked about them. Ten jars of pickled quail eggs that have been completed. And so much more to talk about, especially the creamery roof.

I want to take a minute and say welcome to all the new listeners and welcome back to the veteran homestead-loving regulars who stop by the FarmCast for every episode. I appreciate you all so much and I’m so excited to share with you what’s going on at the farm this week.

Our Virginia Homestead Life Updates

It’s getting close to Christmas. Hope you all are ready. Scott and I have been watching the YouTube series called “The Chosen”. I highly recommend it. The story so far is about Jesus’ adult life, not his birth. It’s still great watching for Christmas time IMO. A second season is currently in the works. I believe filming is scheduled to be completed in February 2021. I don’t know a release date, but I’m eagerly anticipating its release.

Quail

On to the quail updates on the homestead.

Last time I talked about out beautiful Japanese Coturnix quail we were having issues with hens getting beat up really bad. We rescued a bunch of them and put them in quarantine away from the others. One rooster was also in quarantine. Each and every one of them healed up just fine. The only problem is that we couldn’t put them back in their various cages lest the same thing happen all over again. So, they were slated for culling.

An additional blessing and/or problem was we were getting 29 or 30 eggs every day. That’s a bit too many. Who knew that we would be so successful in getting them to lay throughout the winter? Last year we had zero, zip, nada for eggs throughout the entire winter. Then one day in late March, they all started laying again as if on cue. Getting 30 eggs at a time was a giant blessing. The more eggs we get from our quail, the less eggs we have to purchase elsewhere.

Culling Hens

Before I get on to the pickled quail eggs, I need to talk a little bit more about culling the hens. When you live the homestead life, there are certain choices that need to be made that are not always easy. I love our quail. The eggs they lay are so cute and beautifully colored. However, we have to face facts and only keep what we need. And we need to give them the best life. We ended up reducing our quail population by 12 birds – well actually 13 but I will get to the additional bird in a moment. We had 6 in quarantine. Originally, there were five hens and one rooster in the bottom cages. In the lower cage on the right, we were missing a hen, the white one. All of the groups have 1 rooster to 5 hens. With my new experience, I realized I could not add another hen to the cage because she would just get beat up by the others as they vied for dominance and so we simply took all of the remaining hens out of there. That was four more. The cage on the bottom left had only one hen and a rooster in it. The other four hens from that cage were in quarantine. We took that last hen and added her to the group to be culled. Now we have 11. The end result is two cages on the bottom, one left and one right, that have a rooster and no hens.

In the penthouse was an interesting situation in that there were originally 10 hens and 2 roosters on each side – or so we thought. On the right side is where the rooster in quarantine came from so there was only one rooster there now and 10 hens. We took the five extra hens without a rooster buddy from the penthouse right side and put them in the lower cage with the lone rooster on the right. It made sense that these hens had been raised together and would therefore live in relative harmony together with their new rooster friend. They did to a point. More on that in a minute.

Miscalculations

In the penthouse on the left side was supposed to be 2 roosters and 10 hens. The only problem was that I kept getting 11 eggs from there. That’s right. I got 11 eggs from 10 hens. After closer inspection it became clear that I had misidentified one of the hens as a rooster. No problem. I needed five hens to be moved to the lower cage on the left. That left six hens and a rooster in the left penthouse. I snagged one of the hens at random and added her to the cull group. Now there were 12 in the cull group and each cage had 1 rooster and 5 hens. It seemed perfect.

More Rearranging

We processed all of the culled birds immediately and I had them in cold water overnight. There are enzymes produced in that first 24 hours or so that help tenderize the meat. Once that process is complete, I usually package them and then freeze them in packages of four birds. However, these 12 were slated for dinner and leftovers and they got an extra day in the frig. The very next day after doing all this culling and rearranging of hens, I went out to feed and water them and found another hen with a slightly bloody head. It wasn’t bad but she had definitely been abused. This time I grabbed the rooster and immediately quarantined him. It had to be him. The girls were getting along fine before and now the bloody head again. The only change was putting them in with the rooster. Sure enough, the next day, her head was much better and there were no other injuries. She healed up within three days and still no other injuries. As soon as I saw that she was going to heal up without the rooster in there, he got added to the dinner pot. And that is how it ended up being 13 instead of 12. We still have a few leftovers in the frig. Maybe dinner tonight.

Not Perfect But It Will Work

So now, one cage has five hens with no rooster. All five still lay eggs like clockwork. I just won’t be able to use those infertile eggs in the incubator.

The final note with the quail is that yesterday, I went out to feed them and found one of the hens in the penthouse on the right had died. There were five eggs in there, so she laid her daily egg before expiring. This happens sometimes. There was no mark on her externally, but she had blood just inside her beak. Something internal went wrong. I have no idea what. One cage has a rooster and four hens instead of five. That reduces our total hens to 24. That’s two dozen eggs each day. Hope the rest of them fair well through the rest of the winter. We will have to cull a few more to make room for new babies in the spring. But until then, lots of eggs. And some of them will be made into pickled eggs.

Pickled Quail Eggs

I boiled 100 quail eggs and made 10 jars (1/2 pint) of pickled quail eggs. The boiled eggs were submerged in vinegar. This did two things. First, the spots lifted off and floated to the surface of the liquid. Second, the shells, now white, became soft and rubbery overnight. Peeling them was a matter of pinching the soft shell and peeling the rubber-like shell. It was so easy. Who knew peeling eggs could be so easy.

I used three different pickling recipes. The basic pickling solution was similar in all of them. Two cups vinegar and one cup water and two to four tablespoons of sugar depending on the recipe. The salt varied a little too. This solution was enough for three jars plus a little. I made three jars of pickled quail eggs with this solution and added curry seasoning. There were three jars of pickled quail eggs with the vinegar solution, a pickling spice mix and ½ a beet. Those are a beautiful pink egg now. Then I did four jars of pickled quail eggs using apple cider vinegar in the mix instead of white vinegar and I added some minced garlic. I used the same pickling spice mix as the previous one. Unfortunately, none of them have been tasted yet. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.

In the end, I have canned 10 jars of pickled quail eggs with plans for quite a few more over the winter. It will be a fine snack throughout the next year.

Apple Pie Jam

Speaking of canning, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned my apple pie jam. It’s pretty simple and out of this world delicious. The other day while out picking up some quail feed I ordered from a local supplier, I bought another bushel of apples. The previous bushel made lots of apple pie filling and a bit of apple pie jam. And there they were apples galore right out there for me to pick up. This year was the first time I had made the apple pie jam and it was a hit. Basically, it’s an apple jam recipe with pie spices added. It is unbelievably good. It has ground cinnamon, ground cloves, ground nutmeg, and ground allspice. A bushel of apples ended up making another 40 pint jars of apple pie jam.

Perhaps I went a little overboard with making this jam, but it was really fun. I have some ½ pints that I’m selling at the farmer’s market, and will likely sell some of the pint jars as well. There will still be plenty for ourselves and as gifts for family and friends. It’s just one of those things that was so fun I just had to do it over and over. Two days straight with canning two batches of 10 pints each. Now you know what to expect out of a bushel of apples. Plan accordingly.

Cows

On to the animals. Most of the cows are still grazing on grass. It’s amazing. No hay for the main herd yet. We are near the end of December. The plan is progressing nicely. Most of the year there will be no hay expenses for these girls. It’s a giant step forward in our homestead plan. Everyone is doing well.

Just last night a new possibility arose to add another new bred heifer or young cow to our herd. This time if it works out, we will be adding another purebred Normande to our homestead. We’re excited. It will be a very, very long trip, but so worth it. These young ladies are hard to come by and we hope to remedy that in the future by having lots and lots of heifers for ourselves as well as having some to sell to others. I can’t tell you how many people have asked me if we have any heifers for sale. It seems lots of people are looking for these beautiful cows and there just aren’t that many heifers available. Especially that have the milking genetics. I’ll keep you posted on how this new development progresses. And if you are one of those looking for a Normande, drop me an email and I’ll let you know who to contact.

Donkeys

All of the donkeys got their hooves trimmed. Johnny was really, really difficult. I think more difficult than he has ever been. He was constantly kicking, jerking, moving around. And when Scott got to the last hoof, he just layed down. It was a very trying experience for all concerned. On the other hand, Cocoa is getting used to it. She did really well. And as always, Daisy and Sweet Pea just stand there. It’s old hat for them. Glad to get that accomplished.

All of the donkeys have their winter coats. They are like little fuzz balls.

Sheep

I was going out the driveway yesterday and noticed the sheep are looking nice and fat. I’m talking about the breeding group in the front pastures. They look really round but it is too early for that to be pregnancy showing. Sheep gestation is only five months. They are not even two months along. It is that last month that they get really big and round. No these girls are just really healthy and strong. It’s good to see them doing so well.

Creamery

The roof is in progress. What a job it was to get the material here and unloaded. It was not without issue. Plus, the wind contributed to some additional damage to the materials. Scott is out there right now finishing one run of metal on the lower end of the loafing shed.

This morning it was quite the ordeal to get the last pieces delivered and transported from the road back to the building site. Scott had quite the elaborate setup in place and it would have worked beautifully if his tractor had had a little more toughness. Unfortunately, it was just a little bit too small for the task. The metal was bundled all in one piece and was delivered on a tow truck. Because the pieces are so long, this was the only way to get it to us. Department of transportation rules for how much can hang off of a trailer made this job much harder to accomplish.

Bent Roofing Material – Oops

Anyway, the tow truck arrived this morning with the roof metal. Scott had our hay trailer rigged up so the bundle could be lifted up off the truck, the tow truck would drive out from under the bundle, Scott would back his hay trailer under it and then lower the bundle onto our hay trailer. He had already tested his ability to drive it back to the building site. All should work well. We had a neighbor friend bring his tractor over to help lift the load. All actually did go well for a brief moment. Then the load shifted, Scott’s smaller tractor was just not able to hold up the load and it slipped off the forks. Lots of bent metal sheets. A few more gyrations and they got it onto the trailer and the rest of the plan went smoothly. It’s all there next to the building ready for Scott and I to unload it one sheet at a time. That’s for tomorrow.

More Bent Roofing Material

Last week Scott picked up a different load of metal. These were shorter pieces that fit on the hay trailer. He and I unloaded that without issue. Yesterday, Scott laid out quite a few sheets of these metal sheets onto some sawhorses. Even before going out to the road to meet the tow truck driver, he discovered that the thunder I thought I heard last night was actually the wind blowing those large pieces of metal all over the place. More bent metal roof panels. You can’t have everything go right every day. That just would not be real homestead living. In the end, the roof will be completed and all will be well. I have a long day tomorrow helping with the heavy lifting and moving those 27-foot sheets of metal off of the trailer and under the barn. Some of them will get moved to the roof as well. I expect my biceps and wrists to be sore again. But hey, that’s one of the reasons we do what we do. No need to go to the gym. They are closed anyway. Daily life on the homestead is a workout that is never boring.

Final Thoughts

That’s it for this podcast. Trials and tribulations galore. If it ain’t one thing, it’s another. All in all, things are going well for us on the homestead at the present time. We say our prayers and thank God for our blessings. The animals are healthy (well except for that one quail) and we are healthy.

I can’t get enough of those quail. It looks like we finally have all the issues worked out. We are back to normal operations with everybody happy and content in their little homes. I just put a jar of pickled quail eggs out on the counter as an appetizer for tonight’s dinner.

The creamery is moving along at a good clip. It won’t be long and we will have finally realized that dream. Just another one of those blessings I’m always talking about.

In the near future I’m going to be updating the website to highlight our raw milk cheese herd shares. Look for updates on that next time. This year’s cheeses are superb. If you regularly eat a pound or two of cheese per month, you might want to think about joining our herd share program. You can own a piece of the herd and dine on locally produced cheese.

If you enjoyed this podcast, please hop over to Apple Podcasts or whatever podcasting service you use, SUBSCRIBE and give me a 5-star rating and review. If you like this content and want to help out the show, the absolute best way you can do that is to share it with any friends or family who might be interested in this type of content. Let them know about the Peaceful Heart Farmcast.

Thank you so much for stopping by the homestead and until next time, may God fill your life with grace and peace.

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Check out this episode!

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

For Halloween sterek, could you maybe do an au with Derek making homemade cider and it's his mom's recipe or something so he makes it every year and Stiles lives in the same building as him and he comes home from a college costume party and he's drunk so he just walks into Derek's apartment because the cider smells so good and Derek turns around and suddenly there's just a guy dressed up as Batman or something and idk maybe drunk cuddles end up happening?

I fucking love apple cider, so I really loved writing this, even though it took months (on ao3!)

When Derek turned twenty six his mother finally gave him the recipe for her famous apple cider.

It had been a tradition in the Hale household since long before he'd even been born, one every member of the family eagerly looked forward to each year. On the first day of fall in mid-September, without fail, after they offered Mabon prayers and shared blessings around a bonfire in the middle of the preserve, his mother would head straight to the kitchen to start making apple cider, her way of ushering in the new season.

When he was old enough, around six years old, she let him help, his siblings never having any interest whatsoever in helping out in the kitchen, too busy rough-housing with each other or watching football with their father and uncle Peter. But Derek was always eager to help, dubbed a mama's boy at a young age by both family and friends.

His mother would always smile indulgently, happy to have a little helper, and pull over a footstool for him when he politely asked if he could help in the kitchen, peering up over the edge of the countertop at whatever she was doing at the moment. So every year on the first day of fall she'd help him up onto the footstool or lift him onto the counter and let him measure out the sugar and cloves, count out the sticks of cinnamon to add to the slow cooker.

Once he was older, and no longer needed a footstool, his mother would have him slice and core the apples while she peeled the oranges, both of them talking about their week and upcoming activities, classic rock on the radio. Throughout middle school and high school, Derek would rant and rave about the basketball tryouts in late November and his mother would nod and hum in acknowledgement, offering a few kind words about how well he'd do and occasionally asking about his classes or how his friends were.

And every year she'd have him turn around, rolling his eyes like a typical teenager, when she added the secret ingredient, only giving him the okay to look again when she'd placed the lid back on the slow cooker. She'd smile brightly at him as she set the slow cooker on low to simmer for several hours, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and leading him into the living room to sit with the rest of the family.

The entire house had smelt of cinnamon and apples for weeks after just one batch of her cider, welcoming fall with the scents of the season. It was the scent of his childhood, hours spent lounging around basking in the aroma while his siblings tried to sniff out the secret ingredient.

He'd never actually tried to seriously figure out what the secret ingredient was himself, save for the times when he was younger and always tried to steal a peek from between his fingers. He'd simply chalked it up to his mother's many quirks and carried on, shrugging and figuring he'd find out eventually when she felt it right to finally reveal the secret ingredient.

It happened to be on his twenty sixth birthday, when he'd been back in California to visit his family, taking a few vacation days to fly back to Beacon Hills and spend his birthday with all his loved ones. Early on the morning of his birthday, just as the sun was rising up over the horizon, he'd walked downstairs into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee before going for a run through the preserve, only to find his mother sitting on the counter with a book in her lap.

She'd pulled him into a tight hug with watery eyes, whispering happy birthday and telling him how proud she was of him. He'd had to hold back tears of his own as she handed him the leather bound book which, upon further inspection, he found was a handwritten copy of all mother's most safeguarded recipes.

The rest of their family had found them like that a few hours later, holding each other tight and crying into each other's shoulders, any thoughts of coffee and running completely forgotten. Laura had teased him for the rest of his visit about him being a giant sap, only stopping when Derek threatened to withhold apple cider from her the next time she stopped by his loft in New York, their mother rolling her eyes fondly as they bickered like the children they'd always be to her.

He boarded his flight back to the Big Apple a week later feeling more like an adult than since he'd gotten his driver's license, since he'd gotten his PhD early, since he'd bought his loft in Brooklyn and started teaching at Columbia.

So, there he was at ten p.m. on Halloween night finishing his third batch of apple cider since he'd been given the recipe, singing along off-key to the Queen song he had playing on his phone, a batch of white chocolate caramel cookies baking in the oven. He was straining the cider through a fine mesh sieve, his cat, a calico aptly named Autumn, watching him from her spot on the kitchen floor, stretching lazily as she swished her tail.

Tossing the drained apple mash into the trashcan, Derek moved to strain the cider again to make sure there weren't any solids left behind. He paused when he heard Autumn meow, the lilting trill she used by way of greeting, turning on his heel to see what had elicited her loud mewl, the words of Somebody To Love dying in his throat when he saw someone standing in his living room.

He tightened his grip on the metal handle of the sieve, ready to bash the intruder over the head. But it wasn't just anybody standing in his living room—it was Batman. Well, someone dressed as Batman, anyway. It was Halloween, after all.

The mystery man's identity didn't remain a mystery for long as he yanked off his cowl and asked in a slurred whisper, "S'at apple cider?"

Derek nodded silently, completely flabbergasted, eyebrows furrowing as he took in the sight of the intruder, immediately recognizing him without the obstructive mask. It was his neighbor Stiles, an undergraduate at Columbia who lived across the hall and always said hi in the hallway and hummed loudly in the elevator every morning and had an overabundance of male guests that Derek's jealousy couldn't handle.

They'd talked a few times in the year Stiles had been living in the same apartment building, at the mailboxes and in the elevator, occasionally running into each other on campus, even hanging out with mutual friends to watch baseball a couple times. But they were nowhere near close enough to just come barging into each other's apartments uninvited and unannounced, let alone barging in dressed like DC characters.

Not that Derek would ever kick Stiles out of his apartment, Batman costume or not. He'd been harboring a crush on Stiles for an embarrassingly long time, falling head over heels for him the moment he'd overheard him ranting to his friend about how rampant bisexual erasure in history was, citing a disclaimer in his history textbook which essentially no homo'd Chopin's letters to Titus before switching to fluent Polish and reciting a snippet of one of said letters.

That had been almost a year ago and he still got butterflies whenever he saw Stiles in the hallway or shared an elevator with him, blushing like a little schoolboy whenever Stiles waved at him or asked him how his day was going. He'd actually run into a wall once, distracted by the way Stiles' entire face lit up when he smiled, not paying attention to where he was walking and smacking face first into the wall, his nearby students dissolving into hysterical laughter.

Derek had nearly had a heart attack when Stiles first met Autumn, sinking down to his knees in a move that made Derek's gut twist with arousal. He'd scratched under her chin and raved about how gorgeous she was, claiming he adored cats, always greeting Autumn with a smile and a coo about her adorableness whenever he saw her after that.

Every morning, Derek looked forward to passing Stiles on the stairwell or seeing a glimpse of him at school, feeling like a lovesick puppy. And now Stiles was standing there in his living room dressed like Batman.

Derek had a dream like this once — it had quickly become R-rated. He swallowed thickly at the memory, reflexively licking his lips.

"Uh, yeah," he managed to croak out, glancing back at the slow cooker, wondering what about apple cider was so intriguing. His eyes widened when he turned back to Stiles to find him crying softly, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Derek tossed the sieve into the sink with a clatter as he rushed over to Stiles, stepping over Autumn who let out a plaintive cry as he did. He gently held Stiles by his upper arms, frantically looking him over for any injuries, for anything that could have elicited his tears, urgently asking, "Are you okay? Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry,” Stiles sniffled quietly, his soft voice a far cry from his typical loud, endearingly brash, confident demeanor, the sound breaking Derek's heart. Stiles raised a hand to wipe his wet eyes, bottom lip wobbling as he tried to hold back more tears. "It's just... My mom used to make homemade apple cider and I smelled it, and it smells so good, and it just reminded me of her so much and I really miss her and your door was unlocked... And I'm really drunk and...I'm sorry."

"Hey, hey," Derek soothed softly, rubbing his hands up and down Stiles' arms, squeezing his shoulders reassuringly. "It's okay, it's alright. I know. Here--" he turned Stiles by his shoulders and led him towards the couch, gesturing for him to sit "--just sit down and relax. I'll finish the cider and pour you a glass, okay?"

Stiles sniffed as he sunk back into Derek's couch, relaxing into the comfortable cushions. He lifted his head to look up at Derek. "R-Really?"

"Yeah, really," Derek confirmed, grinning warmly as he ran a hand through Stiles' sweaty, disheveled hair, stroking his thumb over his cheek. "Just sit here and relax. I'll be right back."

"Okay," Stiles mumbled, voice thick and gravelly as he hastily wiped his eyes, looking up at Derek with wide, trusting doe eyes. He licked his lips, sniffling miserably, "Okay."

Derek grabbed the blanket he kept draped over the back of the couch and laid it over Stiles' lap in case he got cold, tucking it around his hips before jogging the short distance back to the kitchen, weaving around Autumn. He picked the sieve up out of the sink, quickly rinsing it off before he strained the cider again. He stretched to grab a ladle from the drawer on the other side of the sink before fetching two mugs from the cabinet above the sink.

He spooned some of the hot cider into the mugs, adding a half stick of cinnamon to each the way his mother always did, and ventured into the medicine to grab a bottle of aspirin, remembering of some of his own more horrendous hangovers. He carefully carried the mugs back out to the living room where Autumn was curled up at Stiles' hip, front paws in his lap, purring loudly as he scratched behind her ear, green eyes closed in pure bliss.

Smiling at the sight, Derek rounded the coffee table where Stiles had tossed his mask and took a seat beside him on the couch, Autumn mewing at him in greeting. He set the bottle of aspirin down on the table and handed Stiles a steaming mug of apple cider with a warm smile.

"Thank you," Stiles murmured, uncharacteristically demure as he looked down at the mug in his hands. He carefully raised it to his lips, closing his eyes and breathing in the heady scent of cinnamon as he took a small sip.

His eyes popped open, wide and shocked, the moment the cider touched his tongue, moaning emphatically as he took another, bigger sip and then another. Derek smirked into his own cup at Stiles' reaction, savoring both the amusing expression on Stiles' face and the familiar taste of his mother's cider.

"Oh my god," Stiles moaned, blotting his upper lip with the back of his hand, gloves beside his mask on the coffee table. He pointed at his mug excitedly, licking his lips before he spoke, voice much less slurred, "This is amazing!"

"Thanks. It's—" Derek paused, not wanting to upset Stiles any further by being insensitive "—it's my mother's recipe."

"S'really good," Stiles reiterated, nodding gravely to himself. He raised the mug to his lips again, taking another deep swig, eyes falling closed at the taste.

Derek was about to ask him if everything was alright, but he stopped himself. He would let Stiles sober up, offer him the use of his shower, maybe give him a change of clothes. But for now, they would just sit there and enjoy each other’s company and his first batch of apple cider.

[japanheart88-blog]

matcha monstera pie

I've never had much of a green thumb. I've been a successful plant parent a grand total of two times in my life: the first was when I was 24 and kept a random bamboo plant in the corner of my kitchen far away from natural light, occasionally watering the poor thing when I remembered to (so, maybe like, once a month?). For some reason, it thrived — I gave it to my friend when I moved away to Denver, where she promptly killed it by overwatering it. C'est la vie.

The second time was three years ago, also the second time I lived in San Francisco. Erlend's mom gifted me a potted orchid right before I left for Europe for two weeks. It promptly shed its flowers, but I kept watering its dead-looking bulb under Erlend's long-distance guidance. Nothing happened for a full freaking year; despite my constant watering, it looked as dead as it ever was... right until the week I moved to New York, of course. Literally days before my big move, the moldy looking bulb burst into life, sprouting thirty or so beautiful orchids all at once. I gave it to that same friend I gave my bamboo plant to; she promptly killed it. Again.

These days, my plant parenting duties are limited. After years of struggling to take care of and killing the trendy plant du jour (let's see... my plant casualties include a window garden box full of herbs, many small succulents, a fiddle leaf fig, an airplant or two, a potted string of pearls, cacti of different varieties, and probably more I'm forgetting), I've given up officially. My interaction with plants is now limited to the following: occasionally stopping on my bike rides across town to take photos of pretty flowering trees; purchasing overpriced blooms at New Seasons and the Portland Farmers Market for use on cakes; and using cookie cutters to recreate my favorite flowers and leaves on pies.

Monstera leaves are the hip plant du jour and I see them everywhere in trendy hotel lobbies, restaurants, and of course, Instagram. So when I saw these monstera cookie cutters on Amazon, I knew I had to have them. I initially thought about making a matcha sugar cookie situation with the cutters, but being summer and all, thought that pie was probably more relevant and seasonal.

The problem with making dyed pie dough (either with a vibrant green powder like matcha, or with other vegetables like beets or freeze-dried fruit with blueberries) is that once cooked, the color tends to get usurped by the Maillard reaction and any coloring fades away to the generic golden yellow of pies. I tried to combat this in many ways (by sprinkling the top of the pie with matcha and/or dyed green sugar and finding that the matcha burned to an unattractive brown and that the sugar wasn't strong enough to fight the pie's golden color), none of which worked. I also thought that cooking the pie filling before baking would reduce the pie's overall bake time, allowing me to pull the pie out earlier when it was still green (yeah, no, all that ended up resulting in was a pie with an undercooked bottom crust and middle). And after everybody's enthusiasm for this pie's vibrant green color on Instagram, I was actually ashamed to post the final product, a generic golden pie, on this blog and considered scrapping it completely.

But then I took a bite.

The pie crust, despite its golden color, was perfect. Crispy, flaky layers, with just the slightest hint of matcha to compliment a deep, cherry vanilla flavor. The best part is that cooking the filling beforehand yielded the perfect pie consistency, the kind that didn't run or turn the pie crust soggy after slicing.

So maybe the baked pie doesn't stay as attractive and appealing as it is raw. But it sure as heck is tasty, and maybe that matters more? You tell me.

featured:

napkin || wire rack || plates || flatware

Some baker's notes:

For the pie leaves, I used this monstera cookie cutter, which is a touch on the expensive side but worked perfectly. You can get different sizes too! In a pinch, if you don't want to pay $10 for the cookie cutter, you can print out a monstera leaf stencil and use a sharp paring knife to trace around the dough. 

When I first wrote about matcha in 2012, I felt like I needed to explain what it was to my readers — these days, matcha is pretty ubiquitous and needs no introduction. Just remember that matcha is available in different grades; when baking, it's always best to opt for the culinary variety, which is cheaper and more strongly flavored than the ceremonial grade. I used the culinary matcha from Tea Bar, a local tea chain in town that also packages some of their most popular tea products for shipping around the country. 

Matcha Monstera Cherry Pie

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Ingredients

Special Equipment:

a monstera cookie cutter

For the Matcha Pie Crust:

(makes one 9-inch double crust)

6 tablespoons (3 ounces) very cold water

2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar

1/2 cup ice

1 cup (8 ounces) very cold unsalted butter

2 1/2 cups (11.25 ounces) all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon culinary matcha

1 tablespoon granulated sugar

1 teaspoon kosher salt

For the Cherry Filling:

(makes enough for one 9-inch pie)

3 1/2 cups (32 ounces) Bing or dark red cherries, stemmed and pitted 

"tightly packed" 1/4 cup (1.85 ounces) dark brown sugar

1/2 cup (3.5 ounces) granulated sugar

1/4 cup (1 ounce) cornstarch

2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

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Recipe

For the Matcha Pie Crust:

In a large liquid measuring cup, combine 6 tablespoons water and 2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar and whisk to combine. Add 1/2 cup ice and whisk once more before transferring to the refrigerator to chill as you work with the rest of the ingredients. Slice 1 cup butter into 1-inch cubes and transfer to the freezer while you prep the rest of the ingredients.

Combine 2 1/2 cups flour, 1 tablespoon matcha, 1 tablespoon granulated sugar, and 1 teaspoon kosher salt in the bowl of a food processor. Pulse for a few seconds until the ingredients are well combined. Remove the butter from the freezer and transfer to the food processor bowl and pulse the ingredients until the mixture looks like cornmeal, with no butter pieces bigger than your thumbnail. Remove the ice mixture from the refrigerator and drizzle 5 tablespoons of the mixture over the dry ingredients; pulse for a few more seconds until the dough begins to form a ball around the food processor blade. 

Use a rubber spatula to tip the dough out onto a counter. Use your hands to quickly knead the clumps together into a rough ball. Use a bench scraper to divide the dough into two even halves. Shape each half into a rough ball and cover in plastic wrap; punch down to flatten to a small disk. Transfer to the refrigerator to rest and chill for at least 1 hour, preferably overnight. 

For the Cherry Filling:

Combine half the prepared cherries (16 ounces, or around 1 1/4 cups) and 1/4 cup dark brown sugar in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Cook, stirring frequently to prevent the fruit from scorching, for 15 minutes or until the cherries have released their juices and darkened in color. Remove from heat and stir in the remaining cherries, 1/2 cup granulated sugar, 1/4 cup cornstarch, and 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract until well combined. Let cool to room temperature before filling the pie; the filling can be stored in an airtight refrigerator for up to 3 days.

Assembly:

Liberally dust a work surface with flour and transfer one pie dough disc to the surface while keeping the second one in the refrigerator. Sprinkle the top of the pie dough with flour. If the dough feels solid in your hands, place it on the counter and use a rolling pin to give it a few solid whacks, rotating every so often to flatten it out. This will help soften the dough before rolling it out. Use the rolling pin to roll the dough into a rough circle around 10-inches wide, rotating the disc about 90-degrees to ensure that you're rolling the dough out into an even circle. 

Transfer the dough to a 9-inch pie plate and trim any excess dough beyond a 1-inch overhang. Tuck the overhang so that it's rolling back underneath itself and sitting like a tube on the border of your pie plate. Squeeze the tube together so it creates a firm edge. Dip your fingertips in some four and use your thumb and index finger on the opposite hand to pinch around your thumb to crimp the pie tube. Repeat around the tube, flouring your fingers as necessary to prevent the dough from sticking to your fingers. 

Once the pie is crimped, pour the cherry filling into the center of the pie, using a rubber spatula to spread it evenly across the bottom of the crust. Transfer to the refrigerator to chill while you work with the second dough disc. Follow the instructions on Step 1 to roll out the pie dough to a rough circular slab around 1/4-inch thick. Use a monstera leaf cookie cutter to stamp out several shapes. Remove the pie crust base from the refrigerator and arrange the monstera leaf cutouts on top of the cherry filling. Loosely cover with plastic wrap and transfer to the freezer to chill for at least 1 hour, preferably overnight.

Bake:

Once the pie has frozen, it's time to bake the pie! Position a rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat to 350 (F). Line a sheet pan with parchment paper and set aside.

Once the oven is preheated, transfer the frozen pie to the center of the prepared sheet pan and transfer to the lower third rack of the oven. Bake for 60 minutes; transfer to a wire rack to cool completely before slicing. 

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Source: https://www.hummingbirdhigh.com/2018/07/matcha-monstera-pie.html

[timesorceror]

A Precious Gift - A Handers and Fenhanders Story

Inspired by a discussion in the Weird Shit Discord about how it would be absolutely perfect for Anders to have a birthday in the spring and that tiny Anders would be running about with flowers in his hair while all the children in the village gather to help him celebrate his birthday.

That is not really the focus of this story, but it does play a crucial part. Enjoy.

Hayden loved their birthdays back when Malcolm had been alive. He would take them all out to a secluded spot in the forest and put on little magic shows for them in the early morning, and when the twins were still young and Bethany’s magic hadn’t come in, they danced and giggled in the shadows of the fairy lights, stumbling and falling headlong into the multicolored leaf piles.

Later, after Malcolm had died, their birthday became a more subdued affair. Mother and the twins would wish them a happy birthday before the start of the day, and sometimes there was a cake with candles. Sometimes. The year they spent in service to Athenril after they’d fled Lothering from the Blight was the worst, because it had come and went without fanfare. 

Mostly. Carver remembered, and that day he was a little less surly than usual for Hayden’s sake.

Then they went on the expedition. Carver was… gone, but not dead. With the things they had brought back after Bartrand’s betrayal, they had been able to buy back the Amell estate, and Leandra had gotten it into her head that she needed to throw Hayden a lavish party to make up for all the things they had lost. Hayden had seen the idea for what it was and just let her do it; they might not need a lavish party, but she did.

They doubted it would fix whatever was bothering her, but they let her do it anyway because they loved her and just wanted her to be happy.

So here they were, grousing in the darkest corner of the room they could find, watching as half of Hightown milled about, eating the finest food and drink that their mother had been able to cater, all while sharing the latest gossip of the Kirkwall high society grapevine.

Hayden lifted their cup to their lips and took a long drink from their glass. The wine was good, at least, though some part of their hind brain told them that they should probably stop drinking soon.

“Hey handsome,” said a voice that made their insides curl with warm affection, “what are you doing back here, moping about on your birthday?”

There was a pause, and Hayden blinked up blearily as they looked around for the source of the voice and finding Anders standing nearby, frowning.He was still dressed in feathers, but Leandra had insisted that if their friends were going to be coming to this party, then they were at least going to look like they fit in. Anders still stuck out, however, though it didn’t seem to be because of the feathers themselves. They were merely... striking.

“Maker, how many glasses have you had?” he asked, concerned. 

“Dunno,” Hayden replied, their speech slurred. “But prol-prop-prolly… shit. Ugh. Definitely too many.” They shook their head and shrugged, gesturing to the seat nearby. “Came to hide. Don’t mind your comp’ny though.”

Anders sat, still frowning, and they reached out to them gingerly with one hand.

“Hayden, what’s wrong?”

“Too many things,” they sighed again, suddenly just a tad more sober than they wished they were. Stupid magic, burning through that alcohol so quickly. “Mother thinks she can solve everything with a party. I wanna tell ‘er no, but I can’t take more things from her, I just can’t!”

Hayden sniffed wetly, and they heard a chair scrape softly across carpet before an arm was thrown over their shoulders and soft feathers tickled their cheek. 

“Oh Hayden. I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

You are doing something. This is something.

Or at least that was what they wanted to say. What came out was something more like a soft whine as they turned to bury their face in the feathers to hide their tears. “I want–I, I want my–”

I want my mother. I want my brother. I want my sister. I want my father.

I want my family back.

“Shhh,” Anders hushed him, and a soft pulse of magic filtered through the room that Hayden couldn’t identify. They lifted their head briefly to ask, “What?” very confusedly, but Anders just gently pressed them close and simply said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

And so Hayden clung to Anders and cried. No one saw them. No one came by.

It was nice. Anders’ voice filtered in through the distant noise of the party, soothing Hayden’s nerves. Anders was even slowly massaging little bursts of healing magic into their temples to relive the pain of their headache. Hayden couldn’t remember a time when they had felt so safe and cared for.

While Hayden was pressed against Anders, they listened intently to the story he told, a story about his past before the Circle. A rarity. A precious gift.

“I was born in the spring,” he began. “About halfway through Bloomingtide, if I recall correctly. Mutti used to braid flowers into my hair. White carnations, daisies, gerberas. They grew wild near our village, so there was always plenty of them. Vati would join Mutti in the cooking, or well, he tried to. Sometimes Mutti would just kick him out and shove us both out of the house.” Anders laughed, and it rumbled against Hayden’s cheek, filling them with warmth.

“That was usually when all of my friends would come to play. Some offered me gifts, or more flowers for my hair. Once, this girl who was sweet on me brought a bunch of ribbons and tied them to me and everyone wrapped them around me as though I were a Summerday pole!” Another rumbling laugh, an almost genuine thing that had him snickering. “That was the year before my magic manifested and I’d shot up like some gangly weed, so I could’ve probably stood in for a Summerday pole if I wanted to.”

Then he sighed and the laughter ceased. Hayden looked up and gently extricated themselves from Anders’ hold. He wasn’t quite done, though.

“Vati would always give me some wooden trinket that he’d whittled. A knight, a maid, a dragon. They were quiet detailed, I believe. And Mutti’s cake was just… divine. I still remember the recipe. It had these… outrageous measurements. She always made too much, so I could share with the other kids in the village, because when I was little I had apparently insisted that if I was getting cake, then everyone should get cake. But some of the ingredients are hard to get in the city, so I haven’t… haven’t gotten the chance to make it again.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Hayden said after a while. And then they offered their story about their father’s little light shows in return, and Anders chuckled.

“Oh, if there weren’t all these people here, I would summon some fairy lights just for you,” he said. Hayden laughed and shook their head. “That’s–that’s not necessary, really. You… you gave me the greatest gift, Anders. A story from your childhood. I… I know that you do not often part with those.” 

They sniffed again and wiped their eyes as Anders’ earlier spell began to fade.

“Thank you,” they said, but Anders waved them away with a hand and gently pried their glass from their hands. “Maybe stick to the water for a while. Or the cider. I think it’s got honey in it, it’s very good.”

Anders stood up and Hayden stood with them, grasping one hand perhaps a little too quickly than was necessary.

“Wait. Do you mind showing me where it is? I think I could stomach returning to the party if you’ll do me the honor of sharing a glass.” Hayden swore that there was a flush to Anders’ cheeks at that, but he recovered quickly by flashing Hayden one of those fantastic smiles of his that hinted at the sort of man Hayden imagined Anders might be, in another life.

“Sure, Hayden,” Anders replied, linking arms with them and leading them back out into the light. “But I must insist that it would be my honor to share a glass with you, sweetheart.”

Then it was Hayden’s turn to feel the heat of flushed cheeks, but it was worth it enough to be able to go through the rest of the night with a smile.

Later, many years later, after Leandra was murdered and both Anders and Fenris had joined Hayden’s bed, the first fifteenth of Bloomingtide came and the two of them surprised Anders by waking him early in the morning with a box of flowers in Fenris’ hands, and a plate with a slice of cake in Hayden’s.

Anders recognized it immediately and burst into tears, and after he was finished he asked Hayden how in the world they’d known the recipe.

“I might’ve looked through your journals a few times when you were out collecting herbs,” they confessed. Anders didn’t have the heart to be angry as Fenris offered the red ribbon favor Hayden had given him in place of the usual leather tie that held back Anders’ hair. Hayden took it and tied Anders’ hair with it, and tied the flowers into a crown that they placed on Anders’ head.

“It’s too short to braid them in,” Hayden lamented, “but someday, I want to braid them in. I’ve been wanting to see you with braided hair for ages.” They tugged gently on their own braid while Fenris merely surveyed the scene with a sly grin.

“What’s with that smirk?” Anders asked, and Fenris laughed.

“You seemed a little disappointed after inhaling that piece of cake, mage,” he replied. “So I thought I should inform you that there’s more downstairs. Along with everyone else.”

“Everyone… else?”

“Our friends!” Hayden chirped excitedly. “Come on, they’re waiting!”

And so Anders joined them and spent the day joining in revelry he hadn’t known in a very long time. Even Justice couldn’t seem to bring himself to tear Anders away from it all. Mostly the spirit actually seemed to add to Anders’ happiness, being so impressed at the thoughtfulness of their lovers.

There were more tears later when Fenris offered him a little wooden figurine of a cat. “Why is it wearing armor?” Anders asked. Fenris shrugged. “I remember once that Merrill asked you who knighted that cat you mentioned… Ser Pounce-a-lot. She asked who knighted him, and whether or not he had a little sword.”

Anders looked at the figure, and the cat did indeed have a little sword, and a hat. Sweet Maker. That was when the tears came as he tried to thank Fenris, but all he managed to do was blubber incessantly. The elf merely took the figurine and placed it on the bedside table as the mage clung to him, crying happy tears.

Finally, at night, after a round of amazing if not slightly emotional sex, Anders asked Hayden why they had done all this for them.

Hayden’s answer was simple. 

“You gave me a precious gift once in a time when I was sad. And these days, you never seem to have much to smile about. I merely thought I should return the favor. Happy Birthday, my love.”

And from then on, none of them had an unhappy birthday ever again.