#butter art fair

[freshthoughts2020]

[cornkernelcorp]

IVE TURNED HIM INTO A TIMEKEEPER CLONE /J

LETS GOOOOO COSTUME DESIGN!!! I love the silly!! Gold designs are always very pretty to look at..

STARES…. dont be afraid to show the class.

BUTTER IS SERVED! :D

[pilkypills]

[arielf17]

I am not immune to hatsune miku

[arolesbianism]

A couple more eternal gales refs that I’ve managed to finish up the past week, goodbye staliens I will miss you so as I move on to the human kids

[pearlymel]

A baby ?!

Summery: his departure always bugs you, and surprise, it was just your lil hormones messing with you.

Wc: 3.4k

Warnings: Fem!reader, sfw because we decided to be sweet, pregnancy, reader is pregnant, there are some suggestive comments but that's all. Happy ending because i love yall.

Part one and two if you missed it my loves.

Notes: welcome to part 3 which i believe is the last part. I am kindly asking not to ask for a part 4 because i have run out of ideas. If i ever decided to write for capitano again, it wouldn't be part of this series, it would be like headcanons instead, you could imagine the reader being the same, apologies for spelling errors and thank you. :)

Credits: the art of the left panel is by @/reaperpie

Fall was slowly approaching in Snezhnaya, and you had already expected it to be colder than the normal autumn. Which to your bad luck, it was not a suitable place for your picnic’s.

Your husband has continuesly rejected your date ideas, but you expected that anyway, you knew he couldn’t. He had duties to attend to, responsibilities to the Fatui, to the Tsaritsa, to the world. He couldn’t stay, as much as you—he wanted to.

It's not fair, You think while pouting as you stare outside the window with your chin resting on the palm of your hand, looking like a princess in need to be rescued from the tower. Your thumb toying with the diamond ring resting around your ring finger.

“Ugh, it's unfair baby.” You slump back on the bed, while your little fur baby only meowed at you in return, the orange cat jumping on the bed to make itself warm on your lap. “meow back if he doesn't love me.”

You're met with silence, only happy purrs reach your ears, and you grin, “obviously he loves me, obsessed even.” Your hand reaches to slowly pat the kitty.

“I miss him.” You sigh dreamily, deciding to stand up while carrying kitty with you so it doesn't feel left out. You make your way towards the desk in the corner, pulling the seat to take your place before pushing yourself closer to the desk.

You rest the kitten on your lap again—who quickly adjusts like nothing happened, looking as sleepy as ever.

You open the drawers to take an envelope, some wax, a stamp, a paper, and a quill.

Yeah, you're going to write him a letter, he said he didn't mind recieving even hundreds of letters from you.

How romantic.

“Dear, husband.” You start, dipping the quill in ink to brush it along the neat surface of the paper.

“i miss you.” you narrow your eyes at the empty page, saying that you miss him felt too boring.

“i utterly miss being next to you.” Hm, it lacks excitement.

“Please come back soon or i will run away.” Huh, you could already imagine the army's he would send to search for you.

“i want you inside—” okay, now you're being desperate.

You rest your arms on the desk, leaning your head on them while sighing.

—

“Do you know when will he return?” You politely ask one of the guards in front of the estate’s gate. Your hands together behind your back.

A leaf flew by in front of the guards with still no answer from them, and you narrow your eyes, wondering if they even heard you in the first place.

Finally, one of them shook their head and you only sigh in resignation, “thank you.” You mumble before heading your way back inside the estate.

It has been more than two weeks since he left, and he would sometimes send you neat letters to inform you about his well being, but the last letter you received was about a week ago, it was worrying you.

“My lady, are you okay?” Your personal maid, Marina, asked out of concern, watching you put an apron with a frown plastered on your face.

“Just hungry.” You take the glassy bowl, eggs, flour, butter, and sugar. Then you set them on the table. “I can help you.” Marina stands next to you, taking the butter to melt it.

“you want to make cookies, correct?” She asks, and you nod with a small smile. With the butter fully melted, you begin mixing in the sugar, beating the mixture until it becomes light and fluffy. The repetitive motion of stirring is almost meditative, and for a brief moment. “Baking is rather calming, i should've tried it before.”

Marina chuckled softly at your admission, a knowing smile on her face. "Yes, baking can be quite therapeutic," she stated, watching as you mixed the sugar and butter together. "I've found that working with your hands, especially when it involves creating something good to eat, is a great way to clear your mind," she continued, adding chocolate to the bowl.

You had both finished combining the ingredients, and the room was now filled with the warm, comforting fragrance of cookie dough. Marina stood beside you, watching as you shaped the dough into small balls and placed them on a baking tray. As you finished placing the last cookie onto the tray, you and Marina stood together, admiring the array of small, round cookies waiting to be baked in the oven.

The sounds of the gates opening is what catches your attention next, making you stand up from your chair to immediately abandon the kitchen and rush towards the entrance, your eyes searches him when you reach the front door, and surely enough, your husband has arrived.

He looked almost disheveled, tired, yet he still held a straight posture.

Capitano's weary eyes widened behind his helmet as you rushed into his arms, his body stiffening as if caught off guard by your sudden affection. But the tension in his form swiftly melted away as he wrapped his strong arms around you. His grip was tight, as he pulled you against his body. He was silent for a moment, his chin resting on the top of your head, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths as he held you.

“I…” you want to break the silence, you want to tell him how much you missed him. “I missed you.”

Capitano's grip intensified as your voice reached his ears, he was more than relieved to hear those words. To know that somone dear is waiting for him, someone as precious as you that he's willing to risk his life for.

He exhaled deeply, "I missed you too," he whispered, making sure the words only reached your ears. He pulled back slightly to look down at you, his gaze raking over you as if to confirm you were real and not a trick of his tired mind.

Capitano allowed you to lead him inside afterwards, his hand careful to be gentle when holding yours. The weariness in his body was evident as he stumbled a bit as you pulled him along. However, he matched your pace as best he could, following obediently as you guided him to your chambers.

Being greeted by the familiar room before him made his shoulders relax, the only place where he can be himself.

"How was is it? Being away from your wife for more than two weeks?" You ask while your hands started working on helping him out of the thick layers of his heavy, dirty clothing. Each layer you removed revealed more of his muscular, battle-worn physique, the scars and marks on his body a testament to the dangers he had faced.

He paused, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he noticed your pout. He reached out a calloused hand and gently tugged at your lip, "It was a long two weeks," he admitted gruffly. "I have missed you sorely.”

“I'm sure you did,” you hummed, walking towards the closest to grab a sweater for him. "Don't pout like that," he chided gently, "You're making me feel guilty.”

You try hiding your smile when you hand him his new warm clothes, your arms crossing next, “as you should.”

"I've missed that pout," his lowers his voice, "but I don't miss your little attitude.”

You shrug, “i don't know what you're talking about.” Capitano's gaze held yours unflinchingly, his eyes studying your expression. He knew you were baiting him, daring him to guess your reason for being upset.

"Let me see.." he started, his voice taking on a tone of mock contemplation. "Perhaps it's the fact that I was gone for more than two weeks and left you here all alone. That's a start, is it not?”

“maybe.”

"Or perhaps it's the fact that I didn't send you a letter everyday and left you wondering about whether I was alright or not. Hmm, that could be it, couldn't it?”

“Go on.” your raise your eyebrow while tapping your feet impatiently.

"Or maybe," he stepped closer, taking a few strands of your hair in between his fingers, "It's because I didn't come home and ravish you as soon as I returned, instead letting you pout and sulk and complain like a spoiled little thing.”

He could see right through you; the way you suddenly straightened your stance and tried to act nonchalant only confirmed his suspicions.

You gasp, ”whaaaat? Nonsense.”

"Is that so?" he drawled, his hands now taking your upper arms, his thumb thumbs rubbing circles around your skin "i will make it up to you, my wife.”

Despite his promise that you could do later, you wanted him to rest more than anything, so you make him sit down on the bed while you leave to get the cookies you baked together with Marina.

“You have to tell me your opinion.” you hand him one of the chocolate chip cookies. Capitano let the taste of the chocolate chips and the buttery cookie dough settle on his tongue for a moment. He swallowed, his gaze still fixed on you, before giving his verdict.

"They're good," he admitted, "Better than good, actually. Well done.”

Praise kink goes crazy huh? Your smile widens, and it makes you feel all giddy, as you took a bite of the cookies as well.

He leaned back against the plush bedding of the bed, his strong arms resting on his lap as he observed you. "You've been busy while I was away, hm?"

“Not really, more bored than busy.”

“… i am sorry. I do not mean to leave you alone.”

You scoot closer to him once you see how guilty he looks, you sit next to him, your head resting on his shoulder. “When do you have to leave again?”

Capitano's silence spoke volumes, pausing before answering, "My duties are unpredictable, and there's no telling when the Tsaritsa will call for me again. I cannot give you an exact timeline, and that is the reality of what I do. I am a warrior first, a husband second.”

Ouch, that's fine. Totally fine.

You knew what you were getting into when you married him, after all. Still, a part of you couldn't help but wish for more. The thought kind of makes you sick… quite literally.

“I think the cookies had too much sugar.” You put the dessert back on the plate before standing up from the bed. “Shall i go get you wate—”

“no, thank you. I can do it.”

—

You were rotting in bed. From the morning, and now it's afternoon. It makes you feel useless since you barely did anything.

Capitano left before you woke up, even though he promised to return later today.

You felt miserable, your body weak and your spirits low. It was a mixture of loneliness, hormones, and the unease bubbling in your stomach. Capitano's absence only made it worse, adding to the feeling of helplessness that had settled upon you.

You tossed and turned in the bed, the plush sheets tangling up around you as you tried to find a comfortable position. But no matter how much you shifted, the discomfort in your stomach remained, persistent and nagging.

“Make the pain go please, I'll take any disgusting medicine,” you tell Marina weakly as you look up at her while she sat on the wooden stool next to you.

"I can give you some ginger root. It might help soothe your stomach.” she offered gently, handing you the ginger root she prepared just for you.

“… i lied i can't take anything disgusting.”

Marina chuckled softly at your admission, "I thought so," she said, setting aside the ginger root. “Have you considered telling Lord Capitano?”

You shake your head, “not that he's here. It's not that important.” you cover half of your face with the blanket, “why though? Isn't it just a normal cold from the change of weather?”

It was clear that you were trying to downplay the severity of your symptoms, perhaps not wanting to worry anyone or admit that something might be seriously wrong.

"Dearest, it's not just a cold," she chided gently, "the symptoms you're describing are not typical of a mere cold.”

You frown, “is it not?”

She shook her head, her voice soft but serious. "No, it's not. The nausea, the fatigue, the changes in appetite...these are all common symptoms of something else." Shee paused for a moment, "my lady, have you considered the possibility that you might be... Pregnant?”

You immediately rise from the bed, sitting down with eyes wide to stare at her, "what? Pregnant?” you ask in shock.

"I shall ask for a healer right away, my lady.”

—

You stare outside the window at the dark skies, although your eyes fixated on the gates opening, indicating his arrival.

You almost flinch when he dashes inside your shared chambers, taking his helmet off but not bothering to take the rest off before he's gently grabbing you by your arms.

“where?” He asks urgently, “where are you injured? Who did it? Do not hesitate to tell me.” He says in a dangerously sharp tone, his eyes searching for even a single scratch on your body.

“what… are you talking about?” You raise an eyebrow, and your unbothered state made him confused. “the healers were here, yet you're not injured?” he blinked before sighing, his hands caressing your arms instead, “then why? Are you sick?”

“Sick… no not sick.” You tell him, your hands ever so gentle taking a hold of his face, “… but pregnant. I'm pregnant.”

You both stare at eachother, both of you holding your breaths. You have never seen him so distracted, like he didn't hear you the first time.

Does he hate it? You never thought of the possibility.

“Capit—” before you could continue, he's down in one knee and you're bewildered, unsure of what to do.

“you're carrying our child.” he utters out so softly that you think you might tear up—and you really are in the verge of tears. He takes your hand, he's held your hand many times, but this time it feels different, he holds you like you're glass, he's so careful with it.

“I swear to protect you both, and put you both first. Should anyone hurt you, i will not hesitate to draw my sword, if i ever hurt you… then you should not hesitate to draw your sword on me.” his words hung in the air like a sacred vow.

You tried to speak, to respond, but only a soft gasp escaped your lips. Tears welled in your eyes, and you could only stare at him, utterly overwhelmed.

Capitano's gaze softened even more as he saw the tears falling down your face. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, his hand still holding yours in a gentle but firm grip, he reached out with the other hand, his large palm cupping your cheek to brush your tears away. “Don't cry, I'm here.”

His embrace, so warm, so protective around you that it eases every single thought in your head.

Everything is going to be okay. With him, it will.

—

Months passed in a blur of morning sickness, cravings, and blossoming excitement for the new life growing inside you. Capitano, as promised, was by your side through it all and he went away for more than a week.

He attended to your every need, from getting up in the middle of the night to find the most ridiculous late-night snack, to comforting you on days when you felt overwhelmed by the changes happening to your body.

You rest back against the bed’s headboard while tracing random shapes on the skin of your swollen belly, a hum of some sort of song followed after. You stop once you hear the sound of slow footsteps, catching your husband freeze.

“I'm sorry, i didn't mean to stalk you like that—”

“you're so silly. Come here, honey.” You pat on your empty side with a smile, inviting him to share this moment you.

Capitano took his place next to you then continued watching as you gently caressed your belly, tracing over the stretch marks with your fingers.

“They're beautiful, you know.” he speaks first, as if sensing what you were about to say. “Beautiful?” You repeat. He lifted your hand to his lips, gently pressing a kiss on your knuckles before he replied, his voice a soft murmur. "Yes, beautiful. They're a sign of life growing within you. A sign of strength. Of creation. That's beautiful.” he continues his trail of kisses to your arm up to your shoulder, “I want to kiss every inch of you, stretch mark or not.”

You've come so far with him that it feels surreal, it feels right, “i love you.” You whisper to him, turning your attention to him again. “I love you.” he doesn't hesitate to say it back, the declaration coming out of his tongue smoothly like it was meant to be.

His hand then moved to your growing bump, "and I love this," he added. “This?” You giggle.

"Mhm," Capitano confirmed, his hand now rubbing your belly in slow, soothing circles. "This. Our baby." His eyes flickered up to yours, "We created this," he continued, his voice with pride and awe. "Our love made this.”

Love.

—

Were toddlers always this fast? Because one second he keeps an eye on her then the next he looks around before she's gone right from infront of him.

He was supposed to play tea party, but a little butterfly flying creature must've caught her attention.

Capitano, despite his size and strength, found himself struggling to keep up with your energetic three-year-old daughter.

He chuckled as he chased her around the garden, his large frame a stark contrast to her small, fleeting form. As she ran past you, you couldn't help but burst into laughter at the sight of your husband's face, "almost got her," he panted out, his hand on his knee as he attempted to catch his breath.

“You got this old man!” You decide to tease him from behind, laughing endlessly from the sight. Though he shot you a mock glare through his labored breaths, “old man, huh?" he grumbled, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest. "You think I'm old nos, do you?" he continued, raising an eyebrow playfully. "I'll show you 'old,' darling." With that, he took a step further to sweep you off your feet, carrying you effortlessly in his arms, and your smile only widens.

“Me!” Your little girl raises both of her arms at her father, and he kneels down to carry her in his other arm. Now carrying you both in each arm.

“Oh, how strong.” You tease, poking at his bicep and he shakes his head almost shyly, “papa, butterfly.” Your daughter proceeds to show you both the butterfly she caught, the little creature doesn't seem scared of her as it rests on her tiny fingers.

“Looks pretty,” Capitano smiled, his expression amused as your daughter leaned toward the butterfly, attempting to kiss it. "Careful now," he warned gently. "Don't scare it away." He watched as the butterfly fluttered its delicate wings at her attempt and she giggles.

"You have to be gentle," he told her, his voice soft. "Just like how you handle the kittens.”

She gasps, suddenly remembering the cat that's half asleep on the grass with the three of you. “Kitty!” She shouts at the cat, jumping off Capitano’s arm so suddenly that it makes him gasp, worried that she might’ve injured herself.

“she's fine.” You pat your husband's chest and just like that, he's relaxed again. “i think our cat is tired of her sometimes.” You get down as well, watching how your daughter carried the lazy cat in her arms to run in circles with her. The cat that grew within these years, from a mere kitten to a big cat now.

"I think we should just be glad the cat hasn't hissed at her or swatted her yet," he sighed, and you hum in reply, “i don't think it ever will. That cat has been clinging to my belly ever since i was pregnant. Kept me warm i must admit.”

You grin when your daughter runs back to both of you, carrying the cat in the air, it's eyes almost closed, unbothered, "meow."

Tags: @duchessofherself @itsjustnikkixoxo @erasme143 @yvesswoo @mooshbb @bigboygoose

[chocolatemelanguer]

[poppy-metal]

oh ranch hand!art is livid. he’s fuming as he brushes down one of the horses. you come in like a fucking hurricane, upend his life, and just leave? and why were you leaving so soon? but good riddance! he doesn’t want you around anymore reminding him how much he royally fucked up, but that thought brings a sick feeling to his stomach. he probably would never see you again and he doesn’t exactly want that either.

ofc you follow him to the barn, worried at his reaction, and also because you’re worried about him being hungry, you have a biscuit slathered in butter and homemade blueberry jam for him. yeah you’re avoiding the guy but that doesn’t mean you stopped loving and caring for him any less.

“you shouldn’t skip breakfast you know.”

he doesn’t even turn around, doesn’t even spare you a moment of his time, and you deserve it. you don’t deserve good things.

“i was thinking about pastor zweig’s sermon, and i realize that i owe you an apology,” you start, “i shouldn’t have tempted you into sleeping with me and continuing to see you over the summer; it’s not fair to lucy. i know how much me being around has tormented you and how much you probably hate me, so this is my final apology and gift to you. i’m leaving friday, and i hope you find it in you to forgive me.” you state it like you were reciting a script—so devoid of the spark and emotion that typically radiates from you.

“i will never forgive you,” art responds, and a sob builds it way up your throat. he turns around and finally face you. “i will never forgive you if you leave.”

“w-what?”

he’s on you suddenly, backing you to the barn door; he glances down to make sure the door is locked. “you come into this town and seduce me and ruin my life and make me obsessed with you and your tight cunt, and you think you can just leave me? running away isn’t atonement; it’s cowardice.” you’re cowering under his hot gaze. “look at me,” he seethes.

your eyes meet his and tears spill, but he holds your chin, forcing you to keep his gaze. “i’m trying to do the right thing,” you cry, “you’re being unfair.”

he roughly slams your back into door by your shoulders. “no you listen to me!” he roars, “you are the unfair one. if you had just left me alone i wouldn’t be in this mess. i wouldn’t be-“ he stops himself. you don’t deserve to know he’s been debating selling that engagement ring back to the jeweler or that he’s been avoiding lucy’s calls for the past week. instead he slams his lips down onto yours.

his kiss is searing, and you’re crying into the kiss. but you love him you love him you love him and maybe this is your final gift to yourself and to him. so when the two of you fall down into a pile of hay and he begins undressing you, you’re surprised at his gentleness. the way he kisses you and the soft way his hands trail makes you feel loved, so you shut your eyes and pretend that you are. when he finally gets around to fucking you, you tear up at the way it feels—the last time always feels the most intimate you guess. it’s so deep it’s so tender it’s so much. you’re clinging to him like he’s your lifeline, and you realize that he was. he was the one that made you realize that you need to be good to be better. he’s holding you like, well like you’re the only one he’s ever loved. his kisses are deep, are plying, are almost begging you for—for what?

“tell me,” he demands, “tell me you love me.” the words reverberated along your throat.

oh no oh no no no

the tears from pleasure quickly turn into tears of panic. “please art, please don’t do it, please i’m-“

a particularly deep thrust comes, and you choke back a moan. “say it,” he grits out, grinding his hips down into you, “i know you want to. you owe it to me.”

you’re crying, begging him to let it go, but he keeps fucking you, and in your pleasure-idled state, it spills past your lips. “i love you,” you practically whisper. at those words, it’s like new energy embedded into art and his bullying of your poor cunt double downs. you feel your orgasm coming, but you need something from him. pulling him closer, clawing around his back, “please say it back, please art, i need it,” you moan out. his thrusts just continue at a violent pace. “please, please, please.” you’re crying, and eventually you cum and he follows, letting out a low groan as he spills into you.

he’s silent as he re-buckles his belt and put his hat back on. you’re silent as you wipe the cum off the insides of your thigh with the hem of your dress.

“i need to get back to the others,” he says, “it’s boxing day.” and you’re left alone in the mess that you made.

art returns back to the ranch the next morning. it’s just your grandma on the porch. “happy tuesday, art.”

“mornin’, ma’am,” he replies, taking his hat off and holding it in front of him. “don’t smell any breakfast today.” he’s craning his head towards the kitchen window to try and catch a glimpse of you in your baby blue apron.

“oh, my granddaughter left last night. something bad must’ve happened at home for her to be as spooked as she was, shoving all her things into her bag and hopping on the first plane out,” she shares, “i’ll get started on breakfast in a moment. i know how you men are when it comes to your hunger.”

art dropped his hat to the ground.

(oop)

- 🤠

COWBOY ANON THIS IS SO SERIOUS FOR MEEEEEEEEEEE

need..... need it to be radio static for months afterwards and he goes through with proposing to lucy and he's done what he always does best when something hurts him - he puts it in a box and pretends it doesn't exist. he knows it's not healthy, patrick rags on him for it, says he has so much shit pent up inside one day he'll just explode from it all. he hasn't exploded yet, so he keeps doing it.

he proposes - and it's something he's dreamed of doing and yet, the whole night is a blur. like he's on autopilot, more or less. he pastes on a smile - says what he practiced saying, and she says yes. everyone is happy - except your grandma - who's always had a knack for knowing people a little too well, peering at him curiously over her glass of wine when he helps her set the table -

"thought about invitin' her down to celebrate."

art freezes. the fork he'd been in the middle of placing clinks against the plate already set. he stares down at the table with his jaw set and doesn't say a word.

for several beats there's just silence - thick in the air. and then art swallows. straightens the knife and fork next to the plate. clears his throat. he doesn't need to ask who the 'she' in question is. there's only one 'she' that could ever make art react like that.

"what did she say?" voice cool.

your grandma rolls her eyes. for as much as she'd had her suspicions of you on your arrival - she'd grown quite fond of you. she didn't have a good relationship with your mother - she'd gone and become an unrecognizable spoiled brat - and she thought you'd be more of the same - from what she'd heard of your knack for chasin' taken men -

she didn't no the specifics on your relationship with art - but she knew there was something there. and it was something good - something that brought light to your eyes and put a spring in your step. she did condone cheatin' - she was happy for art and his impending weddin' truly. the boy deserved to be happy - but well. grandma's always had to meddle, didn't they?

"she couldn't make it." your grandma says - noticing the way art exhales - though if it's from relief or disappointment, she can't tell. "her mom's got her wrapped up in this new fella'. she's getting to know him and all that - he's very rich, accordin' to her." she huffs a laugh. "though that's about all she can tell me about em'. you'd think she'd know more about the man by now."

art now knows where your wickedness comes from, he thinks. definitely inherented from your grandmother.

he scrubs a hand down his jaw and tries to keep the box that's begging to burst open shut tight in his heart. thoughts of you back home in the big city, sat across some pompous asshole in some restaurant that's menu was probably more expensive than his wedding would be.

you're where you belong. he's where he belongs.

"shame." he says. "gotta make a call."

always runnin', your grandma thinks, watchin him go. didn't he know the things he ran from would always find a way to catch up to him?

-

it's a couple months later when the call comes. he's at home, braced over his sink, scrubbin' his teeth. harder than necessary - until his gums bleed - when his phone trills on the marble counter next to him.

it's not a familiar number - but with the wedding tomorrow - it's probably someone in his extended family wanting last minute details or something of the like -

he spits into the sink - pink mixed with the white of the paste - he'd brushed hard enough to make his whole mouth tender - swipes up his phone and answers it. "yeah?"

there's silence on the other end for awhile - he pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at the screen but the call is still ongoing. he presses it back - "is someone there?"

"art."

every muscle is his body tenses - goes rigid. he'd know that voice anywhere. at night when his head is empty and it's quiet outside he can still hear the breathless way you'd said you loved him.

the only reason he doesn't drop his phone is because his hand is like a block of ice around it - he feels at once too hot and too cold. his heart stops and then picks up at the speed of a racehorse.

"art," you say again, quietly, like you're purposely keeping your voice down. "its me."

his throat works. "I know -" he exhales shakily. looks at himself in the mirror and can't discern his own expression. turns so his back is facing it, props his shoulder against the doorframe of his bathroom. "i know." he says again, can't think of what else to say - what he should be saying -

"you're getting married tomorrow." you tell him. he can't make out your tone because of how softly you're speaking.

at the mention of his wedding his eyes close. he grips the phone tightly. "yeah."

a pause. then - "are you happy? truly?"

his breath rattles in his lungs. he looks up at the light fixture and thinks what the fuck.

it's just like you - it's just like you to leave without a word and not make a peep for months after wrecking havoc on his life and his heart - only to drop yourself back in front of him right when he's trying to move on - when he's trying to put you behind him despite how fucking hard its been - it's just like you to haunt him every day and make yourself real again right now - when he's the most vulnerable he's been since the day you left.

is he happy? is he happy?

he could laugh if there was any joy in this situation at all. if hot anger didn't suddenly flood his veins and stain his cheeks red.

he wants to tell you that he is. that he's glad you left and he's never been happier in his life for tomorrow. that he can't wait to finally be free of the shackles of you and get on with his life and grow the fuck up and stop reminiscing back on those hot summer nights you'd spend tangled up in eachother -

he wants to - but he can't.

but he can't be completely honest either.

"why are you callin' me now? after all this time?"

he lets the hurt bleed through in his tone. he knows he doesn't really have any right - the way he'd treated you - how he'd fucked - made love to you and then left you there - but still. you just.... left. entirely. erased yourself from the narrative without any consideration to how it would make him feel.

he hears you shift around through the receiver - hates himself for the way he's picturing you in his mind. looking out your window up at the sky maybe, or curled up on your bed. did you look the same? had you changed any?

"its storming." you whisper. "listen."

you must hold the phone out - because he can hear it then - the steady beat of rain coming down hard on glass paine. the roll of thunder.

a pinch of worry twists his chest - the memory of you shaking in his arms, small and scared. the first time he'd seen you as the girl you were and not the confident seductress you pretended to be.

you come back on the line. he hears your breath - and he can't help it - he asks -

"are you okay?" because he has to know. the thought of you shaking in that way - he can't stomach it. his fingers throb like they're aching to run through your hair - he remembers how it felt to hold you against him. how good and right it felt despite how wrong it all was.

"I wasn't." you tell him honestly and his heart squeezes. "but then I thought of you - I thought about your arms around me. the way it felt to put my head on your chest and hear your heart. it was racing that night, you know? like a humming bird."

he breathes shallowly. looks out into his bedroom - the bed he sleep alone in that will soon be filled with his wife - lucy - another woman. his jaw ticks and he looks away.

you continue - "I don't think anyones ever been that gentle with me before in my life. not that I'm deserving of it now - but I probably deserved it when I was smaller, maybe. to be held. I'm not a good person, art - I know that. I know what we did was wrong, and I know you're a grown man - but I pursued you by myself, knowing your heart was with another. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry if I made you feel like a bad person like me. you aren't. you could never be. someone who holds someone like me like that - could never be bad." your breath is shaky and he thinks you're crying. he hates it. he hates the sound of it. it fucking hurts. it's shredding him up inside to hear it. "- you're a good person. and you deserve to be happy. I hope - I hope she makes you feel held. like you made me feel."

it's quiet. outside, thunder rolls, and he thinks of the karmic twist of fate that it would storm now. you start to say - "I love - "

but he interject. "don't." when he swallows he realizes he's swallowing back tears. "please." he doesn't know what he's begging for.

"im sorry." a beat. "congratulations, art."

the line goes dead.

[octuscle]

Cholo Life

“First the damned Democrats stole the elections from us and now they are stealing our identity!” Manolo began to roll his eyes. He was familiar with this. When KJ worked himself into a rage, he sounded like a personal disciple of Trump. ‘I mean that they eat the cats in Springfield and the dogs, it's not just an isolated incident, they do it everywhere!’ ‘Kyle…’ Manuel began. KJ gave Manolo a friendly punch on the shoulder. He knew that when Manuel called him “Kyle,” Manolo was angry. “Of course I don't mean you,” said KJ. “You're an American through and through, you're American as peanut butter!” Of course that wasn't true. Manolo was born in Lima, went to school in Lima, and only came to Minnesota with his parents at the age of eight. But his parents had placed great importance on him learning the language quickly, and today Manolo speaks better English than his best friend from school days, KJ.

Kj, on the other hand, was a prime example of a junior at an American college: muscular, bright eyes, fair complexion, of course he played American football, and of course he parroted what Trump said without thinking. Yes, he was damn good-looking, but yes, he was also a real airhead. And even though olu secretly had a crush on KJ, KJ was out of reach for Manolo. You couldn't be more straighter than KJ.

KJ was studying business. With a bit of luck, he would at least get his bachelor's degree. Manolo had already graduated from high school two years before KJ and was about to get his bachelor's degree in biochemistry. He wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, who ran the research department of a seed company here. KJ, on the other hand, would join his father's trucking company and would alternate between driving trucks on the highways and struggling with the accounting in the office.

“Besides, you yourself admitted that you eat pets. You said that your grandmother serves guinea pigs.” ”Yes, but first of all, my grandmother doesn't steal the guinea pigs from some guys in Ohio, but has her cook buy and prepare them at the market, and secondly, guinea pigs are a delicacy where we come from. We find it rather absurd that you…” “All fake news!” KJ countered. ”Admit that the whole world would be in ruins without the USA. Our culture is simply superior!” There were situations in which Manolo was annoyed at being physically inferior to KJ. There were situations in which he just wanted to smash KJ's face in. It was really crazy that a guy who already classified cartoons as art wanted to lecture him on culture. His abuela had once given him a lucky charm that he always carried in his pocket. In situations like this, squeezing the stone firmly helped him. It drained the anger out of him. But this time was different. The stone became warm. The stone became hot! Manolo let go of it. He reached for the cold coke glass to cool his hand.

“Are you okay, hermano?” KJ asked. Manolo winced. That was the first time KJ had used a Spanish word correctly. ‘Would you order me another tequila? ¡Tengo que mear!’ Manolo looked after his friend. He had never drunk tequila before. KJ was also a feast for the eyes from behind. The torn jeans clung to his firm ass. His shoulders were broad. He was muscular. But not exaggerated. And his patriotic tattoos emphasized his masculinity. Manolo waved at the waitress and ordered two tequilas. He didn't usually drink. But maybe he could stand KJ better today if he was a little drunk.

The tequila arrived before KJ. And when KJ sat down, Manolo was playing with his cell phone. KJ took his tequila glass. “A nuestra salud y amistad, hermano” “A nuestra salud y amistad, KJ” Manolo replied distractedly, picked up the glass and was about to toast. He was frozen for a few seconds. What the hell had happened to Kyle? The smooth cheeks were covered by a hint of a beard. His tattoos had expanded. And now they had a lot more space too. Because KJ's muscles had almost exploded. His slender neck, with the Adam's apple whose movements always made Manolo so horny, had become a bull's neck tattooed all over. “Dude, you look like you've seen a ghost,” KJ said. His English had a slight Spanish accent. And there was a tear tattooed under his one eye. Manolo ordered two more tequilas… Their conversation turned into Spanglish gibberish. And at some point into Spanish. KJ got terribly worked up about the gringos. In doing so, he accidentally knocked his trucker cap off his head. He picked up a bandana and tied it around his head. KJ's gaze became somehow different. While they were talking, he played with his nipples more and more. He looked at Manolo more intensely. Somehow… lustfully? “Tengo que ir al baño otra vez. ¿Y no te gustaría venir conmigo?” KJ stood up. He was a muscleman. His tight-fitting tank top emphasized his muscles even more. With every twitch of the muscles, the tattoos moved, creating a real cartoon. His ass looked phenomenal in the pleated pants. If Manolo had to create a wank fantasy, this is what it would look like. And now the wank fantasy was telling him to follow him to the restrooms. Damn it! KJ looked like a real cholo. And he was a square college student in khakis and a button-down. Manolo hesitated for a moment. And then he followed KJ. KJ? Why “KJ”? I have no idea when the nickname developed. César Jesus should have been called CJ. But some stupid gringo hadn't understood that in elementary school. And so he had eventually become KJ. And the nickname stuck.

KJ was standing at the urinal. Manolo could see from behind that he was about to jerk off. Even though they had known each other since childhood, he had never seen KJ's cock. KJ's father had the typical conglomerate that enterprising wetbacks build. He had a few trucks that he used to transport goods or help with removals, he owned a few cafes, a laundry… And KJ was supposed to take over this small local empire at some point. His parents had always hoped that the friendship with the clever and ambitious Manolo would have a positive effect on KJ. But KJ had always been the type to hang out with the bad boys. And who could blame him? He looked just as brutal and manly as his father.

Manolo stood next to César at the urinal. César pretended not to notice Manolo. His tattooed hand jerked his cock, which was also covered in tattoos. It was a monster that offered almost as much surface area for artistic decoration as Manolo's thin forearm. César pushed up his tank top with his other hand, revealing his granite abs and finally his nipples. He played with his right nipple with his left hand. And Manolo, whose cock was almost as hard as César's muscles, couldn't help but suck on the left nipple. “Siempre supe que detrás de la fachada de empollón se escondía una zorrita,” César moaned. He let go of his nipple and pushed Manolo gently but firmly onto his knees. And Manolo greedily licked the precum from César's gleaming glans. This beast was not the first cock he sucked. But it was the biggest. And its owner was the one he wanted to satisfy more than anyone before. They had been like dissimilar brothers. Now he wanted to be this giant's whore. And César obviously wanted him to be his whore. He enjoyed the blow job and moaned loudly enough to signal to anyone who wanted to use the toilet that it was occupied. Manolo sucked César's cock and jerked his own. Both came almost simultaneously. It was impossible for Manolo to swallow all of César's cum. And his own cum splashed onto his shirt. Exhausted, he fell back. César was breathing heavily, too. “Necesitas una camisa nueva, hermanito,” he said. Manolo certainly couldn't go out like that. César took off Manolo's shirt and wiped his cum-smeared face with it. Then he took off his sweaty tank top. It was a bit difficult because it couldn't be easily pulled over his muscular body. He handed it to Manolo. Of course it was too big. But it felt good. And César would make sure that he would fill it out better soon. Today two men became real cholos.

Pics by @ki-kink

[furby-junkie]

"Bob Kling makes a final touch to his Furby creation at the butter cow display at the Ohio State Fair in 2000. Kling is director of Sculpting for Hasbro."

Source

Article From The Cincinnati Enquirer (newspapers.com transcript)

Date: August 13, 2000

Hasbro butters up the fair 

 How do you bring butter to life? Mix toy-makers with the dairy farmers during the Ohio State Fair. Eight Cincinnati toy sculptors from Hasbro went from designing action-figures to spending four days in a refrigerator sculpting butter. The local design team is behind this year's butter sculpture, the largest ever at the fair on display through Aug. in Columbus. Accompanying the annual cow and calf are depictions of Hasbro's Mr. Monopoly, pet Furby and a Tonka Truck.

The Hasbro designers approached the American Dairy Association (ADA) of the Mideast after their veteran butter sculptor of 36 years retired. The ADA Mideast liked the idea. There aren't a lot of skilled butter sculptors in the area to carry on the century-old tradition. "The dairy industry and Hasbro have a lot in common children," said Jenny Wilson, director of communications for Mideast ADA, who pointed out that the "milk mustache" ad campaign is aimed at children.

Some choice details, such as the folds of skin in the hind quarters, a big vein on the udder and the slope of the cow's back, 'were pain painstakingly patted into place. Contrary to popular opinion, butter is no easy medium. "It's slimy," said Mr. Kling "Butter responds a little bit like bad clay," he said. Although the team worked in a 45-degree walk-in cooler, they found that their body heat would still melt the butter that ran down their arms.

"At the end of the day we would shower and even then, we still smelled like butter," said Mr. Kling. However artfully successful the sculptures are, they'll last only as long as the fair. "They'll turn off the cooler and pressure wash the frames," said Mr. Kling, who said it would be too expensive to try to preserve the butter art in another medium.

[freshthoughts2020]

[laiqualaurelote]

Ok but for the file thing, I'm DYING to know more about "The first thing Isaac chopped in half with his hand was the BELIEVE sign" pls <3

thank you for this ask for the WIP game! this is an extremely cracky AU in which the Richmond Players all start manifesting superpowers.

The first thing Isaac chopped in half with his hand was the BELIEVE sign. The second was Zoreaux.

To be fair to Isaac, he had failed to chop Jamie in half. (More on this later.) Thus, while Jamie went off to sulk and Zoreaux ambled up to poke at the broken sign saying, “Maybe we can make a new one?” Isaac thought nothing of clapping him on the back and replying, “Sure thing, bruv.”

His hand went through Zoreaux like a hot knife through butter. Zoreaux didn’t exactly fall apart, but he did sort of peel away in two halves like a melted clock in a Dalí painting. He was screaming the whole time. It was the modern art mash-up nobody wanted to see.

Isaac gaped at him in horror. The other players were yelling. “Bro! What did you do!”

“I didn’t – ” began Isaac. 

Zoreaux was still screaming. Weirdly, there was no blood or anything. The edges of him seemed to have been pinched off, like Play-doh.

“We must put him back together!” shouted Dani. He and Richard were on their knees, trying to jam the two halves of Zoreaux back together, only Zoreaux seemed to be drooping and stretching through their fingers. “Mon dieu,” gasped Richard. “He is like cheese! But not good cheese! Like the cheap mozzarella from Pizza Express!”

“Osti de tabarnak de sacrament!” shrieked Zoreaux. “What the fuck is happening!”

“I got the duct tape!” called Will, rushing in. He tossed the roll to Sam, who began trying to tape Zoreaux back together as the rest of the players rushed in to try and help. 

“Wait, wait.” Something was happening as Sam’s hands brushed against the halves of Zoreaux. They seemed to be melding back together. “Sam!” cried Dani. “It’s you! You are healing him!”

“Wow,” said Sam, staring at his hands as they knit Zoreaux back together. “Wait, I need to make sure he’s aligned properly. Can I get more light?”

Everyone was temporarily blinded as Dani burst into a blazing ball of brilliance.

“...okay,” said Sam after some time, “way more light than I needed, but thank you.”

“De nada, Sam!” 

It was at this point that Trent Crimm walked into the room. He stopped and put on his glasses, as if that would clarify the tableau of the AFC Richmond team duct-taping their cloven goalkeeper together while one of their strikers was blazing like a lighthouse beacon and their captain stood in the corner with his hands apologetically raised in the air. 

“What,” said Trent, “the actual fuck?”

*

Trent’s first thought was that he would have to re-pitch his book as a fantasy novel, because nobody was going to take it seriously as non-fiction any more.

“So you’ve got healing hands,” he repeated to Sam.

“I think so?” Sam stared at his hands. “Or maybe I just have the ability to stick things back together. I don’t know. Perhaps I should test it on another injury?”

Across the locker room, O’Brien cleared his throat. “Sam? Can you touch my butt?”

Trent and the players turned to stare at him. 

“Not for gay reasons,” O’Brien clarified. “For science.”

“Both of those are valid,” said Sam. “I would be happy to touch your butt for you.”

Trying to ignore O’Brien casually dropping trou in the corner, Trent removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. Dani’s brightness was giving him a migraine. “I’m sorry, bruv,” said Isaac to Zoreaux for the thousandth time.

“It’s okay,” said Zoreaux. They had yet to remove the duct tape, just in case, so he looked like a very poorly-wrapped package. “It didn’t actually hurt. I was just freaking out, bro.”

Babatunde was holding on to Zoreaux’s little finger and walking across the room while Bumbercatch followed him with a measuring tape to see how far the finger could stretch. “Three metres!” yelled Bumbercatch as Richard tried to cross the room to his locker and ended up having to do the limbo under the finger. “Okay, take it around the corner!”

“I just thought,” went on Isaac, “‘cos I touched Jamie, and I didn’t chop him in half…” He trails off.

“What?” said Jamie. And then, as Isaac made a move towards him, “Whoa! Are you fucking mental?”

“Sorry.” Isaac backed off. 

“Could I test a theory?” ventured Trent. “Bearing in mind that I mean this as a purely scientific inquiry.”

“Sure,” said Jamie. “Whatev – oi!” he yelled as Trent stabbed him in the hand with his pen.

The pen snapped in two. Ink splattered over Jamie’s hand, the skin of which remained unbroken. Jamie screwed up his nose. “That’s disgusting, man.”

“I think you’re invulnerable, Jamie,” said Trent.

Jamie considered this. “That mean I can’t be hurt?”

“I believe so, yes. We’ll have to run more tests to be sure.”

“Huh,” said Jamie. “Sick.”

“It worked!” O’Brien yelled from across the room. “It’s a miracle! I’m healed!”

“Okay,” said Trent wearily, “so we’ve got…five superpowers that have manifested so far. Anybody else feel a superpower coming on?”

“I got one,” called out Jan Maas. “I’m always right.”

The locker room erupted in laughter. “Shut the fuck up, Jan Maas,” they chorused.

Jan shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

[awkward-walking-potato]

Hiiii! Happy spooky season. I have a request for wade Wilson with choosing couples costumes!!!!! 👻🎃👻🎃👻🎃 I'd love to see what u come up with!!

The Spirit of Wade

You sat at your desk, buried beneath a mountain of work. Papers, emails, spreadsheets—all of it had piled up over the last few weeks, and it felt like you were drowning. On top of that, Blind Al’s Halloween party was just around the corner, and you didn’t even have the time to think about costumes.

Your phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a text from Wade.

Wadeykins:Babycakes, what’re we wearin’ to Al’s spooky bash?

You groaned, rubbing your temples. The last thing you had time for was a costume shopping spree.

You:I’m swamped with work, Wade. Can you go to Spirit Halloween and grab us something? I trust you.

The moment you hit send, you instantly regretted it. Trusting Wade with anything remotely important usually ended in chaos. But before you could follow up with any kind of instruction, a new text popped up.

Wadeykins:OMW to Spirit. Gonna make us the hottest couple at that party, babe.

You stared at the message for a long moment, then let out a resigned sigh. There was no going back now. Wade was on a mission, and you had work to finish. You figured you'd cross the "what did Wade do?" bridge when you got home.

By the time you got back to your apartment later that evening, your body was exhausted, and your brain felt like it had turned into mush from the day’s grind. All you wanted to do was change into something comfortable and forget about everything for a while. But the moment you opened the door, your heart sank as you were greeted by a sight that was equal parts adorable and terrifying.

Spread out across the living room floor were not one, not two, but ten matching couple costumes. Wade was in the center of it all, beaming like a proud toddler who’d just shown his parents his first macaroni art masterpiece.

“Welcome home, pumpkin muffin!” Wade greeted, jumping up from where he’d been sitting. His eyes twinkled mischievously beneath his mask. “I know you’re busy and all, so I took the liberty of providing options.”

You blinked, staring at the sea of costumes that now dominated your living room. “Wade… what… what is this?”

He clapped his hands together, rubbing them like a mad scientist about to unveil his latest invention. “Okay, okay, so check it out. Blind Al’s party is a big deal, right? We gotta be the it couple there. So I went ahead and got us ten different matching costumes. I know, I know, I’m basically a relationship genius.”

You were torn between exasperation and amusement, but the exhaustion from work melted away as Wade’s enthusiasm radiated through the room. With a sigh, you dropped your bag by the door and walked over to inspect his selections.

“Alright, what do we have here, then?” you asked, folding your arms.

Wade excitedly began showcasing each option, holding them up like a game show host showing off prizes.

“Couple number one!” Wade started, holding up two banana suits. “Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich!” He held up a jar of peanut butter with a wide grin. “Get it? You’ll be the sweet banana, and I’ll be the chunky peanut butter. It’s a classic combo, like us! Everyone loves PB and B.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Not bad, but let’s keep going.”

“Couple number two!” Wade swept his arm dramatically toward the next option. A pair of hospital gowns—complete with matching IV drips. “Doctor and Sexy Patient! Except... we’re both patients because it’s sexier that way. Plus, I already have practice wearing hospital gowns, thanks to the whole ‘mutated cancer mess.’”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “I think I’m gonna veto that one.”

“Fair, fair.” Wade shrugged. “Couple number three!” He held up a pair of inflatable T-rex costumes. “Dinosaur Power Couple! Imagine us stomping into the party in these bad boys. We’ll be unstoppable!”

“That sounds... sweaty.”

“Yeah, but think of the dramatic entrance!”

You chuckled. “Next.”

Wade dramatically threw his hands into the air and skipped to the next set. “Couple number four:Bob Ross and Happy Little Tree!” He waved around a giant paintbrush and an afro wig. “I’ll be Bob, you’ll be my masterpiece! I can paint you with compliments all night.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sweet, but no.”

Wade was undeterred. He spun toward another option, holding up matching black-and-white striped shirts. “Thieves in Love! We could go around the party, stealing snacks and hearts.”

You laughed. “Okay, that’s pretty cute.”

“Right? But wait, there’s more!” Wade dashed to the next set. “Ketchup and Mustard! Or Salt and Pepper! Or Burger and Fries!” Each matching pair was more ridiculous than the last, and each idea more absurd. You couldn’t stop laughing as Wade enthusiastically presented each costume, making over-the-top sales pitches for all of them.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of couples costumes, Wade stopped in front of the last pair and turned to you with a grin that could only mean trouble.

“For the grand finale,” he said with a flourish, holding up a pair of cheesy superhero costumes that were definitely not part of any known franchise. “Super Wade and Super You! Capes included. We fight crime and bad party snacks.”

You rubbed your face, unable to stop smiling. “Wade… this is insane.”

He stepped closer, his eyes softening beneath the mask. “I know, but I wanted to give you choices. I know you’ve been working hard and you’ve been stressed. Figured I’d take some of the load off by going overboard with options. Plus, it gave me an excuse to flirt with you in a million different ways. Win-win.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your heart swelled at his thoughtfulness. “Thanks, Wade. Really.”

He cocked his head, a hint of shyness peeking through his bravado. “So… which one? Or should we go with my favorite?”

“And which one is that?”

Wade’s grin turned mischievous again. “I’m voting for Super Wade and Super You. ‘Cause let’s face it, babe, we’re already super together.”

You shook your head, but your smile never wavered. “Alright, fine. Super Wade and Super You it is.”

Wade let out an excited cheer, pumping his fist in the air before pulling you into a tight embrace. “We’re gonna be the sexiest, crime-fighting couple at that party, babe. Al won’t know what hit her.”

You laughed, leaning into him as he twirled you around. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossible or impossibly charming?” Wade teased, dipping you dramatically.

“Maybe a bit of both.”

As you settled into the costume that night, you realized that, once again, Wade had managed to turn what could have been a stressful situation into something fun and ridiculous. And as you both headed out to Blind Al’s Halloween party, arms linked and capes trailing behind, you couldn’t help but think that you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[swanmaids]

the care and feeding of an elven high king

for @tolkienekphrasisweek day 2, culinary arts. remix of @welcomingdisaster 's a note on the pecularities... ao3 link. this is a fic about trauma-induced eating disorders.

Many in Gondolin, from the servants to the lords, will say that His Grace the king was never the same since his crossing of the treacherous Ice; that he was so changed by its horrors that he became almost a completely different man. It has become something of a cliche within our city to say that Turukano of Tirion died on the Grinding Ice, and Turgon of Beleriand was born in his place. 

As for myself, I have never seen the Blessed Realm or the long march to Beleriand, and so I can offer little insight into who His Grace may have been before he reached the shores of Vinyamar where my people joined with his host. But I have no reason to doubt the words of those who did know him then. And If I were to ask one of them: how did he change? They would probably provide me with a great list of examples. The way he speaks to his friends and his subjects and his daughter, the way he carries himself, the way he sleeps, the way he eats. 

The latter is the only example that I have any kind of authority to speak on, but I would hardly be surprised as to its accuracy. From what I have heard of the bounties of Aman, it seems truly impossible to me that anybody could be presented with the spoils of the Great Hunter, the King of the Seas and the Sisters of the Earth, and still maintain the same austere diet that His Grace tasks me with preparing these days. 

Just how austere is that diet? His Grace has almost too many rules concerning what he will not consume for one to keep up with - and he is wont to change them on a moment’s basis - but over the centuries I believe he and I have come close to an understanding. 

First and foremost, His Grace will eat no meat nor fish, and requires that all of his meals be prepared separately from any meat or fish in the royal kitchens. He claims that even the smell and sight of it turns his stomach; and I am inclined to believe this, having witnessed myself an incident in which, when seated next to Her Grace the princess Aredhel while she ate a dish of venison, his skin turned clammy and his hands visibly shook. He did not even attempt to pick up his utensils, and left the table with his own plate totally untouched. 

Regarding what may have resulted in this particular peculiarity, I want to be clear that I have no wish to comment on the rumours surrounding what may or may not have occurred among the Noldor as they fought to survive the Ice. His Grace is a fair and just king, who treats his subjects of every station well, and has suffered a great many tragedies since the Noldor fled Aman. There is nothing to be gained by spreading salacious rumours that would only harm his good name. 

Let us instead return to my original topic. Meat and fish are not the only foods that His Grace refuses to eat - he would not be so unusual here in Gondolin if they were, though his aversion is stronger than most. Instead, His Grace is greatly concerned with only consuming that which he does not consider to be “unclean”, seemingly concerned that such “impure” foods will cause his person to become unclean from within. In practice, this has resulted in an aversion to milk, eggs, butter, yoghurt and cheeses, oils, sweets, pastries, many strong-tasting roots and spices, and excessive salt. His Grace despises appearing intoxicated in front of others, and will drink only a small amount of watered wine on special occasions. Coffee, however, he consumes frequently and in great amounts. 

I will admit that it has not always been easy to cook according to such rigid restrictions, but I should like to think that over time and with hard work, I have been able to reach some workable solutions. His Grace tends to favour simple meals, typically steamed grains and vegetables such as winter squash. Nuts are often eaten, and I try to include them in as many meals as possible for the extra energy they provide. Though His Grace eschews sweets, as previously mentioned, he is able to enjoy most fruits, and a dish of pears poached in almond milk is a favourite. This is quite doable, as the soils of Tumladen provide us with a rich bounty of fruits. If nothing else, the lembas baked by Her Grace the princess Idril is of course suitable, but I try to avoid this as much as possible as His Grace is wont to become agitated over the state of the city’s lembas stores. Yes - Gondolin may well be the fairest and most wondrous of all the elven realms, and the greatest work of His Grace’s hands, but the king’s table is one place where extravagance is firmly eschewed. 

I aim too to plan meals well in advance, for His Grace is known to ask me what I have planned for him to eat in the near future, and to become visibly unhappy if I cannot answer. 

As much as I can, I endeavour to serve His Grace within his private chambers,  with his daughter and his closest lords at most as guests, as he greatly dislikes eating in front of others. However, a king must, on occasion, feast with his subjects. During such feasts, His Grace has become very adept at performing the appearance of eating for his audience, while in reality consuming little to nothing. It is likely that I am one of very few citizens who has noticed this. Still, I do my best to help His Grace on such occasions. After last years’ Tarnin Austa , I sent a kitchen maid to His Grace’s chambers with a plate of figs and walnuts, so that he would not go to bed hungry. Finally, it is worth noting that His Grace’s particular anxieties regarding food and its consumption are not fixed, and are wont to wax and wane in severity. When the Eagle came to Gondolin and told us to prepare ourselves for an assault on our enemy, this goal seemed to energise His Grace and loosen the hold of some of his anxieties - I was even able to prepare small amounts of eggs and dairy to supplement his training at arms, as long as it was hidden within porridges and broths. But during times of tragedy, His Grace is known to become even more restrictive, to the point of what seems like self-punishment. For instance, in the aftermath of the horrible killing of Her Grace his sister, he undertook a weeks-long fast that left him exhausted and skeletal, spreading rumours and fear among the whole population. In the days after his return from the Fifth Battle, it was only due to his daughter pleading with him not to fast again that His Grace did not repeat this disastrous ritual.

Please do not mistake me here, however - Her Grace the princess Idril is quite often just as difficult to cook for as her father. In fact, if I were to describe her own peculiarities, we might be here all day.

[arolesbianism]

I’ve been slowly working on making the eternal gales cast new refs and icons, here’s a dump of what I have done so far

[aealzx]

Better Genes pg 26-29 / 38

A short ROTTMNT comic based off of 2003 TMNT Good Genes

(Read right to left)

Note, this comic will contain in either imagery or text: illness, fever, injury, bruises, blood, IV, needles, syringes, drugs, sedatives, body aches, sprained ankle, mild mutation, cracked ribs, injured eye, tranquilizer gun, pharmacy, TV Medicine, TV Science

as well as

familial fluff, hurt/comfort, very minor drama/angst, personal adjustments to canon designs

Featured characters: Donnie, Mikey, Leo, Raph, April, Splinter, Casey

Pg 1-5     Pg 6-10    Pg 11-14     Pg 15-18     Pg 19-22      Pg 23-25

Written Add on Part 1

Pg 30-33     Pg 34-35     Pg 36-38

---------------

Posting an update at ungodly hours of the night? Yup. I do what I want, and stay up as late as I want when I don’t have work. Because I’m an adult |D

Fun fact, page 26 and 28 were actually drawn before I even started posting this comic XDD So they miiiight look a tiny bit odd compared to recent art.

Heads up, fair warning, etc page 30 picks up at the very end of the whole effort of curing Donnie. This is the longest comic I’ve ever done, and I never planned on detailing out the part between this end point and that point. I’m not comfortable yet with trying to do a fight scene for comics, but I was planning on adding at least a written part for that since there were a couple comments about being excited for more monster Don and I feel a lil bad for not having more. =7=;;

Oh, and the comment about Raph having epipens is based on him being allergic to peanuts XD From that one episode with peanut butter ice cream.