#meat sponge

[spiders-rob]

Fucked up and evil that I don't have another person on hand who I can force to watch The Vampire Bat 1933 with me. Screaming crying throwing up. This deserves to be canonized as a camp classic.

*Stefan voice* This movie has everything. A big fucking bottle conspicuously labeled "POISON SLEEPING PILLS", a dramatic old lesbian-coded granny who doesn't snitch, Dwight Frye playing a sympathetic neurodivergent guy, a murderer who has the most relatable hardcore dissociating face when on the verge of being discovered, the MEAT SPONGE, and random unexplained telepathy.

[sailorblaster69]

sponge and pretzel

plus thiz cool doodle i made

[bizzwizzproductions]

Sponge fanart for @vinesauce in hopes that one day, sponge will find happiness.

[eurofox]

Do people not do food hygiene in school anymore, flatmate keeps washing meat and found it gross that I don't....

[smulnsander]

So fucked up that I can't respond to 99.9% of situations with a solid "you couldn't pay me to care." Even tho thats all I got for them. I gotta keep saying shit like. "Oh okay :)" or "oh thats bad :(."

[mad-world3]

Someone please make me some delicious food

[iinsawdious]

you ever dm somebody and get extremely anxious for no reason

[strawberrysamara]

Why would you put American buttercream on a sponge cake. Why would you do that to her

[shoku-and-awe]

Several years later, I am seeing shkmeruli all over the place! I think I tend to see it sometimes in the winter, but this year, it's really everywhere! The 7-11 had an interesting version that I had to try......

It's a collaboration with (why not) Erick South, an upscale Indian restaurant. Which I thought would mean some interesting flavors (this is a dish I'd *love* to try a Southeast Asian version of) but really it just tasted like milk and garlic. That was sad. Still we find ways to keep ourselves going from day to day.

シュクメルリ鍋定食 // SHKMERULI HOTPOT SET Now that cold weather is here, Matsuya is trying something new: shkmeruli, a Georgian dish of chicken cooked in milk and garlic. The sign outside said, in Japanese, “This dish uses ‘garlic’ and ‘cheese,’” and I thought the scare quotes were coming from a place of fear, but wooow, I could smell this as soon as I opened the door. Extremely garlicky. I’d never tried shkmeruli before (or any Georgian food), but it was a really simple, tasty, warming meal. It seems like the cheese and sweet potato were maybe Japanese additions? I liked the first, but the second felt incongruous. The sauce was good over rice. I wonder if Matsuya will expand its international menu…

[natalianovnas]

༄ `. 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 & 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 — ⌗04

summary : raised in the heart of the countryside, you, Y/N Langford, has always known the rhythm of ranch life—early mornings on horseback, sun-drenched vineyards, and a quiet kind of freedom carved into the land passed down through generations. however, your father's recent colleague is interesting enough.

genre : country!au, wlw, countryside life.

warnings : smut (only in the beginning), baby talk & that's about it. (i think?)

words count : 4.4k (-ish??) || masterlist

an : this took very long to come ik and i'm sorry. writers were right about writers block not being funny. also, not nicely proofread so if this chapter doesn't make sense idk anymore T-T

𖦹 part one 𖦹 part two 𖦹 part three 𖦹 part four 𖦹 part five 𖦹

HORSES & ROMANCE:

— Sweet As Sin

📍The Langford Ranch House

Clare Valley, Southern Australia

The night air was thick with the scent of grilled meat, blooming roses, and fresh soil — a proper summer evening on the ranch.

Dinner, the usual you had every Fridays at the main house with your grandmother, your dad and now Nat joining you, had gone surprisingly well. Georges, ever the stoic cowboy type, had talked about fencing issues and cattle prices, while your grandma insisted on feeding Natasha an extra slice of peach pie she “clearly needed.”

You’d caught Nat’s eyes more than once across the table — dark green glinting with mischief every time she stole a glance down your tank top or let her boot press lightly to your ankle beneath the table.

And now, in the quiet hush of the kitchen, the others settled outside by the firepit, you were at the sink washing dishes, sleeves of her worn over flannel pushed up, cheeks warm from the wine, the heat and all her teasing.

You didn’t hear her come in.

But you felt her.

Strong arms slipped around your waist from behind, grip firm and possessive. Her hands slid just under your tank, warm against your skin.

“You know,” She murmured, breath brushing hot over your ear, “watching you being all domestic like this? Kinda drives me wild.”

You chuckled softly, hands scrubbing the soapy sponge over the porcelain plate. “Because I’m washing dishes?”

“No, because you look so damn good doing it.” Her lips grazed the shell of your ear. “That, and I’ve been waiting hours to get my hands on you.”

You leaned back into her, heart already picking up pace. “They’re right outside,” you whispered, knowing her intentions, the thrill of it crackling between your legs.

"Mm," The Russian hummed in acknowledgement. “Then keep quiet.”

Her hands slid lower, fingers toying with the waistband of your shorts, making your breath hitch in the slightest. “You wore these on purpose, didn’t you?” she asked. “You knew what they’d do to me.”

“They’re just shorts, Romanoff.”

You'd breathed out, your eyes almost fluttering close. You almost allowed yourself to get lost in the moment but you couldn't fully.

“They’re absolute torture,” She muttered, and then kissed down the curve of your neck, slow and lingering, her hands finally slipping inside — knuckles grazing over lace and skin.

You gripped the edge of the sink.

“Tasha—”

She smirked against your skin. “I’ve been thinking about something. All evening, really.”

“Mm?”

Her hand cupped you gently, just enough pressure to elicit a little whimper out of you. “What if I put a baby in you?”

Your entire body went still — except your heart, which leapt like a startled colt. You turned your head slightly, caught her gaze. She was smiling, sultry and serious all at once.

“I’m not joking,” She whispered, nose brushing against your jaw now. “I want that with you. You, barefoot and pregnant on this ranch. Belly round with our kid.”

You swallowed thickly. “You sure that’s not just the excess of pie & wine talking?”

“Nope,” She grinned. “That’s all me, love. You’ve got me so gone I wanna give you a baby and build you a damn crib from scratch.”

A shaky laugh escaped you. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.” Her fingers dipped lower, just enough to make your knees buckle.

You let out a quiet gasp, biting your lip hard. “Tash, my dad—”

“Is right outside,” She purred. “And you’re gonna stay put and quiet while I make you say yes to everything.”

She gently took ahold of your jaw and turned your face toward hers, lips already claiming yours in a searing kiss — her hands still tucked inside your shorts, slow and purposeful. She devoured you right there, against the sink, soft moans swallowed between kisses, until your hips rolled and your fingers clawed her shoulders, your whole body taut with the want she'd built all evening.

Outside, the fire crackled. Grandma Elise laughed at one of your dad��s dry jokes.

Inside, you came apart for Natasha — silently, breathlessly, pressed between her body and the scent of soap and sin.

And when she finally pulled back, she didn’t let go of you.

“Think about it,” She murmured, kissing your temple. “You, me, and a little one running wild on this ranch. I’d kill to see you like that.”

You weren’t sure if it was the orgasm, the wine, or the picture she painted — but the thought didn’t scare you. It made your chest ache.

And when you kissed her again, slower now, you realized something: you already belonged to her.

. . .

It had been three days since the dinner.

Three days since Natasha whispered about babies in your ear with her hand beneath your waistband, her mouth grazing your neck like a promise.

Three days since you laid in bed beside her in the quiet hours after, tangled in limbs and morning sunlight, and realized that maybe, for the first time in your life, the idea of forever didn’t scare you.

But before you could even dream of forever, you knew you had to face the man who raised you. The man who taught you to ride, to fight back when you were right, and to shut up when it mattered.

He was out by the chicken coop when you found him. Feeding the hens, straw hat shading his sun-weathered face, boots deep in the dirt. A cigarette hung from his lips, unlit — he hadn’t smoked it since your mother died, but he still liked the feel of it there.

“Dad?” You said, stepping just close enough that he glanced up from the feed bucket.

“Hey, kid,” He grunted. “You eat that leftover pie, or did Grandma sneak it home again?”

You gave a weak chuckle. “She took it. Of course.”

He nodded, going back to tossing seed like the world wasn’t about to shift on its axis.

You rubbed your hands together, nervous. “Can we talk for a sec?”

That got his attention. Slowly, he set the bucket down and turned to face you fully. His brow furrowed just a bit — not angry, just… aware.

“I’m listening.”

You took a breath then let it out.

“It’s about Natasha.”

His silence was telling. He didn’t nod, didn’t blink — but something in him stilled.

“She’s… not just a neighbor. Or a friend. We’ve been seeing each other for a while.”

“And by seeing,” He said, voice gravel-dry, “you mean…?”

“That I’m in love with her.”

His jaw ticked. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

He glanced away, toward the pasture, the breeze catching the brim of his hat. You stood still, heart thudding, waiting for something to fall apart — for the silence to stretch into disappointment.

But instead…

“I figured.”

Your breath hitched. “You… did?”

He shrugged. “You’ve been smiling more. Not just the polite kind. The real one. Like your mama used to.”

You blinked hard, warmth rising in your chest and eyes at once.

“I didn’t know when you were gonna tell me, but I figured you’d get there.”

You stepped forward, a little overwhelmed. “You’re okay with it?”

“Hell,” He muttered, tugging off his hat to rake a hand through his hair, “I ain’t some fool who thinks love looks one way. All I ever wanted was for you to find someone who’d ride through storms with you. Who wouldn’t leave when things got rough. And Romanoff ? She sticks.”

You laughed, more relieved than you could ever say. “Yeah. She does.”

He looked at you then, eyes a little softer than before. “You planning on telling Grandma?”

“One step at a time, old man,” You said, nudging his arm.

“Well,” He muttered, grabbing the bucket again, “when you do, better make sure you’ve got something stronger than sweet tea on hand. That woman’s sharper than a rattlesnake in July.”

You grinned. “So you’re not mad?”

“No, sweetheart, of course not.” He said, then paused. “But if she ever hurts you…”

“She won’t,” You cut in, serious. “I trust her.”

That seemed to be enough. He walked up to you and pulled you in his arms, the grip familiar and soothing.

“You know I love you, right? I only know what's best for you and I trust you're old enough to decide what's best for you.”

“I know. Thank you, Daddy.”

. . .

You found her on the porch swing just after sundown — boots kicked off, legs curled up, her flannel unbuttoned halfway over a black tank top. The sky behind her bled peach and rose, and the fireflies had just begun blinking into the dusk like scattered sparks.

Natasha looked up from her book when you stepped out. “You’re smiling.”

“I talked to my dad,” you said, closing the door behind you. “Told him about us.”

She sat up straighter, eyes searching yours. “And?”

You walked toward her, barefoot across warm wood. “He figured it out already. Said you make me smile the way my mama used to.”

Her expression softened, just a little — like something in her uncoiled.

You settled beside her on the swing, pulling your knees up as her arm slid easily around your back, fingers spreading over your hip like she was anchoring herself.

“I didn’t know how it’d go,” you admitted. “But he was calm. Real calm. Said he just wanted me happy.”

Natasha let out a breath you hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Your dad’s a good man.”

“He is.” You leaned into her. “But you’re a good woman.”

Natasha smirked. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

You laughed softly, pressing your forehead to her jaw. “Mostly.”

Her lips brushed your temple. “So, how are we celebrating this little coming-out party?”

“Quietly,” you said, dragging your hand up the inside of her thigh, “just the two of us.”

The way her breath hitched wasn’t subtle.

You climbed into her lap, straddling her on the swing, your fingers running up the back of her neck and into her hair. Her hands found your waist like it was instinct — like she was made to hold you.

“You know,” you whispered, teasing her ear, “he said you stick.”

“Stick?” she repeated, amused.

“Yeah. That you ride through storms. Don’t leave when it gets hard.”

Her voice dropped to something low and smoky. “It always gets hard with you around.”

You laughed against her throat. “We’re supposed to be celebrating quietly.”

“Oh, I am quiet,” she said, hands sliding under your shirt, calloused palms dragging heat across your skin. “You’re the one who gets noisy.”

Your hips rocked just once against her, teasing, and her mouth found yours — slow and claiming and sure. No urgency. Just heat and sweetness and years of ache melting away into one soft, perfect kiss.

She pulled back just an inch, lips brushing yours. “I’m proud of you.” You blinked, surprised.

“For telling him,” she added, one hand cradling your jaw. “For letting me be seen. For us.”

You leaned in again, kissing her harder this time, until her hands were fisting the back of your shirt and you were both breathless.

“Let’s go inside,” you murmured, lips ghosting her cheek.

“Mm. We could,” she said, eyes glinting, “or I could take you right here on this swing.”

“You’re impossible,” you said, blushing and laughing all at once.

“And you like me this way.”

You kissed her again, grinning into it.

Because she was right. And for the first time in your life — with the stars rising above the fields and the air sweet with summer — it all felt right, too.

. . .

The porch creaked under Natasha’s boots as she stepped outside with two mugs of coffee. Sunlight was low and golden, catching the edges of the wood grain, the dust, the worn ridges of old family tools stacked by the side of the house.

Georges Langford sat on a rocking chair near the edge, his hat pulled low, gaze fixed out over the land like he’d been born to guard it.

“Thought you might want some,” she said, holding out one of the mugs.

He took it without looking at her right away. “Appreciate it.”

Natasha leaned against the porch railing beside him, quiet for a beat. She wasn’t always good at stillness around other people — but she’d learned that with your father, silence wasn’t something to rush. It was something to earn your way through.

They sat like that for a while. A soft breeze stirred. Somewhere out in the barn, the cows shifted.

“You work hard,” he said finally.

She glanced sideways. “I’m used to it.”

“You like it here?”

“I do.” Her voice was honest, low. “Peaceful. Good kind of quiet.”

He nodded. “That’s why I built this place the way I did. Thought maybe I’d scare the fast ones off.”

She let out a short, amused breath. “And did you?”

“Some.”

He looked at her then — not harsh, not unkind, but direct. Like a man who had carried the weight of a family and wasn’t about to hand pieces of it over without looking someone square in the eye.

“I don’t know everything about you,” he said.

She met his gaze. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“But I know the way my daughter looks at you.” He sipped his coffee. “That ain’t nothing.”

A pause. The wind rustled the trees.

Natasha shifted slightly, straightening her shoulders. “She’s the best thing that’s happened to me.”

He studied her.

“I mean it,” she added. “I’ve seen a lot. Done more than I probably should’ve. But she… she makes me want to stay.”

The man gave a quiet hum. “You’re not running from something, are you?”

“No.” She said it firmly. “I’ve already done enough of that.”

He nodded slowly. Looked back out over the fields.

“She’s my only daughter,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t care who she loves. But I care how she’s loved.”

Natasha swallowed, jaw ticking just slightly. “She’s loved safe. And full. And real.”

That made him go quiet.

She added, more softly, “I didn’t plan for this. But I’ll stand by her. Wherever this goes.”

He glanced at her again. “You ever think of settling? For real?”

Her mouth twitched. “Depends what you mean by ‘for real.’”

He raised a brow. “Do you want a family, Romanoff?”

She blinked. That hit a little deeper than she expected.

“I’ve thought about it,” she said carefully. “With her… it doesn’t seem so far away.”

A beat passed. He exhaled. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“I can’t pretend I know everything about your past, and I won’t pretend it’s not hard for me, having my little girl in love with someone like you.” He smirked faintly. “But I see how she glows when you’re around. And how you soften when you look at her. So… yeah. Alright.”

Natasha stared at him, a little stunned.

“I appreciate that,” she said, genuinely.

He stood, stretching his back, and tipped his hat back just enough to meet her eyes again. “You hurt her, you’ll see how fast I stop being calm.”

She smiled. “Fair enough.”

Then, to her surprise, he reached out — not quite a handshake, but a squeeze to her shoulder. Solid. Approving.

“Come help me chop some wood before it gets too hot.”

She blinked. “You want me to—?”

“Consider it a trust exercise.”

Natasha laughed, taking off her flannel and rolling up her sleeves. “Alright, old man. Don’t slow me down.”

The sharp crack of splitting wood echoed through the open air, birds scattering up from the fence post as Natasha swung the axe again. Her shoulders gleamed with sweat under the midday sun, muscles flexing with every strike. Your father stood nearby, arms crossed, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched.

“You weren’t kidding about not slowing down,” he muttered.

Natasha leaned back with a grin, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He chuckled, nodding toward the stack. “You got rhythm. Must’ve done this before.”

“Not quite,” she said. “But I’ve broken a lot of things.”

That earned a raised brow. Natasha didn’t elaborate. She bent, picked up another log, and placed it on the stump.

“You ever think of taking her with you to where you’re from?” he asked, almost casually.

Natasha hesitated only a second before lifting the axe again.

A swing then a crack.

The wood split clean.

She exhaled, watching the pieces fall. “Yeah,” she said, voice lower, softer. “I have.”

“You think she’d want that?”

“I don’t know.” She set the axe aside, resting her hands on her hips. “But I want her to see it. The parts of me that still live there. The city wasn’t all noise and ghosts. It was… home, once.”

He eyed her curiously. “That life still part of you?”

“Always.” Natasha looked out toward the horizon. “But so is this place. This farm, this porch, her hands in the earth. I never thought those two things could exist in the same world. But now…”

She trailed off, lost for a second in thought.

He leaned on the fence, keeping quiet.

“I want to take her,” she continued after a beat. “Not forever. Just for a few days. Let her see the apartment I used to live in. The rooftop where I used to think about running. Let her walk down the same streets I did, but hold her hand this time.”

Georges didn’t answer right away.

Natasha added, more quietly, “I’d bring her back, of course. She belongs here. I just… I want her to know all of me. Not just the version that chops wood and drives the truck.”

“You think she don’t already?”

A faint smile. “She does. But I still want to give her the whole picture.”

Another beat of silence stretched between them, filled only by the rustling wind and the soft crackling of leaves.

“She’d follow you to hell and back, you know,” he said finally. “But just make sure you’re not trying to take her somewhere to run. She was raised with roots. She ain’t built for drifting.”

“I’m not running anymore,” Natasha said. “I want to take her because I finally have something worth bringing with me.”

That silenced him. And then — with the faintest twitch of approval — he nodded.

“Go clean up. I’ll take over from here.”

Natasha raised a brow. “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

He just smirked.

She grabbed her flannel off the fence rail and made her way back toward the house. And as she crossed the dirt path toward the back porch, she saw her — You, hair in a loose braid, barefoot in cutoffs and an old tee, standing by the sink through the window, singing softly to yourself.

. . .

The crickets had started their nightly song as the sun dipped low behind the barn. Inside, the only light came from the soft glow of the kitchen lamp and the flickering from the fireplace they’d left burning low.

Natasha sat behind you on the couch, legs spread comfortably as you nestled between them. She was brushing her fingers lazily over the inside of your arm, chin resting lightly on your shoulder, the scent of lavender and earth clinging to her skin after a full day in the fields.

“You tired?” Natasha asked, lips brushing against her neck.

You only hummed. “Mm. Not with you doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you touch me like you don’t know you’re doing it.”

Natasha grinned and did it again, slower now, letting her fingers trail all the way to your wrist.

They stayed like that for a while — comfortable, quiet, until Natasha whispered, almost casually, “What would you think about the city?”

You shifted slightly. “The city?”

“Just for a few days.” Natasha’s voice was smooth but unhurried. “You and me. I’d show you around. Not the tourist stuff — the real parts. My places. My past.”

Youvleaned back enough to glance at her. “Your past, huh?”

Natasha gave her a crooked smile. “Only the parts that matter.”

You studied her face, reading the weight behind the offer — the invitation tucked inside it.

“I’d take you to my old neighborhood,” Natasha continued. “We'd grab coffee from that place with the terrible service but the best damn pastries. The streetlights there buzz like bees — it’s annoying as hell, but it’s home. Was, anyway.”

You turned fully to face her now, legs folding up on the couch. “You miss it?”

“Some days.” Natasha’s eyes softened. “But it’s not about missing it. It’s about wanting you to see it. I’ve seen so much of your world. Felt it. I want to share mine with you too. Just a few days. Just us.”

Your thumb brushed against the edge of Natasha’s jaw. “You really think I’d survive city traffic and overpriced coffee?”

“I’d protect you,” Natasha smirked. “Like a good little farm girl bodyguard.”

“You're my bodyguard now?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You both laughed, the kind that curled under the skin like warmth. Then you rested your forehead against Natasha’s.

“I’d go,” You answered quietly.

Natasha blinked, eyes searching yours. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You nodded. “But only if you promise to make fun of me every time I get excited over stupid city things.”

“I will mock you relentlessly.”

“And I get to see what you looked like before flannel and cowboy boots.”

Natasha grinned. “You’re not ready.”

You leaned in and kissed her — soft, deep, like sealing a promise with her lips.

And later, as you two climbed into bed, Natasha whispered, “Thank you,” just against her neck.

“For what?”

“For letting me have you — in every place I’ve ever been.”

[hrrtshape]

Hi Emma, I really need help for a script set in ancient times. I really don’t know where to start! I am not much of an historian but I really wanted to shift in Ancient Rome!

the ultimate guide to surviving ancient rome.

welcome, time traveler!!!!!!!! i'm emma. and i'll be helping you survive ancient rome. if you find yourself navigating the grandeur and grime of ancient rome, you'll need this comprehensive guide to thrive in an empire of marble, politics, and intrigue. from securing a place to stay to social etiquette, this will cover everything you need to know !!! so you don't die :)

where to start as you're entering rome??

arrival : if you're arriving from another part of the empire, the best entry points are ostia (rome's main port) or the via appia, a road leading directly to the city. the first thing you might see see will be a chaotic, sprawling metropolis of temples, markets, bathhouses, and crowded tenement buildings (insulae).

where to stay : if you're wealthy, you'll want to rent or buy a domus (townhouse) in the city. if you're less affluent (already sorry for you, not in a mean way but you won't last there long), an insula (apartment) in the subura district will suffice. though beware of fires and collapsing buildings ! xx

your hygiene and daily routines.

bathing : rome is famous for its public baths (thermae). visit places like the baths of caracalla or the baths of trajan. bring a small fee for entry and enjoy hot and cold plunges. don't forget oil and a strigil (a scraping tool) to clean off dirt. they, sadly, didn't have body lotion yet.

toilets and sanitation : rome has public latrines where people sit side by side (awkward but normal). a sponge on a stick (tersorium. yikes) is used instead of toilet paper, make sure to rinse it properly in running water, or you'll become the disgust of the city.

dental care : romans used powdered charcoal, crushed bones, and even urine (yes, really. look. it wasn't modern) to clean their teeth. bring your own mint leaves if you want to keep fresh breath without resorting to ammonia-based methods.

food and dining.

what to eat : the roman diet includes bread, olives, cheese, fruit, and fish. garum (fermented fish sauce) is a staple seasoning. wealthy romans dine on exotic meats like peacock and dormice. yep. 

where to eat : If you're not cooking at home, stop by a thermopolium (a fast-food stand) for warm meals like stews and bread. not a mcdonalds, but it sufficed. 

dining etiquette : reclining while eating is a sign of wealth. if invited to a noble's banquet, expect multiple courses, lively discussions, and perhaps some questionable entertainment (like performing dwarves or poetry recitals).

housing and shelter.

domus : wealthy residents live in lavish homes with atriums, mosaics, and private gardens. if you're in this category, hire slaves (SORRY. servants) to maintain the household. 

insulae : these apartment buildings house most of rome's population. they're cheap but prone to fires, so always have an escape plan.

villas : if you want to escape city life, consider acquiring a countryside villa in places like campania or etruria.

personal safety.

crime : rome has a high crime rate, especially at night. avoid dark alleys, and keep a small dagger or hire a bodyguard (mercenarii) if you're wealthy.

fires : the city is prone to fires due to overcrowded wooden buildings. have an evacuation route and be aware of nearby water sources.

legal system : if you get into trouble, hire an orator to defend you in court. bribery is often the fastest solution to legal woes.

money and commerce.

the currency : the roman monetary system includes sestertii, denarii, and aurei (gold coins). always carry small change for daily expenses.

shopping : the forum is rome's commercial hub. you can buy anything from spices to togas. haggle, but not too aggressively, or you might offend the merchant. most things didn't have a tag, and the merchants would judge the price based on how you looked or talk. so. beware.

banking : rome has early banking institutions where you can store wealth. avoid keeping large sums on your person.

social class and interaction.

patricians vs. plebeians : social mobility is limited, but a well-connected plebeian can rise in status through military service or patronage.

slaves and freedmen : slavery was integral to roman society. freed slaves (liberti) can gain status, though they can remain linked to their former masters.

etiquette : addressing senators as "domine" (sir) and deferring to patricians in public are key social customs.

entertainment and leisure.

gladiatorial games : the colosseum hosts blood sports where slaves and prisoners fight to the death. betting on matches is common. vomiting in the stands..is also common.

chariot races : the circus maximus holds races between four factions: reds, blues, greens, and whites. pick a team and cheer them on.

theatre and oratory : if you have a sensitive stomach, enjoy performances at the theatre of pompey or listen to public speeches at the forum.

religion and temples.

gods and worship : romes pantheon includes jupiter, mars, venus, and more. each home has a household shrine (lararium) for daily offerings.

festivals : participate in saturnalia (a wild celebration where roles reverse and slaves feast like masters) or lupercalia (a fertility festival involving ritual sacrifices).

christianity : in early rome, christians were often persecuted. so. be discreet if practicing or associating with followers.

long-term survival...how do you are adapting to rome?

language : learn latin phrases. knowing greek is also helpful among the elite.

fashion : wear a tunic for daily life and a toga for formal occasions. women should drape themselves in stolas.

networking : find a patron for career advancement. political connections open a lot of doors in rome.

and that is this. if you survive, you're a guaranteed a cookie, albeit those didn't yet exist, i think. with this guide, you're well-equipped to navigate rome's splendour and chaos. whether you seek luxury, knowledge, or power, the eternal city awaits! pls don't die!

[harbours-lighthouse]

BABY, BOTH ARMS CRADLE YOU NOW

— PAIRING: Jason Todd x F!Reader

— SUMMARY: A sleepy moment between you and Jason on a rainy day.

— AN: I'm so sorry, this is super short! I'm working on three other separate things but felt like writing just a little bit for Jason...

cw: none, fluff wc: 527

GREY LIGHT staggers through the open window, sluggish along the floorboards. Rain taps against the wood, leaving behind darkened spots like spilt ink along parchment.

Jason's fingertips dance along your skin like rain drops themselves, pressing into the meat of your arm gently as if you were made up of piano keys. Your sighs that of silent melodies.

"How was patrol?" you murmur, pressing your nose against the underside of his chin, feeling the pleasant scrape of stubble.

You rise and fall with Jason, laying on top of him as he takes up all the space on the couch. With each breath he takes, his ribs expand and compress, and each time you think his wariness is slowly seeping out of him. Like a sponge being squeezed, rung out dry.

"It was tiring," Jason answers quietly, head inclining to the side. You feel the dull throb of his pulse against your cheek.

"Did you have to help any of the others?"

"For a bit. It wasn't too bad—Tim nearly crashed out, though"

"Why?"

"I don't even know."

You smile, amused. Shifting, you pull your head away from the shelter Jason's neck offers, and press your palms against the couch cushions to keep you upright. A rumble of protest vibrates in Jason's throat, his adam's apple bobbing.

Looking down at him, you see the tips of his lashes lit silver by the metallic light in the room. The green in his irises seems dimmer, more grey. It reminds you of overcast seas, the rush of his breath mimicking cresting waves along the shore.

Delicately, you bring your fingers to trace along the slope of his strong nose, the curve of his cheeks, the lines beneath his eyes.

"You're tired," you say softly, not a question nor an accusation. Just a statement. An observation.

Jason hums, watching you with hooded eyes, fatigue clinging to him heavily.

"Sleep, Jay."

"I wanna talk to you..."

"You can when you wake up."

Jason moves to gently grasp your hand, turning it to the side so that his lips press against the hollow of your palm.

"You have to stay with me then," he whispers against your skin.

You grin, feeling as if Jason's exhaustion is leaking into you.

"Okay."

You press a tender kiss to his lips. Jason's breath falters, stammers against your mouth, his lashes flinch shut.

When you part away for breath, something you curse on the daily, Jason's arms wrap around your frame. He pulls you tightly against his chest, and you feel as if you're shielded away from everything—the world itself.

"I love you," you say into the folds of his shirt, and Jason's arms coil around you even firmer.

You feel his nose push against your scalp, breathing you in like you're a scent that he's been searching for—in a way, you are.

"I love you, too," Jason whispers back.

Outside, the traffic slows, the sound distant. Gulls squawk along the windowsills, and for a moment, you pretend that you're not really here in Gotham, but somewhere else.

Maybe along the coast, in a house that is warm. Where the windows can shut, where Jason can rest.

Thank you for reading, God bless <3

tags: @kitkatlover015 top divider credit: @/saradika-graphics © harbours-lighthouse 2025 / i do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated, or fed into ai. all works belong to me unless stated otherwise.

[ladybirdswritings]

SWEET THING, DBF — joel miller x reader.

DESCRIPTION: your life is a storm—an overbearing father, a shitty boyfriend, and the ache of growing up. everything becomes more tangled when you find yourself drawn to your father’s best friend, joel. NOTES - no apocalypse! leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part

A03 | masterlist

sweet thing…

Your father did the best he could. You knew that very well. Charlie was a man respected and adored by his humble community. A hard working father turned single parent when your mom fell ill and god— you were his little flower. His sweet thing. His angel.

Flowers are fragile, though. Gentle, moldable petals and stiff, snappable stems.

It is why he kept you so close to him, so prized like painted porcelain just ready to crack.

It is why you were here. Here at Jackson’s golden hued dance with more powdered, jam-filled pastries and red, roasted meats then you could count on one hand. Here. Instead of the alternative option which was the party your boyfriend decided to attend without you.

You got the invite, sure, yet even as a legal adult— what daddy says? Goes. So long as you remain under his roof, at least. It was infuriating, though. The freedom of all your dear friends, the spontaneity. If only that could be you…

Your eyes drifted to the moustached sponge of all fun and joy in the world, wrapped in a flannel with bourbon in hand. Your dad was seated next to Joel, as he often was. His presence was a newfound thing for these recent years and though Joel would never say it, you had an inkling that he wanted to stand by his friend’s side after your mother… well.

You didn’t know Joel well. No, not at all. His visits were always the occasional dinner or drop in for fishing or some awfully manly thing. You knew well that your mother adored him, though— so that was enough to make him alright in your book.

Neighbor Betsy told you once that Joel had lost his wife and daughter too, and that maybe he was trying to keep your father from going through what he went through alone.

You only laughed at that.

Joel Miller was gruff and cold. Could he have such a warm heart beneath his sherpa coat?

You dazed out, the fingers snapping in front of your eyes made you blink back into the golden hues and roasted sausages on pointy little sticks.

“You alright, honeybee?” Your father asked, laying a heavy arm upon your shoulders. Joel was slower in his approach, eyeing you up and down with confusion and something else in his eyes.

“Peachy.” You only muttered, taking a sip of your freshly squeezed lemonade. Jackson’s finest.

“Oh come on now angel… now you know I can’t have you runnin’ off with that boyfriend of yours. I always told you he was trouble. Member’ when he ditched you down by Church Road during mosquito season? Well you were ripe as a red tomater and who had to pick you up?”

You were riper, redder now. Your cheeks an embarrassed hue not even on the color wheel, not even identifiable. You bowed your head, huffing out your frustrations before simply muttering: “you did, dad.”

He nodded proud, squeezing your shoulder. “That’s right, I did… what?”

Your eyes drifted up to see your father’s oldest friend with an odd kind of expression on his face. Brows pinched and raised, wrinkles plaguing his forehead deeper now.

Joel only cleared his throat, shifting on his boots and taking a sip of his bourbon in preparation. Then? He spoke.

“You ain’t lettin’ her be.” He gruffly offered, eyes set and sure. Your father only stilled for a moment, wondering if it was even Joel’s place to have an opinion… maybe it was.

“Why’s that?” He asked Joel, and the rough looking man only took another swig.

“Mm. We were both young once. We both made mistakes, y’gotta let her make her own— can’t hide her from em’. Just ain’t how it works.”

Poppies blossomed like springtime had finally begun in your eyes. Finally— someone understood. You didn’t expect him to be so… wise?

Your father only huffed, taking a long glance your way as he mused.

“Even if I wanted to loosen the leash tonight, Joel, I can’t. Maria needs me here to keep an eye on crazy old Arthur.”

Joel’s brows relaxed at that, a purpled hand running along the zipper of his flannel coat. His eyes were a chocolate kind of brown, dark and quietly encasing his thoughts within them.

He hummed, gaze drifting back to you.

You wanted to shrink. Perhaps it was because you were on the spot, perhaps it was because the way he stared would make anyone feel small.

It seemed like centuries before he cleared his throat again.

“I’ll take her.”

What?

You didn’t understand it, not one bit. Why was he kind enough to offer you an out here? Kind enough to test your father’s words.

Discomfort radiated through your father’s coat, tension molding its way into his already stiff bones. A long sigh, a glance back and forth as he truly considered. His expression was far too plagued with worry, and you knew well that it was now or never.

You had to slam down the last nail in the oak wood coffin.

“Please, daddy? I’ll check in every half hour, I promise.”

Tension eased, slightly but— still. Your eyes were doe-like and sweet, and he gazed into them for a moment far too long before allowing his arm to drop.

“Every fifteen minutes and you’ve got a deal. Miller, you make sure my daughter gets in and out of that bastard’s house safely.”

Joel only nodded once, jaw tense and expression stoic. Your grin was wider than a field of flowers, and you immediately wrapped your father in a hug. Your thank yous seemed endless, and it made him laugh.

When you parted, Joel had keys grasped in his rough hands. You realized for a moment that you had no idea why he was doing this. What did he owe you? Maybe it was pity. You were half an orphan, after all.

With a cautious glance, your eyes met his own. He nodded once as if to urge you closer, and you stumbled his way. Before you knew it? You were out the door, trailing behind him like his shadow.

Of all the people who cared enough to convince your father to let you go to this party tonight? Joel Miller was the last person you expected it to be…

¿to be continued?

[belovaballerina]

To be alive at all is to have scars

House of the Dragon: Rhaenyra + fem!reader (platonic) 

Rating: Teen 

WC: 1.3 k 

Prompt: Cathartic Venting for @sweetspicybingo (Hurt/Comfort Bingo Collection)

Warnings: Heavy on the angst, mention of death, reader is a Strong, but no physical description is giving, hurt/comfort

Summary: You help your Queen process her emotions after Lucerys’s death

The afternoon's blistering heat had faded into the balmy night, with the moon shining bright behind the swirling mists of fog. You dipped the sponge into the warm water before lifting Rhaenyra’s arm and gently scrubbing her skin. Moments earlier, she reeked of dragon, the pungent scent of smoldering embers, and scorched meat undercut with a faint hint of sulfur. As she marinated in the piping hot water bubbling with jasmine oil, the putrid smell began to disappear slowly. You took care to clean under her nails, scrubbing away the dirt and grime until they sparkled like shimmering glass. While the water could wash away the muck, it did nothing to soothe her melancholy. Nothing could replace the children she had lost.

For over a sennight, she took to the skies, hoping to find remnants of Luke’s remains. Many worried in her absence, with Prince Daemon itching for vengeance. You did not fault him; it was his nature to take charge and make their enemies pay. You worried for your Queen as she journeyed with only her dragon for company. However, Syrax was a formidable companion.

Apart from Elinda, you were the closest handmaid to the Targaryen Queen. Your long-deceased father, Lyonel Strong, had requested you be placed in her service when you were both on the cusp of womanhood. You long held the secret of her trysts with your older brother, Harwin, for you understood Laenor had extended his blessing in the regard. While it was not an ideal situation, you were pleasantly surprised how the three made such an odd relationship work despite the consequences it bore. Rhaenyra loved those three boys with all of her heart. You supposed part of her heart was ripped away when she heard of Luke’s death.

“May I attend to your hair now, Your Grace?” you asked, raising to your feet.

“Please,” she murmured; her once amethyst eyes that sparkled with life were now dulled. Illustrious gems that had lost their luster, a stark contrast to the vibrant, lively woman she used to be. A broken princess turned into a broken queen. Mayhaps the Targaryens paid a heavy price to sit upon the Iron Throne.

You knelt behind her head, fingers carefully undoing her intricate braid and loosening the strands of matted hair. Then, lifting the ivory brush, you began to untangle her mane, taking care with each stroke of the bristles. Your fingers expertly worked the oil through her hair before lifting a jug filled to the brim with water. She tilted her head back, allowing you to rinse her hair clean. As you continued your work, a glimmer of her former self emerged. But you knew, deep down, that while she may look like herself again, the scars of her loss would never truly fade. Ripped edges that would always remain jagged.

You heard the whisperings of her discovering Arrax’s severed wing and clothing worn by the young Prince Lucerys on his cursed journey to Storm’s End. It was a genuinely wretched thing to have no body to burn. The Gods were cruel, you thought. Rhaenyra continued to simmer in the water until it turned as cold as the weather in the North. You took great care in helping her from the stone tub and drying off her damp skin before draping a crimson robe around her.

Her shoulders slumped as she stared at her reflection in the looking glass. Defeat hung heavy on her sullen face. Gaunt eyes begging for relief, a respite from the tragedy that marred her life. Your heart ached for her, so you gently rested your hand on her shoulder to provide her a modicum of comfort. An ounce of kindness would go a long way. Mayhaps, more should be extended to her and to Aegon; that is where peace might be found. Her hands snaked around yours, holding tightly as if afraid to slip away.

“Do you find me to be a terrible person?” she whispered, her voice cracking and quivering.

Your eyes widened.  “Of course not, Your Grace!”

“Please, speak truthfully and address me as Rhaenyra,” she requested. Her eyes pleaded with yours. She needed a friend.

You let go of her before kneeling in front of her and drawing both her hands into your own. Your thumb stroked gently over the scar left by Alicent Hightower years ago. Undoubtedly, the scars on Rhaenyra’s heart outnumber the ones on her body. “I have never once thought such, Rhaenyra.”

Her lower lip quivered as her strong facade cracked and crumbled to dust. “I had only wished to fulfill my inheritance and serve the realm. I never wished for this. I should have never sent Luke alone.” Tears dribbled down her flushed cheeks. Plump, watery, opaque pearls splattered onto the stone beneath her chair.

“You could not know this would happen.”

She squeezed your hands as the tears poured freely down her face. “I do not want this burden if this is the cost.” Her voice was heavy and thick as she admitted her truth. A truth she dared not speak aloud, but it felt healing to let them fall from her lips. “I would trade my crown for the lives of my children.” A soft wail spilled from her the moment she admitted those sentiments.

Motherhood had petrified her; it had driven her mother into an early, bloody grave, and yet the moment she held Jacerys in her arms, you had watched her slowly embrace it. Jace healed a deep wound inside her, and no soul in the realm could doubt her love for all her children. She would throw herself in the cruel barbs and sharp words hurled in thoughts of their heritage, letting each one slice her deep to protect them from hearing such squander. However, she would not be able to protect them forever but would do everything in her power to continue.

Her hand slipped to her belly as thick, hot tears continued to pour down her ruddy cheeks. A son and a daughter torn from her womb, now left to the mercy of the Gods. Her gasps for air made your belly twist uncomfortably, but you said naught, simply allowed her to weep freely and without judgment. She was only human, after all. Even Targaryens, with their dragons and otherworldly appearances, were still flesh and blood. You lifted her hands, pressing soft kisses to her fingers, free from the rings she usually wore. Admitting such beliefs out loud took courage and strength, and you felt grateful that she trusted you with such feelings.

“I believe you will make a fine queen, Rhaenyra. The realm is long overdue for one. I hold hope that a peaceful resolve might be reached, as foolish as that may sound.”

A small smile turned across her lips. “I do not think you sound foolish.”

“Then I am not foolish, and you are not a terrible person. You were named King Viserys’s heir; fealty was sworn to you,” you reminded her. Her shoulders straightened as the tears began to dry on her face.

“Thank you for allowing me to unburden. You have been by my side for many years. There are times I look upon you, and I see Harwin, I see my boys. You are my family.”

Your heart fluttered.

“I feel the same, Rhaenyra. When the Stranger claimed my father and brother, I made a promise that I would do what I could to protect you and the boys. I would do the same for little Aegon and Viserys. We may not share a drop of blood, yet I feel as if we are bonded in such a way,” you whispered.

Her hand gently cupped your face, thumb stroking across your cheek. “Allow me to hug you, my dearest.”

You melted in her arms, holding her as tightly as she embraced you. Even the strongest of persons were not immune to the tragedies of life. But what does not break one simply makes one stronger. She would rise like a dragon from the embers, ready to burst into fire and claim her birthright. More scars would be wrought, and more tears would be shed. Yet she would be the finest queen Westeros had ever seen.

[cryptotheism]

Ranking Every Large Monster in Monster Hunter Rise by How Tasty I Think They Would Be:

A TIER - Delicious Tier. Monsters that are prized for their delicious meat. The tier reserved for luxury meats like foie gras, or wagyu beef. 

Tetranodon [A+]

Luxurious, fatty, versatile, and convenient. These massive omnivorous amphibians cushion their ponderous weight with layers of marbled fat. Shanks are delicious spit-roasted over an open flame, or breaded and fried in their own drippings. Neck, and breasts are cubed for stew meat and stuffed back into the shell with herbs for pit baking. Butt and sirloin are slow-cooked in clay pots to reduce in their own fat like fine carnitas. 

Jyuratodus [A]

These omnivorous filter-feeders are prized in-universe for their meat. Its bipedal stance but fishlike physiology imply a meat somewhere between salmon, catfish, and chicken. Denser thighs are cut into steaks and smoked. The more muscular sirloin is butterflied and deep-fried like catfish filets. The fatty brisket would be the finest cut, reserved for sushi. 

Lagombi [A-]

The already-delicious rabbit, evolved for long-pursuit sub-arctic grazing. Powerful hip joints cushioned by layers of cold-resistant fat. The lagombi would produce a brisket fit for the pinnacles of sephardic cuisine, basted in honey, orange juice, prunes, and apricots. Shoulder and rump should be sliced thin, basted with herbs and oil, and used for gyros. 

(Long Post Ahead)

B TIER - Ordinary Tier. Monsters that can be eaten, and eaten well. The tier of humble, everyday meats like chicken, pork, and beef. 

Great Izuchi / Great Wroggi / Great Baggi [B+]

The chicken of monster hunter ecology. When butchered and clipped of their poison sacs, claws and feet, I can imagine these beasts whole roasted like a holiday turkey, or spit roasted like rotisserie chicken. Given their tails and posture, I imagine they taste slightly oily and gamey, closer to pheasant or game hen than chicken, but still wholly within the realm of chicken. 

Kulu-Ya-Ku [B+] 

A leaner, more agile cousin of the great Izuchi. Similar to Cornish game hen, their limbs produce less meat, but their bodies are traditionally eaten stuffed with herbs, and basted with fat during baking. Flesh is similar to waterfowl, oily, slightly dense, but a sponge for flavor. Not fatty enough to fire-roast, but careful baking can produce a delicious Kulu-Ya-Ku a l'orange. 

Aknosom [B]

Would be placed higher on this list were it not for the complication of having to butcher and remove the flame sac. Specialty cuisines would be developed for cooking a butchered aknosom in its own fluids. Slightly more fat than the Kulu-Ya-Ku, but I would prefer stewing, perhaps an aknosom vindaloo. 

Anjanath [B]

A large monster, armored with dense fat rather than scales. Two caveats: Anjanath eat just about anything, so the taste of their meat would heavily depend on the anjanath's diet, and their flame sac is notably more complex than many other fire-breathing monsters. If properly grazed on offal and vegetables scrap, their meat has a texture somewhere between beef and pork. The top sirloin is especially prized, but notably difficult to acquire. 

Diabolos  [B-]

Most of the meat on these massive, armored predators is far too dense to be worth eating. However, their fatty brisket and thighs are delicious after significant, significant slow-roasting. A favorite for BBQ. 

Rathalos / Rathain [B-]

These large, agile predators are eaten more for their abundance than their taste. Rath meat is similar to horse in texture; stringy, sparse, and of variable taste depending on their hosts diet. Most chefs get around the unpleasant texture by grinding cuts into hamburger or sausage filling, and spicing heavily. 

C TIER - Uncommon Tier. Monsters who can be eaten, but are likely not one’s first choice. The tier of uncommon meats such as rabbit, crocodile, and venison. 

Royal Ludroth [C+]

The neck sacs are unpleasantly spongy, and taste of pus if butchered incorrectly. The meat itself is passable, but similar to gator, dense, fishy, chewy if improperly cooked. The choicest cuts are the tail and sirloin, ideal for gumbo. Skillful chefs can produce a wonderful griddle-cooked Ludroth-mac-n-cheese. 

Somnacanth [C+]

Surprisingly difficult to butcher. These creatures feature a complex endocrine system that constantly threatens to ruin their frankly sparse and oily meat. Skilled chefs marinate tail and belly cuts in a sweet and savory sauce, to produce a result strangely similar to pineapple marinated fish, or somnacanth al-pastor. 

Almurdron [C]

Nearly inedible, but can produce delicacies when butchered properly. Their serpentine bodies are extremely muscular, and feature a weaponized excretory tract that can make the meat foul and actively dangerous to consume if butchered improperly. When prepared correctly, most of the animal is discarded, save for the sheathe of subcutaneous fat and tissue which can be used as a sausage casing. Ground almurdron offal sausage is a common feed for domesticated carnivores, but is occasionally enjoyed by humans. The discerning chef may long-cure the meat, producing a rare and exotic cold-cut enjoyed similarly to a rattlesnake sausage. 

Basarios [C]

Tough, dense, extraordinarily difficult to butcher. The sheer amount of effort involved in butchering these creatures for consumption often outstrips their culinary benefits. When they are eaten, they are drained by the neck and packed in clay for pit baking. Even then, the meat is spongy and gamey, not unlike raw calamari or rocky mountain oysters. 

Barroth [C]

Similar to a great Izuchi, but tougher, chewier, less available, and far more difficult to butcher. Even skilled butchers and captive ranchers have been unable to remove the faint muddy taste from the meat. A tragedy, in that they are almost tasty in so many ways.  

Bishaten [C-]

Of questionable ethicality. Meat has a taste smack dab between pork and chicken, but very lean and slightly gamey. Generally does not have enough meat to be considered worth hunting for consumption, and their diet is varied enough to make the taste a gamble. Occasionally, the fruits they collect may ferment in their pouches. A bishaten persimmon wine reduction is considered a rare delicacy, but generally requires cultivation in captivity. 

Rajang [C-]

Skirting the lower end of edibility is the rajang. Meat is leathery, gamey, and chewy, like a steak that worked out before the slaughter. The organ systems that maintain their extraordinary muscle strength may even continue to hold a charge after death, and butchers must be careful to ground the beast before applying any metal tools. Requires cooking so slow that one generally has time to hunt two more beasts in the meantime. 

D TIER - Delicacy Tier. Monsters that probably should not be eaten, are only partially edible, or require special preparation. The tier of snake, fish eyes, chicken feet, and most edible insects. 

Pukei-Pukei [D+]

Proper butchery of these animals requires extreme skill. Well made Pukei-Pukei pate is treated as a rite-of-passage for aspiring master chefs. A single Pukei-Pukei will only produce 2lbs of fatty cheek, and a single mistake could flood the meat with its deadly toxins. The meat itself is delicate, fatty, and flavorful, akin to a lovechild of white fish and high-quality chicken. 

Tobi-Kadachi [D+]

A Tobi-Kadachi’s spines are actually articulated electrosensory organs, akin to insect mandibles. Each follicle is surrounded by a powerful muscle sphincter, and loops into the creature’s endocrine system. Butchery is an exhausting process of plucking and deveining, all for subcutaneous back tissue that is underwhelming and stringy. Ideal serving would be finely ground and baked into a pie. 

Goss Harag [D+]

These creatures are not hunted for their meat. Due to a unique quirk of the goss-harag’s sebaceous glands, the creature’s adipose deposits gain a unique flavor. Sufficiently mature Goss Harag lard has an herbal, almost minty, flavor. Its culinary use is divisive, a favorite to some, and reviled by others. Their meat is leathery, foul, and dense. Their livers are sweet, and excellent source of vitamin C when eaten raw, but few culinarians are so adventurous. 

Barioth [D+]

Meat is overwhelmingly dense, stringy, and run through with the creature’s jellylike blubber. Some cultures do consume the liver, heart, and testicles, as a source of essential vitamins in sub-arctic environments, but these require skillful butchery and unorthodox techniques to prepare. Offal is sometimes ground and compacted into a baloney-like loaf that is surprisingly good on sandwiches, or stir-fried with eggs.

Tigrex [D]

Tigrex meat is so dense that it cannot be butchered along traditional lines. Ordinarily fatty cuts like breasts and thighs are akin to eating grilled steel wire. However, the lungs, diaphragm, and pelvic muscles are edible after a few days of slow-cooking. Even then, they are quite dense. It is meat that demands a 24 hour pit bake, the realm of BBQ chefs with an experimental streak, or more patience than sense.

Ibushi / Narwa [D]

Bizarre biology and sheer rarity make these creatures a true challenge for the aspiring game chef. Those privileged enough to dine on Narwa meat have described it as fishy and gritty, similar to crab with notes of ozone. Efforts have been made into the production of Ibushi caviar, but none have since been successful. 

Bazelgeuse [D]

Inedible. Even attempting butchery can cost an overconfident chef their hand. However, their unfertilized eggs are delicious, a bomb of umami and natural capcasin. Ideal for Huevos Rancheros or about ten savory omelets. 

Arzuros [D-]

When raised in captivity, on a purely vegetarian diet of herbs, honey, and berries, their meat can be edible. Given that Arzuros are an omnivorous predator, the ethicality of this is contested. Even when properly farmed, arzuros meat is lumpy, unpleasantly textured, and lacking in any distinct flavor. All of the time, controversy, and resources required to produce a single Arzuros steak would be better spent on Tetranodon. 

Nargacuga [D-]

Only edible in that it can be physically consumed. Nargacuga meat is relegated to fringe cuisine, the purview of dubious half-magical medicinal stews and rumors during famine years. The meat is unpleasant, somehow bland, foul, dry, and oily at the same time. Only theoretically edible when mixed with other meats, and heavily spiced. Additionally, the creature’s adrenal secretions can be actively dangerous in more than trace amounts. Improper butchery can make the meat hazardous to consume. 

Chameleos [D-]

Most of these creatures are inedible. The biological mechanisms that facilitate their light-bending abilities are not understood by zoologists, much less chefs. Their meat is sparse and leathery, similar to ludroth, but is also to cause a dangerous allergic reaction in more than 50% of consumers. The only part of the Chameleos known to be safe is their eyes, which are candied and served with sweet rice as a dessert delicacy. 

Mizutsune [D-]

Tastes of soap. Only reached D rank because roughly 10% of the population bears a genetic quirk that makes Mizutsune meat taste like cilantro. 

F TIER - Inedible. Monsters that should not be eaten, cannot be eaten, or are actively dangerous to eat. 

Kushala Daora  [F+]

With a skin of iron-laced keratin, the Kushala Daora is more fit to be used as a grill than placed upon it. The meat is dense, overwhelmingly bloody, and riven with grits of iron oxide. Tastes like iron shavings kneaded into leather. 

Khezu [F+]

It is said in-lore that many hunters have tried, and failed, to make the Khezu palatable. These giant leeches feature a complex digestive and endocrine system more useful for medical applications than cuisine. Escargot is already unpleasant. Even stir fried like chinese periwinkle snails, Khezu meat is far too muscular to eat. Tastes like an art eraser soaked in cough syrup. 

Rakna-Kadaki [F+]

Edible only in the sense that it can be physically consumed. Where the fire-breathing organs of other organisms can be removed during butchery, insect respiration is done through spiracles in the carapace. Spider meat already tastes of pus and rot, but the rakna-kadaki features overtones of sulphur and gasoline. 

Zingore [F]

A large, muscular, agile pursuit predator with biological mechanisms for electroconductivity. Wolflike predators already taste of gristle and death, but the Zingore’s electrochemical organ system taints its meat with an overwhelming flavor of bleach and battery acid. Meat is highly toxic to humans. 

Teostra [F]

A large, muscular pursuit predator known for attacking caravans to eat gunpowder. The meat is stringy, gristly, sulfurous, and smells of rotting eggs. Impossible to cook, as applying any sort of heat will cause the meat to rapidly combust. Tastes of old rope bathed in a sulfur vent. 

Valstrax [F-]

A heavily armored, extraordinarily agile aerial pursuit predator with a secondary respiration system to facilitate jet propulsion. Meat is stringy, rubbery, chemically astringent with overwhelming notes of crude oil and smog. Biological fluids are a chemical accelerant, and risk exploding if ignited. 

Magnamalo [F-]

The only thing that could make this monster edible would be slow-roasting in the whole shell. This should never be attempted. Given its purple coloration, the Magnamalo’s secondary respiration system exhales what is likely a complex and highly volatile lithium phosphate. Meat is dense, gristly, tastes of battery acid and spoiled wine. Risks exploding if ignited, oxygenated, or introduced to an electrical charge. 

Volvidon [F-]

Indescribably foul. The volvidon’s digestive tract produces both a paralytic venom, and a predator deterrent in the form of toxic flatulence. Consumption will risk paralysis and uncontrollable vomiting, risking a horrific death by asphyxiation. 

[the-most-humble-blog]

🧠 HUMAN LOGIC IS A BIOLOGICAL TOOL, NOT A UNIVERSAL TRUTH — DEAL WITH IT 🧠

🔪 Your Brain’s Favorite Lie: That Logic Is “Objective”.

Let’s stop playing nice. Your logic—your beautiful, beloved, oh-so-precious sense of what “makes sense”—is not divine. It’s not universal. It’s not even reliable. It’s a biologically evolved, meat-based survival mechanism, no more sacred than your gag reflex or the way your pupils dilate in the dark.

You’re walking around with a 3-pound wet sponge between your ears—trained over millions of years not to “understand the universe,” but to keep your ugly, vulnerable ass alive just long enough to breed. That’s it. That’s your heritage. That’s the entire raison d’être of your logic: don’t get eaten, don’t starve, and hopefully, bone someone before you drop dead.

But somewhere along the line, that same glitchy chunk of gray matter started patting itself on the back. We started believing that our interpretations of reality somehow were reality—that our logic, rooted in the same neural sludge as tribal fear and monkey politics, could actually comprehend the totality of existence.

Newsflash: it can’t. It won’t. It was never meant to.

💀 Evolution Didn’t Build You for Truth—It Built You to Cope.

Why do we think the universe must obey our logic? Because it feels good. Because it comforts us. Because a cosmos that operates on cause-effect, fairness, and binary resolution is safe. But here’s the raw, uncaring truth: the universe doesn’t give a shit about what “makes sense” to you.

Your ancestors didn’t survive because they could contemplate quantum mechanics. They survived because they could run from predators, recognize tribal cues, and avoid eating poisonous berries. That’s what your brain is optimized for. You don’t “think” so much as you react, pattern-match, and rationalize after the fact.

Logic is just another story we tell ourselves—an illusion of control layered over biological impulses. And we’ve mistaken the map for the terrain. Worse—we’ve convinced ourselves that if something defies our version of logic, it must be false.

Nah. If anything defies your logic, that just means your logic is insufficient. And it is.

📉 Spaghetti Noodle vs Earthquake: A Metaphor for Your Mind.

Imagine trying to measure a 9.7-magnitude earthquake using a cooked spaghetti noodle.

That’s what it’s like when a human tries to understand the totality of the universe using evolved meat-brain logic. It bends. It flails. It doesn't register. And when it inevitably fails, what do we do? We don't question the noodle—we deny the earthquake.

"This doesn't make sense!" we scream. "That can't be true!" we bark. "It contradicts reason!" we whine.

Your reason? Please. Your “reason” is the product of biochemical slop shaped by evolutionary shortcuts and social conditioning. You’re trying to compress infinite reality through the Play-Doh Fun Factory that is the prefrontal cortex—and you think the result is objective truth?

Try harder.

👁 Our Logic Is Not Only Limited—It’s Delusional 👁

Humans are addicted to the idea that things must “make sense.” But that urge isn’t noble. It’s a coping mechanism—a neurotic tic that keeps us from curling into a ball and sobbing at the abyss.

We don’t want truth. We want familiarity. We want logic to confirm our biases, reinforce our sense of superiority, and keep our mental snow globes intact.

This is why people still argue against things like:

Multiverse theories (“that just doesn’t make sense!”)

Non-binary time constructs (“how can time not be linear?”)

Quantum entanglement (“spooky action at a distance sounds made-up!”)

AI emergence (“machines can’t think!”)

We call them “impossible” because they offend the Church of Human Logic. But the universe doesn’t follow our rules—it just does what it does, whether or not it fits inside our skulls.

🧬 Logic Is a Neural Shortcut, Not a Cosmic Law 🧬

Every logical deduction you make, every syllogism you love, is just a cascade of neurons firing in meat jelly. And while that may feel profound, it’s no more “objective” than a cat reacting to a laser pointer.

Let’s break it down clinically:

Neural pathways = habitual responses

Reasoning = post-hoc justification

“Logic” = pattern recognition + cultural programming

Sure, logic feels universal because it's consistent within certain frameworks. But that’s the trap. You build your logic inside a container, and then get mad when things outside that container don’t obey the same rules.

That's not a flaw in reality. That's a flaw in you.

📚 Science Bends the Knee, Too 📚

Even science—our most sacred institution of “objectivity”—is limited by human logic. We create models of reality not because they are reality, but because they’re the best our senses and brains can grasp.

Think about it:

Newton’s laws were “truth” until Einstein showed up.

Euclidean geometry was “truth” until curved space said “lol nope.”

Classical logic ruled until Gödel proved that even logic can’t fully explain itself.

We’re not marching toward truth. We’re crawling through fog, occasionally bumping into reality, scribbling notes about what it might be—then mistaking those notes for the cosmos itself.

And every time the fog clears a bit more, we realize how hilariously wrong we were. But instead of accepting that we're built to misunderstand, we cling to the delusion that next time we’ll finally “get it.”

Spoiler: we won’t.

🌌 Alien Minds Would Find Us Adorable 🌌

Imagine a being with cognition not rooted in flesh. A silicon-based intelligence. A 4D consciousness. A non-corporeal entity who doesn’t rely on dopamine hits to feel “true.”

What would they think of our logic?

They’d laugh.

Our logic would seem as quaint as a toddler’s crayon drawing of a black hole. Our syllogisms? A joke. Our “laws of physics”? Regional dialects of a much deeper syntax. To them, we’d be flatlanders trying to explain volume.

And the real kicker? They wouldn’t even hate us for it. They’d just look at our little blogs and tweets and peer-reviewed papers and whisper: “Aw, they’re trying.”

💣 You Are Not a Philosopher-King. You Are a Biochemical Coin Flip.

Don’t get it twisted. You are not some detached, floating brain being logical for logic’s sake. Every thought you have is drenched in emotion, evolution, and instinct. Even your "rationality" is soaked in bias and cultural conditioning.

Let’s prove it:

Ever “logically” justify a bad relationship because you feared loneliness?

Ever dismiss an argument you didn’t like even though it made sense?

Ever ignore data that threatened your worldview, then called it “flawed”?

Congratulations. You’re human. You don’t want truth. You want safety. And logic, for most of you, is just a mask your fears wear to sound smart.

🪓 We Have to Kill the God of Logic Before It Kills Us.

Our worship of logic as some kind of untouchable deity has consequences:

It blinds us to truths that don’t “compute.”

It makes us hostile to mystery, paradox, and ambiguity.

It turns us into arrogant gatekeepers of “rationality,” dismissing what we can’t explain.

That’s why Western culture mocks intuition, fears spirituality, and rejects phenomena it can’t immediately dissect. If it doesn’t bow to the metric system or wear a lab coat, it’s seen as “woo.”

But here’s the paradox:

The deepest truths may be the ones that never fit inside your head. And if you cling to logic too tightly, you’ll miss them. Hell—you might not even know they exist.

⚠️ So What Now? Do We Just Give Up? ⚠️

No. We don’t throw logic away. We just stop treating it like a universal measuring stick.

We use it like what it is: a tool. A hammer, not a temple. A flashlight, not the sun. Logic is helpful within a context. It’s fantastic for building bridges, writing code, or diagnosing illnesses. But it breaks down when used on the unquantifiable, the infinite, the beyond-the-body.

Here’s how we survive without losing our minds:

Stay skeptical of your own thoughts. If it “makes sense,” ask: to whom? Why? Is that logic—or is it just comfort?

Let mystery exist. You don’t need to solve every riddle. Some truths aren’t puzzles—they’re paintings.

Defer to the unknown. Accept that your brain is not the final word. Sometimes silence is smarter than syllogisms.

Interrogate the framework. When you say “this doesn’t make sense,” maybe the problem isn’t the idea—it’s the limits of your logic.

Don’t gatekeep reality. Just because you can’t wrap your mind around something doesn’t mean it’s false. It might just mean you’re not ready.

🎤 Final Thought: You’re a Dumb Little God—And That’s Beautiful.

You are a confused primate running wetware logic on blood and breath. You hallucinate meaning. You invent consistency. You call those inventions “truth.”

And the universe? The universe just is. It doesn’t bend for your brain. It doesn’t wait for your approval. It doesn’t owe you legibility.

So maybe the wisest thing you’ll ever do is this:

Stop pretending you’re built to understand everything. Start living like you’re here to witness the absurdity and be humbled by it.

Now go question everything—especially yourself.

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