#sardine productions

[floralbeautysweet]

Marty - ToonMarty

العربية:

هذا هو مارتي تميمة ”تون مارت“ وموظفها الوحيد، الذي يصبح على قيد الحياة عندما تصاب لوحة إعلانات بالبرق. إنه من مسلسل رسوم متحركة كندي من إنتاج شركة ساردين برودكشونز ومن تيليتون ”تون مارتي“. قمت بتشغيل التلفاز ومشاهدته على قناة إم بي سي 3 مع توفير صوت مدبلجة باللهجة المصرية ولكن أغنية تتر البداية لهذا الكرتون كانت غير مدبلجة باللغة الأصلية الإنجليزية والآلات الموسيقية بدون أصوات قبل بدء الحلقات. أما شارة تتر النهاية فكانت بنفس لحن الافتتاحية ولكن آلياً، وقد ضبطت الشعار الذي يجمع بين شعار شركة سردين برودكشونز وشعار تيليتون بعد تتر النهاية.

Türkçe:

ToonMart'ın maskotu ve tek çalışanı olan Marty, bir reklam panosuna yıldırım isabet ettiğinde canlanır. Sardine Productions tarafından üretilen ve Teletoon'dan “ToonMarty” adlı bir Kanada Animasyon Dizisinden. Televizyonu açtım ve bu şovu MBC3'te Mısır Lehçesi dublajlı bir sesle izledim, ancak bu çizgi filmin Açılış tema şarkısı hem Orijinal dilde İngilizce hem de bölümlere başlamadan önce sesler olmadan Enstrümantal olan Undubbed vardı. Bitiş tema şarkısı açılışla aynı melodiye sahipti ancak Enstrümantaldi, bitiş tema jeneriğinden sonra hem Sardine Productions hem de Teletoon logo kombinasyonunu ayarladı.

English:

This is Marty the mascot of ToonMart and its only employee, who becomes alive when a billboard is hit by lightning. It’s from a Canadian Animated Series produced by Sardine Productions and from Teletoon “ToonMarty”. I've turn on the TV and I’m watching it on MBC3 with an Egyptian Dialect dubbed audio made available but the Opening theme song of this cartoon had both Undubbed which was in Original language English and Instrumental with no voices before starting the episodes. The Ending theme song had the same tune as the opening but Instrumental, it tuned the logo combo both Sardine Productions and Teletoon logo after the end theme credits.

ToonMarty © Sardine Productions,Teletoon,Robin Balzano,Pascale Beaulieu,Paul Stoica,Frédérick Wolfe,MBC3

[pamietniko]

Photo Diary: The last 100 days

Days 71 - 75

Finally did all of the things I've been putting off the entire year over the past few days.

Renewed my license, got my annual shots, cleaned behind my stove, et cetera - et cetera.

[rabbitcruiser]

Sardines were first canned by Julius Wolff in Eastport, Maine on February 17, 1876.

[modernviga]

[motorclit]

Stuff like this is why I'm trying to eat according to what would be harvested in season (unless it can be frozen). But it's really difficult when you can't get a hold of certain things at all regardless of season.

After almost a decade of my parents pissing around their promises to help me (since I had no income) with learning how to garden, I just began growing pumpkins last year. I'm *still* struggling to get more started because my mom keeps flip-flopping where I'm allowed to grow and where I'm not, and then gets mad when I don't automatically know through osmosis. And all I was focused on is having my very own pumpkin patch and discovering what a garden-grown carrot tastes like (plus they come in different colors!)

Anyway, try to eat seasonal if you can. This includes eating apples during autumn, for example. It'll make adjusting to climate change or any shift in global food trade a bit easier.

Sooner or later leftists will have to deal with the issue that capitalism has made many people used to wanton excess and sooner or later we'll have to legit tell everyone we can't have plastic treats and luxury produce or cruises instantly available year round and it's gonna make so many people mad and call you a big meanie worse than stalin over it. It will not be popular at all but someone's gotta hold a firm no or the planet will never stop collapsing. We can't save the planet by living exactly how we do now just with a communist banner over it we have to take a loss sorry, shein product cycles shouldn't have been normalized to begin with.

[buttercuparry]

Recently there has been a fall in engagement with Palestinian content on tumblr, and for those of us who are helping Palestinians fundraise it is very obvious that this has happened directly after the very public smear campaigns, carried out by some racist users with significant followings.

It seems half the site somehow found it easier to believe in the horseshit about “belgian scam rings” and “russian botnets” in an effort to justify their apathy towards genocide victims, and the other half seems to think that everything is over and that the evil was defeated just because some racist bloggers got run off the site after giving half-hearted apologies that did nothing to mitigate the damage they had done.

THERE ARE PEOPLE STILL IN DIRE NEED OF HELP !! There are people who are still getting death threats from zionists every day and have to stay on this godforsaken website because their gofundmes haven't reached their endgoals yet...

I'm going to keep this brief:

Siraj's ( @siraj2024 ) family including his parents, and his five siblings and their families were displaced during the recent attacks by IOF on deir al balah

This means there are now 23 family members that Siraj is the sole provider for at the moment. 

10 of those members are young children.

Siraj's wife, Halima, is having a terrible flareup of eczema and his children are suffering from skin infections and badly need medical attention.

This whole family has been living in unhygienic conditions in 2 tents, packed like sardines during this heatwave, leading to spread of infections between them as well– all during a time where hygiene products have become unaffordable due to the israeli blockade, and when water has become scarce, and kids cant even receive life saving vaccinations during polio epidemic.

All this while everyday siraj risks his life trying to reach out to us from an internet point amidst violence and shelling from the IOF in what once was a “humanitarian safe zone”, even more desperately than before because–

THIS FUNDRAISER IS NOW THE ONLY LIFELINE FOR FIVE FAMILIES INSTEAD OF JUST ONE !!

Currently at $55,614/ $82,000 CAD

TIME IS RUNNING OUT!! We have to get to 60k by thursday i.e WITHIN THE NEXT THREE DAYS!! DONATE AND BOOST

Vetting link #219

If you want additional incentive to donate, pls check out:

Art raffle here (ending in 4 days!!!) - where you get to win this zine as a prize as well for as low as $5 for 1 entry, please dont miss it !!

[sightoru]

Katsuki's never been someone who's used or enjoyed pet names all too much, preferring the intimacy of saying someones first name instead of mushy shit like 'baby', 'honey', or 'darling'. It's just never really made sense to him, why say something like that when he can just use your name? Surely the tone of his voice conveys any emotion he might need. Your name mixed with curses when you forget to turn off the lights at night, your name accompanied by the sound of his boots at the door when he's home, your name mixed with the sounds of sheets in bed.

and you've never cared or paid any attention if it, even though calling strangers 'honey' and 'sweetheart' rolls of your tongue so naturally Katsuki spent the first month of your relationship wondering how it's possible to hold so much love in your heart for people you don't even know. the way you seem to care about strangers, asking questions about their day, remembering the details and bringing it up the next time you see them; all accompanied by sickly sweet words of affection, casually woven in between well wishes and giggles. you promise to return to them, and they promise to be there waiting.

Katsuki looks at you, one of these times after you both leave the market late at night (he always insists on going with you, says it's too dangerous for you to go alone. you always try to tell him you've been fine all these times before, but never fight his insistence too hard), takes in your body that glows gold under the streetlights, your tote bag full of things you bought (flowers, since the ones on the dining room table are starting to wilt. an eggplant for the Thai curry you've been meaning to make — though when you get home you'll see the lemongrass you've bought is bad and you'll have to make another trip, not that you or Katsuki mind. Green onions, chives, fresh thyme. Soft white bread lays on top of it all, and you're careful not to crush it under your arm.), and the way you mindlessly talk about your day. The cat you passed on the street, the stranger you regularly make conversation with at the bus stop. Your coworkers personal drama you can't help but be invested in — despite claims that you're not.

When he goes to bed with you that night, his keys in the same dish as yours ( a little ceramic one that sits on the table by the door. it's shaped like a sardine can. you giggled the whole way home after you bought it), his boots next to your flats — his are neat, sitting up right and yours are haphazardly thrown next to his. He'll fix them in the morning before he leaves— you'll wrap your arms around his middle, burying your face between his shoulder blades in an attempt to steal his warmth. You'll mutter something about your day, follow it up with 'good night, my love.' and something about it, will have his heart grow 4 sizes in his chest.

My love, my love, my love

He'll hold onto it the next day, and the one after that. let it settle into his mouth like honey before he starts whispering it to you when he thinks you're not listening. My love, my love, my love, the words seep into the air between you both and permeate the space. Chopsticks passed to you before dinner, handing off the remote so you can put on YouTube videos (make up tutorials, obviously. katsuki pretends he's not interested while he makes mental notes at the products that elicit a gasp from you) all followed up with those two words.

He looks at you, bundled on the couch, thinks of all the beautiful things he sees and the way that all reflects in the beauty of you.

Maybe he likes pet names, after all.

[prettieinpink]

beginner guide to vitamins?

I am uneducated on vitamins and what they do for you, I only know the basics, however I did do research before posting. This is a disclaimer that I am not a doctor, and your general practitioner knows best for you. I made this into an everyday vitamin guide instead, as it is a lot more simpler for me and to avoid misinformation ❀

EVERYDAY GUIDE TO VITAMINS

About vitamins that best support you when consumed on a daily basis! I used food instead of supplements because of no specification.

VITAMIN A

Supports vision, a healthy immune system and cell growth. 

Sweet potatoes, carrots, spinach, kale and liver.

Or, look for foods rich in beta-carotene. 

B VITAMINS

Support many bodily functions and the proper development your body.

Whole grains, leafy greens, nuts or seeds and legumes. 

VITAMIN C 

Acts as an antioxidant, helps to heal wounds, supports the immune system and collagen production. 

Citrus fruits like oranges, grapefruits or lemons. Strawberries, kiwi, bell peppers and broccoli. 

VITAMIN D 

Supports bone health, immune system and regulation of moods. 

Fatty fish like salmon, mackerel, sardines. Diary products like milk, yoghurt and cheese. 

VITAMIN E 

Supports skin health and is anti-inflammatory. 

Nuts and seeds, spinach and broccoli. 

CALCIUM 

Helps with muscle contraction, strong teeth and bones and nerve function. 

Diary products like milk, yoghurt or cheese. Kale and spinach. 

IRON

Supports healthy red blood cell production and energy levels.

Red meat, poultry, fish. Legumes, tofu and spinach. 

OMEGA 3 FATTY ACIDS

Anti-inflammatory, support brain function and heart health. 

Fatty fishes or seeds. 

This post was a bit difficult, if mine wasn’t what you were looking for, here’s one that I would recommend. 

[theambitiouswoman]

Gut Friendly Grocery List 🥦🥑🧀

🧀 Probiotic and Fermented Foods:

Yogurt (look for live and active cultures)

Kefir

Sauerkraut

Kimchi

Pickles (fermented)

Tempeh

Miso

Fermented cheeses (e.g., cheddar, gouda, Swiss)

Kombucha

🫘 Fiber-Rich Foods:

Whole grain bread, cereal or pasta

Oats

Brown rice

Quinoa

Lentils

Chickpeas

Black beans

🍳 Protein:

Lean meats (chicken, turkey, lean cuts of beef or pork)

Fish (salmon, mackerel, sardines)

Eggs (rich in amino acids)

Tofu and tempeh (fermented soy products)

Cottage cheese

🍎 Fruits:

Berries (blueberries, strawberries, raspberries)

Bananas

Apples

Oranges

Lemons

Watermelon

🥦 Vegetables:

Spinach

Broccoli

Cauliflower

Brussels sprouts

Asparagus

Onions

Garlic

Artichokes

Sweet Potato

Jicama

Chicory root

Dandelion greens

🥜 Nuts and Seeds:

Almonds

Walnuts

Flaxseeds

Chia seeds

Pumkin seeds

🥑 Healthy Fats:

Avocado

Olive oil

Grass fed butter

🍠 Herbs and Spices:

Turmeric

Ginger

Garlic

🧉 Beverages:

Green tea

Herbal teas

Aloe vera juice

Coconut water

🍫 Other:

Dark chocolate (in moderation)

Apple cider vinegar

Bone Broth

Raw honey

sea salt

Collagen

Seaweed

[cj-schlatt]

Take Me Out - Part One

Pairing: MLB player!Schlatt x gn!sideline reporter!reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: Schlatt is the new first baseman for the New York Mets, and you’re the team’s new sideline reporter.

Content: Fluff!

A/N: I went with the Mets over the Yankees because a.) I’m a Red Sox fan, and b.) the Yankees are strict and only allow mustaches (long live the chops). Enjoy! :)

You feel like a kid on the first day of school. You’ve got that nervous, butterflies-in-your-stomach kind of feeling, but in a good way.

It’s your first official day as the sideline reporter for the New York Mets, and you couldn’t be more excited. All those long nights of studying, all your hard work to obtain your communications degree, have finally paid off.

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you enter Clover Park for the first time. You’re in beautiful Port St. Lucie, Florida, and Spring Training is just getting underway. The smell of freshly-cut grass hangs in the air as you watch the players running drills on the field.

It’s here, as you speak to a member of the production team near the dugout, that you catch your first glimpse of him.

His laugh is what you hear first. Instinctively, you turn towards the sound, and that’s when you see him. He’s standing near first base, facing away from you, showing off the number 99 that covers his broad back.

Schlatt, everyone calls him, despite the surname stitched across the back of his jersey. His reputation precedes him. Everyone has heard the scouting reports, seen the viral videos passed around social media. In the minor leagues, he’s been known for his antics, taunting runners on the opposing team when they reach him at first base. It’s his first year being called up to the majors, and he’s one of the big stories for the team, the player to watch.

You’ve done your homework. You know all about Schlatt and his rather colorful personality. He’s certainly one of the more animated players in the sport, always fired up after a solid hit or a particularly impressive defensive play. He’s cocky, and, honestly, he has every right to be. He’s the Mets’ number one prospect, an above-average first baseman and strong power hitter. You know he’s going to be a handful in interviews, but you’re up for the challenge.

You can’t tell from this angle, but you know that if Schlatt were to turn around, you’d see the infamous mutton chops. Second to his spectacular playing ability, his unusual facial hair has been one of his defining characteristics since he was first drafted. Love it or hate it, it gets the fans talking, keeping that oh-so important spotlight on him.

You’re pulled out of your musings by a shout of, “Look out!” followed by a baseball whizzing past your head, narrowly avoiding you. You look to the field to see a few players standing around sheepishly.

“You okay?” To your surprise, it’s Schlatt who turns to ask you.

You give him a thumbs up. “All good,” you call out to him.

With a satisfied nod, he turns back to face the field.

It’s going to be an interesting season, you think.

You’re packed into the press room like sardines, shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow reporters. You all crowd around the podium where Schlatt sits, an array of microphones and cell phones in front of his face to catch his every word.

The press conference begins, and you’re called upon to ask the first question.

You open your mouth to speak.

Before you can get a word out, an older, male reporter begins talking over you. “What do you think—”

“Hey,” Schlatt cuts the reporter off sharply. “Let ‘em speak.” He gestures to you.

You feel your cheeks heat as seemingly every pair of eyes in the room turns towards you. You take a breath, then, as calmly as you can, ask your question: “What’s your takeaway from day one of Spring Training?”

Schlatt hums thoughtfully before answering, “That we look good out there, but we still have a lot of work to do before we’re ready for Opening Day.” He leans back a little in his chair and adjusts his cap. “That all?”

“One more thing: got any advice for a rookie reporter, as a rookie yourself?”

He grins wide. “Just enjoy it. We’re in the big leagues, baby!” he whoops, and the crowd erupts in laughter and scattered applause.

Before moving onto the next reporter, you swear Schlatt shoots a wink in your direction.

Spring Training flies by. Before you know it, you’re on a plane to New York for Opening Day. The sun is shining bright on Citi Field, helping to warm the chilly air.

You’re trying your best to soak it all in. This is what you’ve dreamed of for so long, and you want to enjoy every moment of it.

What an exciting Opening Day it turns out to be. The Mets and Phillies have gone back and forth, earning runs and keeping the score close throughout the game.

It’s now the bottom of the ninth, and the teams are tied three-to-three. There are two outs, no one on base, and Schlatt is up at bat. The count is full—three balls, two strikes. It all comes down to the next pitch.

You watch with bated breath as the Phillies pitcher throws a blazing fastball towards the plate. Schlatt swings the bat, and—CRACK! Just from the sound, you know it’s gone, and Schlatt does, too. He stands in the batter’s box for a few moments, watching the ball sail into the stands, before beginning his victory trot around the bases.

The crowd is going absolutely crazy. Lights are flashing all around, and music is blaring through the stadium speakers. The Mets dugout empties to meet Schlatt at home plate, where they convene in a huge group, shouting and high-fiving one another.

As the celebration on the field dwindles and players are headed off the field, you’re able to get Schlatt’s attention for a post-game interview. You can hear Gary, the announcer, in your ear, setting it up for the viewers at home.

“Schlatt!” you have to practically yell over the crowd. “That was amazing! What’s going through your mind right now?”

He’s breathing heavily, standing with his hands on his hips and leaning in to hear you better.

You think he starts to talk, but you’re suddenly doused in ice-cold liquid. You gasp and instinctively try to back away, but it’s too late. You realize, belatedly, that another Mets player has dumped the Gatorade cooler in celebration, but seems to have missed his mark.

“What the fuck, man?!” Schlatt shouts at his teammate, instinctively putting an arm around your shoulder, as if to shield you from another onslaught.

You shiver, not completely sure if it’s from the unexpected contact or the fact that you’re soaking wet in New York in early April. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

The station must have cut back to the booth by now. At the very least, the audio will have been muted momentarily when Schlatt swore. Still, you’re pretty sure that, even though the camera is there, it’s not broadcasting you in all your drowned rat glory.

“Fuckin’ idiot,” Schlatt mutters to himself before focusing his attention on you. “Are you alright? Lemme get you a towel.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you try to tell him, but he’s already jogging towards the dugout and returning moments later with a clean towel, ironically emblazoned with the Gatorade logo.

“Thank you,” you say, taking the towel and attempting, maybe in vain, to dry yourself off. You’re at least able to get the worst of it so there is no longer Gatorade running into your eyes, which is an improvement.

Schlatt crosses his arms and shakes his head. “I’m sorry about him.”

To be honest, you’re surprised he’s still here, still talking to you. You figured he’d want to get out of here as quickly as possible, but here he stands, looking genuinely concerned.

“It’s alright,” you try to brush it off.

“No, it’s not,” he insists. “I’ll talk to him, make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

You smile appreciatively. “Thank you,” you say again.

He smiles back at you softly. It’s so unlike him, you think—or, at least, so unlike the version of himself that he presents on the field and in interviews. It’s like you’re getting a peek at the real Schlatt, the man behind the persona.

You’re whisked off the field soon after. The production team assures you that you don’t have to stick around for the post-game press conferences, insisting that you go home and get cleaned up, for which you’re very grateful.

One very uncomfortable (but thankfully short) walk later, you’re back at your apartment. You quickly peel off your ruined outfit and hop in the shower, eager to wash off the day (and the Gatorade).

Soon, you’re curled up on the couch, cozy in your pajamas. It’s then that you feel your phone buzz, pulling it out of your pocket to reveal a wall of notifications. Confused, you unlock your phone, trying to make sense of the influx of Twitter mentions.

You nearly drop your phone when you open Twitter.

There, on your screen, is a video of you, microphone in hand as you begin interviewing Schlatt, before the Gatorade shower interrupts you both. The video doesn’t end there, though. You watch in disbelief as Schlatt puts his arm around you and continues talking to you, unaware that the camera is still rolling. Sure, there are a few moments where the audio is muted to cover up Schlatt’s f-bombs, but it appears that SNY aired your entire interaction with Schlatt.

You scroll down, eyebrows raising as you read through the replies. There are screenshots of Schlatt with his arm around you, followed by incomprehensible strings of letters and an impressive amount of emojis. You don’t really know what to make of it, and you try to put it out of your mind as you get up to make yourself dinner.

An hour or so later, you get a text from an unknown number:

can we talk?

A second message comes through moments later:

it’s schlatt

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think! :)

[maester-cressen]

One of the most heartbreaking things about sharing and reading Palestine evacuation/survival fundraisers is to read how expensive and how hard to get some of the simplest products are in Gaza right now. Sardines, some of the cheapest fishes to ever get here in Brazil, cost up $30 USD a kilo.

Mohammed @ahmed0khalil is only nineteen but has so much on his shoulder. He has to provide for his five siblings, the youngest being six year old Ahmed. He's around 6 years younger than me, but has so many challenges getting food, treatment for his dad's diabetes/his brother's leg wound and hygiene products.

On top of all of this, his campaign (shared by 90-ghost and number 77 on gazavetters) is currently stagnating. It's one of the most important sources of income for the family, as they need to keep sustaining themselves while the border does not open for evacuation. If you live in the UK, you can enter this raffle to contribute to this campaign for a chance to gain a pearl phone charm!

Please boost this and donate if possible! Thank you <3

Taglist:

@fancysmudges @brokenbackmountain @mothblossoms @aleciosun

@fluoresensitive @khizuo @lesbiandardevil @transmutationisms

@schoolhater @timogsilangan @appsa @buttercuparry @sayruq @malcriada

@palestinegenocide @sar-soor @akajustmerry

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@flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt

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@theropoda @tamarrud @4ft10tvlandfangirl

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@dlxxv-vetted-donations

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[rabbitcruiser]

Sardines were first canned by Julius Wolff in Eastport, Maine on February 17, 1876.

[vampirejuno]

Remember that discworld dream I had the other day? Well, lads.... I wrote it. At the encouragement of @catstrophysics, @lilenariinpink and @theygotlost, I present to you...

Something Fishy

His Grace, His Excellency, Sir Samuel Vimes the Duke of Ankh, Blackboard Monitor, sighed emphatically and tried to shoulder his way through the throng. Sator Square was packed with people. Never before in his life, he reflected, had he ever seen such a crowd turn up at six in the bloody morning to watch what was, essentially, a man tossing a dead fish onto the ground. Is this what passes for entertainment these days? he thought bitterly. We used to be a great city when it came to entertainment. After some further consideration of past greatness, he stopped, shook his head, and silently offered praise to whatever god was responsible for making sure it stayed in the past.

It had been a little over a month since the Fish Craze, and already Vimes wished he could permanently ban the import of all seafood into the city. Nobody remembered what had started it, but the fad had spread faster than wildfire, with no fashion-brigade to stop the madness. Everyone had taken it up. Even perfectly reasonable people, the kind that sneered at their grannies for fretting over a broken mirror, would, in all sincerity, say things like, “Thank goodness for another Right Day, I could use the luck”, or, more frequently, “No wonder it all went tits up, it was a Left Day”.

Vimes failed to see the appeal. The whole process consisted of taking a fish (preferably a sardine, though most made do with herring or, in desperate times, even anchovies), tossing it in the air, and checking which side up it landed. At first, everyone did it individually. This had led to much disagreement and, eventually, an event that would go down in history as “Most Organic Weapons Riot”. The watchmen who’d been on duty that night were given two days off to try and wash the smell out of their uniforms.

The following day, the Patrician had announced the instatement of an Official Fish Thrower, which soon turned into “the Offishal Tosser”, or simply “the Tosser”, and whose entire job it was to go into Sator Square every morning, toss a sardine for the city, and announce to the enraptured masses what sort of day they were going to have. It was rumored that the Tosser was a retired magician who had specialized in sleight of hand, and that he ensured the fish always landed precisely according to the Patrician’s specifications. Knowing Vetinari, Vimes thought, the man probably has a spreadsheet planned out for a month in advance.

His musings were interrupted by a current of movement in the crowd, which parted hastily to reveal a figure with a tray.

“Right Fish! Get your Right Fish! Guaranteed Day goes Right! Turn your day ‘round with just one toss!”

Vimes sighed. Only one man would try to sell you fish at the Offishal Tossing.

“Morning, Throat,” he said distantly. There was a commotion at the front of the crowd as people tried to dislodge someone from the Tosser’s podium. It looked like an Omnian preacher had taken advantage of the audience to spread the good word to the unenlightened masses, whether they liked it or not.

“A good morning to you, Commander! Can I interest you in some nice sardines? Three for tuppence, and that’s cutting my own throat!”

Vimes risked a glance at the tray as Ankh-Morpork’s least successful merchant approached him in a hopeful sidle. It was laden with row upon row of little strangely misshapen fish. Picking one up and turning it over in his fingers, Vimes saw the reason for this. Someone had taken some pains to cut them in two lengthwise, discarded all the left halves, and rejoined the things by gluing two right halves together with some mysterious sticky substance. He put it back down and inconspicuously wiped his hand on his trousers. Like many of Dibbler’s products, it was precisely what you paid for.

“Sardine? Seems more like smelt to me.”

“Yes, very fragrant, indeed,” said the merchant without missing a beat. “Perhaps some fish’n’chips, then, Commander? Only ten pence for our brave lads in the Watch!”

I don’t think I’m that brave, Vimes thought. Aloud, he said, “Is that where the left halves go, then?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir. Ah, hello, miss, you look like you could do with a nice nourishing breakfast! Some delicious fish’n’chips to start the day off right, how about it?”

The crowd was so packed now – hah, like sardines in a can – that Vimes gave up all hopes of pushing through it. Most of these people had turned up early to get a good spot and were now whiling the minutes away until the much-awaited Tossing. There was a conversation taking place just behind him, where an argument of Morporkians was standing around, doing what it did best. The current object of ire appeared to be a young man’s drawling voice, which was questioning Tradition.

“-don’t see why we couldn’t put a new spin on it. This is…too restrictive, like.”

“How’s that, then?”

“It’s just awfully specific, is all I’m saying.”

“What are you babbling about, Harold?” responded a higher, slightly irritated voice that instantly filed itself away as “unhappy wife” in Vimes’s copper brain.

“I mean, why’s it got to be a sardine? Why not a, uh,” the young man cast around for seafood-related ideas, “a crab, or something?”

“Come now, that’d never work,” a stout little man next to him laughed good-naturedly. He was smoking a pipe and had the look of someone who used words like “indubitably” and “perfunctory” despite only having a very approximate idea of what they meant. “Crabs are not remotely suitable for the task.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Well-known fact,” nodded the crustacean connoisseur. “Divination is congenitally tied to the noble art of fishing, you know. It’s called forecasting, after all.”

There were more nods and approving laughs. The man puffed on his pipe with a chuckle, clearly satisfied with the pun. Vimes managed not to punch him.

“Y’know, that sounds about right. Never ‘eard of someone telling the future with a crab,” an old woman nodded wisely. “You never know where you are with crabs. Now, fish, that’s reliable.”

The group pondered this.

“Look at it this way. We’ve had, what, twenty-three Left Days so far – not counting Floppy Friday* – and every single time, somethin’ bad happened.”

The others murmured their agreement. There were several thoughtful comments recounting various misfortunes that the participants had suffered on past Left Days. Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose.

“This is Ankh-Morpork, something bad is always happening.”

“Right, that’s what I’m saying,” nodded the young man, who hadn’t been saying that. “Besides, plenty of perfectly good fortune tellers in the city. A man tossing a sardine on the cobbles is not a valid method of divination, in my humble opinion.”

“Harold, you are embarrassing me.”

“Oh, come off it, Mathilda, you got by just fine without any of this business for thirty years of your life. Now it’s all Sardines this, Herring that, Why don’t we get an ornamental trout lake-”

At that moment, the Offishal Tosser stepped onto his little podium, and the couple was shushed into outraged silence. 

* * *

“Come on, before ol’ Stoneface gets here. You know he doesn’t approve of this sort of thing.”

The Pseudopolis Yard watch house was buzzing with excitement uncharacteristic for six in the morning on a Wednesday. Most of the night shift had signed off and the day guard were trickling one by one into the main room. An ever-growing group was clustered in a vague circle, in the center of which Corporal Nobbs could just be made out (if that was your idea of a good time). The men all had the vague air of middle school students asking their teacher about his dog in order to delay math class by another five minutes.

“Might that have anything to do with the fact that, last time, it took three hours and a bucket of armour polish to get the smell out of the floorboards?” Angua smiled. It was a very friendly smile.

“Right, sarge, but… We-ell, you’re…”

“Yes?” The smile widened.

Constable Fernsby shifted uncomfortably. There were a few sniggers. It was true that werewolves had considerably sharper senses than humans and would therefore be able to smell a fish long after it had departed the material plane, but, the sniggers seemed to indicate from a safe distance, you didn’t go around pointing this out to them. Fortunately for the boy, he was saved from any further smiles by a very timely interruption in the form of the Captain.

“Good morning! Everyone had a nice rest, I hope? Ready for another day of work?”

Carrot strutted in, wearing his usual genuine smile and gleaming armor. There was a not-so-subtle change in the atmosphere; a sudden nonchalantness enveloped the room. All around him, the squad commenced their very best impression of the Walls And Ceiling Inspection Division. One or two of the simpler lads even clasped their hands behind their backs and started to whistle**. Carrot sighed.

“Alright, what did you do?... And don’t look at me like that, I can see something smells fishy here.”

This was greeted with one or two coughs and a sudden interest in last night’s heaps of paperwork. Only Lance-Constable Whippet, who had joined three days ago and was, therefore, not yet acquainted with the minutiae of his commanding officers’ tempers, and sergeant Detritus, who could be a little slow on the uptake, met the captain’s inquisitive gaze. Finally, he looked to Angua for help. She shrugged meaningfully.

“Well… er,” said Sergeant Colon, who felt obliged to make some sort of contribution on behalf of his insubordinates, “we was just…engaging in some…cultural activities, captain. To boost morale for the day, like. Er.”

Carrot sniffed at the air – never a very good idea in a watch house, where, at any given point in time, half the men had just returned from patrolling and the other half were emerging from the locker room – and understanding began to dawn.

“Ah, I see. And I expect, Sergeant, that such…team-building activities are best carried out without the involvement or presence of, say, senior officers?”

“Could be, sir. I’m sure you’d know best, sir.” Colon’s big round face was a picture of cherubic innocence.

“Well, in that case, I believe Sergeant Angua and I have a case to attend to. Corporal Thighbiter up at Dolly Sisters needed some help with that Money Trap Lane break-in...”

“Actually, he just sent word the other day – it turned out Mister Mason had got drunk and lost his key again and crashed through the oomph-” Constable Ping bent over slightly from several democratic elbows in the ribs. With a true officer’s tact, Carrot feigned temporary deafness. He held the door for Angua, who detached herself from the wall with one last pleasant smile that could’ve cut steel, and the two stepped out briskly into the safety of fresh air***.

After they had gone, the squad waited a few moments and then turned back to the center of the room, where someone had dragged a mysteriously stained stool from the canteen when the kitchen lady wasn’t looking. Corporal Nobbs was shuffled towards it with extreme care.

The little man**** dusted himself off and scrambled onto the rickety stool. As the other watchmen leaned in closer, he reached into the unspeakable depths of his inner pockets and, with a certain air of ceremony, produced…

“A sardine!”

“Cor, is that real?”

“Dat a very small fish.”

“Where did you get it, corp?”

Nobby basked in the approving murmurs of his colleagues. It had, indeed, been a challenge to find – sardines were very rare these days, outside of the occasional coveted freak shower – but he was nothing if not resourceful.

“We-ell, it weren’t easy, that’s true,” he rolled a dog-end from one corner of the mouth to the other, savoring the moment. He rarely commanded so much attention without attracting a variety of insults and the occasional ballistic eel. “Pays to know the right people, o’course. I have connections, me. Contacts. Ties, even.”

“Aye, but that floral one you nicked last week really don’t suit you very well.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Stronginthearm. All your accessories are made of chainmail! Everyone knows jewel tones are for winter, anyway.”

Colon raised a placating hand. “All right, all right, lads, no need to get all up in arms just ‘cos some folks are a little…stylistically challenged.”

“Thanks, sarge.”

“I meant you, Nobby.”

The corporal threw up his arms. “I go to all this trouble,” he wailed, “I talk to people, I find a contraband seafood shipment from Klatch, I explain matters to the fishmonger – on my day off, too, might I add – I procure a real, genuine, only-slightly-nibbled actual sardine, and this is the thanks I get?”

The watchmen watched, transfixed, as he flourished the fabled fish in their faces. It had, indeed, already been chewed on; the tail was sticking out rigidly and the whole thing smelled as if it was a few weeks beyond consumption, but it was a sardine nonetheless. Most of the lads, coming from humble (and sometimes humbling) backgrounds, felt slightly awed at the idea of Tossing a fish that these days was available only to the very richest observers of the fad. It was, they felt, unbecoming to wave it around like a paper flag at a parade. The damn things tended to be slippery. Probably would be bad luck, they figured, if it was flung down by accident; who knew what sort of fortune that would foretell?

“Where’s the appreciation, I ask you?” Nobby continued in woeful tones. “Every time I’ve Tossed a fish for you lot, it’s landed Right! Now, how many of you can say that, eh?”

The watchmen exchanged doubtful glances.

“Er… Well, you never let anyone else do it, corp,” Ping reasoned. “You just nicks the fish and eats it afterwards.”

“Oh, now, that does it! I won’t stand here and be slandered at!”

“Woah there, Nobby, watch that sardine-”

“If you’re gonna be like that, then I’m not doing it. And good luck finding someone who’ll do it as well as me!”

“Careful with that-”

“And I’m taking the sardine.”

“-not the tail-”

 “You can beg, but I won’t change my mind, and that’s that!” Nobby flung out his hand in a grandiose gesture. Unfortunately, it was the wrong hand.

Time slowed to a crawl. Every head in the room swiveled as one, following the trajectory of the airborne fish. It sailed head first towards the front door, which was creaking, doorknob turning, and slowly, slowly opening…

* * *

The Offishal Tosser tossed the fish, which landed damply. There was a satisfying splat. The crowd held its breath as the first few rows near the podium craned to see.

“Today is the fourth of April in the year of the Significant Woodlouse, and it is a… Left Wednesday!” the man proclaimed.

A disappointed groan spread through the crowd. Slowly, people started dispersing with occasional complaints, casting sour looks at the offending fish. Here and there, members of the Gamblers’ Guild were exchanging coins.

Vimes shook his head again as the grumbling current carried him through the square, into the Plaza of Broken Moons, and out to the Patrician’s palace. At last he disengaged himself from the throng and elbowed his way towards the Brass Bridge. It wasn’t far to the watch house from here, but he still picked up the pace. Despite not having official working hours, Vimes liked to get there early in the morning, just as the day shift was coming in, to get a headstart on ignoring his paperwork.

As he walked, his copper mind took over and he mentally leafed through the agenda of the day. Let’s see, what was there… He had that audience with Vetinari at eleven, probably concerning last night’s diplomatic dinner – not that it was Vimes’s fault that he saw the unlicensed thief and that the Klatchian ambassador happened to be standing there, and anyway who drinks red wine while wearing a white robe… Then the interview with the Times at noon… Then briefing the lads on the unsolved contraband seafood case… Then he’d have to do something about the river division, they can’t just keep sinking the damn boat, this is getting ridiculous…

A distant glint caught Vimes’ eye as he stepped off the bridge. Carrot’s shiny breastplate could be seen from a mile away on a clear day, and the captain was, indeed, proceeding along the river with Angua in tow. 

What the hell are they doing out? They’re not on patrol today…

Briefly, he considered catching up to them, but then dismissed the idea. They were only a couple streets away from the watch house, and Carrot seemed relaxed enough, stopping to chat with every other passer-by in his usual manner. No emergency, then. On the other hand, they had a batch of new recruits at the main office, the gods alone knew what those yahoos would be getting up to without a senior officer present. And under Colon’s command…

A few minutes later, Vimes was rounding the corner of Lower Broadway and trotting up the steps of Pseudopolis Yard. There seemed to be quite a commotion going on inside; he’d heard the shouting from half a block away. With his hand on the doorknob, mentally preparing his best Not Yelling Voice, he pushed the door open…

…and very briefly saw something shiny flying full speed at his head. Before he could react, the thing clanked off his helmet, bounced on a nearby desk and, finally, lodged itself between the floorboards with a sproinnnng.

Silence fell like a gavel. A dozen horrified watchmen gaped at their Commander, the life quickly draining out of their eyes*****. Sergeant Colon’s face, pale as the moon and just as round, tried unsuccessfully to hide behind his high collar.

Wordlessly, Vimes approached the thing stuck between the floorboards. He crouched down. He examined it. He gave it a tentative flick. It made a noise not unlike a ruler twanging off the side of a table, or a very thin sheet of metal being shaken vigorously. After a moment’s contemplation, he felt moved to speak.

“Well, lads, I don’t think Left and Right suffices anymore. Seems we ought to add a third Day to the list.”

Ahhh. Relief rose off the squad like morning mist. Their laughter had the strained quality that came with trying very hard to pretend that whatever was happening was entirely intentional. At this point, they’d have laughed at anything, as long as it meant Ol’ Stoneface was Not Yelling At Them. Whatever they may think to themselves, the one motivation that all coppers in all the worlds have in common is to Not Get Yelled At.

“Bottom Day, sir?” someone suggested. There was another bout of slightly forceful sniggers.

“Er… Perhaps not.” Vimes gave the fish a few fruitless tugs and gave up. “Alright, someone get this damn thing out of there and, uh…”

“Throw it away, sir?”

“No, good gods, you could hurt someone… Look, just get rid of the…fish and we’ll say no more about it. Fred, a word upstairs?”

With the watch house returning slowly to its normal daily bustle, Vimes went up to his office and sat down wearily at his desk, which was hidden underneath an impressive pile of paper. He’d signed a few dozen forms and…dealt with half a fireplace’s worth of complaint letters last night, but the stacks looked suspiciously bigger this morning. They entirely refused to melt away under his glare.

“Alright, what is this bloody nonsense? I thought I’d made it clear I don’t want any Tossing in the watch house,” he said to Colon, once the man had huffed and puffed his way up the stairs.

“Well, Mister Vimes, I just thought I’d indulge the lads this once. Raise their spirits with some good ol’ cultural team building. For tradition’s sake and all.”

“Tradition? It’s not been two months, Fred!”

“We-ell, they’ve taken to it, sir. Besides, you can’t deny we’ve had crimes happen on every single Left Day since the Offishal Tossings started.”

“Good grief, you could say that about every bloody day since the founding of the city! I thought you weren’t a superstitious man, Fred.”

“No, sir, but the fish don’t lie,” said Colon fervently.

“Ugh. Next thing you know, the bloody Times will be printing it alongside the bloody date in their bloody papers.”

There was a guilty silence.

Vimes stared at the sergeant’s carefully blank face. A single droplet of sweat was slowly making its way down the man’s forehead. The beady little eyes flickered momentarily to a relatively unoccupied corner of the desk.

With a sinking dread, Vimes followed his gaze and beheld a newspaper lying there on top of the forlorn paperwork, all neatly rolled and still crisp from the press. Belatedly, he noticed the smell of fresh ink. At the top of the front page, a small print line proclaimed today’s date to be April 4th, Left Wednesday.

Five minutes later, sergeant Colon walked down the stairs and into a perfectly silent room full of watchmen. His face had the distant look of someone who had just seen a ghost, and was fairly sure everybody else had, too, but would be damned if he’d mention it first.

With nothing else to do, he cleared his throat. This seemed to break the spell; all at once, the room regained its normal level of noise as the coppers went back to their coppery activities. Only Nobby sidled closer and offered up a slightly bent cigar.

“What’s up with ol’ Stoneface today, sarge?”

“Dunno what’s gotten into him.” Colon took the cigar gratefully and lit it, trying not to think too hard about where it came from. “It’s this job, I expect. All this responsibility is wearing on his nerves.”

“Ah, right.”

“I mean, what’s so wrong with a little tradition once in a while, eh?”

“Beats me, sarge.”

“Doesn’t hurt no one, having some mores and values ‘round the place.”

“You never said a truer thing.”

“Ah, anyway, Mister Vimes is just overworked. Not his fault he’s got a bit of a cultural blind spot when he’s cranky,” Colon concluded magnanimously. “Maybe he could do with a coffee and a nice meal. I know I could… Say, Nobby, what’ve we got for breakfast in the cantine today?”

“Fish’n’chips, I think. Er… You alright there, sarge? …Sarge?”

* An unfortunate misunderstanding at the fishmonger’s that had led to the Offishal Tosser being handed a very live fish, foreboding a day of extreme mood swings for the populace.

** This is the social cue equivalent of climbing onto the roof at three in the morning and setting off a barrage of fireworks while waving an enormous fluorescent red flag. Not even a 6’6’’ dwarf could remain oblivious.

*** Only comparatively. This was Ankh-Morpork, after all.

**** Allegedly.

***** Except for Corporal Shoe, for whom it was a little late******.

****** heh.

[homeofhousechickens]

Arctic Eggs and CHICKENS ramble

There is a ton of themes and stuff and different interpretations going on in this game but Im going to just talk about the chickens an the stuff i noticed.

To start off, the chickens are modeled after a red sex link production hens a type of hen bred for egg production at the cost of their lifespan. Battery hens rarely make it past their second birthday. Im not sure if the devs chose this breed on purpose or if it was just what a generic chicken looked like in their mind. Maybe they chose this breed because a white chicken would be washed out in the arctic environment.

The game starts with the player looking at the chickens in the cages and it brings up a lot of questions. Why are there so many chickens? Why are we the player character here? After you walk through this poultry prison you are tasked with the job of a poultry prepper meaning you cook eggs. It doesn't matter how many eggs you drop there is always more to fall into your pan. Its interesting to me that there is a surplus of chickens and eggs but their is apparently a food shortage going on in the game.

I think the player character has much more in common with the battery hens then they realize. It doesn't matter though you are greeted with the first line in the game, "Can you fry eggs ontop of Mount Everest?" It seems like and irrelevant question and in a way it is.

This game is quick to show you that you have very little freedom, same with the people you are cooking for. A lot of people are hungry and its not really for food is it? You cook cigs, bullets, beer, sardine cans and cockroaches. Eggs are not the only thing on the menu.

As you play the game multiple people tell you they are caring for the chickens but they are worried about what happens to them when they get taken away. Many seem quite distraught that they aren't being told what is happening to them especially since eating poultry has been banned (but not eggs). Some people still think about eating the chickens but are quickly disgusted by it soon after. One person even said they all "taste like tomatos now"

We can almost see this worry about caring for something and having it be taken away paralleled to the robot prisoners and their cockroaches, one of them weeping over the roaches you cooked for them like they were their own children. We can assume people also get taken away in this game, we see the prisons and the discarded brain in the garbage after all. Maybe this isnt about losing the chickens or the roaches? Maybe the poeple raising the chickens wish to know if they are being eaten?

There is no privacy in this game, people squat over toilets full of feces in front of everyone and the prisoners do the same as the guards watch. It reminds me of the conditions of a chicken battery cage, cramped and full of feces. These people are living very similar lives to the chickens with little freedom to choose how they live.

After feeding the necessary amount of people you go and meet the Saint of Six Stomachs, the supposed ruler/dictator of this place. He is an amalgam of organs and.. chickens? To me It is implied 3 of his stomachs are hens. You see these trapped chickens right before you see his face. Perhaps this is why chickens are banned because the Saint is made up of chickens, maybe this is where the chickens who are taken away go. This part of the Saint's anatomy fascinates me. You go and cook the hens 6 eggs.

Afterwards you are met with the Saint's head eerily making eye contact from their glass container. After cooking his egg he asks "Can you fry eggs ontop of Mount Everest?" He says he never thought about it since it was irrelevant to him. He is right about that, how would someone in his situation even think about doing that, like you and the chickens he is trapped. Just like to the player character it is a nonsense question that is irrelevant.

The credits roll after you grasp the saints hand, you pilot some kind of fighter plane to a mountain where you have a serious crash landing. As you and your friend look over the wreckage (where you may have died in tbh) you ignore your objective of frying eggs since you abandoned your pan at the Saint's and climb the mountain finding a chicken out of her cage perched on a rock. Maybe the chicken is here because you need an egg or maybe she is here because she made the choice to be. It is quite likely the player character will die on the mountain or is already dead.

The game ends after you slowly reach out and pet the chicken.

This game is absurd and challenging. The surreal vibes can kind of make it easy to not take it seriously especially with all the silly dialog but there is something very special about this game and what it is saying. I think it really "gets" chickens as a symbol as well and it was nice to see a game really use them for its story.

[soberscientistlife]

Saving this for me. Items possibly targeted for tariffs.

Saving this for me. Items possibly targeted for tariffs. • Bananas, Mangoes, and Pineapples (from Central and South America) • Avocados (from Mexico) • Citrus fruits like oranges and lemons (from Mexico and Spain) • Berries (e.g., strawberries, blueberries) (from Mexico, Chile) • Tomatoes, Bell Peppers, and Cucumbers (from Mexico and Canada) • Asparagus (from Peru and Mexico) Seafood (Fresh, Frozen, and Canned) • Fresh/Frozen Shrimp (from Thailand, India, Ecuador) • Salmon (from Norway, Chile) • Tilapia (from China) • Tuna (canned) (from Thailand, the Philippines) • Sardines (from Portugal, Morocco) • Mackerel (canned) (from Japan, Norway) Grains and Legumes • Rice (from Thailand, India, Vietnam) • Quinoa (from Peru and Bolivia) • Chickpeas and Lentils (from Canada, India) Nuts and Seeds • Cashews (from Vietnam and India) • Brazil Nuts (from Bolivia, Brazil) • Almonds (from Spain, Australia) • Chia Seeds (from Mexico and Argentina) Dairy Products • Cheese varieties like Parmesan, Gouda, Feta (from Italy, Netherlands, Greece) • Butter (from Ireland, New Zealand) • Yogurt (Greek-style from Greece, other varieties from Europe) Canned Foods and Packaged Items • Tomato paste and puree (from Italy) • Canned olives and olive oil (from Spain, Italy, Greece) • Canned coconut milk (from Thailand) • Canned beans (from Mexico, Central America) • Canned corn (from Canada, Brazil) • Canned anchovies and sardines (from Morocco, Portugal) • Canned fruit (e.g., pineapple, mango, peaches) (from Thailand, Philippines, Mexico) • Canned tuna and salmon (from Thailand, the Philippines, Chile) Spices and Herbs • Vanilla (from Madagascar) • Black Pepper (from Vietnam, India) • Cinnamon (from Sri Lanka) • Turmeric (from India) • Paprika (from Spain, Hungary) Beverages • Coffee beans (from Brazil, Colombia, Vietnam) • Tea leaves (from India, Sri Lanka, China) • Cocoa beans (from Côte d’Ivoire, Ghana) Oils and Fats • Olive oil (from Spain, Italy, Greece) • Coconut oil (from the Philippines, Indonesia) • Palm oil (from Malaysia, Indonesia) Alcoholic Beverages • Wine (from France, Italy, Chile, Spain) • Beer (particularly certain Mexican brands) • Whiskey and Scotch (from Scotland, Ireland) Sweeteners • Cane sugar (from Brazil, Mexico) • Maple syrup (from Canada) Condiments and Sauces • Soy sauce (from Japan, China) • Fish sauce (from Thailand, Vietnam) • Sriracha and other chili sauces (from Thailand) • Italian pasta sauces (canned/jarred) (from Italy)

[emeritusemeritus]

Rough sex with reader with both Weasley twins? Just after a hard day at Weasley Wizard Wheezes, both men are pent up with the amount of problems that had in just literally one day. This could range from a customer to you possibly trying to tease the shit out of them before fleeing away. 🤭 I hope this isn’t too big of an idea and I’ll leave the rest up to by you. 🫶

Hi Anon! Please accept this offering as a token of my appreciation 🖤 I set it at Christmas time for reasons unknown to me, mostly because I thought it would be super busy?

Warnings: SMUT. Piv, blowjobs, oral (f&m receiving) use of Angel/baby/sweetheart/princess. Slightly Dom/sub behaviours. Rough sex. Cumplay. Polyamory, kind of?

Word count: 3k (of pure smut)

Yuletide stress relief.

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was bursting with shoppers since the moment the doors had opened that morning, a sea of people already lined up right down the street stretching all the way down past Ollivanders. Since the moment the doors had opened, it had been non-stop work with customers who were packed in like sardines across all five floors of the shop, desperately searching for Christmas presents for their loved ones.

Although he was always thankful for the success of their business, Fred was completely exhausted and a little worn down by the relentlessness of the day.

He'd been up early, having to leave the two warm bodies in the comfy bed, and had dressed quickly, not even stopping to get a cup of tea or any breakfast and had gone straight to the office to sort out a cash discrepancy he'd noticed upon closing last night. After recounting all the gold from yesterday and revising all the paperwork, he had eventually found the accounting issue and then had to redo all the paperwork.

George turned up to help with opening the store and they'd quickly discovered that they were running low of the Peruvian instant darkness powder crystals which would be a devastating loss to their business this close to Christmas with it being one of their best sellers and the top money spinner.

Fred had once again climbed the multiple stairs to the office and had checked in the books, seeing that a shipment was actually due to arrive this week but when he looked at the number ordered, he realised the grave mistake he'd made. Instead of ordering it in individual batches like usual, he'd confused the numbers and had ordered 60 crates instead which would be a massive overbuy and therefore a massive overspend. It was imported from Peru and the cost of shipping was astronomical, so he had really made a grave mistake. Not only that but the darkness powder had a relatively short shelf life compared to some of their other products and so it could be a complete financial loss.

Running his hands over his face and through his hair, he made his way down the stairs to begrudgingly tell his twin of his error, only to realise that the store was already open and the shop was already packed with customers needing help left, right and center. He'd not taken a single break that day nor stopped for any lunch, working right through as the heavy flow of customers never dwindled. A kid had knocked over a display of wonderwitch products requiring a massive cleanup, even though the child's mother had cast a spell to prevent the rest from falling and it had fallen to Fred to clean up the mess, seeing that his twin was currently helping a large family, Verity was stuck with a line of customers at the till and their temporary Christmas staff were all dotted about busy with other tasks.

He'd thought multiple times during the day to send you an owl to ask you to help out, but he'd never actually got the chance to slip away for long enough. He knew you'd come if he asked but he also didn't want to bother you on your day off, knowing that you were spending it at the Burrow with his mum, busy making preparations for Christmas next week.

When the doors to the shop closed around 7pm and the last of the customers trailed out of the store around 10 minutes past, Fred let out a sigh of relief as he flicked his wand and cast the closing spells, locking the doors.

He couldn't even bring himself to make conversation with his twin, who in striking contact to himself was buzzing from the successful day. He trudged up the stairs, not trusting himself to apparate into the office in his exhaustion; the last thing he needed today was to get splinched because he wasn't paying enough attention.

He was nearly finished with the nightly paperwork when the door to the office creaked open and you walked through with a wide smile on your face, seeing him for the first time that day. Usually he loved to see your smile, even more so when he knew it was because of him, but after the day he'd had and the foul mood that had settled within him, the smile on your face only exasperated how he was feeling, resenting the fact that you'd had a much easier day than him.

"Hey Freddie," you said with a smile, walking over to him and hopping up on the desk. He looked dishevelled to say the least, his jacket thrown off, shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms and tie hanging loosely around his neck, clearly having been loosed hastily. He looked unbelievably hot, like his hand had been repeatedly running through his hair making that ultra sexy dishevelled look.

He hardly looked up, which you thought was strange, simply nodding his head as if to tell you that he'd heard you and acknowledging your presence.  Realising he was busy, you move to hop off the desk ready to walk away, immediately feeling like you were intruding and bothering him.

"Princess wait,” he says, stopping you from walking away, casting his arm out to grab at you. He pauses when he feels your bare skin under his hand, your dress having ridden up when you climbed onto the desk. For the first time, his eyes flick up to you, specifically your bare thigh that his hand is wrapped around.

The sudden change in atmosphere seems to affect you almost instantly. His eyes are piercing, dark as they look at your skin under his hand and you don’t need to be a skilled occlumens to know exactly what is going through his mind. When his hand squeezes down on your flesh, you know exactly what he’s thinking and you can’t help but feel a little flushed with the influx of arousal that spreads through your body.

For the first time, his gaze travels across your body and up towards your face until he’s looking in your eyes. It’s tense for a moment when nothing happens until he suddenly stands from the chair, right in front of you and nudging your legs apart until they’re pulled taught either side of his hips. His tongue pokes out and wets his lips as he gazes at you hungrily and you can almost see your chest rising and falling with the sudden need to take deep breaths to calm yourself.

“Wanna be my good girl?” He says, leaning down slightly, towering over you as his hands dance along the hemline of your dress, thumbs teasing the skin of your thighs as your legs part even wider automatically. He smirks to himself, not missing the way your body always submits to him so willingly as he takes a step back. You nod, staring up at him with wide, imploring eyes awaiting your instruction.

Your gaze follows his hands as they pull away from your thighs and go straight to his belt, unlooping it, opening up his belt buckle and pulling open the buttons until he can free himself. He reaches into his underwear and pulls out his hardening cock as you watch on desperately, mouth watering at the sight.

“Suck it baby,” he says with a slight coo, “want your beautiful lips around me.”

You do as your told almost immediately, maintaining eye contact with him as you slip down off the desk so that you’re eye level with his perfect clock. Ensuring that he’s watching your every move, you timidly stick out your tongue and lock all around the head of his cock, watching closely as his eyes close on their own accord, a heavy breath falling from his lips. You take his rapidly hardening cock into your mouth seconds later, as much as you can and give one long, drawn out suck that causes him to let out a low, breathy moan. You bob up and down on his cock, running your tongue against the prominent veins underneath and try to take more and more in your mouth just like you know he likes. His hand rests in your hair but he does it to feel, not to control as gorgeous intimate moans fall from his lips, his eyes flicking between watching you and closing in pleasure.

“Well this is a sight,” you hear from behind you, making you moan against Fred’s cock. You pull off Fred’s cock, a string of spit trailing between you and his swollen member as you turn your head towards George who looks at you with a lustful gaze. You’re buzzing with arousal, being caught with a mouth full of cock, feeling so dirty by the thought.

“Princess,” Fred says, pulling your attention back to him as you slowly lick all up the sensitive underside before taking him back into your mouth.

George appears by your side in moments and begins unbuckling his own suit trousers, freeing himself and reaching down for your hand as he moves to stand beside Fred. Your hand wraps around his length and you stroke it just how he likes, feeling him harden in your hand.

Both of them moan out at the same time when you switch sides, taking George in your mouth and wrapping your hand around Fred, feasting on them both. You alternate between the twins, your hands never leaving their cocks as you give them pleasure, enjoying the glorious sounds they are unashamedly making.

As soon as you take Fred into your mouth, George slips out of your grasp and reaches for your dress, tearing at it and pulling it open until your breasts spill out, having taken off your bra the moment you got in. You gasp, feeling your nipples harden under the cold air and the feeling of being exposed and it’s mere seconds before George’s hands greedily grab at them.

Fred pulls you off his cock, his hand gently cupping your jaw as he looks at you with lust blown eyes for a second before turning to his twin who seems to have the same idea.

In a manoeuvre so slick it surprised you, Fred picks you up and exits the office with a slight slam of the door, carrying you bridal style all the way through the apartment until he places you on the bed. You watch as George steps through the doors, looking at them both eyeing you hungrily with their cocks still out and you have to bite your lip, so overwhelmingly aroused and untouched that it’s near painful.

George steps forward first, crawling up your body on the bed until he leads you into a surprisingly passionate kiss. Whilst you’re kissing George, you feel Fred reach up your dress and pull down your underwear, the wet gusset feeling heavy, drenched in your arousal. Your hips flail trying to make contact as you spread your legs, hearing Fred curse at the sight in front of him.

George pulls away and gives you a little smirk before he begins to kiss down your body, stopping to feast on your heaving chest before he carries on further and further downwards until his lips ghost over your mound.

The second his tongue laps as your heated, wet flesh you cry out, back arching in pleasure. You look down and see his eyes watching you as he feasts on your cunt, lips and tongue already working you perfectly as he sucks and slurps at your clit.

Fred appears next to you and holds out his cock for you to take back into your mouth, the angle a little awkward but your make do. It’s so sinfully dirty having one twin feasting on your cunt whilst you suck off the other one and you can’t help but feel your climax building already, so worked up.

“I don’t think so Angel,” George says, pulling away from your weeping cunt, hips undulating desperately as your climax fades. “When you cum it’s going to be on our cocks.”

Both twins pull away from you as they quickly throw off the rest of their clothes and you sit up on the bed, tits exposed in your ripped dressed waiting for them.

George gets to you first, pulling you in for a scorching kiss as his hands wander, gathering the material of your dress in his fists. It’s quick and oh so arousing when he suddenly reaches out and manhandles you, flipping you over until you’re on your front, hips high in the air for him. He pushes up the material of your dress, completely exposing you to their gaze and you bite your lip once again when you hear their breathy moans, curses and playful banter, talking about your pretty little wet cunt.

George’s cock slips between your wet lips with ease, your gasps only fuelling his desire to get inside you. The second he slips inside you cry out in ecstasy, finally feeling full just like you needed. He’s rough and sets a brutal pace almost instantly, both of you keyed up enough to take it.

“You like that Angel? You like when I’m rough with you?” His deep voice says from behind you, making your clench around him. “Mmm yeah you do, dirty girl.”

Fred slips beside you on the bed and captures your lips into a blistering kiss, his big hands squeezing at your bouncing tits, thumbs stroking over your hard nipples. You cry out about into Fred’s mouth as George shifts and gets even deeper.

“Fuuuuck that’s it baby, use me just like that, fuck yourself on me,” he cries out when you begin to meet his hard thrusts, arching your back further.

It’s dirty and messy, the feel of their hands on you, Fred’s on your tits and George’s gripping your hips tight as he controls your movements. You can feel him start to lose his tempo, thrusts getting sloppy and harder until he’s fucking you with force, no doubt watching as your ass jiggles for him.

“Fuck gonna make me cum Angel, oh fuck!” He cries out as you clench him again, making your pussy even tighter around his sensitive cock.

You reach out for Fred’s spare hand as George starts to cum, hips slamming into yours as your moans mix with George’s and echo through the bedroom. You feel like you can feel every single shot of cum filling you as George roars, his load shooting deep inside you as he continues sloppily thrusting in and out of you.

Fred gives you almost no time to recover when George pulls away breathless. He pulls you up, pulls you into a dangerously arousing kiss as he peels the useless fabric away from your frame, leaving you completely nude for him. He turns you around and lays you on the bed before slipping inside your open legs, grabbing them and throwing them over his shoulders.

You’re already oversensitive pussy burns in the most delicious way as you feel the weight of his impossibly hard cock hitting your clit. You cry out, reaching for your breasts as he devilishly taps his cock on your clit, rubbing and giving you the most delicious friction just like you need. He slips his cock inside you and you scream out, feeling him deep inside you, deeper than George had been, your body so sensitive and needy for an orgasm. He leans forward and puts his hands either side of your head, contorting you exactly as he wants you, leans down to give you a single kiss and a smirk before he draws his hips back and slams back inside you. Your whole body rocks with the movement, his pace already fast and brutal as he fucks into you for all he’s worth. It’s nasty and dirty, the mix of his brutal thrusts and teasing smirk and you claw at his back as you cry out. He curses and groans with each thrust as your pussy grips him, climax building deep in your belly.

“Fred, fuck!” You cry out, his cock staying deep inside you as he gives you short, hard thrusts, your clit rubbing deliciously on his pubic bone.

“That’s it sweetheart, fuck you’re so tight, cum for me baby, cum on me.”

Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, his voice so arousing, his words so demanding that your body submits to him instantly. You can’t stop moaning as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm, his own rapidly approaching. His arms bulge under his own weight, a delicious sight as you canter your hips to meet his thrusts, watching as his eyes close, his face scrunching up.

“Freddie cum for me, cum Freddie!”

It’s a shock when his blistering hot cum suddenly shoots out and hits your chest, your tits covered right across to your neck and your chin. He pants, slipping back into his knees as he looks at you, so perfectly defiled and covered in his cum.

“You’re bloody perfect,” he says breathlessly with a slight laugh, the sensations overwhelming him as he looks at you. When you take a single finger and trace it across your breast, scooping up a little bit of his cum before bringing it up to your lips to suck on he looks at you in amazement, mouth contorting into a little ‘o’ shape.

“Dirty girl,” George says, making you turn in his direction, so consumed by Fred that you’d not even considered where he’d gone. He runs a warm washcloth over you, cleaning up his and his twins mess as you smile at him tiredly. “You did so well for us.”

You laze in between completely naked and free between the two equally naked bodies for a little while, your legs feeling like jelly as George strokes your hair and Fred holds you tightly.

“So did you steal us any Christmas cookies?”

“On the counter,” you say tiredly with a knowing smile.

It takes less than three seconds before both twins race out of bed and run straight towards the kitchen as you laugh at them, their very naked arses jiggling in the gentle lamp light.