#Yorkshire Tea ad

[dduane]

Okay, I was supposed to find out by *myself* that Patrick Stewart was doing Yorkshire Tea ads??

FFS. :)

#Patrick Stewart #Yorkshire Tea #Youtube

[python333]

hi! i’m not sure if you’re taking requests atm but if you aren’t feel free to ignore this!

anyways, i was thinking what would it be like if you were back on base and did something nice for everyone and made their fave coffee/tea while you’re all relaxing after a long mission? like how would the 141 react and what would you make for them?

that’s all but i hope you have a great day and i absolutely love your writings!! they seriously are so detailed and amazing, you do a beautiful job w each one💌

unwind — python333

— — — —

synopsis the 141 + you are back from a super long mission and u make them their fave coffee/tea!!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader.

word count 3.6k

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign], gaz being a little shit.

note thank you so much for the req!! i am taking them right now, but apologies if i post them 2+ days after i get them, my writers block is slowly creeping back into my mind and im fighting it off the best i can! also, thank you for the compliments :3 ilysm youre too nice!! i saw ur reblog of bedbound too and i was so sjdfksdfks!! hope u have a good day too and hope you enjoy this fic, it's all fluff and way too in depth descriptions of making tea/coffee!!

As soon as the electric kettle clicks, signaling to you that the water inside of it has been boiled, you unplug it and pour the water into a mug you’d pulled from the cabinets. It still surprised you that there were any mugs left, with how many people kept stealing to put on their desk to hold pencils—by people, you mean Soap, and only Soap—but you weren’t complaining. 

You set the kettle back down once the mug is filled up just an inch below the brim and grab the tea bag you’d grabbed earlier, wrapping the string around the handle of the mug a few times before putting the bag itself into the water. Almost immediately, you see small tendrils of dark brown flow out from the drowned tea bag into the originally clear water. 

As that happens, you walk the small few steps over to the small fridge from the kettle and open it, grabbing the small carton of cream and closing the fridge shut. You walk back over to the mug and unscrew the cap of the carton, pouring some cream into the mug, adding a half inch of height to the liquid already in the mug before screwing the cap back on and setting the carton down.

You don’t bother to grab a spoon and mix anything yet, instead reaching over to the small terracotta container beside the coffee machine that contained sugar, and taking off the lid. 

You think for a moment if you should grab a spoon for this, but ultimately decide against it, instead just tipping the container over the mug and letting what you hope is two teaspoons of sugar spill over into the mug.

Afterwards, you put the lid back on the container holding the sugar and set it back next to the coffee machine, and grab the cream to put back into the fridge. 

Once the cream’s been put back, you open the drawers in the counter and grab a small spoon, one that’s just tall enough that it won’t be fully submerged in the tea, and put it into the mug.

You close the drawer and give the tea a few stirs before picking up the mug, being careful of the scalding heat and holding it solely by its handle. You carefully walk out of the snack bar extension of the kitchen and head towards Price’s office. 

After a year or two of working with him, you��ve learned a lot about his tea preferences—he likes Yorkshire tea, the original one, not the gold. He only likes cream and sugar in his coffee, just to make it smoother and make it a bit sweeter, but doesn’t like it too sweet.

You vaguely remember him telling you he’d never had honey or any other sweeteners besides a bit of sugar in his tea, and remember more vividly you thinking, God, that’s such an old person thing to say, but not saying it out loud. 

Once you’ve reached his office, you knock a few times and Price’s tired voice calls out, “Come in!” 

You open the door, careful to keep the mug from spilling in your hands, and walk in, closing the door behind you. Price looks up from his computer, presumably writing a report on the mission you’d all just come back from an hour or two ago, and offers a small smile when he sees you. He’s about to say something before he catches sight of the mug in your hands. 

“Did you…” He doesn’t finish his question, but you know what he was about to ask, and you nod in response. 

“If it’s too sugary let me know,” You tell him, setting the mug down a safe distance away from his computer, “I can remake it.” 

“I won’t make you remake it,” Price looks at you, almost offended, “You didn’t have to make me anything in the first place, but thank you, I really appreciate it.” 

“No problem,” You hum, walking away, saying over your shoulder, “Hope you like it.” 

You open the door without another word and walk out, closing it behind you, heading right back to the snack bar. Now for Soap. 

Soap typically preferred coffee to tea, despite tea’s popularity in Scotland. He’d told you that he really couldn’t taste the difference between different coffee blends, but upon hearing that there was a Scottish blend, he declared he’d only drink that one, because of course he did. 

He pretended he could tell if the coffee he was drinking was of that Scottish blend, but you knew he couldn’t. How did you know? You’d only ever given him Scottish roast once. Every other time since then, it’s been French roast. 

He’s never really used a coffee machine for himself, going to cafes or coffee shops most of the time for coffee, keeping his usual coffee order written in his notes app because he couldn’t remember it for the life of him.

He’d sometimes modify his order if certain coffee shops didn’t do certain things that he usually got, but his order stays mostly the same every time he gets coffee. Medium (or grande, if he’s at Starbucks) latte with a double shot of espresso. 

Typically, he’d get some shortbread too, but you didn’t really have any in the base, so he’d have to do without it today. 

Once you enter the snack bar, you grab another mug from the cabinets above the counter and place it under the coffee machine. You open the cabinets right by the ones that contained the mugs and grab a bag of ground French roast, pulling it out and putting it on the counter. 

You open it up and find that there’s conveniently already a small cup in there to scoop the coffee grounds up, and use your free hand to grab a new coffee filter from the same cabinets you got the coffee grounds from, swiftly putting it into the machine. 

You use your other hand to scoop up some coffee grounds and put them into the filter, closing the top of the coffee machine afterwards and turning on the machine. You’re grateful there’s more options listed on the small digital screen that lights up on the machine than just plain black coffee, not really in the mood to try and steam milk right now.

You tap on the ‘latte’ option and watch as the screen changes and hear the coffee machine start to whir. 

As it does that, you put away the coffee grounds and open up the cabinets that contained mugs once again, pulling out a small espresso glass and setting it onto the counter.

You wait patiently for the coffee to brew, and once you hear the small beep sound from the machine that signals that it’s done, you pull away the steaming hot coffee and set it down right next to the coffee machine. 

You quickly put the espresso glass under the machine and start it up again, this time tapping the ‘espresso shot’ option—surprised that’s even an option, honestly—and hearing the familiar whirring noise start up again. It doesn’t take nearly as long as brewing the latte did, the small beep coming much sooner than it did just a minute or two earlier, and you pull away the small espresso glass from the machine almost immediately after you hear it. 

You pause for a moment, looking at how much the latte part had filled up the mug, and look around for a moment before opening up the same drawer that contains the eating utensils and grabbing a straw, putting the straw in the still hot latte—is that a good idea? No. Did you do it anyway because you physically can’t think before you act? Absolutely—and taking a long sip of it.

You pull the straw out once the liquid in the mug is at a good inch below the brim and then pour in the espresso shot, setting the glass down after you do so.

You look around for a second for a trash bin and find one just a few steps away from you, quickly throwing out the straw you’d used and then walking back over to the empty espresso glass, picking it up and setting it down by the sink. God forbid we get a dishwasher in here or something, You think absentmindedly as you pick up the mug and carefully walk out of the snack bar with it, Would it hurt to at least get some dish soap in here or something? 

You make it out of the snack bar without burning your fingers and start the much longer walk to Soap’s sleeping quarters. You’d caught him walking out of his office in that direction earlier, so you can only assume that he’d gone there. 

Once you make it there, you knock on the door a few times and wait for Soap to call out to you and allow you to come in before twisting the door knob and opening the door. He’s laying on his back on his bed, thumb paused on his phone screen as he looks over at you as you enter. He notices the coffee and sits up a bit, grunting as he does. 

He wasn’t really as talkative after long missions like the one you’d all been on earlier—usually it took him a day or two to be more social and back to himself, so you didn’t take much offense to him not greeting you as loudly as he usually did. 

He nods at the coffee, “Is that for me?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, handing him the mug, “Be careful, it’s hot.” 

“Got it,” Soap carefully takes the mug into his hands, and softly blows on it before looking at you again and grinning at you, “Weel, thank ye for this. Ye really didnae hae tae.” 

“Price actually said the same thing,” You muse, almost to yourself, before speaking a little louder, “No problem.”

“Oh did he?” Soap asks, raising an eyebrow, before his expression shifts and he feigns confusion, “Wait, how come he got a drink afore me?”

“Because his office was closer to the snack bar,” You explain, crossing your arms. 

“… Nae, it’s definitely ‘cause ye hate me,” Soap disagrees, shaking his head in mock disappointment, “And tae think I thought we were friends.” 

“It is no— you know what?” You begin to argue, before sighing and rolling your eyes, “I do hate you, and we were never friends, you ungrateful piece of shit.” 

Soap laughs, quieter than he usually does but it’s still a genuine laugh. He looks down at the coffee again and back at you, before saying, “Thank ye. Again.” 

“No problem,” You replied, walking back towards the door and opening it, walking out of Soap’s sleeping quarters and closing the door behind you. Now for Ghost. 

Ghost typically liked tea more than coffee, but you think that’s just the British in him talking. Realistically, you could give him either or, and he’d say a polite ‘thank you’ and move on.

From years of being apart of the 141, any preferences or additives he liked to put in his tea or coffee slowly dissipated and instead he just drank either one plain. Which should make the tasks you’ve forced yourself to do today easier, but knowing you, you just couldn’t take the easy route with this. 

You remember a conversation with him that happened several months ago where you had been talking about your own tea and coffee preferences. Ghost had commented that he didn’t often put any additives in his own hot drinks anymore, but back before he’d joined the military, he liked to drink keemun tea occasionally with nutmeg in it. 

Keemun tea—which was fucking expensive by the way, costing around sixteen pounds for twenty tea bags in every store you could find them in—wasn’t too hard to find, so the next time you went on leave after that conversation, you’d bought a box of bags of keemun tea leaves and some ground nutmeg. 

You didn’t let Ghost know about it, and kind of forgot about it just a week after you bought it, but now the memory of you buying it and storing it in the snack bar behind a few other boxes of tea bags has resurfaced and it’s the only thing you think is appropriate to give Ghost at a time like this. 

You get back to the snack bar and almost robotically you pull a mug out from the cabinets above the counter and set it down on said counter, deciding to grab another one just so that you wouldn’t have to do it later, and setting that one down right next to the other. You open the cabinet beside that and move some of the boxes out of the way to find the keemun tea box in the very back, right where you last left it. 

You snatch it out of the cabinet and open it, pulling out a small packet and opening it up to pull out the tea bag inside. You go ahead and put the tea bag inside of the mug and put the tea box back in the cabinet, closing the small cabinet door afterwards.

You then grab the electric kettle that’s right by the sink and pop open the lid, putting it under the faucet and turning said faucet on, waiting until the water fills a quarter of the kettle. Once it does, you turn off the faucet and put the kettle down right by the outlet on the wall. 

You put the lid down and wait for it to click into place before you plug the kettle into the outlet and press the small button below the handle to turn it on, and listen as it starts to make a small whirring noise. You don’t waste too much time just standing there, waiting for the water to finish boiling, instead putting the other mug you’d pulled out from the cabinets under the coffee machine and turning it on. 

You tap on the ‘decaf flat white’ option and watch the digital screen change and another whirring sound starts up, now coming from the coffee machine.

You were starting to make Gaz’s while making Ghost’s drink because Gaz often made the mistake of drinking his coffee before it was cool enough to not burn his tongue, so if you made it earlier, it’d have more time to cool, and Gaz wouldn’t have to wait as long before drinking it, therefore solving the whole ‘burning-his-tongue-because-he’s-impatient’ problem he has. 

Gaz liked simple flat whites, and sure, he liked tea too, but nothing could top a good flat white for him. He’d get them anywhere and everywhere he can, and you honestly admire his dedication to getting a flat white everywhere he goes. 

The coffee machine finished up quickly, a small beep sounding from the machine as it stopped its whirring and a few more drops of coffee made it into the mug before it completely stopped. You pull the mug out from under the machine and set it aside for now, just waiting for the water to finish boiling in the kettle. 

Once the kettle clicks and the whirring from that machine stops, you unplug it and pour some water into the empty mug you’d picked out for Ghost, waiting until it’s filled up about a half inch below the brim of the mug before taking the kettle away from the mug and pouring the rest of the unused water into the sink. 

You set the kettle down beside the coffee machine where it belongs and check the drawer below the one that held the eating utensils, looking through some of the spices and drink additives in it before finally finding the ground nutmeg you needed. 

You unscrew the cap and tilt the small spice jar over the mug, letting some of the powder spill into the mug before tilting it back and screwing the cap back on. You put it back in its spot and close that drawer, now opening the drawer above it and grabbing a small spoon, closing that one after you’ve grabbed the spoon and putting the spoon into the mug to mix the spices in it around a bit. 

You leave Gaz’s mug on the counter, hoping that nobody steals it while you’re away, and instead pick up the mug meant for Ghost, carefully walking out of the snack bar with it. 

Ghost’s office is fairly far away, but you still manage to get there without burning your fingers or anything on the mug. You knock on the door a few times and wait for Ghost to call out permission for you to come in before you open the door and walk in. 

Ghost immediately looks over at you and spots the mug in your hand, but ignores it for now, instead opting to ask, “Did you need something, [c/n]?” 

“Not really,” You shrugged the best you could while holding scalding hot tea, “Just needed to give you this.” 

You set the mug down on Ghost’s desk before he can say another word, and watch as he eyes the mug with curiosity and confusion. 

“What’s this?” He asks, carefully picking up the mug, holding the top up to his nose to smell it. Before you can answer his question, you see his eyes widen and he questions a little louder, “Is this… keemun? With nutmeg?” 

“You can tell just from the smell?” You ask, mildly impressed, watching as Ghost’s gaze turns into one more in awe of the mug. 

“Yes, I can,” He mumbles, smelling the brim of the mug again, before looking over at you, “How did you know I liked keemun with nutmeg in it?” 

“You told me about it, like, a few months ago. Six months ago, maybe? I dunno.” 

“How do you remember a conversation from six months ago?”

“It was an important conversation, I guess?” You shrug, crossing your arms. 

You watch in silence as Ghost eyes the tea and you take that as your sign to leave, walking towards the door, stopping right in front of it to twist the knob to open it before you’re interrupted by Ghost. 

“Wait—” You turn your head and look at him over your shoulder, and immediately upon seeing his face, you think, oh my God is he tearing up? “Thank you, [c/n]. I really appreciate it.” 

You offer a small smile and reply, “Yeah, no problem. Enjoy your tea.” 

You open the door without another word and close it behind you, taking a deep breath before continuing down the hall back to the snack bar. 

You’re relieved when you get there and see the mug, still steaming a bit, still on the counter. You quickly walk over to it and pick it up, walking right back out the door with it and heading straight for Gaz’s sleeping quarters. You remember him being so tired from the mission—you don’t know whether to hope he’s asleep and getting some rest, or to hope that he’s awake so you can properly hand him his coffee. 

Once you make it to his sleeping quarters, you knock on the door, and there’s no response for a few moments, making you think he might actually be asleep, but then you hear Gaz’s drowsy voice call out, “You can come in!” 

You open the door and see him rubbing the sleep from his eyes and sitting up on his bed, looking over at you. His lips twitch up into a small smile once he sees you and he lets his hand drop into his lap. 

“Hey, [c/n].” He looks over at the mug you’ve brought with you, before raising an eyebrow, “You brought something for me?” 

“Very bold of you to assume it’s for you,” You close the door behind you and walk closer to him, “But yes, it is.” 

Gaz perks up a bit at that and happily takes the mug off of your hands once you hand it to him, and his smile grows significantly bigger once he sees you’ve brought him a flat white. 

“It’s decaf, don’t worry,” You say, as if reading his mind, “I figured you’d still want some sleep after drinking it.” 

“Always so considerate,” Gaz sighs teasingly, raising the mug to his lips like you’d thought he would. Thankfully, his tongue doesn’t burn this time after he sips the coffee, and you let out a small sigh of relief at the fact. 

“You know me,” You respond dryly, crossing your arms as you watch Gaz take a few more sips of the coffee. 

“Thank you for this, by the way,” Gaz thanks you, taking another sip of the coffee before stating, “I hope you know you’re my favorite now.” 

“Your favorite what?” 

“Just my favorite, in general,” Gaz hums, “This is the best flat white I’ve ever drunk. Ten out of ten.” 

“Thanks,” You thank him flatly, “It was made with love and a coffee machine I learned how to use yesterday.” 

“I can just taste the love in it.” 

“Not the coffee machine?”

“Well, it’s a bit concerning if someone can taste the coffee machine in their coffee, innit?” Gaz raises an eyebrow at you before taking another sip of his coffee. 

“Not if it’s the one I used.” 

“Whatever you say,” Gaz mutters, taking yet another sip of his coffee, making you huff out a small laugh. 

“You enjoy your coffee,” You say before walking back over to the door, closing the door behind you as you walk out and letting out a tired breath, starting to head back to your own sleeping quarters.

#cod #cod hcs #hcs #captain john price #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #task force 141 #kyle gaz garrick #task force 141 x reader #platonic task force 141 #platonic task force 141 x reader #tf141 #price #soap #ghost #gaz #its 2:17 am as im tagging this #why did i wait until 12 am to write this?? nobody knows #im also listening to those like 7 hr long compliations of markiplier playing random games #because for some reason my brain is more productive listening to him #so theres that #i also discovered that 'author has only watched other people play call of duty' is a tag on ao3? #which is so real btw #everyone else who used that tag is just like me fr

[emeritusemeritus]

No Good Deeds [George Weasley x Reader]

Part 4

Part 1 2 3 4

Pairing: {George Weasley x Reader} mentions of previous Fred Weasley x Reader.

Timeline: Set a few years after DH, loosely following Canon.

Summary: A few years after Fred’s death, the investors of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes demand changes to the name. All it would take is two years of a fake marriage to fix the issues, but no good deed goes unpunished.

Warnings: Fake marriage trope because we love the cliché. Mentions of death (Fred). Friends to lovers. Slow burn but mentions of kissing and eventual smut. Swearing. George calls us Angel. Drinking. Angst, sadness, grief. Smut. Tags will be updated with each chapter.

This one got a little spicy 🌹

You took a deep breath as you looked up at the clock on the wall, seeing that it was nearly 6pm, already feeling a little drained by your busy and productive day.

You'd woken early and had noticed that George had already left for work by the time you'd gotten up and so you got ready and walked to the cafe on the corner, grabbed a quick coffee and a pastry to go before walking towards the Friday market in the centre of town, shopping bag and grocery list in hand. You walked around the little market and picked up some fresh vegetables and a handmade apple pie that looked delicious, deciding to buy that rather than make your own from scratch. You'd decided on cooking a Sunday roast lamb dinner, though it was Friday, and had chosen to present it using a giant Yorkshire pudding, something you'd seen creeping up in popularity within the muggle world that you were certain Arthur would greatly enjoy.

You bought fresh carrots, parsnips and a fresh mint plant that you needed to make your own mint sauce and some flowers for the table before walking to the supermarket and purchasing a lamb joint from the butcher section and a few more essentials, including wine, before walking home with your purchases. You'd listened to muggle radio stations as you washed and prepped the veg, bouncing around as you sang along to the songs that you knew, intermittently stopping to grab a sip of your tea in between tasks. Around 12 you stopped what you were doing, happy with the progress you'd made and fixed your hair and clothes briefly before apparating to the shop to take George some lunch. The shop was busy but not unmanageable and you could see that Ron had stepped in to help him, working the till. George noticed you immediately and gave you a wide smile, finishing up with the customer he was helping before walking over to you, gesturing for you both to go to the office.

"I didn't know if you had any lunch," you said, handing him a little bag of stuff you'd picked up from the shop, "thought I could take some of your stuff back with me, give you a bit more time tonight."

"You're too good to me," George says with a wink, enthusiastically pulling out the food from the bag, looking as if he was almost salivating at the sight.

You'd spent his lunch break together, preparing yourselves for tonight as he ate and then you'd apparated back with a bundle of his things that he had pulled earlier that morning, stuff that he knew would make it seem that he was living with you completely.

You checked the lamb and made the mint sauce quickly, peeled some more potatoes just in case and then set to cleaning. Once everywhere was clean, you went into George's room and brought out all of his things and moved them into your bedroom. His books went on the side of your bed, a pair of pyjamas were laid out on the dresser and you'd moved some of your girlier accessories into the spare bedroom so make it seem like you'd decorated up a guest bedroom. You stripped George's bed, throwing the bedding in the wash and replaced the sheet with a set of your own spare sets, so it again looked like a guest bedroom. You set up a little decorative area in your bedroom with some of George's things, adding them into the shelves and then had placed more of his things into the bathroom, along with placing his aftershave next to your perfume on the dresser.

Once you were happy with the flat, you took a minute to sit with a drink before finishing up the meal prep. You then took a shower, did your hair and makeup and got dressed, ready for the actual cooking, seeing that it was late afternoon already.

At 6:17pm, George apparated into the living room and his eyebrows immediately shot up, looking around.

"Wow Angel, looks like I've moved in," he says, reaching out for your hand as he pulls you close.

"I'd say so," you laughed, allowing him to pull you in. When his thumb caught on the stones of your engagement ring, he smiled and focused his gaze on the ring, seeing it on your finger.

"Looks great," he says, gesturing around you, "as do you."

"Oh Mr Weasley, you charm me," you joked, pulling away from him with a laugh as you smoothed out your skirt.

"Well future Mrs Weasley, that is my job," he smirks, twirling your around in his arms, making a quiet squeal fall from your lips at the unexpected motion.

"I thought you owned a joke shop?" You retorted, causing him to snort.

"I do, yet it appears you are the one with all the jokes tonight."

"Then perhaps you should make me a business partner," you jest, seeing George's smile growing.

"I intend to my love," he says smoothly, with a wiggle of his eyebrows as he stops spinning you, both of you looking at each other with a smile.

"You should get ready, they'll be here soon," you saw quietly, unable to look away from George's smiling face.

Fifteen minutes later and George is showered, dried and dressed, both of you waiting in the kitchen for his parents to arrive. Molly preferred not to apparate, having mentioned before that it left her feeling horribly nauseous no matter how many times she'd tried and so Arthur had offered to drive them in the car, muggle style.

"I'll go," George says, placing a hand onto your shoulder to calm you as he walks past you to open the door, having heard the telltale knock moments earlier.

"Oh y/n dear, how wonderful to see you!" She says, bounding over to you with a wide smile on her face, pulling you in for a hug as soon as she could reach you.

"Hello Mrs Weasley," you say warmly, holding on to her tightly. She looked very pretty with a flower beret in her hair, clearly having made an effort tonight in her beautifully crafted green crochet shawl and dress.

"Oh please, I've told you to call me Molly for years!" She laughs, stepping aside and looking around, "what a lovely place you have!"

"We have," George corrects her, stepping through into the lounge with you, Arthur following behind. You embrace and greet each other warmly as George explains to Molly that you two are living together.

"Oh well that is wonderful news!" She says, clapping her hands together, "you didn't tell me you were an item!" She says, smacking George on the arm as she looks between your both. He doesn't even flinch and simply laughs, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh well done son!" Arthur says, clapping George on the shoulder warmly before sending you a special smile.

"Would anyone like a drink?" You offer, listing off a few things you have on hand. You go and fetch them both a drink and quickly check on the food before diving into conversation, listening to Molly's explanation of what her oldest children were up to.

"Well I have to say, that was absolutely delicious," Arthur says, placing down his cutlery and sitting back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his full stomach, "amazing what these muggles come up with isn't it, a giant Yorkshire pudding!"

You can't help but smile at his reaction, pleased that the novelty had gone down a treat. You catch George's eye as Molly compliments your cooking and he looks proud, a gentle, honest smile tugging at his lips.

"So how long have you been together, very sneaky of you both!" Molly says with a warm smile, pointing a playful accusatory finger between you and George.

"About six months," George says effortlessly, sticking to the little story you'd both created. He clears his throat and looks at you with a determined glance before turning back to his parents.

"We were going to wait until after dinner but now seems as good'a time as any," George says smoothly before reaching for your left hand, which you place in his, ring side up.

The sparkle immediately catches Molly's eye and she gasps loudly, causing Arthur to jump up in his seat.

"I've asked her to marry me," he says, looking into your eyes with a smile that you reciprocate.

"And I said yes," you replied, smiling warmly at him.

Molly let's out an animated squeal and rushes from her chair to envelope you both into a hug, her body bouncing in elation as Arthur beams with pride, his hands raising into the air in celebration.

"Oh how wonderful!"

"We must celebrate, now, everyone raise your glasses!" Arthur says proudly, raising his own glass of daisyroot. Molly scrambles to reach for her glass and you and George take hold of your own, raising and clinking them together in a round of cheers. The moment feels real and you don't even question it, allowing yourself to enjoy the moment with your smile beaming across your face.

Molly immediately bursts out into wedding planning, mentioning that her own dress was put aside for Ginny but she had a beautiful hair beret that you could use as your something borrowed and she could always try and convince Muriel to let you borrow her tiara even though she'd been rude about it with Fleur. You laughed and nodded the whole way through the conversation as George and Arthur had broken off into their own as Arthur proudly tapped George on the back, telling him outright how proud he was of him.

You cleared away with plates with a flick of your wand and then brought out the warm apple pie with a selection of custard and icecream, depending on everyone's preference. More drinks were had and by the end of the pudding you were beginning to feel a little tipsy, especially when George pulled out a bottle of fire whiskey to celebrate with.

You all congregated back into the lounge after the meal had finishes, laughing and drinking as Molly told stories of the kids when they were younger. Fred was mentioned a few times and initially it had felt like a kick to your gut but you pushed through and as the drinks flowed, so did the conversation.

"Goodness gracious look at the time! Arthur, we'd better get home," Molly says, tapping Arthur on the chest. He nods dutifully, sinking the last of his fire whiskey and begins to stand, immediately wobbling until he falls back onto the sofa. George turns to cast a look at you and you immediately understand what he's trying to communicate; there's no possibility he'd be able to drive home having drank so much and apparating would be incredibly dangerous for him due to his intoxication, which meant they would have to stay with you for the foreseeable.

George had managed to convince his parents to stay after their lengthy protests and you'd gladly offered them the 'guest bedroom' to sleep in.

George apparated back to the Burrow to collect a few things they might need after a lengthy list that Molly had reeled off with clear instructions on where everything way and exactly what he'd be looking for.

Whilst George was gone you made a cup of tea for everyone and began prepping their room for the night, ensuring that everything was neat and clean, with no hint of George's things being crammed into the room. George arrived back not too long after with their things and helped to get his parents settled into their room, mainly helping Molly get Arthur into something comfier and then into bed.

You'd had a fabulous night and it had gone so much better than you'd hoped, feeling firmly included and welcomed into the family even more than you already had been, even if it wasn't technically real. George came out of their room a few minutes later and you both couldn't help but giggle at the turn of events, never having seen Arthur so inebriated before. He was a joyful drunk, telling stories and little quips that we're actually rather interesting and the new side you'd seen of him only greatened your fondness for him. George came and sat next to you on the sofa now that it was just you and him and he immediately placed his arm around your back, pulling you into him.

"Well, complete success I'd say," he says quietly, keeping hold of you as you melt into his side, keeping his voice low just incase his parents were still awake. He reached for the television remote and flicked it on to a random channel, not really paying attention though it was nice to have a little background noise.

"Such a good night," you said fondly with a small smile, trying to suppress a yawn as you cuddled into him, watching the screen.

"That meal was delicious," he says, beginning to stroke your shoulder where his hand rests, "I'd marry you tomorrow now I know what your roast dinners taste like."

"Well lucky you," you say with a cheeky smile, "maybe not tomorrow though, I'm rather busy."

"Oh really?" He says with a playful tone, playing along.

"Yes, you see I'm head potioneer for this little joke shop in Diagon Alley, you've probably never heard of it," you say, "well their stores of potion products are low and it's my wonderful job to brew more, all day tomorrow. So I'm very sorry but I can't marry you tomorrow, much too busy."

"Well isn't that a shame," he says quickly, "perhaps I should have a word with this boss of yours, he sounds tyrannical, working you as he is."

"Oh absolutely, he's a menace, Mussolini in brown tweed."

George immediately lunges for you with your last comment and you can't help but laugh, trying your hardest to keep quiet as he grabs you and rolls you about on the sofa. Only when you pull apart does he pause and smile at you widely, his face lighting up with his smile.

"Want to go to bed?"

The very words make your stomach roll a little in nervous excitement, though you try desperately not to show it on your face. You simply nod and offer a warm but mildly fake smile before you stand and ensure everything is locked and switched off.

Though you and George had shared a bed only a few nights ago, this was entirely different and a nervous anticipation consumed you, knowing you'd both be heading to bed at the same time, both of you aware that this was happening.

"Need the toilet? I'm going to get undressed," he says, gesturing with a nod towards the en-suite in your bedroom.

"No, you go on," you said with a smile, walking over to the dresser to grab some pyjamas. You heard the door close and as you pulled open the drawer, an immediate dilemma faced you. What would you wear to bed?

You looked down at the various pyjamas in your drawer and felt frozen with choice, not knowing how to proceed as the different materials stared back at you, each of them seeming to convey something. There were a few pairs of oversized, frumpy sets that you mainly wore in winter or when you were needing comfort but they weren't exactly 'nice' nor would they look very attractive on, most of them having some sort of embarrassing pattern or cheesy slogan printed on the front. You didn't want George to see you in something so frumpy and shapeless, looking like you'd made absolutely no effort on yourself but the alternative seemed much too drastic too. There were a few nicer sets of lace and silk in sensual colours that you used to wear for Fred but wearing one of those would send a clear message to George that you didn't feel was appropriate, or it would look like you were trying too hard. You dig through the drawer, thankfully still hearing the water running in the bathroom and tried to find a compromise. Should you wear a bra? Everything felt so confusing.

You realised that you could no longer hear the water running and reached for a cotton set at the bottom, trying to make it seem like you hadn't spent his entire shower agonising over this simple choice. It was a simple camisole top with long bottoms, dark red and black check with just a little lace on the neckline, comfy but attractive.

You passed him on his way out of the shower, seeing the tips of his hair still damp and his pyjamas clinging to his slightly moist skin, hugging the wider parts of his chest and shoulders deliciously.

You washed off your makeup, splashing cold water on your face for good measure as you tried to calm your racing thoughts, knowing that you were being ridiculous. He probably wouldn't even see you if it was dark. You put on your pyjamas, throwing your dress in the hamper and took one look at yourself before turning off the light and stepping out into the bedroom. The lamp was on, dimly illuminating the room and you could see George reading in bed, covers pushed up to his hips as he concentrates on the page he's reading. He looks up at you though you don't look back at him as you take off your jewellery, leaving your engagement ring on, feeling his gaze burning into your side.

It feels more than awkward, peeling back the covers and slipping into your own bed now that George was already settled on one side.

"Is this okay?" George asks and it takes you a moment to realise he means the lamp.

"Yeah of course," you reply absently but politely as you sink down in bed, pulling the covers up to your waist. There's a few moments of silence that feels in between awkward and comfortable, knowing that your awkwardness stemmed from your own anxiety whereas George probably found the silence comforting as he read his book.

"Okay sorry," George says with a bit of a huff, marking his page with whatever he was using as a bookmark, a chocolate frog card by the looks of it, and placed the book into his lap, turning to you. You gazed up at him, leaning forward a little in concern at his sudden outburst. "How do you look so good in pyjamas?"

Your mind is completely empty, astounded by his words. His face had softened significantly as he looked upon your shocked face, a gentle chuckle passing his lips. "Sorry, it's just, no ones going to believe you're married to me when you're so hot."

You were hallucinating, you were almost certain of it. Those words had never come from George Weasley before and your mind started to spiral whilst your face remained blank, heart racing in excitement. You knew that the only way to reply was to fight it with humour, not able to believe that he was being serious.

"Shove off, I'm comfy," you replied, though your words felt hollow, almost like they weren't actually coming out of your own mouth.

"I'm being serious," he says chuckling with a shake of his head. "Only you could make pyjamas look yule ball worthy."

"How much have you had to drink?" You laugh, playfully nudging him, still trying to deflect his words.

He simply smiles at you in return, "very little actually, dad drank most of it." You both giggle a little at the thought of Arthur snoring away in the spare room, George's room.

"Well you're not so bad yourself Weasley," you tease, your gaze flicking to his bulging arms for just a second, seeing that the T-shirt was just slightly too tight around his biceps.

There's a brief moment when everything seems to pause and as if in slow motion, George leans over and presses his lips to yours, only hesitating for a moment as he looks as your face, searching for any hesitation, in which he finds none. Your lips meet his and its like an electric current is passing between you both, igniting something inside you that has you pressing into him and fuelling the kiss. The clattering of the book is a distant noise to you as the kiss deepens, George's hand wrapping around your jaw line as he pulls you in, his tongue slipping out and caressing your own. You feel weightless, breathless, like you're floating, hardly even aware of your hands as they reach out for him, feeling the soft material of his T-shirt under your fingertips as you seek purchase on his shoulders, a fire burning between you.

Clothes are shed with desperation, either of you able to fight the blistering urge to feel the other completely. His lips are all over you, his touch only fuelling the desire that consumes you, leaving you unable to think clearly as you seek out his touch. It's raw and primal, no time for thinking or hesitation as you melt into each other, passion and arousal overwhelming everyone of your senses. He's hot to the touch and in the back of your mind you can feel your own heat coursing through your body, feeling more out of control than you ever hand but at the same time, feeling completely safe and right. When he slips inside you for the first time, it's all you can do not to cry out, the pleasant stretch and overwhelming relief of the sensation is the only thing you can think of. Your glad that he'd been quick to cast a silencing charm around the room as you mom out, unable to hold back any longer as your hips meet his, desperate to keep him inside of you. He groans out again, moaning with abandon as his hips only increase in pace, seeing your own body contorting in pleasure, working with his movements to create the most sensual scene and feeling he could fathom. When his hand slips to your exposed breasts, fingers plucking as your hardened nipples, you cry out his name ecstasy and are blessed with an almost whimpering moan from him as his thrusts get harder, watching as your breasts bounce in time with his thrusts, your body working to double your efforts chasing after the fullness he provides. Your walls begin to clench as the pleasure rises, white hot heat of bliss overtaking you, feeling his long and skilful fingers toying with your breasts, your pussy stretched around his perfect cock that hits every pleasure filled spot inside you and your throbbing clit rubbing sinfully against his happy trail with every deep thrust. It's too much and not enough all at the same time and you cry out his name over and over as your orgasm washes over you, hardly noticing his own climax until you slowly come down from your high, no longer feeling the force of his thrusts as he lazily slips in and out of you slowly in the come down. There's a warmth from deep inside you that is both intoxicating and comforting, knowing that the evidence of his pleasure had coated your insides, as if he'd claimed you as his own.

You're both breathless, panting against each other as your sweat covered bodies meld together, George's arms barely holding him up anymore as he slowly sinks down, putting more of his weight on to you that you welcome. You're still connected in every sense, your arms clutched around his shoulders, legs linked over hip hips and his now softened cock still inside of you. You reach up just enough to kiss his forehead where it is nestled into your neck, trying to prevent any awkwardness from slipping in to the blissful moment. His head turns downwards and he presses fluttering kisses over your chest, kissing each breast and trailing upwards until he kisses you on the lips with a sweetness that is a stark contrast to the burning passion of before. When he looks up at you, you feel breathless all over again. His eyes are so filled with emotion that it truly makes your heart flutter, seeing yourself reflected in his eyes, a look that you'd never seen crossing his gorgeous features.

With one last kiss, he slowly pulls away as your limbs disconnect from him and though you feel truly satisfied, you can't help but feel a little empty as his soft cock slowly slips out of you, no longer bringing you warmth or fullness. There's nothing said, no words needed as he pulls you into his still sweaty chest, unfazed at his nudity as his arms wrap around you, a kiss pressed to your hair as you lie there in utter contentment.

You realise George had fallen asleep a little while later and you attempt to slip out of his arms undetected as you make your way to the en-suite, careful not to wake him. You pee for good measure and consider showering but don't quite feel up to it right now. When you look in the mirror, you see a beaming smile greeting you in your reflection, not having noticed that you were doing so. You realised then how utterly happy you were, feeling more content than you had in so long.

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[amphibious-thing]

Oh! the Roast Beef of Old England: Roast Beef, English Nationalism, Effeminacy and Epilepsy (ft. Lord Hervey)

While today if asked what the national dish of England is some might say bangers and mash, Yorkshire pudding or chicken tikka masala in the 18th century the answer was roast beef.

It was roast beef that was the star of the patriotic 18th century song The Roast Beef of Old England. Originally written by Henry Fielding for his play The Grub-Steet Opera (1731) and then reused in Don Quixote in England (1734) the more popular version was written by Richard Leveridge who set it to a catchier tune and added five new stanzas:

When mighty roast Beef was the Englishman's Food, It ennobled our Veins, and enriched our Blood; Our Soldiers were brave, and our Courtiers were good. Oh the roast Beef of old England, and old English roast Beef. But since we have learn'd from all-conquering France, To eat their Ragouts, as well as to dance, We are fed up with nothing, but vain Complaisance. Oh the roast Beef, &c. Our Fathers, of old, were robust, stout, and strong, And kept open House, with good Chear all Day long, Which made their plump Tenants rejoice in this Song. Oh the roast Beef, &c. But now we are dwindled, to what shall I name, A sneaking poor Race, half begotten-and tame, Who sully those Honours, that once shone in Fame. Oh the roast Beef, &c. When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the Throne, E're Coffee, or Tea, and such Slip-Slops were known, The World was in Terror, if e'er she but frown. Oh the roast Beef, &c. In those Days, if Fleets did presume on the Main, They seldom, or never, return'd back again, As witness, the vaunting Armada of Spain. Oh the roast Beef, &c. Oh then they had Stomachs to eat, and to fight, And when Wrongs were a cooking, to do themselves right; But now we're a-I could, but good Night. Oh the roast Beef, &c.

Leveridge's version espouses the masculine qualities roast beef making Englishmen "brave", "robust," and "strong". Fielding's version from Don Quixote in England contrasts this English masculinity with the non-roast beef eating "effeminate Italy, France, and Spain". (Edgar V. Roberts, Henry Fielding and Richard Leveridge: Authorship of "The Roast Beef of Old England")

[Politeness, print, after 1780, published by Hannah Humphrey, after John Nixon (1779), via The Metropolitan Museum of Art.]

A common element of English nationalist propaganda was to contrast the masculine beef eating Englishman with the effeminate frogs legs eating Frenchman. The satirical print Politeness compares the masculine John Bull to a stereotypical effeminate Frenchman. John Bull is depicted as a plainly dressed man, holding a pint of beer, with a Bulldog at his feet and a cut of beef hanging behind him. The Frenchman in contrast is depicted as foppishly dressed, holding a snuff-box, with an Italian Greyhound at his feet and a bundle of Frogs hanging behind him. John Bull says "You be D_m'd". The Frenchman responds "Vous ete une Bete". The caption narrates:

With Porter Roast Beef & Plumb Pudding well cram'd, Jack English declares that Monsr may be D------d. The Soup Meagre Frenchman such Language dont suit, So he Grins Indignation & calls him a Brute.

In 18th century English print culture the butcher became somewhat of a stock figure representing English masculinity. There was a series of prints in which a masculine butcher is depicted assaulting a fop. Often with bystanders cheering him on. Some of these prints identified the fop as a Frenchman (such as The Frenchman in London by John Collet and The Frenchman at Market by Adam Smith) but others either don't identify nationality or indicate that the fop is English.

[The Beaux Disaster, print, c. 1747, via The Wellcome Collection.]

The Beaux Disaster depicts the aftermath of an altercation between a butcher and a fop. The butcher has hung the fop up by the back of his breeches on a hook next to cuts of meet. A crowd of passersby point and laugh at the fop, enjoying his misfortune. The caption narrates:

Ye smarts whose merit lies in dress, Take warning by a beaux distress. Whose pigmy size, & ill-tun'd rage Ventured with butchers to engage. But they unus'd affronts to brook Have hung poor Fribble on a hook, While foul disgrace! expos'd in air, The butchers shout and ladies stare. Satyr so strong, ye fops must strike you How can ye think ye fair will like you, Women of sense, in men despise The anticks, they in monkeys prize.

[Docking the Maccaroni–or the Butcher's Revenge, print, c. 1773, published by Carington Bowles, via The Metropolitan Museum of Art.]

Docking the Maccaroni–or the Butcher's Revenge depicts a butcher cutting off a macaroni's queue. Fashionable men in the late 1760s and 1770s would wear elaborate hairstyles sometimes with hair tied back into a 'club'. This hairstyle is a common element of macaroni satire (for a more flattering rendering of the style see George Simon Harcourt by Daniel Gardner). The caption narrates:

A Spruce Maccaroni whose Hair and whose Clothes, Were the envy of Fops, and the Patterns of Beaus; Looked with Scorn on a Butcher; in passing the Street, And turnd up his Nose, at the sight of the Meat. Says the Butcher you Pig, if you'd eat such as that, You'd credit your Country, and grow plump and fat. Greasy Brute cry's the Fop! then the Butcher enrag'd, Snatch'd a Knife, & to punish the Coxcomb engag'd: Then seizing poor Mac, who began to look pale, He docked his Fools noddle, and cut of his Tail: Now Now cry'd the Butcher the People may stare. At a Skull without Brains, & a Head without Hair.

The macaroni was often portrayed as a traitor to English culture not only for his love of french fashion but also his love of Italian pasta. The fabled 'macaroni club' was a reference to Almack's Assembly Rooms at 50 Pall Mall. (see Pretty Gentleman by Peter McNeil p52-55) The Macaroni and Theatrical Magazine (Oct 1772) explains that the origin of the word macaroni comes from:

a compound dish made of vermicelli and other pastes, which unknown in England until then, was imported by our Connoscenti in eating, as an improvement to their subscription at Almack's. In time, the subscribers to those dinners became to be distinguished by the title MACARONIES, and, as the meeting was composed of the younger and gayer part of our nobility and gentry, who, at the same time that they gave into the luxuries of eating, went equally into the extravagancies of dress; the word Macaroni then changed its meaning to that of a person who exceeded the ordinary bounds of fashion; and is now partly used as a term of reproach to all ranks of people, indifferently, who fell into this absurdity.

(Cited in Catalogue of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum edited by Frederic George Stephens and Edward Hawkins, vol.4, p.826)

Foppishly dressed men were blamed not only for the popularisation of pasta in England but also the growing disfavour for roast beef. A letter written to The Connoisseur in 1767 complains:

By Jove it is a shame, a burning shame, to see the honour of England, the glory of our nation, the greatest pillar of like, ROAST BEEF, utterly banished from our tables. This evil, like many others, has been growing upon us by degrees. It was begun by wickedly placing the Beef upon a side-table, and screening it by a parcel of queue-tail'd fellows in laced waistcoats.

(Volume 1, Edition 5)

With both his dress and diet the fop had betrayed English masculinity for French and Italian effeminacy.

Passed down by Lady Louisa Stuart* as an example of the "extreme to which Lord Hervey carried his effeminate nicety", when "asked at dinner whether he would have some beef, he answered, "Beef?— Oh, no!— Faugh! Don't you know I never eat beef, nor horse, nor any of those things?" Stuart was somewhat skeptical of this story wondering "Could any mortal have said this in earnest?"

*anonymously. Stuart wrote the introductory anecdotes included in the 1837 edition of The Letters and Works of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.

While it's anyone's guess as to whether Hervey said these exact words it is true that he didn't eat beef. Not because he "courted" effeminacy with the "affected and almost finical nicety in his habits and tastes" as John Heneage Jesse suggests (in Memoirs of the Court of England from the Revolution in 1688 to the Death of George the Second) but for his health.

Lord Hailes explained:

Lord Hervey, having felt some attacks of the epilepsy, entered upon and persisted in a very strict regimen, and thus stopt the progress and prevented the effects of that dreadful disease. His daily food was a small quantity of asses milk and a flour biscuit : once a-week he indulged himself with eating an apple : he used emetics daily.

(The Opinions of Sarah Duchess-Dowager of Marlborough edited by Lord Hailes, p43)

Lord Hervey's doctor George Cheyne believed that "a total Milk, and Vegetable Diet, as absolutely necessary for the total Cure of the Epilepsy". (The English Malady, p254)

In An Account of My Own Constitution and Illness Hervey explains that he followed such a diet for three years on Cheyne's prescription eating "neither flesh, fish, nor eggs" but living "entirely upon herbs, roots, pulse, grains, fruits, legumes". (p969) However after three years he reintroduced white meet. He explains his diet in a letter to Cheyne, written on the 9th of December 1732:

To let you know that I continue one of your most pious votaries, and to tell you the method I am in. In the first place, I never take wine nor malt drink, or any liquid but water and milk-tea ; in the next, I eat no meat but the whitest, youngest, and tenderest, nine times in ten nothing but chicken, and never more than the quantity of a small one at a meal. I seldom eat any supper, but if any, nothing absolutely but bread and water ; two days in the week I eat no flesh ; my breakfast is dry biscuit not sweet, and green tea ; I have left off butter as bilious ; I eat no salt, nor any sauce but bread sauce. I take a Scotch pill once a week, and thirty grains of Indian root when my stomach is loaded, my head giddy, and my appetite gone. I have not bragged of the persecutions I suffer in this cause ; but the attacks made upon me by ignorance, impertinence, and gluttony are innumerable and incredible.

Intriguingly in An Account of My Own Constitution and Illness Hervey focuses more attention on colic than epilepsy, dismissing his seizures as rare, but admits he had "two this year". This leads to the impression that his diet was prescribed to treat colic rather than epilepsy and Cheyne did prescribe a milk and vegetable diet in cases of "extreme Nervous Cholicts". (p167) Perhaps it was prescribed to treat both. But why downplay epilepsy in an account of his own illness?

While some enlightenment doctors approached epilepsy with a more scientific approach, superstitions still remained. Some believed epilepsy was a form of lunacy that was controlled by the moon (the word lunatick coming from luna). In An Historical Essay on the State of Physick in the Old and New Testament Dr. Jonathan Harle claimed that "people in this distemper are most afflicted at full or change of the moon." (p124)

Many believed epilepsy was caused by possession and this belief was supported by the bible. Mark 9:17-27, Matthew 17:14-18 and Luke 9:37-43 tell the story of a man who brings his possessed son to Jesus who "rebuked the unclean spirit, and healed the child". The boy's symptoms resemble those of an epileptic seizure and these bible verses are cited by Dr. Jonathan Harle as "an exact description of one that is an epileptick (had the falling sickness) or lunatick". (p124) Harle claimed that was "a truth as plain as words can make it" that some people with epilepsy were "possess'd by the devil". (p22)

Epilepsy was also believed to be caused by sexual depravity. The popular anti-masturbation pamphlet Onania: or, the Heinous Sin of Self-Pollution claimed masturbation caused epilepsy (p23). Onanism: or, a treatise upon the disorders produced by masturbation, or, The dangerous effects of secret and excessive venery claimed that a 14-year-old boy "died of convulsions, and of a kind of epilepsy, the origin of which was solely masturbation". (p19)

With the stigma surrounding epilepsy its no wonder that Hervey kept his seizures secret only telling a select few. One of the people he trusted with this secret was his lover Stephen Fox. Hervey describes having a seizure while at court and keeping it hidden from the Royal Family in a letter to Fox written on the 7th of December 1731:

I have been so very much out of order since I writ last, that going into the Drawing Room before the King, I was taken with one of those disorders with the odious name, that you know happen'd to me once at Lincoln's Inn Fields play-house. I had just warning enough to catch hold of somebody (God knows who) in one side of the lane made for the King to pass through, and stopped till he was gone by. I recovered my senses enough immediately to say, when people came up to me asking what was the matter, that it was a cramp took me suddenly in my leg, and (that cramp excepted) that I was as well as ever I was in my life. I was far from it ; for I saw everything in a mist, was so giddy I could hardly walk, which I said was owing to my cramp not quite gone off. To avoid giving suspicion I stayed and talked with people about ten minutes, and then (the Duke of Grafton being there to light the King) came down to my lodgings, where * * * I am now far from well, but better, and prodigiously pleased, since I was to feel this disorder, that I contrived to do it à l'insu de tout le monde. Mr. Churchill was close by me when it happened, and takes it all for a cramp. The King, Queen, &c. inquired about my cramp this morning, and laughed at it ; I joined in the laugh, said how foolish an accident it was, and so it has passed off ; nobody but Lady Hervey (from whom it was impossible to conceal what followed) knows anything of it.

#not sure how to tag this? #food history #lord hervey

[feytouched]

the best tea drinks (& therefore best drinks of all, imo):

bird & blend peppermint cream - milky oolong, peppermint and cocoa shells. this is divine otherworldly delicious!!! very uplifting both hot & cold. the cocoa & milky profile of the oolong make it very cozy-tasting. alas it's caffeinated so i can't drink it after lunch bc of my insomnia

bird & blend moondrop dreams - rooibos, apple pieces, rosehip, lavender, fermented lemon peel, orange peel. to me this is 100% lemon and lavender but unlike a lot of lavender teas it doesn't taste like eating a sachet. if sleepy lotion by lush were a tea. so calming, i drink this after emotional moments to relax and i've classically conditioned myself to feel more stable after drinking it lol. best while hot.

yorkshire tea decaf + milk + a lil bit of sugar. hear me out this is my current obsession. brewing the tea real strong it goes so well with the milk...... and it's decaf so i could have it whenever i want. having to control myself or i'd be drinking this 24/7

black lotus tea familiar frumpkin - this is a yunnan black/rooibos/oolong blend with peppermint & almond and vanilla flavouring so it fits perfectly into my favourite tea flavours. it's been a while since i last had it but it's my stand-out fave from this company which has a lot of great blends all in all

companhia portugueza do chá violet macaron violette - a portuguese tea brand that has super high quality teas. this is my fav violet tea bc it features toasty almond notes!

more to be added in the future i hope but go give these a try if you can ! #teafluencer ☁️*:･ﾟ✧

#ką sako lapė

[necarion]

On MSG in Tea, or: @necarion​ experiments so you don’t have to

I am a strong advocate of putting small amounts of salt in tea. Like with everything else, salt brings out flavor in tea and gives it richness and depth, while cutting bitterness. If it tastes salty you have done something very wrong. But a pinch in a mug of tea complements milk and sugar well. (You should also salt mixed fruit alcoholic drinks).

I have also, in the past, experimented less successfully with MSG.

My first major disaster was attempting to fix a chocolate protein shake that wasn’t quite working. It needed to be a little richer to taste right (ultimate solution was a small bit of peanut butter), so I tried sprinkling in MSG. It didn’t taste richer, it tasted meatier. It was pretty gross, but it was dinner, so I ate it with some tortilla chips.

Tonight, @jadagul​ told me he remembered I’d tried it with tea. I hadn’t, but figured I might as well. 

I made a mug of fairly hearty decaf English breakfast, salted it reasonably, and split it into a few shot glasses. There was plain, sugar, and milk & sugar. To each, I added a small pinch of MSG. (Note, this was not precision, but more qualitative).

A couple of observations:

Ew. This was not good. I probably overshot, but the direction wasn’t great

It made the tea more savory, but that’s not a taste that enhances the tea.

It made the tea taste “heartier”, like it was closer to a Yorkshire gold than an English breakfast. Maybe a smaller quantity of MSG would have not overshot and made it taste more similar.

It tasted a bit like oversteeped tea, although not nearly as bitter from the tannins. So I tried adding a small amount of aromatic bitters.  And it tasted much more like oversteeped tea! (Although the bitters added other flavors that didn’t match).

The taste reminds me of the experiment where I tried pressure cooking tea. (If cold brew tastes different, then maybe very hot brew would too.) The MSG was not remotely as vile as that result. I couldn’t even smell it.

I don’t think this would be improved by choosing a non-black tea. Greens are too gentle, and I have enough experience with “fruity and MSG” to not try that with an herbal.

In short (a) yay I did science, and (b) MSG does not, in fact, belong in tea.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

#science #tea #msg

[imichelle-l-rigby]

Reflections: Cillian Murphy’s Limited Edition

Season 3, episode 8

✨it’s almost Thanksgiving but I’m finally in the November episodes✨

———————————————————————

*I am a music prof (predominantly classical vocalist), and I LOVE listening to Cillian’s music choices! That being said, sometimes I won’t like a song simply because of a vocalist (it’s a professional hazard - sorry!) 👩‍🏫

** The following are my own observations/opinions. We may not agree, and that’s ok! That’s what makes music fun! 😊

*** I wouldn’t say I’m well-versed in Cillian’s music preferences, but I do enjoy them (for the most part). I always wind up adding to my own playlists after listening to Cillian’s recommendations.

———————————————————————

*snuggles up in my blanket with my tea* alright. Let’s do this 😎

🎵Set 1 (Kick in the Eye - Teenage Wildlife)

Kick in the Eye: 😎 what a cool way to start the show!

Teenage Wildlife: FINALLY some Bowie! I’m honestly impressed that he was able to wait this long to get a Bowie song in 😂. Bowie is a love/hate relationship for me. I like his music and LOVE covers, I just don’t like listening to Bowie’s voice. 😕 it actually makes me sad I don’t like him more, but I just can’t do it.

🎤Talking Break

Woo November!

Ooh uninteresting facts again!

“So delicious and dull”

“Nap for 13-15 hours at a time” - cries in tired teacher 😭😭😭😭

Cillian. Howwwww do you sleep with the light on?!?!?! HOW?????

I can see how it reflects a little of “Heroes”

I love his Moog synthesizer talk! THANK YOU FOR THAT, CILL!

🎵Set 2 (Good Listening - Générique)

Good Listening: ah yes, the swing/big band jazz days! I love it! ❤️

Ohh… an ident! Is this Duke??? Sounds like him.

I’m Beginning to See the Light: Duke is amazing. Hands down! And I loooooove the plunger mute - such a fun timbre! I love how he sounds so classy and raucous all at once. But who’s the vocalist??? The track list doesn’t tell me 😢

Générique: Miles! 😍 so Cool…. No words, just vibing.

🎤Talking Break

Ooh a soundtrack track! And of course they just improvised…

And yes - it was Duke!

Blues accordion. I am intrigued!

🎵Set 3 (Trouble in Mind - Slippin’ Into Darkness)

Trouble in Mind: yes. It is blues accordion. Why does this work??? 😅👍

Slippin’ Into Darkness: it’s got such a mix of styles! It’s gospel-like, rock, Motown, all sorts of stuff! I like! 😎

🎤Talking Break

An exclusive!

A reading from a memoir!

🎵Set 4 (Superstar -

Superstar: kinda cool how it starts with low bass and higher guitar melody. And the vocals sound like they’re in a cave. Fun cover!

Deep Blue Day: nice and atmospheric ☺️

Left Hand Path: this is like the previous 2 songs had a baby. I like it, but it just fits SO WELL in this set! 😂

🎤Talking Break

Lots of covers!!! Why are covers so good???

Irish music!

I’m glad he pronounced all that 😅

🎵Set 5 (The Trees They Do Grow High - Travel Size)

The Trees They Do Grow High: I must say this sad/angsty feel fits the folk song so well, but it’s also quite jarring if you know the song well!

Travel Size: ooooh this is so pretty! I like that this embraces treble for so long! Very few songs will do that today. Then halfway through it gets intense and mysterious! And of course a random sax 🎷 because why not??? ✨might be my fave for this episode✨

🎤Talking Break

“Brand new tunage”

Yay! More new music!

🎵Set 6 (Vampire Empire)

Vampire Empire: monotone, but so fun! Even though it’s new, it sounds like ‘70s music! And I like the upward leap on “chills” - great touch 👍

🎤Talking Break

Controversy over Yorkshire Man!

I love that the best guess is “idk” 😂

🎵Set 7 (Farewell, Farewell - I’ll Keep It With Mine)

Farewell, Farewell: beautiful vocals! I like this a lot. I always do appreciate folklike undulating melodies

I’ll Keep It With Mine: same group, but this time it’s got a Joan Baez vocal quality. ❤️

✨These 2 are awesome✨

🎤Talking Break

“Lots of covers on the show tonight, which I wasn’t prepared for, but I can handle, I think, just about”

🎵Set 8 (Everything - Barcelona)

Everything: yes - awesome jazz! I do love newer, experimental jazz styles. 👍

Barcelona: absolutely beautiful, but I am genuinely confused as to why he’s got an Italian lyric in a song about a Spanish city. So confused, in fact, that I googled! If what I found is correct, that makes this song even more poignant and meaningful. It is speculated that the Italian comes from Verdi’s opera Macbeth. Makes much more sense now.

🎤Talking Break

Gotta love how he’s obsessed with music from the beginning of his career

🎵Set 9 (Atmosphere - Toast)

Atmosphere: no, I don’t think I like this. 😳

If I Fall Under: this is more groovy!

Toast: … this is not what I expected 😅😂 I don’t even know how to explain it! 😂😂

🎤Talking Break:

“That was good, wasn’t it? That was… energetic” - no Cill. No. 😂

Ask a reasonable question!

Dude. That’s a lot of posters! 🙀

🎵Set 10 (Timing, Forget the Timing - Bukom Mashie)

Timing, Forget the Timing: this is a fun disco/synth track! 💃 🕺 🪩

Got to Get Your Own: oh yes - I honestly kinda am sad that the flute was only heard in ‘60s pop/jazz and didn’t really go further. It’s so iconic, it honestly needs to come back into mainstream (course maybe that’s what Lizzo is trying to do?)

Bukom Mashie: ok now this is fun! Awesome bass and percussion, but the brass feels so jazz! JAZZ FLUTE. YES. ✨fave jazzy piece of the evening✨

🎤Talking Break

The end! 😢

Improv one-take pieces. Yes, please!

“Mind yourselves”

🎵Set 11 (Marginalia #59 - Copenhagen One)

Marginalia #59: this reminds me of Olivier Messiaen. He was famous for using bird call as inspiration, even transcribing bird calls and writing them into his compositions.

Chant: I can kinda see how this is like a chant. It’s not got a defined meter or beat, and it centers around one predominant tone. Interesting!

Copenhagen One: super atmospheric - perfect for sleepy time. It reminds me of something in particular, but I can’t think of what. Could certainly be used as film score.

———————————————————————

Thank you so much for reading! If it’s Thanksgiving for you this week, eat plenty and enjoy the day with loved ones! 🥰

Tag list:

@iammrsrogers @deliciousnutcomputer @mariamoonie @brownskinsugarplum76 @look-at-the-soul @kj-davis @neverroad @teapothollow @thepurplearmyposts @possessedmarshmallow

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy’s limited edition #bbc 6 music

[thesongthesoulsings]

Not Merely Passable

Link to A03 Summary: "Thinking about my sex life? Who would've thought?" He smirked darkly, seeing her blush intensify. He had to keep himself from letting the growl, which was forming in his throat, leave him. She was truly inviting with her neck visible, the voluminous hair cascading down her back, her sweet small nose, and the eyes which were still deciding if they wanted to look hungry or shy. "You never thought about mine?" After weeks of delicate dreams, Hermione Granger brings up the courage to confront her colleague. A Flash Fiction dedicated to the Prompt "Two colleagues realise they have been dreaming the same dreams for weeks".

Not Merely Passable

The Great Hall was full and noisy on this Saturday morning, when he sat down and was presented with a mug of coffee. He did not need to look up, in order to know who it was that offered him the bitter fluid, since she did so on a regular basis.

"You look like you need it." He raised an eyebrow, still avoiding eye contact, and dedicated himself to drinking the hot beverage. He heard the witch beside him shuffle in her seat. "Long night? Did you get to a point in your research that set new riddles in your path?"

It took him a while to respond, but when he did, he was careful in his choice of words. "One could say that." From the corner of his eye, he could see her taking a sip of her tea. He was sure it was either Yorkshire tea or Earl Grey, those were usually the ones she went for.

"So you don't want to talk about it, got it." Her clipped words drew him to finally look at her. She seemed nervous; her teeth gnawing on her lip, her eyes fixated on the mug in her hands. Something was visibly bothering her, and he got the impression she was fighting with herself.

"We can go over my project later, if you are so keen on intruding, but it's pretty obvious that something else is plaguing you." His words lead to her head snapping up. Their eyes met in silent combat. If he was reading her correctly - and he did trust his skills in reading people - then she was trying to come up with courage. He didn't get to speculate about her motives; her response formed quicker than expected. "I have been haunted by dreams for the last couple of weeks." His brows furrowed. So had he, but his dreams had changed in nature for quite a while. Where nightmares had tortured him, they had been replaced with sweeter and more tempting ones. "Have you thought about taking Dreamless Sleep potions?" Her theatrical expression of mockery would've been enough of an answer, but she decided to accompany it with words.

"Do you really think I wouldn't be aware of my options? I have taken them far too often since the war and try not to anymore", she paused, "besides, the dreams aren't horrendous, they simply are of a... more delicate nature." The blood rushing to her cheeks made her tanned skin glow even more, making him yearn to touch her. He clenched his jaw, not wanting to let his reaction slip. Despite his mask staying in place, he couldn't forego clearing his throat.

"I see." He wouldn't let her know, that he'd had been followed by dreams of a similar nature. "As far as I know, witches and wizards your age usually seem to welcome such... enticing distractions." His words made her laugh bitterly. "I can't imagine why someone would want to dream about something they want, just to wake up to realize how frustrating it is to live without it." She took a bite of her oatmeal, her treatment of it somewhere between aggression and indifference. Was she eating out of hopelessness? That didn't seem like her. "And I will let you know", she added unexpectedly, "that I highly doubt "people my age" have different feelings about sexual relations than people your age do. I may be crossing a line here, but I dare claim that you aren't an old man uninterested in physical intimacy."

The noise of their surrounding seemed blocked out, once he had taken in what had been said. Hermione Granger - the witch which had not only managed to build a tender friendship to him, but also starred in his dreams as temptress - was thinking about his sexual needs? What utterly ridiculous joke was life playing on him? Should he engage her? Tease her in his usual manner? Would it be more sensible to simply overlook what had been said? Him overlooking it would not keep her from teasing him with similar remarks, once she noticed his reluctance to acknowledge it. "Thinking about my sex life? Who would've thought?" He smirked darkly, seeing her blush intensify. He had to keep himself from letting the growl, which was forming in his throat, leave him. She was truly inviting with her neck visible, the voluminous hair cascading down her back, her sweet small nose, and the eyes which were still deciding if they wanted to look hungry or shy. "You never thought about mine?" Her soft voice hinted at amusement, but he could filter out the fear of rejection in it, nevertheless. He had to tread carefully, if he didn't intend to fuck up everything spectacularly. The mug he had been holding was placed on the table, the chair he had been sitting on shoved back in order to leave him space to rise. "This is unquestionably not the right environment to continue the conversation." Looking up at him, she had to agree with his assessment. The question was, if she should continue the conversation - that she had so impulsively started after telling herself that her renowned Gryffindor courage was useless, when it came to something she actually desired - at all. She decided she should, considering the fact that she had already stepped into tricky terrain. "Where would you like to continue this conversation instead?"

She was sitting on his couch, waiting for him to come back from checking on his potions, when he reentered the room. The walk to his chambers had been silent and filled with graspable tension; the usually warming space now anxiety inducing. She heard him approaching, but he didn't sit down beside her on the couch, rather opting for standing near the fireplace. Contrary to her expectations, he didn't take long to initiate the conversation. It seemed like he had thought long enough about the words he intended to say. "Would you like me to think about your sexual life?" The witch blinked, uncertain how to respond. Her former Professor, who had become not only her colleague but also close, was directly looking at her. She was unsure if he wanted to make her uncomfortable, or if he simply did not want to miss her reaction. Honesty was the best policy, if she could trust her experience. "Well, I suppose I would." Her facial expression turned thoughtful. "If you haven't thought about me as a sexual being, then it is safe to assume you find me unattractive." The black haired wizard pursed his mouth, looking to the ground. "Do colleagues think about the erotic life of their co-workers?" A sigh left her. "Some do, others don't. We are not just colleagues, Severus."

He leaned against the mantelpiece, his arms crossed in front of his buttoned up chest. "What are we, Hermione? Friends? Are friends supposed to think about what goes on intimately between their friends and others?" She blushed again, leading to him loosening his posture. What was wrong about wanting to touch her warmed cheeks, and kiss her heart-shaped lips? Wasn't she telling him more or less, that she wanted to be desired by him? Hadn't he shied away from indulging his needs for long enough? He stood still. This was Hermione, and not some aristocratic witch who hoped for a One-Night-Stand with a war hero. She deserved better, so he was not going to give into urges that could ruin what they had.

"Are you trying to spare my feelings, Severus?" She rose from the Sofa, now imitating the pose he had held just seconds before. "It's ok if you do not find me attractive, it really is." Oh, this beautiful brave witch was standing before him with crossed arms below her chest, fighting off tears because of him. "We're just friends after all. I had just hoped that I could at least be considered passable in critical eyes like yours." Enough. He didn't want to hear such nonsense anymore. Grasping her upper arms, he shook her carefully. "Have you lost your mind, witch?!" His baritone carried the calm threateningly spoken words to her ears. "I'm an unappealing man, who is mainly preoccupied with Potions and the dismantling of the Dark Arts, instead of charming witches, partaking in social events, and featuring in the Witch Weekly as the most popular Bachelor. What makes you think, that I would judge you in any way?" She did not dare look at him, but pathetically enjoyed his hands on her. "Humans judge, Severus, whether they want to or not. There is no need to pretend. You either never considered me interesting enough to acknowledge my womanhood, or I'm...", she held in, thinking about Lily Potter neé Evans, "or I'm not your type. Which now that I think about it makes perfect sense. I'm sorry for troubling you with my irrational behavior." Her previously broken voice formed to steel.

Now, that she was looking into the face she so wanted to caress, his angry and irritated expression became apparent to her. "Not my type? Hermione, you frustrating creature! You are not the only one who has been enraptured in painfully pleasurable dreams those past weeks. It seems as if you suffer from chronic bad taste, since your choice has fallen on me, but I can assure you, that my taste is refined and as such I do not think you merely "passable"."

#severus snape #hermione granger #snanger #snamione #sevmione #fanfiction #fandom #wizarding world #harry potter #hogwarts #professor snape #writing #romance #friendship #flash fiction #fictober

[queerestqueertoeverqueer]

She is Loved

Fandom: Doctor Who, Ship: Thasmin

Summary: Thirteen starts to regenerate, and Yaz looks back on their time together and the conversations they had about this moment.

Notes: This is my attempt to make the ending of TPotD feel a little less unfinished. I haven't changed any of the scenes that we got in the episode, because I want to try and accept the ending we got, with these added headcanons about conversations that may have taken place in the past. (I may have also shoved in HCs about The Mattress and The Cheek Kiss TM, but who are you, the HC police?) Title is from from TPotD. This is my first fic, so any feedback would be massively appreciated!! I'll put this on Ao3 at some point probably. And shout-out to @logically-blue for reading this for me before I posted it <333

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

"Doctor. Look at your hand."

Yaz felt the Doctor's grip tighten on her shoulder. Her eyes seemed to light up as she stared helplessly at the golden light, but her face fell. Yaz could feel her trembling, leaning further into her for support.

"No... no! That's not right! I need more time...

I want more time!"

The pure emotion, the frustration, the quiet, sad, rage in the Doctor's voice made Yaz's heart ache. She'd told herself when this happened - and she knew it was coming for a while now - she'd be the brave one. She'd make it easier for the Doctor, and she'd smile at her and comfort her and look after her for as long as she could. But now, Yaz couldn't stop the tears brimming in her eyes from spilling down her cheeks.

The Doctor glanced up at Yaz. Her wonderful Yasmin Khan. She hoped she had done enough to prepare her for this moment.

"You know what this means, right?"

Hearing that only made it worse. Because she did know what this meant.

It wasn't even that long ago. They were sitting in the TARDIS kitchen, Yaz sipping tea, and the Doctor slurping a comically large mug of hot chocolate, with at least seven sugars and what was either melted chocolate or brown sauce. Yaz didn't dare ask.

The Doctor was trying her best to keep her promise.

"I want to tell you everything."

Maybe she hadn't managed everything just yet. But she was opening up, little by little. Telling Yaz the occasional story about an adventure; the time there were dinosaurs in space, or a mummy on a train, and an Absorba- what was it called? Something like that. The odd anecdote to show Yaz that she cared. But today she needed to get something more solemn out in the open.

"Yaz... something is going to happen soon. I'm not sure when, or where, or what will cause it, but it's coming. And I wanted you to have warning. I want you to have time to decide what you want to do."

Yaz sat patiently while the Doctor slowly, thoughtfully, carefully, explained it to her. There would be glowing, a hum, and then it would happen. She would change. This wasn't entirely news to her. She'd encountered enough of the Doctor's old acquaintances to know they all remembered her differently; a little man with a cane, a tall man with a bow-tie, and of course the frequently mentioned mysterious white-haired Scotsman. But to think of this Doctor, her Doctor, changing like that wasn't something Yaz could bear.

So she'd thought about it for days, because what she also couldn't bear was the idea of ever leaving the Doctor. What would she even do? She could hardly imagine just going back to her life, solving parking disputes, bickering with her sister. It all felt so... silly. So little. So insignificant.

But it didn't feel anywhere near as bad as she thought it would to be looking at the only woman she'd ever felt this much love for and see an unfamiliar face. To hear an accent that didn't sound like she'd come straight out of Yorkshire.

And eventually, they finished their conversation. Through tears and smiles and firmly clasped hands, Yaz finally told the Doctor what had been brewing away inside her for as long as she could remember. She told her what happened when the Doctor was away, about the spare TARDIS and the sleepless nights (and the Doctor felt reassured that she had made a wise choice in teaching Yaz to fly the TARDIS after seeing those notes). She told her about growing up, and Izzy Flint, and the friends who didn't get it. She told her everything she could think to say, as the Doctor sat wide-eyed and earnest, Yaz's hand enclosed tightly between her own as if it might protect her from her past.

"Have you ever told her?"

"Told her what?"

"How you feel about her."

I have now, Dan. The end of that conversation would stay with them both for a long time. Yaz knew what she had to do. But that didn't make it any easier. She knew she would never be able to cope with a Doctor that wasn't hers. And the Doctor knew that too. Which meant there was an understanding between them, for when that day came. They would face the moments before together. And then it would happen, and she would be gone.

She's not gone yet.

"You know what this means, right?"

Back in the present. You've not got long. Savour it, enjoy it while she's here, she's in your arms. She's still your Doctor.

Yaz nodded.

"Yeah?"

The tears kept falling. There wasn't even any point trying to stop them. She'd thought about this situation so many times but it could never have prepared her for how much it would actually hurt to face it. To face losing her.

They finally brought themselves to properly look at each other. The thought that she might never again see those beautiful eyes, the eyes that contained galaxies, swirls of glorious colours that she could never quite place her finger on, only made Yaz cry harder.

"It's alright. It's alright, Yaz!" the Doctor held her tightly and brought one hand to the side of her face, stroking her cheek gently. She slowly moved her hand away again, not wanting to make this harder for Yaz. She couldn't bring herself to let go completely, though. For her sake maybe even more than Yaz's, she needed to feel her. She needed to feel her warmth through her soft jacket, anchoring her to the ground as the burning grew inside of her.

On some level, Yaz had known the Doctor wasn't just fine after that laser hit her. She'd tried so hard to convince herself, to convince everyone. Maybe she thought that if she convinced them well enough, it would come true. But the Doctor lay completely still for too long. Yaz had never seen her so motionless. Even when they shared a mattress, all that time ago, when they were both too scared to sleep alone after Ryan and Graham left, she would toss and kick for the few hours she slept. But this time there was nothing, not stirring even when Yaz dug out their old stuff and gently placed their pillow under her head. Yaz sat by her the entire time, stroking her hair out of her face, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest against her side, checking her face for injuries, always monitoring her heartbeats.

As she watched her, Yaz couldn't help but relive it. She said she was fine but she had no idea if she would burst into light there and then. She could still feel the Doctor's weight in her arms, her faint staggered breath against her neck. She felt the Doctor's cheek pressed against her lips, the arm slung around her shoulders tightening a little as she whispered three words into her ear. She felt the Doctor's sleepy gaze on her as she looked up at Yaz and then closed her eyes.

Eyes.

They were both crying now.

"Make time!"

The Doctor owed her this. For all the times when she shut her out. For every time she didn't explain. For every story she never got the chance to tell her. It'd hurt like hell to hold this off for longer, but she'd do it. Yaz deserved a little longer with her Doctor. And she wanted a little longer with her Yasmin Khan.

She hated goodbyes, Yaz knew that. And the Doctor knew that Yaz knew that. She also knew that even when her heart was breaking, Yaz would put her first as she always did. If this was going to end, for her sake, even though it would hurt her, she was going to end it in the most Doctor-y way she could - without acknowledging that it was over. As if they both willed it hard enough, maybe it wouldn't truly be over.

They both knew it, though. She said her wish out loud, after all.

The Doctor never got to tell Yaz everything. As usual, it came down to time. Always her excuse. Always her worst enemy.

But now, one last time, she was going to use it to make things a little better.

"Happy ever after isn't forever. It's just time."

"One last trip."

#i cried several times while writing this :) #thasmin #the power of the doctor #thasmin fanfiction #fanfiction #yasmin khan #thirteenth doctor #thirteen #mandip gill #jodie whittaker #doctor who #thirteen's era #tpotd #dw #doctor who series 13 #robin is in mourning :( #robin writes B) #my writing

[givemearmstopraywith]

Where are you from? I presumed you were American with the amount of heresy but then you mentioned dating a Yorkshire lad and Welsh solidarity and now Yorkshire tea?

adding “presumed american because of the heresies” to my cv but that aside im a british encultured canadian

#five years engaged to a yorkshire fella and my best friend is welsh if that gives you any idea #replies #why wld you rb this

[annarellix]

Murder at the Village Fair by Helena Dixon (A Miss Underhay Mystery #13)

Kitty Underhay is riding a carousel… with death.

Summer 1935. Enjoying a belated honeymoon visiting her new husband Matt’s family in the rolling Yorkshire hills, Kitty strolls through a village fair. But when Kitty persuades Matt to visit the fortune teller’s tent, the lovebirds are shocked to find the body of Madame Zaza slumped over her crystal ball, pearl necklace askew and a half-drunk cup of tea at her elbow. After predicting so many of the villagers’ misfortunes, how did she not foresee her own murder? From a pompous old colonel to a reticent reverend and a dodgy village doctor, Kitty soon feels like half the village had a motive for murder. But with more suspects than tarot cards, she and Matt are no closer to finding the culprit. Madame Zaza had been a part of the community’s life for decades and discovering a photograph album of the villagers through the years gives Kitty and Matt the breakthrough they’ve been searching for. Kitty is soon hot on the killer’s trail when her sleuthing puts her in terrible danger. Will her lucky stars align, or is her life line about to run out?

My Review: This is the most intriguing mystery in this series, I loved them all but this one was a bit darker and the unusual setting was an added bonus as it featured different characters. Kitty and Matt are two characters that evolved and changed since the first novel, their relationship is solid and they are more mature and a solid couple. The setting and the characters were the strength of this novel: there’s a lot of the classic tropes of the Golden Age mysteries like the busybody, the manor, and its inhabitants but there’s also something very modern and fascinating. Read the novel and you will understand. The mystery is solid, there’s wasn’t a lot of suspects and a lot of surprising twists. I didn’t guess the culprit and thoroughly enjoyed the plot. Even if it’s not the first in a series it can be read as a stand-alone. It was the perfect read for a lazy summer afternoon. Highly recommended. Many thanks to Bookouture r for this ARC, all opinions are mine

Buy Link(s): https://geni.us/B0C3M9B31Rsocial

The Author: Helena Dixon splits her time between the Black Country and Devon. Married to the same man for over thirty-five years she has three daughters, a cactus called Spike, and a crazy cockapoo. She is allergic to adhesives, apples, tinsel and housework. She was winner of The Romance Prize in 2007 and Love Story of the Year 2010 as Nell Dixon. She now writes historical 1930's set cozy crime.

Social Media Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nelldixonauthor Twitter: https://twitter.com/NellDixon Website: http://www.nelldixon.com Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/helenadixonuk Bookouture Email Sign Up: https://www.bookouture.com/helena-dixon

#bookouture #cozy mystery #blogtour #netgalley #review #historical fiction

[moonartemisia]

Moriarty the Patriot Fanfiction: Crown of The Night || Arc I: Silence Endeavour

Fanfiction written by Elise

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Moriarty the Patriot/Yuukoku no Moriarty franchise and it’s characters, but the original character under this story for imaginative and creative attribution within the storyline. Owners of this series goes to Ryousuke Takeuchi for the plot alongside with Hikaru Miyoshi for the illustrations. Based on the original Sherlock Holmes series by Arthur Conan Doyle and Ian Fleming’s James Bond series giving a crossover dynamic between the two famous stories. All rights reserved respectively.

WARNINGS: THE FOLLOWING STORY MAY CONTENT NSFW MAINLY GORE, TORTURE, HARSH LANGUAGE AND OTHER ANGST OR SENSITIVE ASPECTS THAT DRIVEN WITHIN THE VICTORIAN ERA. AS MUCH AS THE AUTHOR WOULD TRY HARD TO DEPICT IT’S REVELANT SOCIETY ON THE PARTICULAR TIME. PLEASE READ IT AT YOUR OWN RISK.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬

Daybreak begins to foil the cracking rays of Durham. Birds twittered merrily through the veneer spring winds. The green pastures passed muster pleasantly, and cattle behaved, feasting their stacks of hays and grass; abidance is the key to all nurturing needs. That's what the spirit settles today. In a beak of its glass windows, seen with a weaved robe worn— flashes upon, crimson eyes shone in a brief sentiment through the awakened sunlight, darted by the uplifting sky blue clouds. Hands were calm, scuffling digits scaffolding to be standing against the upfront living room. His lips— were sealed as relaxed for the sunrise to shine its full glory that would bring soreness to his eyes.

What awaits an adequate; equilibrium for the known master and his serving breakfast goes earlier than was planned.

Chisel with his tipping chin of smiles. His reflection looked upon a figure— prepping tea to his delight.

"You're up early, dear brother."

"And so you are, William... just in time to stare at the sunrise for your tea."

"I'd never fetch you before you could see me standing— awake, I'd suppose you wondered."

A fellow sibling shook his assertions, amusing to his delight, "Gracefully. You know how I come to see you awake quite a time..."

"Well, tea is a spot for my comfort... you made for me, thank you, Louis," he whispered his appreciation to him. Sitting down comfortably at his embarked velvet sofa, tugging his arse by the cushions with his spine postures perfectly well— a pipping cup by his hand as he took a sip.

William enamoured thoughts— through his reflection by the spot of tea. Eyes suddenly became misty— somehow relatively a new mimic mystery. Not mimic, but something to decipher.

"Have you checked at the other bank we brought in with our banknotes the other time we deposited? Louis?"

"Yes, Lilibark Uniondale? Is it, brother? What brings?" Louis asked calmly as he seamlessly bridged his glasses; properly.

"I assume the deposits you asked for were transferred there for transactions. Because the other bank you mastered nearly put a scare." He added, remembering the constructed plan of his brother at the previous event— hurdled many citizens.

"Alas, indeed..." it was never scorned to William's ideas that would create a toll of concussion, giggling about how no one has spoken of it since.

Lilibark Uniondale, a pristine bank afoot near their manor, is acknowledged as an estate owned by a known noble. The Hemsworth of Yorkshire. People ought to think they have an abundance of pennies to mention such; feasible enough with negotiable credentials. A handful of clerks, accountants, and staff were inside. Amongst them, priorities are the profitability and standard of financial shares, including assurance— a fortune. A modern strategy of monetary gains and investments lives taught nowadays. Which is the majority seizes to switch their profits. William adhered to the addresses, consequently. He did exchange good benefits from the stakes, as heard. Approved a new account to pursue demands of income. Observed— how keenly managed a prospect this bank can handle. Much to his curiousness. He still needs to learn more about the bank's background. Especially the owner who goes to their word of: "enabling both statuses to open their accounts." Merely gestures are a hint that made the mastermind indulge in deducing details.

"I'm certain they quoted 'enabling both statuses to open their accounts' means a bunch of definitions."

"Come again, brother?"

"No—," William heaved a sigh. Earth to his mumbling thoughts spoken out of his way.

There must be a hidden agenda to that remark.

"I have an order for you, Louis. Please bring Bond, Moran, and Fred along. All of you are in charge of checking my warranty today. The queue is today's due."

Chimes his morning smile— the blonde coveted his hands tucked in place of comfort. "For now, it's still early. I must nod off..."

"Very well. Don't be a bit laid off as you need much time to regain, awaken."

While the sun peaked through— alas, Louis followed suit with his older brother's chore. Him, departing the rest of the reports in his hands. He fetched his gang as ordered. There— meeting down the halls: a tall, stoic figure who stood above six feet. Former colonel Sebastian Moran. He dressed formally and eloquently to go to the bank just as in the previous event. Fred Porlock, a young lad of his awareness. Personal assistance, a messenger boy to his master, and espionage. He composes stumbling a brilliant disguise to form tricks as needed.

"Only you two? My word, where is Mr Bond? Have you called him?"

"He was with the old hag earlier. Maybe I should—"

Before the colonel could even fetch the other, there was a screeching halt below the polished floors. A loud incoming presence— upon their eyes met a panting blonde, hooking his grey coat. Effortlessly, he brushes his hair, fixing his ilk.

"Apologies, almost late as you would try to fetch me, Moran! So, are we ready?"

Louis reacted, eyes a bit hankering in a blunt manner. Thus, the blonde saw scratching the back of his head.

"I'll explain further details after an errand, Mr Louis. I'm sorry it took a minute or two. Let's go on." 

The four left the manor as they wad towards the stakes— in the meets of the new bank estate. Lilibark Uniondale Bank. Walking passed a busy civilization of people, Durham is a straightforward society; people prefer to go by this location for solace and desires. Much not likely to compare London's dirty and busy environment. A place where the brothers would stay lay low from aside the capital.

When they arrived at the entrance— the bank's architecture was massive and articulate; the opening was remarkable. It is likely those in ancient Greece. The five pillars were sculpted and designed in Greek Corinthian patterns. On top of the pillars was altered. As the layouts of objects were replaced and stood up, a carved coat of arms was. Even at a glance— the top gate frames have a similar design. Their representation? Glancing at the outlines and objects of the coat of arms were significantly detailed through the inner corners and openings. These spotted the attraction of the people, probably alluding that the Hemsworths might have artistic connections.

They're putting in a lot of dignity and settlement for creating such a bank, as Louis was familiar with the structures. He's been here with William occasionally. It is to affirm the Hemsworths are reputable, judging by their stakes.

So much so that they're countless people coiling around to see more than what this bank carries. Hence, the four trek through, sighting every corner of the place. Impeccable.

"They have a lot to show", Louis pondered.

Not to mention every place feels as if it lies on its name. Namesake? Quite an ordeal— coming from them.

"No additional checking at the vault? Or wait? What did Will advise you to take us here?"

Bond promptly asked the other blonde, who turned at the centre, pausing his trace.

"Just the deposits he told me. There must be a queue around here. I'll go by the other departments. While I need you both patiently get in line."

Louis commands Bond and Fred to take the queue, whereas he and Moran will stroll the bank's area. This place is instead uniquely unseen, yet seemingly not.

"Alright then, we will go to the queue. Have fun "busying" the stroll."

Bond waved to them— then whistled at the place, "Wow, I never thought coming to a bank this fancy, don't you think so? Fred?"

"Agreed, it is. Now, where is the queue?"

They begin scanning the centre floor. Eyes watching every section they go as spying binoculars everywhere they're searching. Until Bond quipped to what he saw, the queue— immediately he and Fred found the deposit branch. A few people were designated as follows.  Astounding and manageable— the line of people is intact. They weren't packed and patiently waiting in line to get a call from a registrar. Through the counter where clients are accepting their deposits neatly. Well-reserved mannerisms, service, and eloquence towards time.

"I think they minister with a lot of professionalism. How properly do they work in such a prestige bank? Good worth? Hm, fascinating."

"I do quite have the same opinion as you, Fred. Maybe the bosses fed them well." Within the tone of jokes, the agent pulled aside his friend, chuckling.

"Come, I think we should be in line— they aren't many lads here."

The two gentlemen started walking straight towards the counter. Both Bond and Fred were greeted; with a bow. The blonde veered his fedora upwards, a polite nature fleeting to his gesture.

"Good day, Miss. May I request a check-up deposit?"

"To whom you're checking?"

"William James Moriarty?"

Heeded the registrar, she flitted to her post to see if the warrants scaffold was available to write for later. Louis has instructed him beforehand. He can authorize the cost of the signature in William's favour. Good to take notice as the two of them grin at each other while they wait.

"Here is the deposit you asked for— read first the fulfilment pay before you sign your contract; below right." The registrar broke their silence until a hand extended setting on a piece of paper, giving it gently to Bond for him to inscribe.

Bond reaches out a pen. That is positioned next to him over the counter. He jots his name below where it has written "signature" under the lines. Now, it is time to take the money.

"Oh, I see that you're done. Thank you for the assistance."

"Louis, you came! How was the tour?"

"Simply fine, I've got so much to chatter about what we found, is it Moran?"

I shall also report this to my brother. He probably has more presumptions to add later. There's a definite hunch about this.

Besides Louis, his partner, Colonel Moran— stood with his arms crossed between his pectorals, quietly nodding.

"Here, the money is sealed by this envelope."

Upon receiving the parched envelope, from afar, a herd of noise evoked the whole area. It alarmed the gang to turn overheads witnessing a man shouting at one of the accountants through the counters. Faces stand framed to be calmed yet in compulsory reactions. Judging by the man's behaviour, in particular. Louis thought of chaotic trouble.

I guess this is something scandalous in a public space like this. He concluded.

"Where the bloody hell are my banknotes? You probably snatched it all!"

"Please, sir, remain in your senses. We will inform our employers about this situation. If you must refrain yourself—"

"I have no time for waiting! Do you simply think that my impatience will test me?! This is the last check I had to go to! My blood is boiling with rage— you all must pay!"

The four were left with nothing to help the commotion down. Louis eyed the man's temper at the workers, as this could cost big problems. Uproar in inconvenience made the rest of the crowd look. His heart was beating horribly at an abrupt scene.

"Oh God— shall we help them, Louis?"

Asked Bond, worrying it might cause a quarrel.

"If we are to help, then..."

"I believe if you raise a fist or voice within this stake or to my workers. I'll handle you to the Yard for interrogation."

Words shunned— someone came. To a surprise, the voice hollered was coming from a woman standing between the man. Whom just passed towards; a demure and prominent lady intruded on their talk. Closely seeing her debating against a diminutive issue.

"Heh, and who are you to butt in, madame?"

"If you want the banknotes, I'll pay what you wanted as regard. I'm the one who is in charge. Now, please we shall talk about this privately with my employee. Just as long as you don't violate my policies. Are we clear?"

"Tch, a woman like you shouldn't be upheld. But, since you have quite an attraction— I will be kind to slide this off."

"My charms aren't worthy of your displayed desires." Spatted the woman as she stealth on her profession.

"Whatever you say so, tch. Your bank doesn't hold profitable accountability. So, be it with your words."

A scoundrel buff infuriated man stormed off, completely. Rest assured about the cases of rumours indulging inside. The woman from earlier who stood up to the employees bowed for an apology.

"My sincerest apology for my clients as it went inconveniently. We will try to break down this issue that happened. Please, thank you for choosing our services."

Turmoil has been lessening much to the lady's dismay. It brought me to the moment when the gang saw her stand up just now; a scoring one. This inflicted Louis and his group's peculiarities upon the woman, nevertheless. Her upbringing appears as it goes through her liberties.

"Who is she? I'm quite hesitant to approach her. That's a spirited ovation there." Said the blonde agent, an awed impression towards the lady.

"Maybe we can talk to her for once. If it's not much trouble, wouldn't it?" A glanced colonel spoke after him.

Louis follows a sigh, "Well, the least we could try."

"Excuse me, gentlemen. I see you all got a keen eye on me."

How did she notice—

"Pardon me for being rude. It was a catch that I already know."

"We may, sorry, if we ever made you feel uncomfortable—"

"Oh no, not to brag about it. However, I'm the heiress of this bank. If I'm not mistaken you guys saw what I did at that moment. Stressful, isn't it?"

She's very chattering, Louis described. Listening to her talk the incident occurred.

"Well, again I'm sorry."

"Not at all, I know clients can act mighty, demanding at some point— and entitled to their own will. You must not mind those people. We are only fetching errands here; a deposit."

The blonde remarked, stating his arrival alongside his group— all grinning at the lady's presence without interfering.

"Good, it was all thanks you've chosen my stakes. We will be handling our issue first. Glad to meet you, Sir-"

"Louis James Moriarty."

Worded the man, as he tipped his top hat.

"Oh, well then. I must be off."

Afterwards, the lady shortly left. A pleasing conversation, a short one of an encounter blistering the blonde's impression of her.

Charismatic, and demure, her aura is somewhat I cannot describe— alluring. Mentioning she is the heiress, probably an owner. A noblewoman. Simplistic attracted to her appearance as I thought that she belongs to the workers in charge of this running bank. How intriguing... I must tell this to brother.

"Hm, I wanna bump on the scenes. You've seen the girl in person."

In the coming response from the colonel— observing their momentum just now. Meanwhile, in front of him, Louis shushes the man before him not to spill something.

"Let's go back to the Manor. We have a lot to discuss with my dear brother. Also, Moran, you'll conclude what we've investigated here."

By the time the four men eventually went outside the bank. Louis's introspections vividly stick with his determination, but on what certain metier did he inspect back there? Furthermore his short time with the lady earlier, who is she? At last, arriving at the manor. They found Albert standing in the yard— together with Jack Renfield, their maestro. Also known as Jack the Ripper, formerly. Meeting them shortly after their visit errands, Bond came forth to explain details as the rest heeded inside. Louis appealed to Albert to uprising his interesting news brought from an event; this is indeed important. Hence his confession delivered to William may help to discuss.

"I'm pretty aware of this insight, Louis. Moran already went in— we should too."

"The portraits by the upstairs hall we both discovered the Hemsworths. I never saw them before as you do with my brother's meetings or any particulars. So, they're from Yorkshire, is it? Brother Albert?"

"Oh, their namesake holds a lot of their generations." Albert pressed the conversation, moving on with the other walking inside the manor.

"If I'm not erroneous about their background they come from a line of economic privileges, especially Duke Harrison Hemsworth's. A long format to talk about— in fact, they're sometimes appointed to the queen. That's why I barely greet to chitchat with the family. Although, his daughter—"

”My, my, going through the insights without my guard? How cunningly crude of you, brother Albert."

In time, abruptly the criminal mastermind was summoned, and he breathed a small laughing matter. Keenly smirking his brother aside with his hands folded behind him as usual; much to his anticipation. Welcoming his two brothers beyond the opened corners— standing in front.

"I'd suppose you could say that only the four of us are aware of Hemsworth's vogue of riches— to simply put... Well, lavish outcomes. Though, they're very private with their matters. As I've known to read about their lifestyle once in a bulletin: "Simplistic Nobles of England" hearsay. I'd find it very exceptionally reputable— not on the bad side whatsoever. I don't see any hints of malicious motives. They do a lot of charity work, I guess no wonder they built a bank."

"Yes, you are right, brother. Moran and I earlier discussed he also knew a bit of Hemsworth's background. Their reputations being the noble saints they said." Louis agreed as he proceeds with finishing his brother's words.

"To begin with I may conclude that their daughter by the name of Stephanie Cris Hemsworth. The only daughter of Duke Harrison brings so much image towards their stature. An independent and responsible, yet sociable woman; a socialite. She is named "Jewel of the Night" by the noblemen who attend banquets. She is always presentable. Although, I cannot simply say she is a threat. Much to what I've figured out."

William explained briefly to his brothers what he had known of this woman, Stephanie Cris Hemsworth. Born in Yorkshire, a dashing woman of her finest. She is recognized by their hometown being the precious mineral, as assumed she and Albert shared the same coloured eyes— but hers were much lighter than his pigment. A lot of people know her as a demure, but a quick-witted woman of her charms. It is said she handles any physical prowess taught by her mother— and is a lover of operas. Aside from that a half-French lady who used to reside and goes to a girls' school in Paris. Finally lives today back here in England; helping in Lilibark Uniondale Bank her father's business.

A charter of statements William inputs at the moment there was a space of uncertainties going over through his mind.

Be it with hope, I know the bank holds equity as I've seen commoners pursue to have their money profited with investments. Which is a great move from her father... Why do I feel something? There's still a missing piece to their motive. Even though I've heard they're quite a private family.

Do they hold the same key to idealization as us? Or are they an enemy of some kind? Battling of crimes? So much to discover paints many truths... Their quote—

"But, brother William?"

"What is it, Louis?"

"About their quote, I took notice of that utterance you blurted out of the blue that morning. "Enabling both statuses to open their accounts" was the duke's call. I picked my interpretation of equality. Could there lie they're alike to what we idealized? Or was there something else?"

"By now that you've mentioned. Who knows for a certain they might be? Well, I was going to head off to a tailor to fetch the suit I'd requested all of us for the upcoming ball 3 days ahead." William chimed, bowing down before he could leave the two.

"Thank you for the time to consult this report. I best be off."

"What do you think, brother Albert?"

"I don't want to amend the judgement, Louis. If there's a sign we will take a grudge. For now, our focused goal is the night killer. As William spoke last night, their next venue to hit their target is the queen's actual ball."

"I'm not certain, I hope their motive is not them..."

A cold sweep of Louis's sweat acted upon his shoulders. The tension between his morals and thoughts crumbled

"And you think to summarize the killer's target is the Hemsworth family? Possibilities... But we must stay vigilant. Nobles—really are their prey."

Beyond the dim night of Durham— a carriage parked in veneer at the bank's entrance. The stallion heaped, opening the cab's door appears tall, eloped and a postured gentleman. But it seems he has a company with him. Presented to proceed on their way in.

"I see this is where the new bank resided. Amazing, the design emblems such as attraction— see over the carved top of the pillars. Architects studied their coat of arms so well, don't you think? John?"

"I'm beyond astounding as we came here, Sherlock. Now, why are we here again?"

Questioned the fellow beside him, he released a scoffing manner. His brow shifted with cockiness; marching his way to meet up with somebody that caters for his interest. Perhaps, a bigger reason for help if he may guess.

"The odds, John. A lady fetched us to help her with a nosy client. But, I don't suppose liking at this time to consult their complaints. This is a nuisance." He diminished his words finally meeting the lady through the halls.

"Ah, I see you're the lady who gave me a telegraph. Pleasure, I'm Detective Sherlock Holmes and this is my trusty fellow, Dr John H. Watson."

With a slide of his hand tipping his hat— thus bowing at the lady. Before he could give him a handshake, politely greeted the lady. At the strike of the other's face when he took a glimpse towards the lady for the first time, his mouth agape. An awed, breathtaking beauty he probably had never seen.

"Likewise, this is my first time meeting you, detective Holmes. I'm excited that I've reached out— and Dr Watson. You look bewildered at some point—"

Sherlock turned over to his friend who was momentarily gazing out at the woman. He couldn't help but snap his friend out of the way. Immediately John awoke—

"Oh, pardon— umm I hope I'm not being rude looking at you. Miss—"

"Stephanie, Stephanie Cris Hemsworth. Dr Watson."

"You scoundrel shouldn't be eyeing over a lad like her! We are here to investigate—" the detective kid aside from them both interrupting the important mission much to his exclamation.

"Ah right, my bad, Sherlock."

"It won't be a while— just the soon as you're both good to go. Steadfast and stealth with the conclusions."

"It seems working with you won't be a hassle through my interrogations with your messy client, innit?"

"Yes, I'm truly positive."

Welcome, Mr Sherlock Holmes...

𝕱𝖎𝖓𝖎𝖘...

#anime / manga #moriarty the patriot #yuumori #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori oc #james bond moriarty the patriot #mtp james bond #mtp oc #mtp william #mtp #ynm james bond #ynm william #ynm albert #ynm mycroft #william james moriarty #louis james moriarty #albert james moriarty #sherlock holmes moriarty the patriot #sherlock holmes #john watson #john watson moriarty thr patriot #mtp mycroft #mycroft holmes

[devouringcambridge]

Sunday Roast at The Brook

I'm not an expert, but to me, the concept of a Sunday Roast is as British as afternoon tea or adding 'innit' to the end of all your sentences. There are so many pubs that offer this quintessential British cuisine, but today, I'm reviewing the Sunday Roast offered at The Brook. Located on Mill Road, The Brook is a cozy-sized pub with a warm atmosphere and some delicious ciders available...but how does their Sunday Roast hold up?

British Top Side Roast Beef with Horseradish Sauce (15 pounds)

I had such MIXED FEELINGS about this Sunday Roast. It was a roller coaster of emotions served up with a half-vat of gravy on the side. Some bites had my eyes rolling back in my head with ecstasy. Other bites belonged in the frozen aisle of a discount grocery store. Because of this, I'll rank each item, individually, from worst to best.

6. The Vegetables

I adore roasted veggies. Throw some broccoli, carrots, onions, and cloves of garlic on a roasting pan, drizzle with olive oil, toss some salt and pepper on top, and chuck that baby into the oven and I am more than happy. But these veggies had no tales to tell - they were bland, flavorless, steamed, and unhappy. Just like me after eating the lifeless carrots.

5. Top Side Beef

Seeing as it's called a Sunday ROAST, you'd think the meat would be the star of the show. And while it looks quite nice in the picture, the beef was so dry that I had to resort to dunking it into the gravy in order to make it palatable. It also didn't have much flavor beyond the gravy itself, which leads me to...

4. The Gravy

Solidly fine, and served with a generous portion. However, could do with more of a flavor PUNCH. As it was, I used it mostly as a moist-maker.

3. The Stuffing

And all of a sudden we jump from 'solidly fine' to 'oh my god, I wish I could ask for seconds.' The stuffing is invisible in this picture, and was a surprise to me. In fact, now that I'm writing this, I'm wondering if I got a different roast than the one on the menu...perhaps a holiday offering? Because stuffing isn't mentioned in the description, and I'm just realizing that there was no horseradish sauce in sight, either...hmm, well, all's well that ends well, because I'm glad for the swap. This stuffing was moist and packed with flavor - it tasted of salt, herbs, and garlic, and had a dense, crumbly texture. My only complaint was that there was such a small amount - it hid beneath the potatoes, a noble treasure.

2. The Yorkshire Pudding

My first bite of the Sunday Roast was a chunk of the fluffy, soft Yorkshire Pudding - and I can't be certain I didn't moan. It's been six months since the last time I had a Yorkshire Pudding, and I now realize that that is far too long. Honestly, I know a lot of people rag on British food, but the Yorkshire Pudding deserves to be appreciated internationally. I just wish I could describe it better, for those who've never tried one. It's almost like...the love child of a souffle, a pancake, and pita bread...but also different from all of those things. The texture is NEXT LEVEL. So freaking fluffy. And the perfect vessel for soaking up pan sauces and gravy. Ugh, I would have traded the beef for another Yorkshire Pudding with no hesitation. And honestly, the Yorkshire Pudding was probably THE best thing on the plate...but, they're also pretty hard to get wrong. Put a Yorkie P on my plate, and I'll be happy almost always. Although, I won't take away from The Brook here - they do a particularly good one.

The Roast Potatoes

After tasting the sad veg, I feared the potatoes would also be steamed and unseasoned. Instead, The Brook said 'try the best fucking roasted potatoes you've ever had, ye of little fucking faith.'

Crispy on the outside but fluffy on the inside, these taters were perfectly cooked. Flavorful on their own, they verged on orgasmic when slathered in gravy. And I don't even usually LIKE roast potatoes!

So, now, hopefully, you see why this Sunday Roast is hard to rate. How do you compare the worst steamed veggies I've ever had - even the ones in elementary school had salt on them - to the fucking best roast potatoes I've ever had?! It's madness. Madness! While the stuffing and the Yorkshire puddings also pull their own weight, I will say, because the meat is supposed to be the focal point of a Sunday Roast, I'm going to have to give this particular roast at The Brook a...

Rating: 6 out of 10 Gravy Boats

Honestly, if I had just been handed a plate of Yorkshire Pudding and Roast Potatoes, the score would have been much higher...although I'd be eating nothing but carbs. Still. Some things in life are worth every bite, while other things - like the dry beef - are barely worth chewing.

#yorkshire pudding #food review #food blog #british food #sunday roast #pub food #roast potatoes #cambridge #the brook #eating england

[majorxmaggiexboy]

@brassandblue i got some yorkshire tea per your recommendation and Oh Wow

it’s great even before adding the nesquik

[richincolor]

New Releases

Happy early book birthday to these exciting YA books coming out on Tuesday, July 5th! What's been on your TBR lately?

Boys I Know by Anna Garcia

A high school senior navigates messy boys and messier relationships in this bitingly funny and much-needed look into the overlap of Asian American identity and teen sexuality.

June Chu is the “just good enough” girl. Good enough to line the shelves with a slew of third-place trophies and steal secret kisses from her AP Bio partner, Rhys. But not good enough to meet literally any of her Taiwanese mother’s unrelenting expectations or to get Rhys to commit to anything beyond a well-timed joke.

While June’s mother insists she follow in her (perfect) sister’s footsteps and get a (full-ride) violin scholarship to Northwestern (to study pre-med), June doesn’t see the point in trying too hard if she’s destined to fall short anyway. Instead, she focuses her efforts on making her relationship with Rhys “official.” But after her methodically-planned, tipsily-executed scheme explodes on the level of a nuclear disaster, she flings herself into a new relationship with a guy who’s not allergic to the word “girlfriend.”

But as the line between sex and love blurs, and pressure to map out her entire future threatens to burst, June will have to decide on whose terms she’s going to live her life—even if it means fraying her relationship with her mother beyond repair.

The Darkening by Sunya Mara

Loyalty and love are at stake in this thrilling and epic YA fantasy debut as seventeen-year-old Vesper finds herself at the center of an impending rebellion when she is forced to infiltrate the prince’s inner circle in order to save her father from prison.

The Charmed List by Julie Abe

After spending most of high school as the quiet girl, Ellie Kobata is ready to take some risks and have a life-changing summer, starting with her Anti-Wallflower List—thirteen items she’s going to check off one by one. She’s looking forward to riding rollercoasters, making her art Instagram public (maybe), and going on an epic road-trip with her best friend Lia.

But when number four on Ellie’s list goes horribly wrong—revenge on Jack Yasuda—she’s certain her summer has gone from charmed to cursed. Instead of a road trip with Lia, Ellie finds herself stuck in a car with Jack driving to a magical convention. But as Ellie and Jack travel down the coast of California, number thirteen on her list—fall in love—may be happening without her realizing it.

In The Charmed List, Julie Abe sweeps readers away to a secret magical world, complete with cupcakes and tea with added sparks of joy, and an enchanted cottage where you can dance under the stars.

What Souls Are Made Of: A Wuthering Heights Remix by Tasha Suri

As the abandoned son of a Lascar—a sailor from India—Heathcliff has spent most of his young life maligned as an “outsider.” Now he’s been flung into an alien life in the Yorkshire moors, where he clings to his birth father’s language even though it makes the children of the house call him an animal, and the maids claim he speaks gibberish.

Catherine is the younger child of the estate’s owner, a daughter with light skin and brown curls and a mother that nobody talks about. Her father is grooming her for a place in proper society, and that’s all that matters. Catherine knows she must mold herself into someone pretty and good and marriageable, even though it might destroy her spirit.

As they occasionally flee into the moors to escape judgment and share the half-remembered language of their unknown kin, Catherine and Heathcliff come to find solace in each other. Deep down in their souls, they can feel they are the same.

But when Catherine’s father dies and the household’s treatment of Heathcliff only grows more cruel, their relationship becomes strained and threatens to unravel. For how can they ever be together, when loving each other—and indeed, loving themselves—is as good as throwing themselves into poverty and death?

#ya lit #what souls are made of #boys i know #the darkening #the charmed list

[peterxwade24]

Safety Found in Red Sleeves

Chapter 10

I know it's been literally fourteen months since chapter nine but I promise this is a big chapter (compared to like chapters one and two (this is like 2687 words)).

Anywho, I hope you enjoy the chapter and enjoy the return to Gotham.

Jerome looked at his nephew and nieces and frowned. “How long has she been in the city? Has anyone else seen her? Has her father?”

Jason shrugged, adjusting Damian in his lap as he tried to figure out how to phrase it. “She’s been sighted in Pam’s garden, Oswald’s lounge, and with Jon and Ed. I’m not sure the exact time she’s been in the city but a couple of days, probably. I’m hoping he hasn’t.”

Damian returned his attention to his dad’s face and pouted. “What’s so bad about her father?”

Jerome looked at Damian and thought for a moment. “Has your dad told you about the Mad Hatter?”

Damian shook his head and frowned, “I don’t think so.”

Jerome took in the information and looked at the other three people at the table with him. “Okay, so, you know how your mom doesn’t always do things that are nice? Or, how about her Ma?” Jerome nodded toward Cass and waited for Damian to turn to look at her. “You know how she doesn’t always do nice things, or how she’s mean to people?” Jerome watched as Damian nodded, not understanding the relevance. “Well, your Aunt Thana’s father is really mean. He hurts people. Like the guy who hurt your dad, he hurts people like that.”

“Okay, Kutlat Saghira, you know how some people hunt animals for food and other people hunt animals for sport?” Damian brightened and nodded, drawing a small smile from Jason, “he’s like the people who hunt animals for sport.”

Damian scrunched up his nose in disgust. “I’ll get rid of him so Auntie Tea can come home.”

---

Jason bustled around the kitchen as Damian watched Blue’s Clues in the living room. He didn’t know what to do with the information he’d received at the meeting with Jerome. He certainly never would have guessed that his son would threaten to kill someone.

Tim perched on the counter watching his older brother. “What’re you doing?”

“Thinking. ‘ve always thought best when I was in the kitchen with Alfred.” Jason huffed and pulled out everything he would need to make yorkshire pudding. “Do you want to help make the puddings?”

Tim slid off the counter and nodded. “What do I need to do?”

Jason and Tim listened to Elton John’s discography while they worked side by side making two batches of Yorkshire pudding batter. Jason smiled at his little brother as he copied him, stirring together and adding ingredients in sync. Jason nodded and pulled his spoon from the bowl, gently tapping it on the side to remove the excess batter, before putting the spoon down and turning to Tim.

“Now, the secret to these puddings is you chill the batter before you preheat the oven. So, we’re just going to stash these in the refrigerator for the next half an hour to an hour.” Jason led the way to the fridge, holding the door open so Tim could get his in before Jason’s bowl joined it. “I’m Still Standing” played throughout the apartment, causing Stephanie to groan.

“Why’re we listening to the most boring music ever?”

“If you don’t like it, you can watch Blue’s Clues with Damian.” Jason was surprised that Duke was the one who responded. “Elton John is a gift.”

Tim snickered at Jason’s side and shook his head.

---

Kate Kane looked at her cousin’s children and sighed. “Why are none of you at home?”

Jason rolled his eyes as he continued to push Damian on the swing while his siblings were spread out around the park. “The B-Man said some not very nice things about certain individuals of whom I care very deeply and I walked out. Most of them were at the press conference when B said those things, three of them felt personally attacked by what he said.”

“So, Bruce is just like the rest of the family, got it.” Kate turned and leaned against the leg of the swing set. “So, homophobia? That the thing?”

“No, uh, being the child of a rogue. Which rules out Dami, Cass and Steph, and, uh, this girl I used to know.”

“Okay, cool. So, when do I get to see the new pad?” Kate smiled at Jason and wondered how things got to this point in their relationship because when they met he couldn’t stand her.

“Uh, I’m having a family night tonight, Alfred’ll be there as well as Lina.” Jason smiled as Damian pouted. “I know bud. I know. I’ll keep pushing. I’m sorry I stopped.”

“Do you mind if I bring a friend?” Kate asked while looking around the park for all of the other Bat Kids “also, where’s Barbara?”

“Babs has been at home with her dad for the last while, James Jr. and Anthony took their mom’s death pretty hard.” Jason shrugged, “I get that.”

“Pretty much a requirement to be a Bat these days, having a dead mom I mean.” Kate looked around the park, her eyes ghosting over each of her nieces and nephews before landing on a single head of golden blonde hair. “You have eyes on Blondie?”

“She’s one of the friends of the girl I used to know. Harmless, to us at least. But put her near B-Man, not so harmless.” Jason let out a laugh as Damian jumped off the swing while it was at its highest point. “Slow down Kutlat Saghira, you’ll hurt yourself. Don’t look at me like that, I know you think you’re infallible but you are just human.”

Kate nodded and went back to looking around the park, noting that Blondie was being joined by a slightly shorter blond followed by a short girl with pink hair. All three were wearing red or pink sleeves, in one way or another.

Blondie had on a yellow turtleneck shirt with a blue skirt and a dark red plaid princess-style coat. The friend hanging off of her arm wore a baggy long-sleeved red shirt tucked into a pair of high-waisted blue plaid pants. While the other one wore a pair of black jeans under an oversized army green tee with a dark pink long-sleeved shirt underneath.

---

Jason looked around his apartment, a soft smile on his face, as he gazed upon his family. Alfred, Selina, Kate, and James stood in one corner talking about their children or nieces and nephews. Jason’s siblings sat on the floor around the coffee table with all of the children, Damian, Jai, Iris, and Mar’i, in the middle of their circle. Barbara, who only Mar’i had met before this, sat just outside of the circle in her wheelchair with her half-brothers hanging off of the sides of her wheelchair. They seemed to be getting along just fine.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would work out and Jason would get to have a full family reunion sooner than he initially thought.

---

Kate became a frequent presence in the apartment, often babysitting Damian when Jason and his siblings had pressing things they had to do that required them to act untouchable. Jason, Kate, and Silena would have brunch on Sunday to talk about Bruce while Alfred had Damian, and god only knows what they did while they were together.

Jason and Damian met up with Jerome Sunday afternoon before he got released on Monday morning, the only other people in the rec room that afternoon were Killer Croc, Calendar Man, Cluemaster and Killer Moth. Jerome smiled at his nephew and great-nephew, and couldn’t believe that he was really getting released.

“I’m so proud of you Jerome, you really put in the work.” Jason covered Jerome’s hand with his own and watched as his face split into the biggest grin Jason had ever seen him wear.

“Thank you.” Jerome shook their hands and glanced down at the table. “Do you think she’s going to want to see me?”

“Absolutely. She loves you, you have to know that.” Jason looked at Jerome and offered a smile.

“Auntie Tea, from what I’ve heard, sounds like a good person. I know she’ll be excited to see you.”

-*-*-*

“Fragolina, I’m telling you. We saw him and he has a kid, like a full-on kid.” Chloé looked at her friend and closest confidant with sad eyes. “He has a whole family. I don’t want to say it, but I think he might have moved on.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe he’s just trying to make the best of a terrible situation.” Adrien chimed in from his position beside Nino. “He did seem like he was pondering something.”

Alix snorted as she tried not to shoot her cola out of her nose. “Maybe, but maybe he was just trying to figure out something else.”

“Not helping, Alix.” Kim growled as he held Thana closer to his chest. “Maybe Jason wants to meet you again and maybe he wants to meet everyone who is family to you. We could do that. Set up a meeting before we go back to Paris.”

Thana looked at her friends, the three who had been by her for years and the two newest additions, and felt tears rush to her eyes. “What would you guys say if I said I wanted to push myself to finish the rest of collège and lycée so I could apply to American universities so I could end up over here and talk to Jay-Jay, eventually?”

Kim, Nino, and Chloé looked at their friend and knew that she was very anxious about what they would say. So they shared a look before laughing.

“I think I speak for us all when I say we’d follow in your footsteps so we could be with you, Maestoso.” Nino smiled and glanced at their other two friends. “What about you?”

Adrien shrugged. “We’d need to get my dad’s permission.”

“Piece of cake.” Alix grinned and leaned forward. “Of course, I’m in.”

---

Adrien sat anxiously in front of the laptop, Skype open and his cursor hovering over the call button to Nathalie. “What if she doesn’t pick up? What if he disagrees? What if he won’t let me?”

“It’ll be fine. Stop stressing yourself out over it. If he doesn’t agree to it, I’ll just tell my parents and Aunt Amelie and they’ll knock some sense into him.” Chloé smirked and pressed a kiss to the crown of Adrien’s head. “It’ll work out.”

Adrien nodded and took a breath before clicking the call button. He let the dial tone fill the silence as he held his breath and waited.

Nathalie’s visage filled the screen and she offered Adrien a small smile. “Hello, Adrien. How can I help you?”

“Is my father available? I’d like to discuss my education with him.”

“It looks like he should have a free minute in just a moment, would you like to wait until then or would you like to interrupt his meeting?”

“I can wait. Thank you, Nathalie.” Adrien relaxed in his chair and prayed to whichever gods would listen that this would go well, he wouldn’t know until much later that he prayed to the unbound Kwami still observing the world. (One such Kwami, known only as The Oracle, would turn their attention to the happenings of the next portion of the group’s lives with naught but a smile and a nod of acknowledgment.)

It only took a moment before Nathalie added Gabriel to the call and father and son just stared at each other. Nathalie watched as the blond duo simply stared at each other waiting for one of them to speak.

“Father,” Adrien began with a furrow in his brow, “I’ve been thinking about finishing the rest of collège and lycée so I could apply to American universities.”

Gabriel looked at his son, really looked for probably the first time since his wife succumbed to her coma, and saw what a fine young man he was becoming. “Do you plan on moving to America by yourself? Or do you plan to move in with friends? Will you need excess funds while you’re studying abroad?”

“Father, Father. Calm yourself. We’re still planning things out but, yes I will be moving in with friends. One of my friends, who’s listed in the class roster as Marinette Dupain-Cheng, is originally from this fairly large city on the East Coast. She’s been the only thing keeping us all safe in the city.”

Gabriel nodded, a small smile starting to spread across his face. “Oh yes, the adopted one. Then, Adrien, I suggest you start looking at universities.”

“Yes Father, right away.” Adrien’s face split into a smile and nodded.

“Nathalie, see if we have any connections in the area who could give us more insight into the city Adrien is in.”

“Yes sir,” Nathalie began typing on her tablet before glancing up at Gabriel, “Sir, you have a meeting with the marketing department in five minutes.”

“Yes, yes. Adrien, I shall talk to you later.”

“Thank you for your time, Father.” Adrien waved to his father and Nathalie before hanging up. He let out a deep sigh and smiled again.

Chloé wrapped her arms around Adrien’s shoulders and laughed. “I can’t believe he’s going to allow you to come with us.”

Adrien nodded, a look of awe on his face. “I didn’t either.”

“C’mon, we have to tell the others.”

---

Thana, Nino, Kim, and Alix were sitting in the lobby of the hotel, waiting for Adrien and Chloé to return from Adrien’s room so they could join the rest of the class to leave for their latest tour.

Alix rose quickly when she heard the elevator open, and watched as their two blond friends walked out. “How’d it go? What’d he say?”

Adrien smiled and let out a peal of laughter. “My father has agreed to let me accompany you all to an American university.”

Mlle. Bustier clapped her hands to draw the class’ attention. “Okay children, the bus will be here soon, which means everyone must be on their best behavior.”

Lila and Alya snuck glances at Thana and her friends before devolving into snickers and whispering snide remarks to each other. No one else paid them much attention, since they claimed that Marinette was consorting with Rogues.

“Let’s get on the bus.”

The class left the lobby and boarded the bus, pairing up in much the same way they do in the classroom. The ride went smoothly, and everyone seemed to just take in the passing city. The architecture of the city was different than any of the Parisians had ever seen, sure some of them had gone on holiday to other countries and saw different cities but nothing was like this. Where, in Paris, there would be white and red brick with glass details, Gotham was made of dark gray and black stained bricks and gargoyles lined the rooftops.

“The gargoyles are probably one of the best places to hide, if you can get that high. The ones atop Wayne Enterprises, the big building with walls that appear to be made of glass, are modeled after the Eastern Red Bat, or the Lasiurus borealis.” Thana sounded a thousand miles away as she looked out the window. Kim, sitting next to her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“How do you know exactly which bat they’re modeled after?” Alix asked as she turned to look at Thana and Kim.

“I spent a lot of time hiding up there with my boys as a tyke.” Thana had a faraway smile as she turned to look at her friends. “Jay-Jay and I would scale the building to look out over the whole city and imagine a life where we didn’t spend the whole time running from adults. My Little Glowstick and I would spend all night looking up at the stars, pointing out constellations and bumming the Wayne Enterprises wifi.”

Nino chortled and glanced at his friends. “You looked at the stars?” He shook his head, “I can’t believe you can see the stars through the light pollution.”

“Alright class, we’re here!” Mlle. Bustier clapped her hands to emphasis her point and the Miraculous Court looked at the building.

Wayne Enterprises, here they come.

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