#granddad earl

[miz-orque]

Idk Beyonce's not a good actress and a crappy voice actress. What were they thinking picking her to play Nala in that shitty and unnecessary Lion King remake

Also, why did they bring back James Earl Jones? He sounded like a lost granddad.

Also, why didn't they practise any expressions on any of the animals including and especially Simba?

Also, Jeremy Irons did a fantastic job as Scar. Why didn't they bring him back? Actually they did him a favour

#I woke up at three #Then I went back to sleep #Had a dream that pissed me off #And now I'm getting mad at TLK shit make

[abybweisse]

If Undertaker is Ciel's grandfather, could Ciel have any supernatural abilities?

Inherited abilities from granddad?

Either or both twins could, yes. I'd like to think that our earl's abilities would be stronger than real Ciel's. Like... sure, he's got asthma from his mom... but he's also got something special from the paternal grandfather.

Well, in ch103, our earl responds to Sascha saying his last name. Like he gets a chill and immediately turns to look where the reapers are supposed to be invisible. Sebastian can't even see them, at least not at first. But when our earl turns to look, he can see them, and they are surprised. If they hadn't mentioned his name or the family name, he might have never felt their presence at all. But it's still telling how that gives him a sensation and makes him look right at them. So, I'd say that is a trait he has acquired from grandpa....

And ch108 shows what could either be a reaper trait or simply an identical twin thing: sort of temporarily jumping into his soulless Bizarre Doll twin to see Undertaker by the bedside. Of course, we don't know what Undertaker was administering to real Ciel, but I have a feeling our earl and Ciel have a special twin connection, even though real Ciel's soul has been devoured. Also keep in mind that our earl wakes up to find Sebastian by the bedside, and he is the one who devoured that soul. Reminds me very strongly of Lucas and Claus in Mother3, since the mirror twins in that also make a psychic connection to each other without even trying... after the older mirror twin, Claus, was killed and turned into a Fascinating Chimera. Once he was turned into a Fascinating Chimera, Claus was referred to as "heartless" by the Magypsies (game's parallel to the reapers). So, the psychic connection only required minds, not hearts or souls. Could be the same thing here: our earl is connecting to real Ciel's mind alone.

But even if the mental connection thing isn't a reaper trait, seeing reapers who are trying to remain invisible probably is.

#black butler #kuroshitsuji #earl phantomhive #our earl #ciel phantomhive #real ciel #bizarre doll ciel #sascha #ludger #reapers #grim reapers #reaper traits #reaper abilities #supernatural #preternatural #ch103 #ch108 #undertaker #undertaker is cedric theory #anon asks #i answer #answered asks #jun 1 2023

[hummingbird-of-light]

Against All Odds

Part 815

McCoy

His chest was tight with held back anger. A glance at Spock showed the Vulcan’s distaste with Scotty’s aunt and uncle as well. For Scotty. He would get through this for Scotty.

“How do ye take it Leonard?” Iona asked as she sat back down.

His eyes drifted to the door as the young girl who had brought the tray in came hurrying back with a tea towel.

“Two sugars please,” he answered in his most polite voice.

Iona dropped the two cubes in a cup before lifting the pot to pour the tea. She gave a contemptuous look at the young girl, then looked up at Spock.

“Spock was it? How would you like yours?”

“As is ma’am,” he said, leaning forward to take his cup from her. “Thank you.”

McCoy kept a smile to himself knowing the plain Earl Grey was very different from the spiced Vulcan teas Spock usually drank.

“I must say, I thought Dad would be coming with you,” Malcolm said after they were all sipping their cups. “How is he? He never calls.”

McCoy felt Scotty tense next to him again.

“He’s doing well. He’s been working hard to get the house rebuilt.”

“And it’s done?” Iona asked.

“Yes. They finished in time for Mum’s birthday.”

“Oh! So quickly,” Iona exclaimed.

“He shouldn’t be doing so much at his age,” Malcolm frowned.

“Granddad is as spry as any of us,” McCoy smiled.

A brief look of surprise passed between the older pair at McCoy calling Alasdair ‘Granddad.’

“Our grandparents are all gone,” McCoy said, with just a hint of sadness edging into his voice. “It’s wonderful to have Granddad in our lives.”

Iona looked at Malcolm again and McCoy noticed the briefest of nods.

“Is it really true about your sister and our Robert?” she asked, leaning in.

“Is what true?” McCoy asked innocently. He felt the twitch next to him as Scotty held back a laugh.

“That- that they’re a pair as well,” Malcolm completed for his wife.

“Oh that,” McCoy laughed lightly. “Yes, they’re much more private than we are.”

“And it’s serious?” Iona asked.

McCoy nodded eagerly. “Oh quite. They’re very good for each other.”

“Well then, maybe we’ll still get asked to attend a royal wedding then,” Malcolm said with only a slight bite to his words.

McCoy’s smile curled tighter. Scotty moved on the couch next to him and he could see the color rising in his fiancé’s face. McCoy set his free hand on Scotty’s leg and gave a pat.

“That was part of why we wanted to visit. Not just to see if you had pictures you could share, but to visit everyone who we weren’t able to invite.” McCoy gave his best sympathetic smile. “I’ve never liked being in the spotlight and Scotty doesn’t either. Now that I’m not our heir I can step back some. It’s a relief!”

“Oh,” Iona said, sounding unconvinced.

“To just have a small intimate ceremony is more than I ever imagined,” McCoy continued. He let a wistfulness come into his voice. “I always thought I’d be stuck with someone I barely knew in a wedding the size of a small country.” He laughed. “Now Leah will be the one who has to deal with that, and she will handle it much better than I could.” He looked over at Spock, who nodded his agreement.

“Her highness is very capable.”

Malcolm and Iona shared another quiet look.

“And how is your mum with all of this?” Iona asked Scotty.

“She’s very happy,” Scotty said, giving a slight glance at McCoy. The prince found Scotty’s hand and entwined their fingers. “She has had so much to handle this year, but David and Eleanor have been a wonderful help. They’ve all become good friends.”

McCoy held in his own chuckle. He knew how awkward it still was for Scotty to call the royal couple by their names, but for once they just rolled off his tongue.

Tea ran its course with mild pleasantries, but McCoy couldn’t wait to be done and he knew Scotty felt the same. The slight disdain from the older pair was hard to ignore, but if McCoy played up his royal heritage, well, they had it coming.

“I suppose we should get those albums gathered and brought for you,” Malcolm said, setting down his teacup.

“Oh no, please,” McCoy said. He set down his own teacup and began to stand. “If you’d just show us where, it would be no hassle.”

“We couldn’t- you’re a prince,” Malcolm protested.

“I don’t mind,” McCoy said brightly. “It would save you getting dust tracked everywhere.”

“Yes…, I suppose,” Iona said slowly.

“Teresa can show you the way,” Malcolm said reluctantly, calling again for the young girl who had served them.

Part 816

Scotty

He was very glad when Teresa showed them the way out of the living room and to the attic. Scotty wanted nothing more than get away from his aunt and uncle and he could sense that Leonard and Spock felt the same.

A part of the tension relieved as soon as the three were all to themselves, standing between lots of boxes.

The attic was quite big and Scotty really had hope that they would find some pictures or other mementos. If only they knew where to search for them.

"You okay, leannan?"

The Scotsman turned around when he felt Leonard's hand on his shoulder and he nodded slowly.

"Aye. It's just... a lot. Being here. Having to see Malcolm and Iona," he whispered. It was quite stressful for Scotty. And he hated to suppress his anger.

"They appear to be quite impolite towards their staff," Spock said and Scotty rolled his eyes.

"Ye tell me. They have always been like this. That poor lass."

Anyone who had to work for the pair deserved Scotty's full sympathy.

"Maybe we should offer her a job at our palace," Leonard mused quietly and Scotty smiled softly.

"Aye, that'd be nice. Maybe ye should offer *everyone* working here a job. Nobody deserves to be treated this way."

"I'll think of something," Leonard replied with a wink, then he looked around, "but first we have to go through these."

Scotty sighed heavily, before he nodded in agreement.

"Aye... let's go."

He was glad that both Leonard and Spock knew what his father had looked like. After all, they had both seen the pictures when they had stayed at the Scott's place the last summer. They knew what they were searching for.

It took them some time until they found a box with lots of photo albums. As they all sat down and searched through them, Scotty couldn't help but feel nostalgic. Back when they were wee lads, Robbie and him had often snuck up to the attic to go through the old stuff of their parents. It had always been fun.

"This is your father, isn't it?"

At hearing Spock's voice, Scotty quickly leaned over to look at the album the Vulcan was holding in his hands.

He stared at the open page and a smile formed on his lips.

"Aye, it is. That's my dad with his siblings when they were younger."

Scotty took the album from Spock and pointed at the people shown in the picture.

"This is dad. Here's Malcolm and this is Ronan, the youngest son. Ye'll meet him when we're done here."

Even though Scotty wasn't looking forward to it.

He flipped through the pages and found another picture.

"Oh, and this is Aunt Harriet. She's the youngest of them all."

They all continued to look through the albums and eventually Leonard found another one.

"Look! It's your dad and Francine. Their wedding. And... aww, look who we have here."

The prince pointed at a picture of a baby boy and a grin crossed his face.

"You were just so adorable," he chuckled and Scotty blushed heavily at the picture of him.

"Oh, and here's Robbie too!" Leonard's finger moved on to the next picture and he laughed at the image of Scotty and Robbie throwing sludge at each other. The picture had been taken at their house on the beach.

Scotty felt tears prick in his eyes and he quickly blinked them away. So many good memories of better times...

If only it could have stayed like that. If only the stupid accident hadn't happened.

When the Scotsman eventually lost the fight to his tears and started crying, he felt Leonard's arms quickly wrapping around him. And all he could do was lean into the embrace.

#star trek #montgomery scott #leonard mccoy #scones #au #against all odds

[tartt9]

❛  i’m proud of you.  ❜ [ from @kentroys ]

Fucking hell. The more Jamie heard things like that from his coaching staff, the more he’d get used to it. Roy fucking Kent, the man who he had grown up worshipping, the man whose poster still hung on the wall of his childhood bedroom to this day, was saying that he was proud of Jamie. And, truly, Jamie was proud of himself, too. He got the call up, he’d made the team, he’d made his England debut on the pitch at Wembley, and he’d scored a fucking free kick for England. It was unbelievable - this was his real life. He wasn’t just some boy asleep in the bed of his council house, about to wake up to the reality that he was still about to go to the academy, to fight for the dream he’d just had. Jamie had done his years of fighting. Sixteen years of work, eighteen if one considered the two years he’d played football recreationally, before City’s academy could technically recruit him. And he’d scored a goal. For England. And he was fucking ecstatic.

Sure, he came back to the dressing room to a dozen missed texts from “Dad” asking why Jamie wasn’t a starter, telling him how he could’ve done things better, but Jamie hadn’t read any of them past the singular line of text that appeared on his lock screen. He was proud of himself. Walking into the Earl Centre that Monday, the pride still hadn't died in Jamie's chest. It wasn't the sort of pride Jamie had had when he walked into this place when it was still called the Rupert Mannion Centre - he wasn't that cocky about it. Just proud of his hard work. And Roy Kent was telling him he was proud of him. And Roy, his coach, his friend, was proud of him, too. “Thanks, granddad…” he murmured, affection in his tone. He’d done all that this weekend, but now, it was time to start training for their trip up to Manchester. He clapped Roy on he shoulder, grinning over at him, before heading for the practice pitch. Time for work, Greyhounds!

@kentroys // from here !

#kentroys #answered ! #jamie “i am immediately going to start working so i do not freak out about this” tartt

[jasaginae0]

Cotcweek23 Day 3:Past/Futute

Jason and Craig are 18 in this. This is a crack fic, do NOT take this seriously even a little bit.

Jason's POV:Night shifts sucked, I mean I always stayed up Saturday's but not cause of work. I watched the telephone on my desk, believe it or not, not a single call made it to me yet all my coworker's phones were going off.

*Sighs* Okay, how did I end up here...?

Oh yeah, I needed the money yet a 911 operator was all I could land, it's fine...You're fine, at least you think you are. So this what speech therapy could do to me in elementary school?

Oh hey, elementary school. When I could just go to the creek and escape Eleanor's chihuahuas or my dad talking fucking loud over the phone, it was nice...Oh wait-

Craig, damnit Craig just remembered him.

Me and Craig talked every now and then in middle school and high school we actually hung out a lot but I'm not sure, I'm not sure if he liked me back. Now Craig is busy with college and our talks were shorter and shorter, *Sighs* If only I could say how much I liked you, Craig.

After watching my coworker try to calm a woman down over the phone, something about her kid eating a lemon and dying? Dunno if he's dead, but my the phone began ringing. Huh. Guess I won't spend the...Uh, next 5 hours of my shift bored. I picked up the phone and raised the phone to my ear, "911, what's your emergency?".

Craig's POV:College sucked, like really sucked. At this point I'm starting to think there's more coffee in my body than all the other liquids, my dorm mate is probably a drug dealer but I have no proof, at least not yet.

Grandma and grandad were happy I was home from college so they decided to just, come over. Ask if how school is, how my grades were, if I found anyone...AH! I hated that question, looking at you Aunt Kim when I came home from my last day as a senior in high school.

I tried sitting at the table collecting my thoughts, guess I couldn't have a moment silence when I overheard a crash in the living room then grandma Jojo screaming.

Bernard rushed to where I was, "Craig! Grandpa Earl is having a heart attack! We need you to call an ambulance for him, go go go!"Bernard pushed me towards the phone almost making me fall face first.

Maybe I should put that kickstarter to put down my brother back up, I just need to come with some more benefits besides me getting pushed way less.

I grabbed the phone and pushed in the buttons to 911, "911, what's your emergency?".

"My grandad is having a heart attack!"

"Wait, Craig Williams, the mapmaker of the creek?"

Wait, that slight lisp...That that...Could that be...

"Jason the junior forest scout?

I do not know what to say...What is Jason doing as a 911 operator? Wait, damnit Craig...You would know, if only you weren't stuck doing those college tests and exams...And other stuff people do at college that the author of this fic doesn't know about cause she's not in college...

"I...I missed you..."Jason says over the phone.

Jason's POV:Ah! Damnit Jason, who reunites with an old friend and crush and the first thing they say is, 'I miss you' HOW?!

"I...I love you..."

I could feel the tears run down his face over the phone as if he was gonna burst into tears realising it is me over the phone "O-Oh, Craig...I...I love you too...", I did not know what to say. I never thought this midnight shift would be the cause of me finally confessing my feelings to my love, but atlas his grandfather is having a heart attack. "Oh wait, my granddad..."Craig remembered last minute "Don't worry, I have your address memorised, unless you moved or you're at someone else's house..." "The only place I am is your heart-" "Craig your grandfather is dying" "Ah! Oh uh...No, I'm at my house, same address...".

I sent the ambulance to Craig's address and stayed on the phone with him, but then I realised I couldn't stay on much longer. "I'm sorry but I have to hang up, someone might also be dying" "Oh, okay, good night sweet Prince..."

"Good night, mapboy" And I hung up the phone, not long after someone else was calling

#cotcweek23 #craig of the creek #jason cotc #honeysalt #jasonxcraig #craigson #craig cotc

[talesfromsiteredacted]

High Tea With The Family

Seeing as it's my birthday, I thought I'd throw myself a tea party. I've sent out the invitations in advance, I've got everything but the tea itself ready on the cart, once I get to the staff lounge I'll start brewing.

Hmm. Okay, lemon cakes... check. Miniature pecan pies... check. Rainbow candy cookies... check. Blueberry scones... check. And those weird little cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off Dr. Gears is so inexplicably fond of... check. Giant jar of jellybeans... check. Sweet rolls... check. That just leaves the teapots and teas. I hunt down the four biggest teapots I can find, load up my large company tea set, and get to setting up.

To my surprise, it's my favorite member of Site Command that turns up first. Dr. Gears greets me, then starts to set up the tower of lemon cakes. Before long, the buffet is set.

"So, a tea party, Bunny? Isn't 27 a bit old for that?"

"Not for a posh tea party. Come on, Big Boss... I even made the cucumber sandwiches, I'm in a proper tea dress, if I had lace gloves I'd be wearing them."

"You're not kidding."

"Somehow I even talked Alto into wearing a suit, so... yes. Not kidding. Plus, Cain said he'd drop by for a bit, since half the typing pool quit he's been backlogged, poor guy. And my granddad is coming with Iris and Evelyn. I even invited my other brothers in arms, Drs. Iceberg, Myriad, and Glass, plus Draven and Jim. It's my birthday, I'm hosting a family tea. My one regret is there's no way my dad can meet you all. Not being home sucks, but having all of you around makes it less horrible. Kinda think you and my dad would get along, you're both very similar in the best ways. I would have also invited Abel, but he hates Myriad, and I do not feel like breaking up a fight today."

"We're short on E Class, good call. What's the tea menu?"

"Jasmine, earl grey, oolong, and... ginger lemon with honey." Tea kettles are filled, set on the stove top, heated. While we wait, Drs. Glass and Myriad arrive.

"Happy Birthday, Rabbit!" I'm nearly bowled over by Myriad as they bear hug me. "Ooh, tea party! Fancy." This is when I notice the new body, in a blue dress. Gotta say, they look great. Simon then gives me a gentle hug once Myriad lets go. Clef saunters in, wearing his "Yet Another Pointless Ethics Committee Meeting I May Have Been the Direct Cause of" brown suit. The red Polynesian style silk tie is a nice touch. Eyebrows raise when he greets me with a kiss on the cheek.

Once that's over, Granddad arrives with my two special guests. Both my sister and my niece are in yellow dresses, Evie even has a miniature silk sunflower tucked behind her ear.

"I thought you were kidding, Sis. But... this is, indeed, a tea party. There's scones and everything."

Dr. Iceberg arrives last, bearing regrets from Draven and Jim. Oopsie, forgot it was their long-delayed honeymoon this week. But, while my MTF brothers aren't here, a massive tiramisu is. I'm flabbergasted, Dr. Iceberg remembered after all. Okay, now that almost everybody is here, time to get back to the kettles and brewing tea. Just in time, they were about to really whistle. Tea is brewed, lemonade is fetched from the fridge... time for tea.

We're all seated around the table, eating and drinking. Three cookies and two glasses of lemonade in, Evie starts singing "Happy Birthday". Once the song is done, I politely clink my teacup with a spoon.

"Aside from my birthday... I bet you're all wondering why you're here. Very simply, I consider all of you my family. I've never really had a normal family gathering, thought I'd give it a go. It's a small thing, but it matters to me. I love all of you, even if some of you create way too much paperwork for me sometimes." A laugh as I side eye Clef and Myriad, the biggest offenders there. "You guys have made all the weird stuff bearable. Thank you."

"Hey, we're just one big anomalous family here, right? Besides, couldn't ask for a better sister, Rabbit. That being said, I know you said no gifts, but... I went ahead and got you one." Myriad passes me a small box, I open it. It's just a mug, black with our logo. But... under it is my new title, and a phrase I'll treasure... "Little Sister".

"Myr... you know what this means, right? You and TJ are both getting those light up Mario Star lamps on your birthdays now. Thanks. I needed a new mug, Liam kinda knocked mine over a while back."

"I, uh... also have something for you, but it's going to have to wait until later." I roll my eyes at Clef. I can only imagine. I feel my face getting warmer, just as Cain pops his head in.

"Hello, Little Sister! I was on my way back from a break, and just wanted to say a fast 'happy birthday' on passing." He blinks. "I think I missed something. I am not sure if I want to know. As I said, happy birthday." Off he goes. On that note, the party breaks up. Iris, Evie and I pack up the leftovers. Everybody gets a sampler platter, with a few spares for delivery. Hey, if 682 is cool with Evie, he gets birthday goodies too. Plus... even if things didn't exactly work with 049, I'm still fond of him. There's a few others too, like Abel and Dimitriov. Once that's done, it's time for Rabbit's Delivery Service to drop off care packages.

#scp foundation #tales from site redacted #dr snow #birthday fluff

[scotianostra]

November 23rd 1332, Edward Balliol formally acknowledged King Edward III of England as his feudal superior.

The third King Edward that ruled England in the medieval era, his Granddad, who we commonly call Longshanks, decided that the Scots owed him feudal allegiance, and intended to unite the two nations by marrying his son the future Edward II to the Maid of Norway, but when she died on her way to Scotland he decided to stick around anyway, Longshanks died on his way to “to sort us out” after the Bruce started his campaign to take back Scotland. Then his son, Edward took a sound beating at Bannocburn.

The third of the Edwards was more sneaky, while supporting Balliol’s attempts to take the Scottish crown, he had to abide by the The Treaty of Edinburgh–Northampton, which stated England would not breach our border, he got round this by supporting Balliol with an invasion by sea.

It was with this that the Second War of Scottish Independence began. Of course they were to bide their time and would strike when Scotland was in a weaker position, The Bruce had died in 1329, The Good Sir James Douglas the following year and it left Scotland with an infant King in David II. Thomas Randolph, The Earl of Moray ruled as regent.

Randolph died July 20, 1332 and the Scots nobility gathered at Perth where they elected Domhnall II, Earl of Mar as the new Guardian.

Meanwhile a small band led by Balliol had set sail from the River Humber. Consisting of the disinherited noblemen and mercenaries. They were commanded by Henry Beamont, who although born in France was related to the Comyns, another family with a fight to pick with those who ruled Scotland in the name of the House of Bruce, and the young infant King David II.

The invasion force landed at Kinghorn in Fife on 6th August. The news of their advance had preceded them, and, as they marched towards Perth, they found their route barred by a large Scottish army, mostly of infantry, under the new Guardian.

At the Battle of Dupplin Moor, Balliol’s army, commanded by Henry Beaumont, defeated the larger Scottish force. Beaumont made use of the same tactics that the English would make famous under the Hundred Years’ War, with dismounted knights in the centre and archers on the flanks. Caught in the murderous rain of arrows, most of the Scots never reached the enemy’s line.

When the slaughter was finally over, the Earl of Mar, Sir Robert Bruce (an illegitimate son of Robert the Bruce), many nobles and around 2,000 Scots had been slain.

Edward Balliol then had himself crowned as King of Scots, first at Perth, and then again in September at Scone Abbey. Balliol’s success surprised Edward III, and fearing that Balliol’s invasion would eventually fail leading to a Scots invasion of England, he moved north with his army.

In October, Sir Archibald Douglas, the new Guardian of Scotland, made a truce with Balliol, supposedly to let the Scottish Parliament assemble and decide who their true king was. Emboldened by the truce, Balliol dismissed most of his English troops and moved to Annan, on the north shore of the Solway Firth. He issued two public letters, saying that with the help of England he had reclaimed his kingdom, and acknowledged that Scotland had always been a fief of England. He also promised land for Edward III on the border, including Berwick-on-Tweed, and that he would serve Edward for the rest of his life. But in December, Douglas attacked Balliol at Annan in the early hours of the morning. Most of Balliol’s men were killed, though he himself managed to escape through a hole in the wall, and fled, naked and on horse, to Carlisle.

When Edward III shifted his attention to campaigning in France in 1337 Balliol’s position in Scotland declined rapidly and by 1339 he was an exile based in the north of England. Despite a brief comeback in the south of Scotland after the English defeat of David II at Neville’s Cross on 17 October 1346 Balliol’s fortunes did not improve and in 1356 he resigned to Edward III all rights he had to the crown and kingdom of Scotland. He received a substantial pension from Edward III and retired to Wheatley, near Doncaster, Yorkshire. He died in January 1364. Edward never married and died childless. The Balliol claim to the throne of Scotland thus ended.

#scotland #scottish history #Balliol #usurper #England #medieval history

[dejwrites]

older black people (more specifically the boomers) swear calling out their bigotry is disrespecting them. some of them can be so close minded when it comes to topics like lgbtq & respectability politics. like wrap it up miss shirley your generation full of infidelity & granddad earl being the father of different kids in four different households in the same block wasn’t any better.

#꒰ ა ♡ ໒ ꒱ — deja speaks.

[swirlwineconsulting]

What am I supposed to smell in this wine?

Your eyes are shut tight and your nose is dipped genteelly into your glass, seconds later your head lifts and you ask “What am I supposed to be smelling here?” “What do you smell?”. Alas, what I smell and what you and your table mate(s) smell are rarely the same, and guess what? It doesn’t matter.

Your wine came with a list of tasting notes including words like: Bing and dried cherries, tropical fruits, cedar, black raspberries and melon, even wet stone, leather, pencil lead and barnyard. You spend precious time that could be spent enjoying your purchase trying to find the experience the reviewer told you to expect. Are you confused, disappointed that you couldn’t discern what you were supposed to? Let it go and let’s move on to all you really need to know to “sacar todo el jugo” as the saying goes in Spanish- “get all of the juice out” of the experience.

Like most passionate students of wine (especially those seeking certifications and advanced degrees), I spend a great deal of time sniffing through spice cabinets, ethnic grocery stores and farmers market stands, blooming flowers and fruit trees, freshly mown grass and hay, the ocean breeze, the wet pavement after summer rain (petrichor), the earthy smell of an open field after a heavy downpour (geosmin). I smell the differences between Oolong, Earl Grey and Lapsang Souchong teas; between Italian espresso roast and Cuban coffee; between uncured and smoked bacon. In other words, I stick my nose into a lot of places where it doesn’t necessarily belong-also looking for signs of faults in a wine like: locker room, dirty laundry, geranium, rotten egg, burnt rubber, cooked garlic, or skunk.  I volunteer at a local farm to smell freshly-dug earth and the growth stages in the lifespan of heirloom tomatoes. I grow seasonal veggies and herbs on my patio so that I can enjoy the scent of my Meyer lemon tree in bloom and the lingering smell of tarragon on my fingers at harvest. Many wine lovers are also great cooks who recognize the variations in aroma of a ripe vs an unripe ingredient, uncut vs sliced, raw vs cooked or a fresh vs fermented one.  I recommend that anyone looking to more fully understand the vocabulary of wine begin by learning to smell, as many of the aromatic characteristics also reveal themselves on the palate.

For example, some well-ripened cheeses smell pungently of dirty socks. Not very appetizing to those who don't enjoy Époisses from France or Dutch Limburger but make sense to those who love them. The nuance of animal fat is especially prevalent in Syrah from France's Rhône Valley. A stone-like scent and flavor (some of us diehards have even licked the stones) are the hallmarks of Sauvignon Blanc from the Loire Valley, Champagne and Chablis. Many southern French reds hint at licorice. German Riesling often smells faintly of gasoline – in a good way.

The Wine Aroma Wheel is a helpful tool for learning to describe the complexity of wines by categorizing their characteristic aromas in relation to fruits, vegetables, flowers, minerals, animals, wood, oak and yeast, etc. However, none of this is very useful to someone unfamiliar with the aromas listed. Sadly, today’s supermarkets offer little help in identifying the scents on the wheel as most fruits and vegetables, especially imported tropical fruits (mango, papaya, guava, starfruit) were picked before prime ripeness and lack smell as well as flavor. I once told someone who didn’t like papaya that they most likely hadn’t had a local, fully ripened one. How many of us have access to fresh gooseberries, green almonds, persimmons or quince whether unripe or ripened? What about boysenberries and dragonfruit? Was that lychee fresh or canned? How many have plucked a fig or olive from the tree, can differentiate between the scent of iris, jasmine or lilac? Ever ride a horse or wear Granddad’s old leather bomber jacket?  Do you smell your shitake, oyster and maitake mushrooms? See what I mean? This is not a game for everyone.

Having a common language for winetasting allows people of diverse backgrounds to communicate fluidly. Learning the basics is desirable and can add fun when sharing wine with others; but should not be stressful for the average consumer. At a recent tasting of wines from Bourgogne and Bordeaux, a heavily Aussie accented presenter swirled the glass before handing a juicy red Burgundy to me. He raised his glass to his nose as I did mine and we both said, almost in unison “Horsehair!”. The scent took us both back to the memories of saddling up a freshly brushed horse, while also hinting at the wine’s age and vineyard location.  A connection was made. A Jamaican-American wine and food writer I know often refers to Barbados cherries, Marionberries, Hibiscus or Sorrel flowers and sea urchin. Do these hold any meaning for you? If so, enjoy these bonus associations when they occur, if not move on.

Detecting aromas is not a parlor trick or for showing off. Your server at a restaurant should be able to detect most faults in the wine before pouring.  Let them examine the cork and discreetly sniff for off odors. If an off-putting aroma or bad taste slips by them, let them know, trust your judgement that the wine shouldn’t smell like a wet dog or taste like your kitchen sponge. A faulty wine is generally identifiable, so if this occurs with a bottle you open at home, cork it up and return it to the vendor, if possible. For this reason, I never tell attendees in my classes what to smell or taste; rather to “feel the sensations” of the wine. The important elements of a balanced wine are in its acidity, tannin structure, residual sugar level, alcohol by volume (ABV%), mouthfeel – assets that most people can detect - tartness, sweetness or the lack of it, the heat of alcohol and the thin or thick texture on the palate. After all, what the average drinker wants from a glass of wine is enjoyment.

If you fancy yourself “not average” by all means join me in exploring all the good and bad smells associated with wine – otherwise, as my class descriptions advise “Smell, Sip, Taste, Enjoy” and leave it at that.

#wineeducation #winelover #winetasting #sommlife

[itsnothesameasitwas]

week [ 1 / ∞ ]

❁ take time to the stars by theweightofmywords @rockstarlouis | 5.8k | ABO

Staring at his darling daughter, in the middle of the pasta aisle, Louis found himself on the edge of a neurotic breakdown.

"It’s your birthday tomorrow! And your papa better not do anything to muck it up! Because your dada worked very hard to organise it! And all of your aunties and grannies and granddads and friends will be there!” Louis continued in a sweet sing-song voice that seemed to get increasingly frantic as he continued. “And if your papa is in rut, then what? What’ll we do, honey girl? Your dada will be too busy! And your papa will be too horn-”

“Louis,” Harry interrupted, touching Louis’ arm. “I’ll be okay. It’s probably not even my rut. I can appreciate you… all of you… even when I’m not in rut.”

Louis looked at him skeptically, imagining the shitshow that would be Harry in rut, surrounded by family and friends, at their child’s first birthday party. “I hope you’re right, H.”

❁ we should get jerseys by orphan_account | 12k

There’s a lot surrounding Harry, and Louis knows, in his heart of hearts, that there always will be. He just doesn’t know if he’ll manage to equate into the ‘always’ of it.

Harry is a hockey player, and Louis is his slightly melodramatic boyfriend.

❁ this is my jam by disgruntledkittenface @disgruntledkittenface | 4.5k

The guy’s eyes are so blue that Harry can’t tear his gaze away, even as he moves to the beat. The searing light shade is magnetic; he finds himself leaning in and yelling, “This is my jam!” only to earn a laugh from thin pink lips that Harry’s definitely going to be dreaming about tonight.

“Your jam?”

When the guy yells back over the music, his blue eyes sparkling and his lips twisted in a smirk, Harry’s chest literally puffs out with pride at earning his attention. His obvious approval. Tongue-tied, Harry nods and closes his eyes as he lets go, the music reverberating around them. All of the usual inhibitions that keep him in the corner at parties fall away and he bounces around the center of the dance floor, waving his arms above his head. Somehow his towel stays on, even as he starts to think he wouldn’t mind if it fell off. Fuck it. He finally made it here, he’s damn well going to enjoy it.

Harry goes to a gay bathhouse for the first time. 90s AU.

❁ Where's the Divide? by 2tiedships2 @2tiedships2 | 1.3k

Louis brings potato salad to Niall's barbeque.

❁ The Earl and His Duke by QuickedWeen @becomeawendybird | 52k

Lord Tomlinson, the elusive Duke of Leeds, has suddenly emerged in London for the first time in six years. He is believed to have been abroad. He is believed to have been widowed. He is believed to want to withdraw from society.

Harry doesn’t know what is true and what isn’t. He only knows that the older brother of one of his best friends is back in town to stay, and that time has taken him from merely the most beautiful man Harry knew, to the most handsome man to ever walk the earth. A man whose gaze probably still skips over Harry like he doesn’t exist the same way it did when they were young.

･:* if you want me to read your works do not hesitate to send them to me

#weekly fic rec #my fic rec #trackinghome #tracksintheam #trackinghappily #1dsource #not me starting a weekly fic rec akajskjaka SORRY (I’m not) I truly enjoy reading fics #and i like to do these posts too… it’s fun tbh #and these 5 fics are a small percentage of all I read lol #probably I need to stop because it’s too much (it’s never) but I love read kakakaka

[dont-touch-the-phlebotinum]

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Fairytales

Title: The Well at the Edge of the World

Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: M

Content Warnings: Temporary character death, attempted suicide if you squint

Summary: According to the stories, there is a well nestled in the foothills of the Blue Mountains, its waters capable of healing even the gravest of ailments. Many have gone in search for it over the years and been lost, fallen to the cold or slain by the witchers that lurk in the hostile north. So when, after one transgression too many, Jaskier's father sends him on that same impossible quest, it is surely an effort to be rid of him once and for all. Yet Jaskier is ever the optimist and, as it turns out, help can be found in the most unlikely places.

Jaskier had been only a boy when sickness had spread through Lettenhove. High up in the castle that looked down on the town sprawling below, he would have remained blissfully unaware of it all; the men with their sinister, pointed masks like ravens stalking the streets; the wagons carting their gruesome payload beyond the walls; the red crosses painted like blood on so many doors. Until it had claimed his mother.

He had gone to her, ready to tug on her skirts until she was following him outside to marvel at the leaves turning vibrant red as the summer died away, only to find her bed surrounded by physicians, and himself quickly ushered from the room. She was gone before the first autumn leaf fell, leaving Jaskier with nothing but her beautifully carved lute and the memory of a serene voice accompanying it.

Anella was in the castle by the year's end. And Jaskier's mother's lute was kindling when next the weather turned cold.

Jaskier watched them now, she and his father sat by the fire in the great hall smiling at Jaskier's half-brother Piotr as he read aloud, despite the hacking coughs that interrupted every sentence, already making plans for his birthday celebrations in the spring.

It was Jaskier's own birthday today.

The Earl met his eyes from across the room, his gaze turning sharp at the sight of Jaskier lingering in the shadows. "Why are you not in the kitchens?" he said.

Without a word, Jaskier turned to head back out of the hall. He had long ago learnt that there was no point attempting to argue with his father – though the urge did still sometimes get the better of him, often to his own detriment. It was probably for the best, then, that he spent so much of his time in the hidden parts of the castle rather than around the refined company the Earl kept.

"Oi," said a voice from farther up the dingy corridor that led to the kitchens, "little lord."

"Fuck off."

Ethel stepped out of the shadows to offer Jaskier a deep, mocking curtsey. Her dress clung slightly to her belly as she straightened – too many of Lenka's fig tarts, he reckoned. He had a hard time keeping from stuffing his face with them as well, especially now he spent most of his days in the kitchens, whether to help with the preparations for the endless banquets his father hosted, or to drink and play cards with the staff. Ethel was one of the scullery maids, a year or two older than Jaskier, and had been the one to show Jaskier the ropes when he had been ordered to scrub what had felt like half the castle, after he had let his tongue get the better of him.

She had shown him a few other things over the years, as well.

"Granddad wants to see you," she said.

Jaskier was quite certain the old man had no children, nor indeed grandchildren, of his own, yet he had worked at the castle for so long none of them had ever known another name for him. He was simply Granddad, the name spoken with varying levels of endearment, depending on who was addressing him. He was sat outside his cabin in the castle grounds when Jaskier found him, eyes closed to soak up the last rays of summer.

"People usually only want to see me when I'm in trouble," said Jaskier, as he came to join Granddad on his bench.

"The way I hear it, that'll be because you're usually getting yourself into trouble." He cracked an eye open to shoot Jaskier a knowing look, and Jaskier grinned back at him. "Got a gift for you, boy," he said. "Honour of your special day, and all that."

"You didn't have to."

Granddad waved a dismissive hand and sat forward to pull a wooden box out from beneath the bench. He nodded for Jaskier to open it.

Jaskier lifted the box into his lap and flicked open the clasps. Inside was a lute, not as ornate as Jaskier remembered his mother's being, but clearly well made, and still beautiful in its simplicity. He held his breath, as if he was afraid breathing near the instrument would somehow ruin it, and gently plucked at the strings.

"You made this?" he said, his voice thick with emotion, while he ran his fingers over the polished wood.

"Aye. Storm toppled your mother's tree last winter," he said, nodding to the spot where the yew tree Jaskier's mother had had Granddad plant long before Jaskier was born had once stood. "Couldn't think of a finer use for it."

"It's wonderful."

"You'd best learn to play it again now."

Jaskier nodded, gazing back down at the lute as Granddad gave him a too-hard pat on the shoulder and went back to his work. He pulled his lute out of the box, plucking experimentally as he wandered through the gardens and took a seat at his mother's spot. He didn't know where she had been buried – carted off with all the others to the plague pits, he suspected – but Jaskier always liked to imagine this was her grave. She used to sit for hours in this spot, a book or an instrument in hand while Jaskier played nearby.

In his mind, Jaskier had pictured himself placing his fingers on the lute and inspiration flowing through him, his muse awakened by the simple act of clutching an instrument in his hands, telling him exactly what he needed to do. Instead, he fumbled, notes twanging discordantly as he tried to determine what exactly he was supposed to be doing with his fingers and when.

His mother had always made this look so easy.

But he didn't give up. Jaskier sat there amongst the roses and the leaves turning yellow with the dying season, his tongue poked between his lips and brow furrowed in concentration as he practised, until it was too dark to see his fingers on the strings. The only lights guiding his way back towards the castle were the few left burning in the windows.

Ethel was there waiting for him again when he stepped back into the kitchens, his lute tucked under his arm. "Like your present?"

"I couldn't ask for a better one."

"That's a shame, then," she said. There was a mischievous glint in her eye when Jaskier cocked his head in confusion. She teased at the laces of her dress. "I suppose you won't want to unwrap mine now."

With a grin, Jaskier followed her into the shadows.

 .

He didn't see Ethel after that. When weeks had passed without catching even a glimpse of her saffron-coloured curls, Jaskier had grown curious enough that he was about to start asking around. He didn't have chance, however, before he was hauled before his father, sat stern and grey-faced in his council seat, Anella wearing a similarly sour expression at his side.

Jaskier sat down with a frown. It was hardly an unusual occurrence, of course, invoking the wrath of the Earl, yet Jaskier had been trying his best to keep his nose clean – or at least, keeping the knowledge of his exploits down in the Twin Bells tavern from his father. Since the Earl would sooner cut off his legs than set foot in that part of town, it was easy enough. Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, between them as his father's eyes, the same colour as Jaskier's own yet somehow so unlike his, stayed fixed on him.

"I'm sure by now you're aware of the girl Ethel's condition," he said finally.

"Condition?" Jaskier's eyes widened. "Is she sick?"

Anella snorted beside his father, as if she found something highly amusing. "It's a sickness, all right," she muttered. Then, to Jaskier: "the girl has found herself with child. She has of course been removed from service within the castle."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Come now, Julian; let's not play games," said the Earl. "Do you realise the harm it would do if word spreads that a Pankratz has fathered illegitimate children all over town?"

Jaskier gaped back at him.

"It is an embarrassment," agreed Anella. She turned to the Earl. "He cannot be allowed to remain in the castle." She spoke matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing something as commonplace as the arrangements for their next ball. As if Jaskier wasn't sat right in fucking front of them.

His father hummed in agreement.

"Hang on," said Jaskier. "You can't just turf me out. The child isn't even mine."

"And we're to believe that?" said his father.

"There was a boy in town Ethel was going about with as well. The blacksmith's ward. She said she thought they might marry next year."

Besides, Jaskier was well aware of the art of conception, and quite certain that the two of them had not engaged in that particular act for many months. Though somehow he doubted that detailing the various things they had been up to instead would improve the situation for him.

As it was, his father continued to stare back at him, unimpressed. And increasingly Jaskier was beginning to suspect that the outcome of this conversation had been decided long before he had even sat down.

Anella was the first to break the silent stalemate. "Perhaps," she began, cocking her head to one side as though a thought had suddenly occurred to her, "we could give the boy a second chance." Her eyes shifted to Jaskier's father. There was something coldly calculating within them. "On a condition, of course."

The Earl looked back at her. "Go on."

"Well, the boy has shown scant regard for the Pankratz name," she said. "If he were to somehow demonstrate his loyalty, to prove how much he cares about the family line, it may behove you to show clemency."

Jaskier looked between them. His father seemed to be considering the idea, at least. "What do you want me to do?" he said.

"Your brother's health continues to deteriorate, despite his physicians' care. Having exhausted all scientific avenues of treatment, it would seem our only option remaining is to explore those of a more mystical nature."

"Mystical?"

Jaskier frowned. He'd read books on all sorts of creatures and curiosities, but he was about as far from a mage as it was possible for a man to get.

"I'm sure you have heard the stories. There is a well far in the north of Kaedwen, at the edge of the world; its water is said to contain healing properties. They used to give it to young witchers to help them survive their trials. If you were to return with a pail, it would see your brother restored and secure the future of the Pankratz line. In return, I'm sure your father would be happy to forget this little indiscretion ever happened."

She met the Earl's eyes once again and they studied one another in silence, their expressions unreadable. Eventually, he gave a curt nod and turned his attention back to Jaskier.

"Make your choice, boy."

As far as Jaskier could see, it was no choice at all. He didn't say that, of course.

"I'll do it," he said.

And so early the next morning Jaskier had his bag packed and was stood in the courtyard making his farewells. His family was not among those gathered to see him off. Lenka pulled him into a tight hug, before thrusting a wrapped bundle into his hands. Jaskier lifted one corner of the cloth and grinned. Inside was a fresh batch of fig tarts.

"For the road," she said with a wrinkled smile.

Jaskier slung his lute over his shoulder and stepped through the castle gates. Despite the circumstances, he couldn't help feeling a ripple of excitement as he descended the hill into town. He had spent his life reading tales of other people's adventures, and here he was finally setting off on one of his own. There may not be dragons to slay and fair maidens to romance, but it was something, at least.

His feet paused at the entrance to the narrow lane which accounted for Lettenhove's least savoury neighbourhood. This point was the farthest he had ever strayed from home. Each step beyond it would be uncharted territory. Jaskier glanced down the lane towards the Twin Bells, still quiet and calm in the early morning, drunkards slumped over its tables yet to awaken to greet their hangovers. He smiled, and went on past.

As the houses grew farther apart and sprawling farmland replaced the maze of streets, Jaskier helped himself to a tart, and pondered how long his journey would take him.

The wide, cobbled road melted into one of dirt, and the dirt road became a narrow path of tamped down grass, and then even that too was swallowed up by the wilds of the countryside as Lettenhove shrank out of view behind him. Jaskier knew Kaedwen lay to the north-east, so that was the direction he headed. Where he had to go to find this mystical well once he had reached Kaedwen, he would have to discover for himself on the way.

He walked a meandering trail that kept him close enough to civilisation to bid each fellow traveller he encountered a cheery salutation, amusing himself in the quiet stretches between by imagining the adventures each was off to pursue.

He wondered if his own would prove the most exciting of them all.

 .

It didn't take long for Jaskier to learn that the stories of gallant knights and roguish adventurers he had devoured as a boy may have glossed over the rather less romantic aspects of the tales.

The food Jaskier had packed had lasted barely more than a fortnight, and once that was gone his coin quickly followed it. In its wake, Jaskier had taken to frequenting each tavern he passed. Usually he could charm his way into somebody's bed for a night, or at the very least get a good meal and an ale or two out of it.

During the long, lonely hours he walked each day Jaskier had been practising with his lute, until his fingers moved easily over the strings and he could piece together a half-decent melody, if he did say so himself. And so in the firelight and the chatter of each tavern he would get to his feet, clear his throat, and take it upon himself to entertain the patrons. It passed the time, and it earned him – well, not coin, sadly, but of the food that was hurled at him much of it was still just about edible.

He was finding his way to get by.

Now, Jaskier was sat hunched in the corner of a tavern even rowdier than the Twin Bells, surveying his bounty scattered on the table in front of him. Four ducats – his payment for shutting up, so the man had said as he'd pelted them at Jaskier – not nearly enough to pay for a room for the night, and a few stale bread rolls. He shoved them into his bag for the morning, and gazed back out of the window.

It was not yet winter, but Jaskier could feel its icy tendrils creeping ever nearer; the growing chill in the night air that kept him awake and shivering beside his pitiful campfire; the rain that pounded hard and cold against his skin as he walked on, soaking through his clothes until he was too despondent and uncomfortable to drown out the voice in the back of his mind telling him this had been a mistake. Through the window he could see the trees at the edge of the town swaying violently in the wind. He really didn't want to spend another night out there.

Jaskier glanced back around the room. Considering how appreciative they had been of his playing, he doubted any of his fellow patrons would take kindly to Jaskier attempting to seduce them. He wasn't sure he had the energy for it, anyway.

So with a weary sigh, Jaskier gathered his things and stepped back out into the cold, making his way through quiet streets towards the trees. Fortunately he had not yet encountered any monsters lurking in the woods when he made camp each night – though given the rather rotten state of his luck, he could probably expect that to change before too long. He found a sheltered spot within the woods and unfurled his bedroll, pulling his cloak tighter about himself as he settled down for the night.

It would be worth it, he told himself, once again. A little discomfort was a small price to pay for a good story.

 .

Jaskier had encountered his first snowfall within a few days of crossing the border into Kaedwen. A light dusting at first, just enough to lift Jaskier's spirits and have him gazing up at the skies with a smile to watch the flakes drift lazily to the earth, though the farther north Jaskier travelled, the heavier it fell.

He probably should have anticipated that before he left home. He might have had the good sense to pack some warmer clothes.

A shiver wracked his body as he watched the sputtering fire he had lit, waiting for the wood to catch. He was learning to tolerate the cold and the wet, and the hunger and the lack of sleep, though that didn't mean he'd not prefer to find himself with a thicker cloak and a roaring fire to warm him. And a hearty beer, and a hot meal in his belly. Perhaps a comely companion pressed to his side as well. He closed his eyes and smiled to himself at the thought.

It had been two days at least since he had laid eyes on another person. As he'd ventured farther into the heart of Kaedwen the distance between settlements had grown, and the travellers he passed were becoming rarer – and far less welcoming.

Staring out across the barren, snowy moor, he could understand why the people were as rugged as the landscape. Absently, he wondered if it was the harshness of the northern winters that hardened people, or whether people of a certain temperament simply found themselves drawn to Kaedwen. As he contemplated that idea, Jaskier pressed his feet closer to the fire and shivered once more.

At the next gust of bitter wind, his fire flickered and burnt out.

"Fuck," sighed Jaskier.

He hauled himself to his feet and trekked over to the solitary tree clinging feebly to the banks of the Gwenllech. One good storm and it was sure to go crashing into the river. Jaskier snapped off every last branch he could sever and turned back to his camp, though before he could set to rebuilding his fire, he spotted movement in the distance.

A wagon on the path, drawing closer.

Leading it was a hunched, grizzled-looking man, of the type who had proved to have little patience for Jaskier long before he had set foot beyond Lettenhove's borders. But Jaskier had never let that deter him in the past, and was certainly not about to do so now.

"Good sir," called Jaskier as he raced towards the wagon. The man came to a reluctant stop and stared back at Jaskier balefully. "Might you be able to aid a weary traveller on a quest of utmost significance?"

The man's face didn't change, and nor did he say anything. Jaskier pressed on before he could.

"I have been entreated to seek out a fabled well in the foothills of the Blue Mountains, its waters pure enough to cure any ailment."

"I heard of it," the old man said. He sounded about as impressed as he looked, which was to say, not at all. "Not known anyone to go lookin' for it for a long time."

"Do you know where I might find it?"

"It's in witcher country, boy. You're best staying well away."

"I thank you for the warning, sir, though I fear I must continue on," said Jaskier. Besides, he had nothing to fear from a witcher. He was no foul beast, nor in possession of anything of value that a witcher might be compelled to steal in absence of a contract.

Of course, they might see fit to kill Jaskier before they made the attempt to rob him, in which case Jaskier would most certainly be doomed. Best not to think about that possibility.

The man sighed, but he jutted his bristled chin northwards. "Follow the river 'til you can't no more. You'll come to it in time. Best hurry though," he added, "before they turn in for the winter. Their sort don't take too kindly to folks sniffing about in their neck o' the woods."

With that, he spurred his haggard draught horse on, trundling along the path without a parting word or glance.

Jaskier was too used to it by now to take offense. Besides, he had got what he'd been after. With renewed purpose he made his way back to his little camp by the river, but rather than rebuilding his fire and settling in to await the coming sunset as he had planned, Jaskier quickly gathered his belongings. There were perhaps a few hours left before the evening grew too dark to see; Jaskier could make good progress in that time.

He set off to follow the river.

For the next week, Jaskier kept the icy path it cut through the landscape in sight as he walked for as long as he was able each day, too exhausted to be kept awake by the cold each night, until the terrain grew steeper and the rocky ground on either side of the Gwenllech too difficult to traverse. He found himself straying farther and farther from the river just to find a way through the increasingly hostile environment.

But he didn't stop. He could feel the end of his quest within reach.

 .

Legs heavy and feet throbbing with cold and pain, Jaskier stumbled through the trees, his breath misting in front of him with every rattled gasp that left him. He was well into the mountains by now, the snowy ground so steep it was taking more effort than Jaskier could muster just to keep himself upright.

When he got back to Lettenhove, Jaskier was going to sleep for a month.

He closed his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. If he imagined the hot bath he planned to sink into upon his return hard enough, perhaps it might bring some feeling back to his frozen extremities. He would need to stop soon – the sun had already sunk below the mountains, and Jaskier could not risk a misplaced step in the darkness – but he pushed himself on just a little farther. He could see vague shapes beyond the trees. Another few minutes and he would reach them.

The woods came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a village. Or rather, what had once been a village. There wasn't much left but the blackened, crumbling remains of a handful of stone huts now. Jaskier's steps slowed as he walked through the ruins, an eerie silence in the air that had Jaskier holding his breath, like he was afraid to disturb the place by making a sound.

He considered what could have happened here; who had lived in the village; whether they had escaped before it had been turned to ash. It looked almost as if the place had been scorched by dragon fire, though Jaskier had only ever heard of such an event in legends. Certainly the creatures were rare enough that word of one burning villages to a crisp would surely spread across the Continent like, well, dragon fire.

Before he could ponder the nature of dragons any further, Jaskier's gaze drifted to what must have once been the village square, and caught. In its centre was a well.

This had to be the place. It was the only thing close to civilisation Jaskier had found since he had reached the mountains. Jaskier scrambled towards it, dropping his things to his sides as he pressed his palms to the snow-topped wall surrounding it, and peered down into its shadowy depths.

He had expected there to be a little more fanfare accompanying this moment, but given the state of his surroundings, perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised to find it absent. There would be celebrations enough when he returned home, he supposed.

Jaskier had to throw his body weight behind him as he pushed at the winch just to get it moving, stiff after untold years of disuse, but once he had freed it he was able to lower the bucket without too much difficulty. With each push he listened, and waited, wondering just how deep the well was.

He soon had his answer. Instead of the splash Jaskier was listening for, there was the dull thud of the bucket hitting something solid. And another, when Jaskier tried again.

"No, no, no," said Jaskier to himself. He hadn't come all this way just to find the well fucking frozen.

In the debris of the ruined village Jaskier picked up the largest fragment of stone he could find, staggering back to the well to drop it into the depths. A moment's pause, and then that same awful sound. The ice remained intact.

"Fuck!"

He dropped to the ground, his back slamming too hard against the side of the well, the snow soaking through his clothes, but he couldn't bring himself to care about either. Hot tears stung his eyes, and Jaskier did nothing to try and keep them from falling. He was too shattered to hold back his frustration any longer.

Like a dam had burst somewhere deep within his chest, it hit him: all the misery and anger and hopelessness he had been trying so desperately to ignore, and all Jaskier could do was sit there and sob.

His father would not let him home without a pail of the well's healing water. And Jaskier could not wait months for it to thaw. With no food, no coin, and no friendly faces to offer him aid, he would be dead long before that. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he questioned whether that had been his parents' plan all along.

In the morning, Jaskier was sure he would have the energy to devise a way around this new, unfortunate quandary, but for tonight, he was content to sit and wallow in misery. He had damn well earned it. And so he cried, and he cursed at his father and the gods and himself, and when he had calmed down again he scrubbed at his eyes with the ragged sleeve of his doublet and looked up.

His heart seized in his chest.

Stark against the darkness, its steps silent, a pale grey wolf was prowling through the snow towards him.

Jaskier pressed himself back against the well – though what good he thought it might do him, he didn't know; the wolf was already looking right at him – and he held his breath as the wolf stalked nearer. The creature was beautiful, Jaskier had to admit. Even if it was the reason he was about to pass out from sheer terror.

The wolf came to a stop barely a stone's throw away from Jaskier's feet. Its eyes didn’t leave Jaskier's, almost seeming to glow in the darkness, but instead of lunging for Jaskier's throat it simply sat and watched him. Somehow, that almost seemed worse.

"Well," breathed Jaskier, as he and the wolf continued to stare at one another, "as far as deaths go, I suppose it's better to go out quick than waste away in the cold." He swallowed. "It can't be all bad, if it'll help keep you fed for the winter."

Jaskier closed his eyes and took his final, shaking breath, waiting for the rush of air as the wolf pounced, and the pain of sharp teeth sinking in to his throat.

"What are you doing?"

He cracked an eye open, then the other. The wolf was still sat watching him – perhaps it had been tamed as a cub and had simply been waiting for its master to join them? – and, satisfied for the moment that he wasn't at immediate risk of being eaten, Jaskier glanced around for the owner of the voice he had heard. He saw no-one.

If it had been a trick of his own mind, Jaskier would have thought the voice to be familiar, not the low, rumbling growl he had heard, which was surely not the kind of voice his mind would readily decide to supply. Unless…

Slowly, Jaskier's gaze turned back to the wolf in front of him. It blinked its yellow eyes as if in response.

"Well now I have most certainly gone insane," said Jaskier. Perhaps all of this was a particularly bizarre dream he had slipped into, and he would wake up come morning curled at the base of the well mercifully intact. Or better yet, back in his own bed in Lettenhove, having never set foot through its gates.

"If you're trying to extract water from a frozen well, you are," said the voice.

Jaskier couldn't see the wolf's mouth move; rather, the words seemed to take form in Jaskier's mind, yet there was no other creature around who could have put voice to them. He wondered if this was a skill that all wolves possessed, gone unnoticed because any who strayed close enough to hear did not live to tell the tale.

He also wondered if he was being utterly ridiculous.

"All right, no need to get nasty," Jaskier found himself saying, though, again, he couldn't find a logical reason why. Talking to a wolf, which may or may not have been talking back, was without question the strangest thing Jaskier had ever done.

"I can help you."

Jaskier blinked. "What?"

"You want to get to the water," said the wolf. "I can show you another way to reach it, if you'll grant me a favour in return."

It seemed an offer too good to be true. And Jaskier was surely capable of working this out on his own, rather than finding himself indebted to a creature that would probably be quite glad to take a bite out of him. But what if Jaskier couldn't find a way to complete his quest? He was already cold and hungry and exhausted; what harm could there be in accepting an offer to end this now?

"Anything," Jaskier replied.

A brief nod of its snowy head, and the wolf was standing, walking away without waiting for Jaskier to join it. Jaskier scrambled to collect his things and hurried after the wolf. It led him through a narrow valley, scraggy trees clinging to the steep rock on either side making it so that Jaskier had to hunch down to keep himself from being scratched to pieces, though the wolf strolled through unhindered.

"What's your name?" Jaskier said as they made their way… somewhere.

The wolf said nothing – which, really, shouldn’t have been something worthy of note. How quickly Jaskier's view of the world had been turned on its head. But then, he supposed, was a wolf that could talk really that strange in a world filled with monsters and magic?

"My name is Jaskier. Julian, really, but only my parents call me that. They are the ones who sent me here. I don't suppose they're expecting me to actually come back, but I'll certainly find it satisfying to prove them wrong. Can all wolves talk, by the way, or are you just special?"

The wolf paused and glanced back at him. And if wolves could give withering stares, Jaskier was quite sure he was staring back at one. He had to remind himself that this was a creature capable of killing him without a modicum of effort, but even then, Jaskier had trouble remembering he was supposed to be scared.

"Oh come on," he said. "This is the first time I've had a proper conversation with someone in weeks."

"This is a proper conversation?"

"Well, your communication skills could use a little polishing, but I'll take what I can get."

The wolf turned back to the path – such as it was. Clearly this was a passage used by creatures of the four-legged variety rather than anything resembling a human. "Wolves can't talk," it said after a quiet moment.

"So what are you, then?"

"Something else."

They came to a stop at a narrow opening in the mountainside, just wide enough for a man to squeeze through, which was fortunate. Jaskier followed the wolf inside. The moonlight did not follow him in turn.

"Watch your step," said the wolf.

"That would be a good deal easier if I could actually see anything." He pressed his hand to the cave wall, the rock cold and jagged beneath his palm, and fumbled forwards in the darkness.

The ground sloped downwards beneath his feet, but it was a relatively smooth surface, only the occasional rock jutting up out of the earth to try and trip him. He did catch something long and thin with his boot which rolled away with a suspiciously hollow sound, and then another a few minutes later. Jaskier didn't let himself imagine what they might be.

"Is this where you live?" he said.

He should have known better than to expect a response.

Perhaps it was Jaskier's eyes finally adjusting to the dark, but he could swear the cave was growing lighter around them while they descended. He could actually make out the vague shape of his hand against the wall now, and ahead the wolf's pale fur was just visible in the gloom. As the light grew brighter, Jaskier looked up and saw it: dotted all over the ceiling were clusters of innumerable softly glowing insects, casting the cave in an ethereal bluish glow. It was magical.

"I've never read about these," said Jaskier. The cave seemed to glitter as the insects moved, and he stared up at them in wonderment. "What are they?"

"A nuisance, for the most part."

Whether that assessment was true or not, the creatures lit the way – and yes, those were definitely bones Jaskier was stepping over. Gods. He turned his attention back up to the ceiling.  And it wasn't long before Jaskier could hear the faint trickling sounds of moving water.

Finally they came to the end of the cave. They stepped into a chamber just big enough to be comfortable, a narrow stream cutting through it, and Jaskier dropped to his knees. He sunk his hands into the water, just to make sure it was real. It was delightfully frigid as it swirled around his fingers.

"Oh, I could kiss you," said Jaskier. "Though I imagine you wouldn't take kindly to that, would you?"

"I honoured my end of the bargain," said the wolf, and when Jaskier gazed over his shoulder towards it the creature was sat looking at him, waiting.

"You did," said Jaskier. He pulled his hands out of the stream and turned to face the wolf. "What do you want from me in return?"

"I want you to kill me."

The words took a moment to sink in. The silence hung heavy and awful after they had.

"What?" Jaskier managed in the end. Surely he hadn't heard right, or had misunderstood, perhaps. There had to be some explanation forthcoming that would make sense of the request.

"You said you would do anything."

"I'm not going to kill you," said Jaskier. "Why would you even ask such a thing?"

"We made a deal. You are honour bound to uphold it."

Jaskier shook his head. "Ask me to do something else."

"This is all I need."

"Why?"

He could feel tears gathering in his eyes again, and the wolf ducked his head beneath Jaskier's arm. For a moment Jaskier thought it was to comfort him, until he felt the gentle nudging at his hip, right where his dagger was tucked into his belt. The wolf nosed it free and it clattered to the ground by Jaskier's hand. It sat back and met Jaskier's eyes again.

"Please," said Jaskier. The tears spilled down his cheeks. "Please don't make me do this."

The wolf just stared back at him.

"I could run."

"You wouldn't get far," said the wolf. It nudged Jaskier's hand until he felt cold metal touch his skin. "Think of it as a kindness."

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut as his hand lingered over the blade. "Tell me you're certain," he whispered.

"I'm certain."

With a slow nod, Jaskier unsheathed his dagger. He dragged the back of his hand over his wet cheeks, trying desperately to keep his breathing steady as he shifted closer to the wolf. Its fur was soft and warm beneath his fingers when he reached out for it.

The wolf stayed stock-still, not even breathing, much like Jaskier had when he had thought himself for this fate. Bile rising at the back of his throat at the thought of what was to come, Jaskier plunged his knife in.

"I'm sorry," he breathed as he lowered the wolf to the ground, and Jaskier lay down beside it, heavy sobs wracking his body.

He fell asleep like that, his face buried in the wolf's fur, its body gradually going cold in his arms.

 .

The ground was cool and hard beneath him when Jaskier awoke, the cave lit by that dim blue glow of the creatures undulating overhead, and awareness came back to him slowly. Jaskier didn't bother to move once it had. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to gaze down at the lifeless wolf at his side just yet.

It hardly felt like what he'd done had been worth it.

He could still hear the stream trickling, taunting, nearby – yet there was something else alongside the sound, he realised. A soft, slow breathing.

Jaskier sat up.

Beside him was a man, his hair the same snowy grey as the wolf's fur had been, lying naked as the day he was born and – well. Jaskier averted his eyes when he realised they had begun to wander. He tugged off his cloak and draped it over the man's rather considerable bulk to stop his shivering.

The moment the fabric touched his skin the man's eyes were snapping open, and he shot upright with a growl, teeth bared. Jaskier scuttled backwards until his back hit the cave wall. Somehow, the wolf had seemed less threatening.

He needn't have been too concerned, however. The man didn't seem to even notice Jaskier was there. Instead he blinked a few times, trying to orient himself, before looking down at his body as if he had never seen it before. He touched a cautious hand to his skin. Skin that was covered in scars, Jaskier noticed. And one ugly red wound in his side, fresher than all the others.

"It's you, isn't it?" said Jaskier.

The man looked up at him then. His eyes were yellow.

"Geralt," he said. The word came out rough, but even coarse from disuse the voice was unmistakeable. He pulled Jaskier's cloak around himself and, reminded of Geralt's nakedness – though quite how he could be expected to forget that sight, Jaskier didn't know – Jaskier fumbled for his bag.

"Here," he said.

He tossed Geralt a shirt and spare pair of trousers. They may not be the best fit, but it was certainly better than nothing in the cold. As Geralt pulled Jaskier's shirt over his head, Jaskier eyed the medallion around his neck, the one thing that seemed to have survived his transformation. There was a wolf's head on it – which seemed especially cruel given the state Jaskier had found him in.

"Are you a witcher?"

He gave a curt nod.

"I've never met a witcher before."

"I've never met anyone who talks this much."

"'Thank you, Jaskier, for helping me out of my terrible predicament,'" said Jaskier, since apparently Geralt wasn't about to do so himself. "'What a noble, selfless act you have committed, despite the intolerable pain it caused you to sink that blade into my flesh.'"

Geralt's lips twitched; not quite a smile, but from the grizzled look of him it might be the closest he came to it. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome."

Jaskier sat back, definitely not watching from the corner of his eye as Geralt stood to climb into Jaskier's trousers. They were a little short in the leg, and tight all over, which sent a ripple of heat through Jaskier's veins, though they would do until they could find Geralt some clothes of his own. Jaskier hoped Geralt might have some ideas how to go about that, since Jaskier didn't have the means to source much of anything these days.

"So what happened to you?"

Geralt sat back down, his back against the wall opposite Jaskier, and closed his eyes for a moment. Even under the softening effects of the cavern's glow he looked exhausted, and Jaskier contemplated just how much the transformation had taken out of him. He draped his cloak back over Geralt, and Geralt didn't shrug off Jaskier's fussing.

"Took a contract to get rid of a golem that had been causing trouble," he said. "The mage didn't take too kindly to me destroying his creation."

"So he cursed you?"

Another nod.

"I read a book about curses once," said Jaskier. "I didn't sleep for a week afterwards, I was so afraid I'd wake up to find various bits falling off, or turned into lizards or some such."

Geralt's eyes were still closed, but that little smirk was back on his face. "You've read about a lot of things, I'm guessing."

"If you'd ever spent time in Lettenhove, you'd know that there really isn't all that much else to do. How did you know me killing the wolf would turn you back?"

"I didn't."

Jaskier blinked. "Oh," he said, then: "Is that the only reason you helped me?"

"There's nothing special about the water," answered Geralt, and he tossed a stone into it with a satisfying plop that echoed about the cavern. "I don't know where that stupid story came from."

And with that, the last lingering glimmer of hope in Jaskier's chest was extinguished. He couldn't find it in himself to feel hurt by Geralt's actions, though. If he had been placed in the same position, he'd have few scruples about using a stranger to get what he wanted, either.

When he looked up again those curious yellow eyes were on him. There was something soft in them that made Jaskier want to move in closer.

"What is it?" said Geralt.

"I'm just wondering what I'm supposed to do now. My father will never let me back home without it."

He could defy his father's expectations and return with the pail, though it would of course do nothing to improve his brother's health. And it would be all too easy for his parents to then make the claim that Jaskier had simply spent all this time cadding about, before returning with a pail of the first water he came across. He would be out on his ear once again within weeks.

Or he could tell them the truth, and pray that they might just believe him.

"Why do you even want to go back?" said Geralt.

What kind of question was that? Jaskier didn't say that out loud, of course. Geralt was a witcher; Jaskier was fairly certain they didn't have homes or families at all, so he could forgive Geralt's lack of understanding.

"Well, where else would I go?"

"Anywhere."

"Is that what you do? Just wander the Continent, looking for adventures wherever you might find them?"

"Something like that," said Geralt.

Jaskier pondered that for a long, quiet moment.

Anywhere. He rather liked the sound of it.

Looking back at Geralt, it was easy to imagine him a solitary figure on the road, nothing but an endless landscape of possibility stretching out before him. Jaskier felt a small pang of sadness at the realisation that Geralt was sure to go straight back to that life now, and Jaskier would be left in his wake to… well, Jaskier didn't know what he was going to do.

Silence settled over them while Jaskier lost himself in thought, though it wasn't an uncomfortable one – which was odd. Usually Jaskier found any stretch of calm, no matter how brief, to be utterly excruciating. But he was content for the moment to allow the quiet to stretch on, despite the endless questions brimming up inside him, desperate to get out. He could hold on to them for the moment.

"When did you last eat?" said Geralt, suddenly, and Jaskier stared back at him in confusion. "I can hear your stomach growling."

"Oh. Well yes, it has been rather longer than I'd prefer. My hunting skills have proved somewhat lacking, unfortunately."

Geralt was up then, tossing Jaskier's cloak aside as he swept to his feet with far more grace than one would expect of a man who, until very recently, was incapable of walking on his hind legs. "Come with me," he said.

Jaskier grabbed his things without a moment's hesitation. "Where are we going?"

"Home."

They made their way back up through the cave, out of the darkness into too-bright midday sunlight, and Jaskier gazed over at Geralt to take a proper look at him. He was beautiful, in a rugged way which Jaskier had always happened to find particularly appealing, his face tilted up towards the sun to feel its distant warmth on his skin.

After a moment, Geralt's eyes met his. "What?" he said, though from his tone Jaskier suspected he already knew.

"Nothing. Are you sure you're fit to travel?"

"Fit enough."

Jaskier followed Geralt as they climbed even higher into the mountains. Geralt didn't speak much, though he did offer various grunts in response to Jaskier's ever-growing list of questions, which Jaskier supposed was probably about as much as he could hope for. And as the day wore on and the climb grew more strenuous, Jaskier found himself too busy for much conversation anyway, his attention focused on clinging on lest a poorly placed foot send him down the sheer rock face at their side.

The trek alongside the Gwenllech was but a leisurely stroll compared to this.

How Geralt, barefoot and hardly in peak condition after what he had been through, could manage the climb without complaint, Jaskier couldn't understand. He'd have asked if he had had breath to spare.

Eventually the path widened enough that Jaskier no longer felt at risk of imminent death, and after a long pause to catch his breath, Jaskier looked up. An immense fortress loomed in the shadow of the mountain's highest peak; battle-worn, vast sections of its stone walls collapsed and neglected, yet still magnificent in its own way.

Jaskier had read about the sacking of Kaer Morhen, of course, though he had never imagined the keep still remained.

He looked over at Geralt, who was gazing up at the ruined keep as if he'd never seen anything so beautiful. "How long has it been?" said Jaskier.

"Years."

Jaskier reached a hand out to give a reassuring squeeze to Geralt's wrist. He didn't know what possessed him to do it – surely anyone who dared to reach for a witcher without express permission had a questionable sense of self-preservation, or at the very least wasn't particularly attached to all of their extremities – but Geralt only smiled at him in response.

They carried on, up into the courtyard of the keep and through the heavy wooden doors of the building itself. "This way," said Geralt, and he led Jaskier through the fortress into the kitchens.

The hearth was lit, though the flames were dying down as if they had not been tended to for some time. Still, it was more than enough for Jaskier's purposes, and he hurried across the room to warm his frozen hands while Geralt loaded more food than Jaskier had laid eyes on in months onto a plate for each of them.

Geralt took a seat and pushed the other plate towards Jaskier without a word.

"Thank you," said Jaskier as he dragged a stool over to sit beside Geralt, and Geralt shrugged in response.

Jaskier ate with a gracelessness that would have given his father apoplexy to witness, though Geralt was hardly about to judge him for his lack of manners when he was tearing into his food with equal vigour beside him. And as they ate, Jaskier allowed his gaze to wander around the room; the supplies both familiar and otherworldly piled atop the tables lining the walls; the staircase disappearing into the shadows that he could see through an open door; a silver of more snowy courtyards visible through the narrow slit of a window.

Maybe Geralt would show him around before Jaskier made his way back out into the world. It would be improper, perhaps; Jaskier didn't know the rules on whether or not non-witchers were really allowed inside the fortress, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity right here in front of him. It would be remiss of him not to even ask. He might wait until Geralt had filled his belly before broaching the subject, however.

Beside him, Geralt straightened without a sound, his eyes fixed on the door as he climbed to his feet.

"What is it?" said Jaskier, but Geralt didn't seem to be listening. Not to Jaskier, at least.

A moment later the door pushed open, and a man stepped into the kitchens, quiet as the dead. There was a sword clutched in his hand, though the moment his eyes went to Geralt he slipped it back into the sheath at his belt.

"Thought you were dead, lad," he said, rather more causally than Jaskier felt the situation should really warrant, and he turned to collect the large bundle of firewood he had obviously set down outside at the sound of an apparent intruder. The man looked far too old for such heavy lifting, yet he handled the bundle with ease.

"Cursed," replied Geralt. As if the word could possibly encompass the entirety of his ordeal.

The old man simply nodded in response. His eyes flicked to Jaskier then. "You're the one who found him, I take it?"

Jaskier hastily wiped his hands on his trousers and rounded the table to outstretch one towards the man. "Jul–" he began, before quickly swallowing the sound. His father's name meant nothing up here. "Jaskier," he said instead.

"Jaskier," the man repeated, like he was committing the name to memory. He gave another short, sharp nod before turning to set down his logs by the fire. Jaskier dropped his hand back to his side.

"This is Vesemir," Geralt said to Jaskier, with an amused twitch of his lips. He looked back at the old man. "Eskel and Lambert?"

"Still alive, last I heard. Should be along before the pass closes."

He stoked the fire until it swelled and crackled merrily, and straightened to take in the sight of Geralt and Jaskier once more.

"You boys look like you've been through it," he said. He was not one for overstatement, apparently. "Go get some rest. We can swap stories in the morning."

"I can find my own way," said Jaskier as Geralt moved to show him back out into the great hall. "You must be desperate to reconnect with your…" He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Vesemir, who was now effortlessly lifting an enormous pot into place above the fire.

Jaskier wondered how strong Geralt must be if this was what an elder witcher was still capable of, and then promptly tried to stop himself imagining it.

"There's time enough for that," said Geralt. He led Jaskier up through the keep, Jaskier's gaze trying to travel over everything at once as they walked, until Geralt pushed open a door and stood back for Jaskier to step inside.

The fire roared to life as Jaskier stepped into the room, chasing away the cold and the dark. It wasn't a space of creature comforts; none of the rugs or tapestries or various accoutrements that decorated the many bedrooms Jaskier had visited in his life, but still there was the sense of it being home. There were books in neat piles on the tables; collections of glass vials with different coloured contents dotted about the room; a blanket draped over the chair by the fire, as if waiting to be wrapped around someone – and all of it covered in a thick layer of dust.

"This is your room?"

Geralt nodded. "You can sleep here. I'll sleep in Eskel's room."

"Stay a while," said Jaskier, before Geralt could disappear back out of the room. He was still hovering in the doorway like he was afraid to step inside. "I wouldn't dream of kicking you out of your own bedroom when you've gone so long without being able to even set foot in it."

That little half-smile which Jaskier was becoming quite fond of pulled at Geralt's cheek again, and he stepped forward. Perhaps wisely, they both decided to steer clear of the moth-eaten old chair, instead making themselves comfortable on the floor in front of the hearth, the flagstones warmed by the fire.

Geralt's gaze drifted over the room, and Jaskier watched him take it all in with a smile of his own.

"How does it feel to be home?"

"Surreal," said Geralt. He looked back at Jaskier after a moment. Jaskier hadn't been able to look anywhere else since they had sat down. "I owe you."

"For what?"

He shrugged, minutely. "Saving me."

"Well in that case, I should say we're even," said Jaskier, "because I think you might have saved me as well."

Geralt's hand brushed over Jaskier's wrist, fingers callused but gentle, and Jaskier felt a shiver run through him at the touch. "Can I kiss you?" said Geralt.

"I'd take great offense if you did not."

He pressed his lips to Jaskier's. The kiss was hesitant, but soft, and Jaskier closed his eyes ready to sink into it, to commit every moment to memory before the world pulled them in different directions once more. He didn't have chance to, however. Geralt was moving to pull back already.

Well, that just wouldn't do at all. Jaskier wasn't nearly done with Geralt yet.

He caught Geralt by the front of his shirt to close the distance between them again, his hands sliding to cup Geralt's cheeks as he deepened the kiss. Geralt hummed against his lips. His own hands came to rest on Jaskier's sides, impossibly warm and slowly drifting lower.

Gods, Jaskier wanted to feel them everywhere. For someone who was years out of practice, Geralt certainly had a knack for making a man weak in the knees.

With Geralt's hands still roaming delightfully, Jaskier shifted forward into his lap, pressing his hips against Geralt's to try and bring some relief to the growing ache there. A moan rose up from his lungs, and Jaskier didn't bother to try and suppress it. He could feel Geralt's own desire pressing firm against his.

In the end, Geralt was the one to break their kiss. He gazed up at Jaskier with dark eyes while Jaskier panted above him. "It's been a long time," he warned.

"Do you want to slow down?"

A growl rumbled deep in his chest, low enough to leave Jaskier feeling more than a little like prey about to be devoured. Jaskier wondered if that was some part of the wolf yet to be fully shaken, or if Geralt was always like this. One thing was for sure: Jaskier was looking forward to finding out.

"No," said Geralt, and in one swift, dizzying movement he was up.

Jaskier scrabbled at his shoulders to hang on, his legs wrapping tight around Geralt's hips as Geralt's hands moved to Jaskier's arse to hold him up. Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Bed?" said Jaskier. "Not that I'm opposed to being slammed up against a wall and ravished, but it has been rather a long day."

Geralt silenced him with another hungry kiss as he carried Jaskier towards the bed. They fumbled to rid one another of their clothes, hands and mouths eager to explore, and when Geralt had finally finished teasing Jaskier with his fingers and lined himself up to push inside, there wasn't much Jaskier could do but cling on for dear life.

 .

Afterwards, Jaskier lay wrapped in the warm embrace of Geralt's arms, luxuriating in the deep, satisfying ache that radiated out from his core. "Now that was something," he said. He still couldn't feel his toes.

With his nose tucked behind Jaskier's ear, Geralt rumbled happily at his side. His hand stroked a lazy trail up and down Jaskier's chest, heedless of the sticky mess they had both made of him, and while they lay there in comfortable silence Jaskier gazed up at the ceiling, watching the shadows elongate as early morning sunlight gradually crept through the window.

They really should get some sleep.

With considerable difficulty, Jaskier tore himself from Geralt's side and climbed out of bed. He hissed as he shuffled across the room.

"Sore?" said Geralt. There was a playful grin on his face when Jaskier looked back at him.

"Don't sound so pleased with yourself."

He snatched up Geralt's discarded shirt – or rather, his own discarded shirt, though Jaskier was quite happy for Geralt to hold on to it at this point – to clean himself up, and moved to toss it over to Geralt to do the same. Before he could, however, Jaskier's eyes landed on the window and the view beyond it.

"Oh," he breathed, taking a step closer without being fully aware of it. "Would you look at that."

Outside, what looked like the whole world stretched out before him, the pale pink sunrise casting everything in gossamer light. The valleys and crags of the Blue Mountains were blanketed in glittering white on the higher ground near the keep; the forests a thick, dark green sprawling as far as the eye could see beyond it.

Behind him he could hear Geralt shifting on the bed to face the window. "Never gets old," he said, his voice fond.

"I can believe that."

Jaskier could stare out at that view for a lifetime, could compose a thousand poems about its beauty and still have more to say, more to discover. He pressed his fingertips to the cold glass, hopelessly transfixed.

"The pass will be blocked for the winter before long," said Geralt, and when Jaskier forced his eyes from the window he found Geralt's own already fixed on him. "If there's somewhere else you want to go, we'll have to prepare to leave soon."

"We?"

Geralt nodded.

"But you'll not be able to come back if you leave with me now."

He shrugged. "I'd rather see you home safely," he said, though his gaze was on the view, as if he was as loathe to be parted from it as Jaskier was. After a long moment, he looked back up at Jaskier. There was something almost hesitant in his eyes before he spoke again. "Do you want to go back to Lettenhove?"

Jaskier looked to the view again. It was impossible to make out landmarks far in the distance, yet still he wondered if he was looking back at Lettenhove; at his family high up in their castle, mourning for Jaskier, perhaps, or affecting an appropriate display of grief at least. He gazed out at everything that laid between him and that place, that life, at all the other paths he could take instead, and finally he stepped away from the window.

Jaskier climbed back onto the bed, pressing a soft kiss to Geralt's lips before settling in at his side once again.

"I think I'd rather stay here with you."

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #sugar and spice witcher bingo #geraskier fic #the witcher fic #the witcher #otp: fuck off bard #my writing

[okletsgoalltheway]

RFK Jr.'s speech at the Defeat the Mandates rally on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial last Sunday was a fierce and riveting invective against the Dark Powers that his family has faced for generations. He has shown himself in these past two years to be every inch an heir to the legacy of his father, uncle and grandfather.

https://rumble.com/vtcbiy-rfk-jr.-scathing-speech-before-the-lincoln-memorial.html

As President John F. Kennedy faced down his great enemy, the CIA, who ultimately defeated him in life, but his honor and his power remain intact. What stands in rags and tatters, in which all too many Americans are still dressed, is the Warren Commission's shabby fiction, which includes then future Senator Arlen Specter's "magic bullet" that supposedly made seven wounds in two men, and then still-Texas news anchor Dan Rather describing the Zapruder film while describing it showing exactly the opposite of what it did show, which is that Kennedy's head went "back and to the left", as Kevin Costner repeated over and over in Oliver Stone's movie "JFK", puppet Rather saying, repeatedly, "his head could be seen to move violently forward" (see a clip of that travesty in the comments).

Bobby's dad, Robert Francis Kennedy, Sr., was removed from the scene immediately upon winning the California Democratic primary, essentially guaranteeing him a path to the White House, because if he entered that office he would be able to lay his hands on all the information that would prove that his brother was murdered by the CIA. Jack had fired Allen Dulles as director thereof, Dulles who with his brother John Foster Dulles amounted to the two greatest traitors in American history, was put in charge of the Warren commission (although nominally under Chief Justice Earl Warren), essentially investigating himself and finding himself not guilty.

Bobby has not been shy about naming the man who actually killed his father — it was not Sirhan Sirhan, but Thane Eugene Cesar, a CIA asset and security guard at Lockheed Martin, the greatest weapons manufacturer in the world, who was hired as a security guard at the Ambassador Hotel where Bobby Sr. died ONLY AFTER his speech was scheduled to take place there. He was standing behind the senator, whereas Sirhan Sirhan was in front and on the other side of a steam table a good 6 feet from the senator. None of his bullets struck RFK. The coroner of Los Angeles County, the largest County in the United States, whose name is Thomas Noguchi, declared in the death certificate that the senator died from a bullet in the right mastoid promontory of the skull, that is, directly behind the right ear, with a contact shot such that the muzzle of the gun was touching his skin when it was fired and powder burns were present on his skin around the entry wound.

Of course, the official story has never been corrected.

As Churchill's historical personhood was magnified by the scope of his enemy, German Chancellor Adolf Hitler, so Jack's mighty shadow is glorified if not deified by his great enemy and that of his whole family: the CIA, and the military in which he served with great distinction during World War II, but whom he defied in preparing the pullout from Vietnam, for which cause he was murdered. (Don't touch the war machine — that's the apple of their eye!)

During the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the world came the closest ever to nuclear annihilation, Bobby as his Attorney General created a path of negotiation with Russian First Secretary Khrushchev, himself a reformer, who was politically assassinated himself, that is, confined to perpetual house arrest. These were negotiations that defused the crisis. But let me quote from Chairman Khrushchev’s memoir, quoting Ambassador Dobrynin:

"Robert Kennedy looked exhausted. One could see from his eyes that he had not slept for days. He himself said that he had not been home for six days and nights. 'The President is in a grave situation,' Robert Kennedy said, 'and does not know how to get out of it. We are under very severe stress. In fact we are under pressure from our military to use force against Cuba. Probably at this very moment the President is sitting down to write a message to Chairman Khrushchev. We want to ask you, Mr. Dobrynin, to pass President Kennedy's message to Chairman Khrushchev through unofficial channels. President Kennedy implores Chairman Khrushchev to accept his offer and to take into consideration the peculiarities of the American system. Even though the President himself is very much against starting a war over Cuba, an irreversible chain of events could occur against his will. That is why the President is appealing directly to Chairman Khrushchev for his help in liquidating this conflict. If the situation continues much longer, the President is not sure that the military will not overthrow him and seize power. The American army could get out of control."

(I strongly urge the reader to follow this link and read the whole page by Jim Hirschberg of the National Security Archive — link in the comments)

Listen to Bobby Junior’s muscular denunciation of the current incarnation of that Dark Force that means us NO GOOD AT ALL, and see if you don’t agree with me that he’s every inch the heir of his uncle, grandfather and father.

[silverhallow]

The Bridgerton grandkids definitely called their granddads “Grandpie” as toddlers and their grandmama “grandmie” . It’s so cute, whenever they do something naughty, they look at them with little pouts and doe eyes and are like “Grandpie/Grandmie please don’t be mad”

So…

The Earl is gamps, toddler Charlie struggled… it’s why Benedict is Pappap

Lady Sarah is Tanty S (they struggled to say Aunti…)

Mary is Nana Mary to Sophie’s lot and Grannie for Kate’s

Miles for all kids is Grampy

Edmund is grandpie or Pie for short…

Violet is grandmama but gamie for Short when they’re little..

Sophie gets Sopi from all the kids par her own

Benedict is Ben (or Benni)

Anthony is Anty

And Kate is Kitty….

Edwina gets Edi

And Posy gets Pose or popo from Charlie

#a million dreams #ash’s asks #ask ash #ash’s asks and answers

[ideasfromanotherapocalypse]

I have a soft spot for Monster in the Garden because it does a fantastic job at making Craig’s granddparents feel like people whose pasts inform their characters. Jojo Williams is a lifelong political activist who has become a city councillor, but still clearly has problems with the way the world is. Her husband Earl is a retired engineer who is frustrated by the way that old age is starting to stop him from doing the things he loves. Unlike a lot of cool grandparents in cartoons, this pair doesn’t feel like a bunch of stereotypes stapled together. It feels like real thought went into how their past has led them to where they are now and the challenges faced by retirees.

What I find especially impressive is that neither conflict is resolved by Craig, but that this doesn’t feel cheap. The anxieties Craig’s grandparents face aren’t the kind of things a kid can or should be expected to solve, but they are the kind of things they notice. By letting Craig’s story move on from them and focus on an issue he can fix (stopping whatever’s been breaking into his granddad’s vegetable patch) it both empowers him and models a functional family by showing that kids don’t need to solve all the adults issues for them. It’s an approach I’ve not seen much in kids shows, which often seem to depict kids as doing far more damage control than they should reasonably be expected to in real life.

#craig of the creek #craig williams #jojo williams #earl williams #i gush about Craig of the Creek for significantly too many words

[anniviech]

‘Tis the Season

Characters: Donna Noble, Wilfred Mott, Shaun Temple Rating: G Summary: {"And then sometimes I see this look on her face, like she's so sad, but she can't remember why." - Wilfred, The End of Time.} Sometimes even the most ordinary of everyday occurrences throw Donna Noble off balance. [AO3]

"Excuse me? Ma'am?"

Donna blinked, looking at the cashier in front of her in momentary confusion. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Will that be all?" the cashier asked, obviously repeating herself.

"Oh. Yes, thank you," the redhead replied absentmindedly with a weak smile.

Right. She'd been buying a bottle of wine on the occasion of her six month anniversary with Shaun, deciding to treat them to a finer wine than their budget usually allowed, before apparently spacing out again while listening to the faint Christmas music playing in the background.

Getting her wallet out, she paid for the wine and made to leave the shop, trying not not to feel too awkward about the incident as she fished the car keys out of her jacket pocket.

Last night's dream must've caught up with her again. She'd already been a bit lost in thought when entering the shop, the day overshadowed by the brooding and hollow feeling the vague images from it had left her with. (Something about a wedding dress made out of spiderweb, before losing something?)

So Donna Noble once again found herself thrown off balance by a dream she couldn't even really recall – how stupid was that?

And if it wasn't by some strange, vague dream of things she couldn't quite put her finger on after waking, then she'd react to something she'd hear in passing on the telly or radio, or an unassuming sight catching her eye, spacing out and making her feel things she couldn't explain. Fear. Sadness. Loss. Mostly loss, spotlighting a gaping hole inside her soul that nothing seemed to be able to fill, and smothering the fiery attitude people liked to tell her she had in its wake.

It was ridiculous sometimes, really.

Like seriously, who tore up over the sight of a silly old Police Box standing on the side of a street? She'd never forget the embarrassment from the moment she'd spotted one of those after existing the tube station on Earl's Court during an errand for her temping agency, unable to take her mum's car that day; when for some barmy reason she'd been mesmerised by the sight of the tall blue box, finding her feet taking her towards it and her shaking hand reaching out for the door – just to find it locked, of course, and bursting into tears after she'd tried knocking on it, a wave of unimaginable loss crashing over her and threatening to swallow her whole when no reaction had come and the door remained closed.

In the middle of the flipping street! With dozens of people giving her funny looks.

Just thinking back to it made her head throb in a reminder of the splitting headache that had accompanied her for the remainder of the day back then, as if the embarrassment hadn't already been bad enough. (Why the idea to knock on the thing had even crossed her mind in the first place was forever going to be a mystery to her.)

Things had seemed to get better for a while, especially after meeting Shaun, but lately Donna found those odd little moments increasingly occurring again.

Maybe it was the season. A lack of sunlight and more sleep - and thus more chances to dream - due to the shorter days, or something along those lines? Silly how a season that was supposed to create a joyful atmosphere made her melancholic, without any apparent reason.

Getting into the car, she decided to push those thoughts aside and made her way home. A nice hot bath and a cup of that calming tea Mum had given her ought to relax her again; there'd be plenty of time for that before Shaun came home from work.

Entering their small two-room flat, Donna turned on the lights in the living room and placed her handbag and a bag containing some groceries and the wine on the couch, before making her way to the bathroom where she turned on the tap to run a bath and the heating up. Once that was taken care of, she got the grocery bag and took it to the tiny kitchen, putting most of the contents into the fridge, before finally preparing a mug with the desired tea. But as soon as she turned the kettle on, the kitchen went dark, with the sound of the fridge turning off.

Great. Looked like she'd tripped a fuse.

They'd already tripped one not too long ago, after some of their neighbours had put up holiday lights in their windows and likely on trees inside. Looked like the old building they lived in couldn't quite handle the additional strain of the Christmas spirit - something they seemed to have in common, she thought wryly.

Heaving a great sigh, feeling her mood spiralling further downwards, Donna turned the water in the bathroom off before going to the fuse box in the narrow hallway. But once she'd opened the small panel in the wall covering it, she found herself at a loss. Last time Shaun had taken care of it, so she'd never before looked inside the fuse box herself until now, not having any reason to. Which was why she now found herself at a loss as she stared numbly at an unlabelled row of round knobs instead of the tiny switches she had been expecting.

What the hell was she supposed to do with those?

Flicking switches that were on the opposite direction of the other ones was easy enough, but this? She couldn't see any real difference in the knobs, so she couldn't even tell which was the wonky one – and even if she knew, what would she do with it, anyway?

She cautiously tried pulling one of the knobs, but it wouldn't move. Trying to curb rising frustration, she tried pulling at another one, but it it didn't move either. Nor could she press them in, or anything.

Letting her hand fall back down, Donna let out a hollow scoff.

Here she was, not even able to check a fuse.

She had to do something about it, though, because the food in the freezer might start to defreeze before Shaun came home, and then they'd have to throw it away, and they couldn't really afford such a waste with Christmas coming up. And wouldn't that make a lovely anniversary gift.

Swallowing down her pride, Donna went to get her phone out of her handbag, looking through the contacts until she found the number she was looking for.

"Donna! How are you, love?"

"Hey Gramps."

Something in her voice seemed to give her away, because Gramps’ own voice instantly went from joyful to worried.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, just... A stupid fuse at home went off, and I can't seem to fix the bloody thing. I mean, it's not the usual kind, so I don't know what to do with it. And I can't leave it like that until Shaun returns, because the fridge and freezer are without power, and today of all days I really can't afford that. I just–"

A sob cut her off, surprising herself, and she covered her mouth with her free hand as she felt a new load of emotions overcome her.

"Donna, slow down, love, it's all right."

"No it's not all right, Gramps," she retorted in a wobbly voice, feeling an overwhelming urge to let it all out, her mouth running ahead of her. "We can barely afford planning on any presents this year because I can't find a proper job, and the one time I decide to indulge a little to celebrate our anniversary and to cheer myself up because I had a bad day, this happens. And it just–" Cutting herself off to take a breath, she finally added more quietly, "I'm useless, Gramps."

"No, Donna, don't say that."

"I am. I can't even check a fuse. And it makes me angry, because I feel like I should be so past such a little thing, and I don't even understand why! I've never seen these things before, so why do I feel like it should not even be a problem at all, like I'm disappointing myself?!"

"Donna..."

"I don't even feel quite like myself anymore... Like, why is everything about the season making me sad now? There was this song on the radio in the shop today, you know, the one they play every year, what's it called again... 'Merry Xmas Everybody', I think. And I totally spaced out on it? Felt like I should be somewhere else, doing something else, like there should be... more than this. Why can't I be happy with what I have, Gramps?" she asked, voice wavering again. "I have Shaun. We have our own flat, and things are going so well between us – so why do I feel like I'm still missing something important...?"

"Oh sweetheart..."

Her granddad's voice sounded as hollow as she felt, and Donna felt instantly bad for bringing this up and bothering him with her problems.

After a second, he added quietly, "We have to do something about that..."

Frowning in confusion while wiping a tear away, Donna asked, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, just, you know..." Gramps replied, sounding like he hadn't meant to speak out loud, before trailing off into silence.

That happened often lately; he'd start saying something just to change his mind midway and change topics. Or she'd catch him giving her those long and odd looks. Maybe her mood swings had been more obvious than she'd thought.

"You shouldn't feel sad on Christmas," he finally said.

"I know, and I didn't mean to worry you, sorry. It was just a long day and I'm exhausted, my mood ran off with me. I just need that stupid fuse fixed, and then I'll be all right."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Well then, tell me what has you so mystified."

Donna went on to describe the fuse box to him, learning that it contained an old type of fuses, and agreed to pick Gramps up and have him show her how to fix it as they'd likely have to replace a blown one, kissing the idea of having a bath before Shaun came home goodbye.

By the time she arrived at her old home Donna felt a lot calmer, and she quickly picked her granddad up who'd been waiting basically ready to leave so they could cut down the time her mum had to nag. Once they replaced the fuse in her flat with one of several he'd kept at home, he stayed until Shaun arrived, talking with her over a cuppa and some telly, successfully keeping her mind off more brooding.

After driving Gramps back home while Shaun had gone for a quick shower and hugging him goodbye at the door, her granddad's hands lingered on her arms as he looked her over.

"Things are going to be fine, sweetheart."

"I know," she replied, not sure she really believed the sentiment but still appreciating his caring.

"We'll make it fine."

Donna smiled in reply, before getting back into the car. She gave her granddad a small wave from behind the window, watching him return the gesture, before driving off.

Maybe he had the right idea and she just had to make things fine.

She'd start by making sure she and Shaun had a great night celebrating their anniversary – and maybe consider some plans for their shared future.

#Donna Noble #Wilfred Mott #doctor who #oh hey #I noticed I hadn't posted this oneshot here yet #and since it's the season again why not share this jolly piece of melancholic introspection? :D #(I actually wrote it last year during the holidays so I guess the timing now with them nearing again is just fitting :P) #anni fic

[scotianostra]

November 23rd 1332, Edward Balliol formally acknowledged King Edward III of England as his feudal superior.

The third King Edward that ruled England in the medieval era, his Granddad, who we commonly call Longshanks, decided that the Scots owed him feudal allegiance, and intended to unite the two nations by marrying his son the future Edward II to the Maid of Norway, but when she died on her way to Scotland he decided to stick around anyway, Longshanks died on his way to "to sort us out" after the Bruce started his campaign to take back Scotland. Then his son, Edward took a sound beating at Bannocburn.

The third of the Edwards was more sneaky, while supporting Balliol's attempts to take the Scottish crown, he had to abide by the The Treaty of Edinburgh–Northampton, which stated England would not breach our border, he got round this by supporting Balliol with an invasion by sea.

It was with this that the Second War of Scottish Independence began. Of course they were to bide their time and would strike when Scotland was in a weaker position, The Bruce had died in 1329, The Good Sir James Douglas the following year and it left Scotland with an infant King in David II. Thomas Randolph, The Earl of Moray ruled as regent.

Randolph died July 20, 1332 and the Scots nobility gathered at Perth where they elected Domhnall II, Earl of Mar as the new Guardian.

Meanwhile a small band led by Balliol had set sail from the River Humber. Consisting of the disinherited noblemen and mercenaries. They were commanded by Henry Beamont, who although born in France was related to the Comyns, another family with a fight to pick with those who ruled Scotland in the name of the House of Bruce, and the young infant King David II.

The invasion force landed at Kinghorn in Fife on 6th August. The news of their advance had preceded them, and, as they marched towards Perth, they found their route barred by a large Scottish army, mostly of infantry, under the new Guardian.

At the Battle of Dupplin Moor, Balliol's army, commanded by Henry Beaumont, defeated the larger Scottish force. Beaumont made use of the same tactics that the English would make famous under the Hundred Years' War, with dismounted knights in the centre and archers on the flanks. Caught in the murderous rain of arrows, most of the Scots never reached the enemy's line.

When the slaughter was finally over, the Earl of Mar, Sir Robert Bruce (an illegitimate son of Robert the Bruce), many nobles and around 2,000 Scots had been slain.

Edward Balliol then had himself crowned as King of Scots, first at Perth, and then again in September at Scone Abbey. Balliol's success surprised Edward III, and fearing that Balliol's invasion would eventually fail leading to a Scots invasion of England, he moved north with his army.

In October, Sir Archibald Douglas, the new Guardian of Scotland, made a truce with Balliol, supposedly to let the Scottish Parliament assemble and decide who their true king was. Emboldened by the truce, Balliol dismissed most of his English troops and moved to Annan, on the north shore of the Solway Firth. He issued two public letters, saying that with the help of England he had reclaimed his kingdom, and acknowledged that Scotland had always been a fief of England. He also promised land for Edward III on the border, including Berwick-on-Tweed, and that he would serve Edward for the rest of his life. But in December, Douglas attacked Balliol at Annan in the early hours of the morning. Most of Balliol's men were killed, though he himself managed to escape through a hole in the wall, and fled, naked and on horse, to Carlisle.

When Edward III shifted his attention to campaigning in France in 1337 Balliol’s position in Scotland declined rapidly and by 1339 he was an exile based in the north of England. Despite a brief comeback in the south of Scotland after the English defeat of David II at Neville’s Cross on 17 October 1346 Balliol’s fortunes did not improve and in 1356 he resigned to Edward III all rights he had to the crown and kingdom of Scotland. He received a substantial pension from Edward III and retired to Wheatley, near Doncaster, Yorkshire. He died in January 1364. Edward never married and died childless. The Balliol claim to the throne of Scotland thus ended.

#Scotland #england #second wars of Scottish Independence #history