roasted goose

Love Doesn’t Discriminate (Part II)

Word Count: 4329

Authors Note: So this is part two of our collab Beauty and the Beast AU, Lin x Reader fic. We’re very excited to be sharing this part with everyone and we hope that you enjoy it.

Part I

“Goodbye, Papa! Good Luck!”

You yelled after your father as he and his invention traveled to the fair, which you were sure would make him the world-famous inventor that he wanted to be.

“Goodbye (Y/N), and take care while I’m gone!” Jefferson yelled as he steered Icarus and the cart away from the house.

Normally the route to the fair was long and tedious, just barely interesting enough that he didn’t fall asleep at the reins. But he was alone this trip, with just Icarus to keep him company. So when he found what he thought to be a shortcut to get there faster, he took it, despite Icarus protesting the entire way.

A sudden movement in the woods beyond the small gravel path caused Icarus to back up, his eyes wide and scared. At the sudden wolf howl, the back of the cart rammed into a hollow tree, and the bats residing within took flight obscuring Jefferson’s vision as he encouraged the horse to go.

Keep reading

When the Loops went weird

Welters Challenge: Week three, the Unseen

  • The loop when the Beast struck early and enjoyed a delicious, endless feast of roast goose. Honk honk pass the gravy. 
  • That one loop where the Beast, getting bored of the repetitions, curses Brakebills to be a musical. Constant singing and dancing. Some people passed out from exhaustion. Though, we all know the Physical kids throw the best musical parties, and we all know who takes centre stage.
  • The loop where they all became furries. We don’t speak of that iteration.
  • Three loops in a row which ended in first Quentin and Eliot, then Quentin and Penny, and lastly Quentin, Eliot, and Penny, not learning anything because they were too ‘busy’. Aka Quentin is easily waylaid by pretty boys with great chest hair and/or great cocktail making skills.
  • The loop where Dean Fogg made Brakebills an all-girls school, aside from Quentin, because in the previous loops he kept getting too distracted by Penny and Eliot.
  • The loop where the gang fall through the wrong fountain in the Neitherlands and spend the day in Narnia before jumping out. 
  • Another loop where Alice, Penny, and Kady had the drunken threesome instead, and Quentin was just jealous that she got to touch Penny and he didn’t. 
  • When someone designed a magical version of Pokemon Go and no one got anything done for a month. Martin won. He caught ‘em all. 

I don’t know if this counts @thewelterschallenge, but I wanted to contribute something… at least just for the lame lols. 

ethandarke316  asked:

Do you know any traditional Celtic dishes for yule? Everything I found so far is just generic Christmas-y treats and someone adding a star or something and calling it Celtic.

Indeed I do, my friend! I have three lovely cookbooks in my collection which I highly recommend on the subject:

  • Celtic Folklore Cooking (Joanne Asala)
  • Witch in the Kitchen (Cait Johnson)
  • The Food and Cooking of Ireland (Biddy White Lennon & Georgina Campbell)

Celtic Folklore Cooking includes an entire section in the index on dishes for Yule. The Food and Cooking of Ireland has a number of feast-worthy recipes, and a very informative foreword which describes the holiday traditions celebrated in Ireland today. Witch in the Kitchen has a lot of tasty vegetarian options for any occasion year-round.

Dishes for Yule include:

Stay tuned, I’ll be posting the recipes for all of these throughout the day!

TPLoSH and the Shspesh Trailer

The curved pipe

Watson mentions The Hounds of Baskerville case

In my lifetime, I have recorded some sixty cases demonstrating the singular gift of my friend Sherlock Holmes – dealing with everything from The Hound of the Baskervilles to his mysterious brother Mycroft and the devilish Professor Moriarty.

The dog one? 

Do you mean The Hound of the Baskervilles?

Opening onto street


Mrs. Hudson greets them after a long extended stay

It was August of 1887, and we were returning from Yorkshire, where Holmes had solved the baffling murder of Colonel Abernetty.

Mrs. Hudson complains of no warning of their arrival

I do wish you’d give me a little more warning when you come home unexpected. I would have roasted a goose – and had some flowers for you.

Mr. Holmes. I do wish you’d let me know when you’re planning to come home.

Holmes gives his excuse while brandishing things

My dear Mrs. Hudson – criminals are as unpredictable as head-colds. You never quite know when you’re going to catch one.

I hardly knew myself Mrs. Hudson. That’s the trouble with dismembered country squires - they’re notoriously difficult to schedule.

Watson’s stories are complained about

Oh, come now, Watson, you must admit that you have a tendency to over-romanticize. You have taken my simple exercises in logic and embellished them, exaggerated them…

I never enjoy them.

Well I never say anything do I? According to you I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfast.

Watson blames the illustrator

That’s not my doing. Blame it on the illustrator.

Oh, blame it on the illustrator - he’s out of control!

BoJack Horseman Christmas Special sentence starters

65 starters
feel free to change gender pronouns
content warning: alcohol mention

  • [singing] “Joy to the world, _____ is here! He drank up all your beer!”
  • “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I startle you with holiday cheer and good will towards man?”
  • “I just had this terrible dream that you were a person that existed and that you were in my room for some reason. And then I woke up and it was true.”
  • “Oh shit, is it, like, our anniversary of that one day that I forgot to tell you how annoying you are?”
  • “_____, it’s Christmas!”
  • “Well, don’t get too excited. I didn’t get you shit.”
  • “When you were passed out, I used your credit card to buy me this new hat. Merry Christmas to me.”
  • “_____, special holiday episodes are always stupid.”
  • “Eggs sunny-side up, just like you like ‘em. The hash has been thoroughly browned, and your pancakes have extra chocolate chips. Any questions?”
  • “I gotta say, I’ve never understood the appeal of fashionable clothing.”
  • “Trends come and go, but give me a pair of sensible winter socks, and for years to come, I can keep my footsies toasty.”
  • “What’s a… Christ… mas?”
  • “What’s a Christmas? Only the most wonderful time of the year! You hang up stockings, sing carols, and wait up for Santa Claus.”
  • “What’s a Santa Claus?”
  • “Santa Claus is the best. He’s this jolly old fat man who lives up at the North Pole, and every year he flies all over the world, leaving presents for all the good boys and girls.”
  • “We get presents just for being good?”
  • “That’s too much, man.”
  • “This Santa Clause guy sounds like a real piece of work.”
  • “I’m just trying to get ahead so I don’t have to work on Christmas this year.”
  • “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were flirting with me.”
  • “Go home, _____!”
  • “Since when does Santa wear sunglasses?”
  • “Alright, _____, are you ready for the big surprise?”
  • “A tree inside the house? Now I’ve seen everything.”
  • “Are you gonna keep talking? 'Cause I’ll just pause it.”
  • “You’re getting into it, aren’t you?”
  • “You have to watch cheesy old holiday specials on Christmas. It’s tradition.”
  • “Things don’t become traditions because they’re good, _____. They become good because they’re traditions.”
  • “Still can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
  • “But, uh, listen. I’m actually working for Santa, as one of his helpers, so anything you say to me I can relay to the big man himself.”
  • “Is there anything you want to ask Santa for? Now’s your chance. Anything you want.”
  • “I don’t think you’re getting this whole Christmas thing.”
  • “Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind a Pretty Pony Princess playset.”
  • “This is gonna be the best Christmas ever!”
  • “Are you gonna interrupt every five minutes? Because I will ask you to leave.”
  • “No one should be alone on Christmas. Did we learn nothing from John McClane in Die Hard?”
  • “I just hate that he’s making you work on Christmas.”
  • “I’m being really good just so there’s no confusion for Santa over whether or not he should make my Christmas wish come true.”
  • “And we’re sure Santa can’t bring people back from the dead?”
  • “How desperate do you think I am? You are really scraping the bottom of the barrel with that one.”
  • “You can’t have cookies without milk. That’s like Wang without the Chung.”
  • “Wow, this present shows you really care.”
  • “And cue the waterworks in 30, 29, 28…”
  • “I hate Santa Clause and I hate trees and I hate you and I hate Christmas!”
  • “_____, I screwed things up. I got so excited trying to make you excited, I forgot the true meaning of Christmas.”
  • “Christmas isn’t about getting everything you want. It’s about being around the people that care about you.”
  • “I did everything right. Why wouldn’t Santa Claus want me to be happy?”
  • “You said Santa Claus is always watching, so if he’s watching, why doesn’t he help us? Does he enjoy watching us be sad? Is that how he gets his kicks?”
  • “Are we all just pawns in Santa’s sick game? What kind of pervert is he?”
  • “Oh no, Santa’s watching us right now! I’m sorry, Santa!”
  • “You can’t be good just 'cause you think some fat guy in a red suit is gonna bring you presents. You have to be good just to be good.”
  • “Maybe it’s just because I’ve never had a Christmas before, but this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”
  • “Well, I guess everything turned out okay.”
  • “I know, it’s really just another day in a year full of days, nothing all that special about it other than the significance we give it, but still, I’m glad I got to spend part of the day with you, _____.”
  • “Hey, after we watch [insert name of show], can we make holiday cookies?”
  • “Can we sing carols?”
  • “Can we roast a Christmas goose?”
  • “Can we play dreidel?”
  • “Can we get a tree?”
  • “Can we be visited by three spirits?”
  • “Can we be visited by three kings?”
  • “Can we go outside and make snow angels?”
  • “What snow? It’s 72 degrees out.”
  • “Can we make driveway gravel angels?”
  • “Can we drink eggnog?”

soliloquy-of-nemo  asked:

I havent gotten around to my ask yet (partly because I dont have a clue how to flirt...) Élise tells Arno she's pregnant. This writinf clealry

“Elise? Cherie, is something wrong?” Arno asked, in that endearingly oblivious way of his. The little smile, the tilt of the head. “You haven’t touched your food.”

Elise flushed, ducking her head a little. She reached for her wine glass. Picked it up. Set it down again. On her plate sat a cutlet of roast goose, cooked to a perfect golden brown, with a rosemary garnish. It was one of her favorite dishes as a child.

Now, just looking at it made her nauseous.

But she forced a smile on her face anyways, hoping it didn’t look too green. “Oh, no, nothing’s wrong, Arno. Everything is just…divine.”

Perhaps sensing the hesitation in her voice, Arno set down his knife and fork. A line formed between his brow. “Goose is your favorite, isn’t it? I thought you’d be diving right in.”

“Oh, it is,” Elise nodded, as that nagging thought pulled up in her mind again. Tell him, it whispered. You have to tell him. He’s going to figure it out eventually. Might as well get it over with. “It’s just, ah, I’m not feeling quite like myself as of late.”

“Did something happen?” Arno frowned. “Leon told me you called for the doctor the other day, but I never heard what came of it. What did he say to you? Are you ill?”

“N-no, I’m not ill,” Elise swallowed, and she too set down her utensils, folding her hands under her chin and trying to make herself look Arno in the eye. Why was she so nervous? This wasn’t bad news. Unexpected, perhaps, but not bad. She shouldn’t be so coy. “He just told me something rather…unexpected.”

“Unexpected?” Arno quirked an eyebrow. It was enough to make her smile, but nothing to calm her nerves.

Just get it over with.

Elise took a deep breath, planting her hands on the table. “Arno. I’m pregnant.”

Arno had opened his mouth to reply, but as soon as she spoke, his jaw was left hanging. Clearly this was not what he thought he was going to hear.

He blinked at her, mouth still open. Elise failed to swallow a nervous giggle. “Please tell me you’re not upset.”

“U-upset?” Arno spluttered, shaking himself out of his stupor. “Why would I be upset? E-Elise, this is the best news I’ve ever heard! Mon dieu! How long? I mean, how-how are you–?”

“Eleven weeks,” Elise replied, cutting through Arno’s helpless faltering. He had  risen from his seat and was now pacing his side of the dinner table, running a hand through his hair, a wild grin painting his face. It looked all the more brilliant in the warm candlelight. “Or thereabouts. I noticed I’ve been feeling odd these past couple weeks, my favorite foods no longer appetize me, and I’ve been craving banana for some reason…”

“Banana?” Arno threw her a strange look. “Where are we going to find bananas? Its not the right season.”

“Arno,” Elise chuckled, shaking her head. “It’s just a silly craving, there’s no need —”

“Of course there’s a need!” He threw out his hands. “You’re my wife, and I can’t force you to eat things you can’t stomach. I’ll find you a banana if its the last thing I do.”

“It better not be,” Elise gave him a teasing look. “We still have to decide on names.”

“Oh, of course!” Arno slapped his forehead, and  started to ramble to himself. “A name! Well, two names, at least. Don’t know if its a boy or a girl — or it could be twins! Oh, I don’t think I’m ready for twins…”

“Arno, Arno!” Elise called his attention back to her. Elise was starting to wonder if it was a good idea to tell him like this. Arno was getting worked up, anxious, to caught up in the moment that he didn’t know how to focus. “It’s fine, Arno, we have plenty of time to prepare. A step at a time, oui?”

Arno took a deep breath, released it in a gust. Took a moment to recompose himself, before coming around, taking Elise’s face in his hands and giving her a small, sweet kiss. “Ah, ever the wise one. Where would I be without you?”

“Not married to a Templar, I imagine.”

“Right, but where’s the fun in that?” He replied with a grin. “I’ll go send Leon after those bananas.”

I didn’t know how to end this lol, but just imagine excited, hapless Arno wanting to do everything for his wife and unborn child. He just wants everything to be perfect :3

With Snow Upon the Ground

Hello, @zoe1078, it’s your no-longer-secret-santa. I hope you like this first installment of three for your secret santa fic. I’m definitely curious to know if you had an inkling that I was your secret santa after having been so blindsided myself. Massive thanks to the amazing @moghraidhjamie for organizing this secret santa thing (it cannot have been easy and you have done a phenomenal job!). 

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground.

December 25, 1767 12:01 am

Claire didn’t usually wake once she’d fallen asleep for the night––not since they’d started settling the ridge and every moment of the day was spent securing food and provisions, reinforcing their shelter, and otherwise preparing to endure what was shaping up to be a rough first winter. The first snow had fallen early before quickly melting away, but despite Jamie’s reassurances that they wouldn’t have a more significant snowfall until at least January, Claire had lived twenty years in Boston and knew the way the air felt when snow was coming.

At first she thought that it was the wind that had roused her––a harbinger of what lay ahead. She slipped from bed, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders and shivering as her feet made contact with the freezing floor. It wasn’t possible to see the night through the oilskins Jamie had used to cover the windows so she shuffled her way out of their small bedroom and into the larger main room of the cabin.

Ian lay curled with Rollo on the floor before the hearth. It was the warmest spot in the entire cabin and both slept deeply oblivious even to the noise Claire made as she lifted the latch on the door and peeked out at the moonlit night.

It was quiet and still. No wind in the trees or clouds overhead. The moon was bright in the sky and she could count the stumps where Jamie and Ian had felled the trees to build their cabin. It was a small clearing but come spring they would dig up the stumps, clear the soil of any large stones, and begin planting their first crops.

She slipped through the door, leaving it slightly ajar rather than risk locking herself outside in the freezing air. There was enough light to see the way her breath clouded in front of her nose and she could feel the cold seeping into her toes; she wouldn’t be able to stay out too long if she wanted to avoid frostbite and hypothermia but she needed that frosty atmosphere to reinforce her grasp on the present, to dismiss the dreams and memories that clung to her tired mind. It was cold enough for tears to prick her eyes and her nose began to run. She wiped at it with the edge of her shawl before pulling the warm wool tighter around her shoulders and across her chest.

“Is something wrong, Sassenach?” Jamie whispered, coming up silently behind her and wrapping his arms around her.

She lifted the edges of her shawl so he could tuck his hands in between her arms and her sides.

“Happy Christmas, Jamie,” she replied before sniffing loudly and moving her head to wipe it once more against her shawl.

“Ye think it’s after midnight?” He shuffled closer against her and she could hear the rasp of his bare feet on the frozen earth. He hadn’t begun shivering yet but it wouldn’t be long.

“I’m sure it is. I think that’s why I woke. It’s one of those days when I can’t help it,” she explained with a yawn.

“One of those days when ye miss Brianna a bit more ye mean.”

She nodded.

“Ye mark it differently in yer time,” he observed.

Claire smiled faintly. “Quite––especially in America.”


“It’s everywhere. On the television, in shop windows, on the radio. Most of December became about getting ready for Christmas––buying presents, decorating the house, going to holiday parties.” She sighed. “But it was magical to watch her enjoy it all. She insisted on helping to bake treats to leave for Santa and made sure we set out some carrots for his reindeer too.”

Jamie made a noise of approval. “Kind… takin’ care to think of the animals like that.”

“She is, especially when she was younger. She would make decorations herself, too. Every year we had to go to the shop to get the right colored paper and paste so she could make chains to strew about the house and fold and cut the white paper into snowflake shapes for the windows. One year, she was overzealous with the scissors and cut through too deep, sliced the palm of her hand and had to get stitches––proved to be about as patient an invalid as someone else I know,” Claire teased bumping back against Jamie.

She could feel how cold he was becoming––how cold she was becoming.

“We should go back inside. Snow’s coming,” she told him. “We’ll have a white Christmas yet.”

They quietly made their way back inside. Rollo stirred briefly, raising his head and watching as Claire and Jamie disappeared back into their small room before resting his head on his paws once more.

“Did ye often have snow on Christmas?” Jamie asked when they were safely under the covers.

“It wasn’t uncommon. They made for cozy Christmases. Brianna would be awake before the sun was up though she was barred from actually opening anything until Frank and I had a chance to wake up and get downstairs.”

“Ye didna torture the lass by stayin’ in bed, did ye Sassenach?”

Claire scoffed. “As if Bree would let me. No, every five minutes she’d traipse through the bedroom asking if she could put the lights on for the tree or could she just peek in her stocking. I would have let her but Frank was a stickler for tradition. He had to be up and dressed with his breakfast coffee in hand before putting on the lights and handing Bree her first present. She and I always had hot chocolate with gingerbread for breakfast on Christmas morning.”

“And had ye a feast––or was that the other day ye mentioned?”

“Thanksgiving––that always fell around Bree’s birthday. But I did try to make something special––or at least pick something up from the shop––to have for Christmas dinner. It was never as good as the feasts in the Christmas stories though with their roasted goose or glazed ham, cakes and breads and puddings.”

Jamie’s stomach rumbled loud enough for both of them to hear. Jamie’s hand covered Claire’s mouth to muffle her laughter while he turned his own head into the pillow. The mattress sagged beneath them as their laughing shook the bed and loosened its ropes. Finally Jamie recovered enough to reach for his stash of stale bannocks.

He sighed as he chewed and swallowed.

“Does she have anywhere to go for it now?” he asked shamefully. “I hate to think ye canna be wi’ her––”

“Joe won’t let her be alone,” Claire said with certainty. “And she has her school friends––who knows, maybe Roger or if not him, some other young man.”

“I hope so. She ought to have someone.”

“Like I have you?” Claire asked turning into him and slipping her arm around him so she could press her cheek to the softness of his well-worn shirt.

“Aye. And I you.” She could hear the smile in his voice and felt the whisper of his breath on her hair as he nestled his face in her curls. “Do ye think ye’ll be able to sleep now, mo nighean donn? Or will yer dreams be visited by ghosts of Christmases past?”

Claire chuckled.

“Did I say something funny?”

Fic Fragments: The Farmer’s Son and the Little Fox (Multilevel Everlark)

Potential Everlark fairy tale, slightly based on “The Little Lame Fox.” For anyone who came into this late, I’m posting the tiny, semi-cohesive fragments I’ve written for various plot bunnies to see if there are any nibbles of interest.

When his torchlight fell on her, he gave a start. As his brothers had said, so this was a ghost-fox, with a coat the color of shadow, and more startling still, her eyes were silver. No beast has silver eyes – or leastways, no natural one.

But she was such a very small fox; scarcely more than a kit, and little bigger than the bantam hen she was making to carry off, and the farmer’s son crouched down to address her. “Little sister,” he said, “Surely it cannot be tasty to eat that hen, beak and blood and feathers altogether. Let me roast her for you, that you may enjoy crisp skin and hot savory juices.”

The little fox drew back with a soft growl, snugging her muzzle about the neck of the limp bird, for she knew it was no wise idea to hand away one’s prize, and the boy set his own pouch of food between them. “Here is a trust,” he said gently. “I will build the fire for roasting and pluck the bird in your sight, and if I do not return her to you promptly, well-prepared and delicious, you may eat the whole of my supper yourself.”

The fox tipped her head, her nose twitching, for she smelled wonders within that pouch: butter and honey-bread and creamy cheese bright with dill, sweet cakes and spiced wine and cold boiled eggs all mashed up with herbs and – yes, it was! – cold roast chicken. Surely even that would be preferable to a mouthful of bloody feathers, of scaly clawed feet and a beak between one’s teeth…

She set the hen carefully alongside the boy’s meal pouch and raised cautious, hopeful eyes to his face, which had gone quite incandescent with joy at this swift gesture of trust. Indeed, the farmer’s son had never been handsomer than at that moment, though there was none to see but a hungry little vixen.

The farmer’s son fetched the rain-barrel and plucked the tiny hen with a jaunty song of thieving foxes and unwitting geese, sung in his pleasantly plain voice, which made the little fox, who sat watching him like an unblinking sentinel, tip her fine face in blatant curiosity. “Indeed, we keep geese, as no doubt you know already,” he told his companion with a merry laugh. “If you are very good, little sister, perhaps I shall roast you a goose someday. Their flesh is dark and rich as butter when roasted, and you shall lie glutted for a day or more afterward, with a muzzle shiny with goose-fat, and while you drowse away your full belly I shall make you a little cushion of goose-down to nest upon.”

The farmer’s son cleaned every scrap of meat from the carcass and kept aside a little heap, and as she devoured the roast hen he set the bones to boiling. By starlight he collected potatoes and carrots from the garden and cleaned them with his little pocketknife, and at midnight he feasted the little fox again, this time with a pot of chicken stew, which she lapped and gobbled at in timid, then eager turns, and again at two of the clock, he divided his cold chicken and bread and butter, and even the small sweet cakes.

A fox does not care for bread but this one ate it gladly, licking the thick swath of honey-butter made by the boy’s eldest brother before eating the whole bit of bread in one eager gulp.

All night the boy cooked for the little fox, who huddled in the mouth of a hollow log, her muzzle just inches from the boy’s meal pouch, now and again opening so she might give it a curious lick. He even plucked two apples from the branches above and roasted them on sticks for a treat, then sliced and slathered them with honey-butter.

Now and again she bit his fingers with her sharp little teeth, when she suspected he was taking more than his due.

When the sun was beginning to rise, the boy grew weary, and the little fox looked toward the woods.

aruza83  asked:

Hello lovely ladies, will there be a continuation to meeting as children and see Jamie and Claire confess to Brian? As always you guys are awesome!

anonymous said: Can you please continue Jamie and Claire meeting as children AU? love this fic! What happens after they get married behind Brian and Ellen’s back?

anonymous said: What happens in the Meeting as Children AU now that they’re hand fast? How do the parents take the news? And do they get to France together? Thank you for the lovely writing.

Meeting as Children AU

Claire watched Brian Fraser’s shoulders rise and fall as he stared out the window of his study, observing the sun set behind the broch.

Jamie’s fingers gripped hers, calm amid the awkward silence.

Had the clock on the mantle always ticked so loud?

“Ye’re lucky that Ellen was called to visit Grannie MacNab. Elsewise I’m sure there’d be a lo’ more to say.”

Brian turned, resting his hands on the windowsill and leaning back, watching his son and daughter-in-law.

“Could ye no’ think to wait, Jamie? Or were ye thinking wi’ yer cock?”

Claire felt heat flood through every inch of her husband’s body. He rose in his chair, still linked with Claire.

“Ye’ll think no’ such thing, Da! Claire and I – we’ve a plan. We’ve talked about it for a while. We canna be separated when I go to Paris. I canna breathe if I’m alone. There’s no life wi’out her.”

“But could ye no’ have asked me first, lad?” Brian’s voice was raised – firm – but still gentle. For he truly loved Jamie – his heir – and had always prided himself for the closeness of their relationship.

Yet Jamie had not even hinted at this possibility – had not sought his advice on the matter. Had he failed to pick up on the signs, then? Had he failed his only son? Betrayed his trust?

“I know it’s drastic – but we didn’t see any other way to prove to you just how much we love each other.” Now Claire rose to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Jamie – staking her claim as his equal, his mate in every way. “I don’t doubt that you and Mother Ellen would have allowed me to go to Paris with him – eventually. But I can’t wait for that – I can’t wait for him. And tying ourselves to each other was the only way we thought that would make you understand.”

Brian stepped to his desk and sank into the high-backed chair, resting his elbows on the worn wood. Jamie and Claire remained standing – hands linked – hair still messy from however they’d spent the afternoon.

Proud of their choice. Proud of each other.

God – with her dark curls, and his flaming hair – they were mirror images of himself and Ellen. Equally in love, equally defiant.

Equally reckless.

“So – ye’ll travel to Paris wi’ Jamie, then, Claire? And what are ye to do there?”

“Apprentice to an apothecary. And then eventually enroll in the Université, to study medicine. You know I could learn so much more there, in three years, than I would here in ten.”

Brian rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. The scent of roasted goose wafted through the door – they were keeping Mrs. Crook waiting.

“And what if ye get her wi’ child, Jamie? Will ye make yer wife bear a bairn in a strange land? All alone, wi’ no family to help?”

Jamie swallowed, but kept his eyes trained on his father’s face. “Claire kens how to – what to do, so that a bairn isna made. And even if she does get wi’ child, we’ll make do. Murtagh will be wi’ us, after all.”

Brian raised a questioning brow. “The three of ye, then – in a one-room flat? If ye two are anything like yer mam and I were – ”

“Murtagh has already offered to find other accommodation,” Claire interrupted, clearly not wanting to take that line of inquiry further.

“Of course he has. That man loves ye – the both of ye – like his own children. He’d do anything if ye asked him to, the damn fool.”

“He insisted we tell you the news – he refused to do it himself.”

Brian cocked his head. “Did he? Well then.”


Jamie and Claire whirled to see Jenny standing in the door, wiping her sweaty brow with the corner of her apron.

“Dinner’s ready – Mrs. Crook says it canna wait, else the pie will get all soggy.”

Brian rose and slammed his palms down on the top of his desk.

“Janet – ask Mrs. Crook to fetch one of the bottles of whisky from the cellar. Yer brother has some wonderful news – and we’re to celebrate!”


It was almost midnight when Ellen Fraser finally arrived home – having mended the latest dispute between two of Grannie MacNab’s dozen or so daughters-in-law.

She had expected the house to be all quiet and shut up for the night – but as she approached the house, she saw the windows all aglow and the chimney cheerily belching smoke.

She handed her horse to a very sleepy Rabbie MacNab and stepped through the door and toward the dining room – to find her family sitting amid the remains of a long-finished meal.

Jenny slept, leaning back in her chair, a half-drunk glass of whisky at her elbow.

Murtagh was helping himself to the last slice of cake – the front of his shirt much the worse for wear.

Old John Murray, head down on the table, snored.

Jamie and Claire – nestled together in one of the big chairs – slept peacefully, holding each other tight.

Brian leaned to pour another dram for Ian, who raised his glass in a toast as Ellen – incredulous – entered the room, hands on her hips.

“Wha’ happened, mo dubh?”

“Jamie and Claire have gotten marrit!” Ian exclaimed cheerily, clearly a bit gone with drink. “Can ye believe it?”

Ellen met Brian’s eyes – saying a thousand words all at once.

Her eyes creased with surprise – and happiness.

“Well, Brian – he’s a Fraser. Like father, like son, aye?”

milleandra-nebula  asked:

Eren, Levi, a stolen kiss, please? (hoping you won't break my heart)

Have a Dickensian AU.


“Listen close, boys and girls. The season of Christmas is upon us. Have you got your bells?” Kenny winced as everyone enthusiastically rang the small tin bells he’d provided them with earlier. “Enough!”

They fell silent.

“It puts one in the spirit. The spirit of Charity, which is what I have extended to you miserable lot, and the spirit of Forgiveness, which you had better ‘ope be be in the air should any of you get caught.” He paused to let this sink in. “Be as the angels, my darlins. Tell ‘em how cold and hungry you are, which as I won’t be providing victuals until our night’s business is concluded, will be the honest truth. Now get out, make me proud. Make us rich.”

They scattered like a flock of ragged starlings, feet pounding on the wooden staircase down to the street, bells jangling. Eren slowed down as soon as he was on the street. His first Christmas in London. There had been a great deal of discussion among Kenny’s gang as to what they would most want for Christmas, long loving descriptions of roast goose and ham and pudding, talk of gold sovereigns and fine clothes and toys you could wind up and watch them move.

Eren just wanted his mother back. It was about as likely as roast goose and gold sovereigns. He was lucky Kenny had taken him in, really. Lucky to have met Levi. Eren slowed further, kicking idly at frozen muck in the street, waiting, because Levi always left last, getting extra instructions from Kenny.

And there he was, his cap pulled down over his eyes, looking younger than he was in his oversized, ragged clothes, slouching along like he owned the street anyway. Something in Eren’s chest felt pulled tight. If he stole something nice, really nice, he’d rather give it to Levi than Kenny.

Levi caught up, and eyed him suspiciously, but didn’t say anything, as they ambled down the street.

They had a good system. Eren, with his loud voice and bright eyes would ring his bell and sing and Levi would work the assembled passers-by. Eren couldn’t sing terribly well, but that was part of his charm, as Levi slipped deft fingers into pockets and pouches and bags.

“We’re supposed to give everything to Kenny,” Eren said cautiously, as Levi bought a paper bag of hot chestnuts, juggling them in his gloveless hands.

Levi shrugged. They sat against a wall and ate, watching the crowds to-ing and fro-ing with their packages and fine clothes.

“What do you want for Christmas?” Eren ventured.

“Nothing I can steal,” Levi said. “What about you?”

Eren thought about this, about things he could steal and things he couldn’t, and he looked at Levi’s pale, smooth cheek. Without any further thought he leaned over and pressed his lips to it, as Levi jerked in surprise.

“Got it,” Eren said, breathless, stunned by his own daring and determined not to regret it.

Levi shifted his jaw, looking thoughtful. “You idiot,” he said. “You don’t steal something and then wait around for them to steal it back.” Levi leaned in and something warm brushed Eren’s lip for a moment. Eren was frozen in shock and Levi was off and running. Eren scrambled after him, his heart singing.

anonymous asked:

Request: it's Christmas and the goose is getting fat. Or rather, John is getting fat. Sherlock won't stop feeding him.

It’s Christmas All Day

Johnlock, stuffing, weight gain, feeding, all that good stuff.


Sherlock carried the tray into the bedroom right at nine and took the lid off. He knew the smell would wake John up in a few minutes, and that thought alone perked him up. His lover was sleeping now, blankets half-kicked off and sliding down the lower curve of his belly. That’s what he had now, no denying it; the last few months had left their mark. Sherlock had started feeding John up at Halloween, and now on Christmas morning his stomach oozed out of the sweatpants he’d taken to wearing to bed and around the house.

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incapableofgivingup  asked:

Random question of the day: What has been your favorite animal related experience?

Oh gosh, there’ve been so many - mostly cat-related, I admit…

There were the scary startling ones - the female tiger in London Zoo who made a effortless leap fifteen feet up to join her mate and made every watching human make a simultaneous leap three feet backwards as Instinct overrode Observation.

Or being in the lock-on zone as a full-grown male lion at Zoo-Basel targeted the small child behind us for lunch. We just had the overspill of his interest, but we still got all-over goosebumps, sweaty skin and stomach-flutters from the Ape Inside shouting “Run Away!”

Or walking after dark in the grounds of Blairquhan Castle and being scared out of a year’s growth by a red deer stag exploding out from where it had been snoozing in the undergrowth, then posing magnificently in the moonlight like Bambi’s Dad or Herne the Hunter while D & I tried to get our hearts started again.

Then there were the funny ones, usually involving our cats - Goodman, who discovered that his latest dumb bunny turned out to be a screeching, scratching leveret who was Mad As Hell and Not Going To Take It Any More. He finally gave up on game for lunch, so we caught the leveret in a lidded saucepan and returned it to the meadow, where it sat up swearing and threatening our lives, limbs and immediate future before making a getaway dash that cracked lightspeed.

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anonymous asked:

Imagine after Claire she admitted that she love Jamie/ they are madly in love already, she had an accident and she lost her memory of him and all she remember is going back to Frank.

Vietnam AU

“Claire, you could you be a dear and pass me the sweet potatoes?”

Claire Beauchamp set down her fork and reached for the half-full dish beside her plate. “Here you go, Gail,” she smiled, swallowing her mouthful of roasted goose.

Gail Abernathy nodded as she took the dish. “Thank you, sweetie.” Ten-month-old Lennie, happily making a mess of his first Christmas dinner, squawked in his high chair and reached his grubby hands for more potatoes.

“No, honey,” his tired mother sighed as she helped herself and then passed the dish to her husband. “Lord knows you’ve got half your dinner in your hair already – thankfully I didn’t dress you up in that cute little suit your well-meaning but absolutely clueless father decided to get for you.”

Dr. Joe Abernathy huffed as he cut into his own helping of roasted goose. “I want my boy to look proper for his first Christmas, is all. At the rate we’re going with kids these days, it may be the last time we’ll be able to get him into a suit.”

Claire sat back in her seat and sipped her wine, smiling at the comfortable banter that always existed between Joe and Gail. Having them so close had been an absolute godsend since she’d started at Boston University Medical School two years before – knowing nobody in Boston and absolutely nothing about living in the city.

It had been a completely fresh start – and Claire had absolutely thrown herself into her work and studies. Her professors all knew she had served – and seen more in her nine months as a nurse at Chu Lai than many of her classmates had ever seen in their entire lives – and their esteem of her had only grown over time. Claire Beauchamp was in the top five percent of her class, clearly destined for great things.

Having Joe – who had returned to his private practice – and Gail, and now little Lennie, so close had done so much to ease the hole in her heart that her divorce - *annulment*, she mentally corrected – from Frank had caused. Joe was not only her mentor, and sole source of encouragement while she devoted all her energies to learning anatomy and physiology and patient care – he was the one link she still had to Chu Lai, and what had prompted her to finally apply to med school in the first place.

It was so refreshing that nobody at BU knew about her personal history – nobody knew that she had been married. They knew the basic facts of her past – parents dead in a car crash at age five, raised by an eccentric uncle who had died right before she joined the service, and then just over a year spent as a nurse in Viet Nam. But nobody knew about Frank Randall. And Claire wanted to keep it that way.

She hadn’t heard from him since she’d signed all the paperwork required to formally annul their marriage – the paperwork which said that, technically, their marriage had never officially happened. Frank had kept his word, giving her access to the storage locker in New Jersey where they’d decided to store their few joint possessions, and taking care of all the paperwork with the Church.

The papers had arrived one day after she received her final acceptance letter. Claire Beauchamp had been accepted by every single medical school she’d applied to.

And she’d be damned if she let Frank Randall steal her joy.

So on the same day that her signature had officially dissolved her marriage, she’d sent in her acceptance letter to Boston University.

Joe had been thrilled for her, of course – she suspected he’d secretly hoped she’d pick the school closest to him. He had been such a rock for her, for so long – and moving to Boston was almost like coming home.

New beginnings, indeed.

“Have you given any more thought about what you’d like to specialize in, Claire? I know you’ve still got a year and a half of school left, but it’s never too early to start narrowing your options and making some connections.”

Claire set down her wineglass and turned to Joe. “Well – I don’t want to do peds. Or any of the typical specialties – like dermatology, or OB/GYN, or even internal medicine. I want to do something with the brain.”

Joe sat back a bit in his chair, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re *always* doing something with that brain, Claire,” he teased.

Gail playfully swatted at her husband’s shoulder. “Stop, you,” she laughed. “Claire – you always work so hard. We want to make sure that you have a plan, honey – we want to make sure you’re set up for success.”

Claire smiled, heart suddenly full with so much love and appreciation for these two people – who loved her and supported her more than almost anyone ever had.


“*Anyway,* I was thinking about brain damage and how it affects speech. To work with people who have suffered brain damage, and help them recover their ability to communicate. To speak.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic, Claire!” Gail exclaimed, turning to wipe mashed peas from Lennie’s cheeks. “Is there any reason in particular why you’re interested in that area?”

Yes, there was. Of course there was.

Claire had taken the gift she was given, that night in Chu Lai when everything fell apart. She had never looked back – not when there was so much to look forward to.

But somehow, he was always there. His heart when she saw a couple blissfully walk by on the street, holding hands. His face when her eyes crossed after a long day of assignments and practicals. His voice when her muscles ached after standing for ten hours straight while she volunteered at the clinic. His mouth when she lay sleepless in her cold, empty bed.

She hadn’t had the proper tools and training to treat him then – but she’d be damned if she couldn’t one day provide a superior level of care to people in similar circumstances.

She coughed. “Just based on some of my experiences at Chu Lai – and I know there are so many men coming home from Viet Nam who have suffered such terrible brain injuries. With proper treatment they can fully regain their ability to speak – and I want to be there to help them do that.”

Joe gave her a pointed look – but said nothing.

Claire absently swirled the wine in her glass – Gail took that as an invitation to top it up.

“Mo!” Lennie insisted, not liking being left out of the conversation. “Mo!”

Gail tsked but handed him a piece of bread with the crust torn off. Lennie squealed with delight and began ripping it apart with his tiny fingers.

“You know, Claire – when I did that stint in Da Nang I got to know this guy who had taught at a speech pathology program.” Joe helped himself to more stuffing. “Not just teaching people with brain damage how to communicate – but looking to help repair some of that damage, so that they could communicate better.”

He paused, tilting his head. Appraising.

“Would you be interested, Claire? Spring break will be here before you know it – I’m sure he’d love to meet you. You could learn a lot. It’s some pretty cutting-edge stuff.”

Gail nodded at Claire, encouraging.

“Sure,” Claire replied tentatively, not exactly sure where this was going. “That would be great, Joe. Where is it?”

“App State – Appalachian State University. Down in Boone, North Carolina.”

Joe affected nonchalance.

Claire’s heart stuttered – mind flashing back to when she’d furtively read Captain James Fraser’s medical file a lifetime ago, before Chu Lai was attacked.

Born 1946 – aged 23 at the time. Both parents dead – only living relatives were his uncle and sister. A sister with whom he shared a PO box in Boone, North Carolina.

She couldn’t see him. Couldn’t look back.

She had to see him. Yearned to know how he was doing – what he had been doing. Whether he ever thought about her.

She spoke her answer without even thinking.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. I’ll go.”

Waking Ugly

Once upon a time, as far away from the royal castle as a man could throw a bucketful of dung, in a wretched hovel, there lived a couple who were so poor that their only clothes were the ones they found least edible. As the new princess was visited by seven fairies, their new daughter was visited by seven creditors.

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Christmas with the Evanses

Lily opened her front door and grinned at the figure standing there. It was a very wet Christmas, and the entire neighbourhood had sought refuge in their houses. Lily’s eyes travelled to the drooping Father Christmas in their front garden, and the Christmas lights that have blown from the two bushes and have tangled themselves near James’ feet. She wondered what he must have thought when he apparated down the street like she’d asked him to and made his way down the street to their modest, semi-detached house.

James had never talked about his affluent background with her, but she knew about it. Everyone in Hogwarts knew about it. She had heard stories about the Potter Mansion from Remus Lupin; about the extravagant holidays to the South of France from Sirius Black; and about the big celebrations the Potters had for their beloved son’s birthday from every pureblood in Hogwarts.

“Am I allowed in?” James smiled, leaning and kissing her on the cheek.

Lily flushed embarrassedly and moved out of the way, welcoming him into her home. There was an awkward shuffle in the very small hallway as she tried to waddle away and give him enough space to go into the front room, and again Lily had felt the slight dread of James finally realizing how different they must be.

And then there was her father.

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Shatterdome Thanksgiving

Heavy American influence leading to scattered celebrations of Thanksgiving in Shatterdomes across the Pacific.

Americans inviting dear non-American friends and curious co-workers to these gatherings.

Shatterdome personnel breaking out their hoarded rations of sugar, chocolate, coffee, booze, and other black market or care package foodstuffs to spoil themselves and their friends.

Bad traditional Thanksgiving chow does come in for the first few years of the war courtesy of Uncle Sam, but it lacks the usual meaning without loved ones, so the preserved, over-salted cardboard taste trumps any nostalgia.

Americans not able to get turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes but not caring. Cheering their friends with Shatterdome still vodka, their commanding officer carving up the not-so-traditional crispy-skinned roast goose or carp from the cook shop on the corner, LOCCENT cadets skyping their loved ones (eating pumpkin or pecan pie) while they tuck into arroz con leche.

Shatterdome personnel the world over adopting Thanksgiving as a day to spoil themselves, treasure the wealth of human connection around them, and be grateful they’re all alive.