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softquietsteadylove · 1 year ago

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What about a summer camp story?

Gil is the new head of the cafeteria. He's cooking for the children and camp supervisors. One time he asks one of the supervisors, Sersi, why this beautiful, statue like woman never eats. Sersi tells him her name and that she never eats in the cafeteria because the food was awful before Gil came. One Day when Gil meets Thena personally for the first time, he can convince her to try his food in the cafeteria.

✨🖤Hugs and Love🖤✨

"There's nothing in there but flour and cornmeal."

The statuesque woman startled, rushing to pull her head out of the pantry like a camper trying to sneak a snack back to their bunk.

Gil chuckled, "everything that's already made is either in the fridges or in the cabinets over the flat top."

She nodded silently, no apologies to be made over being caught red handed, "well, I'll-"

"You can have whatever you want," Gil rushed before she could make her escape. "Anything you like--just tell me."

She cleared her throat, maintaining what dignity she could after being found out. "I was looking for any tortilla chips leftover from chili night."

"Right," Gil nodded, looking down at the late night prep he was getting done. He set down his knife, "because you don't eat the cafeteria food."

He had noticed, of course. It would be hard not to notice the one face who never, ever entered the lunch line. Even the busiest counsellors like Dane and Sersi still had to sit down for dinner at some point. But the elusive activities director always walked around with a power bar or a protein shake in hand, it seemed.

Sersi had told him that the food was particularly horrid before he came to be the camp cook. Many of them had their reservations, and Thena wasn't one for dining communally anyway! He shouldn't take it personally, was her point.

But he was more than curious about the reclusive creature who took the kids on hikes and helped them with archery and volleyball and soccer.

She gave him a more standoffish look, still keeping her hands clasped behind her in her camp t-shirt and white denim shorts. He had never seen her in anything else, even early when the counsellors might grab breakfast in their pajamas before the rambunctious pre-teens rose for the day.

"I hope you won't take offense."

Gil swiped his hands on the towel tossed over his shoulder and faced her more fully. "You say that, but I'm pretty sure you won't even try a bite of anyone else's food."

She shrugged, "I'm not a food sharer."

Gil nodded, "right. That scared of it?"

Her shoulders rose faintly, like a cat arching its back for a fight. "You didn't have to sample the food of your predecessor. You would swear off the stuff as well, I think."

He snorted, "that bad?"

Thena gave him the driest look he had seen from her yet, and that was really saying something. "I brought enough power bars to sustain me for months."

Gil rolled his eyes, although he had to admit, she had one hell of a resolve. "You would rather survive on dry, crumbly protein bars than even try my food?"

"They are not dry."

"Crumbly though," he countered, and she accepted the rebuttal. He walked closer, "there must be something you'd be willing to try. Doesn't have to be anything the truck drops off, although I'll have you know that I don't make shit that comes frozen in a plastic bag."

Thena eyed him in return, still cautious but obviously too intrigued - or hungry - to avoid it. "You don't?"

Gil huffed, snapping his towel off his shoulder and tossing it onto the counter, "not on my life! I refused to take the job unless they changed their supplier and I was allowed to use real food. That shit's not good for kids anyway."

That seemed to sway the obstinate woman slightly, who at least drifted closer to the end of his prep counter. "Well, what do you make, then?"

"Do you not even pay attention to what's on the board?" Gil sighed, although he could guess the answer already. He crossed his arms, "of course not."

"I have other things to do," Thena crossed her arms as well, "I don't just have one age group to manage. It is, in fact, all the little devils who do the activities."

Gil smirked; she called them 'little devils' but here she was, same as the rest of them, spending three whole months at some camp in the woods so the kids could have some outdoor enrichment and three meals and a bed while school was out.

"So?" she prompted, her eyes flicking down to the green onion he was chopping. "What is that for?"

"Well, these are for something else," he shook his head at her prickly demands. "You can freeze them while they're fresh so they stay firm as a garnish for some crunch. But I can make you some eggs if you want."

"Eggs?"

"Eggs," he nodded, "y'know, usually a chicken lays 'em but you can get other-"

"I understand the concept!" she bit at him, although maybe it wasn't as scary if you weren't under the age of 13. "I'm asking if they're real!"

"Real eggs," he vowed, moving to the fridge as if she were holding a weapon for him to produce the evidence. He pulled out two from the wholesale flat he had in the fridge. "See?"

She pursed her lips at his demeaning demonstration.

"Okay, okay," he chuckled. At least she was fun, this Goddess of War he had heard so much about. "You want something to eat or not?"

He wasn't sure, but he would bet that her stomach was winning the argument against her head.

She relaxed her stance slightly, fingers tapping against the end of the counter. "Could...scrambled, please?"

He knew there had to be a human under that shell. And she was hungry, "yes, ma'am."

Now she was the one to roll her eyes.

Gil turned the burner on, though, tossing a little nob of butter into the pan.

"The food truly was horrid, last year," Thena began her confession as he waited for his pan to reach an appropriate heat. She looked down at her hands. "It disagreed with me on several occasions."

That was what made her so much more resistant than the others. Gil smiled, "and here I thought you were being shy."

She scowled, "I'm-"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding," he waved it off, cracking his eggs and scrambling in the pan with chopsticks, "sorry. The last way I would describe you is shy."

Thena relaxed somewhat, and he discovered that it was possible for those sharp little shoulders to slouch. "I know I'm the only one who feels so strongly about it."

"I think that mass produced, bagged and canned shit would turn anyone's stomach," Gil offered more gently, keeping his eggs moving on the heat--her eggs. He smiled, "I don't blame you."

Thena drifted a little closer still. "I'm sorry, Gilgamesh, for being so unfair as to not even try anything you've made."

He shrugged, only looking at her briefly while working on her eggs, "hey, it's okay."

She paused, maybe not having expected her forgiveness to come so quickly.

"Also," he chuckled, pulling her very soft scramble out and spiralling the sheet of eggs onto a plate. He added a few of his green onions, just for the sake of it, "it's just Gil."

She pursed her lips at him again, but accepted the plate of eggs, swirled into a peaked cyclone. She gave him a slightly less unamused look, "showing off?"

He gave her his most charming grin, "gotta impress first time clients."

Thena rolled her eyes at him, cutting off the smallest piece possible with her fork.

"Oh, come on!"

She glared at him for interrupting her snacking, but took the small bite for what it was. Her eyebrows raised, and he noticed their darker colour in comparison to her almost white-blonde hair. "Hm...not bad."

Gil kept his eyes on her as he reached forward with his chopsticks. She didn't stop him--even moved the plate back closer to him. He took a bite for himself, "not bad--they're good!"

Rather than argue with him again, the statue of a woman took another bite, with another smile, "fine, they're good. Happy?"

Gil smiled as well, watching as Thena took larger and larger bites, probably starving for decent nutrients after all her smoothies and power bars. At least he knew what to make for tomorrow morning's breakfast. "I'm getting there."

#Thenamesh AU #I think this is so cute though #Gil arrives at this camp #sees this mysterious and pale as a ghost camp counsellor #he assumed he'll meet her when he prepares the camp meals #but over and over she skips the line and sits alone with her power bars and protein shakes #and that's if she sits in the mess hall at all #he asks Sersi who this is #she says oh that's Thena don't mind her she doesn't really like people #he asks how you become a camp activities director if you're not a people person #Sersi smiles and says that Thena might not like children but she does love them #he learns over time how true that is #she's not here to be the fun cool counsellor who feels like a friend #she doesn't have Dane or Sersi's touch with them #but she obviously loves the kids because she wouldn't be here otherwise #she's gentle with the young ones #picks them up and assuages their crying #the older ones she calls 'sport' and 'champ' and 'bud' and 'kid' and 'kiddo' and they all love it #Gil starts paying attention to the mysterious Miss Thena #and she starts showing up in the breakfast line #and then the lunch and sometimes even the dinner line #and he makes sure to try and make a favourite of hers whenever he can #Sersi is thrilled #meanwhile Dane is like...he's never asked me any of my favourites

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walker-bait-1973 · 2 years ago

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An Autumn Walk

Hello there! I was encouraged to share some Daryl Dixon fanfiction that I write, so I’m going to start out relatively easy with something cute I wrote last year. There are no warnings. Please be kind, and thanks for reading!

Scene Set: The Walking Dead

Daryl x Female Reader

Pronouns: She/Her

An Autumn Walk

Y/N & Daryl spend the day with an inquisitive Judith.

Crisp air. The crunching of fallen leaves underfoot. Apples, pumpkins. It was Autumn again, and ever since Daryl and Y/N moved out of Hilltop into their cabin, they’d missed out on the Fall festivities in the communities. Judith was heartbroken that her uncle and aunt didn’t come for two years in a row. This year, she’d gone to their cabin to make sure to get some time with them beforehand.

Judith squinted up at her uncle, “Why do the leaves fall off the trees?”

Daryl looked down at the six-year-old, “ta give the trees a rest ‘til Spring when they grow new ones.”

She pondered this for a little while. Daryl and Y/N held hands as the three continued their trek into the woods. Judith scooped up a handful of acorn nuts.

“Why do the acorns have little hats?”

Daryl glanced at Y/N, “wanna take this one?”

Y/N laughed, “maybe to keep their ears warm?”

Judith laughed too, “I don’t think so. Acorns definitely do not have ears.”

“Well, what do you think?” Y/N asked curiously.

“I just don’t know.”

“That little cap is on there so that when the nut is heavy enough it falls to the ground where it can grow into a mighty oak.”

“Or stole by a squirrel,” Daryl added. He took a couple of the acorns from her and placed them in his jacket pocket. Dog ran ahead chasing a pheasant. A long black and white feather dropped off the bird when it took flight. Daryl picked it up and tucked it into Judith’s ponytail.

“There. Looks pretty, Jude.”

She touched it consciously and smiled, “I have another question.”

“Shoot,” Daryl said lightly tugging her ear. She shooed his hand away.

“Why don’t you two come any more for the Fall festival?”

Daryl and Y/N exchanged looks.

“Got a lot ta do,” Daryl said, “we got cannin’ ta do, and meat ta get. We gotta get them animals ready for Winter. Takes a long time.”

“Oh,” Judith pouted, “Too busy for me.”

They stopped their hike and Daryl knelt to look into Judith’s eyes, “ain’t always like that. ‘S why we were doin’ these walks with ya. Special time just you n’ us.”

“Besides, later we’ll be carving pumpkins and roasting the seeds,” Y/N said, “and we’ll make some apple faces.”

“You n’ Aunt Y/N are gonna make some candles too.” Daryl smiled kindly at the girl, “and you ‘n me will pop some corn after supper.”

She smiled wide. Popcorn was a rare treat since corn was used for cornmeal and fuel and eaten on the cob back in Alexandria.

On the way back, Judith found a toad, picked it up, and asked, “why are toads so bumpy?”

“’S easy,” Daryl replied, “ta blend in with the rocks so no one eats ‘em.”

Judith sent it down by the roots of a tree. She played with her braided ponytail and said, “one more question.”

“Sure,” Daryl said as they approached the front gate to the cabin.

“When are you and Aunt Y/N going to have a baby? I want a cousin.”

Daryl coughed, totally caught off guard. Y/N cleared her throat, her face bright red. The two exchanged looks, “Wanna take this one?” He asked for the second time during their walk. He didn’t realize it was going to be an inquisition.

“Judith, that may or may not happen. I guess you just have to wait and see.” She looked up at Daryl who was nervously chewing on the edge of his thumbnail.

“I hope I don’t have to wait too long,” Judith opened the gate and skipped inside with Dog. Daryl glanced at Y/N who shrugged.

“Kids,” she said as if that was the answer to everything. They both chuckled and went inside the fence.

“Let’s pick out some pumpkins, what do you say?” Y/N called out to Judith.

#DarylDixon #fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #autumn #the walking dead #twd daryl #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon fluff

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unhingedwomandiaries · 11 days ago

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I made Korean corn dogs today, which is either a profound statement about the globalization of cuisine or a desperate cry for help. Probably both.

The process was less about following a recipe and more about engaging in a postmodern deconstruction of what a corn dog could be. I watched countless videos, each one a rabbit hole of culinary possibility, until the very concept of a "corn dog" became as abstract as trying to define rock music in the age of Spotify algorithms.

Cornmeal, the alleged backbone of this cultural fusion, was nowhere to be found in my British culinary landscape. So I used cornflour, because in the age of alternative facts, who's to say they're not the same thing? It's like arguing whether Oasis or Blur was the quintessential Britpop band – ultimately, it's all just ground corn.

The baking soda situation became a metaphor for the transatlantic divide. American versus British, single-acting versus double-acting – it's the culinary equivalent of trying to reconcile Fahrenheit and Celsius. In the face of this existential crisis, I opted for pancake batter with cornflour, a decision that says more about my relationship with authority than any therapy session ever could.

Picture a hot dog, not as food, but as a canvas. Wrapped in mozzarella like a dairy cocoon, dipped in batter, then rolled in potato squares – it's less cooking and more performance art. The kind of thing Yoko Ono might have conceived if she'd been really into street food.

The frying process was a lesson in entropy. Watching those potato squares detach was like witnessing the slow dissolution of a long-term relationship – inevitable, messy, and oddly hypnotic. It made me think about mattress suspenders, which is either a non sequitur or the most profound connection I've made all day.

The result was a culinary Frankenstein's monster that tasted like the physical manifestation of cognitive dissonance. The cheese had escaped, as if making a break for a better life. The potatoes looked battle-worn, veterans of a war they never asked to fight. The whole thing was infused with the essence of avocado oil, because apparently, I wanted my corn dog to taste like millennial disillusionment.

As I stood there, contemplating my creation, I couldn't help but wonder: Is this what it means to be a participant in internet culture? Are we all just chasing viral trends, hoping to find meaning in the ephemeral? Or is making a Korean corn dog in a British kitchen using bastardized American techniques the ultimate act of cultural rebellion?

In the end, maybe the real corn dog from a fair was never meant to be interpreted differently. Or maybe it's just a hot dog on a stick, and I'm overthinking this whole thing. Either way, I'm giving up and wondering if my next culinary adventure should be an exploration of why we romanticize foods we can't actually make.

#diary #cooking #korean corndog

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star-shard · 1 year ago

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Departure

Elvis Presley fanfic Genre: Angst Description: Elvis is out for a drive. It's night, or morning. Both. He's in between worlds. But, in the end, finds somewhere to rest.

Once noise infects your ears, eventually, it gets in your skin. That’s when the vibrations set in.

Everything has a tempo. Nothing is silent.

Elvis could feel every bump on the road, every pot hole. This car was new, it didn’t smell right yet.

Every now and then he heard some screams outside the car. But, that was Vegas. Right now, some might say he was Vegas. Others would say he’d lost his touch.

Elvis could probably imagine a world without touch. Not one without sound.

Bang. Elvis stirred from his thoughts when the window of the car cracked. He knew he could get a big head, but he didn’t think it would do something like that.

No. It was a rock. Already, the driver was apologizing. The eyes of who through it were the only thing Elvis saw. Green, wide. “Don’t worry nothing about it,” Elvis said, “I knew this car was flimsy when I got it.” His heartbeat was loud though. Jumping. Even if he kept his voice low anyone that knew him knew his chest could get loud.

No doubt it was a drunk that saw a nice car, or a gambler that had lost it all. Or who knows.

The windows were black. It wasn’t personal.

His driver was nervous either way. “Hey man, eyes on the road, you’re gonna run us off.”

Jeez.

Maybe it was time for coffee anyway. It was late. Early? It was dark out.

Elvis was in rare form in that he was almost alone right now. And he was hungry anyway. “There now,” Elvis gestured at something on the side of the road. Just outside the strip. He’d passed it before. They advertised the best flapjacks you’d ever had.

He got out before his driver did and put some money on the hood of the car so he could pay for whatever he wanted. Meanwhile, he made his way in and picked out a booth for himself. Wasn’t often he wasn’t surrounded by his usual noise. But, that’s what he had books for. When the words of others couldn’t fill him, he had words on a page.

Elvis had a show go wrong a few nights ago. The tempo was off. He couldn’t place what that was, why that was. “Well hi there,” the accent was familiar, it lifted his head up.

“You’re serving breakfast right now, ma’am? It’s about that time.” She was older than him. Or maybe it was the same age? Elvis always felt young. When she nodded he turned down the menu. “I’ll take whatever won’t wake me up… I’m sleep walking.”

She laughed, “I got something like warm milk. Some hot cakes and coffee, bacon.”

“Does it put you down for the night?” Elvis wouldn’t mind some sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a full night’s sleep. Maybe he’d just curl up in this little booth, fall asleep and wake up somewhere quiet.

The woman left and Elvis watched her, her hair reminded him of fall. Falling. Falling.

“Anyone ever tell you, you look just like Elvis?” He lifted his head from the window. He must have dosed off. That happened sometimes. He didn’t dream, just broke off from the moment for a while. Sleeping wasn’t sleep. It was more like, jumping ahead in time. Time often outran him.

“Only my mama,” he said back, the plate was stacked high in front of him. It smelled like home.

His driver was at the counter with his coffee to go, ready to smoke outside. Maybe the only person in his life that didn’t latch on asking for something. He didn’t talk much. That sort of face you only saw if you stared.

God, this food. Just what he needed. Cornmeal, real maple, and grease. He could forget why the show went wrong. In fact, it was getting harder to remember at a time like this.

Elvis could have sworn he heard a car crash outside. “Don’t you love a storm?” Oh. The waitress had a check out for him. She had the nicest color of nail polish on.

“Can’t say I’m a fan,” Elvis looked at his empty plate, he was hungrier than he thought. It was raining. He couldn’t remember the last time it rained. Last time it rained this hard it made him curl up in his mother’s bed. “Thank you and… wait, did you hear that?”

“The rain?” She asked.

“No. Something else.” Elvis wondered what time it was. He wondered where he was. Really. Las Vegas. That’s what it looked like. But, it tasted like Memphis. And this woman, the only other person in the diner. She sounded so familiar.

His book. He still had it in his jacket, hadn’t even taken it out.

It was time to go.

“You’ve been great, you know.”

Elvis was at the door when he looked back. Great. Was he? Elvis never really saw it that way. Always chasing something just outside himself. Following something he could never catch up to. Looking out from a broken window.

“Everyone else always makes a mess here, feels like,” she added casually, “you got manners. Lord oh lord,” she trailed off as she went to the back.

The diner, without her. It was silent in here.

It was raining.

Elvis went to the door and went out. He didn’t feel the rain on him. Only heard it. His driver was all ready for him.

“Put something on. Something that’s not that damn storm.” He mumbled from the back. The driver turned on the radio.

It sounded like static at first but then. When the music began. He was able to close his eyes.

Elvis, found himself dreaming… for the first time in a long time.

#Elvis Presley #Elvis fanfic

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godmother-encanto-au · 3 years ago

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Godmother Chapter Thirteen-Confined

In which the Madrigals try to keep an ailing Mirabel under wraps, the Encanto is terrorized by a mysterious force and a familiar face emerges at the worst possible time.

Apologies for the late arrival of this chapter, recent world events have had me too stressed out for personal reasons to write, thankfully I had good news I was waiting on so my motivation is temporarily back. Hopefully it will stick around for a while.

…..

The kitchen was cold when Isabela shuffled in, the sink piled with dishes, the storage baskets empty. Shivering in the morning chill, she lit the stove and put a fresh pot of water on the boil. The canister of coffee was down to a quarter of its usual stock, even though they were carefully rationing it now. She checked the cornmeal jar too; almost completely gone.

We have some eggs still, don't we? In the tróje...

Luisa walked in as she was thinking, slumped over with exhaustion, carrying a basket of ripped up sheets, dark and sodden with blood.

“Is there still coffee? I need coffee,” she groaned.

“There's enough for a small cup,” Isabela told her. “I think you need sleep more than coffee though.”

“Don't we all,” Luisa grumbled quietly.

“How was she last night?”

“Bad. I thought she was going to bleed out. And when she could talk, she kept saying Mama was trying to poison her.”

Isabela made two small cups of coffee and passed one to Luisa. She hadn't heard Mirabel speak at all since the fits began, but whenever she was on duty in the nursery she did see Mirabel shrink away from Julieta as though she thought she was trying to hurt her.

“She's sick,” Isabela said. “It's not her fault...I mean, it's hard when the treatment hurts the person you're trying to help...”

“What treatment? Has Mama ever told you what exactly she's trying to do?” Luisa fired back, gripping her hair in frustration. “She needs a hospital, what are we even doing keeping her locked up here like some crazed animal?”

“She's not locked up,” Isabela argued. “She's tied down for her own safety. She'll hurt herself if she isn't. They'd do exactly the same thing in a hospital.”

They sat together for a while in grim, contemplative silence. Dolores had fled the house after just one day, unable to take the constant screaming, rattling and the strange noises coming from the nursery. Pepa joined her the next day with Antonio; although she wanted to stay and help her sister with her terribly ill niece, her fear and panic was making the whole Casita unsafe with constant flooding and high winds.

The men had fled too, in their own way. Alma had taken a significant chunk of the Madrigal family wealth and was using it to supply the village with imported crops, sending Agustin, Felix and even Camilo off to collect what they needed. Although they all said they wished to stay behind and help, their haste in leaving to the other towns said differently.

Alma was also distributing the Madrigal's food stores to the village. Their own few crops had been untouched by whatever had stripped the Encanto of its food, but it was really only supposed to be enough for their household. Isabela did what she could with growing edible plants to fill things out, but edible plants were much more complicated than flowers. Her entire room had been taken over by fruit trees, but she couldn't produce a single stalk of corn.

That left Luisa, Julieta and Bruno managing Mirabel's condition, all day and night. Julieta almost never left her side, trying over and over to get her to eat something and wrapping her in makeshift bandages near every hour. Luisa held her down during her fits when the restraints snapped. Bruno tried to do both while they stole an hour of sleep here and there, but he wasn't strong enough to hold her, and didn't have the heart to try and force her to eat. At his most useful, he washed the bandages over and over so they always had a fresh supply.

Desperately needed, because Mirabel was bleeding through her skin now. It was like she was covered in tiny cuts that wouldn't close, even though Julieta couldn't find an actual wound. How the blood loss hadn't killed her already was a mystery, the small amount of food Julieta had managed to get into her couldn't account for it. She seemed to bleed even more when she swallowed something.

And the fits...

They were so violent she had broken through two beds before they gave up and put the mattress on the floor directly. She screamed herself hoarse when she was awake, or made bizarre animalistic noises that shook the walls. Her limbs cracked under the restraints until she tore through them. If she got loose for a single moment she threw herself at the door or the window, trying desperately to get out, until she was dragged back to the bed and restrained again, over and over and over.

The house was quiet for now, which meant she had slipped into unconsciousness. So it was just about safe for Luisa to come downstairs, drop off some bandages to be washed and drink some coffee, maybe even lie down for an hour. If it wasn't for the regenerative properties of Julieta's food, they could never have kept this up.

“I need to tell Mama we're out of cornmeal,” Isabela said, breaking the silence.

“You haven't had any luck growing some, then?”

“No. I got the seed but I can't get it to grow. All I have right now is bananas.”

“I'm so sick of bananas,” Luisa sighed.

“I'll try some figs, then.”

“Thanks, appreciate it.”

Finishing her coffee, Luisa trudged back upstairs to the nursery. Julieta was slumped over on a pile of clean bandages, gently snoring. Luisa checked the restraints, thick rope leashed to wooden posts that had been hastily nailed into the floor, and when she looked up she was surprised to see her sister was awake.

Eyes fever-bright, Mirabel stared at Luisa. Luisa wanted to say something nice, something comforting, but she couldn't think of anything.

“Luisa...”

Mirabel's voice was raspy, too quiet.

“You need to untie me.”

Luisa shook her head, looking away.

“You know I can't do that,” she whispered. “You're sick, we're trying to help you...we just don't want you to hurt yourself...”

“She's hurting me,” Mirabel told her. “She's going to kill me if she keeps going. She's trying to help but she doesn't know what she's doing.”

Mirabel sometimes had these little moments of lucidity, but they were fleeting. Always, she asked to be let go. Always, they refused.

But today, something was different.

“At least get rid of the doll,” Mirabel asked, cocking her head in the direction of the corn husk doll on the windowsill. It was still there, even when all the other furniture had been broken or removed.

“The doll? Why?” Luisa asked.

“Because it's ugly and I don't want to look at it.”

Luisa burst into laughter, tinged with a touch of anguish. That was such a Mirabel answer it was almost enough to give her hope of getting back to normal. Mirabel giggled hoarsely, though it seemed to cause her pain.

“Who puts a face on a corn husk doll?” she asked.

“I know!” Luisa agreed.

As she picked up the doll and slipped it into her pocket, the heavy atmosphere in the nursery seemed to clear, just a little. Julieta stirred uneasily in her sleep. At Mirabel's hairline, a few little beads of blood started forming again, but nowhere near as fast as they had been before.

…..

In the village, the people were doing the unthinkable. They were doubting the Madrigal family.

The loss of their crops had scared them, but these things happened. The good book was full of stories of sudden famine. The Madrigals didn't have an obligation to share their unravaged food stores, not really, but they did anyway. Proof that they were the blessed chosen people.

And then the rumours started flitting around. Mirabel Madrigal had gone mad, they said, and her family had locked her away for it. After what the poor girl had been through a little madness was to be expected, why would her family lock her up? Other rumours said that the girl had been possessed by some sort of demon, and the Madrigals were trying to drive it out. The noise and the shaking that came from the Casíta seemed in keeping with this rumour.

And then, there was a creeping unease that told another story, that the Madrigals, so blessed, were meddling in matters they didn't understand and the village was being punished for their arrogance. First the crops were ravaged, and then the chicken's eggs were broken or taken away. The goats only gave a few drops of blood-tainted milk. Even the wild fruit trees and bushes were yielding up fruit that was rotten beyond saving. There were no fish to be found in the river, and any traps laid in the forest turned up empty and broken.

Just when they thought it couldn't get worse, a new madness descended on them. The donkeys and horses were whipped into a frenzy and broke through their fences, two of them were lost to the forest. One of the billy goats attacked his owner, nearly killing him by goring him with his horns. The village dogs couldn't rest, they were constantly barking at thin air, all day and night.

There were whispers from the forest, unintelligible, chanting in some ancient runic language that chilled to the bone anyone who heard it. It terrified the children in particular, it seemed almost aimed at them. They could not sleep, and for the first time in the Encanto's history families sent their children away to other villages for safety. A number of families considered moving away for good.

Alma Madrigal assured them all that they would be taken care of while these strange occurrences were investigated. As much as they wanted to believe her, they had to wonder if the Madrigal gifts were finally failing them.

…..

Once the corn husk doll was gone, Mirabel felt the magic that had been squirming under her skin settle down, slow to a trickle. It wouldn't last, she knew, the next onslaught was just around the corner if her mother managed to force her to eat. For now, she could regroup, consider what she knew.

The other poison artefact was still in the room, somewhere. Under her mattress, most likely, there was nowhere else for it to be. Mirabel could almost taste it, sour and cold and heavy on her tongue. As long as it wasn't touching her directly, it wasn't enough to make the magic react. She would have to convince someone else to get rid of it, Luisa wasn't likely to fall for the same ploy twice, and Julieta would notice the doll's absence.

Julieta most likely thought she was just trying to break the bond between Mirabel and the butterfly queen...

(how did she find out?)

...and indeed Mirabel felt the bond stretched thin by mortal food and the poison artefacts, but what she was really doing was trying to push the magic out of Mirabel entirely. The magic reacted by trying to break out of Mirabel's body however it could. It was bonded through her blood, and through the blood it pushed outwards.

She was exhausted with pain. Every muscle ached, strained past capacity when the magic thrashed and rolled to find a way out. Just a minute soaking in the water of the butterfly queen's realm would clear up this pain, strengthen the bond, settle the magic. If she could convince someone to untie her, just long enough to make it to the edge of the Encanto, the butterfly court would do the rest. She knew that. It was spoken in the words of the chanting she heard from the forest.

She could feel the butterfly queen's anger from where she was. The queen was powerful enough to go toe to toe with the Casíta's magic, but doing so would risk blowing a village-sized crater where the Encanto used to be, killing every creature nearby. Terrorizing the village with famine and mischief was a gentle approach, by immortal standards. Still, her patience was wearing thin. If she felt moved enough to step into the mortal realm to get her child back, it would be disastrous.

Mirabel had tried to tell her mother, through agonizing fits where the magic nearly broke her back and spit blood onto the sheets of the bed she was tethered to. Julieta just set her jaw and refused to listen.

“I'm doing what needs to be done,” was all she would say. “You will thank me when it's over.”

With the removal of the corn husk doll, two little white butterflies had dared to flit close to the window, to check in on her. If they could get close enough to drop a pata de vaca on the windowsill, it would reverse some of the damage done. But Casíta angrily flapped its shutters, threatening to crush them if they got too close.

Powerful as they were, contamination was an immortal's weakness. If the magic was driven out and she survived the process, she would still be too poisoned by mortal food and mortal air to go back to her immortal mother. She understood that now, if she didn't before. The magic in her blood had kept her tied to the butterfly queen, without it their bond would be broken forever.

She was so deep in thought she didn't hear Bruno come in until he was sitting right beside her, gently shaking her.

“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckled awkwardly. “Wasn't sure if you were awake...did I wake you? I shouldn't have woken you, I'm sorry...”

“I wasn't asleep,” she mumbled.

“Oh, good...I mean, not good, you should probably try and get some sleep when you can, right?”

“I can't sleep while I'm tied up like this.”

“Yeah, good point...anyway, I'm supposed to feed you this...”

It was a bowl of plain rice and some lightly fried vegetables, a slight change from the soups and pureés Julieta had been forcing down her throat since the fits started. Still, Mirabel's stomach churned just looking at it.

“I can't,” Mirabel told him.

Bruno sighed, put the bowl down and scratched his head nervously.

“My sister's not going to be happy with me if I don't get you to eat...”

“Tío Bruno, you know what she's trying to do isn't going to work. What does it matter?”

“What? I...I don't know that...”

“Yes, you do. You saw a prophecy where I walked away from the Encanto. She's doing this to keep me here. It's not going to work.”

“Prophecies aren't exactly stable,” Bruno said with a nervous shrug. “They can change based on how someone reacts to them, you know.”

“So what are you seeing now?”

He didn't want to answer the question, she could see that. He fidgeted, his eyes darted around the room, flickering over her restraints and the untouched food.

“I can't see anything in your future,” he admitted at last. “It's clouded over. There's something interfering with it.”

“That something is either going to get what it wants, or I'm going to die while you fail to keep it away. You need to let me go.”

For a moment, it looked like Bruno was really, truly considering it. He was used to nobody listening to him, surely he of all people knew how she felt? His hands clenched and unclenched, he worried his lower lip with his teeth.

“I can't,” he sighed. “I just...it would break Julieta's heart, I can't do that to her. I'm sorry.”

It was too much to ask for him to free her, but maybe...

“Could you at least take this thing out from under the bed? It's digging into me, I can't sleep,” she asked innocently.

Relieved to have something he could do for her, Bruno didn't even question it. He reached around under the mattress until he found it...

(cold iron, an old mortal trick)

“How did a horseshoe get under there?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.

“Old art project,” she lied with a shrug. “I thought I could make it into a loom or something...”

…..

Slowly, the fits slowed and Mirabel began to recover. Julieta, exhausted by the extremity of the first few days, didn't seem to notice that the doll and the horseshoe were gone. She kept up the force-feeding, however, resorting to a funnel and a pipe when she had to and feeling terrible about it for hours after. Mirabel always had fits after being force-fed.

The magic was settling around her bones for safety, waiting for the opportunity to break out. All she needed was for one family member to take pity on her and loosen the straps, and then she could slip out. The butterfly court was growing impatient, day by day.

Camilo was the most likely candidate. Back from his journey he was set to watch her while her usual minders were catching up on their sleep. He'd always been sympathetic, as well as rebellious.

“Nope.”

When she asked, he gave nothing but that one word answer. No matter how good her argument was.

“Nope.”

He wouldn't even look at her as he refused her.

“I'd untie you if it was you stuck here,” she growled.

He answered with a flippant shrug. There was a relieved amusement in his manner, he was glad that she wasn't so sick any more but he also couldn't pass up the opportunity to have some fun at her expense.

She was just trying to come up with a new argument when there was a commotion from outside, a woman shrieked and some men shouted angrily in the distance. Then there was the unmistakable sound of Antonio sobbing. He'd only been back at the Casíta for a single day. Dark clouds gathered overhead and Felix could be heard talking quietly, placatingly, to someone. Camilo bolted to the window and Mirabel watched the colour drain from his face.

“Just give me the girl,” a sickeningly familiar voice called, slurred with alcohol and desperation. “Bring the girl to me now and nobody gets hurt.”

She didn't need to see anything to know that Vargas was holding Antonio hostage. With nobody to work for, Vargas was free to do whatever he wanted. Apparently what he wanted was her.

“You need to untie me now,” she told Camilo. “Fast.”

#madrigal family #encanto fanfic #encanto au #mirabel madrigal #encanto godmother au #madrigal family needs a hug #folk horror

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pascalpanic · 4 years ago

Text

Blood, Sweat, and Tears (Javier Peña x f!Reader)- Chapter Four

Summary: You feel like shit and decide to work out the bug. Javier is not going to let that happen.

W/C: 2.5k

Warnings: language, mentions of illness (just a common cold), cavity-inducing fluff

A/N: Hi this is like, toothache-inducing fluff. Super cute idea from @softly-sad inspired this whole chapter! And BIG shoutout to @remmysbounty for being my sounding board/Colombian culture expert/brainstorming buddy!

previous chapter | next chapter

You’re a nurse; your immune system is hardy. The first year or so of working in hospitals led you to constantly feel ill, plagued by some bug or virus, but you powered through with help from your fellow nurses. It was to be expected, working in an environment surrounded by people, specifically ill ones.

That being said, you had caught a bug of some kind. It wasn’t too bad, not enough to disqualify you from work. It was simply a scratch in your throat, a throbbing temple that came and went, a few other mild symptoms and an inability to sleep.

This brief insomnia was what found you awake at 1:28 in the morning, joints aching. You’re hydrated, well-fed, and had even snuck a nap in during your break at work today. Everything should be fine, but your body aches, and you roll over in your bed with a groan. Sleep isn’t coming, isn’t anywhere near possible. You crack your neck as you sit up and decide the best course of action is to work out the aches.

You sigh and get out of bed, changing out of your pajamas and into your workout clothes. Your mind wanders a little, wondering if you’ll catch Peña at this hour. It seems unlikely, but then again, the probability of anyone being at the gym at this hour is always low.

It’s a bit chilly in the air of the night, and you sigh as you walk out into the fresh air. You make your way to the gym, secretly hoping that you don’t run into Javier tonight. You’ll be the first to admit you look like shit, and you’re not going to be working out as hard as normal.

Luck isn’t on your side tonight, you sigh, as you enter the fitness center and find Javier running on the treadmill. He’s already quite into it, sweating and panting from the running. He turns as the door creaks open and stops the machine, smiling a little. It falls when he notices the dark rings around your eyes. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you say shyly, turning away from him to put your things in a locker. The twinge returns to your temple and you try your best not to groan at the annoying headache.

Javier turns off the treadmill and turns to look at your back. “I’ll just say it. You look like shit. Is something wrong?” he asks, crossing his arms, genuinely concerned.

“I feel like shit too,” you chuckle, running a hand over your ponytail.

His brow furrows as he looks at you. “Rough shift? I thought you said-”

You nod and cut him off. “I only work days for the next two weeks, yeah,” you say, turning to face him. “I’ve got some kind of bug or something. I feel like shit and I can’t sleep. I figured I’d come to the gym and try to work out if I was going to be awake, but…” you shrug and take a swig from your water bottle.

Javier shakes his head. “If you’re feeling like shit, working out isn’t going to be the answer.” He steps off the treadmill and wipes his face with the hem of his t-shirt, exposing unexpectedly strong abs that make you raise your eyebrows before quickly looking away. He walks over to the area by you, grabbing his bag. “If neither of us can sleep, why don’t we go get breakfast?” he offers, positioning himself so that you don’t have to move to see him. “There’s a little 24-hour place around here. I’ll buy, we’ll get you some hot coffee and food.”

You bite your lip, thinking you probably shouldn’t. “I came here to work out,” you say, a weak protest.

“That’s pointless if you’re feeling like shit,” Javier points out, and you nod.

“I guess that’s true.” You say and cross your arms.

Javier gives you a soft, gentle smile. “You’re a nurse. You know it’s true. Come on,” he tells you, and you finally crack a small smile too. Javier’s widens at that. “Alright hermosa, come on,” he tells you as he grabs his bag. “I drove here tonight. We’ll take my car?” he asks.

The thought of seeing the kind of car the man drives makes you smile a little wider. You hold back a giggle at the nickname, your heart fluttering helplessly in your chest. “As long as you’ll drive me home too,” you nod, and Javier nods back.

You walk out to his car alongside him, where you discover he drives a beat-up wagon. You chuckle a little and get into the passenger side. It smells of cigarette smoke, which you find no surprise. There’s some kind of air freshener, at least, that masks the distinct smell but doesn’t hide it completely. Javier tosses his bag in the back and sits in the drivers’ seat.

The drive to the restaurant is filled with a comfortable silence, the radio playing quietly. You relax in the seat of his car, his presence soothing. It’s a bit chilly, and you unintentionally shiver. Javier’s obviously still warm from working out and he notices the fact that you’re cold. “The heater’s busted,” he admits with an apologetic smile. “Here.” He reaches into the back and grabs a leather jacket, placing it on your lap. “Use my jacket.”

The gesture makes you melt a little, and you nod, sliding it over your shoulders. It’s big on you, but it’s warm and comfortable and has a distinctive smell that you’re sure is Javier’s. There’s cologne and cigarette smoke and exhaust from the shitty car, and you smile as you snuggle into it. “Thank you,” you tell him as you look over at him, your heart completely in your eyes and unable to hide it.

He looks back at you and his stony face cracks into a smile. “No problem.”

A few minutes later, the car parks outside a small restaurant, dimly lit but clearly open. As you get out of the car and open the door to the restaurant, the smell of coffee wafts your way and soothes you as you breathe it in. Javier walks in behind you and a short and plump waitress calls his name excitedly. “Javi! How are you, mijo?” She asks, already bringing two mugs of coffee as she notices the two of you. “And who is this?” She asks again, handing you a mug.

Javier leads you to the small booth nearby and the two of you sit. He introduces you and you give a little wave, sipping your coffee and sighing at the warm liquid. The waitress chats with him, and you smile to yourself as you watch the two of them interact. He’s just as charming with her as he is with you, and it makes you chuckle. He orders something for the two of you (you don’t catch exactly what), and you lean against the cool leather of the booth, smiling at him as the waitress leaves to put in the order. “What?” he asks, cracking a small smile at the way you look at him.

You snuggle into his jacket and shrug. “You’re quite the charmer,” you tease, bringing the coffee to your lips to hide the growing smile. “What did you order us?”

“Sweet arepas,” he tells you, and you nod happily as you set it down.

“Sounds wonderful,” you nod and set it down. “How was your day?” you ask, the quiet atmosphere of the small restaurant making your voice quieter and gentler. You’ve never asked him something like that, but he’s been tense all night. Well, what you assumed was tense- you didn’t know him extremely well.

“Shitty,” he shakes his head as he admits it, sipping his own coffee before finishing his response. “We can’t find shit on Escobar or any of his men. It’s like they’re fucking ghosts or something: we can always see them and never catch them.”

You nod and listen, his quiet voice and the coffee soothing you. His voice is beautiful, you notice, and it’s just what you needed on a night like tonight. “That sounds hard,” you nod in agreement, your eyes showing your compassion.

Javier has come to love looking into your eyes. They always give away your thoughts and emotions. The way you look at him melts his heart. He has Steve and Connie and whatever prostitute he’s with, but they always already know the story or don’t care. You do. “It’s tough, yeah,” he says before he looks down at his coffee, the image of you bundled in his leather jacket threatening to make him smile.

The arepas come not long after, and you sigh as you bite into the cinnamon-sugar dusted cornmeal cakes. Javier chuckles and smiles as he hears the noise. You notice the way his smile looks like it doesn’t come often, but it comes in full force when it does. It crinkles the edges of his eyes, leaves lines around his mouth, and makes him look like everything you want and more. He bites into one and it leaves the fine powder on his mustache. You snort and nearly spit out your coffee as you notice it.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, hiding your face behind your mug. “Just got a little… something,” you say, gesturing to your face, to where his mustache would be. He brushes it and frowns as he notices the sugar falling out, and you giggle harder.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Javier says, amusement and teasing in his tone.

“Don’t make yourself so easy to laugh at,” you say with a quirked eyebrow, taking another bite of your arepa.

Javier shakes his head, that familiar small smile on his face: the one he always cracks around you no matter how hard he tries to hold back. He really does like you, he realizes in that moment, as he looks at you: happily chewing your food and wrapped in his leather jacket and probably getting powdered sugar and cinnamon on it but he can’t even bring himself to care because your big eyes are on his face and it makes him warm inside even if he’ll never admit it because goddamn would Steve tease him for the rest of eternity but he thinks he might be falling, and it makes that smile grow into a real one he can’t hold back.

He takes a sip of his coffee and forces himself to be the regular Javier, the flirty one who doesn’t let things mean something to him because he knows it’ll be gone soon anyway. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re a nurse. Are you so mean and sarcastic to your patients?”

“Come by sometime and find out,” you tease. “Actually, don’t. That would mean you’d need a reason to be in the hospital.”

The rest of the night passes easily. You and Javier spend hours in that diner booth, drinking coffee and mindlessly munching on the arepas, which the kind waitress brings out several plates of throughout the night. She tells you that Javier doesn’t eat enough, and you believe it, and you watch as the plate slowly becomes empty every time, most of them going into Javier’s mouth and leaving more sugar on that mustache. You converse and tease and flirt and bare your life stories to each other, neither of you ever taking your eyes from the other’s face except for when the woman- Valeria, she tells you- brings more coffee and more food.

Javier looks at his watch for the first time that night, finding that it’s now 5:30 in the morning. “Shit. We’d better get you home, you need to work, don’t you?” “Don’t you too?” you ask in return, tilting your head and pulling the coat closer around yourself.

“Yeah, but that’s less important.” He leaves a Colombian bill on the table for payment and tip for Valeria, then stands, adjusting his clothing. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

You nod and stand, following Javier out to his car, parked on the street in front of the diner. Valeria calls out a goodbye to the both of and you wave, a soft smile on your face. There were kind people everywhere you went, you found, even in a place with so much trouble and violence.

The sky is beginning to change colors as the sunrise approaches. The dark blue of the sky lightens near the horizon, and a bit of pastel orange tinges just where the outline of the city meets it. It’s beautiful, really. You watch the sky as Javier drives you home, as it slowly changes and a bit of the sun is starting to show.

Javier parks in front of your apartment, which you directed him to, and kills the engine. You look at him, confused. “I’ll walk you inside,” he says as if it’s obvious.

As you get out of the car, Javier follows and you shake your head. “No, it’s fine Javi,” you protest, but he walks to you and puts a hand on your arm.

“I want you to be safe, and you know I carry a gun.”

“It’s 5:30 A.M. on a Tuesday, and you’re wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt,” you laugh, raising your eyebrow. He hasn’t touched you since you first shook hands when you met. His hand is large and strong and you can practically feel the warmth through the thick leather of his coat. “Oh, shit, sorry,” you say and start to shrug out of the coat, but he stops you, one hand on each arm.

He shakes his head. “Keep it with you,” he says.

It’s a soft moment, the sun coming up in the eastern sky, Javier’s hands holding you through his coat, the one he gifted you when you were cold. You’re both silent for a moment, and Javier can’t help himself. He presses a soft kiss to your head, where your hairline and your forehead meet, murmuring your name into your skin. He’s so close to you, and you can smell his cologne and his sweat and his deodorant and cigarettes and coffee and it’s all so uniquely Javi that your breath stops for a moment before you throw your arms around his torso, hugging him. “Thank you,” you breathe into his chest, and you can feel him hum a soft noise that conveys ‘it’s no problem’, his arms wrapping back around you.

You both break away a moment later and you look up at him, a soft smile gracing your face and an equal one on his. “My hero,” you chuckle softly and press a brief kiss to his cheek. Javi chuckles softly at that, the warmth radiating from him tempting you to do more, but you stop yourself. You don’t want to give him your bug. “Thank you for tonight. It was much needed,” you tell him, pulling his leather jacket tight around yourself.

“I needed it too,” he nods. “Go inside. I’ll see you,” he says, his hands resting where his belt loops would be on his jeans. You can tell that’s a pose he strikes often.

“See you,” you nod and turn, heading into your apartment building. As you open the door, you turn, and Javier gives a little two fingered salute to you before getting back into his car.

taglist:

@wonderlandgabby @diogodxlot

#javier peña x reader #javi peña #javier peña #javi peña x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #narcos #narcos fanfic #blood sweat and tears #pascalpanic

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whump-a-la-mode · 4 years ago

Note

Hiya! I saw Kirby tagged you and I like to find new writers so here I am!

Could you do 'fainting' on your bthb card if you haven't already? Much love, Xx Dee <3

Thank you so much for your ask! I love your blog, and I’ve been reading it for a long time before I made this account ^^ I love your stories with the Assasin and the Queen (I forget if that series has a name or not, oops)

I’m really sorry about turning all these prompts into Villainsicle. Maybe I love these characters a little too much :)

This kinda happens in the same time period as the last prompt fill. No comfort for Villain this time around, though.

I hope you enjoy!

CW//Superhero whump, villain whumpee, conditioned whumpee, implied starvation, force-feeding, underfeeding, malnutrition, fainting, purposely making someone sick

“You aren’t going to have lunch?”

Leader raised a brow as Medic sat at the table across from them. The doctor’s possessions were few, and they carried with them little more than a messenger bag and a coat.

Around them, the cafeteria buzzed with activity. The meal of the day had attracted quite a significant portion of the base’s staff, leaving most of the tables full. Medic did their best to tune them out, though it wasn’t exactly easy.

Most of the tables were covered with trays and dishes, but that at which Leader and Medic sat was noticeably empty.

“You aren’t, either.” Medic replied incredulously.

“I had lunch with Engineer, earlier. And you?”

“I’m not hungry. Don’t have the time, even if I was.” They shook their head.

“If you’re so busy, then... let’s just get right to the chase. I’m tired. What is it?”

Medic frowned. Their boss wasn’t always the most professional, certainly not, but such a lack of grace was unlike them. Had the situation really been so stressful? At the very least, maybe they’d be able to get an easy ‘yes.’ It was all they were really seeking.

“I just wanted to ask about Villain.”

“Well, I could’ve guessed that much.”

Medic bit their tongue.

“They are still my patient.”

“You’re upset that I moved them from the hospital wing?”

“Less upset, more concerned. Did you forget that they almost died?”

“A repeat of that situation is exactly what I’m trying to avoid. Stress is dangerous.”

“Stress is unavoidable.”

“Maybe. But do you really think it’s a good idea to have the technopath have some kind of meltdown? I like it when my base is standing and my head is on my shoulders.” As they spoke, their voice turned to a snap. “If you want them moved back to the medical wing, I’m sorry, but it’s a no.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.” They had at least known that Leader would be stubborn on that front. They set their shoulders back. “Do you remember back at the hospital, you said that Villain could be useful?”

“You said that, right? I mean, I agree, but-”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

“What about it, then?”

Medic took a deep breath, and made their request:

“If we’re ever going to get their help, we don’t have time to wait. The longer they’re here, the more agitated they’re going to become. I wanted your permission to begin... convincing them, for lack of a better word.”

Leader looked sick. A paleness had crept onto their face, the whole time that Medic had been speaking. It wasn’t fear, certainly not-- it was almost disgust.

“No.” They shook their head. “No. I’m sorry, but... at the hospital, I wasn’t thinking straight. I was tired, we all were. Villain is hurt. Right now, you’re right, they’re your patient, but that’s all. If we’re going to do anything, we’re going to do it after they get better.”

Beneath the table, Medic clenched their fists.

“Then, what do you want me to do?”

“You don’t have to be snippy about it. It’s been a rough day, but that doesn’t make me any less of your boss.”

“I- You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“You will take care of Villain. From now on, I’m leaving you in charge of their day-to-day care-- feeding, watering, and any medical needs they may have. That is all. Understood?”

Medic gritted their teeth.

“Understood, Leader.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Medic was a lot of things. They were a physician, a surgeon, and the world’s only expert on Enhanced biology. But they were not a babysitter.

They had expected to be put in charge of Villain’s case, of course they had. Leader wouldn’t trust anyone else with something so delicate. But, that had been back when they had believed Leader to be capable of any sort of strategic thinking at all.

Villain’s capture had been a boon, dropped right into their laps. An incredible power, possessed by someone they could mold like putty. Such an asset would be of incredible use, for recon, for missions, for anything, really.

And Leader had thrown it away, for no reason at all.

They weren’t about to let them give up on such an opportunity.

Medic placed a small cup on a scale, watching as the numbers flickered, before finally deciding on their answer. Too much. They poured a minuscule amount back into the container, before weighing it again.

They weren’t about to disobey orders, especially not ones so directly given. But, aside from their academic credits, Medic was one more thing: A master of loopholes.

Speaking to Villain was off the table. It would be too obvious. But, in the end, the brain is merely a slave to the rest of the body. Especially to the stomach.

The human body is dependant on a grand variety of minerals and vitamins and all of the like. A little too much, or just not quite enough, and the whole system would be thrown into a tailspin. The mind included.

The scale gave its final reading. Perfect. Medic poured the contents of the cup into a mixing bowl.

Leader had given no guidelines as to what Villain had to be fed-- only that they had to receive food. The mixing bowl on the table sat filled with white, powdery piles, all stacked atop one another, and flowing together. Potassium, sodium, amino acids, foric acid; everything one would need. All in perfect amounts, noted onto a clipboard.

They took a bowl of cornmeal and tipped it in, taking up a mixing spoon.

It looked disgusting. It was perfect.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Day One

Medic scrawled onto their notepad, before depositing it into their pocket. From the same pocket, they drew a metal key.

Key in one hand, food (if it could even be called as such) in the other, they entered Villain’s cell.

The prisoner was perched on their bed, halfway hidden beneath blankets. Medic could see their expression fall, as soon as the door crept open.

They supposed they were somewhat glad for the fact. Their captive was already feeble, and their nervous state was hard to ignore. Half of Medic’s work had already been done for them-- they merely had to finish the job.

They held their shoulders back, moving with firm steps, even if their movement was quieted by the carpeted floor. Villain bristled, as though a frightened cat.

Medic closed the door behind themself, ensuring that it was locked, before placing the bowl they held on the carpet before them.

A message. If Villain wanted to eat, they were going to have to work for it.

“Dinner,” Medic grunted. “Eat.”

Villain narrowed their eyes, practically baring their teeth with how far back they curled their lip.

“You have 30 seconds.” It wasn’t a request, not in any form. It was a threat. “Any longer than that, this goes in the trash, and you don’t get to eat ‘till tomorrow night.”

That, Villain took more seriously. They chewed their lip for a moment.

“Fuck you.” They spat, finally, though the way they said it, they sounded nearly to be fighting against their own voice. They wanted to submit. They would, soon enough.

Medic sighed, picking the bowl back up.

“I was bluffing. You don’t get a choice.”

Villain flinched, scrambling backwards. They weren’t quick enough to make any sort of escape. Medic slammed them against the bed, before they had time to react, or even to scream.

A brief struggle left Villain pinned down, atop the mattress, with Medic’s legs holding down theirs, and a firm hand on their neck.

A shove against their throat sent Villain gasping for air, only for a spoonful of colorless grain to be forced between their teeth. They swallowed it, desperately lurching for breath, but finding only more of the tasteless mush.

By the time the bowl was empty, Villain was shaking, struggling for any air. They were, at last, able to take a lungful as Medic climbed off of them, releasing them.

As their captive coughed and panted, Medic left the cell, taking their notebook from their pocket.

Day One

Success

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The human body is a balancing act. A seemingly innocuous ailment may have a thousand different causes. It could be an infection-- hostile bacteria from the outside. Perhaps a cancer, or something to do with the millions of digestive microbes.

Or, a vitamin deficiency. Those with powers were horribly sensitive to such things.

Medic placed the measuring cup on the scale, waiting for the device to give its final answer.

Perfect. Just a third of a gram less than yesterday.

Tiny. Unnoticeable. Perfect.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Day Two

“Eat.”

Medic dropped the bowl onto the ground unceremoniously, not so much as bothering to lean down, first. (Of course, though, they ensured that not a single particle was spilled in the process. They weren’t an idiot.)

Villain peeked out from the covers, under which they were practically huddled like a child. Their shaking was visible, this time, even from across the room.

The doctor forced back a smirk.

“30 seconds.”

That was all it took. In a moment, Villain was wolfing down the mush.

Day Two

Success

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Medic’s pen scrawled over their clipboard.

Intake reduced to .2 grams a day. Subject responding appropriately. Overall reduced food intake has aided process. Subject has not seemed concerned over receiving one meal a day. Whether or not they have noticed at all remains undetermined.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Day Thirteen

Villain didn’t react.

Medic opened the door-- the familiar creak echoing against the walls. They tossed the food down, hardly noticing as a few grains spilled over the edges.

It was hardly a concern.

They looked to their patient.

Formerly flush skin appeared horribly pale, stretched over a mouth hanging half-open, dumbfounded. If Villain had seen them come in, they certainly didn’t show it.

“Eat.”

The command was enough to awake them. They struggled off the bed, bracing themself against the frame before trying to stand.

“30 seconds.” Medic grumbled.

Villain’s eyes widened, ever so slightly, in response to the threat. They fought to move faster, but-

They didn’t even make it two steps. For a moment, their legs stiffened, before they went down in a heap.

Day Thirteen

Success

Medic scrawled in their journal, before rushing off to find Leader.

#whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump prompt #bad things happen bingo #villain whumpee #hero villain whump #conditioned whumpee

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hells-relief · 3 years ago

Text

on the second day of themis-mas...

Hello there!

i made it to the second day! this one is a bit longer than yesterday, because it's an Artem fic, and ya know i gotta get that good good slow burn in there.

I hope you enjoy! i don't have a title for this one. if you can think of a good one, let me know!

word count: 2.3k

Fuck. i look at my stovetop, which is caked in various ingredients, all underneath the grate and littering the burners. i take a rag and try to wipe it off, but the sticky, gravy-like substance is stubborn, and to be honest, i am too tired to deal with it.

i was attempting to make a polenta for an upcoming lunch i had with Celestine and Kiki. she was chastising me about my inability to cook the other day at the office.

"really, you should know how to cook by now. you're living on your own! you can't expect the old man at the ramen place to feed you forever." celestine takes one of her purple locks and slides it behind her ear as the other hand taps the clipboard by her side.

"it is not just the ramen man... it's the dumpling lady on the corner, too." kiki chimes in, coming to sit next to Celestine on the corner of my desk.

"ok guys, i know how to cook. come over anytime and i'll prove it." as soon as the words leave my lips, i want to take them back. i want to shove them in the trash can under my desk, but they are already floating in the air like sheets of printer paper.

"i thought you'd never ask!" Kiki says, her big brown eyes coming closer to mine. "i've never been to your place, and that would be so fun! we could do a little brunch on a Saturday."

"that does sound fun," says celestine thoughtfully. "but you will have to ask Mr. Wing for the day off for all of us, Kiki."

Kiki's face drains. she gulps, stands up, and turns towards Artem's office.

"just watch me!" she says defiantly.

so now, i am resigned to making brunch tomorrow. I slide down my kitchen cabinets and look at my phone, skimming the recipe to see what on earth i was doing wrong. I scoff at the line that reads "anyone could cook this SUPER easy recipe!", and i put my phone on the counter above me. my head rests right underneath the counter, and i feel a slow drip of something fall in the middle of my forehead. i take it onto my finger and look at it. oh great, i think, i love a sully of cornmeal and milk falling directly onto my face. While i get up to grab a hand towel to wipe my face off with, i hear the familiar buzz of my phone against the marble countertop. I walk over to it, towel in hand, and see Artem's name flash across the screen. How does he always seem to call when i'm cooking?

"Hi, Artem." i can't help but sound a little dejected; i dont even want to turn around to see the demolition site that is my kitchen.

"Hello, you sound upset. Is your favorite restaurant closed for delivery tonight?" He said that so... innocently that it almost makes my annoyance disappear.

almost.

"ha ha, Mr. Wing. i'll have you know, i was actually just cooking."

"ahh." he says knowingly, and i can almost see his face, reflected by the window he was undoubtably standing in front of. "even more upsetting for you. why are you attempting to cook now?"

I hadn't knowingly refrained from telling Artem about my brunch with celestine and kiki; it just never came up. Even when kiki asked for the day off, he looked at her quizically but never pushed it; ever the boundaries man.

"i... actually am having celestine and kiki over tomorrow, and they asked me to cook. for some reason, they seem to think i am inept in the kitchen."

"what ever would give them that idea?"

"is that... a chuckle i hear, mr. wing? a joke from the ever-stoic man?" his laugh fills my chest, and makes me smile, helping me forget about my failure. I want to hear him laugh like that all the time; he is so calm, hearing him laugh is like looking at a statue and realizing it is an actor, instead.

"yes, it appears to be. Do you need help with the recipe? i could attempt to give you tips over the phone, or..." he trails off.

"would you like to come here?" i suggest. i can't even follow instructions when i read them myself, i don't want to think about what might happen if Artem tried to give them to me over the phone.

"i-if that's alright with you. It is late..." he sounds... almost flustered? i guess 8:30 pm is a little late to be inviting your boss over to your house, but i am desparate.

" it's totally fine with me! i meet them tomorrow for brunch so..."

"oh, well, if that's the situation then i will be over soon." he hastily hangs up the phone without even saying goodbye. he must really be in a hurry, i think to myself. with that, i turn towards my kitchen, and let out a dejected sigh. i guess i have to clean this up before he arrives.

*****************************

i am just wiping off the last counter when i hear a faint knock on my door. i walk over and look through the peep hole. why is artem standing there like he's doing something wrong? i throw open the door, and he jumps backwards, and averts his eyes.

"umm..." he mumbles. "your apron is very... nice." i look down quizically at my apron. it was a black, classic apron, wrapped tightly around my frame.

"thank you?" i tried to hide the questioning in my voice, but it crept in. "won't you come in, Mr. Wing?"

"yes, yes, thank you." he murmurs as he ducks underneath my door frame to enter my apartment. He is wearing a black cardigan with a v-neck white t-shirt underneath. he looks to be the picture of casual. Suddenly, i am struck with the wonder of what his apartment looks like. i'm sure it is spotless, but does he have to duck when he enters it? does he have a favorite robe he hangs up in his bathroom? i wonder if his bed is made or messy, still in the throws of sleep while its owner straps on a tie.

as i wonder all this, i follow him to the kitchen, where i take the slightly whistling kettle off of the stove. i pour the boiling water into the awaiting mugs, and slide my phone towards Artem.

"that is the recipe. it is insanely complicated." i watch as his light blue eyes scan the recipe, and his forehead crinkles.

"not... particularly. this is actually a much simpler way of making polenta than is traditionally done." i can feel the color draining from my face.

"oh, really? well, then, i must ust be really out of my depths in the kitchen."

"i mean, what with the ramen lady and the dumpling man supplying you with breakfast, lunch, and dinner it must be hard to find time to cook." ahh, so celestine had told him, too.

"its the ramen man and the dumpling lady..." i murmur, shuffling the cup of tea closer to my face. he gives a slight chuckle, and stands.

"well, we better get in there." he pushes up his sleeves, and goes to the sink to wash his hands.

"so soon?" i say a little too frantically.

"yes, it is better that we start sooner rather than later. what are you having difficulties with?" i explain to him the way that i was trying to precook the polenta before i put the eggs in it and threw it into the oven, and he quickly stops and corrects me. It always astonishes me how patient and kind he is; he gives critiques like they were foregone conclussions, but not enough to make me feel incompitent, just that i had lost a step on the way to the answer, like a math problem.

after getting to where i failed, Artem's hands move deftly across the stove top, grabbing and releasing spices onto the dish. I have my back resting on the counter next to him, lost in some thoughts about work and how tired i am and...

"oh, excuse me." i hear him say. i look up and he is much closer than i expect him to be; he is trying to reach into the spice cabinet next to my head. i know i should move, but being this close to him i take a sharp, but deep breath. the spicy, chocolatey scent of his cologne fills my nose, and i close my eyes subconciously. when i open them, he still hasn't moved, but his cheeks are a fiery crimson red.

"i-i'm sorry, Mr. Wing. Can i help you grab something?" i turn my back to him in an attempt to help, but now suddenly i am hyperfocused at the warmth that spreads across my back from his body. he is so warm, it almost makes me feel drunk with comfort. our bodies aren't touching, but they may as well be by the way we are standing. Artem makes a surprised chirping noise, and steps back away from me.

"no, no, i-i'm sorry. I should've gotten your attention first before i went-"

"-and i should've totally been paying more attention i mean after all you are helping me-" we are both talking over each other, the cacophony of our voices colliding together being enough to make us stop.

"i-" "i-" we begin again. i somehow find underneath all the embarrassment a laugh, and look at him. there is a leaf of parsley stuck to his cheek, and i reach out hesitatingly to take it off. as my thumb glides against his cheek, they are red hot to the touch; hell, even his ears looked warm enough to help cook the meal we were making. the leaf comes off on my thumb, and i bring my hand back down to my side. i see him visibly relax, and he turns back to the food. we speak no more words until he puts the pan into the oven.

"well, at least my kitchen is cleaner!" i try to say jovially. it hits the silent room kind of hard.

"that is one way of looking at it. are you prepared to make this again tomorrow?"

"yes, sir!" i show him my phone's notepad, which has a page of notes. "i wrote down all of where i went wrong, and how i can fix it."

"perfect. i believe you can do whatever you set your mind to. you are exceptionally clever." i am touched by Artem saying these things to me; it is not often The Artem Wing gives anyone a compliment. "if you don't mind, i will be taking my leave now that it is finishing up in the oven. you can take it out alright by yourself, correct?" i look at him annoyedly.

"have some faith, Artem. I am not totally incompitent." i go to grab his cardigan that he set on one of my bar stools, and immediately my hand is covered in some kind of food product. how the fuck did i make a mess all the way over here?! he looks at me expectantly for his jacket, but i give him a sheepish look.

"Let me wash this for you, Artem, i made a mess all over it." he laughs quietly, and nods.

"alright then. i will see you on Monday." he sounds so formal; almost like we weren't just inches away from each other moments ago.

"yes, you will." he gives me a fleeting glance, and i can read a sense of expectancy in his gaze. what is he thinking? he almost seems to be leaning into me...

"i... i think you're very funny," he says, his dark hair covering his eyes. he looks like a shy schoolboy getting ready to profess his love to another. "you don't normally cook, yet you invite two people over to have brunch?"

"yeah, i don't know what i was thinking..." i look down at my hands, twisting my fingers into shapes.

"i think i do." he puts a tender finger under my chin. my heart is pounding, and even his finger is slightly shaking. i look into his crystal blue eyes and see a pool of emotions, most that i can't make out. "you are never one to back down from a challenge, and you like to prove yourself, just like in the courtroom. truth be told, that is one of the things i admire about you.

but he doesn't. he gives me a slight bow and walks out.

#tears #tot artem #artem wing #tears of themis fics #artem wing x reader #artem wing fanfic #mihoyo #tot fanfic

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squidproquoclarice · 4 years ago

Note

Not a question but was thinking about how Arthur & Sadie would react to Bea or any of their children walking for the first time, considering everything they have been through to get to where they are, then having this precious little moment with their child.

December 1902 Ramita de la Baya, Nuevo Paraiso

On occasion, Sadie had to rethink the wisdom of being pregnant again in a small house with a dog, a cat, and a very energetic eleven month old daughter and ten month old nephew constantly underfoot. Especially with the babies more than old enough to crawl, that meant she and Karen kept busy watching them.

But today was a break from all that, and they’d all left Chuparosa. Karen had taken Danny to Escalera for a few days just to themselves, and to do some Christmas shopping. Being as it was Sunday, she and Arthur had taken Bea for an afternoon here beside the river. They’d set up in the shade of an ironwood tree, eating dinner and enjoying a fine sunny winter day. Christmas was coming soon, and Chuparosa would be ready for a fine fiesta for that.

She let herself just enjoy the breeze and the sunshine, relaxing around the bulk of her belly, and cuddling Bea to her shoulder. Two months to go for this child, and she knew from last Christmas pregnant with Bea that she’d grow bigger and more uncomfortable yet in that time. But she was worth every bit of it, she thought, caressing Bea’s petal-soft cheek with the back of her finger. Every bit of discomfort, the hours of labor, and all the effort for both her and Arthur since Bea’s birth. Because the joy far outweighed the hardship. They’d waited so long for this, both been through the ashes of a dream destroyed and believing they’d never have it again. They’d been so lucky to have a daughter already, and luckier yet to so quickly give her a sister or brother, the second child they’d agreed they both wanted so much. And you’ll be worth it too, baby. I know it.

She must have dozed off with Bea still in her arms, because she woke up to feel the little girl wriggling her way free like a determined eel, and calling happily, “Dada!” Pushing up to sit, she watching Bea crawling towards Arthur, coming back from down at the river bank with a fishing pole and wicker creel in hand.

Setting the fishing gear down, and crouching down to Bea’s level, he said, “Yeah, sweetheart, it’s me.” He glanced over at Sadie. “Got us some supper. Catfish.”

“Good. We got plenty of cornmeal, that’ll be nice.” Cornmeal was cheaper than wheat flour, and they still had some money left from the stash from the train robbery three years ago, but that couldn’t last forever. Not with no steady work for Arthur, and few people willing to hire a woman to begin, and certainly not one with a baby, so that meant she and Karen were mostly out of luck. The few months she and Arthur would do seasonal work at MacFarlane’s after the turn of the year would be the bulk of their income. That would keep things going. Give them time to keep looking ahead.

Until then, they did what they could, in the same way that Sadie had grown up. Cut costs where they could, managed to stretch a peso and the contents of the pantry, hunted or fished on days there was no work, turned the sound parts of worn out clothes into diapers and baby smocks. She and Karen took in mending and seamstress work, much as she chafed at it sometimes. Arthur found what odd jobs he could. He’d come home yesterday exhausted from helping build an addition to the bank, covered in gypsum dust from mixing and applying the white covering for the adobe brick to the point he looked like a ghost, except for the awkwardly tied green rag bandage and pinkish smears of blood on his left forearm where he’d cut it.

The cut was bad enough that she’d had to stitch that arm up last night by lantern light at the kitchen table after putting Bea to bed. Some fool slipped with his trowel, that’s all. Almost a shame we’re out of the bank robbing business, Daisy. All them years, I never figured out the best way to know a bank was to help build it.

Even now, he had another bandage tied around the injury, visible below the rolled-up sleeves of his purple shirt. It wasn’t a life they could continue forever. But they’d figure it out. Besides, even right now, they had so many joys.

Bea giggled, reaching up and getting her hands on Arthur’s knees, using them to haul herself upright, peering up into his face. “Hi.”

“Hello, Beanstalk,” he said, reaching out and gently caressing her hair. “You behaved while I was gone fishing?”

“She did. I notice you didn’t ask if I behaved, Art.”

“Shit, I know better than to expect you to behave.” He gave her a wink and a grin. “Happily for us both, might be that I prefer you that way.”

“Happily for you that you prefer that, cause I ain’t intending to change.” She gave him a wink in return.

“Mama!” Bea let go of Arthur’s knees with one hand to look at Sadie, grinning in delight. She let go with her other hand, taking two stumbling steps back towards Sadie before promptly falling flat on her diaper-clad bottom and giggling.

God, there were so many joys to this life. This second chance she never could have believed she’d get when Jake had been killed. Being with Arthur, living every day trying to make each other better versions of themselves. She’d seen Bea grow so much in almost eleven months, and here was one more thing. Clumsy and lurching as they were, those had been steps, her first ones. Another marvel in watching Bea continue to grow up, and she cherished it so much.

She looked over at Arthur, and saw the intent way he watched Bea, the smile that seemed to carry an edge of wistfulness. She’d seen that look before, and from his explanations before of what he’d been thinking at the time, she knew what it meant. Knew he was living in the happiness of this moment but also thinking back so many years to his son. Usually when it was that particular expression, it wasn’t the sorrow of memory. It was because this was something he was experiencing for the first time as a father, because he hadn’t been there to see it with Isaac, and he realized how much he’d missed back then all over again.

It would pass. It always did. And she watched it do so, and that smile and the look in his green eyes became nothing but pure joy and pride. “Got to say, Bea, you looked like your daddy after a bottle of whiskey, just about.”

“Babbling, stumbling around, but curiously enough, still sweet as anything? I’d say so.”

Arthur hitched up to standing, not even needing to take a step himself to go to Bea. He stooped over, gently hauling her back upright, holding her tiny hands within his large, rough ones. “I got you. Now, you try it again. Go to your momma.” Rolling up clumsily to her knees, Sadie held her arms out, heart suddenly beating faster. “Come here, baby. You can do it.”

With Arthur bracing her up, Bea managed the dozen or so slow, cautious, baby-sized steps back to Sadie. As Arthur let her go into Sadie’s arms, she scooped the little girl up, sitting back down with Bea in her lap, kissing her soundly on the cheek. “Oh, ain’t you a clever gal!”

“That’s my girl,” Arthur said, beaming as he sat down beside the two of them, leaning in to give Bea a congratulatory pat on the shoulder.

Her eyes met Arthur’s, seeing the glow there that must have matched hers. Her throat felt tight for a moment from the pure delight of it. It had taken so long, and they’d been through so much. But here was a rainbow after that rainstorm that had torn everything apart. They’d learned to hope again, to dare to seize dreams that they’d both considered shattered. So here they were now, and she was glad that she’d gotten a chance to have this with a child of her own, glad that he’d been there to share this happiness and this memory with her. There would be more moments and more memories, both with Bea and the baby to come, and she let herself look forward to them.

#arthur morgan #sadie adler #sadithur #rdr2 #may the sunrise #fic prompts #bea griffith #Anonymous #said i'd answer this as a fic prompt #because i think it needed it

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daretosnoop · 3 years ago

Text

Chapter 1: The body in the Entrance

Here is it guys!

So, I changed the order of some event around to fit better with plot pacing. Also, I extended the mystery beyond one night because that gives me nothing to work with.

I know I said that this is a romance between Henry and Nancy, but it’s not going to really be that because: 1. Who falls in love over the span of 4/5 days? 2. Henry can’t just go from one relationship to another 3. I have a hard time believing in quick love/relationships. I need foundation, and it’s reflected in my writing.

I plan to continue the series beyond CRY, and build their relationship. So if you don’t ship, don’t worry, you can still read this. I suggest listening to the soundtrack while you read to enhance the experience!

Had anyone asked Henry Bolet what love was, he would have had no answer. No honest answer, that is. Love was a parent’s devotion to their children. But his parents died when he was young, and their will somehow declared his father’s brother, Bruno Bolet, as a fit guardian. Love then, must be the desire to look after someone. But Bruno tossed him around from boarding school to military school. Summer and winter breaks were the only chance Henry got to see his uncle, but as he grew older he learned to use his sparse vacations more wisely. At twenty-five, he supposed he couldn’t complain much. Bruno never hurt him. He ensured Henry was clothed, fed, educated, and safe.

But surely, Henry thought, a person could expect more than Maslow’s base level of needs?

That was all life seemed to teach him. If you’re able to stay alive and keep moving forward, be thankful and keep your mouth shut. Be good, be quiet. And Henry was good. He performed well in school. And he was quiet. He silently bore the bullies, the snickers, the shunning. It paid off in military school where his silence was applauded as patience and he was promoted to officer at a young age and expected to delegate arguments. The nub of anger in him, an anger that appeared on the night his parents died, screamed at his fragile backbone. Its voice molded with the voice of his superior officers, commanding for attention among other orders. With so many years being called private Bolet, corporal Bolet, sergeant Bolet, and officer Bolet, Henry almost forgot his name. It wasn’t until he met Summer at a random bar that he remembered.

She sat by him while his fellow soldiers mingled with the other soldiers. It was their scheduled night out and the soldiers wanted to go to the bar. Outnumbered, Henry had no choice but to agree. To disagree would lead to a lack to trust and camaraderie, especially with him. So he sat somewhere dark and quiet in the bar, hoping no one saw him till it was time to leave. But like her name, Summer’s warmth crept into his corner.

“Hey there,” she cooed. “What’s your name?”

“Bolet” came the automatic reply.

“Oooh a cold one are you? Don’t worry. I don’t bite”. She nudged him a little and Henry could smell the alcohol oozing off of her.

“Henry,” he muttered after a long pause.

“Hen-ry”. She played with his name, brought it to life. “I’m Summer”.

Henry nodded, waiting for her to continue.

“Why don’t you join the other men? They seem to be having fun?”

“On duty”.

Summer’s eyebrows perked as she took in Henry’s response.

“So you’re not drinking?”

“It’s not my thing”.

“Ooh, a cleanwhistle,” she edged closer towards him. “A proper soldier”.

Henry said nothing. He could feel Summer’s gaze on him and didn’t know what to do.

“Come join us,” she spoke suddenly and got up, pulling him with her towards a group of people. They quietened when he and Summer approached and she introduced him as the “officer in charge”. It got a few chuckles, but Summer’s face showed pride. Henry didn’t say much, didn’t have to. Summer talked for the both of them, and the other members of the group seemed to have no problem with his trepid responses. Excitement, a rare emotion, flowed through him as he listened to the conversations that flowed through the drinks. It didn’t help that twice Summer gave him a peck on the check. She ordered more drinks. Henry paid for the first one, but then cut her off in concern. A chorus of coos went around the drunk group as Summer proudly declared him as “a good soldier”.

“My good soldier,” she whispered to him and Henry let himself fall.

It was Summer who persuaded him to leave the military.

“What will I do then,” Henry asked.

“Don’t worry,” she placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll tell you”.

She suggested taking up a degree in accounting. It would be a 180 from the military, but the analytical side would be familiar. Henry considered letting his uncle know of the changes he was making to his life, maybe even introduce Summer to him. But Bruno never responded to the letters and emails Henry sent, nor did he pick up the phone. After a while, Henry just stopped calling. And anyway, there was no need to be concerned. Summer’s decisions were always right. She didn’t attend college, but she worked in the local café. Since she couldn’t accompany him, she suggested he stay and work in the café. After all, most freshman were too busy enjoying their youth to offer any real friendship, and since he was older than the others, it would just be too awkward for him. So he spent his free time in the café. He allowed her to crash in his apartment and picked up her slack.

Summer would often complain about her coworkers, her parents, Henry, even herself. The more time Henry spent with her, the more he saw how tired she was. She was often too tired to help out and frequently disappeared for days at a time. Henry was most worried about those days because she never bothered to let him know when she was going or for how long. Whenever he tried to bring it up, she would snap at him, exclaiming her need to discharge from the world. He tried to explain it to her, how his parent’s sudden death made him a little paranoid.

Summer listened to him. She then held his hands and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m not your parents. Get over it”.

So Henry got over it.

Now, two weeks from graduating, he stood in front of the Bolet manor struggling to get over his uncle’s sudden death. Summer had scoffed when Henry informed her of his uncle’s death. She didn’t understand the point of attending the funeral of some estranged relative who barely cared about Henry.

“He took care of me Summer”.

“So?” she exclaimed.

But when she saw that, for once, Henry would not be persuaded, she rolled her eyes and let him go with an aggravated sigh. A permission he thanked with a shopping spree.

“Just come back when you’re done Bolet,” Summer said as she left for her parent’s house.

It was at the funeral he learned that Bruno had made him executor of his will and also dedicated thirty percent of the estate to him. It was no measly figure. Bruno Bolet’s house was of average size, but his estate encompassed the cemetery plot that belonged to the Bolet family. Even the ten percent that Bruno’s housekeeper was to get landed her a pretty sizable fortune. It was the housekeeper, Renee Amande, who welcomed Henry to the Bolet manor and showed him to his room. The house was very clean, which was all Henry could think of saying as she led him to his room.

“Of course it is. I keep very high standards,” She turned and looked straight at him. “Though Mr. Bolet was an eccentric and disorganized man, I always ensured he lived in a clean home and ate regularly. You don’t get to 98 single and alone”.

“He seemed quite content to live alone, from what I know of him,” Henry said. He couldn’t help snapping back. The anger he held had started to ebb out during the funeral and Henry had no outlet for it.

Renee stared at him. Her eyes roved around his figure, taking in this so called nephew of Bruno Bolet. She didn’t trust him. He certainly played the role of a Bolet very well with his eyeliner, painted nails, and what looked like a fishnet glove on his right arm. But what nephew never met or even called his uncle? Renee entered into Bruno’s life when he was in his sixties and he spoke very little of his family. Oh Bruno prided himself in the Bolet family’s eccentric personality and their history with New Orleans’s ghosts, but he always held Renee and most others an arm’s length away. But New Orleans was linked to the Bolet name.

The Bolets started out as gravediggers and worked their way up to undertakers. Everyone, both living and dead, knew that if you wanted to be taken care of in death and the afterlife, you came to the Bolets. The family owned the largest cemetery in New Orleans and everyone took advantage of that. Taxi drivers who picked up the occasional ghost rider would drop them off at the cemetery. They would usually find a dollar for their trouble, though it never covered the fare. It was an unacknowledged law that the construction of any infrastructure had to have the approval of the Bolet family. Progressive or not, no one wanted to anger the ghosts of New Orleans.

Yet here stood the heir of the largest cemetery. The next Bolet set to inherit the role of his name. Renee knew from Bruno that the Bolets erred on the side of melancholic, but Henry’s aura radiated cynicism. That boy is trouble for you Renee.

He didn’t object to her desire to stay until the will had been properly sorted. He didn’t object to staying in Bruno’s old room, now stripped of life. He didn’t even object to her carrying on as a housekeeper. But something was off with the boy. At first she though it was grief. But the lack of connection between nephew and uncle made her assume greed. The boy kept staring at his phone with a dark frown on his face. At breakfast, he only nibbled on the blueberry cornmeal pancakes. When she showed him Bruno’s study, Henry just grumbled and set to work. Renee always took pride in Bruno’s workplace. It was a perfect blend of Bruno’s eccentricities and the Bolet’s prestige. But seeing Henry sort through the numerous papers that decorated the dark oak desk, Renee couldn’t help but feel disgust.

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

Summer had been endlessly calling Henry since he landed in New Orleans. Frustrated and stressed, he put the damn cell on silent. But the missed calls piled up until finally, his phone died on him.

Thank god, he thought, then immediately felt guilty. Summer was just concerned about him. He didn’t even notify her that he landed and attended the funeral. He slept fitfully in a bare room and had no appetite for the breakfast Renee kindly made for him. He didn’t even get the chance to thank her for the pancakes when the landline rang and Henry was pulled into conversation after conversation. Everyone swooped in like vultures, desperate for a piece of the Bolet wealth. From last payments for furniture to unfulfilled I.O.U.s. Bruno Bolet had a lot of money and a lot of places he threw his money. Thankfully, it didn’t look like his uncle was in debt, but the mess he made of his finances made Henry nauseous. How could anyone be so careless on the things that mattered?

The first thing Henry did was grab a trashcan and clear out what seemed irrelevant. Advertisements. Confirmations and thank you for attending parties. Some random info on skulls. And an envelope from a research institute. Rubbish. As both executor and inheritor, Henry was caught in making sure Bruno’s will be carried out, but also in ensuring that no one swooped in and took something without permission. He also had to deal with Bruno’s remains.

After the cremation, Bruno wanted Henry to bury him in the Bolet garden. Where exactly, the old coot never specified. After roaming around a bit, Henry saw a red-eyed vulture sitting atop a shrine. Below it, there were four other red-eyed vultures. Suddenly a gust of noises crowded his mind. They whispered words, some of which Henry barely heard. Am I losing it? He should have been terrified, but whether it was a lack of sleep or the start of insanity, Henry found himself at ease with the whispers. They surrounded his presence and grew louder as he approached the vultures. Here…Here…Here, they urged and as Henry looked around the shrine, he saw a pot hole with the name Bruno Bolet on it. But how to open it?

The pot hole was shut and no matter how hard Henry tried to lever the lid up, it remained fastened to the ground. Taking a closer look at the pot hole, Henry noticed a lock design. So, it needs a key? But where was he supposed to find a key in Bruno’s mess? He sighed and gave up. He’d just figure out some other place to bury his uncle. The whispers cried out as he left, but fell silent when he approached the double doors of the study.

That night, the whispers came into his room. They swarmed around him, chattering. Tittering whenever he sprung up from the bed.

“Go away,” he shouted.

They shivered.

“What do you want?”

Skull… man… skull… find… man… arrives

Henry flopped back onto the bed. He didn’t have time to chase after the adventures of some Skullman. Maybe he really was losing it. Maybe his uncle’s death was affecting him more than he anticipated. He wasn’t unnerved by their presence. They felt like meeting an old friend, not that Henry knew what that felt like. The only person he had was Summer. Speaking of which, Henry reached for his phone and saw that Summer had called again, numerous times. He sighed, then called and prepared for the onslaught.

“Hen-ry!” Summer’s high-pitched voice spoke through the silence of his room. Immediately, the whispers become silent and Henry could feel their presence leave the room.

“Hey Summer. Sorry about not calling you before. It’s been hectic.”

“God, Henry you’re such a jerk. You couldn’t even call me one time to check-in on me? Don’t you care about me?”

“Course, I do. How are you doing Summer?”

“I’m bored. My parents are working and I have nothing to do”.

“Didn’t you mention that you made plans to go to the beach with some friends? That’s why we bought those swimwear outfits”.

“Yaaa, but what can I do if my friend suddenly decided to bring along her boyfriend? Do you know how lame I look saying I have a boyfriend but not bringing him along? See how inconsiderate your uncle’s death is?”

“Sorry about that Summer,” Henry replied weakly. He never really figured out what to say to Summer when she got angry.

“You have to make it up for me,” Summer demanded. She sounded serious and Henry knew that a stubborn Summer was an uncooperative one. Still, he tried.

“Aw, come on Summer”.

“No buts, Bolet!”

“Alright, alright,” Henry said, trying to pacify her.

“How about I get you some CDs? That way you can listen to them until I finish around here?”

Summer was silent for a while and Henry held his breath.

“How long will you be gone for?” she asked.

“I’ll get you enough CDs for two weeks. How’s that? That way, if I finish early, you get extra CDs for another time?”

“You’re really pushing it Bolet”.

“I know. I’m sorry”.

“Just hurry up!”

Saying so, Summer hung up on him and Henry dropped the phone to the ground.

There was a local antique store in the old French quarters. The owner, Lamont Warrick, didn’t hesitate to introduce himself to Henry at the funeral and procure a business card.

“For anything you deem useless, just toss it over to me”.

Henry didn’t have much on him. It didn’t help that Renee seemed to always keep an eye on him. Between the whispers and her unexpected presence, Henry didn’t know which was worse. Honestly, he was so close to snapping at her to just get it over with if her intent was to kill him. Her badgering presence was something he didn’t want to deal with. He didn’t know from where he was supposed to get the money to by the CDs Summer wanted. He only had a debit card on him and the stores only took credit. He cursed himself for never applying for a credit card. He never really needed it seeing as uncle Bruno and school took care of everything. It wasn’t until he left with Summer that he had to really take care of himself.

He didn’t need much, just enough to get the CDs and pay for shipping to Illinois. He knew it was wrong, illegal even. He could be forfeit from his inheritance. He would be a hypocrite for sure. But if he didn’t do this, Summer would be mad at him, and if Summer was mad at him—he didn’t want to continue that thought. So he grabbed a box and quickly chucked some clutter from Bruno’s room. The faster he did it, the less he would have to think about what he was doing. Giving Renee a quick excuse, Henry shuffled out of the manor and headed towards Zeke’s curiosity shop.

Lamont gave Henry a friendly hello and perked his eyebrows when he saw the box. Lamont felt bad when he saw Henry Bolet for the first time. He knew Bruno Bolet well. The man spent a lot of time at his curio shop, and frequently bought items. His housekeeper, Renee also frequented the place. But Bruno was the one who truly admired Lamont’s collection. In Bruno, Lamont found an appreciator of junk. The discarded bits people didn’t want, or had no place for, all found home in his curio shop. Bruno often invited Lamont over to see the Bolet manor, so Lamont knew that the house was a trove for antiques.

Lamont once asked Bruno who would get the house and the artifacts upon his death. He supposed some people would take the question as insensitive, greedy even, but Bruno understood what he was really asking.

“A relative of mine would inherit the majority”.

Seeing as Bruno was already hitting his 80s, Lamont assumed the relative was older. But when he saw the relative, this Henry Bolet, as a young man, all sympathy burst forth. This Henry was younger than him. Lamont had heard that Henry’s parent’s died when he was only eight. Bolet news spread like wildfire in New Orleans. Bruno would have been his only other relative. To have him die too. Lamont knew it was wrong. The young man didn’t seem to want company, but business was business. If he didn’t want comfort, maybe this Henry would understand business.

“Didn’t take you long to stop over,” Lamont said as he eyed the box. “Didn’t bring much either”.

“This is just a small sample. I’ll bring the rest later”.

Lamont was confused. People didn’t decide to sell a small portion of their junk and save the rest for later. It was usually a full overhaul, especially when death was the cause. Most just wanted to shove off the remains of the dead, as if they were scared of the memories the junk contained. Henry himself looked distressed, as if he was in a hurry.

Lamont perused through the box. Some old photographs. A locked box, and what seemed to be a top hat and skull costume. He’d often see Bruno wearing the top hat. It would sell. The box would also sell. But the rest would be hard to pitch to customers. No one really wanted the photographs of an unknown person, or their letters. Lamont sighed.

“Your uncle died 2 days ago, right?”

“Yes, and?”

“Well, let’s just say that in my experience, people don’t bring in things to sell 2 days after someone dies. Also, they don’t bring a small box”.

Henry became very quiet and Lamont continued.

“Hey man, I’m not judging you, but I’m assuming that you need cash fast”.

Henry gave a stiff nod.

Lamont sighed again. It was common in his business for people to quickly sell off something they assumed was junk when strapped for cash. He never bought anything from them. If they got caught, he could also get into trouble and Lamont had a family to worry about. But this kid, he looked so, so naïve. He clearly had no idea what he was doing.

“Look, I can’t buy this”.

Henry’s face fell.

“But,” Lamont continued. “Here’s what I will do. How much do you need? Hundred bucks?”

“Two hundred,” Henry muttered, then scowled. He couldn’t Lamont in the eyes.

That’s nothing, Lamont thought. But the kid looked so worried about it.

“Okay, so let’s say this. I give you the two hundred. I’ll even take this box and make a receipt for you if it will make you feel better. But, in exchange. When you actually go through your uncle’s possessions, you invite me over and let me have first pick over the artifacts. I take two hundred dollars’ worth with me. Deal?”

Henry nodded and Lamont rang up a bill.

A couple days later, after dealing with an endless amount of callers, Henry pushed it all away. Slowly Bruno’s estate and finances were sorting themselves out, but Henry needed a break. Feeling perky, he offered to treat Renee out for dinner.

“About time I saw some Southern hospitality in you, young man”.

Their plan of enjoying the May breeze in the French quarters at a local café was ruined by the onslaught of rain. Henry apologized to Renee, but it was clear that the woman blamed Henry for the rain. They ate in silence and returned back to the manor to see the front door open.

“Did we have a break-in?” Henry exclaimed.

“Oh dear. This is highly unusual to happen in New Orleans. Normally it’s so safe, we needn’t lock doors,” Renee wondered.

Henry turned towards her.

“You didn’t lock the door?!”

“No dear. Like I said, it isn’t necessary”.

Henry pointed to the door.

“Yes, I can see how unnecessary it was”.

Renee eyes flashed.

“No need to take that tone with me, young man. I am not speaking nonsense”.

Henry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why was he bothering to argue with someone who made huff-puff hoodoo powder in her free time? It didn’t help that the whispers came back to him. They followed him to that curio store, screamed more like it, as he ‘sold’ the junk. They were screaming now.

Skull… man… skull… man… fall…

Henry massaged his forehead.

“Let’s just infiltrate and assess damage”.

As both he and Renee stepped into the house, Henry caught the sight of footprints. One wet and small. The other muddy and large. The muddy one indicated that it’s owner had long left the house, but what caused him concern was that the smaller foot prints only went in one direction.

“Be careful Renee. I think our thief is still inside the house,” Henry whispered.

“Understood,” Rene whispered back, eyes watching the floor and mirroring Henry’s thoughts.

They stepped cautiously into the foyer and Renee reached for an umbrella. Smart, Henry thought. The thief might be armed. It would be best for Renee to arm herself. Henry clenched his hands into fists and tensed, ready to throw a punch.

When they stepped into the living room, Renee let out a gasp and dropped her umbrella. In front of them was the award-wining cemetery model Bruno made a long time back. Below the table, and splayed out, unconscious, at the centre of the living room was a young woman.

#nancy drew #henry bolet #CRY #legend of the crystal skull #nancy x henry #what's their ship name? do they have one?

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busterkeatonfanfic · 4 years ago

Photo

Chapter 14

Buster caught it good from Natalie at breakfast the following morning. As soon as Connie collected the kids to wash them up and the room was empty, she let him have it.

He was made to understand that just before he reappeared inside the house after seeing off Nelly, Louise Brooks had exited the rear loggia, hair and dress rumpled and a nipple exposed, and dashed toward the bathroom. Natalie saw the whole spectacle and saw Buster too, strolling through the front door a minute later with a telltale smear of lipstick on his face. There wasn’t anything he could do to defend himself when she snapped, “I suppose you weren’t thinking about me at all when you went off with Louise last night? What everyone there would think?”

Oh, actually it wasn’t Louise, Nate, that was a crazy coincidence. It was this other girl, you see. Yeah, that’d go over like a lead balloon.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after giving his answer some thought. “I really am. I had too much to drink. I didn’t know what I was doing.” There was nothing else he could say. Whoever had been out there with Louise, whether George or another lucky man, had either slipped back in unnoticed or left unnoticed, leaving good old Buster to take the fall. He wasn’t convinced that anyone had put two and two together concerning Louise and him, but that hardly mattered to Nate. All the elements to humiliate her had been in place.

“You say you care about me, but that isn’t true at all. Otherwise you wouldn’t be two-timing me every time my back is turned,” she said. Her beautiful eyes were shimmering with unshed tears and he did feel terrible looking at her. He wanted to comfort her, this woman he’d loved since the day he’d stepped off that train in New York and gone to seal their engagement, but he knew it wouldn’t do a lick of good, even if she had allowed him to gather her into his arms and hold her close, which he knew she wouldn’t.

“You know about the two-timing,” he said. “I never lied about it.” He felt the futility of the argument as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“Yes, but you said it wouldn’t be public,” she said, breaking into a sob.

“Nate, I fucked up, alright!” he said. “I don’t know what you want. What do you want me to do, put on the hair shirt and get out the cat o’ nine tails? Jesus, I’m sorry.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. Now he was angry and couldn’t quite grasp why. Something to do with his stupidity and carelessness but also Natalie’s long-standing refusal to engage in the normal rules of marriage as he understood them. He was angry at everything. He shoved the chair so the arms struck the edge of the table, hoping they’d dented the table’s pristine finish, and stormed out. Eleanor was mopping the checkerboard floor and he ignored her meek hello as he jogged up the stairs and stalked into his bedroom.

He yanked open his closet, pulled out a jacket, shrugged it on, and laced up his shoes. Before leaving, he collected his fishing poles and tackle box.

He ended up driving out to Franklin Canyon Lake where he could be alone with his thoughts. He found an isolated spot and parked the Duesenberg, then set up. The absurdity of it didn’t escape him, sitting on the grassy edge of the lake getting the seat of his pants wet and dirtying up a $200 pair of leather shoes with a $9,500 car behind him.

He had been pretty drunk last night, but not so drunk he hadn’t known what he was doing when Nelly kissed him. She’d made the first move, but he’d been getting ready to beat her there. His thoughts had been returning to her all morning. He’d grown to like her and there wasn’t much question as to why. She was pretty for starters and she had a backbone, which he’d always liked in a girl. He was amused by her sense of pride. Her stakes also seemed very low. She didn’t want to be the leading lady in a romance or even the leading lady in one of his comedies, for that matter. No, it was fusty old Shakespeare she had her hopes pinned on. His first thought upon waking up, apart from lamenting how ferociously his head hurt, was that he wanted to see her again.

Nate’s sad, pretty little face at the breakfast table rose up in his mind and guilt gnawed. She deserved a husband who would be faithful to her; he did believe that with his whole heart, even though he couldn’t (Couldn’t or wouldn’t? hissed a part of him) make that sacrifice. It wasn’t fair of him to treat her the way he did, to be thinking of Nelly and how much he’d wanted her last night. Still, the selfish part of him objected stridently. He had needs too and didn’t he deserve to get them met? Hadn’t he tried his best to make things better before going outside of his marriage? Didn’t he still do his damndest to make Nate happy, what with the Villa and parties and letting her control the purse-strings?

The fishing was good as morning wore into afternoon and afternoon wore into evening, but he threw everything back. Gone were the days in Muskegon where Myra cooked everything he caught, frying the fish up in butter and cornmeal. Caruthers bought the fish and other meat fresh every day and it was usually exotic, skate fillets and swordfish and the like, not the humble trout and largemouth bass his line was currently fetching. When he tired of fishing, he got back in the car and drove home. He would miss dinner, but he wasn’t hungry. He parked in the garage and headed to the east wing, where he climbed the stairs to his balcony and let himself into his room, not wanting to come through the main entrance and risk encountering Natalie. He kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket and trousers on the floor, and crawled into bed. The hangover had caught up to him and he fell fast asleep.

When he woke up, he had no idea where he was or what time it was. It took him a few seconds to remember the fishing trip, the fight, and the party. He grabbed the alarm clock on his bedside table and brought it up to his face. Almost nine o’clock. He’d slept for over two hours. He sat up, feeling groggy and hungry, and pulled his trousers back on. He padded into the hall. The house was dim, Caruthers having turned down the lights for the evening, and no trace of the previous evening’s festivities remained. He wondered if Nate had decided to go ahead with the barbecue tomorrow in spite of the fight. Even though he would have rather inspected the kitchen for leftovers, he passed the stairs and went on to the west wing. The door to Natalie’s bedroom was closed and he tapped on the door to announce himself before pushing quietly inside.

Natalie was sitting up in bed in a blue satin nightgown and a matching translucent wrap reading an issue of Colliers. She didn’t look at him as he sat at the foot of the bed. “Hi,” he said, giving her toe beneath the covers a friendly tweak. She withdrew her foot and turned the page of her magazine. The cover advertised the new Zane Grey novel and was subtitled A Story of Love and Adventure in Arizona.

He knit his hands in his lap. “I know you’re angry.”

No response.

“I’m sorry.”

Silence.

“I love you.”

Only then did Natalie put down the magazine and look at him. “A fine way you’ve got of showing it.” The expression on her face was cold.

He stood up and climbed into the bed with her, making himself comfortable against the mound of pillows on the vacant side. It was a risky move, but she didn’t object. “I wanna make things work.”

Natalie scoffed.

Her king bed felt as big as a steamliner compared to his double. Even if he had been permitted to sleep in the same bed with her, with its size there would have been no danger of them ever touching.

“You know I still care for you. I’ve never stopped.” Cautiously, he stroked her arm.

“You humiliated me,” she said, not looking at him.

“I know. I deserve to be castrated.” He didn’t think he deserved any such thing, but she was letting him stroke her arm, so he went on.

“Does the whole world know you’re stepping out on me? That I’m not enough for you?” Her voice was trembly.

He sighed. “I don’t think anyone noticed last night. We came from opposite ends of the house.”

“Yes,” she said tearily. “It was very clever of you. But I noticed.”

“Because you’re my wife. My wife who I love very much.” He threw caution to the wind and moved into her space, putting his arms around her and laying his chin on her shoulder. “I don’t want to lose you.” She was rigid, but didn’t attempt to pull away.

“What will it take for you to treat me with respect then?” she said, reaching up to dash away a tear.

Buster sighed again and nuzzled her shoulder. She smelled of flowers and baby powder. “I do respect you. You know what the problem is.”

The silence between them was heavy. After a while, Natalie said, “I could try again to like it, I guess.” She sniffled.

He looked at her, surprised. “Do you really mean that?”

She nodded. “I want us to be happy. I want Bobby and Jimmy to have a mother and a father. Under the same roof, that is.”

Apparently he hadn’t been the only one with the D word on his mind. “Okay,” he said, not quite believing she’d just said what she had. “Well, you know that would make me very happy.”

Natalie laid her hand on his forearm. “And you’d stay faithful to me, if …” She was so delicate, she trailed off instead of naming the unseemly act to which they both referred.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“I don’t want to tonight,” she said, sounding almost frightened.

“I don’t expect you to.” He leaned up and kissed her cheek. “We can take things at your pace.”

“Okay,” she said. He felt her relax in his arms.

She permitted him to linger cuddling her a while longer, and when she kicked him out so she could sleep it was with a kiss.

Standing in the kitchen eating a shaved-beef sandwich a few minutes later, he felt like the tide was turning just a little. The cutting of Steamboat was going well. The barbecue was still on for tomorrow and those always cheered him up. Natalie had done better than just forgiven him for his indiscretion, she told him she was willing to resume their marital relations. Even so, once he’d taken a bath and was lying between his sheets in his silk pajamas, he couldn’t sleep. He was thinking about the night before and the girl who had attended in her rented dress and had thrown away his flask of whiskey. He remembered too that she’d cried when he filmed the facade scene Notes: Thank you for your patience, Buster kittens, as I adjusted to some big life changes the past week. My therapy is this story, though, so I’m back at it again! A couple notes: Buster and Natalie had servants called Connie and Eleanor, which is a little confusing given that Natalie’s sister Constance was sometimes called Connie and Buster found his happily ever after with an Eleanor. According to Myra Keaton, Buster never stopped loving Natalie, and I do think that he genuinely wanted their marriage to work. What do you think?

#Buster Keaton #fan fiction #Actor RPF #RPF #silent film #golden age hollywood

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chaoticchaoschaosing · 4 years ago

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Pataki of Obba Nani

One day Obba was tending the castle of Chango. She was cleaning and organizing everything in the castle. Chango was out doing his duties as king of his town. Her sister Ochun was in the castle helping her tend to the kitchen when Obba realized that she forgot to pick something up at the market. She told her younger sister Ochun that she would be right back and hasted to the market.

When Obba reached the market, she began to pick up the items that she missed on her previous trip there. In the marketplace, she noticed her other sister Oya and she walked over to her. They greeted politely and started to shop around together. Obba knew that her husband Chango had a fling with her sister but since she was his faithful wife and knew the actions of the king Chango, she never approached him about the situations. However, Obba would always notice that when Chango spoke about Oya his demeanor would change. Obba approached Oya and told her that she knew Oya was with Chango. She just did not understand how when Oya’s name was mentioned, Chango would light up in a way and how Ogun was so faithful and infatuated with her. Therefore, she asked her sister what was the secret on making these men fall head for her and only think of her only. Oya smirked and looked at her sister with a jealous face as she Oya was in love with Chango and was jealous that her sister Obba was with the great king.

Oya proceeded to tell Obba a secret that she has kept for years that no one knew. Obba’s face lit up, as she wanted to hear it. She thought that maybe it can work on Chango. Oya told Obba that she had to cook Chango’s favorite food, the amala ila (cornmeal with okra). Oya told her that this particular amala she had to add a special ingredient to it. Obba wanted to know and Oya hesitated to tell her. Obba pleaded with Oya to tell her the secret and Oya told her that what she needed to do was cook the amala and cut off her left ear and place it in the food. Obba put a horrifying face and asked Oya if she was serious. Oya told her that she was and if she wanted Chango to look at her and only her that she needed to do this. Oya started to fill Obba’s head with more lies and told her that once she cut her ear off to mix it in the amala. She said that once her ear hit the bottom of the stomach of Chango, that he would forever be in love and he would not have the heart or stomach to look at another woman. Obba was satisfied and ran home to prepare Chango’s favorite food.

Obba got home and started to pull out the pots and pans to start to cook with such haste. Ochun was wondering why she was acting weird. Obba told Ochun to not to worry to go outside and mingle in the kingdom. Ochun left Obba and started to cook.

Once the amala was boiling up, she added all the ingredients she always added to make the food tasty for her king who was on the way home. It was time to add the last ingredient that Oya told her to add. She grabbed a knife and she was hesitant on doing this, but she kept hearing Oya’s words in her head saying that after this Chango would only have eyes for her. With a great sweep of her hand, Obba’s ear was cut and it fell right on the table. Obba rushed and got something to clean the blood off her shoulders. She then placed her cut off ear inside the amala and stirred it praying that what she did would take effect.

Ochun was in the middle of the town when she saw Oya walking towards her. She stopped Oya and asked her how she was doing. Oya turned and told Ochun that she was good that she was coming to see if Obba did what she told her. Ochun baffled asked Oya what was it that Obba was going to do. Oya told Ochun that she told Obba to cut her ear and feed it to Chango in his amala. At this time, Chango and his men are galloping through the town towards the castle. Oshun runs towards the castle to stop Obba. Chango enters his castle and calls out for his loving wife as he always did. When Chango saw Obba, he saw something strange about her. He noticed that she was wearing a head wrap in which she does not because he loved how her hair was long and silky. The great king paid no attention and gave his wife a hug and a kiss. Chango sat down at his table to see that his wife Obba has prepared him his favorite amala. In this moment Ochun runs in, salutes Chango and of course, Chango’s eyes looked at Ochun very seductively. She grabs her sister very softly and rushes her to the kitchen. Ochun asks Obba what she has done. Obba told her nothing and proceeded to smile as her mind was in the amala and Chango’s love. Ochun noticed the spot of blood where Obba’s ear was and asked her sister why she cut her ear.

Oya walks into the castle and salutes Chango. Immediately Chango salutes her back and proceeds to pick up his spoon to eat his amala. Oya stops the great king and asks how his day was. Chango, very hungry but not to be rude answers Oya. Oya tells Chango that if he noticed anything weird within the castle. He responded no and tried again to reach for his spoon. Oya asked Chango if he noticed anything weird about his lovely wife Obba. Chango looked at Oya and said the only thing weird is that she is wearing a head wrap but usually that is something that woman do when they are tending to their hair. Oya smiled and told him that she over heard Obba talking and that Obba was going to cut off her ear and place it in the amala. Chango asked why and Oya told her it was to trap him so he would not see anyone else. Chango said that Oya was mistaken on what she heard. Obba walks out to find her sister Oya conversing with Chango and she thought nothing of it. Chango tells Obba that Oya had some weird story of her cutting her ear and feeding it to him. Obba stayed quiet looking at Oya with a face as in why would she do that. In that moment, Chango dips his spoon in his amala and the first thing that he brings up on his spoon is Obba’s ear. Chango jumps up out of his seat and asks Obba for an explanation. Obba stays quiet and for her staying quiet, Chango grew very angry. He walked over to her and ripped her head wrap off. When he did this, he noticed that Obba had a nub where her ear is suppose to be. Blood still dripping from the cut, he yells at Obba asking her why. However, before Obba could respond, Chango grabbed her and walked her towards the door. He opened the door and told him that no wife of his could have any defects. With that, he told her to leave his kingdom and to never return. That was the end of their marriage Chango said.

Obba ran out of her former house and kingdom. She ran and ran until she reached a stone that was near a cave. There Obba began to cry and cry. She wondered why her sister Oya would betray her like that and why Chango would not listen to her and just throw her out. The tears that fell from her eyes created a lake that lead into a river. At that moment, Olofi came down and saw the dismay that Obba was in. He told her that he knew what happened to her and why did she do that. Obba, upset asked Olofi to please send her to a place that no one would look at her. Olofi asked Obba if she did indeed want to do that. Obba replied yes. Olofi remembered that he needed someone to dig the holes for the bodies of his creations. Obba immediately took the position before Olofi could continue. Obba was sent to a place that was very solitude. She noticed that she was approaching Oya’s house and she questioned in her mind what was she doing there. Nevertheless, she never did question the great Olofi. It was inside Olofi’s garden where Obba would work. She was then assigned to open the graves of the cemetery.

Ochun came running to see where Obba was at and when she ran through the forest she saw the great Olofi. She asked him what had happened to Obba and Olofi told Ochun that she has now been moved to ile iku (cemetery). Ochun ran to the cemetery and saw her sister opening the holes for the arrivals of the new corpse of man. From that day Obba has not seen Chango and vice versa but there’s not a day that goes by where Obba and Chango think about each other.

Obba’s feast day is November 25th. Her number is 9 or 8 in some houses of worship. She is the legitimate wife of Chango. She does not like infidelity as in her presence that is not allowed. Obba is received when one is married and has lived longevity with their spouse and they have made a concrete marriage. It is said that if you receive her when you are single, then it will be hard for you to have a relationship because Obba does not want you to be hurt. That is true for some people. I believe that Obba like any other orisha will not make you go through anything hard such as a relationship. If she sees your spouse, doing you wrong or cheating on you she will make that spouse leave within a hurry. She reaffirms any relationship. Obba loves all the finest things in life and she contains a golden key that she and her sister Ochun change on a regular basis. This key opens all the treasures in the world. Her weapon is a sword or a dagger in which she knows how to use it with great speed. Daggers are used in her sacrificial ceremonies. Obba sacrificial animals are female goats and in some houses male goats, hens, pigeons and guinea hens. Her animals should be clean and smelling good. It can be either white or a reddish color. In the house of a follower of Obba, she is nowhere or should be nowhere near Oya. She may live wet or dry depending on the house that she is given from. She loves wines, champagnes, fine sweets and cakes. Obba is done Oshun oro Obba in which her children are initiated through Ochun’s mystery. Not a lot of people know the fundamental secrets on initiating her directly but I heard it could still be done. When Obba makes her presence at a festival, she dances with one ear covered swaying her dagger. Her children are very meticulous and very delicate. You must know how to talk and act with them. They like fine arts and dining.

Family of Ochun

Oba Molo Chun

This saint is the young sister of Obba on her side. She lives in the river and she is in charge of bringing happiness to the home and to the marriage. Her bead is a bone color with coral. She also takes an osun with implements of Obba made of gold.

#obba nani #oba #oya #orisha #oshun #chango #deities

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iambutteryum · 4 years ago

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Mussels in Spicy Tomato Sauce

If you subscribe to my Monthly Newsletter, you know my oven has been broken for more than a month now. Parts for my discontinued range are hard to come by, and even though internal parts are sometimes interchangeable between makes and models, the pandemic has added another wrinkle by greatly limiting the availability of parts that contain a microchip. Thankfully my stove top still works so we’re not starving. All this to say, I’ve been very uninspired as far as recipe development goes. I’ve either been cooking very basic things that aren’t worthy of being shared, or I’ve made things that are already published here on the blog which is why you haven’t heard much from me lately…

BUT all that changes today as I share my personal recipe for Mussels with Spicy Tomato Sauce, which happens to be one of my youngest daughter’s favorite meals. Seriously, it’s one of those recipes where nobody talks at the dinner table because they’re all too busy stuffing their faces and making scrummy, nummy, yummy noises as they eat. Yes, it’s that delicious!

Serve the recipe alone with lots of crusty bread to soak up all the delicious sauce, or serve it over a bowl of pasta. Check out the “Notes” section below the recipe to find out how many pounds of mussels you need per person, as well as lots of other helpful tips.

Another thing to consider - this recipe is a little involved so you might want to save it for a weekend. If you must have it on a weeknight, you can streamline the process by chopping all the veggies and making the sauce 5 or 6 days ahead (be sure to store in airtight containers as there’s a lot of onion and garlic that could perfume the inside of your refrigerator!).

To make the sauce, gather all your ingredients (ignore the sliced garlic - it won’t be needed until we cook the mussels). I purchase my pancetta already diced, and I use a press for my garlic, but the onions require a bit more effort as they need to be very finely minced. I really think finely minced is the way to go here - the pieces should be small enough that they enhance the texture and body of the sauce - you can’t achieve that with larger pieces of onion (click on the photo of ingredients to get a better look at how finely minced the onions are).

In a 3 or 4-quart saucepan over medium-high heat, saute the olive oil, onions, pancetta, garlic, oregano, crushed red pepper flakes, salt, and pepper together for several minutes until the onions soften and become translucent in color.

Add the tomato paste and saute for another minute or two. I love tomato paste that comes in a tube, and I especially love storing the tube in a tube squeezer. It’s so fun to twist out the exact amount of paste I need.

Now add the white wine, crushed tomatoes, and a whole sprig of basil. Simmer for about 30 minutes and set aside until needed. On its own, this sauce is the bomb, but just wait until we add all the yumminess still to come. Oh my!!

Now for the mussels. Soak them in cool water for 15 minutes, then scrub and rinse them, discarding any that are broken or open ones that don’t close within a minute or so of tapping against the shell. If you find any “beards” attached, pull them off using your thumb and the edge of a sharp knife (or use a clean pair of tweezers).

To cook the mussels, heat the olive oil, finely minced onions, and crushed red pepper flakes over medium-high heat for several minutes until the onions are translucent. Then add the sliced garlic and saute for 1 minute.

Immediately stir in the white wine and bring to a boil; reduce liquid by half.

Stir the full tomato sauce recipe into the reduced oil/wine mixture; stir to combine. Stir in the cleaned mussels, being sure to coat well with the sauce (it’s okay if some mussels are submerged under the sauce).

Cover the Dutch oven and allow mussels to cook for 4-5 minutes; uncover and stir to be sure they’re all open. Discard any mussels that fail to open after cooking. Sprinkle liberally with chopped fresh parsley and serve immediately over pasta or with lots of crust bread. See notes below to how to store and reheat leftovers.

Have plenty of extra napkins on hand. Enjoy!

Items used to make this recipe:

*affiliate links

4 quart saucepan https://amzn.to/3ehXbqa

5.5 quart Dutch Oven https://amzn.to/3efiA3o

7.25 quart Dutch Oven https://amzn.to/3eeVD09

garlic press (all stainless and dishwasher safe) https://amzn.to/2RJIrJ3

tube squeezer https://amzn.to/3xjzSoO

my favorite chefs knife https://amzn.to/3ed2aIU

Muir Glen tomatoes https://amzn.to/3eeCdIW

SMT tomatoes https://amzn.to/3ejOQSK

Cento tomatoes https://amzn.to/2QIES5C

Pomi tomatoes https://amzn.to/3x6HyKN

Mussels in Spicy Tomato Sauce

makes 5-6 servings (8-10 if serving over pasta)

Printable Recipe

Ingredients

For the Sauce:

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 cup finely minced onion

4 ounces pancetta, diced (1/4-inch pieces)

2 cloves garlic, minced or pressed

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper

1 tablespoon tomato paste

3/4 cup white wine (see notes for substitution)

28 ounce can crushed tomatoes (suggested brands listed above)

1 whole sprig fresh basil

For the Mussels:

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

1/2 cup finely minced onion

2 cloves garlic, sliced thinly

1 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

1 1/2 cups white wine (see notes below for substitution)

5 pounds mussels, cleaned and de-bearded

chopped parsley for garnish

pasta or crusty bread for serving

Directions

To make the sauce:

Add the tomato paste and saute for another minute or two before adding the white wine, crushed tomatoes, and sprig of basil; simmer on low for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

To prepare the mussels:

(see notes below for instructions on how to clean mussels) In a 5.5-quart dutch oven or larger, heat the olive oil, finely minced onions, and crushed red pepper flakes over medium-high heat for several minutes until the onions are translucent; add the sliced garlic and saute for 1 minute.

Immediately stir in the white wine and bring to a boil; reduce liquid by half.

Stir the full tomato sauce recipe into the reduced oil/wine mixture; stir to combine.

Stir in the cleaned mussels, being sure to coat well with the sauce (it’s okay if some mussels are submerged under the sauce).

Cover the Dutch oven and allow mussels to cook for 4-5 minutes or until all the shells open, stirring to be sure all the shells are open (discard any mussels that fail to open after cooking).

Sprinkle liberally with chopped fresh parsley and serve immediately over pasta or with lots of crust bread. See notes below to how to store and reheat leftovers.

Notes

If you don’t have white wine, you can substitute 2 parts low or no-sodium chicken stock and 1 part white wine vinegar).

Store fresh mussels in an open container (or in their mesh bag placed on a tray), draped with a damp towel for 2-3 days. The mussels need to breathe so be sure to remove any plastic wrapping right away. They’ll also release water as they sit so be sure to pour that off as it accumulates.

To clean mussels, soak in cool water for 15 minutes, agitating them every few minutes, then scrub well with a brush or sponge and rinse. Do not allow mussels to soak for more than 15 minutes. No need to add flour or cornmeal to the water. It’s completely unnecessary.

When washing fresh mussels, discard any that are cracked, broken, or do not close within a minute or so of tapping on its shell.

Pull off any stingy “beards” by grasping with your thumb and the edge of a sharp knife, or use a pair of clean tweezers. Don’t do this until right before you cook the mussels.

After cooking, discard any mussels that have not opened.

To store leftovers, separate the mussels from the sauce and store each in its own airtight container.

To reheat leftovers, heat the sauce alone, then stir in the mussels to gently heat through. If you have a large amount of sauce, you can stir the mussels with their shells into the hot sauce. If you don’t have a lot of sauce, remove the mussels from their shells before stirring them into the hot sauce.

Plan on purchasing 1 pound of mussels per person if serving alone as a main entree. Plan on 1/2 pound per person if serving over pasta.

I developed this recipe using 5 pounds of fresh mussels (in their shells), but you can use anywhere from 3-6 pounds of fresh mussels without having to reduce the amount of sauce in the recipe. Note - if cooking 6 pounds of mussels, use a 7-quart dutch oven (5 pounds or less can be made in a 5.5-quart dutch oven).

Leftover sauce can be frozen for use later, or use it as a braise for your favorite mild white fish (cod, grouper, haddock, etc). I suggest serving the fish and sauce over rice.

#seafood recipes #shellfish recipes #dinner recipes #fish and seafood recipes #italian recipes

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