#Natural Fragrance Enthusiasts

[billsmithsposts]

Ditch the Fade: Unveiling the Allure of Nostalgia's Traditional Perfumes

For centuries, perfume has been an art form, adorning our bodies with fragrant stories. Yet, a familiar frustration lingers – the fleeting nature of traditional alcohol-based perfumes. The scent seems to vanish just as your confidence takes flight. Here’s where Nostalgia’s Traditional Perfumes step in, offering a revolutionary approach that redefines longevity and olfactory experience. Beyond…

[liv2post]

Hii!! I'm not sure if you're still taking requests but I have one if you are, one of my favorite chapters in itlt is the baking one, and I was wondering if you could write a separate fluffy baking fic!

Hi gracie! Thanks for the request! I hope you enjoy it :D

Cinnamon Rolls

Summary: After a long first day of the school year, Severus returns to your chambers in need of your presence and excellent baked confections.

Word Count: 1179

it's the little things story here (if anyone wants to read!)

The door to your office closed with a punctuated clang, the grumpy potion master leaning against it and letting out a weary sigh. He had gotten used to the summer months he was afforded that he had forgotten how cumbersome each new batch of first years’ incompetency was. One boy had not been paying attention during the safety demonstration for handling sharp tools properly and had cut his thumb open so deeply that he needed to be sent to the Hospital Wing. He swore each new injury or exploded cauldron was going to give him a new wrinkle or grey hair.

It was only until the sound of soft music and the smell of cinnamon spice hit his senses that he was able to let go of his frustration. They were a sign of your presence. His love.

He trudged silently through your living space toward the kitchen where he was met with a sight that made his heart flutter with equal intensity each time. 

You were flitting about the kitchen, a jumper with the sleeves rolled up to your elbows and lounge shorts on, but the front of your legs was partially covered by the apron you had tied around you. Your hair was clipped up and out of the way, allowing him a view of the chain you wore around your neck, one that held the ring Severus gave you that remained hidden beneath your day clothes. He could also make out a bit of flour caked along your jaw and near your neck, how you always managed to make a mess he’ll never know. It didn’t matter though. He thought you looked adorable.

As you finished stirring the bowl of glaze, you felt a pair of arms wrap around your middle, pulling you back into a firm chest. 

“Hi, Severus,” you smiled, letting go of the wooden spoon and resting your hands on his forearms.

He sighed into you, his face nuzzling into your hair as he inhaled your scent, loving the way your natural fragrance mixed with the sweetness of the confections you baked. 

“You smell so good…” he remarked quietly.

You chuckled. “I sure hope so.” 

He tugged you a little to the side with one arm, the other coming up to grasp your jaw and tilt your head back and up, his lips eagerly connecting with yours. You hummed into the kiss, your lips moving just as enthusiastically against his whenever he was domineering with you. You felt his tongue swipe against your own and on your bottom lip, sampling the remnants of cinnamon rolls and the glaze you had been perfecting for the last five minutes.

“You taste good, too,” he pulled away with a smug smirk. Oh, how he loved the way such words reduced you to a blushing mess, your face blazing with redness as you managed to turn into his hold and bury your face into the crook of his neck, your arms coming to wrap around his back. His arms readjusted similarly, stroking up and down the length of your back as you both breathed each other in, missing each other's presence as the both of you had classes to teach on the farthest sides of the castle. The both of you had gotten so accustomed to waking up next to one another, absorbing each other's constant presence in your summer cottage. But it was autumn now and the both of you had your respective duties in the school. On the flip side, it was also a school term he greatly looked forward to because you’d bake some of his favorite treats which just so happened to be in season.

What felt like many minutes passed before either of you spoke up once more.

“I missed you,” you said, voice partially muffled by his body.

“And I, you.” He pecked the side of your head.

“How was your first class?”

Severus huffed, holding you tighter. “The words necessary to describe the anticipated ineptitude I’ll be dealing with elude me.” He could feel your smile in comiseration against him. “Yours?”

“I have a feeling I’ll know who my ‘problem children’ will be, but otherwise not bad.” You kissed his neck before he released you. “I imagined you would have a rougher day than I would, so I made cinnamon rolls!” you announced, pouring the glaze over the brown, puffy rolls. “And I believe we still have some Earl Grey in the cabinet.”

The longing in his gaze deepened, the need to be close to you making him press against you his hands lightly grasping your waist as he pressed his lips to the back of your neck, just above the chain. “You’re too good to me…” he murmured. His fingers began to undo the tie around your waist as well as the one resting on the base of your neck. “Allow me to make us the tea. Have a rest on the sofa.”

“Severus, I still have to clean up—”

“Have a rest...on the sofa” he repeated more firmly, a mixture of a warning and a plea. You had done something so nice for him and now he wanted to reciprocate. And he knew that you knew this. “Don’t be stubborn, you silly girl,” he kissed you once more, this time on the forehead as he peeled the apron off of you and proceeded to kick you out of your own kitchen.

The low fire blazed away, washing the office in warm yellow-orange and flickering on along the tan pages of your book. It wasn’t even dinner yet, but the dungeons had a way of making it seem like it was always nighttime. Severus’s soft footsteps caught your attention as he entered your field of vision. A snort escaped you.

“Something amusing?” He lifted a brow. 

“It seems the flour on my apron transferred onto your black robes.”

He looked down at himself and scowled. Indeed, the flour from your apron and on your face had imprinted onto his robes and collar. He set the cups of tea down on the coffee table and handed you the small plate holding two of the cinnamon rolls so he could swipe off as much of the flour as he could manage, though some appeared to be stuck.

“You could always just turn your robes white,” you teased.

“Absolutely not,” he gruffed, giving up on the attempt to clean himself in favor of being next to you. Severus settled down on the couch with you. His side pressed against you as he took a cinnamon roll and bit into it, moaning quietly at how good it was, how the sweet glaze mixed wonderfully with the spiced dough. You automatically leaned back against him, resting your head against his shoulder. The simple bliss of being with one another and enjoying the little domesticities of life washed over the both of you, his other hand interlacing with yours and his thumb gently rolling over the skin of your hand, grateful for his love that brought him so much peace. 

His love, who smelled like cinnamon rolls.

[itsnesss]

𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚 | axel kovacevik × fem!reader

𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 🎄

summary | a secret santa gift reveal Axel's softer side, sparking a surprising connection and hinting at something deeper

warnings | romance, fluff, light romantic tension

word count | 1.6 k

The LaRusso house shone with Christmas lights and a cozy warmth that contrasted with the cold of the night. Laughter and conversations filled the living room, while the scent of freshly baked cookies floated through the air, mixing with the fragrance of the Christmas tree, decorated with golden and silver ornaments. Everything seemed perfect for the "Secret Santa" exchange organized by Samantha, who insisted that everyone participate, even those who didn’t seem very enthusiastic, like Axel.

The group consisted of the usual familiar faces: Samantha, Miguel, Robby, Hawk, Tory, Demetri, Eli, Chris, Nate, Bert, and Axel Kovacevic, who, to everyone’s surprise, decided to join the exchange. Despite being there, Axel kept to his corner, with his usual expression of indifference. Although he observed the others attentively, he didn’t get involved in the conversations. He simply crossed his arms, as he always did when he didn’t want to be part of what was happening around him.

The evening went on with laughter and jokes as gifts were handed out one by one. Some, like Miguel and Tory, seemed to enjoy the moment, while Robby, though smiling, couldn’t help but glance at Axel from time to time, wondering what he thought of it all.

"Are you sure Axel is enjoying the night?" Robby asked Samantha as he watched the dark-haired boy in his usual corner.

Samantha smiled, shrugging.

"I don’t know, but at least he’s participating. That’s something, right?" she replied optimistically.

When it was time to hand out gifts, everyone’s eyes turned to you. You stood up from your seat with some nervousness, holding the small package you had prepared for Axel. You had chosen a silver necklace with a heart-shaped pendant, simple but personal, something you felt could be meaningful for him. Although it was hard to decide what to give him, you thought something like this would be a gentle way to connect with his less visible side.

The group continued chatting while you approached Axel, who was standing by the window, looking outside, as if he wished he were somewhere else. When he noticed you approaching, he looked up and stood still, watching you in silence.

"Axel…" you said timidly, extending the package toward him.

Axel, with his usual indifferent tone, accepted the gift without saying a word. As he unwrapped it, the silence surrounding the moment became more evident. The room was so quiet you could hear the sound of wrapping paper being torn. When he saw the necklace, he didn’t say anything at first, but his expression softened for a second, something few people ever saw.

"Axel?" you asked, a bit surprised by his reaction. "Is it for me?"

Axel nodded slightly, not taking his eyes off the necklace. When he looked up at you, his tone was softer than you expected.

"I picked it out for you. It’s nothing special, but I thought it would look good on you," he said with a slight shrug, as if not used to these kinds of gestures.

A silence settled between you two, but your words came out almost naturally.

"It’s beautiful, Axel." You smiled genuinely, touching the necklace between your fingers. "Thank you, really."

Axel didn’t know how to react. For a moment, his eyes seemed to flicker, as if searching for something else to say, but he just nodded, not showing much more expression.

"You’re welcome," he murmured, looking away, clearly uncomfortable with the attention he was receiving.

The group, who had been watching quietly, began to murmur softly, trying to disguise their interest. Robby was the first to break the ice.

"Who picked it, Axel?" he asked with a teasing smile.

Axel shrugged and crossed his arms, looking at Robby without losing his composure.

"I did. Is there something weird about that?" he replied directly, but without his usual sharpness. It was more of a statement than a defense.

"Nothing weird, just asking," Robby shrugged and looked at the others. "Well, at least now we know Axel has a soft side, right?"

The group started laughing, but the tension that had once existed between Axel and the others had softened. Still, the look exchanged between you and Axel didn’t go unnoticed.

After the gift exchange, the group continued enjoying the evening. As they talked about Christmas movies and school anecdotes, you realized Axel was more present than usual. Although he didn’t say much, there was something different about his attitude: his eyes, which had once seemed indifferent, now met yours more often.

At one point, when the group began discussing what to do after the party, you approached Axel, unsure of what to say, but feeling you needed to thank him in a more personal way.

"Axel…" you said, looking at the necklace he was wearing around his neck. "I really liked it. It’s the kind of gift I didn’t expect, but… it’s perfect."

Axel turned to you with a slight surprise on his face, as if he weren’t used to hearing such comments. He took a step toward you, as if wanting to make sure your words were sincere.

"I’m glad you like it." His voice was softer, more human, something you rarely heard from him. "I’m not good at this gift thing, but I thought it would look good on you. Something simple, but meaningful, you know?"

Axel’s tone was different from usual, and that made you feel a strange warmth in your chest. Something in his gaze and the way he spoke made you think that maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than he let on.

"Thanks again." You smiled, feeling the nervousness from earlier dissipate. When you looked at him, you could see that he seemed a little more relaxed too.

Axel looked away, but before he fully turned, he looked at you with a small smile on his lips.

"See you, yeah?" he said, his tone softer than usual, as if he was letting you into a space you never imagined you’d share.

The conversation continued around you, but you couldn’t stop thinking about the moment. Axel Kovacevic, the guy who always seemed so reserved, so distant, had shown a vulnerability that, although small, made you feel something deeper between you two.

When the night ended, Axel said goodbye to the group without another word, but before he left, he came up to you one last time.

"Thanks again," you said, smiling again, this time with a warm feeling in your chest.

On impulse, you moved a little closer to him, and before he could react, you quickly kissed his cheek, almost shyly, but full of meaning. The sensation of his warm cheek under your lips made your stomach flutter.

Axel stood completely still for a moment, staring ahead with a look of surprise. He didn’t seem to know what to do with the situation. His eyes widened slightly, and his breathing seemed to become deeper.

"What…?" he whispered, but his words faded as his face began to turn slightly red.

You stepped back a little, looking at his reaction. Axel tried to regain his composure, but for a moment, his gaze said much more than his words could express.

"Did it bother you?" you asked softly, concerned about his response, though part of you already knew Axel wasn’t as indifferent as he seemed.

Axel, visibly nervous, lowered his head, running a hand through his hair, trying to hide the blush on his face.

"No… It’s not that. It’s just…" He sighed, searching for the words. "I just didn’t expect that from you."

Your heart raced at hearing him. You couldn’t help but smile, seeing that Axel, so strong and decisive, also had his own vulnerable side. A side that, although he didn’t show easily, was now in plain view.

"Well, you know…" you shrugged, looking at the necklace again. "It was my way of thanking you."

Axel nodded slowly, without saying anything more. For a moment, you both stood in silence, but the atmosphere was different. There was something in the air suggesting that, although everything had started with a simple gift exchange, maybe something bigger was beginning to grow between you two.

With one last glance, Axel said goodbye to the group, but not before looking at you again.

"Take care," he whispered, and although he tried to hide it, there was something in his voice that told you this night had changed something. Maybe it wasn’t just the gift that had transformed the atmosphere, but the way you both now saw each other.

As he left, you felt a strange warmth in your chest. You knew something had changed, and although you didn’t know exactly what, it was clear that this had been an important step for you and Axel.

[rabbit-flaying]

A Taste of Paradise chapter one

Content Warnings: pet whump, drugging, kidnapping, carewhumper, emotional manipulation, manipulative whumper and whumpee, dubiously consensual intimacy (nonsexual), mild xenophobia

Note: Thanks a million to @kira-the-whump-enthusiast for being my editor a few months ago. And I am once again apologizing for my disappearance.

Ezra roused himself from a deep sleep. He didn't feel all that well rested, but foggy in the mind and disconnected from any sense of physical touch.

The first thing he noticed was the lavender. A sweet but bitter edged smell, too natural to be a common fragrance yet too strong to come from a growing plant.

It reminded Ezra of a field trip he had taken as a teenager. They had gone to see a lavender farm, which had been a snooze fest until fire caught a tree on the farm and they had to evacuate.

He realized, then, he was laying with his head on someone's lap.

Someone was playing with his hair.

Ezra's eyes shot open, revealing that he was anywhere but his apartment. Rather, he was laying on a sofa in a cozy sort of living room, in the snug embrace of a knit blanket.

A fire flickered in the hearth, despite all evidence of the home's electricity like overhead lights and electrical switches on the walls. The lights weren't in use, for more than enough sunlight streamed in through the windows.

He had never been so comfortable.

"Ah, awake at last. How lovely."

The voice evidently belonged to the man playing with Ezra's hair. His tone was calming, despite bearing a Russian accent which Americans were conditioned to distrust immediately. Ezra felt this gut reaction to be unfair, but he wasn't in any mental state to start unpacking it.

Ezra sat up and rubbed his eyes, bringing the world further into focus. But all he could comprehend was the firm hand on his shoulder, holding him still and showing affection in the same instance.

His company looked familiar, despite Ezra's certainty that they had never met. He looked to be about forty, maybe older, smile lines etched on his skin and gray streaks in his mousy brown hair. His glasses were circular, in a style that hadn't been popular for a long time.

Ezra had never missed time or lost memories before, and was suddenly sympathetic to people with regular dissociation. Maybe this was what his online friend Isadora was always joking about.

"Where am I?" he asked. "Sorry, sorry, that's rude, isn't it? I've never woken up in some guy's house before. Not that kind of a person- Wait, sorry again. Who are you?"

"It's quite alright," the man said. "My name is Christopher Vadimevich. And I already know who you are, my dear Ezra."

"Christopher Vad- what?" The need for clarification embarrassed him. He always gave people hell for not being able to pronounce Arabic names, but now he was stumped on a Russian one.

"My apologies. Most Americans don't use patronymics, do they? My name is Christopher Kotev. But just Christopher will do."

Ezra tried for politeness. "Nice to meet you, sir. I don't know what's happening here. But my job at Safeway probably isn't going to give me more sick leave just for having amnesia. So I'd better go now, if that's alright with you."

"Oh, stay awhile." Christopher's smile reached his light brown eyes, looking perfectly genuine despite his strange words. "I'll make you some tea, and I have borscht almost done cooking."

Ezra inhaled deeply through his nose, the smell of lavender proving nearly as overwhelming as his confusion. He definitely had amnesia.

Was this Christopher taking care of him?

On that note… What year was it? Covid came with awful time loss, of course, but surely it still had to be 2021.

He would just have to play along. Every problem had a solution. His whole life had been spent finding them, no matter how tough things got. And besides, no horror movie was ever set in a cozy home with Tchaikovsky playing from a vinyl record.

This couldn't be too unpleasant, now could it?

"Well?" Christopher asked. "Won't you stay for lunch?"

"Yes, I sure will." Ezra forced a smile, mentally rewinding their conversation. "Um, what's borscht? I'm totally pronouncing that wrong, but anyway. What is it?"

This was just like him. Missing the forest for the trees, and in turn even missing the trees themselves in favor of their leaves. He had always been one to fill in the center of jigsaw puzzles before doing the edges. If he was eating with a stranger, he may as well ask what's on the menu.

"It's a sort of stew," Christopher readily explained. "Very popular in Russia after potatoes were brought over from Americas. Everyone makes it differently, but all with beets and cabbage and such things."

"That sounds nice. I can't remember the last time I had stew."

"Come along to the kitchen then. It's almost done."

Christopher stood up, and Ezra automatically did the same. He didn't complain when Christopher put a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the kitchen. 'Sit still and look pretty' was second nature, especially in confusing predicaments. And besides. What choice did he have?

The dining room looked straight out of an edition of Home and Garden. It got put to proper use, with ceramic plates in the sink and children's crayon drawings held to the fridge with magnets.

But still, it was squeaky clean, not a speck of dirt in sight. Ezra hadn't mastered the art of making soup without spilling on the stovetop, but Christopher evidently had.

A light blue cloth draped over the table, and on it was a centerpiece of a golden angel standing on a lace doily and holding two unlit candles in her hands. Flowerpots sat on every windowsill and other available flat surface. Mostly lavender, of course, alongside forget-me-nots and jasmine.

Ezra felt painfully out of place. But he sat at the table anyway, with his back against the wall so he could watch Christopher busy himself in the kitchen.

"It's so nice to have company for lunch," he was saying. "I get lonesome by myself."

"Well… I'm happy to be here," Ezra lied, taking a stab at lightening the mood. "I mean, I can't complain as long as you're feeding me, right?"

Christopher chuckled. He was filling his tea kettle with tap water. "You sound like my family. About only time I see them is for Sunday lunches."

Ezra didn't hesitate before baiting his line to fish for any information he could reel in. "Your family? I don't know anything about them."

"Oh, you know." Christopher set the kettle on a burner, and lit a petrol flame beneath it. "I immigrated with my parents when i was ten years old. From Soviet Union, of course. I have five- I mean four siblings. Lots of nieces and nephews, as you can tell by the front of my fridge. And a husband who forgets I exist if I'm not in his direct line of sight. But no kids myself. Very normal sort of family."

"I don't really talk to my family, you know. But yours sounds nice." Ezra cleared his throat. "You have a husband? Sorry, I don't mean it like that. It's just surprising." He could feel his cheeks warming unbearably. "Wait no- I- I'm gonna shut up now."

Christopher turned around, giving Ezra his full attention and a warm smile. He seemed to understand what it meant to a young man with no offline friendships, to meet another queer person.

"Nothing you could possibly say could compare to my mother," he said. "Believe me, I've heard it all. So, to answer your question, that's right. I was married seventeen years ago."

"That's nice." Ezra decided to change the subject. This wasn't going anywhere. "Can I admit something?"

"You may tell me anything you like."

"I don't know who you are. I think I hit my head or something. Maybe you should take me to the hospital." His voice was growing shrill. "I already joked about amnesia, but I was trying to wait for my memories to come back and they're not."

"Oh, my dear Ezra," Christopher said softly. "We've never met."

Christopher set a steaming bowl of stew in front of Ezra. The broth was bright red, and chunks of potato swam in it along with shredded vegetables and beef. Christopher set his own plate across the table from Ezra, and returned to the kitchen for what he had missed.

Ezra processed the revelation, trying to make it fix all the problems that had started when he woke up. But it didn't work. Instead, he was left with more questions to sort out.

The longer he tried to solve this puzzle, the more pieces he lost sight of.

Now there were glasses of water on the table. He watched Christopher scrape sour cream into his borscht, turning the broth a milky shade of pink.

"Then why am I in your house?" Ezra had apologized for being rude so many times already, and didn't feel like repeating himself again. "Who are you?"

"My name is Christopher Vadimevich Kotev. Yours is Ezra al Farrah. I've known you for a long while. So I am finally making our introduction. You are in my home, of course. And you have nothing to fear."

"You know that saying I shouldn't fear makes me more afraid, right?" Ezra fidgeted with the hem of the tablecloth while he spoke, trying not to relapse into his old habit of nail biting. "You do know that? Don't you?"

"What I mean is that I'm not going to hurt you. Enjoy the stew, and I'll make tea when the kettle starts singing."

"Then I can go home?"

"Why would you possibly want that?"

Ezra wanted to call Christopher stupid. Of course he wanted to go home. Who wouldn't?

But the question begged to be answered. Ezra hated his apartment. And his roommates. And his job. Not to mention every other cord that made up the tapestry of his life.

"Because I don't trust you." The only conceivable answer. "And you probably kidnapped me. What more do I need?"

Christopher took a sip of water before responding. "Well, I am a doctor. So if the drugging has any long term effects, please tell me. I know how to treat such things. You're in good hands."

"I don't remember being drugged. But I guess they fucked with my memory. That's the point. I'll let you know about any nausea or dizziness."

"Good good. Other things to look out for are headaches, muscle soreness, and a sensitivity to light."

Ezra finally realized just how similar he and his captor were when a problem needed to be solved. He had been roofied, so now they had to deal with lingering symptoms. It was only logical. If only he could figure out how to use their shared attention to details above the big picture to his advantage.

"I know that you're allergic to onions, so I left them out of the stew." Christopher shook salt into his own. "You should try eating. I know you must be hungry. And drink some water. It'll help flush the drugs from your system."

Ezra did as he was told, tilting back the glass to drink from. Drinking water seemed much easier than eating, at least for the time being. He found himself parched as though he had never tasted water before. He finished the glass, which barely satisfied him. Christopher proved nice enough to refill it at the sink.

"You know everything about me, apparently," Ezra said bluntly, refusing both to make eye contact. "From my preferred name to my allergies. So now I get to ask you some questions."

"I'll answer your questions as long as you eat. Would you like sour cream or salt?"

"No thanks. And you sound like my grandmother, by the way."

Despite his complaints, Ezra found his first bite of borscht very pleasant. He had never tried beets, and figured they must be the source of its unusual flavor.

He wolfed half the bowl down before giving himself any opportunity to talk. Maybe he was hungry after all.

"How long have you been stalking me, anyway?" He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "And how have you been doing it?"

"A few months now. Since last February. And my methods were rather traditional. Following you around, eavesdropping, and all like that."

"You're very calm about this, aren't you? Ugh, nevermind. Next question. Why me?"

"People watching is a hobby of mine, and we frequent the same library. I've never been so invested in someone as I became with you. You were always going out of your way to be helpful and kind. Yet no one around you ever showed appreciation. It seemed so unfair, watching you struggle to make ends meet but still tipping cashiers and waiters whenever you could.

"I wanted so many times to help you, but I never knew how." Christopher reached across the table and held Ezra's hand. "This is my solution. I am going to give you a taste of paradise. Our own little Eden."

Ezra marveled at the butterflies in his stomach. He must have been crazy, the way he smiled at the man who had kidnapped him.

But in a perverse way, this was everything he had ever wanted to hear. He had always hated himself for the way he chased after attention. Now those feelings had increased sevenfold. No good deed went unpunished. He knew that fully well.

But maybe this punishment wouldn't be too unbearable.

"You're insane," he managed, forcing the smile off his face. "I mean, have you gotten checked out? This isn't… normal."

"I have 'gotten checked out'. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Nothing that disconnects me from reality. I'm not unstable. This was all very well thought out."

Ezra had to laugh as he pulled his hand away from Christopher's. It was a strung out and shrill sort of noise. "Right, of course you have the same personality disorder as me. I bet you knew about our twin diagnosis already. Explains so much."

"What do you think it explains?" Christopher was finished with his stew, and folded his hands politely on his lap.

"I know what you're doing, so don't act sly. You're being nice to me. Nobody else does that. They just call me annoying. You're screwing with my unstable ego to get me to like you. Why else would you be talking to me like this? You're obvious."

"Your generation with its pop-psychology…" Christopher slowly shook his head. "People may have taught you that your natural desire for kindness is something to be ashamed of. But I know differently. I want to be kind to you. I want you to be happy. And yes, I do want you to like me. But that isn't my sole motivation."

"Well- I- I know how your brain works. Why have you decided that I'm worth your time? I must have done something that you decided was special."

Ezra hoped his compliment fishing wouldn't be called out. After all, Christopher also knew how his brain worked.

"I don't know how to explain my feelings towards you. But I want to make sure you eat well, and show you the affection you're lacking. Is that so difficult to understand?"

"Yeah, it is." Ezra shoved his dishes forward and rested his elbows on the table. "Because you're going to get sick of me eventually. Everyone does. I'm manipulative and obnoxious and- well, you get it. I can't cook. I can't clean. I can barely hold a job. You aren't going to get anything out of me but a healthy dose of frustration."

"Your worth does not lie in your labor or how well you comply with societal norms. I see something beautiful in you, even if you cannot. So let go of all your anxiety and just let this happen. I love you, my dear Ezra. And this is what matters."

Tears burned the corners of Ezra's eyes as they fought to escape their imprisonment. He couldn't believe he was crying. It felt so stupid. But no one, not one person in his entire life, had said anything so kind to him.

More than that, he couldn't remember the last time he had heard the word love from someone who didn't revel in sarcasm or insincerity.

He still had his wits about him, despite the tears in his eyes, and he didn't want to delude himself too badly.

Christopher didn't really love him. This was just an obsession, something Ezra himself was quite familiar with. But as long as Christopher kept talking like this, semantics hardly seemed to matter.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Christopher said, still sounding all too kind. "I really didn't mean to upset you."

"It's okay," Ezra managed, trying not to cause inconvenience with his feelings. "I'm fine. Don't- Don't worry."

But now Christopher was by his side and not listening to any of his excuses. He hugged Ezra, leaning down and quite literally giving him a shoulder to cry on. Ezra clung tightly to him, desperate for the affection he had craved for so many years. He would stay like this forever if he could. Overwhelmed by joy and the smell of lavender perfume.

"Is this my fault?" he croaked, knowing how nonsensical it must sound.

"That makes it sound like this is a punishment… But no, I suppose not. This is my responsibility entirely."

"And I'm not allowed to leave?"

"Of course not. You need to stay here. You're a beautiful and fragile thing, and I will not allow the world to mistreat you any longer. You'll be better off as a pet, of sorts, than anything you were before."

This was all Ezra's brain needed to rid him of his doubts. After all, he couldn't be blamed for any of this. He wasn't giving up entirely. When opportunity knocked, he would escape through the door it chose.

People would have to be sympathetic when he told them all that had happened. He didn't even need to play the victim. He was the victim.

"I'll stay with you." Ezra bit back his tears. "You've been very kind. I couldn't possibly think of leaving now."

"I'm so happy to hear that. I love you." Christopher released Ezra from the hug, and smiled down on him. "All I'm asking from you is obedience, and you're so good at that already."

"I love you too," Ezra lied sweetly. "Thank you for everything."

A light screeching sound filled the kitchen. The boiling water sounded as though it were in pain, steam desperately escaping through the small slit it had available.

"I'll make tea." Christopher returned to the kitchen, looking as happy as a proverbial clam. "Now, do you like sugar or honey?"

Taglist: @inbloodandtears @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @i-eat-worlds @whatwasmyprevioususername @boonasaurusrex @suspicious-whumping-egg @parasitebunny

So I went and forgot like the entire taglist after I erased my entire internet presence. I'm going off memory. And for some people, I remember you, but damn I cannot recall your username. If you would like to be added, please tell me!

[carpisuns]

Summary: “Marinette. My bestie. My platonic soulmate. You are a kleptomaniac.”

In which Marinette is forced to confront her habit of thievery

Word count: 2k

Rating: G

A/N: Written for the pre-reveal, pre-relationship section of the @adrinettezine!

Marinette, Kleptomaniac

“Girl. You can’t be serious.”

“What?” Marinette asked defensively. She attempted to shield the open trunk from view, but this appeared to have no effect on Alya.

“All this junk is stuff you’ve taken from Adrien?”

“It’s not junk!” Marinette said. “They’re my treasures. My Adrien treasures.”

“Right. Your stolen treasures.”

Alya was giving her the “Bestie, this is simply not it” look—pursed lips, arched brows, arms folded in a very judgmental way that Marinette did not like.

“I didn’t— they’re not stolen,” she said. “They were gifts. Like… this! He gave it to me on the first day we met.”

Marinette pulled the black umbrella from the depths of the trunk. She ran a finger over the curved handle, remembering how Adrien’s hand had brushed hers, and couldn’t stop a dreamy little sigh from escaping her lips.

“Uh-huh. And what about this?” Alya wrinkled her nose as she held up a sock, pinching the cuff between her fingers. “You’re telling me Adrien gave you this as a gift?”

Marinette looked down, blushing. “Some of the gifts were… unintentional.”

“Where did you even get this? Did you sneak into his house and raid his laundry basket?”

“Of course not.” Marinette snatched the sock away. “It just fell out of his locker after fencing class one day. And I just, you know, happened to be passing by. And I figured— ”

“— ‘hey, Adrien probably left this stinky sock just for me! Because he saw me creeping around his locker and he was like, “Aw, there goes my Very Good Friend Marinette. I know how much she loves sweaty socks and other soiled clothing items. Maybe next time I’ll leave her my dirty underwear.”’”

Marinette’s face burned. “Alya!” she hissed. “You can’t talk about people’s… you-know-what.”

“Why? Because now you’re thinking of his cute little tushie?” Alya grinned. “Wonder if he’s a boxers guy or a briefs guy. Maybe you should ask him. When you return his stinky sock.”

Marinette opened her mouth, but she really couldn’t form a coherent thought once Adrien’s butt had entered the equation. She stared down at the sock instead.

“It’s not stinky,” she said finally. “I washed it.”

(At first she had decided that she wasn’t going to wash it, because how could she eliminate Adrien’s natural scent, which came from his own perfect skin? But it turned out that even Adrien’s perfect skin had working sweat glands, and soon she had no choice but to put the sock in the wash and douse the remaining contents of the treasure trunk in his new fragrance, Pure.)

“Oh my gosh. Is this… ?” Alya turned over a small box in her hands. “The constipation meds? Really? I thought you were going to burn them after how embarrassed you were about the whole thing.”

“Yeah, but— he got them for me!” Marinette said. “That’s kind of like a gift, right?”

“You have a very strange concept of gift giving.”

“Whatever.”

“What else do you have in here?” Alya started pulling item after item from the trunk—the jacket Adrien had left at her house after a group study session, the crumpled love note he had thrown in the trash on Valentine’s Day, a manga box set he had lent her after her enthusiastic response to his summary of Fruits Basket.

Alya inspected a small drawstring pouch. “What— ”

“No!” Marinette lunged for the pouch, but Alya had already opened it and peered inside.

“Marinette,” she said, “is this hair? Like, actual human hair?”

“It’s not real! I mean, it is real, but— ”

“What did you do? Just pluck it right off his head?”

Marinette bit her lip.

“Oh my gosh, you just plucked it right off his head.”

Marinette let out a huff. “Well, in my defense, I thought he was a wax statue at the time.”

Alya closed her eyes and let out a sigh, the way Papa did when she dropped a plate of pastries for the third time in one day. Marinette squirmed.

“Marinette. My bestie. My platonic soulmate. You are a kleptomaniac.”

“I am not!”

“Girl, listen to me.” Alya put her hands on Marinette’s shoulders. “You know I love you, right?”

Her lips slid into a pout. “Right.”

“You know that I think you are good and wonderful and smart and hot and totally worthy of any person you want to date, right?”

“Right.”

“And you know that I am the number one Adrinette shipper, right?”

“Right.”

Alya straightened. “Well, I regret to inform you that this is officially an intervention. No more stealing from Adrien Agreste.”

“But— ”

Alya held up a hand. “Nope. Everything in this treasure box has to be something Adrien actually gave you. On purpose. We’re gonna go through it right now, and anything that you shouldn’t have, you’re going to give back. You’re supposed to be stealing his heart, not his stuff. Okay?”

Marinette’s shoulders slumped. “Okay.”

It took them nearly an hour to go through the box (mostly because Alya insisted on hearing the backstory of every item). Finally, the trunk was empty, and the items were sorted into two piles—a “keep” pile and a “give back to Adrien” pile.

The “keep” pile was relatively small—the umbrella, her lucky charm, the empty constipation pill box, and various wrappers and scraps of paper that Alya deemed unworthy of returning, because “this is literally a piece of trash, Marinette.”

But the “back to Adrien” pile—well, that one was much bigger.

“I can’t give all this back!” Marinette wailed, draping herself dramatically over the edge of the chaise.

“We talked about this,” Alya said. “It’s not right for you to keep what was never given to you.”

“No, I mean, how am I supposed to give all of this back to him? It’s so much.” She tugged at her pigtails. “He’s gonna think I’m some sort of freak, or creep, or— ”

“— kleptomaniac?”

Marinette groaned, burying her face in her hands.

“Relax.” Alya slung an arm around her shoulder. “We’ll come up with a plan for you to return them one by one. We’ll keep it casual. He’ll never know about the junk hoard.”

Marinette shot her a glare.

“Treasure box,” Alya corrected. “Okay, so which of these items was stol— acquired most recently?”

Marinette looked over the pile. “Um, the pen.”

“Right. That’s the one he dropped in Mendeleiev’s class yesterday and it conveniently rolled directly under your chair.”

“It did!”

“Okay, okay.” Alya picked up the pen and handed it to Marinette. “Tomorrow morning, you walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, Adrien, is this yours? I think you dropped it.’ Say it with me.”

“Hey, Adrien, is this yours? I think you dropped it.”

“Good.” Alya grinned. “Let Operation Kleptomaniac commence.”

Marinette crouched behind the stairs with Alya, watching Adrien and Nino across the courtyard.

“Girl, get that out of your mouth,” Alya said. “It’s not even yours.”

Marinette jolted, slipping the pen out from between her teeth. She inspected the cap. There were a few telltale scratches and dents in it, but maybe that was because Adrien had the same bad pen-chewing habit that she did.

A blush crept over her face. If Adrien had chewed on this pen too, then her lips had touched the same spot as his. An indirect kiss, just like the one she had not-exactly-shared with him a few weeks ago at the movies when he accidentally took a sip of her drink. Alya had almost thrown away that straw, but after an impassioned speech from Marinette about the preservation of cherished memories (and the trace amounts of Adrien’s cellular tissue that come with them), Alya had sighed and agreed that she could keep it.

“What are we still waiting for? It’s time.” Alya yanked Marinette out from behind the stairs and dragged her toward Adrien and Nino. Marinette tried to tug away, but she tripped and tumbled forward.

She braced for impact, but it never came. Instead, she was met with something warm and soft that smelled just like her treasure box—clean linen and citrus.

“Whoa,” Adrien said. “You okay, Marinette?”

Her eyes snapped open, and she jumped out of his arms. “Yar! I mean, yeah! I’m— it’s— it’s all grood. Good.” A too-wide grin stretched across her face, her neck growing hot under her collar.

Adrien smiled. She fixed her gaze on his nose to avoid his unfairly beautiful eyes. Unfortunately, his nose was just as beautiful, and it was even closer to his lips, which made her heart hammer like that weird construction-themed akuma from last week (Bob le Builder, a name which she found both tacky and lazy, but which Chat Noir loved, of course).

“Um,” she said intelligently. What was she supposed to tell him again? Her mind had melted into goo. It was probably spilling out of her ears at this point. Oh no—what if Adrien saw her disgusting brain goo??

Alya was miming something behind Adrien’s back. Paper? Writing?

Oh. Right.

Marinette lifted the pen and let the well-rehearsed words spill out. “Adrien, is this yours? I think I’m in love with you.”

She froze. Adrien’s eyebrows shot up, perfect lips forming a tiny o of surprise. Behind him, Alya slapped her hand to her forehead.

“It!” Marinette blurted, much too loudly. “The pen. That’s what I’m in love with. It’s like a pencil, but more darker and, um, smeary-er. I mean, it has such a great… writing— smooth— ink… ness. W-where did you get it?”

Adrien blinked. Then a laugh bubbled out of him.

“It’s just a pen, Marinette. If you like it that much, you can keep it.”

“R-really?”

“Of course! I’ve got a bunch more.” He smiled warmly, sending a golden shimmer all the way down to her toes.

“Well, how about a trade? You can have one of mine!” She shrugged off her backpack and pulled out her pack of pink gel pens. “Um, unless you don’t like pink?”

“How could I not like pink? It’s your signature color.” He grinned, taking one of the pens. “Thanks! And, by the way, you might want to disinfect that other pen. I have kind of a bad habit of chewing on the cap. Sorry. Would you rather have a new one? I’d be happy to—”

“No!” she said quickly. “No, that’s fine. Thanks.”

“Okay, then. See you in class!” Adrien waved, and then she watched him walk away with Nino, slipping the gel pen in his pocket.

“Well, that was… interesting,” Alya said. “But I guess it was technically a success. Nice work, klepto.”

Marinette smiled down at the pen in her hand.

Maybe Operation Kleptomaniac wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Adrien sat in his desk chair, rolling the pink gel pen between his fingers.

“Man, that Pigtails is so weird,” Plagg commented through a mouthful of cheese.

“She’s not weird,” Adrien said. “She’s just… ”

He paused. He didn’t quite have the words for what Marinette was. Smart, definitely. Kind. Funny. Passionate. Brave. Talented. A good person. A good friend.

“… she’s Marinette,” he finished.

Adrien pulled open his desk drawer and took out a little box. Inside were various items he’d collected since he started school. An old CD from Nino. A sparkly invitation to Rose’s birthday party. A spoon from an ice cream cone he’d shared with Kagami. The wrapper from the piece of gum Alya had offered him on his second day. The ticket stubs from the movies he’d seen with Marinette last month.

Now that he thought of it, most of the things in the box came from Marinette. There were ribbons from bags of homemade pastries, knicknacks she’d made for all her friends, a dozen handwritten notes (always signed “Your friend, Marinette”).

“I don’t get why you keep all this stuff,” Plagg said. “It’s just a bunch of junk.”

Adrien carefully placed the pink gel pen in the box, between his Kitty Section mask and the pair of fake glasses “Marino” had left behind.

“They’re not junk.” He smiled. “They’re treasures.”

[thedevilsoftruth]

Himejima HCs!!!!!

One time in battle, he got a broken nose, so now his nose is a tiny bit crooked.

He loves hot springs, especially late in the day, because it gives him a way to relax and unwind. The sounds of the nature surrounding him also add to the feeling.

Crystal collector.

33 years old and 320 IBS. I don't care what is canon, fuck you.

One time, he lost a bet to Sanemi and he had to shave his head.

Very, very, very, unimaginably really good at math.

Huge foodie, but he doesn't admit to it.

Whenever he gets frustrated, he doesn't shout, but his face turns a little bit red and a vein pops out on his forehead.

He plays piano.

He is a very hairy man.

He is very fashionable and he enjoys making jewelry as well as weaving.

He wears a lot of fragrances. The other hasira compliment him for his scent a lot, and he is often asked what he is wearing.

Plant enthusiasts. He loves gardens and loves the scents of flowers.

Overall, he is just a huge outdoorsy guy.

His favorite season is fall and his favorite color is purple.

He doesn't like chocolate.

5 cats. He perfers fatter, fluffier cats. He often finds himself getting not well-behaved cats, and they often break his things. He cries a lot whenever a plate or vase gets broken.

He often finds himself getting lost, well, because he's blind... so he always has his crow give him directions whenever he is heading towards an unfamiliar direction.

Sometimes, his height causes his head to bump against doorframes, desks, or cabinets.

He loves fish. Specially cod and salmon.

He grows facial hair pretty quickly, so he always has to shave, and it is not uncommon for the hahira to see him with a slight stubble.

Hats!!! Lots of hats!!! And scarfs!!!!

[digitalgirlguide]

Kimmy’s Digital Diary: I owe it to myself to be the best version of me possible

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

As we step into the new year of 2024, I think to myself ‘what can I do differently in 2024?’ I’m not one to sit on my hands and wait until a new year started to make changes to my life but I would be lying if I didn't say that the sparkle surrounding the prospect of being an entirely new person in january while reflecting on the year in december didn’t excite me. I’ve been taking my vitamins, getting my ass in the gym, solidifying my beauty routines and trying to become an all around ‘it girl’. BUT it's time to wholeheartedly embrace the essence of the 'it girl era' with even more aggression and tenacity than before. Being mediocre has never been in my cards and I want so much out of this life that I have to do more.

The Enchantment of Your Signature Beauty Routine

The first thing I had to get right was my natural look. My go-to ‘If i have 5 minutes to be outside can I I do it?’ signature makeup look. And this is from someone who just started learning about makeup in 2016…where we did full faces and the thickest eyebrows possible. I had to think about what I wanted my staples to be that would always be in my collection. Now I’m a girl who likes a nice dewy look and whenever I wear makeup people don't even know I’m wearing it!

Think of makeup not merely as a beauty enhancer, but as a canvas for self-expression. Whether you resonate with the 'less is more' philosophy, cherishing a dewy no-makeup makeup look, or you're a glamour enthusiast who wouldn't part with her winged eyeliner for anything, your makeup style is an extension of your identity.

My personal go-tos for my 10 minute routine

FOUNDATION:

Sacha Cosmetics Cream to Powder Foundation- Perfect Spice

e.l.f halow glow liquid filter - 6 tan/deep warm

CONCEALER

e.l.f hydrating camo concealer - medium peach

BLUSH

sacha cosmetics powder blush - claret

SETTING POWDER

sacha cosmetics buttercup setting powder

SETTING SPRAY

urban decay all nighter

Yet, the magic doesn't end there. Scents have an enchanting ability to stir emotions and weave memories. Do you find joy in the freshness of citrus, the elegance of roses, or does the warm, comforting aroma of vanilla speak to your soul? Discovering your signature scent is like leaving traces of your personal brand in every room you enter.

And do not forget to LAYER YOUR FRAGRANCES GIRL.

From the shower gel, to the body lotion to the perfume combinations. Make sure your notes match to create a custom signature scent that will have everybody asking you what fragrance you’re wearing. But we all know, pretty girls don’t share those combinations.

And then, there's your unique style. Whether it aligns with classic chic, boho vibes, or the boldness of street style, your fashion choices should resonate with your personality and instill a sense of empowerment within you.

You don’t have to conform to Tiktok niches but you can mix and match those styles until you get one that feels authentic to YOU. Remember, it’s better to have your own aesthetic than trying to keep up with trends that don't match your personality.

Goal-Getting: Your Moment is Now

Let's shift gears and talk about pursuing your aspirations with unyielding determination. It's the perfect time to outline major goals for the first quarter of the year. Dreaming of launching your own business? Let's sketch out the plan. Eyeing that well-deserved promotion? Let's craft the path towards it. This is undeniably your year, your time to radiate brilliance. Always remember, every achievement begins with the courage to take that first step.

Here are a few tips to staying on top of your studies in 2024:

Use the pomodoro method - its much easier to break things down into smaller chunks than sitting down for hours studying

Invest in cute study supplies (trust me it makes a difference)

Set a study schedule and stick to it

Practice ‘recall’

Have a study scent - to help with recall. Memories are triggered by scent!

Mind and Body Wellness: Embrace Strength Training and Pilates

Exercise is more than sculpting the perfect physique; it's about decluttering your mind and discovering the incredible strength within. Introducing workouts like strength training and Pilates into your routine can be truly transformative.

Strength training empowers you, fostering a sense of strength and capability, and guess what? It contributes to maintaining a harmonious metabolism. On the other hand, Pilates transcends physical fitness; it's an intricate dance between mind and body. Improving flexibility, posture, and even mental wellness, Pilates is a holistic embrace of your well-being.

Let's get into it, The Action Steps

Here's your glow-up game plan:

Curate a beauty regimen that is an authentic reflection of YOU. Remember, it's not about following trends; it's about celebrating what makes YOU feel stunning.

Chart out ambitious goals for Q1. Break them down into manageable tasks and start the journey towards realizing them. Your dreams are deserving of your pursuit.

Infuse strength training and Pilates into your fitness routine. Your body and mind will express gratitude for the nurturing care.

Remember, the path to becoming the best version of yourself is a steady journey, not a hurried sprint. Take each step with intention, celebrate every small victory, and, most importantly, embrace your unique beauty and strength. Here's to a luminous and confident 2024 ✨

[prapasara]

Discovering 9 Different Varieties of Thai Rice 🌾

Have you ever wondered what makes Thai cuisine so enchanting ?

Perhaps it's the delicate balance of flavors, the aromatic herbs and spices, or maybe it's the humble grain that serves as the foundation of every meal: rice.

Join us on a journey through Thailand's vibrant landscapes as we uncover the stories behind ninet unique varieties of Thai rice, each with its own history, flavor, and special place in the heart of Thai culture.

1. Khao Hom Mali 105

First on our journey is Khao Hom Mali 105, perhaps the most celebrated of Thailand's rice varieties. With its long, slender grains and an enchanting aroma reminiscent of pandan leaves, this jasmine rice isn't just a staple—it's a symbol of Thai heritage.

Khao Hom Mali 105 originated in Bang Khla District, Chachoengsao province in 1954. This variety was officially registered as Khao Dawk Mali 105 in 1959. Its delicate fragrance and soft texture when cooked make it the perfect companion to spicy curries and stir-fries.

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2. Khao Hom Mali Thung Kula

Next, we venture to the vast plains of Thung Kula Rong Hai, spanning over 2 million rai (aroung 0.79 acres) across five provinces: Surin, Roi Et, Sisaket, Yasothon, and Maha Sarakham where Khao Hom Mali Thung Kula rice is grown. A premium jasmine rice variety celebrated for its exceptional fragrance and quality. Originally, the Thung Kula Rong Hai plain was arid. However, through land development efforts by government and other organizations, the area has become fertile again and is now a major producer of Khao Hom Mali Thung Kula.

When cooked, the rice is soft, fluffy, and exudes a natural sweetness. This variety has even earned Geographical Indication (GI) status, marking it as unique to this region.

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3. Khao Sang Yod

Khao Sang Yod, originated from Phatthalung Province is a nutritious rice with long grains that range from white and red to dark red. Khao Sang Yod is renowned for its exceptionally high nutritional content. When cooked, the rice becomes chewy, exceptionally soft and maintains its tenderness even when cooled.

Khao Sang Yod Muang Phatthalung is the first rice variety of Thailand that has been registered as Geographical Indication (GI) in 2016.

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4. Khao Riceberry

Introducing Riceberry, a modern gem in Thailand's rice repertoire. This purple-hued rice is a crossbreed between Khao Hom Mali 105 and a local black rice (Khao Jao Hom Nil) variety, developed by the Rice Science Center at Kasetsart University.

With its slightly chewy texture and mild, nutty flavor, Riceberry is not only delicious but also a nutritional powerhouse—rich in antioxidants like anthocyanin, fiber, and essential vitamins. It's become a favorite among health enthusiasts and gourmet chefs alike.

Did you know that the deep purple color of Riceberry comes from its high anthocyanin content, the same antioxidant found in blueberries.

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5. Khao Mun Poo

Khao Mun Poo, also known as Thai red rice, named for its distinctive reddish-orange hue that resembles the color of crab fat—'Mun Poo' translates to 'crab fat' in Thai. This rice offers a soft, slightly sticky texture when cooked, with a subtle earthy flavor.

Khao Mun Poo is cherished for both its taste and health benefits. The distinctive orange-red hue is attributed to its high levels of carotenoids, which are antioxidants that play a vital role in maintaining optimal eye health.

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6. Khao Jek Chuey Sao Hai

As we continue our journey, we arrive in the Sao Hai district of Saraburi province, home to Khao Jek Chuey Sao Hai, a rice variety steeped in legend and tradition. With long, firm grains and a distinctive taste, this rice is less sticky than typical Thai varieties, making it perfect for fried rice and dishes where separate grains are desired. Historically, this rice was favored by Chinese traders.

Khao Jek Chuey Sao Hai also earned Geographical Indication (GI) status.

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3 Popular Thai Sticky Rice Varieties

1. Khao Niao Kor Khor 6

Venturing into the realm of sticky rice, we first encounter Khao Niao Kor Khor 6 (RD6). Developed by Thailand's Rice Department (hence the 'Kor Khor'), this variety features short, plump grains that become wonderfully sticky when cooked. Its exceptional stickiness makes it ideal for forming into balls to dip into dishes like som tum or Nam Jim Jaew (Thai BBQ dipping sauce).

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2. Khao Niao Dam

Khao Niao Dam, or black sticky rice, an eye-catching grain with a deep purple-black hue. When cooked, it transforms into a glossy, sticky delight with a slightly sweet and nutty flavor. Rich in antioxidants, particularly anthocyanins, this rice is as nutritious as it is delicious. It's often used in Thai desserts like black sticky rice pudding or combined with coconut milk for a luscious treat.

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3. Khao Niao Khiaw Ngu

Lastly, we explore Khao Niao Khiaw Ngu, intriguingly named 'snake fang glutinous rice' due to its slender, pointed grains. This variety offers a delicate aroma and is slightly less sticky than other glutinous rice types, resulting in a soft, chewy texture when cooked. It's ideal for dishes that require a balance between stickiness and grain separation, like certain traditional sweets or for making steamed sticky rice, a key ingredient in the renowned mango sticky rice. Cultivated mainly in northern Thailand, this rice carries cultural significance in local ceremonies.

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As we've journeyed through the rich tapestry of Thai rice varieties, it's clear that these grains are more than just food—they're the embodiment of Thailand's culture. Some are newly developed from the wisdom of the Thai people, adapting to meet the demands of modern consumption trends.

From the fragrant fields of Khao Hom Mali to the vibrant hues of Khao Riceberry, each variety tells a story of the land and its people. So next time you savor a Thai dish, remember that the humble rice at its heart carries generations of tradition and flavor, answering the question of what truly makes Thai cuisine so enchanting.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

ชวนรู้จัก 9 สายพันธุ์ข้าวไทย ดังไกลไปทั่วโลก

ทุกท่านเคยนึกสงสัยไหมว��า นอกจากวิธีการปรุงอาหารไทยและส่วนผสมอย่างสมุนไพรและเครื่องเทศแล้ว อะไรคือส่วนประกอบสำคัญที่ทำให้อาหารไทยเป็นที่นิยมได้มากขนาดนี้ ?

องค์ประกอบสำคัญในแทบจะทุกเมนูอาหารไทยที่ขาดไม่ได้ คือ ข้าว ที่เปรียบเสมือนพื้นฐานของอาหารไทย

ในโพสนี้เพจ Thai SELECT ขอชวนทุกท่านมาร่วมรู้จัก 9 สายพันธุ์ข้าวไทยที่ดังไกลไปทั่วโลกด้วยกัน

1. ข้าวหอมมะลิ 105

ข้าวหอมมะลิ 105 เป็นสายพันธุ์ข้าวที่มีชื่อเสียงมากของประเทศไทย เป็นที่ต้องการของตลาด ขายได้ราคาดี ด้วยจุดเด่นที่ตัวเมล็ดข้าวสารมีลักษณะเรียวยาวสวย และมีกลิ่นหอมที่ชวนให้นึกถึงกลิ่นของใบเตย เมื่อนำมาหุง ตัวข้าวจะมีความนุ่มเหนียว และมีกลิ่นหอมมาก

ข้าวหอมมะลิ 105 มีแหล่งกำเนิดจากอำเภอบางคล้า จังหวัดฉะเชิงเทรา เมื่อปี พ.ศ. 2497 และได้รับการจดทะเบียนอย่างเป็นทางการในชื่อของ "ข้าวดอกมะลิ 105" เมื่อปี พ.ศ. 2502 และด้วยจุดเด่นของกลิ่นที่หอมและเนื้อสัมผัสนุ่ม จึงเหมาะเป็นอย่างยิ่งกับการทานคู่เมนูประเภทแกงไทยและผัดต่าง ๆ

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2. ข้าวหอมมะลิทุ่งกุลาร้องไห้

ข้าวหอมมะลิทุ่งกุลาร้องไห้ เป็นหนึ่งในข้าวหอมมะลิชั้นเลิศของไทย ซึ่งจะปลูกในพื้นที่ทุ่งกุลาร้องไห้ ที่ราบขนาดใหญ่กว่า 2 ล้านไร่ ที่ครอบคลุมพื้นที่ 5 จังหวัด ได้แก่ จังหวัดสุรินทร์ ร้อยเอ็ด ศรีสะเกษ ยโสธร และมหาสารคามเท่านั้น โดยข้าวสายพันธุ์นี้มีชื่อเสียงในด้านกลิ่นหอมและคุณภาพยอดเยี่ยม ซึ่งแต่เดิมสภาพแวดล้อมในพื้นที่ทุ่งกุลาร้องไห้นั้น มีสภาพแห้งแล้ง ผืนดินแตกระแหง แต่ด้วยการพัฒนาที่ดินจากส่วนราชการและหน่วยงานต่าง ๆ ส่งผลให้สามารถพลิกฟื้นผืนดินให้กลับมาเขียวชอุ่ม เป็นแหล่งผลิตข้าวหอมพิเศษที่ไม่มีที่ใดเหมือน โดยตัวเมล็ดข้าวเมื่อหุงสุกจะมีความนุ่มฟู และมีกลิ่นหอมเด่นตามธรรมชาติ

ทุกท่านทราบไหมว่า ข้าวหอมมะลิทุ่งกุลาร้องไห้ ยังได้รับสถานะสิ่งบ่งชี้ทางภูมิศาสตร์ (GI) ทำให้เป็นข้าวที่มีเอกลักษณ์เฉพาะในภาคอีสานของไทยอีกด้วย

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3. ข้าวสังข์หยด

ข้าวสังข์หยด เป็นข้าวสายพันธุ์พื้นเมือง ที่มีแหล่งปลูกดั้งเดิมจากจังหวัดพัทลุง ข้าวสังข์หยดถือเป็นข้าวที่มีคุณค่าทางอาหารสูงมาก ตัวเมล็ดข้าวมีลักษณะเรียวยาว และมีเยื่อหุ้มเมล็ด��ีขาวปนแดงถึงแดงเข้ม เมื่อหุงสุก ข้าวจะมีความนุ่มมาก และยังสามารถคงความนุ่มได้อยู่แม้จะเย็นตัวลงแล้ว

ข้าวสังข์หยด ของเมืองพัทลุง ยังเป็นข้าวสายพันธุ์แรกของประเทศไทยที่ได้รับการรับรองสถานะสิ่งบ่งชี้ทางภูมิศาสตร์ (GI) ในปี 2549 ส่งผลให้เป็นข้าวที่ได้รับความนิยมอย่างมาก

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4. ข้าวไรซ์เบอร์รี่

ข้าวไรซ์เบอร์รี่ อาจเปรียบได้กับเพชรเม็ดงามในวงการข้าวของไทย ข้าวสีม่วงนี้เป็นการผสมข้ามสายพันธุ์ระหว่างข้าวหอมมะลิสายพันธุ์ 105 และข้า���เจ้าดำ (ข้าวเจ้าหอมนิล) พัฒนาโดยมหาวิทยาลัยเกษตรศาสตร์

ด้วยเนื้อสัมผัสที่หนึบเล็กน้อยพร้อมด้วยรสชาติหอมกลิ่นถั่วอ่อน ๆ จึงทำให้ข้าวไรซ์เบอร์รี่ ไม่เพียงแต่มอบความอร่อยคู่กับจานอาหารไทย แต่ยังอุดมไปด้วยคุณค่าทางโภชนาการที่สูง มีสารต้านอนุมูลอิสระอย่างแอนโทไซยานิน ไฟเบอร์ และวิตามินที่จำเป็น ทำให้ข้าวสายพันธุ์ใหม่ชนิดนี้ กลายเป็นที่ชื่นชอบของกลุ่มผู้บริโภคยุคใหม่ที่ใส่ใจสุขภาพ

ทุกท่านทราบไหมว่า “สีม่วงเข้ม” ของข้าวไรซ์เบอร์รี่ เป็นสีที่เกิดมาจากธรรมชาติ เกี่ยวเนื่องกับปริมาณแอนโทไซยานินสูง (รงค์วัตถุหรือสารสี) ซึ่งเป็นสารต้านอนุมูลอิสระเดียวกับที่พบในบลูเบอร์รี่ นั่นเอง

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5. ข้าวมันปู / ข้าวแดง

ข้าวมันปู หรือที่รู้จักกันว่า "ข้าวแดง" ได้รับชื่อนี้จากสีแดงส้มที่โดดเด่น คล้ายกับมันปู เนื้อข้าวนุ่ม เหนียวนิด ๆ เมื่อหุงสุกจะมีรสชาติออกธรรมชาติ มีความเฝื่อน ๆ เล็กน้อย

ข้าวมันปูนั้น ได้รับความนิยมทั้งในด้านรสชาติและคุณค่าทางโภชนาการ ซึ่งสีแดงส้มของข้าวมันปู มาจากสารแคโรทีน ที่มีอยู่สูงในเมล็ดซึ่งเป็นสารต้านอนุมูลอิสระที่ช่วยบำรุงสายตาได้ดี

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6. ข้าวเจ๊กเชยเสาไห้

หนึ่งในสายพันธุ์ข้าวพื้นเมืองในภาคกลางของไทยที่มีชื่อเสียงมาจากอำเภอเสาไห้ จังหวัดสระบุรี ด้วยลักษณะพิเศษของเมล็ดข้าวที่ยาว แข็ง และเมื่อหุงสุกแล้วจะนุ่มร่วน ไม่แฉะ ไม่แข็งกระด้าง และมีความเหนียวน้อยกว่าข้าวสายพันธุ์ไทยทั่วไป จึงทำให้เหมาะสำหรับใช้ไปทำเมนูข้าวผัด โดยในอดีต ข้าวชนิดนี้ได้รับความนิยมอย่างมากจากพ่อค้าชาวจีน

ข้าวเจ๊กเชยเสาไห้ เป็นอีกหนึ่งสายพันธุ์ข้าวไทยที่ได้รับการรับรองสถานะสิ่งบ่งชี้ทางภูมิศาสตร์ (GI)

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ชวนส่อง 3 สายพันธุ์ข้าวเหนียวไทยยอดนิยม

1. ข้าวเหนียว กข 6

ข้าวเหนียว กข 6 ถูกพัฒนาโดยกรมการข้าวของประเทศไทย (ดังนั้นจึงมีชื่อย่อว่า 'กข') สายพันธุ์นี้มีเมล็ดสั้น อวบอ้วน ที่จะเหนียวหนึบเมื่อหุงสุก โดยความเหนียวที่เป็นจุดเด่นนี้เอง จึงทำให้เหมาะสำหรับการปั้นเป็นก้อนเพื่อทา��คู่กับส้มตำ หรือจิ้มกับน้ำจิ้มแจ่วสูตรจัดจ้าน

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2. ข้าวเหนียวดำ

ข้าวเหนียวดำ หรือข้าวก่ำเป็นข้าวที่มีเมล็ดสีม่วงจนไปถึงดำเข้ม เมื่อหุงสุก จะกลายเป็นข้าวเหนียวที่มีลักษณะมันวาว มีรสหวานเล็กน้อยและรสหอมถั่ว ข้าวเหนียวสายพันธุ์นี้ อุดมไปด้วยสารต้านอนุมูลอิสระ โดยเฉพาะแอนโทไซยานิน โดยข้าวเหนียวชนิดนี้มักนิยมใช้ในขนมไทยอย่างข้าวเหนียวดำเปียก หรือนำไปทานคู่กับน้ำกะทิสำหรับของหวานก็ได้เช่นกัน

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3. ข้าวเหนียวเขี้ยวงู

จุดที่ทำให้ข้าวเหนียวไทยสายพันธุ์นี้เป็นที่สนใจ คือตัวลักษณะของเมล็ดที่เรียวยาวและแหลม คล้ายเขี้ยวงู จึงเป็นที่มาของชื่อที่เรียกว่า "ข้าวเหนียวเขี้ยวงู" นั่นเอง

ข้าวเหนียวสายพันธุ์นี้มีกลิ่นหอมอ่อน ๆ และเหนียวน้อยกว่าข้าวเหนียวชนิดอื่น ๆ เมื่อหุงสุกจะให้เนื้อสัมผัสเหนียวนุ่ม เมล็ดเรียงตัวสวย ไม่เละ จึงเหมาะสำหรับการนำไปทำ ข้าวเหนียวมูน ในเมนูข้าวเหนียวมะม่วง หรือเมนูขนมไทยอื่น ๆ โดยข้าวเหนียวสายพันธุ์นี้นิยมปลูกมากในภาคเหนือของไทย

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หากทุกท่านอ่านจนถึงตรงนี้ เราคงจะเห็นได้ชัดว่าข้าวสายพันธุ์ไทยยอดนิยมเหล่านี้เป็นผลผลิตที่สะท้อนไปถึงวัฒนธรรมและวิถีชีวิตของคนไทยที่เกี่ยวข้องกับภาคการเกษตรมาแต่ช้านาน หรือข้าวสายพันธุ์ที่คิดค้นมาใหม่มาจากภูมิปัญญาของคนไทย ที่ปรับตัวรับกับเทรนด์ความต้องการบริโภคสมัยใหม่

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#Thaifood #ThaiSELECT

#DITP #กรมส่งเสริมการค้าระหว่างประเทศ

#ThaiCuisine #อาหารไทย #ข้าวไทย #ThaiRice

[aylen-san]

Whisper of the wind

One day, on an especially warm and clear day, they decided to go into the forest to find a place for new meditation. Nature greeted them with its greenery and fragrances, and Elwing felt her soul singing with joy. She watched Macalaurë, who was enthusiastically studying every plant and tree, and realized that in his company, she found her own solace.

Macalaurë was curious to learn about the Sindar's connection to nature. He found a new source of inspiration in it and tormented Eönwë with new songs. The Maia was often surprised by the new melodies Macalaurë brought home. Maglor would stand on his toes and, laughing, say:

"Listen, Eönwë, I composed another song! You must hear it!" Eönwë, despite his busy schedule, always found time to listen to his young protégé. Although now Manwë gave him more free time since the Maia was engaged in raising the elf child.

The melodies that now filled their home became an integral part of their daily life. In these sounds of nature, one could hear everything: from the soft whisper of the forest to the quiet crackling of logs in the fireplace, from the songs of birds outside the window to the rustling of leaves that the wind brought into the house when the veranda door was accidentally left ajar. The splash of sea waves rolling on the distant shore intertwined in this musical pattern, creating the feeling that the house stood not on solid ground but on the very edge of an eternal ocean. These melodies filled the house with coziness, making it a true refuge from the hustle and bustle of the outside world.

Eönwë, settled in his favorite chair by the window where he often read or simply gazed into the distance, listened to these melodies with admiration. On the table next to him was a cup of hot herbal tea and a plate with leftover slices of fresh bread and pieces of cheese from dinner. He marveled at how deeply Macalaurë immersed himself in this new world of sounds, creating something truly amazing. Whether in his past life or in this one, Kanafinwë created music that took one's breath away.

One evening, as the sun was already setting, painting their small kitchen in warm shades of gold and orange, and the shadows of the trees outside the window began to lengthen, Macalaurë sat by the fireplace, where logs quietly crackled. An unfinished book lay on the table, and a forgotten cloak hung on a chair by the wall. Macalaurë took in his hands an old lute, which he cared for with love, and began to perform a new song, which he called "Whisper of the Forest." His voice was soft and gentle, and the melody was smooth and mesmerizing, like butterflies dancing in the air under the rays of the evening sun.

Eönwë, sitting nearby, closed his eyes, feeling everything around him come to life under the sounds of this music. The house, which seemed quiet and peaceful, suddenly filled with the feeling that the forest itself had come to visit them, filling the rooms with its magic. The shadows on the walls began to play, resembling the silhouettes of trees swaying in the wind, and the air was filled with a faint scent of pine and freshly cut flowers, which stood in a vase on the kitchen table. This moment was so full of power and beauty that it seemed time had stopped, allowing them to savor it to the fullest, without rushing anywhere. After the song, Eönwë looked at Macalaurë with pride and love.

"You are becoming a great musician, Macalaurë. Your songs now carry not only beauty but also the wisdom of nature."

***

One evening, after another lesson, Elwing and Macalaurë sat by the campfire. The fire crackled softly, lighting their faces with a warm glow. The sounds of the night forest surrounded them, creating an atmosphere of coziness and calm. Elwing suddenly smiled, looking at her student.

"You have truly changed, Macalaurë," she said, her voice filled with warmth. "I see that you sincerely strive for goodness. It's a shame that things turned out the way they did in the past. Maybe I should have tried to listen to you all. But how could I? At that time, I couldn't even think about it. The Silmaril was the only thing left of Doriath and my family. I could spend hours just looking at its light. You would know… sometimes it seemed that the Silmaril was the only thing that mattered. Even Elrond and Elros didn't mean as much as that cursed stone."

Her words hung in the air like a distant echo of times gone by, in which their lives intertwined so closely, but so tragically. Macalaurë was silent, lost in his thoughts, and only the quiet crackling of the fire broke the heavy silence. He knew that words could not bring back what was lost or erase the mistakes made, but he still sought comfort in her forgiveness, as if hoping that it could at least slightly ease the burden on his soul.

"Lady Elwing, I cannot bring back what was lost," he quietly said, his voice trembling. "But I can try to right my wrongs and learn to live anew."

Elwing looked at him closely, her eyes softening. She saw before her not an enemy, but a young elf. Her own heart was full of scars, but perhaps their shared pain could become a bridge to mutual understanding.

"You are right, Macalaurë," she said softly. "The past cannot be changed, but we can learn from our mistakes and move forward. We have both endured much suffering, and perhaps the time has come to heal our wounds together."

She extended her hand to him, and after a moment's hesitation, he accepted her gesture. In that moment, a new connection was established between them—not just teacher and student, but two beings seeking peace.

"I'm glad I met you," he said quietly.

"You have helped me too, Macalaurë," she admitted. "You reminded me of the importance of forgiveness and compassion. The scars of the past may never fully heal, but I am tired of hating."

They sat in silence, savoring the moment. The fire continued to crackle, and the night enveloped them with its soft blanket. In this small world created by the two of them, they found comfort and strength for new beginnings.

Perhaps Elwing no longer needed to abduct anyone, not even little Maglor, reborn in Valinor. How could she have been so wrong? Did she hope that by capturing him, she could find a friend, heal her wounds, find peace? Seek revenge? Now that thought brought her a bitter smile and piercing pain. How foolish, how insanely selfish! Would she have been any better than those Maedhros and Maglor became in their past lives, destroying everything, capturing the young elfling? This thought weighed on her heart like the burden of lost time.

Elwing suddenly realized that if she had decided to do it, her act would have become another tragedy, one that Eärendil and Elrond might never forgive her for. After all, they knew the cost of such sacrifices, knew how painful it was to lose those you love. Why then did she ever think that this mad plan could bring them even a drop of joy? Perhaps she was blinded by her sorrow, lost in memories of the past, where she sought solace in destruction instead of seeking strength in creation. Her heart tore apart from this realization, as well as from the fact that past dreams now seemed so mistaken and dangerous. Now Elwing feared that if Macalaurë learned of her plan, she would lose her newly found friend, losing the trust of this young, reborn soul.

[potsmart]

What’s the Deal with Kush? The Origin of a Classic Strain

Before we get into the article about what the deal with Kush is, here is an actual deal on Kush, delivered to your door in Canada. Rad.

Everyone knows Kush means quality. There’s a built in expectation that the weed should slap if it bears the classic name. It’s also a well known parent to many classic varietals. Before the names O.G. Kush, Chem Dog, and Cookies became household among growers worldwide, there existed a time when the Kush strain remained relatively obscure. Let’s look into the intriguing history of the Kush strain and its transformation into one of the most renowned medical marijuana varieties globally.

Just like any other modern cannabis seed strain, landraces played a pivotal role in establishing the fundamental genetic foundations of everything we smoke today with the Kush name on it. Numerous countries harbour a diverse array of marijuana landraces, thriving particularly in regions characterized by hot climates and mountainous terrain. In these areas, expansive fields of landrace cannabis plants flourish organically. Owing to the cannabis plant’s inherent robustness, these fields have been subject to countless generations of natural backcrossing over the span of hundreds, if not thousands of years.

Among the most well-known Kush varieties today are Hindu Kush, Master Kush, and Afghan Kush, all originating from these locations as original landraces. Through meticulous backcrossing efforts, breeders sought to unearth the quintessential phenotype for cannabis cultivation. Since its introduction in Amsterdam nearly three decades ago, numerous seed banks now offer a broad spectrum of landraces and hybrids, with many of the original landrace strains still available to enthusiasts.

The Kush cannabis strain found its way to Amsterdam during the late 1970s or early 1980s, carried by intrepid cannabis enthusiasts who ventured through the rugged landscapes of the Himalayas, spanning Pakistan, India, and Afghanistan. They returned with seeds sourced from the Hindu Kush mountain range, nestled between northern Pakistan and Afghanistan. The name “Kush” derives from this region and intriguingly translates to “killer” in ancient Persian.

The aromatic profile, taste, and effects of Kush strains are the key attributes that make them highly sought after both in the context of a coffee shop’s offerings and for growers. The scent of this medical marijuana variety is unmistakable, often likened to the odour of jet fuel and characterized by a pungent, dank, and lemony quality. The potency of the Kush aroma is such that even the tiniest dried bud can fill a room with its distinctive fragrance. When it comes to taste, a well-cultivated Kush strain mirrors its aroma but adds a lingering jet fuel undertone that lingers with every puff, creating a truly unique and memorable experience. Typical of other heavy Indicas, real kush plants stay short with tight internodal spacing, creating dense foliage and buds. The plants finish quickly and produce well, making them a favourite for more modern growers all over the world for decades.

A joint of OG Kush, like I posted above, will transform the surrounding air, saturating it with a dense, rich, and almost viscous quality. A few puffs of this potent strain with its unmistakable jet fuel aroma will promptly initiate a profound shift in your state of mind and body. The initial effects manifest as heavy eyelids and an almost immediate sense of being pleasantly stoned. Energy levels plummet, and motivation wanes, ultimately leading to a state of complete relaxation and tranquility. Notably, the THC content in Kush varieties has consistently been subjected to testing, with results often exceeding the 20% threshold.

Kush strains are renowned for their robust pain-relief properties. Whether smoked or incorporated into edibles, the medicinal impact of Kush is often likened to a nearly narcotic experience. It proves highly effective in addressing a range of conditions, including insomnia, appetite loss, and anxiety. Patients grappling with pain stemming from bone, nerve, or muscle issues also find considerable relief through Kush usage. For those coping with conditions like Multiple Sclerosis, Parkinson’s, and a multitude of other illnesses, medicating with Kush and similar indica strains has proven to be indispensable.

Cancer patients, in particular, derive substantial benefits from Kush, often experiencing relief that surpasses the effectiveness of pharmaceutical resources. Many report improved appetite, better sleep, and the restoration of regular bowel function when incorporating this cannabis strain into their treatment plans.

While sativa strains are typically favoured by patients seeking heightened energy levels and motivation, Kush continues to hold appeal for many due to its potent anti-inflammatory and pain-relieving effects. Recognizing this, numerous breeders, including Spliff Seeds, are now focusing on developing Kush hybrids that aim to preserve its distinctive medicinal potency while mitigating its pronounced couch-locking effect. One such example is Spliff Blue Medi Kush, a strain developed in collaboration with medical marijuana users, tailored to serve precisely this purpose.

If you’re looking for a classic you can’t miss with a well grown Kush strain.

By Meso Potamia, Ganja Guy, for Potsmart

[callmearcturus]

Perfume Diary: Etat Libre D'Orange's She Was An Anomaly

Okay Silver requested I try out specific samples from my discovery box and this was one of them.

Heavy musk, really gorgeous mix of sandalwood & white florals. When Alkemia and other indie perfumers promise "this is a musk note!" this is what I want it to be. It's odd because on me, its not really Top Notes vs Base Notes to me? It is a singular, distinctive Note.

This may be because, and here is the caveat: I don't get a drydown on this one. It just... fades. Perhaps this is because the nature of musk scents (at least on me) is the subtle waning of them, like the fading of a rainstorm. Or, what my fear is, my body chemistry is just not compatible with this scent and is eating the fragrance before I get to the maturation points.

Which sucks! Bc this is interesting! It's nice! I'm finally like "OH is that ambergris? Huh!"

I just got these yesterday so I'm gonna let this sit and do what The Enthusiast Crowd calls "macerate" and try it again in a week.

[menmusthave]

8 Best Car Accessories for Your Car

1. HOTOR Car Trash Can with Lid and Storage Pockets

Stay Organized and Clean: This multipurpose car trash can keeps your vehicle free from clutter and mess. It features an adjustable strap that can be attached to either the front or back headrest, or the center console, making it accessible for everyone in the car. The magnetic snaps inside allow for easy replacement of trash bags, while the durable, leak-proof inner lining protects your car from spills.

Versatile and Compatible: Not only does the HOTOR car trash can help you manage your waste, but it also doubles as a storage bag for other items such as cups, toys, and accessories. It’s perfect for use in sedans, SUVs, and trucks, ensuring your car’s interior stays neat and tidy.

2. 27Pcs Car Detailing Kit

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Video for this product

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[ouroboros-hideout]

Are you a human drone?! Are you a writing machine?!

Brainrot's in control, mein deutsche Freund, do you understand?! SHOW ME YOUR 18/36/37 FACE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sensory Headcanons Ask List

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

(will forever cherrish and keep your second message in my ask box. Circus director lost control while keking - headline in all newspapers)

18. What's something they love to create with their own two hands? Which creation are they most proud of?

Aon: Definitely knife forging. It's her non-plus-ultra hobby, even if she sometimes builds much more impressive machines or weapons for clients. But every knife she makes is unique and always has a very special meaning for her because, apart from for practice purposes, she forges every knife for a person who is important to her in some way, friends or family alike. But she is most proud of the knife she made for herself. It was one of the first she made, so compared to the most recent ones it's not the best of course, but it's still meaningful because of its flaws, as she can always see how much she's improved since the very beginning.

Vlad: Chaos and suffering. Lol no I actually can't answer that. Vlad doesn't have a creative side in the sense of: I create something like a craft murder doesn't count I guess. He's cultured as fuck, but prefers to gather knowledge about everything rather than practicing it himself. Maybe you could say he himself is the creation he is most proud of. Yes. That sounds conceited and arrogant enough. Final answer.

36. What was their comfort object or favorite toy in childhood? 

Aon: She has a hand-carved Lynx figure that her father made. It's like her talisman that she's always carried with her since she was a child and used to play with it. 

Vlad: He grew up in an orphanage and therefore never really had anything that belonged to him. When he was adopted by a wealthy couple, he suddenly had toys in abundance and everything he could wish for.  However, the sheer excess only meant that nothing really felt special that he was sentimentally attached to in any way.

37. Do they have any strong sensory preferences re: food, dishes, clothing, etc.?

(I hope I understand this question right - bilingualism - my sworn enemy)

Aon: She loves music and is sensitive to noises and sounds. For example, she works much better when she can block out all background tones and listen to her favorite songs and can also relax best in complete silence or with the subtle sounds of nature.

Vlad: He collects perfume, so he has trained his sense of smell accordingly, you could say, and loves to "discover" new scents and is generally enthusiastic about finding the perfect fragrance for himself and his partners. But this fable goes beyond that and he finds what others might find repulsive or disgusting equally fascinating. The notes of an award-winning perfume are as appealing as fresh blood on wet tar in a degenerate city side street.

[scifrey]

Cling Fast: Chapter Six

By Losyark The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon, and Gaiman Cinematic-Literary Universe canon) Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus) Unfinished (tentatively 10 chapters) PG-13 (for now) Unbeta’d

*

The house doesn't smell right and Hob hates it immediately.

Okay, well, hate is such a strong word. But after the joy of yesterday's homecoming, pushing open the front door to take in the entry hall (a shot Celia devised to echo yesterday's 'first look'; Hob hasn't yet been let into the house through the servant's entrance like the rest of the cast and crew), this is just egregiously disappointing. 

The front door is metal, the wrong texture entirely under his hand, with the doorknob on the other side. It's strangely irritating and it makes him feel like he's accidentally slipped into Wonderland through the looking glass. Or the Dreaming. He even closes his eyes to check to see if he can lucid dream, but no luck. This is the Waking world, and the door is wrong.

"Ready Doc Bob?" Celia calls from the other side of the door, and when he shouts back that he is, calls "Action!"

Hob schools his face, and pushes open the door slowly to find Melina on the other side, walking backwards with the steady cam. He doesn't want to smack her, so he waits until she's far enough out of the way to step inside and let the door swing shut behind him, using the time to run his gaze over the walls and floor.

It reeks of industrial chemicals and faux scents. It smells revoltingly clean, which is a terrible and weird thing to realize, and he catches himself wrinkling his nose. It's not that his house was dirty and gross before—it's a terrible myth that Elizabethan people were smelly and lived like pigs. The bedclothes and under-linens were laundered frequently, kitchens were hygienic and scrubbed with salt and vinegar, Hob had washed his skin and hair frequently (though more frequently than some because he'd known it was absolute bunk that bathing opened the pores to let in deadly miasmas. He'd spend time in Turkey and Japan by then, reveling in the bathing cultures of both societies.)

No, Hob's house used to smell of—of flowers from the garden, and good clean horse sweat from his rides, and El's sweet perfumes, and the waft of fresh bread or sugar-and-rosewater from the kitchens, and the fatty funk of tallow candles burning, and whatever Robyn was into lately, mudpies or oil paints, and the polishing oils the servants used on the wood and boots, and the gentle fragrance of whiskey and porto after dinner, and…

And now it just smells like aggressively, astringently nothing.

Like a museum.

The disappointment must show on his face, because Celia calls cut, and makes him go back outside and do it again. 

"But this time, actually look like you're happy to be here, Doc Bob, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Hob says, clearing his throat and backing out of the door. He closes it before him, and rests his head on the sun-warmed metal, and tries to get his feelings under control.

Yesterday's enthusiastic excitement has given way to a weird tangle of spikey ups and loopy downs, and he doesn't know how to sort it out. He doesn't have time to, anyway, because Celia calls "action!" and he has to walk inside again. He's got a fake look of wonder and delight plastered on his face that makes him feel like he's slipping into a crazy nightmare.

This time he makes it all the way in, walking slowly to his mark. The crew has taped off a little bright green T on the floor where he's meant to stop before delivering his first line. It'd taken a few tries during rehearsal to make it look natural, but he thinks he does okay because Celia doesn't interrupt.

He gets to his mark, and as they practiced, looks at the walls, the double-story ceiling, takes in the whole grand majesty of the entry hall, and then turns to face the camera.

"The entry hall of an Elizabethan Manor was all about two things," Hob says, using his smoothest professor voice. "One, intimidating splendor. And two, making sure that everyone who walks through that front door knows exactly whose house they're in." 

Hob points up at the heraldic badges carved into the lintels, then over at the fanciful entwined initials R and E on the posts. At least the family who lived here after Hob had left those alone. El had designed their combined monogram herself. Melina's camera stays trained on his face, but a second one follows his gesture to the ceiling. He waits for the second operator to swing back to him before going on.

"And with just a quick look around, there's no mistaking that Gadlen House was built by the newly knighted son of a wealthy shipwright, Sir Robert Gadlen the First. Hi. I'm Doctor Robert Gadlen the Sixth," he pauses for a tight smirk that is also rehearsed, and also feels fake, "and while my ancestors built Gadlen House, this fascinating and historic building is now in the care of the National Trust. But for the next few months, they're letting me back into the family pile. Along with Doctor Harriet Butler and Doctor Glenn Davies, I'll be eating, sleeping, hunting, riding, dancing, and wooing like my ancestors, the first three Robs. Welcome to Elizabethan Manor.  Let me show you around," Hob finishes with a cheeky flourish and a come along gesture.

He waits for a beat, then turns and walks toward the side door that should, if things haven't been altered too much, lead to the public withdrawing room. Melina follows him. His bootheels echo strangely, the ambience of the entry hall hollowly. Celia calls cut, and Hob deflates.

"Take five," Celia says. "The tent city feed has gone wobbly, I just need to confer with Harinder. Don't go anywhere, people!"

The smile flakes off Hob's face like cheap paint.

Oh my god, did they leave anything alone? This is so cold, Hob whines to himself. 

He takes off his hat, and does his best not to crush the velvet as he takes the time to really inspect the changes. It's too early in the day to feel so heartsore, but that's what this is. The grand staircase along the sidewall is gone, removed to accommodate an Edwardian telephone alcove. This would have been one of the last updates that the family who'd called Gadlen House their home (shit, it had been in their family longer than it had been in mine, Hob realizes with a frisson up his spine), before the expenses of the lifestyle and the wars had forced them to sell off the farmland to city developers, and donate the house and park to the Trust.

The floors are the same, at least, but Hob supposes that a black-and-white checkerboard of imported marble will always look impressive in any era. It's lost under the spread of the carpets the film crew has had to put down to protect the finish, but a thin band of gold outlines an eight-by-eight section of the floor. Hob had the board marked out so he and Robyn could battle at chess in the evenings. They used playing pieces half as tall as they were, all carved by Hob himself with his old shipwrights tools.

He doesn't have to wonder what happened to them in the intervening centuries.

He hacked them to pieces with his own sword in his grief. One of the kitchen maids had used the resulting kindling to fire the bread ovens for weeks.

That was in the first few months of Robyn's loss. Back when he still had a few members of staff left, when they hadn't all fled from his mad rages and sorrows, when the steward was still paying them. This was before the steward too finally fled with chests of coins, rings of keys and permit papers, with whatever he could carry that he thought might be valuable. Everything he stole  eventually became the Gadlen Fell Crate Papers, so Hob can't be angry at the man for robbing him blind while his master was passed out in a pool of his own puke.

The walls are bare wood now, though made up of darkly-stained and beautifully designed Victorian-era paneling. The incredibly expensive tapestries that Hob had commissioned to tell the story of Hades and Persephone are nowhere to be seen. They'd originally hung in the entry hall to cut down on the drafts and insulate the rest of the house from the front door. They'd also been an overt and in retrospect, somewhat tacky display of wealth, what with all the silver and gold thread.

And now that Hob knows himself better, with hindsight he can see how blatantly he'd bared his soul, too. It's a good thing Morpheus had never visited him here. One look at the woven depiction of a dark and brooding stranger seizing on an unsuspecting goddess of innocence and life, and Morpheus would have fled the house with furious indignance.

It's a somewhat startling truth to realize, but maybe he'd wanted Morpheus to drag him away, even then.

But then there'd been Eleanor. 

What slight spark attraction Hob might have been harboring for anyone, let alone his Stranger, had been dampened with the greyness of starvation and poverty. Even when he was back on his feet, Hob didn't think about his Stranger like that at all until 1789, when Morpheus had strolled into the White Horse in that outfit, which bellowed the limpid fire into a full blaze. He'd not been able to act on it, not with the smashing of teacups against would-be kidnappers' skulls, and by 1889 it had burned down to nothing more than a few cherry-red embers. Yes, he'd have liked to engage in bedsport with his Stranger, but more than that he'd wanted an end to his century-long loneliness. He'd wanted a friend more than a lover.

The attraction had been nothing more than a pile of cold ash in 1989, and if Hob is going to keep running with this squirrely metaphor, then it was a clean-swept and totally scrubbed hearth in 2022. Hob had put his lighter away, and left the kindling to collect dust.

And then Morpheus had held his hand. He had allowed Hob to comfort and care for him, had taken Hob's confession and offered his own in return. Suddenly the flint struck steel and here he was again, lost in a conflagration of admiration and attraction that he fought hard to simply take warmth by, and not allow to burn him up.

Morpheus, afterall, was a god of the cool night, the chilled side of the pillow, the silver whisper of starlight.

He didn't need a mortal's fire to keep warm.

Shaking himself from his melancholy, Hob finishes his inspection of the changes with a glance to the ceiling—that's the same, too, heavy carved wood with the heraldic badges and monograms that he spent too many nights after Robyn's death laying on his back, staring at with ever shifting resentment and possessiveness. He hen begins a slow circuit around the room to inspect the art.

Paintings that used to hang in the private parts of the house, and Hob had mostly purchased just because they looked expensive, were now hung out here, turning the entry hall into a sort of gallery. Little explainer plaques about which ancestor had collected them, and why that particular painting, were mounted beside each ornate frame.

"It had ships in it," Hob mutters to himself, reading the plaque under a surging, moody oil painting of a ship at sea.  "I made my money in shipbuilding. I owned half the drydocks on the southbank. I don't see what's so hard to understand about that."

"Hot mic!" someone shouts from the tiny set up of monitors and computers in the corner, and Hob gasps and flicks the pac clipped to his waistband, under his doublet, to 'off'.

"Shit," he mutters. Dumbass, he scolds himself in a voice that sounds surprisingly like Matthew's. If he gets found out, he has no doubt it will because of his own stupid loose tongue giving away the game.

"Alright, folks, we're back up!" Celia calls from the middle of the room. "Looks like the take was clean, it's just the playback that's off. We're having fishy interference today, everything is swirly. Tech is on it. Harinder is happy by wants one more for safety, okay? Back to ones!"

Hob flicks his mic pack back on, and reluctantly resumes his place on the front steps behind the door.

*

The delight surges back, replacing the weird tangle of disappointment and irritation, when Hob is led into the dining room for the next block of shots. They film his first reaction again, and this time he feels his eyes widen as he lets out a giddy little giggle. Not only has nothing changed in here, but they've dressed it perfectly.

He's so relieved it makes his head spin.

The dark wood paneling in this room is the original, the ceiling lime-wash white with black beam, and a foot of bare white plaster at the top of the wall. The elaborately carved and lovingly polished mantleplace glows in the light of a small fire in the hearth, and the dozens of candles in the sconces around the room. Only the candles in the pewter holder on the long dining table are real. The rest are little flickering LEDs. The real candles give off the welcoming, nostalgic scent of beeswax.

The table is ringed with backless benches, and laid accurately enough at a quick glance. His tankard is missing, and of course, none of the original pewter, wooden, or pottery dishware still exists, but the props department has done a bang-up job of replicating it based on El's descriptions. 

They're missing the damask white tablecloth, of course, probably to show off how massive and ridiculously detailed the carving on the heavy table itself is. The napkin they've laid on the trencher is too small, a square instead of a rectangle, but it'll do. Hob takes a minute before they film the "sitting down to eat" part of the scene to scoop up half the utensils and hand them back to props to put away. While Hob had been crassly showy with his wealth at the time, he was certainly not enough of a flamingly Italianate fop to eat with a fork.

When the table is rearranged to his liking, Hob seats himself in the ornate chair in the middle of the table. It's the only actual chair, a deliberate nod to a throne, and usually only the head of the households sat in them. This one is a replica, of course, with boxed-in sides like the throne the monarch uses for their coronation. Hob feels weird sitting in it, all the same. For all that it was the master's chair, he usually made sure El was in it, especially in the later months of her pregnancies when she needed the supportive back.

Because Harriet and Glenn will be joining him halfway through this scene, Harinder and the first shooting unit are in the room this time. Harinder walks Hob through the description quickly. This is going to be a scene used in episode two, a recreation of an actual feast they'd found the receipt for in His Lordship the Third's piles of invoices, so Hob's not supposed to act as if this is the first time he's seen Harriet and Glenn in their costumes and characters.

"Right," Hob says, and as soon as Harinder calls action, he flings his napkin over his shoulder and secures it with the pin, and looks down the center of the lens that Harinder had pointed out.

"The decadence and pageantry of the meal enjoyed that night by Sir Gadlen and his friends is hard to explain by modern standards," Hob says to the camera, and it feels much more exciting and real this time. "But imagine as if someone had boiled lobster in dom perignon, smothered it with wagyu beef and caviar, sprinkled the whole thing with flakes of twenty-four carat gold, then served it on a platter made of diamonds. We don't know the occasion this meal was ordered for, but make no mistake, it was definitely a celebration. But enough talking it up. Let's see what Harriet and Glenn have for the lord of the Elizabethan Manor."

Hob takes gleeful delight in ringing the little servant's bell by his elbow, mind dancing with possibilities at what he's about to experience. Because his idea for preserving his own genuine first reactions worked so well the day before, they've decided that they're not going to tell him what each meal for the episodes' M.O.D.E. is going to be. Both he and the camera get to be surprised at the same time.

The doors to the dining room are opened by extras dressed in a weirdly cheap-looking approximation of the servant's livery—likely borrowed from the cavernous BBC costume warehouse—and Glenn and Harriet burst onto the scene. Hob's overjoyed to see them, his heart soaring, and he didn't realize how strongly he'd come to value their company and friendship, if this is how he reacts.

Everything feels a bit extreme right now, though, and he's decided he's going to chalk that down to the day's intense emotional rollercoaster, and the candlesmoke. If he was less generous with the catering team, he'd say it felt like his morning tea had been spiked with some weird combination of ecstasy and LSD.

Harriet and Glenn push a trolley between them, and luckily, all Hob has to do for this next bit is sit at the table and try not to drool as they lay platter after platter before him. It takes hours for them to show off and explain each of the dishes, so much so that a crew of food artists keep whisking things away to be kept warm in chafing dishes, or to stick them into blue plastic cooler chests filled with ice. 

Hob's stomach is growling, and he's glad they're filing this before the break for lunch so he can stuff as much of it into his gob as Harinder will allow.

It's not until Harriet says—"The odd thing on the menu for this night is the venison pasties. They're really delicious, but they're a poorer man's food, the pasty is. Of course these ones are made with venison, which is terribly fancy considering only the nobility are allowed to shoot and eat deer at the time. But all the same, it makes us wonder if Robert the Third inherited some of his love for simpler, rougher foods from his grandfather"—that Hob suddenly understands what he's looking at.

They've recreated it. The feast. The one from the White Horse.

That's the bill they'd found. The bill the proprietor had sent to Gadlen House the next morning, after Hob had been abandoned for a playwright. After the lamb, he'd eaten his fill and arranged for a third of the leftovers to be delivered to break El and Rob's fast, and the remainder to be distributed to the poor. Then he'd slunk into the corner of the tavern and drunk himself stupid.

"I… I don't… excuse me," Hob blurts all of a sudden, ruining the take. He shoots to his feet, rips the napkin off his shoulder, and bolts for the door.

The crew leaps out of his way as he cuts through the entry hall, slams down the steps, and stumbles in the drive. He nearly goes face-first into the gravel, which would ruin his makeup, his stockings, and his pride, but someone grabs the back of his doublet and keeps him on his feet.

"Thank you," Hob says, and turns to find that one of the food artists, of all people, has followed him.

She's a fey little thing, but clearly stronger than she looks. She's also very obviously not one of the food artists who is being featured on camera because she is too much of a living embodiment of a rainbow to be even remotely period-accurate. Her hair, her makeup, even her nail polish are a bold array of cheery colors. 

Hob gets himself righted, and put to sorts, and then stands there like a total knob. 

"Thank you," he says at last, choking on each syllable. His vision swims, the edges of it filling with color and sparkles, like he's about to pass out. He jams the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, and silently apologizes to the makeup team who will have to redo his mascara. "That would have been very embarrassing. I think I've embarrassed myself enough already."

"Hot mic," the food artist says gently.

"Bollocks." Hob flips his pac off just as an ugly, horrible sound crawls out of his mouth. He's partially a laugh, and partially a sob, and absolutely hysterical.

"Wanna sit?" the food artist asks, and then without waiting for his answer, cartwheels over to the verge and plops herself down into the middle of a patch of wildflowers without any care for her chef whites. "I find that the flowers are very good at listening."

The way she says it sounds like every word is capitalized, lyrical and jumping. Her voice sounds like a cross between a Welsh accent, a sweet songbird, and Marilyn Monroe.

"More flowers," Hob chuckles, but trudges over to plop down beside her. He sits carefully on the grass though, making sure the gravel dust is far away from his breeches, and his cream-coloured hose won't get green stains on them. 

"Do you see Flowers?" his companion asks him, the same way that kid says "I see dead people" in that film. 

"Loads," he says truthfully. "And popping up where I least expect them, lately."

She nods as if this is both completely normal thing to say, and the most gravely serious confession he's ever spoken aloud. "They're very loud, flowers are. They scream. They don't have secrets." She laughs like broken glass tinkling across steel. "No pockets to keep them in."

Hob wonders if she's been partaking of whatever ecstasy-LSD concoction his head feels stuffed with, too. (Maybe it's from the cleaning chemicals the house smells like. Maybe someone spilled bleach and ammonia and he's slowly asphyxiating.)

God he could use a cigarette. He hasn't smoked since the 1980s, though. While he may not be able to die of lung cancer, he doesn't relish reviving the disgusting, rattling cough that he'd developed up in the '70s. Or maybe a joint. He wouldn't mind the soothing effects of weed right now.

"Flowers can't talk," he says curiously. Maybe she really is fey, because this close, he can see her eyes are different colors, which seem to shift, the longer he looks at them. 

"Sure they can," the young woman says. "You're just not listening."

Hob decides it's probably best not to ask her name, just in case. Like with the Bookseller and the Snake, sometimes it's better for both parties not to share anything true. He's safe on that count, at least. Everyone on set has been calling him Doc Bob. 

They sit like that for another few minutes, and Hob's head does clear up a bit in the fresh air. 

Hob's got to stop letting himself get blindsided like this. But short of breaking into the House in the middle of the night and picking every lock, getting into everything and likely destroying half of it in the process, cornering Harriet and forcing her to share the parts of the scripts with him he isn't privy to, and generally being a menace, he isn't sure how. It's not like he can predict how he's going to feel every time he's confronted with something he didn't realize he hadn't yet worked through.

That's why they're called 'triggers'.

"Okay, I'm ready," Hob says at length. He stands and brushes himself down, then offers a hand to his companion. "Time to go do it right, this time."

"Tonight, at least," the young woman says, and Hob doesn't know what that's supposed to mean. But it does give him an idea.

The living rainbow ignores his hand. She twirls up to her feet like a helium balloon, grins at him, and skips back toward the house.

*

Hob apologizes when he returns to set. He cites a sudden case of nerves, which no one questions based on what they all heard through his microphone, and throws himself back into things to make up for the lost time. The fey food artist shoots him thumbs ups and makes fish-faces at him between takes to keep his spirits up, and he appreciates it.

"God's wounds, all I can taste is nutmeg," Hob complains theatrically as he bites into one of the venison pasties for the camera. "I'm already sick to death of nutmeg."

It does taste strongly of nutmeg and port. It's also not at all like the ones they used to make at the White Horse. Thank God.

*

Hob arrives in the Dreaming and wills himself into Morpheus' dining hall.

It takes a bit of cross-eyed concentration, ruined by the way the floor keeps jerking out from under him and the walls won't stay still, but he manages to manifest a replica of the scene they shot today. He's giddy with delight, and booze, and overeating, and he feels like his head and his heart are each driving at mach speeds in different directions, then snapping back like a slingshot, and then immediately heading off in another direction just as fast.

"Hob, I felt you arrive," Morpheus says from the doorway. "Why are you in the—what is this?"

Hob, dressed in his silk pajamas and fizzing with warm, golden satisfaction, throws his arms wide and says "Issa do-over!"

He stumbles, and Morpheus flows across the wide hall and catches him before he hits the floor. How chivalrous. Morpheus pulls him upright, and Hob sighs in satisfaction, petting his shoulders and arms clumsily in thanks.

Up close, Hob can see Morpheus' eyebrows squiggling with confusion, like fuzzy black caterpillars, and he laughs at the thought. He reaches up to paw at Morpheus' face, pushing his fingers through his hair back so he can see his eyes better.

Beautiful eyes.

Expressive, glacial, robin's egg blue, delightful, beloved eyes.

Morpheus' lids flutter, like sleek black moths, and Hob wants to feel the lashes against his lips. Hob leans up, and Morpheus leans down and—

Morpheus pushes Hob back a pace to get a good look at him.

"You are not sober."

"Noooo…" Hob whines, scrambling to hold on, but Morpehus is too strong. He lets his fingers go lax so he doesn't accidentally yank out his friend's hair.

"What happened?" Morpheus thunders imperiously.

"Ah, fuck, there was real wine in that hypocras. I think I just passed out," Hob slurs. He sways into Morpheus' chest, and his friend wraps his arms around his shoulders.He smells like petrichor and ozone, and those are words that Hob's never had cause to forget, because they're Stranger-adjacent words.  It's nice.  "This is nice." Whoops, that was out loud. "And real mead in the mead. And real beer in the buttered beer, too. "

"Butterbeer?" Matthew asks. Hob smooshes his cheek into Morpheus' sternum to look blearily over at the table. He finds Matthew perched on the back of the chair that Morpheus is supposed to be sitting in. "Like in the wizarding—?"

"No, she didn't invent it, we drank it way before she stole it. And fuck she-who-must-not-be-named," Hob hiccoughs. "Anyway, eat, eat! Invite Loosh and Merv. No writers allowed though. Not this time! Ha!"

"Hobsie, I think you tied on one too many," Matthew chirrups, clearly amused.

"I didn't drink that much on set. I was fine in the transpo van, but it smashed me between the eyes as soon as I got home. Just the long hours and the—the—you know—the—" Hob makes a gesture like pulling out his own heart, then squishes it.

"The emotional turmoil?" Matthew suggests.

"Yesh! Yes!" Hob snaps and points at Matthew. "That. That, my fine feathered friend,my midnight buddy, my sharp-beaked and sharp-witted inky quilled bro."

"I am going to send you into a deeper sleep so you don't inadvertently nauseate yourself as the toxins disperse," Morpheus says. He sounds disappointed.

"'mfne," Hob slurs. "You don't have to."

"Dude, you're making the room literally spin," Matthew complains. "It's making me nauseous."

"I'm just drunk," Hob counters. "C'mon, let's eat. I still want you to try the venison pasties!"

"Not when you are touched by delirium," Morpheus says, and now he sounds miffed about it. "This dream is over."

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[divinedomesticity]

Creating a Safe Haven: The Importance of Natural Cleaners in Our Homes

Hello dear homemakers and health enthusiasts! Today, let's dive into a topic that's close to my heart as both a homemaker and a naturopathic geek: the importance of using safe and natural cleaners in our homes. In our quest to create a clean and welcoming environment for our families, it's essential that we prioritize not just cleanliness, but also the health and well-being of our loved ones. Let's explore the impact of conventional cleaning products on our health, particularly on cognition and toxicity, and discover the transformative power of natural alternatives.

First and foremost, the hidden dangers lurking in many conventional cleaning products. From harsh chemicals and synthetic fragrances to toxic fumes and irritants, these products can wreak havoc on our health, compromising indoor air quality and posing risks to our respiratory system, skin, and overall well-being. But perhaps most concerning of all is the impact of these chemicals on our children, who are particularly vulnerable to their effects.

You see, kids have a knack for getting into everything—including cleaning products. Whether it's curious toddlers exploring under the sink or adventurous preschoolers mistaking colorful bottles for toys, the risk of accidental ingestion or exposure to harmful chemicals is all too real. And the consequences can be dire, ranging from mild irritations and allergic reactions to more serious health issues such as respiratory problems, neurological effects, and even poisoning.

But fear not, dear friends, for there is a solution: the transformative power of natural cleaners. By harnessing the cleansing power of nature's bounty—think vinegar, baking soda, essential oils, and plant-based detergents—we can effectively clean our homes without compromising our health or the environment. These gentle yet effective alternatives not only leave your home sparkling clean but also provide peace of mind, knowing that you're creating a safe and healthy haven for your family to thrive in.

Moreover, natural cleaners offer a myriad of benefits beyond their safety profile. They're environmentally friendly, biodegradable, and free from harmful chemicals and toxins, making them a sustainable choice for eco-conscious homemakers. Plus, they often boast antimicrobial, antifungal, and antibacterial properties, helping to combat germs and pathogens without the need for harsh chemicals or synthetic additives.

Let's make a pledge to prioritize the health and safety of our families by embracing the transformative power of natural cleaners. Let's banish harmful chemicals from our homes and replace them with gentle yet effective alternatives that nourish both body and soul. Together, we can create a clean, welcoming, and truly safe haven for our loved ones to thrive in. Here's what I'm using and loving here in the cozy little cabin.

Here's an amazing recipe I created to make your own homemade cleaner at home:

Lavender Lemonade Sparkle Spray:

Ingredients:

1 cup distilled water

1/4 cup white vinegar

10 drops lavender essential oil

5 drops lemon essential oil

1 tablespoon witch hazel

1 teaspoon liquid castile soap

Instructions:

In a clean spray bottle, combine the distilled water and white vinegar.

Add the lavender and lemon essential oils, along with the witch hazel and liquid castile soap.

If desired, add a splash of rubbing alcohol for extra cleaning power and sparkle.

Secure the spray bottle cap and shake well to mix all ingredients thoroughly.

Your Lavender Lemonade Sparkle Spray is now ready to use! Simply spritz onto surfaces and wipe clean with a cloth for a fresh, sparkling finish that leaves behind a delightful aroma of lavender and lemon.

Enjoy the unique blend of calming lavender and refreshing lemon as you clean your home, turning chores into a fragrant and uplifting experience.

Enjoy!

Love, Kimmi