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thebearer · 1 year ago

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rosé flowing with your chosen family | carmen berzatto x reader|

anyways here's a blurb inspired by my lil friendsgiving i hosted and how i think it would be with carmen bc im delusional in my head lolz

"Carm, look at this for me." You frown, turning the bronzed pumpkin at the center of the table.

"Yeah, one sec," Carmen muttered, turning with the pot in his hand, stirring the whipped potatoes vigorously. "What am I looking at?"

"The table." You tilt your head to the side. "Should I just move the pumpkin? It's too much with the candles, right?" You huff, the tapered candles flickering in their brass holders.

"No, baby, looks nice. Leave it. We can move it if it gets too crowded." Carmen hummed, a tiny curl of his lips had your heart swooning. "Need to go get ready. It's six-thirty."

"I just have to put my clothes on." You wave him off, fixing a napkin so it was centered on the plate, each place card in it's assigned place. "Are you sure you don't need help?"

Carmen shot you a look, rolling his eyes playfully. "No, I got it, alright? Go get ready." He shook his head gently, pushing the asparagus around in the pan.

You scurried behind him, pinching his jean clad ass gently, grinning at how he jumped before pressing a kiss to Carmen's cheek that left him blushing.

Your first Friendsgiving hosted at your place. An apartment a little bigger than Carmen's old one, but still cozy and all your own- the two of you. What better way to spend your first holidays together than to invite your friends over?

You were fussing over the glazed carrots on the counter when Sydney arrived, always early. "Hey," She crept in awkwardly into the kitchen, her head poking around the corner. "I, uh, I brought a dessert."

"Wow, that looks amazing." You grin, taking the dish from her, hugging her briefly in greeting. "What is this?"

"It's-"

"-It's a champagne cake with whipped butter cream frosting and a light raspberry spread." Marcus finished, stepping in behind Sydney, balancing a bottle of wine and his coat. "Don't let her take all the credit. I made it."

"Ok, well, I told you to add the raspberry-"

"-Well, I was the one who made it and added it-"

"-Alright." Carmen huffed, his voice edging on the tone he used at work. "Glad you both are here, alright?. The cake looks amazing."

Marcus whistled dramatically, peering over at the food laid out on the counter tops. "Looks good in here, Chef." He grinned.

"Thanks." Carmen muttered, brushing the rolls with butter, checking the oven again.

"Do you guys want anything to drink?" You ask, pulling the fridge open. "I have rosé or wine or anything?"

"I'll take a glass of rosé." Sydney nodded, shedding off her coat and hanging it over the back of the couch.

"Yeah, better get some now." Carmen snorted lightly. "Before Alicia comes."

"I have her a backup bottle." You smirk, pulling out the bottle proudly. "Alicia and I were watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills reunion, right? And she-" The door closed and you turned, your best friend walking in with a huge grin.

"-And she literally brought her own bottle of rosé." You laughed, shaking your head at her.

"I did." Alicia beamed, hugging you tightly. "Carmen, I promise I will not throw up or sob on your couch this time. I'm very stable now." She grinned at Carmen's huff of laughter.

The kitchen was packed, crammed at the table, laughing and swapping stories over the food. Carmen looked at you, the glow of the candles you insisted having to make it feel more homey- they did. How you were grinning, laughing at Fak and Richie bickering, giggling to your own friends and reminiscing.

For once, the holidays didn't feel like a chore. Carmen had been dreading this dinner, not the cooking or the setting up, but having people in his space. He didn't dare say anything, you were too excited and he'd never ruin your glee like that. Still, for him, the holidays were chaotic, everybody tense and scared.

Not here.

Not next to you, surrounded by all your friends.

Carmen finally got why people loved the holidays so much, why it was the most wonderful time of the year and all that. In his tiny apartment, sitting next to the love of his life, your hand holding his gently under the table, thumb swiping over his knuckles, squeezing it lightly when you'd look at him, eyes crinkling in a smile.

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unholyhelbig · 1 year ago

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Part three of loan shark natty

Title: The Oversight [Part 3/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Wordcount: 3465

Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping, guns, blood, death, sort of dark nat if you squint, horrible grammar

[A/n: If you guys haven't picked up on it yet, this will be slow-burn. Also, thank you so much for the positive response to this story, it means so much!]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

It had been two weeks since the incident that you had deemed ‘the business proposal’, though, if you were being honest, you knew exactly what it was. The bruising against the side of your face, fading from a deep dark purple to an ugly muddy brown reminded you of the encounter. The faster you healed, the more your nerves started to prickle dangerously.

Each time the brass bell above the diner’s door would ring, your eyes would flick to the entrance. With bated breath, you’d study the tired businessman, the English major running on nothing but burnt coffee, or the single mother just looking for some reprieve. Much like yourself.

Clint Barton was the last person you expected and wanted to see. He was certainly the last person you wanted to see, despite the sheepish smile on his face. There was shame etched into his features and a strange softness to his eyes that starkly contrasted the man who had nearly broken your jaw.

His hair was sprinkled with droplets of water, a sweatshirt dotted from the persistent drizzle that seemed to plague the city. He dutifully wiped his feet on the mat and made his way over to you. Instead of his usual booth, Clint sat on the last stool and scratched the stubble on his chin.

He glanced at the menu as if he were going to order something different than his usual. Maybe he wouldn’t order anything at all. But, you had a feeling you weren’t going to escape the conversation at the tip of his tongue, nor the obscenities at the tip of yours.

You poured him a cup of coffee and set it in front of him without being asked. Clint could swallow down a whole pot of extra caffeinated without a second thought. For now, you urged him to pace himself silently.

“You got a couple of minutes?” He asked behind the rim of his cup.

The diner was mostly empty. It was the middle of the workday and had been a slow four hours thus far. There was only so many times you could wiped down the same table and replace the salt in the shakers.

The cook made eye contact with you as he poured alcohol from his flask into off-brand orange soda. You got a short shrug in response. Otherwise, the place was empty. Clint had timed his arrival perfectly.

“Sure. You’re not going to beat the shit out of me again, are you? Those cameras aren’t hooked up, but this is still a public place.”

“Look, I wanted to apologize for that. Bad information breeds bad reactions. I was doing what I was told. You’ll learn that that’s the only way to get anywhere in this practice.”

He stated it plainly as if you weren’t silently inducted into a criminal ring. You weren’t exactly sure what they did but if it was half as bad as what they’d done to you, it was trouble. Clint could sense your unease. He placed his mug down and lifted a bandaged eyebrow.

“Hold your grudge, y/n. I sure would. Natasha simply told me to collect you after your shift. So, you can sit here and glower at me like a grumpy little monster or you can make conversation and we can become friends.”

You hated how good the second suggestion sounded. He was charming in an annoying type of way. You’d never clicked with anyone in the diner before, certainly not the only other employee that stood behind the grill.

Clint was staring at you like he knew you’d already folded. He covered his smirk with another sip of coffee. You wanted to wipe the cocky grin off his face. He had effectively taken a shot at you, that much was true, but you had crumbled just as easily under Natasha’s wishes.

“Friends is a stretch.” You sounded out.

“Acquaintances, then.”

You conceded with a small nod and Clint smiled in a way that could only be genuine. He swallowed off the rest of his coffee and made small talk with you as you hustled around the restaurant. There was a small rush after classes at the community college let out. But you were able to carry on a conversation, learning a little more about him.

He’d been friends with Natasha for a long time. That much was clear by the way his eyes crinkled along the edges when he’d recall memories that stretched past their current affairs and into childhood.

“We met when we were twelve. I’d just moved to town and was this scrawny, awkward mess of puberty and acne. An easy target is what I’m saying. A lot of neighborhood boys would target me, but I was faster than them. It usually worked in my favor, but there was one day when it had just snowed and it was impossible for me to get any headway.”

Clint regaled you as you filled up his mug for the third time. You lingered behind the counter, chin on your hand as you listened intently.

“Six of them cornered me at a construction site. I didn’t even know how to begin to fight back. I was beaten close to death and then I heard Nat. She ran head-first into danger, tried to take on every single one of them. Of course, she got the shit kicked out of her too, she was just a kid there was no way for her to win. But that didn’t’ matter because she got back up every single time. Eventually they got cold, or bored, probably both.”

You didn’t want to admit that you were impressed. “Shit, that’s quite the meeting.”

“She’s tough, y/n. Not someone you want to fuck with.”

“So, this is a warning, then?” You smiled.

He shrugged his shoulders “A cautionary tale.”

He drove a 1970 Dodge challenger that smelled like cherry leather polish. It was the nicest car you had ever seen, that is, until he pulled up the iron-gated mansion on the outskirts of the city. There was a brilliant view of the harbor, the water a deep and dark blue that seemed endless, an orange sun casting delicious shadows against the docks.

The house was brick, built in a southern style with a large wrap around porch and a stone fountain in the center of a circular gravel drive. It was three stories of decadence, surrounded by large oak trees and the deepest green grass. This was the home of a Politian, or of someone who had one under their thumb.

Three black SUVs were parked in tandem outside. An equally pitch Corvette Stingray was parked directly in front of the steps. You struggled to muffle the thoughts of Natasha in the front seat. The vehicle suited her, and while you most certainly were not a car person, you knew the value of a ride like that.

Clint squirmed with pride, that same smile on his face. It was one that often accompanied him, you’d learn. He took the steps two at a time and waited to open the doors until you’d caught up. He removed his jacket and draped it over the coat rack just by entryway. You, however, were preoccupied by the elegance of the home.

The floor was a checkered black and white, stretching all the way down a corridor to open storm doors, letting in a crisp spring warmth. Light danced against art that cost more than your entire apartment building. White stairs clung to the wall and curved to the second floor. To your left, a dining room. To your right, a living area that had the softest white carpet, and a cream grand piano that your fingers twitched to run over.

There was a sour scent of bleach that reached your nose, and it was only then, did you realize the blood. It was distilled, a quiet pink color, that had been diluted by diligent scrubbing. The girl, the one that was often at Clint’s side herself, was on her knees a few feet away.

She held a scrub brush that looked like the ones used to clean the grout at the diner. Her forehead was damp with sweat, a few stray strands of dark hair falling into stormy gray eyes. The front of her shirt was stained in the majority of the blood. You failed to see how she would have much to clean from the floor. Yet, the bucket of water next to her was a frothy mess of red.

“An hour,” Clint tsked, shaking his head “I left you alone for an hour. I specifically said that I was coming back with a guest, and it was imperative not to freak her out.”

“I’m not freaked out.”

You were absolutely freaked out. But you were quick to realize whose home you were in. The scrubbing of a crime scene was startling, and you wanted to turn tail and run. However, you had seen worse before and your life had been spared once. You weren’t going to get squeamish now.

“You sound freaked out.” Clint turned his attention back to the girl “And its bad manners. If I were the police?”

“You wouldn’t have gotten through the gate.” She stood, dropping the brush into the bucket with a defiant splash. She was taller than you thought, the deep red of her collar harsh against her skin. There was a smile on her lips, and she reached out a hand to you. “I’m Kate.”

“This is y/n and she’s not going to shake that.” Clint batted Kate’s hand away “Who was this?”

Kate rolled her eyes. It was an action that you yourself would never do. Clint may be a bit aloof, but you had seen him in action. Namely when he was three seconds from snapping the bones in your face. She had no fear of him, though. There was a cockiness, a charming attention, to her stance. He didn’t’ seem to mind, or he had gotten so used to her attitude that seeped into him instead.

“I don’t know. Yelena brought them in. If you’re so concerned about the mess, maybe you should take it up with her.” There was a grin that mirrored Clints. She knew she’d won. “I can go get her if you want.”

“No need. Where’s Nat?”

“Out back by the pool. It’s a lovely day.” She leaned close to you, smelling of cleaner, of tin and of the slightest bit of chewed mint. “It’s great to meet you, y/n.”

You were careful not to lose your footing on the slick floors. Clint nudged the bucket with his toe as he walked by, sloshing about the soiled water. Kate cut him a look that only you saw, but it was one that was almost playful. She shook her head and went back to her task.

There were two things you had picked up from the conversation; Clint was afraid of Yelena, and there was somewhere soundproof in this house that she had taken someone that had lost a lot of blood. You shoved both thoughts to the back of your mind when you exited onto the back porch.

Natasha was stretched out like a cat in the sun. She wore a black bikini that left very little to the imagination. You could feel the blush against your cheeks as you averted your eyes to anywhere else, though, you swore she arched her back from the chair at the sound of your footsteps.

Her hair, still slightly damp, was cascading down her shoulders. She wore a pair of sunglasses, a book that was marked halfway through rested on the table next to her. She had clearly given up on reading, instead fully devoting herself to the sun.

Clint didn’t acknowledge her current state, nor did he have an adverse reaction to it. Your mouth was dry, and you shoved your hands into your jeans to keep them from trembling. It was a mix of fear and attraction that caught you off guard on a mostly empty stomach.

She moved her glasses down the expanse of her nose as you approached. Her stare was a startling green, raking across your form. She quirked an eyebrow. The specter of a smile on her face. Clint had noticed something you didn’t, his body language changing into something unreadable.

“y/n,” Natasha purred your name. You fought back a shiver. “You’ve healed nicely.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“ma’am? What manners you have. That’s severely lacking around here.”

Clint rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. You did the same, partly out of fear. But mostly, you were distracted by the scars against her stomach, on her arms and down her back. It wasn’t something you had noticed at first, nor did you permit yourself to stare. Whatever had been done to you when they’d first taken you was nothing compared to what Natasha had been through. Her body told a story, one that you longed to learn.

“Hey sharpshooter,” She turned her attention to Clint “I think Yelena might need your help downstairs. Y/n. Stay.”

It was a clear dismissal, and one that he didn’t’ take lightly. He patted you on the shoulder before entering the house once more. You listened to his footfalls for a few moments, holding your breath until you started to feel your vision falter.

You’d been alone with Natasha before. But this felt different. Heavier. The questions that you’d had these last two weeks were meant to be answered. She gestured for you to sit on the opposite chair, which you did carefully, body tightened to make yourself as small as possible. She removed her glasses entirely, a strand of russet hair falling into her gaze.

“You’re going to quit your job at the diner.” She said.

“I can’t do that,” Your response was automatic.

Natasha sat up, placing her bare feet adjacent to yours. Her knees were pressed against your own. She easily could have pushed your own open and she stared at you as if she contemplated the fact herself. Instead, she lilted her head and peered at you.

“What I mean, ma’am, is that’s my livelihood.”

“Oh, I understand. I wasn’t perfectly clear. You work for me, now. You’re on my payroll. I’m sure it’ll be quite an upgrade.” She leaned closer. “Do you know what I do, y/n?”

You swallowed hard and shook your head. There was an inkling. But it was just speculation. Someone with a home like this had a good handle on business. Natasha certainly conveyed fear, and commanded respect. So did the people who worked for her, willing to take a bullet in moment’s notice.

You weren’t there yet, but you were sure with a little persuasion, you would be. Part of you had felt slighted. They’d pulled you from your life, from your daughter, and threw you into this without any type of explanation.

“The harbor behind you is a center of trade. Whoever controls the harbor controls the city, and for generations my family has had a monopoly when it comes to what comes in and out. There is not a single freight that can dock here without getting past me. Recently, that’s been threatened.”

She sighed and worked a hand through her hair. Her stare flicked past your shoulder, focused on the expanse of water that had been a staple in your life. You’d walk along the docks, chat with the vendors on the way to work. It seemed like a friendly place.

“There are two prominent families in this city, Y/n. The Romanov’s and Danver’s. For the past three years they’ve been pushing back against the real leadership, getting creative. Looking for change. But we simply can’t allow that to happen. Things work as they are.”

You had a feeling that this was the core of her beliefs. Things how they were weren’t so bad. Each person had their own struggles but when it came to integral crime on the streets, in the boroughs, you hadn’t noticed anything and that was the way you liked it. Ignorant, maybe. But it was none of your concern. Not until now.

“A lot of people work for me, but my numbers are dwindling. It’s hard to find good help anymore. You know how it is.”

You didn’t.

“There’s something… in you that I admire. A perseverance to live and protect and you’re going to do exactly that for me.” Natasha stated this plainly. “The Winter Soldier will be predisposed. Not permanently. But I would like you to replace him.”

There must have been disbelief written across your features because Natasha laughed, actually laughed, as your jaw fell open. It was a lovely sound; you must admit. Bucky was well known in the neighborhood. Even without being knee deep in mafia sludge, you had heard of him. You feared him. And the thought of stirring the same reaction seemed unattainable.

“I… what about Clint?” You asked dumbly. He seemed like the natural choice.

“He’s got his hands full with an heiress who, I’m sure you can tell, is a bit aloof. But extremely valuable. Much like yourself.” She quirked an eyebrow “if it’s experience, you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ll train you myself.”

She stood and tapped your leg with her fingers, arousal shooting straight to your core at the slight contact. Your body almost refused to move, but you were quick to snap out of it when she smiled wolfishly down at you. “Now, have you ever killed anyone?”

Your voice was pinched. “No.”

“We’ll have to change that, darling.” She started to saunter away, grabbing her silk cover-up from the back of a nearby chair. She slid it over her shoulders, and it hugged her form with just enough ferocity as the bathing suit. “Come, dear. I have just the person in mind.”

The basement was significantly cooler than the rest of the house, bathed by the sun. As you descended the stone steps, you fought the urge to smooth your fingers over your skin to quell the frigid air.

Natasha seemed unbothered. She led you into a large room that you assumed was soundproof. It was a fairly empty room, lit with artificial bulbs that reminded you much of the warehouse they’d kept you in for the weekend. This seemed more malicious though. Not something to extract information exactly. A form of punishment.

A man was strung up from a low hanging rafter, his feet barely touching the ground. Rope was tied around his wrists, his hands above his head. Blood dripped like syrup from his lips, from a wound against his side. His left knee looked unnatural and broken.

You fought back a groan at the sight, at the smell of him. One eye was swollen shut, his fingers curling when he noticed Natasha’s presence.

Clint’s back was to you, his fingers dancing over an array of tools. He hummed a Metallica song, stopping at a pair of pliers. Yelena had her arms crossed over her chest, walking a slow, predatory circle around the man.

“No,” Yelena took the pliers from Clint “He will need his teeth to talk.”

Your throat tightened. This was the same woman who had sat next to your daughter in the diner. The one who had complimented her art and your job at raising her. She was easy to have conversations with, charming in the purest sense.

She turned towards both of you. “Natasha, you shouldn’t wear open toed shoes here. It is unsanitary.”

The woman next to you was not admonished in the slightest. Not by the cold or the harsh words of Yelena. Instead, she studied the man in front of you. He was in rough shape. If he hadn’t talked yet, he wasn’t going to. That much was clear.

This felt like the first time you served without following around an older, more experienced waitress. Your fingers were trembling and there was a wild nervousness that was in the pit of your stomach. Eventually, you learned, and it was second nature. You wondered if that’s what Natasha wanted. For you to learn not to cringe away from things like this. Just like the Winter Soldier.

As if to prove your thought process, Natasha said “Which one of you has your gun?”

They both pulled them out of various places at the same time, without hesitation, to the question. It made sense that Natasha didn’t have a weapon on her, not with the outfit that she walked around in. The cover-up was too tight against her skin, too revealing.

Yelena was closer, so Natasha grabbed the weapon from her. “Have you ever shot a gun before?”

“I have.”

Your second foster father was a deputy sheriff in Minnesota. On half-frozen nights, he’d return home from the local bar reeking of sour alcohol and sweat. The door to your bedroom would creak open and he’d drag you from bed, barefoot and in your pajamas.

Most of the time, he had cans set up on an old picnic table that had rotted through. At first, it was your job to set the cans back up and fight off hypothermia. But after three or four sleepless nights, he taught you how to shoot. His body was warm against your back and the first time the gun kicked you had nearly broken your nose.

You considered yourself a good shot when it came to cans, wild turkeys, and even the occasional buck. This was different. This was a human being that was taking in heaving breathes and fighting to pull himself up to give his bad knee a break.

“Do you know how to aim?” Natasha asked.

“It’s been years.”

“Okay,” She breathed.

You flinched when she moved behind you. Her warmth was all encapsulating. She smelled of sunscreen, and vaguely of the salt of the ocean. Natasha’s fingers pressed against your hip, giving you a small squeeze, signaling for you to take a step back.

Her other hand dropped the pistol into yours, heavy and warm. Her hand trailed up your arms, giving you goosebumps, fingers tightening around your own until you held the gun towards the man. The stranger.

Natasha’s chin was on your shoulder, her breathe hot against your cheek. Her voice came out in a whisper. “Right there. When you’re ready.”

She’d aimed the tip of the gun directly between his eyes. You could hear your heartbeat in both ears, vibrating through your body. It wasn’t hesitation, exactly. In this moment, it was his life or yours. Clint and Yelena watched you carefully, with intent.

You took a deep, shaking, breath and clenched your eyes before pulling the trigger. You expected some sort of blow-back. The same throbbing pain that you recalled from shooting at the cans. The scent of gunpowder mixing with cold.

None of those came.

Instead, there was a small click. The safety was on, and though you had squeezed the trigger with the intention to kill, it simply did not fire. You inadvertently slumped back into Natasha and the hand on your hip snaked around your middle, holding you close.

“You won’t have to kill often,” Natasha explained “But it’s good to know you’d do it without question if I tell you to.”

“Oh, Natasha, do not play with her. It is not nice.”

Smoothly, Natasha worked the gun from your hand and switched the safety off before you could blink. She fired two shots in succession, not releasing her hold on you. Your ear was ringing and the man in front of you slumped in his bindings.

“Okay. Very effective. You owe me bullets.” Yelena took her weapon back. “You are cleaning this up.”

“That means I’m cleaning this up.” Clint said.

Natasha hummed in agreement, finally pulling herself away from you. “I think this a job for two, don’t you, y/n?”

There wasn’t room to disagree with her. Not when you could only hear out of one ear, your skin still buzzing from her lingering touch. You could have sworn you felt her own heartbeat against your shoulder blade.

But you’d never bring that up.

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onebourbon-oneshot-onetear · 2 months ago

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Familiar- Eric Northman x witch!y/n

Just a small Eric x y/n oneshot that I couldn't get out of my mind as I'm watching True Blood for the first time. Hopefully more to come as I finish watching it...

My hand had started cramping with the effort of the continuous stirring of my cauldron. My most recent calming potion was in a particularly tricky phase and I certainly didn’t want to have to start over. The shimmering fumes coming off of the cauldron spiraled around my head and the condensation beaded against my eyelashes. Between the floral smell of the potion, the flickering candle light, and the summer heat, my head started to feel heavy and I literally had to fight with my eyelids to keep me awake so I could continue stirring.

Once the stirring pattern was complete, I lowered the gas on the stove and ran a hand over my burning eyes. The potion had to simmer for a few minutes before the next steps and I desperately needed to sit down.

Before I could even take a step the hairs prickled on my neck as I felt eyes on me. This wasn’t like the spirits I often felt around the area, these were actual, physical eyes. I stilled, closing my eyes and sensing around me before opening them a moment later, my body immediately relaxing as I recognized the scent wafting through my back door. “It’s rude to linger in doorways, Eric,” I said, turning around to stare at the tall Viking leaning against the open door.

He smirked, sending my heart into flutters. Any idiot could see that Eric Northman was a good looking man. Gorgeous even. As a human and a vampire, especially when the paleness brought out the blue of his already striking eyes. Usually witches and vamps stayed away from each other. But the area around Bon Temps was only so big and the supernatural circles were pretty small.

“I’m not lingering. I’m just waiting to be invited in,” he said, running his hands along the door jamb.

I chuckled, turning around to fill up my kettle. “You know you don’t need to be invited in, Eric.” The vampire had been coming over weekly for a few months now. The first time I had invited him in was when we were both dealing with the typical drama around Bon Temps and he thought I needed protection. After that, he started showing up on random nights. He was like a stray cat, coming and going as he pleased.

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to think I was being rude,” He said, strolling in through my back door and pulling one of the kitchen chairs out. He sat on it backwards, his hands draped over the back of the chair and his head resting on his arms, watching me as I mill about the kitchen making tea.

“You? Nobody could ever mistake you as rude,” I said, pulling down my favorite mug from the cabinet. He chuckled but didn’t answer. I looked back and was met with the familiar sight of him sitting in my chair, watching me. It had become quite a habit of his it seemed. Most nights he didn’t say anything, and I sat in his comfortable silence, working on whatever project was keeping my hands busy.

I poured my tea and pulled out a kitchen chair, sitting across from Eric. We didn’t say anything for a few minutes. I just sat and watched him as he looked around my kitchen. I followed his gaze, getting lost in my little kitchen. It wasn’t much. I had found a small farmhouse for sale that was over 100 years old. With how long I had been alive, money wasn’t much of a problem. I fixed up the house with a few modern touches but it wasn’t anything crazy. I had kept the kitchen large but simple. Green cabinets with wooden counter tops, little trinkets, cook and spell books, brass pots and pans. And of course the dozens of bulks of drying herbs, cauldrons of various sizes, and candles on every available surface. Despite modern times, I had always preferred candle light over artificial.

Keeping my kitchen stocked was always important for my business. I had become Bon Temps resident healer. The people were skeptical at first, and most probably didn’t realize I was an actual witch. The potions and charms I made and sold could be considered healers work - natural remedies to most common ailments. I knew my clientele and didn’t charge an arm and a leg for medicines. This kept orders from the townfolk very steady, along with a steady income. i had always taken great pride in my work and craft, and with the sprawling gardens I had to upkeep for my ingredients.

My wandering eyes went back to the vampire in my kitchen, and I was a little startled when the shocking blue eyes were already looking at mine. I slowly smiled before sipping my tea. Eric mirrored my smile and the sight almost took my breath away and made my chest flutter again.

“Can I ask you something?” I murmured around the lip of the mug. Eric nodded, the smile still on his face. “Why do you keep coming here?”

The smile left his face and something was in his eyes that I couldn’t quite place. “Do you not like me coming here?”

“No, I do,” I said, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. “I just don’t understand,” I trailed off. Quite frankly, I loved the quiet nights featuring Eric’s company and I was often disappointed on the nights he didn't come by. I was always shown a softer side of him that I felt most people very rarely got a chance to see.

He looked around the room, almost like he was unsure before settling his eyes back on me. “You’re familiar.” He didn’t say anything when I raised my eyebrows questioningly at him. It was another minute before he spoke. “The smell of your kitchen, the herbs, the candlelight, it reminds me of home. Of my human life.” I had no idea what to say to that. I kept staring at him and he did the same.

“Oh,” I mumbled. I didn’t even know what to say. The thought of bringing him that sense of comfort was…well, I didn’t even know what word to use to describe the warmth that settled in my chest.

“You, calm me. Honestly in ways I didn’t know I could be anymore,” he continued. He stared into the fire and seemed to get lost in thought.

We sat in silence for about ten more minutes, both of us lost in thought. “Do you ever miss the cold?” I blurted out.

“What?” He asked. He didn’t seem annoyed, just genuinely curious.

“The cold. I grew up in the north and I miss genuine winters so much. It’s always so hot here all the time. It never snows, their version of cold is like, 70 degrees, and I have boxes of sweaters just going to waste.” As I rambled, the smile on Eric’s face got bigger and bigger until it stretched his face. “What?” I laughed.

“I do miss the cold. Very much,” he finally said, shaking his head. I chuckled, and took another sip of my tea.

“Eric, you know I don’t mind you coming over. You’re always welcome here.” I said standing up and putting my hand on his shoulder.

He stared at me before grabbing my hand and lightly kissing the back of it. “Thank you, Y/N.”

I could feel the blush creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. Eric’s eyes followed the trail of color and he smiled again. I had to look away from his piercing eyes before I melted on the spot. My eyes caught my cauldron on the stove and I jumped.

“My potion!” I said rushing over to the stove and adding the few ingredients I needed. I don’t know how long I worked on it, before I remembered Eric’s presence. I looked back, and he was in the same spot, staring at me with an incredibly soft look on his face. I smiled, and turned back to the stove, not minding the Vikings presence in my kitchen. And hoping that his visits became a more regular occurrence.

#True blood #Eric northman #Eric Northman x reader #Eric Northman x Y/N #alexander skarsgard #Oneshot #reader insert #vampire

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roe-and-memory · 4 months ago

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i thoroughly believe lightning has a scar from some dumb mistake he made completely unrelated to racing.

one night, doc is out late with sheriff, probably playing chess or doing some old people stuff at the town hall like they always do. lightning has to fend for himself, but hes tired and not really in the mood to make real food. he finds pasta in the cupboard and decides to make himself mac and cheese, cause really, why not? its easy, tastes good, and its probably one of the only foods he could see himself eating right about now anyways.

he puts some water on the stove to boil and, when its at the perfect temperature, he dumps in the pasta and leaves it to cook — stirring occasionally, of course �� and while that cooks, he puts together a little salad for himself, gets the cheese ready, and finally, when the timer dings, pulls out a trivet and goes to pick up the pot to put on it…

he grabs the handle weird.

it twists in his hand, turning towards him, and subsequently dumps the full contents of boiling hot water and pasta all over his stomach and onto the floor.

he drops the pot back onto the stove and freezes, that quick shot of adrenaline from the fear of realizing hes fucked wears off just as quickly as it came on. suddenly, its blinding pain and he’s now leaning against the stove, trying not to let himself fall to the floor and curl into a ball because jesus christ, that hurts like a motherfucker.

lightning doesnt even realize he’s hyperventilating until he’s trying to force back tears, when the feeling of them forming in the corners of his eyes brings him back to reality and back to that godawful pain.

he cant think straight, he doesnt even think to get off his clothes — which are now pressing this scalding hot water to his skin for an even longer period of time than necessary — he just forces himself to stand up and stumble to the door, using the wall as a guide and crutch for his poor coordination brought on by the fact his entire stomach is on fire and every single step he takes is another punch to the stomach with sharp brass knuckles, or at least thats what it feels like.

he doesnt put his shoes on. he walks out of the house, slips on the porch stairs trying to keep himself steady, falling down them and finding himself on the ground at the bottom, fighting off the urge to just hug his knees to his chest and cry.. he stands up and begins his now barefoot adventure to the closest place he can think to go with people who will care for him — flos.

lightning is not a person of neediness. he doesnt like to be coddled when hes in pain — in fact, he could happily go without telling someone of an injury until they find out about it themselves — but at this very moment, he knows he cant handle this himself.

the walk to flos feels like it takes hours. in reality, a usually three minute walk turns to fifteen, and as soon as he steps into the cafe, all eyes are on him.

he barely hears flo ask if hes okay. he just walks up to the counter, shaking at this point (however, this fact is completely unbeknownst to him), and asks her for help. even his own words sound muffled to him.

flo brings him behind the counter, back into her office, away from the people out there eating and chatting, frantically asks him whats wrong, and figures out pretty quickly that its medical help he needs. lightning tells her to the best of his abilities that he spilled boiling water all over himself, and it takes her one look up and down to realize hes still wearing his soaking wet clothes. she wastes no time running out to the townsfolks usual table and asking sarge and fillmore, who are the only two still around at this hour, to go find doc and to find him another set of clothes.

for lightning, everything is moving at a snails pace. by the time flo comes back into the office, he’s sitting against the wall with his arms wrapped around his stomach, forehead on his knees, quietly praying to whatever god will listen to put him out of his misery.

to flo, this is all happening way too quick. the towns kid, basically, just walked into her café barefoot, drenched in water, and shaking, and confessed to her that he just horrifically scalded himself on boiling hot water while he was home alone and he doesnt know what to do. thankfully for her, time is moving fast enough that doc is in her office within five minutes, and sarge is right behind him with a very mismatched outfit that he very obviously pulled out of his own wardrobe.

doc doesnt bother taking lightning to the clinic at that very moment, he just tells sarge to get flos first aid kit from the kitchen and deals with it right there to just clean the burns and put a temporary stop to the pain. when thats set and done, THEN he takes his kid to the clinic to do a proper assessment.

lightning has second degree burns. they last for a month and a half until theyre “healed”, and then lightning is left with a large, “ugly”, harsh scar across his stomach and along the front of his thighs. he’s embarrassed about it, but doc saw that moment as sort of an evolution for lightning — for the first time ever, his kid asked for help when he needed it.

#cars 2006 #cars fandom #lightning mcqueen #pixar cars #cars headcanons #memory’s headcanons #doc hudson #sally carrera #flo cars #sarge cars #fillmore cars #i got way too into writing this im so sorry #did i cook

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whencyclopedia · 8 days ago

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Food & Drink in the Elizabethan Era

Food and drink in the Elizabethan era was remarkably diverse with much more meat and many more varieties of it being eaten by those who could afford it than is the case today. Storage of food was still a problem and so fresh produce was grown at home or regularly acquired at local markets. Thick sauces with strong flavours were popular and made even more varied as ingredients became more readily available from Asia. Pastries, cakes, and other sweet goodies of all kinds were greatly appreciated and often eaten between the savoury courses. A healthy distrust of water meant that ale and beer were the most popular drinks, with wine a welcome addition for the better off. While some commoners struggled, as ever, to feed their families, especially in the long winters of the 16th century CE, foreign visitors did often remark on how well-fed the Elizabethan peasantry was and how overfed the rich were compared to their continental neighbours.

Cooking & Storage

Most Elizabethan cooking was done at home but there were communal ovens in many parishes for people to take their prepared dough and have it baked into bread or to have a stew (pottage) slowly cooked. Those who could afford servants also had cooks, usually women but including men, too, at the great houses. Even the humblest of kitchens would have had such indispensable cooking and preparation aids as a large brass pot and iron pan, a spit for roasting over the fire, a milk pail and sundry containers, utensils and serving dishes for food made of wood, clay or pewter. Most cooking was done over an open fire of wood or charcoal with a large pot either stood on legs actually in the fire or suspended over it using chains. The main methods of cooking were boiling, roasting, and frying. The fourth method was baking and involved putting the dish inside a closed oven made of clay or brick much like a wood-burning pizza oven today.

Larger households stored food in giant meal chests which were airtight and used to keep such goods as grain and preserved meat and fish. In contrast, hutches ('pantries') were boxes with air-holes for keeping fresh food like cheeses. In households with a staff of servants, these chests were often kept locked to prevent unauthorised nibbling. The vast majority of the population still worked in agriculture and often had their own small plot of land for their own personal needs. Indeed, even artisans who specialised in such activities as weaving and making clothes still kept a patch of land for their vegetable garden and some poultry. Local markets supplied everything else but the larger estates would have been more self-sufficient producing their own bread, milk, cheese, meat, and fish on site.

#History #12noon #1580sCE #1590s #WHE #[#]

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mothmangela · 1 month ago

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Breakfast At The Lighthouse

A short writing exercise done during a quiet window at work. Lucanis provides the occupants of The Lighthouse with a rather extravagant breakfast. Rook (in this case, Dove Thorne, my OC; you can find out more about him in the Dove Thorne tag on my blog) muses on found family.

There were hot, flaky pastry parcels full of a rich beef gravy. Bread, thick with golden butter. Sunny slices of cheese, whorled with holes lay on a platter, alternating with the rosy pink slices of fine honey-roasted ham. Tiny tomatoes glistened like rubies, dotted amongst a salad of lambs’ lettuce. Everywhere Rook looked, his eyes settled on something new and undoubtedly delicious. Fat scones, still steaming, piled next to a pair of elegant pots filled with glossy raspberry jam and clotted cream so fatty and rich it was almost buttercup yellow. Muffins in patterned paper cases, some studded with fat blueberries, others with little pieces of fudge, dripping caramel sauce onto the platter. Dainty finger sandwiches - the white bread cut so thinly Rook had no doubt he could’ve read the morning paper through it had he been so inclined - with the scalloped frill of wafer-thin cucumber slices peeking from the edges. Dumpy little tartlets, some full of different varieties of jam, some with chocolate, others with caramel and full-bellied hazelnuts, sat close by, looking all the more delicious for their humble presentation.

“It’s a rough breakfast,” Neve commented sarcastically, as though they both weren’t painfully aware this was more food than either of them had ever seen in their lives. “But it’ll do.”

She punctuated the comment by popping a whole, miniature boiled egg in her mouth. A quail’s egg, Rook realised; he’d seen them in nests hidden under the hedgerows in the fields, but always thought they were too pitifully small to steal. But the rich will take for the sake of taking; whether it’ll sustain them or not. Not that Lucanis was that type of rich person, but he’d certainly been brought up on finer fare than the clan had ever been afforded. Rook hurriedly took a seat; Neve was eyeing the gooseberry jam tarts in such a way that Rook was seized by a sudden sense of urgency.

“Lucanis,” Rook began haltingly. “Are you aware that there are only eight of us for breakfast?”

“I was up anyway,” Lucanis shrugged, shuffling about in a monogrammed bed jacket. “And I wanted you to have options.”

“Maker, that’s a heck of a spread,” remarked Harding as she strolled into the room, her eyebrows in danger of disappearing into her cloud of (visibly unbrushed) auburn hair. She sat beside Rook and helped herself to a wodge of toast, heaping on butter so generously that it began to melt and run in keen rivulets down her wrist. “How’d you learn to cook like this? Didn’t you guys have servants for this kinda stuff?”

“I spent a lot of time getting under everybody’s feet in the kitchens as a boy though Caterina used to scold me for it when she caught me,” Lucanis said. “I wanted to try and make something for everybody… there’s fresh fruit for Taash, and Ferelden cheese for you, Harding… Bellara gave me some Dalish recipes… Just seemed like a good way to stay busy when I wasn’t sleeping. A good and helpful way to stay busy.”

“I certainly shan’t complain,” chimed Emmerich as he drew up a chair and began to pour himself and Rook a cup of tea from the big brass kettle. Unlike the rest of The Lighthouse residents, Rook and Emmerich were quite decidedly tea drinkers rather than coffee drinkers, though Emmerich took his with enough sugar cubes to treat a whole herd of Halla.

“Lots of vegetarian stuff,” Rook nodded, shoving a plate of tiny puff pastry slices filled with what looked like crumbled cheese and slices of pears toward Emmerich.

“With such a care toward presentation that one would be forgiven for assuming a Nevarran chef had plated them!” Emmerich agreed, heaping a selection of things onto his plate. Taash had entered the room in silence and immediately put the entire serving platter of croissants onto their own plate, with a modest bunch of grapes on the side.

“Glad to see you’re making sure your diet has all the relevant food groups Taash,” Davrin remarked through a mouthful of bacon. “Twelve croissants and seven grapes. Very balanced.”

“Food groups are vashedan,” Taash replied airily, with a blunt certainty that made their statement seem far more reasonable than it was in reality. “Just eat what you want to eat. Nobody tells me what I can and can’t eat. Who cares about food groups?”

“I mean, it’s a point,” Bellara said tentatively. “With Elgar’nan and Ghillan’nain and… everything… Maybe we should enjoy stuff like this where we can.”

“And that is the point,” Lucanis said sagely. “No matter what the world is doing, good food is a great comfort.”

“Very Antivan point of view, but I can’t say I’d argue with it,” Davrin conceded, tearing a bread roll into halves and tossing one at Assan, who snapped it out of the air into his beak with surprisingly dexterity for an animal that managed to step on every single individual rib when he tried to climb into bed beside any of the Lighthouse residents of an evening.

“Has he tried to make you drink those weird “effervescente” drinks with the white stuff in yet?” Neve asked. “He says they’re good for digestion. I think they taste like the bottom of a store cupboard.”

“To be fair Neve, you eat like a Minrathous street cat,” Rook teased. “Isn’t this all a bit fancy for you?”

“Like you didn’t pay over the odds for a pound of Halla butter because it reminded you of home last week,” Neve crowed in response, though she was quickly distracted by the discovery of some potted shrimp. Rook let the comment hang, happy to take the teasing; his cheeks ached from smiling, and that feeling had become foreign in the past few weeks. It was hard to smile when you spent a great deal of time wading through waist-high blighted water and trying not to step in corpses. There was a feeling of family at the Lighthouse that he hadn’t known even with the Wardens; it was like being back with the clan again, taking turns milking the Halla and baking bread in the ashes of the firepit. In a strange way, it felt like he was a shepherd again, watching over the people of the North the same way he had once so carefully guarded the Halla. He knew Davrin had shared that aspect of growing up Dalish, and made a mental note to ask him if he ever felt that same responsibility for the people they met on their adventures. Rook had felt it during his service with the Wardens, and he felt it again with every step he took with his new family toward that distant end goal of eliminating the blighted gods and restoring order; like he was guiding his flock through the dark, and protecting them from what lurked in the shadow beyond the light of his lantern. It was just that what inhabited the shadows now was significantly higher stakes than what usually menaced the Halla.

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whateveryouiguess · 1 year ago

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let me in.| roommate! eddie munson x reader

warnings: angst to fluff, not that serious tho, reader is sad and eddie tweaks bc he’s in love w her lol. no use of y/n, reader is described as wearing a bonnet to sleep. takes place in modern day :)

a/n: heyyy remember when i started this blog five months ago lmao. anyway. college is hard gimme a break. this wasn’t requested but i think it’s Neat. enjoy!

eddie can’t fuckin cook.

he can work the shit out of a hungry man and boxed macaroni but a genuine, effort-given, home cooked meal? forget about it. this lack of talent hasn’t ever bothered him though, he’s not a particularly picky guy (being dirt poor you learn to just eat what’s in front of you till you get full) so his ineptitude hasn’t created much of a hindrance. until now.

she’s not much into sharing her emotions; she’s always there with open arms when eddie falls apart, but she’s never asked for it in return. instead, she resorts to sulking in her bedroom and waiting till eddie’s left the common area to utilize the space. eddie is a grade a eavesdropper, and he wouldn’t put himself above listening through the wall to check on her when he’s especially worried. he gives her the space she knows he wants, doesn’t pry, but when he stays in the living room all day and doesn’t hear her come out of her room once, not even to eat, he knows it’s time to warp some boundaries.

“soup and self care,” she once described her catch-all sadness remedy. she’s used it on him more times than he can count and he knows for certain that it works like a charm (when accompanied by a tight hug over the shoulders and a warm kiss on the cheek, that is. she never misses.)

—————————————————————————

an hour and a half into fucking up a tomato bisque, eddie considers throwing in the towel and just ordering panera, but he worries the sentiment won’t ring true enough if it’s not from scratch. he groans loudly and drops the still warm pot of a soup homage into the sink, wiping the sweat off his brow with the black handkerchief ever tucked into his back pocket. defeated, he slumps against the marble countertop and heaves a big sigh, eyes trained on the closed, sticker decorated door directly across from the kitchen.

it’s just my period.

his poor girl.

i’m being dramatic.

she was so damn strong.

don’t worry about me.

he would give her the world. he had to.

“fuck it.”

ed slides towards her bedroom door, knocking gently. he hears her clear her throat and reinject the pep into her voice as she calls out a strained “yeah?”

“can i come in?”

“i-“ he hears shuffling, her voice gets closer to the door. “what’s up?” the shakiness in her voice makes his palms tingle and his cheeks burn. he’s hurting for her, and she won’t tell him why.

“sweetheart, please let me in. i know you’re not okay and i-i don’t wanna pry, or make you uncomfortable, y’know, i respect your boundaries and all that, but i…” the words leave him as his hand slumps over the brass knob of her door. “i can’t let you sulk anymore, kid.” his throat aches under the weight of the words that leave his lips. he doesn’t realize how heavy they are until he lets them go. “please.” with a quiet sniffle and a slow turn of the knob, eddie’s made privy to the pitch black mess of her room. she’s back in bed as soon as the door is open. tip toeing around her discarded bra and work clothes, a textbook and her open laptop, he crawls into bed beside her, leaving just enough space for her to roll over and cuddle into him. he craves her surrender, but he wants her to do so willingly. his shoulders feel hollow without the acupressure of her arms around him, he wants nothing more than to scoop her up and cradle her like she does him, but he’d rather be a gorgons lunch before pushing her beyond her limits. so, he settles on resting a hand between her shoulder blades and toying with the little curls at the nape of her neck, picking at the fairy knots and brushing them back under her bonnet when he’s done with them.

“i don’t wanna talk.” she huffs, as if he’d said anything to refute her. he just nods silently and rubs her back, smiling she presses herself up against him shyly.

“tomato bisque or french onion?” she coughs a little and sits up, squinting at him. the pale moonlight bleeding from the window and the blue cast of the doordash order screen on his phone lights him up like a freshwater pearl as he smiles at her confusion. “i’m getting panera, do you want tomato or french onion soup with your grilled cheese?” the scrunch in her nose scares him for a second, until she rolls over onto her other side and curls into his chest. the white flag has risen. his arms are quick to find her waist and shoulders holding her tight, tight, tight, to him. a slow, heated kiss to her temple is the nail in the coffin, and he’s sure he can coax her into a face mask or a back rub later on to complete the usual routine.

homemade or not, he was gonna get his girl some soup. he would get her the world.

#eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie stranger things #modern!eddie munson

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uzumaki-rebellion · 4 months ago

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"Tethered to You" Chapter 4

Masterlist HERE.

youtube

"Early this morning When you knocked upon my door Early this morning When you knocked upon my door

And I said hello Satan, ah I believe it is time to go Me and the devil walkin' side by side Me and the devil walking side by side…"

Soap & Skin – "Me and the Devil"

Her eyelids were too heavy to open. Swollen and raw from crying, Osha couldn't pry her dry lids apart. Her thighs ached and her head pounded a steady rhythmic pain. The scent of old wood smoke permeated the air. Tangled under a thin sheet and heavy wool blanket, she was too weary to move, yet the spiky pressure on her bladder was insistent that she relieve herself.

Osha turned her head to work the kinks in her neck out first. She wiped the crust from her lashes and dared to peek at the new world she escaped to. Qimir kept his living space neat although it was crowded with mechanical gadgets and cast off metalworkings. There were lighting lamps on the walls giving the cave a rustic glow. A power generator hummed in another hidden section of the cave that she spotted from a narrow opening beyond the sleeping area.

On a therma pad, near an old portable stove, sat a brass cooking pot. Something savory simmered inside, but Osha ignored it. She lifted up from the narrow bed noticing the weakness of her limbs. Her arm shook trying to hold her side up. A sour odor hit her in the face next. She sniffed wondering if it was the food cooking in the pot, however, seconds later, she understood it was her own unwashed body funk. With a scrunched face she dragged herself to the edge of the bed and placed her hands on her thighs to prop herself up. Queasiness in her stomach forced her head to lurch forward and she vomited a clear liquid onto the cave floor. She dragged her dehydrated body from the bed and headed for an open barrel filled with water. Not bothering to find a cup, she scooped water into her mouth and after drinking her fill, she washed her face with the cool liquid. A bitter watery sensation gathered in the back of her throat, but Osha pushed back on the urge to throw up again and swallowed several times praying that whatever wanted out... stayed in. The pain in her head subsided to a dull thud.

She was alone in the cave.

On unsteady legs, Osha rushed outside and peered down toward the ocean. The Exile ll was still on its landing pad in the distance. He hadn't abandoned her. Yet. She leaned against a rock wall and breathed in the crisp air. It helped quell the sudden panic. She touched her chest and her heart thumped like a frightened bird caught under her fingers. Embracing the fear that washed over her in that moment, Osha picked it apart to comprehend what it truly meant. Was it abandonment or the fear of never seeing him again? The swift attachment to Qimir seemed unnatural and yet her heart squeezed the inside of her chest the way it did when she lost her family as a child.

A dull sun floated in a hazy overcast sky allowing small shards of light to skim the oily blackness of the sea. The grayness floating on the horizon didn't affect the comfortable temperature caressing the skin on her face. She touched the clothing drenched in her stench. A bath was in order. She hastily pulled down her pants and squatted with stiff joints. Her urine ran out in a dark yellow stream flowing down loose gravel for what seemed like forever. She was grateful for not needing to do anything else and let her private parts drip-dry. A gust of cooler air blew between her legs and she pulled her pants up quickly being careful not to step in her own voided waste.

She wandered back to the cave testing the strength in her legs and passed a trio of small rock-looking creatures that watched her movement with round black eyes and long snouts.

"Shoo!' she said kicking her feet toward them in case they were small predators. They only watched her pass with quiet curiosity.

Inside the cave, Osha searched for clothing that belonged to Mae. She couldn't find anything other than a large chest filled with Qimir's things. She could borrow something of his though. Behind the chest was a metal clothing rack that held his black cape and other menacing looking garments. She touched his cape. The material was heavy under her fingertips.

"You're finally up…"

Osha jumped while fondling his clothes. She swallowed thickly and turned to face him. He wore a simple beige wrap-front jacket and brown linen pants with sturdy sandals and carried pale yellow netting filled with whatever he caught in the sea.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"A few days now. Three to be exact."

"Three days?" she sputtered back.

"Yep," he said heading to his kitchen area.

He dumped his fresh catch into a large bucket of water and wiped his hands on a dingy clean cloth sitting on a low wooden table. She moved away from his slow advance. He paused his movement toward her with a questioning look.

"Don't come near me. I smell really bad."

"I know, but I'm used to it now."

She looked away from his direct gaze embarrassed.

"Put on your boots. I'll take you to where Mae stayed. She has things you can use there. And you can bathe…in private."

Osha nodded and he pointed to her work boots under the bed. She sat down and laced up. He busied himself with checking on his bubbling pot and the cook stove. While he wasn't looking, she wiped her right boot over the spot where she vomited hoping it would dry up before he noticed or smelled it.

"Coffee?" he asked, holding up a black pot.

Osha shook her head.

"It's here if you want it. I don't know how much in provisions Mae had left down there, but I'll supply you with what you need until you're better."

Qimir spoke to her in a modulated tone that was probably meant to soothe her uneasiness of a three-day blackout. His voice caressed her earlobes and she didn't fully trust the way it made her feel. Safe.

He wasn't a safe man.

But she wasn't a safe woman either.

He was a Sith.

And she chose him over the Jedi.

His hair was a damp crown of dark waves. He'd bathed earlier. His shirt stuck to his back and sides in wet places. He smelled of the sea and wind giving her a false glimpse of what life could be like with him training there. Her eyes narrowed watching him putter around his little kitchen like some innocent domestic. It was part of his seduction to keep her there. She knew that.

"Ready?" he said wiping his hands and then brushing a lock of hair from his eye.

Osha stood and Qimir reached for her newly acquired lightsaber hidden under the bed that she missed. He handed it to her overlooking the obvious wet spot on the floor under her boot. She gripped the lightsaber with assertive purpose. What she had done to get the weapon rushed forward in her mind and she shelved it for later introspection. He led the way out of the cave.

"Keep an eye on those things over there. They'll try to slip into your place and eat your food or even steal your clothes for nesting material. They're harmless, but annoying sometimes," he said pointing to the rock creatures. "Mae used to feed them and now they linger here all the time defecating everywhere."

Osha grinned behind Qimir's back. Mae was always playing with animals and insects on their home world. She exhaled a worrisome breath thinking of her sister.

"Hold up a minute," she said.

A spasm in her lower back slowed her walk.

"No. Keep moving. You haven't walked in days and your muscles are cramped. Stretch and move."

He kept walking far along a long, flat, and uneven path that created a barrier to a lagoon of dark blue water. She glanced to her left and admired another rocky island shaped like a scalene triangle on the horizon. Qimir turned to look at her.

"Walk," he said.

It was an order.

Osha pushed herself and grit her teeth enduring the uncomfortable pins and needles sensation in her sluggish feet. Slowly but surely her lower limbs came back to life and she trudged behind Qimir without stopping.

"You'll stay there," he said pointing further inland.

They hiked off the path for another twenty minutes and Osha understood why her sister never knew her Master's identity. He kept her housed far away where it was impossible to sneak up on him. Hidden behind a giant crumbling boulder that jutted across a tiny stream was a small opening to a dark cavern. Qimir climbed in first and popped a lighting tube he pulled from his pocket that lit up the entrance. He glanced around and found a lamp fixed to the cave wall and tapped it. Soft yellow light illuminated a small neat dwelling. There was a cot, a single chair, and a small table with tools and blade weapons on it. An uneven makeshift bamboo closet filled with Mae's cloaks and dark garments leaned against another wall. A hand-woven basket near the bed was filled with underwear and scarves. There was a decent-sized crack in the roof that let in some sunlight and it showed Osha a comfortable set up. The cave had more room in it than she ever had in her sixteen years away from Brendok. On Coruscant she roomed in a noisy dorm with other younglings and Padawans, while working as a meknek only afforded her tiny shared bunks in close-confined quarters on a starfighter. The cave was fit for a queen compared to what she was used to.

"She has a therma pad and some cooking utensils back there and a portable compression chamber to dry and preserve the food she caught herself. The lagoon water is drinkable, but run it through that water purifier over there first. It's rained the last two days and she collects water in buckets outside from the rock run-off…"

He pointed out other things she would need to use like a heater and where she could use the restroom inside and outside. Osha turned on other lamps and looked around.

"You'll find where to bathe safely in several places once you go exploring on your own. You can use the lagoon too if you want. There's a few natural hot springs around the island to soak your body after training. But you don't need that yet," he said.

"Okay."

"Clean up. Rest. We'll talk more later."

She nodded and he lifted an unopened ration pack next to a small knife on the desk.

"She usually had a box of these in here. They taste pretty good if you haven't eaten in a long time."

"I'll look around for them."

Qimir headed out and stopped in his tracks with his back to her.

"You'll have to unlearn so much from your old Jedi training."

He said it so low that she had to step forward to hear him.

"I know. I'm prepared for that."

He turned around.

"Osha, I will show you how to take the freedom you've wanted your entire life. I remember what it was like back then. Longing to be like them. They are so adept at selling you a dream that never comes to fruition. Everything was about control. Controlling the way you think, controlling how you act, even controlling how you were supposed to feel…turning you into a mindless disciple…turning you into bland, obedient, nothingness. They build up the light side of the Force as the panacea for the galaxy, but what they truly want is to push their will on those of us who seek a more passionate life that we bend to our will. The dark side has more to offer your life than you could ever imagine. I see it in you…felt it the first time I laid eyes on you. I will show you how truly dark and divine you are, Osha."

He spoke her name with such reverence making it sound like a sacred incantation.

"I want that. All of it," she said.

His eyes held a sensual glow in the lamp light. He reached out and caressed the side of her face. The pads of his rough fingertips were warm and she leaned into his touch. Her eyelids grew heavy. Glancing at his lips she noticed the lower one housed between his teeth and her own lips parted. All she could hear in the cave was her beating heart and the silvery tone of his voice as he spoke a new code to her.

"Peace is a lie…there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength I gain power. Through power I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken."

Osha let the words sink into her ears and his eyes sink into her soul.

"Say them to me," he said.

He rooted her in place and she didn't speak until his thumb stroked the top of her cheek.

"Peace is a lie. There is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength I gain power. Through power I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken…"

"Again," he said.

Qimir pressed his forehead against hers and swallowed each airy word from her mouth as she released them with more conviction.

"Through victory, my chains are broken," she whispered into his parted lips.

He closed his eyes and that devilish smirk quirked his lips. She pleased him.

Qimir stepped away from her and a tenuous connection to him broke inside her like a cold splash of water thrown on her head. She glanced toward the opening in the cave. Breaking away from his charged gaze reminded her that her body stank to high heaven and she itched all over to wash away days of dirt, sweat, and her old life. Qimir caught the hint and climbed out of the cave leaving her to the privacy of her own thoughts.

She plopped down on the lumpy cot. It was not as big as Qimir's which was barely a full-sized bed under Jedi standards, but big enough for her. Privacy was a new luxury and she rifled through her sister's basket of underwear and found a body towel. Poking around further she found a toiletry bag behind a standing mirror with everything she needed to take care of her hygiene. She settled on wearing a long purple tunic that had criss-cross ties that she liked. Rolling it up in the towel, Osha gathered all that she needed and went to the largest water source outside of her cave which was back down to the lagoon.

Knowing Qimir was far away she didn't hesitate to pull off her smelly clothes and jumped into the chilly water. She let out a loud shriek once the icy cold hit her filthy skin. The lagoon was less than six feet deep at its maximum depth, and she swam around first getting used to the temperature before heading into more shallow water to scrub up with the chunk of soap and shampoo her sister left behind. She laughed out loud at how stiff her nipples stayed and how goosebumps decorated her body throughout her bathing time. The sun hadn't broken free from the clouds long enough to warm up the water, and she spent six good minutes scrubbing, rubbing and rinsing. She massaged her scalp with shampoo and carefully washed each loc thoroughly before dunking her head under to rinse away dingy-colored lather. Shaking her hair, it felt lighter. She fingered her thick curly roots in sections and knew it was time to plan a day to palm roll all the new growth. She prayed her sister had some hair butter to help with that long task. Osha figured she had to have a lot tucked away somewhere because Mae had beautiful long locs before she cut them. Now that she was free to be her true self, Osha wanted to grow her own locs longer. Like Mama's.

She stood up naked in the shallow end and cradled her hands against her chest. Mama used to hum and sing to them while they sat between her legs getting their scalps oiled and hair twisted into strong ropes of magic…at least that's what Mama called their hair. When Mama was done using her nimble fingers to bind curling roots, Mother Koril would decorate their soft locs with little shiny trinkets that she made just for them. Flowers. Shells from other worlds. And colorful seeds that the coven brought with them to Brendok long before she and Mae were born.

Osha remembered how Mama told the story of how she escaped from her original home world after she was exiled for being a heretic. She braided seeds into her hair to carry on their journey, and she taught the other women how to bind their hair in that secret way to secure food sources and beauty for their new life on Brendok. When they were finally free to be themselves, they planted those seeds that provided nourishment for their bodies and wild flowers for the forest. It became a tradition forever-after to braid seeds, shells, and memories of who they had once been and would soon become in their hair. It bound them together inside the Thread of Destiny. Like the long branches of the bunta tree curving down to the ground and their locs growing like enchanted tendrils down their backs, the Thread of Destiny was interwoven into the very fabric of their lives to remind them of their purpose.

She lingered in the cold lagoon touching her soft hair, bringing back sense memory of how her life used to be before she wanted to go…with him.

Sol.

Osha splashed out of the water and dried off, fighting back tears that threatened to crumble her face into a mask of anguish. Tossing on the tunic, she sprinted back to her cave barefoot, not even bothering to stick her feet in the unlaced boots she carried. She nearly tripped and broke her ankle diving into the cave. Heat rose from her feet up to the top of her head from the exertion. She threw her bundle of dirty clothes and boots on the floor and paced for awhile to calm down.

Her emotions swelled and subsided like the tides of the sea and it grew difficult to keep from crying. She needed a task to keep her busy. Dumping the basket of clothes onto the bed, she rummaged through them to get an idea of what she had as a wardrobe. She didn't know when they'd go off-world again for supplies or anything else.

Mae's underthings and casual-wear were of high quality. Her personal style slanted toward assassin chic. Osha dug through a large duffel bag and pulled out a bundle of clothes and a heavy folded cloak—

It couldn't be. Her throat nearly closed up.

She ran her fingers across the inner lining and recognized it immediately. The royal purple coloring upon closer inspection was a patchwork quilt of material stitched together to reinforce the wearer with more warmth from the darker purple of the outer layer. Her fingers shook. It was Mama's cloak repurposed with the scraps of Mother Koril's covering and the other coverings belonging to members of their coven. Osha spread it out on the bed and a small gold cape made for a child fell out of it. It belonged to Mae. It was part of their Ascension attire and had Mae's initials stitched into the shoulder with the sigil of their double moon.

"Oh, Mae," Osha cried out as her fingers smoothed open the cape to find pieces of Mama's cowrie-shell tassels left intact.

"Mae…Mae…" she whispered, shoving the child's cape into her nose, sniffing the scent of her twin when she was a little girl.

"They made me blame you…made me hate you…all over lies. So many lies."

Osha whimpered and fell onto her side clutching Mama's cloak against her chest.

"Mama, I'm so sorry…Mother Koril, you were right…so right. Forgive me."

She lifted a beaded string of cowrie shells and a boiling rage welled up in her chest and flowed outward consuming every cell in her body. The mirror reflected her vengeful image and she stood up to look at herself fully. The purple tunic draped around her with a form-fitting regal elegance as her rage festered, bubbling to the surface like a red-hot volcano that would level an entire world if it couldn't be contained, and in that moment, Osha fed into the desire to exact retribution on every Jedi in the galaxy. She screamed out decades of lies and the pain of a stolen life, screamed for the awful deceit and subterfuge the Jedi brought to her kin until the chords in her neck strained with the horror of it all. The blazing black rage coursed through her veins and swallowed the whites and browns of her eyes until a steely onyx gaze stared back at her from the mirror. It surged higher and she watched the edges of her body burn away like vaporous midnight ash floating away as Qimir's face tethered her inside the dark embers and became her sole focus until she winked out of existence into a raging frigid vortex of spiraling darkness.

Seconds later she snapped back into the world with the wind knocked out of her.

But she was no longer in her cave.

Gasping for air, sweating profusely, and disoriented, Osha jerked left then right, trying to fathom where she was. After another solid gulp of fresh air cleared her fuzziness, she recognized her surroundings.

In her feral rage, she had somehow transported herself outside of Qimir's cave. She quickly rubbed every part of her body to make sure she was a solid being completely there and not a smoky apparition imagining herself somewhere that she wasn't. Relieved, Osha exhaled and grounded herself. She was most definitely a mile away from where she started.

Qimir stepped out from his entrance carrying a bowl of hot soup.

"I was just coming your way to bring you this in case you were…Osha?"

He stared at her with concern. Between gulps of air, Osha blurted out an explanation.

"I don't know how I got here. I was angry and screaming in my cave and then…I turned into black smoke and broke apart…disappeared and reappeared here. I don't know what happened to my body."

Qimir absorbed the otherworldly information with a sense of calm that she needed desperately.

"Well, right now you're safe and in one piece. I can feel shifting fluctuations in the Force…this is something we can work through and understand…okay?"

There was a gleam in his eye. He held out the bowl to her.

"Eat with me inside and we'll figure out what happened…together," he said.

Osha's mouth watered from the scent of the bowl and her stomach co-signed the hunger by grumbling.

Qimir gave her a sanguine smile.

"Can't fight nature, Osha. You're starving."

She stared at the bowl and the hand that held it. He was the most powerful man she had ever met in her life and he wanted her for his acolyte. The wonders and wisdom she could learn from him would shape her into the warrior she needed to be.

She reached out and took the bowl.

He stepped aside and gave her space to walk into his cave on her own volition when she was ready.

"I want to choose me this time," she said.

Her feet wouldn't move and her body still trembled as she held the bowl of soup to her side. Qimir came to her instead and pressed his lips on her forehead. The taut, hard feel of his body against her soft nakedness under the tunic broke the spell of uncertainty and she walked by his side into his home.

Chapter 5 HERE.

A.N.:

I'm going to play a lot with hair and Black women using magic because I am someone who has worn locs for over half my life and I also grew up with Hoodoo, so I know what it's like to be seen as an outsider up against b.s. (Um, the Crown Act in the U.S. and all the stigma Black folks get for practicing their own rooted African Traditional Religions etc, hello).

#The Acolyte #oshamir #osha x qimir #Star Wars Fanfiction #the acolyte fanfiction #oshamir fanfiction #Uzumaki Rebellion #osha aniseya #qimir #qimir fanfic #tethered to you

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wintermarmalade · 8 months ago

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A Name

It waited in front of the window watching all the people go by on the street. It had finished all of it's tasks for the day and was patiently waiting for it's clockmaker, Mags, to return from the market. Anyone looking from the outside might assume it was simply a porcelain statue. After some time, it spotted her messy dark hair in the crowd. It wanted to wave to her, but it knew she was too short to see much above everyone else, so it ran over to the door and waited. After a few moments, she swung it open with a bright "hello" and opened her arms, her doll jumping into her for a hug.

"Did you get anything fun?" It always loved when Mags got something new for it to cook with.

"No, just the basics this time, sorry."

"But what's that?" It asked curiously, pointing at a crumpled sachet sitting on top of her bag.

"Oh just a packet of seeds I found on the ground on the way home. Maybe that eccentric fruit vendor would trade me something cool for it, they like to garden."

"Seeds? Like ones that grow into plants?"

"Uh... yeah? That's what seeds do, silly."

The doll gasped, "Can we grow them?" It asked with a sparkle in it's eye.

The clockmaker gave her doll a sad look. "Trust me, I've tried. They don't do well all the way down here, too much smog and not enough sun. The water definitely isn't the best either..... plus I have no idea what these seeds even are."

"But.... we can try!" It looked at her with a dramatic, yearning expression.

She stared at it doubtfully, trying to resist, but caved and chuckled. "Oh, I suppose we could give it one more shot, just for you." She gave it a playful pat on the head as her doll starting hopping up and down in excitement. "Come with me, let's get the stuff we need together."

They foraged around her workstation until they found an old planter box full of brass bits and bolts and emptied it. Next, they dug into the back of her closet, finding a dusty container full of a grayish mush. "I made this compost forever ago out of used tea bags and ash from the oven, it's kind of the best I could do. It might be okay if we mix it with some dirt and gravel from the alley."

"I thought you said that burnt things were gross." The doll said inquisitively.

Mags giggled and replied, "Definitely gross for me, but it has nutrients that plants like, and it'll make the soil less acidic. The acidity of the ground out there is.... concerning."

*Nutrients? Acidity?* It had so many questions. She could tell her doll was confused, but curious. "Come on, I'll explain more outside." And so they went into the alley together and filled the pot with gravelly soil and makeshift compost while she described to her inquisitive doll the different types of soil and what plants needed in it. Once they were done, they took it inside and she taught it how to water and care for a plant. It had no idea they were so complicated, they looked so simple from the outside. She had her doll place the pot by the window, dig a tiny hole, and bury the seeds inside.

"When does it become a plant?" The doll asked.

"Well, it depends on what it is, and if the soil is actually good enough, but it'll take a couple of weeks at the very least."

"That's.... so long...."

"Yes, gardening requires lots of patience."

"I can be patient!" It assured. It had always been good at waiting for new tasks and holding perfectly still for long periods.

"I have no doubts that you will be." She said with a smile.

It enjoyed having the new daily task of making sure the seeds were watered and cared for. It checked to see if they had sprouted yet as often as it could, sometimes staring at the pot in anticipation for hours.

One early morning nearly two weeks later, a tiny leaf had appeared! It ran back into Mags' room and jumped on her bed to wake her up so she could see the amazing feat their seeds had accomplished. It hopped up and down as Mags shambled behind it, still not fully awake. Once she was in view, it dramatically jumped in front of the pot and spread out it's arms, as if presenting a masterwork of art. Her gloomy face lit up when she saw the teeny sprout.

"Wow, I'm impressed! You've done a wonderful job caring for it." She praised as she rubbed her doll's head.

It beamed, "It looks so happy!"

"It certainly does." She said with a tired smile. She wanted to remind it that the sprout probably wouldn't make it much further, but she didn't have the heart to stifle it's excitement.

Over the next few weeks, the porcelain doll continued to care for the sprout while Mags taught it how to tell if it needed more or less water or was malnourished. Their little plant struggled, it was often not as green as it should be and wilted leaves were common, but very slowly, it kept growing. The doll celebrated every time it grew a new leaf, tried not to cry every time they had to trim one that was too wilted, and spent many hours lovingly examining and encouraging it. The plant didn't really do anything, but for some reason, the doll still adored it. It was so small and pretty and it liked the feeling of taking care of something.

After a couple months had passed, not only was it still alive, but it was nearly 6 inches tall and had lots of leaves! Some of them even looked fairly healthy. Mags was bewildered, by all means, this plant should've died weeks ago. She knew that her doll partially ran on magic as well as clockwork, and could only guess that that might have something to do with it.

Another month or so later, they woke up to see that a gorgeous white and pink flower had bloomed.

"It's a flower it's a flower!" The doll exclaimed in wonder.

"It's a dahlia!" Said Mags, almost more excited than her doll.

It gently cupped the flower in it's tiny hands and gazed at it for several moments. It couldn't believe it had helped something so beautiful grow from just a few specks in an old dirt pot.

"Magdeline?" The doll looked at her clockmaker thoughtfully.

"Yes?"

"I think I know what I want my name to be."

Her heart jumped, "Oh? What are you thinking?" She tried to respond with a casual but genuine interest, she didn't want to put any pressure on her doll.

"I want my name to be Dahlia."

A huge smile grew on her face, "That's a gorgeous name! I would love to call you Dahlia! I think it's very fitting for you."

It let out a happy squeak at hearing it's name and jumped into her as she held it tight and spun around.

*Dahlia.*

#empty space #empty spaces #writing #dollposting #dolls #Mags&Dahlia

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zishtatraditions · 15 days ago

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Brass Cookware Set of 3 Combo | Zishta

Upgrade your kitchen with the best brass cookware set of 3 combo! Perfect for daily cooking, it includes Brass Sarva for biriyanis, curries, and deep fries; Brass Vaana for versatile gravies and more; and the Brass Rice Pot for delicious rice, pulao, and dals. Bring tradition, health, and flavor to every meal with this premium brass set!

#healthy eating #brasscookware #traditional cookware #handcrafted #brass cooking pot #brass cooking utensil #brassware #healthy cooking

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traditionalproduct · 1 year ago

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The classic beauty of brass cookware: a collection that all food lovers must have

Introduction: It's not just a bunch of pots and pans; cookware is an important part of the cooking process. Classical elegance and superior cooking qualities distinguish brass cookware from other materials. Let us talk about the benefits and appeal of collecting brass cookware for your home. The Rich Heritage of Brass Cookware: For generations, brass cookware has been revered for its durability, heat conductivity, and golden color. Brass is used in traditional Indian cooks and professional chefs' kitchens globally.

Advantages of Brass Cookware:

1. Excellent Heat Distribution:

Brass is very good at transferring heat, so the heat will be spread evenly across the cooking area. This enables for exact temperature control, essential for perfect cooking.

2. Durability and Longevity:

Brass cookware is known for being strong and lasting a long time. A well-made brass pot or pan can endure decades with proper care, making it eco-friendly.

3. Natural Non-Stick Properties:

Brass develops a natural patina over time, creating a non-stick surface that enhances with each use. This quality reduces the need for excessive oil or fats in cooking, promoting healthier meal preparation.

4. Versatility in Cooking:

From sautéing and simmering to frying and slow cooking, brass cookware adapts well to various cooking techniques. It is suitable for both stovetop and oven use, making it a versatile addition to any kitchen.

Building Your Brass Cookware Collection:

1. Brass Pots and Pans:

Start with essential pieces like brass pots and pans. A sturdy brass saucepan or frying pan can become the workhorse of your kitchen, offering versatility and durability.

2. Brass Utensils:

Complement your collection with brass utensils such as ladles, spatulas, and spoons. These not only serve a practical purpose but also add a touch of sophistication to your kitchen.

3. Brass Tureens and Serving Dishes:

Elevate your dining experience with brass tureens and serving dishes. These elegant pieces transition seamlessly from the kitchen to the dining table, enhancing the presentation of your culinary creations.

4. Brass Mortar and Pestle:

Embrace the traditional method of grinding spices with a brass mortar and pestle. The weight and sturdiness of brass make it an ideal material for this culinary tool, allowing you to extract the full flavor from your spices.

Care and Maintenance:

To ensure the longevity of your brass cookware collection, adopt proper care practices:-

Hand wash with mild soap and warm water.

Avoid abrasive scouring pads to prevent scratching.

Dry thoroughly after washing to prevent tarnishing.

Occasionally polish with a brass cleaner to maintain its lustrous shine.

Conclusion:

Not only is a set of brass cookware useful, but it's also a celebration of cooking artistry and classic style. Quality brass pieces improve cooking and bring heritage and class to your kitchen. Building a cookware collection is like preserving a culinary tradition for future generations. Enjoy the timeless beauty of brass cookware and improve your cooking.

#brass cookware #brass pots and pans #brass utensils for cooking #brass cookware indian #antique brass cookware #traditional brass utensils for cooking #brass cooking utensils #brass items for sale #brass cooking pot #pure brass utensils for cooking #brass cooking pans

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ladyeckland28 · 2 months ago

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Galley of the Damned: A Journal from Below Deck

A cosmic horror/deep sea terror by Lady Eckland and Ms Darkwood

*April 15, 1847*

The gentle sway of the *Peregrine's Fortune* has become as natural to me as breathing. Three years I've served as cook aboard this sturdy merchant vessel, and my little galley feels more like home than any hearth on solid ground ever did. The brass pots gleam in the lantern light, my knives are sharp and true, and the steady rhythm of chopping vegetables meshes perfectly with the creak of timber and splash of waves against the hull.

Today's inventory: thirty-six pounds of salted pork, twenty-eight pounds of hardtack (showing signs of weevils in the lower crates), fifteen pounds of dried beans, and eight precious onions that I've managed to keep from sprouting. Captain Morrison assures me we'll make port in Jamaica within the fortnight to resupply. Until then, I'll have to stretch what we have.

"Another fine stew, Mr. Hayes," First Mate Williams said this evening, scraping his bowl clean with a crust of bread. "You work miracles with what little we have."

I smiled and ladled him another helping. "The secret's in the timing, Mr. Williams. Everything has its proper moment—when to add the salt, when to stir, when to let things simmer."

Little did I know then how prophetic those words would prove.

*April 20, 1847*

The captain altered our course today. Something about favorable winds and a shorter route he'd heard of from a Portuguese trader in Boston. The crew seems uncertain—I heard murmurs of concern during the evening meal—but Morrison's never led us astray before.

Young Tommy Fletcher, our cabin boy, lingered in the galley after helping with the dishes. "Mr. Hayes," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "have you noticed anything... strange about the water lately?"

I hadn't, but the boy's usual cheerful demeanor had given way to something more subdued. "Strange how, lad?"

"Sometimes, when I'm swabbing the deck at dawn, the waves look... wrong. Like they're moving against the wind. And there's colors in the deep I've never seen before." He shuddered. "Colors that shouldn't be there."

I ruffled his hair and gave him an extra biscuit. "That's just the morning light playing tricks, Tommy. The sea's full of mysteries, but they're natural ones."

He nodded, but his eyes remained troubled. As he left, I noticed he'd barely touched his supper.

*April 25, 1847*

The fog rolled in three days ago and hasn't lifted. Thick as pea soup, it clings to the ship like a burial shroud. The crew's growing restless—I can hear it in their voices, see it in the way they huddle together during meals, speaking in hushed tones that fall silent when I approach with the soup pot.

Something's off about the food stores. The salted pork's taking on an odd sheen, and the water in the barrels tastes... different. Not bad, exactly, but wrong somehow. Like drinking tears.

"It's nothing to fret about," I told myself, examining a piece of meat that seemed to twitch under my knife. "Just the rolling of the ship playing tricks on tired eyes."

But when I started preparing tonight's stew, I could have sworn I heard something whispering from inside the pot—a sound like waves lapping at a distant shore, growing louder with each bubble that broke the surface.

"Samuel..." it seemed to say, though surely it was just steam escaping. "Samuel... we hunger..."

I nearly dropped the ladle when Bosun Jenkins burst into the galley, making me jump.

"Christ's sake, man!" I exclaimed, clutching my chest. "Announce yourself next time!"

Jenkins didn't smile or apologize. His face was gaunt, eyes sunken and glazed. "Need meat," he growled. "Raw. Now."

"But dinner's nearly ready—"

"RAW!" he roared, slamming a calloused fist against my cutting board. Then, more quietly: "Please, Samuel. I'm so hungry. So very hungry."

I gave him a slab of salt pork, watching in horror as he tore into it like a wild animal. His teeth seemed sharper than I remembered, and when he looked up at me, blood and brine dripping down his chin, his eyes reflected the lamplight like a cat's.

He left without a word, and I spent the next hour scrubbing the cutting board, trying to convince myself the scratches in the wood weren't arranged in patterns that hurt my eyes to look at.

*April 30, 1847*

The captain's stopped taking meals in his cabin. He stands at the helm day and night, staring into the fog with an unsettling intensity. When First Mate Williams suggested he rest, Morrison struck him across the face and screamed something in a language none of us recognized.

The crew's behavior grows more disturbing by the day. They've taken to pacing the decks at night, muttering to themselves. The food I prepare goes largely untouched, except for the meat—that they fight over like starving wolves, preferring it bloody and barely cured.

Tommy Fletcher came to me in tears this morning. "Mr. Hayes," he sobbed, "I saw something in the water. A face... but not a human face. It was looking at me, and it... it smiled."

I held the trembling boy close, noticing how cold his skin felt. "There, there, lad. Your mind's playing tricks—"

"No!" He pulled away violently. "You don't understand! They're calling us, Mr. Hayes. All of us. Can't you hear them singing?"

I couldn't, but later that night, as I stirred the stew, I began to notice patterns in the way it moved—swirls and eddies that formed and reformed, like dancing figures performing an eternal, underwater waltz. And deep in the pot, something that might have been an eye opened and fixed its gaze upon me.

I slammed the lid down and threw the whole pot overboard.

*May 3, 1847*

Three men went missing today. Jenkins claims they jumped overboard, says he saw them dive into the waves "like they were answering a lover's call." But the screams I heard in the dead of night told a different story.

The fog's grown thicker, if that's possible. It seeps into the galley like a living thing, making the lanterns flicker and dance. The walls weep constantly now, not with normal condensation, but with something that tastes of salt and copper when it drips onto my tongue.

"Your meals grow cold, Samuel Hayes," a voice whispered from the shadows today. It might have been Williams, but the accent was all wrong—too fluid, like words spoken underwater. "We require... fresher fare."

I'm running out of ingredients, but that's the least of my concerns. The remaining food has changed. The vegetables pulse with an inner light when cut, leaking phosphorescent fluid that stains my hands. The meat... the meat writhes and whispers when touched. I've taken to wearing gloves, but I can still feel it trying to grab me through the thick leather.

*May 5, 1847*

I heard singing today—real singing, not just the ever-present whispers. It came from the captain's cabin, where Morrison has finally retreated. The melody was beautiful in a way that made my teeth ache and my vision blur. When I pressed my ear to his door, I could make out words:

"Deep beneath the waves we dwell,

Where no mortal tongue can tell

Of the feasts we there prepare,

Come below and join us there..."

The captain's voice cracked on the high notes in a way that suggested his throat was full of water. I fled back to my galley, but the song followed me, echoing through the ship's bones.

Tommy Fletcher stopped by again, but he's changed. His skin has taken on a greenish cast, and there are things moving beneath it that make me sick to look at. "We're almost there, Mr. Hayes," he said, smiling with too many teeth. "Almost home."

"Where?" I asked, though I dreaded the answer.

"Where the old ones feast," he replied. "In the dancing halls beneath the waves. They've saved you a special place, you know. The cook who'll prepare their final banquet."

He reached for me with webbed fingers, but I pushed him away and barred the galley door. I can hear him scratching at it still, humming that damned song.

*May 7, 1847*

The ship no longer rocks with the waves—it pulses, like a heart about to burst. The brass pots in my galley have started to tarnish in impossible patterns, forming images that shift when I'm not looking directly at them. Scenes of underwater cities, of creatures that have never seen the sun, of feasts where the food screams and the diners have too many mouths.

I tried to make bread today, but the dough kept trying to crawl away. When I finally forced it into the oven, it screamed—actually screamed—and the smell it produced sent me retching into the corner.

The crew doesn't even pretend to be human anymore. They slide across the deck on bellies that have grown scales, leaving trails of slime that glow in the dark. Their eyes have gone huge and black, and their fingers have grown long and boneless. They gather at the railings, pointing and chittering at shapes in the fog that I refuse to acknowledge.

Williams visited me today, crawling across the ceiling like a grotesque spider. "Time to start preparing the feast, Samuel," he gurgled through gills that had split open along his neck. "They're so looking forward to your cooking."

"Who are they?" I demanded, brandishing a knife that seemed to bend and warp in my trembling hand.

He laughed, and seawater spilled from his lips. "The ones who taught us how to hunger. The ones who showed us what real food tastes like. They've been so patient, Samuel. So very patient. But now they want their supper."

*May 8, 1847*

The captain emerged from his cabin at last. God help me, I wish he hadn't. His uniform has fused with his flesh, brass buttons sunk deep into green-tinted skin. Tentacles writhe where his beard should be, and his eyes... his eyes are like windows into an ocean trench, bottomless and full of terrible wisdom.

"We've arrived," he announced in a voice like waves crushing a drowning man. "Time for the final preparation, Mr. Hayes. They're waiting for their cook."

The fog has pulled back at last, revealing what lies beneath us. The sea glows with otherworldly light, illuminating the ruins of a city that should not exist. Massive shapes move through the waters below, casting shadows that drive me mad to look upon.

I'm writing this from inside a barrel in the galley's deepest corner. They're coming for me—I can hear them slithering through the ship, calling my name in voices that sound like dying stars would sound. The ship's tilting, slowly but surely pointing its bow toward the depths.

The knife in my hand promises a quicker end than what awaits below, but my hands shake too much to use it. Or perhaps something else stays my hand—some horrible curiosity about the feast they've promised me I'll prepare.

The barrel's lid is being pried open now. I see faces I once knew, transformed into something ancient and hungry. They're reaching for me with limbs that were never meant to exist above the waves.

"Come, Samuel," they sing in horrible harmony. "Come cook for us. Cook with us. The greatest feast awaits, and you're the guest of honor."

They have me now. Their touch burns cold as the deepest ocean, and I can feel my flesh beginning to change, to adapt to the pressures that await below. The last thing I see as they drag me from my sanctuary is my reflection in a pot's tarnished surface—my eyes are already growing larger, darker, hungrier.

I am the last to bear witness. The sea has taken them, and soon it shall take me, too. And when it does, it will feast on my very soul.

But first, it seems, I have a meal to prepare.

With thanks to @dadrizzle34 for providing the inspiration for this story.

#horror stories #supernatural #cosmic horror #horror #scary horror story

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onegianthotmess · 2 months ago

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Here’s Heidi Vanrouge at age 19! She eventually died her hair like Lilia’s, though she used red like he did when he was in the military rather than the pink he uses currently.

As Heidi got older, she calmed down on her hotheadedness, but she still has quite a temper and is a force to be reckoned with when angry. She also reminds Lilia even more of how he acted when he was the Right General and it freaks him out a lot.

Heidi actually scares Baul and Peaches as well with how much she acts like how Lilia did when he was General of the Right and it’s really funny to Divian how three war veterans are scared of how much a teenager reminds them so much of how one of them used to act.

Heidi eventually grew to be level headed despite her temper and basically acts like a tired single mother who’s trying to parent fifteen kids while doing a million things at once. Though, despite this begrudgingly motherly attitude towards her friends, Heidi cannot cook to save her life, much like her father and she actually set a stove on fire when she tried to boil a pot of water once and no one knows how it happened.

But it is quite easy to tell that Divian is her mother since she got her “mom glare” and “mom voice” from her along with her beautiful singing voice. It baffles so many people that the no nonsense and all brass tacks Heidi Vanrouge basically had the voice of an angel and can easily sing babies to sleep and call birds to her. She can make birds explode by singing like her mother, as well, though-

And although she seems harsh, Heidi loved Birdie very much and just wants to look out for her since Birdie is the baby. She does this is subtle ways, such as defending Birdie when others judge her diet, helping her with subjects she struggles with, and giving her the best advice she can when she doesn’t have anyone else to go to.

At NRC she’s just a regular student in Diasomnia since she already has a lot on her plate with making sure her dumbass friends don’t get arrested, being president of the Gardening Club, and being an on and off member of the Light Music Club. Heidi is very good at History of Magic and Potionology, specifically the gardening portions, but finds Astronomy ridiculous and hard to understand and doesn’t really see the point in it. Despite this, Heidi has amazing grades and finds that most magic and subjects come fairly easily to her, though she really needs to pay incredibly close attention if she wants to learn because although she is very observant, Heidi gets antsy and can get easily distracted if she sits still for extended periods of time.

And here is Bernadine “Birdie” Vanrouge at age 16!

She acts a lot like Lilia does currently, very silly and goofy and she enjoys looking adorable. While Heidi hates that people call her a pretty dove, Birdie loves how cute she is and enjoys enhancing said cuteness with her clothes and how she styles her hair. And again, Lilia is scared of how much Birdie looks like him since she’s basically her father’s “mini-me” and looks identical to him aside from her downturned eyes and her ponytail makes her look a lot like Lilia did back when he had long hair in his General days.

Birdie still loves being outside like she did when she was little, but she’s developed a strange fascination, borderline obsession, with horses. And not in the regular teenage girl way, in the way that she studies them extensively and what their physical capabilities are and what parts of a horse are best to eat if necessary and how many liters of blood is in an average horse. She knows so many random and creepy horse facts that it’s scary to even her parents.

Birdie also thankfully inherited her mother’s cooking skills and often assists in shooing Lilia out of the kitchen before he makes another biohazard of turns a loaf of bread into liquid again. Birdie loves cooking for others and, much like both of her parents, it’s basically one of her love languages to cook or bake for someone and watch them enjoy it. She also loves tomatoes and tomato juice just like Lilia and often starts salivating at the thought of a nice, ripe and juicy tomato or a nice, cold glass of tomato juice if she’s really hungry and hasn’t eaten in a while.

On the subject of eating, Birdie is a very big vegetarian and it’s pretty much like she has a phobia of meat. This stems from when she was about eleven and found out that most of the meat she was eating was birds and it just felt wrong for her to eat any kind of bird since both her mother and sister’s spirit animals are birds and it eventually spiraled into a whole mental crisis until Birdie decided to become a vegetarian and not eat any kind of meat. Though, she’s now so adverse to meat that even the sight or smell of meat makes her feel all nauseous and woozy, but having the parents she does gives her a strong enough stomach to be able to sit through a dinner at home or lunch with friends without throwing up or fainting. But if meat is shoved in her face or someone holds it up to her mouth, Birdie will either run away to go puke or just faint on the spot.

Moving to the topic of NRC, Birdie becomes Vice Housewarden of Diasomnia within her first couple of days of being at NRC thanks to her friendliness and surprising efficiency when it comes to paperwork. It might be a family trait, but Birdie is very good at History of Magic and finds that most magical subjects come to her very easily, though she does struggle with mathematics because it isn’t a magic based subject or a subject that she is particularly interested in. But onto clubs, Birdie is the drummer for the Light Music Club but she’s also a member of the Equestrian Club and is incredibly grateful that both clubs have schedules that somehow never overlap or interfere with each other because, while she is flexible, it’s basically an impossible choice for Birdie to choose between the two clubs since she loves music and horses so much.

#i love them so much!!!#twst #twst oc #twst fan kids #twisted wonderland #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #heidi vanrouge #bernadine vanrouge #birdie vanrouge

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wistfulwanderingone · 1 month ago

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Whisked Together

Fandom: Ikemen Prince

Characters: Yves Kloss, Cassandra Bellerose; Leon Dompteur, Jin Grandet, (Clavis X OC story AU)

Tags: friendship fluff, Humor

Summary: Between playful banter, shared laughter, and a rose-infused tart in the making, a friendship deepens. But the peaceful morning takes a chaotic turn when two mischievous princes crash the scene.

Word Count: 2307

Timeline: 4 years after Bloodstained Rose Day, 6 years before the "Belle" year. (Takes place before Meeting in the Moonlight).

A/N: Introducing my new OC Cassandra, who is besties with Yves and Licht and romantically paired with Clavis Lelouch, Cassandra, who has been carefully crafted for him specifically. (More details at the end of the post).

(Thank you @dododrawsstuff for all the beautiful artwork you have provided for Cassandra's story so far!)

Whisked Together

“Here you go, milady.” The maid, curtsied and gestured towards a nearby door. The door was more simple and small than any of the others they had passed by on their way. “If you need anything else, please let me know.” She curtsied once more and turned to head back down the small hallway.

Cassandra pushed the wooden door open and stepped into a small kitchen in the back of the palace, she smiled at the immediate sense of warmth and comfort that washed over her. The room was bathed in the soft morning light filtering through large windows, casting a gentle glow over the rustic yet refined space. Copper pots and pans hung from a wooden rack above, their polished surfaces gleaming in the sunlight. The walls were adorned with hanging garlic and herbs, adding a touch of greenery and a hint of their earthy aroma to the air.

A large, sturdy wooden table dominated the center of the room, its surface slightly worn from years of use but lovingly maintained. It was scattered with fresh ingredients: ripe tomatoes, fragrant herbs, and a basket of vibrant red apples. On one end of the table, two tall candles in brass holders added a touch of elegance, their unlit wicks promising cozy evenings filled with culinary delights.

The stone walls and arched doorways gave the kitchen an old-world charm, while the modern appliances and well-stocked shelves spoke of a space designed for both efficiency and comfort. The countertop along the far wall was cluttered with various cooking utensils, neatly organized within reach. A few bottles of olive oil and vinegar stood beside a mortar and pestle, ready for the day's culinary adventures.

As Cassandra looked around, she couldn't help but smile and clasp her hands together in delight. This kitchen, with its blend of warmth and practicality, felt like the heart of the palace, filled with the promise of delicious food and shared laughter. She knew immediately there would be many wonderful moments spent here with her friends.

As if on cue, a door in the back swung open, and Yves, arms laden with baking goods, stepped out. Cassandra scurried over to help take some things from his arms before he lost his grip on any of them. “So this is the palace kitchen…”

“Well, one of them,” he replied, depositing the load onto the table. “This one isn’t used by the palace staff, so it’s never very busy or crowded. Makes for a much more peaceful time baking.” He smiled warmly at her.

“The perfect atmosphere for baking with you!” she giggled, sweeping him into a big hug.

He blushed, slightly taken aback by her enthusiasm, but hugged her back with a genuine smile before stepping away bashfully. “Yes, well, I suppose.”

Cassandra danced around the kitchen, taking in the scene once more and then looking through all the ingredients he had brought. “So what are we making today?”

Yves brushed a hand through his soft, honey-colored hair. “I’d like to try making a rose-infused savory tart. A bit unconventional, perhaps, but I think it will be delicious.”

Cassandra giggled and bumped his shoulder with hers. “Everything you make is delicious, Yves.” Her bright, green eyes were practically gleaming as she smiled at him. “I can’t wait to try it!”

“I want to make enough for the tea party and some for…”

“Your brothers?” Cassandra winked at him knowingly.

Yves cheeks rosied a little bit. “I suppose they’ve earned an occasional treat.”

Cassandra tried to bite back a grin but didn’t succeed. Yves was just the cutest thing and she could hardly stand it half the time. He tried to act so calm and cool, but he was like a nervous, blushing cat and she adored that about her friend.

“You’re enjoying this far too much. Stop grinning like a fool,” he grumbled, trying to hold back a smile, “and get over here and help.” He fairly grabbed her hand and dragged her over to the table.

This time Cassandra couldn’t hold in her giggles and they burst out despite her best efforts.

“Please focus.” He handed her an apron before putting one on himself.

“I’m sorry, Yves, you’re just so cute!” she reached up and mussed his hair playfully with her hand.

“Now look what you’ve done. Please, Cassandra, let’s keep some decorum,” he said with a hint of exasperation, gently fixing his hair until it was perfect once more. “Now, if you can find it within you to focus, I’ll get the flour and salt ready. Will you cut that butter into small pieces?

Together, they worked in silence for a moment, Cassandra humming peacefully as she cut the butter next to Yves as he mixed flour and salt. Being with Yves, and of course Licht, when he was also with them, was so relaxing. Being in their presence had quickly become her happy place. In no time at all, they had a perfect camaraderie between them—one that Cassandra had desperately needed.

She watched as Yves combined the butter with the flour mixture, slowly adding the rose water as he mixed it into a dough.

“Yves, how long have you been cooking?”

“What do you mean?” He raised a sharp eyebrow. “I started when you got here.”

She giggled at his playful response. “I know you know what I mean. When did your interest in cooking start?”

“Well,” he began kneading the dough thoughtfully as he spoke, “I must have been quite small. I’ve always loved sweets. Sariel, who was our tutor at the time, once told me that if I learned to bake I could make any sweet I want any time I wanted it. I began spending afternoons sitting in the palace kitchen watching the staff make the meals, and I read cooking books, and then one day, Jin showed me this little kitchen and I started experimenting.”

“Were you a natural?” Cassandra asked, as she beat the ingredients for the filling together.

“I’m Prince Yves Kloss, of course I was a natural,” he stated, his smile smug.

“Yves…” Cassandra said, a bit of a reprimand in her voice.

“Fine.” He heaves a theatrical sigh. “It took me a while to figure out a few things.”

Cassandra smirked back at him. “Thank goodness you are actually just like the rest of us.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “And you, how long have you been cooking?”

“Not as long as that.” She continued to whip the filling as her she let her memories take her. “I had to wait until I was old enough to not only sneak into the kitchens without my parents or nanny noticing but also to light a fire by myself.”

“They didn’t want you to?”

Cassandra lifted her nose into the air and mimicked her mother’s pretentious voice. “Cassandra, a Bellerose lady does not cook, let alone spend time in the kitchens with servants.”

Yves scrunched up his nose distastefully. “I’ve never met your mother…but I feel like I have now.”

“Luckily, I think she’s given up on stopping me at this point. I mean she still turns her nose up or makes a comment when she sees me heading to the kitchen, but she doesn’t try to stop me.” Cassandra shrugged. “Maybe if I tell her one of the princes bakes, she will change her mind, and let me do it without guilt.”

“Just don't tell them which prince,” Yves replied sullenly.

Cassandra cast a curious glance his way, but Yves was absorbed in shaping the crust of the tart. She sensed a deeper meaning behind his simple words, a silent weight he wasn’t ready to share. Patiently, she resolved to wait. In time, she would help him realize he could trust her completely.

As Yves placed the crust to cook, Cassandra leaned back against the table for a moment. “When I was first experimenting with baking, I tried to make chocolate fondue for a tea party with my dolls. I succeeded in making the chocolate…but I tipped over the pot and spilled chocolate everywhere.”

Yves chuckled softly, glancing up at her. “That sounds like quite the disaster. I imagine your dolls were not pleased.”

Cassandra laughed. “No, they were not. I had to wash them all, and the kitchen was a mess. My sister found me and started to help me clean up the mess so no one would find out. But instead, we ended up having a chocolate fight. When my nanny found us, she was furious.”

Yves smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, at least you had the right idea. And look how far you’ve come since then. We all have to start somewhere, right?”

He started gathering berries and rose petals, adding, “Once some of my brothers were in here while I was baking and Clavis showed up and started an argument and then we ended up throwing handfuls of flour at each other. The kitchen basically turned into a winter wonderland.”

Cassandra giggled. “That sounds like fun.”

Smiling so happily, it warms Cassandra’s heart. “It was. Sariel banned me from the kitchen for a week. One of the longest weeks of my life. But those early mishaps just make the successes that much sweeter.”

Cassandra nodded, a grin spreading across her face. “You’re right. And now we’re here, making rose-infused tarts like seasoned chefs.”

Yves gave her a playful wink. “Exactly. Just promise me you’ll keep the chocolate fondue far away from our tarts.”

“As long as you only use the proper amount of flour and none becomes airborne.”

“No promises,” Yves chuckled.

By this point, the tart crust was ready, and the filling was perfectly mixed. Together, they filled the tart, singing a silly children’s song as they worked, their voices blending harmoniously in the cozy kitchen.

As they finished, Yves smiled and reached for a bowl of fresh berries. “Now for the finishing touch,” he said, arranging the berries on top of the tart with care.

Cassandra grabbed a small jar of honey. “And a drizzle of honey,” she added, her eyes twinkling with delight as she drizzled it over the berries.

Yves chuckled, admiring their creation. “It looks almost too good to eat.”

“Almost,” Cassandra echoed, grinning. She reached for a few fresh rose petals and mint leaves. “Let’s garnish it with these.”

They both stepped back to admire their handiwork. The tart was a beautiful blend of colors and aromas, promising deliciousness.

“It’s perfect,” Yves said softly, glancing at Cassandra with a gentle smile.

She smiled back at him, feeling a warm sense of accomplishment. “It really is. It almost looks too good to eat!”

Before Yves could respond, a familiar voice interrupted.

“What have we here?” Leon stepped into the kitchen, his eyes twinkling with curiosity, with Jin close behind him.

“I knew I smelled something sweet,” Jin added, sniffing next to Cassandra’s ear.

“Don’t even think about it!” Yves quickly stepped between the men and the dessert. “It’s barely finished.”

“That’s okay.” Jin grinned, leaning against the counter lazily as he turned to face Cassandra. “I think there’s something even sweeter standing right here.”

Yves’s cheeks reddened with annoyance and protectiveness. “Don’t even think about that either, you lecherous old man!” Jin covered his mouth to muffle his words.

“I don’t think we’ve met.” Jin bowed and took her hand in his, kissing each finger slowly. “My name’s Jin Granet. And I’m sure your name must be Miss Tempting Decolletage.”

“Jin!” Yves shrieked.

Cassandra’s face flushed slightly, but she held her composure. “My name is Cassandra Bellerose.”

Jin raised an eyebrow, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, Lady Bellerose, with you and that delectable figure in here, I think the kitchen’s temperature just went up a few degrees.”

Cassandra raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Does this kind of thing usually work for you?”

Yves couldn’t help but snicker at her retort.

“You’ll have to excuse my brother,” Leon said stepping between her and the other men. “He can’t handle himself around beautiful women. I apologize for his behavior, Lady Bellerose.” He turned to Jin, raising his eyebrow. “Would that be the Marquis Bellerose?”

Jin didn’t seem concerned in the least, still leaning nonchalantly against the counter.

“Yes, that’s my father.”

Leon offered a polite nod. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Prince Leon Demptour, fourth prince.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, Your Highness!” She curtsied deeply.

“Never mind that,” Leon smiled. “You don’t have to put on social airs with me. And I should point out this is Prince Jin, first prince.”

Her eyes widened further, and she glanced at Jin through her peripheral vision. “P-Prince Jin?”

“Yes, Prince Jin.” Jin pushed himself off the counter and sauntered over to her again. “That being said,” he continued, cornering her against a counter, “would you care to... find a more private corner with me?”

“Leon, get your hands out of that tart! That’s for tea today!”

Leon, caught with his fingers in the tart filling, licked them off nonchalantly as Yves stood glaring at him. “Are we invited?”

Cassandra used the distraction to distance herself from Jin, who didn’t seem distracted in the least as he followed her like a shadow.

“No,” Yves retorted angrily. “It’s for tea with Licht.”

Jin grabbed Cassandra’s hand again, a playful glint in his eye. “So about that private corner…”

Yves smacked his hand away, his patience wearing thin. “And Cassandra is OUR guest, not yours. Leave her alone, you sleazy snake!”

With that, Yves grabbed the tart in one hand and fairly dragged Cassandra out with the other. She tried to curtsy as he pulled her away, amusement and relief written across her face.

“And to think I was going to save them some of this tart!” Yves muttered as he led the way to the palace gardens.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List:

@candiedcoffeedrops @aide-falls @chirp-a-chirp @ithseem @aquagirl1978

@queengiuliettafirstlady

#ikemen prince #ikeprince #otome fanfiction #ikemen prince yves #yves kloss #leon dompteur #jin grandet #ikemen prince fanfiction #Cassandra Bellerose

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