#powder puff plant

[indigrassy]

And so, the powderpuff flowers were born...

[rowanphotographyagain]

powder puff plant

[awakeningthevioletswithin]

Paroxysms

Watercolor on Birch Panel

2022, 30"x 40"

Calliandra haematocephala alba, White Powder Puff Tree

[morethansalad]

Vegan Pigs in Blankets

[faguscarolinensis]

Calliandra tergemina / Pink Powderpuff at the Denver Botanic Gardens in Denver, CO

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[23victoria]

gingerbread cookies!

pairings: 𝓯1 𝓰𝓻𝓲𝓭 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

word count: 3.8𝓴

synopsis: 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 ����𝓾𝓼𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓴𝓲𝓭𝓼

authors note: 𝓭𝓪𝔂 1 𝓸𝓯 𝓬𝓱𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓶𝓪𝓼 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓼! 𝓱𝓸𝓹𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓮𝓷𝓳𝓸𝔂! 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼, 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓼, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓼𝓴𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭!!

𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓪𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝔂 𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽?! CLICK HERE!

F1 MASTERLIST F1 CHRISTMAS MASTERLIST

Lewis

The kitchen is already buzzing with excitement. Lia’s tiny voice fills the room as she sits on the counter, clapping her flour-covered hands while her big brother Leo drags a chair to the counter so he can reach the mixing bowl. Lewis stands next to you, grinning from ear to ear, his apron slightly already dusted with flour. You’re armed with a rolling pin and a smile, ready to face the inevitable chaos of baking gingerbread cookies for the first time as a family.

“Alright, team,” Lewis says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s make some gingerbread magic happen.”

“Cookies, Daddy!” Lia cheers, throwing her arms in the air. The sudden movement sends a puff of flour into the air, and both you and Lewis cough, laughing as the powder settles.

“Cookies, yes, princess,” he says, scooping her up and planting a kiss on her flour-speckled cheek. She giggles and squirms, and he sets her back down on the counter. “But first, we have to mix the dough. Leo, you ready to be my sous-chef?”

Leo’s chest puffs up with pride. “Yes, Dad! I’m ready.”

You hand him the wooden spoon, and he gets to work mixing the dry ingredients. You and Lewis guide him, taking turns measuring out the cinnamon, ginger, and cloves while Lia alternates between sneaking handfuls of flour and trying to “help” by stirring.

“Lia, no eating the flour,” you say gently, pulling her flour-covered fingers out of her mouth. “It doesn’t taste good yet.”

She pouts dramatically, her big brown eyes shining with mischief. “But I’m hungry, Mommy!”

“You’ll get cookies soon,” Lewis assures her, ruffling her curly hair. “But first, we have to make the dough.”

The dough comes together quickly, though not without a few mishaps. Lia accidentally dumps too much sugar into the bowl, prompting a quick rescue mission from you and Leo. Lewis adds a bit too much molasses, which makes the dough stickier than it should be. But the laughter and teamwork make up for any imperfections.

When it’s time to roll out the dough, you dust the counter with flour and hand Lia a miniature rolling pin. She takes her job very seriously, rolling the dough with all her might, even if it’s uneven and full of tiny fingerprints.

“Look, Mommy! I’m a chef!” she announces proudly.

“You’re the best chef,” you reply, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

Meanwhile, Leo focuses intently on cutting out shapes with the cookie cutters. He’s careful and precise, his tongue poking out in concentration as he presses a star-shaped cutter into the dough.

“Good job, buddy,” Lewis says, giving him a fist bump. “That’s a perfect star.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Leo says, beaming.

Of course, it’s not long before things start to spiral into delightful chaos. Lia, bored with rolling dough, begins decorating her face with flour, creating what she calls a “gingerbread mask.” Leo accidentally knocks over the bowl of sprinkles, sending colorful candies skittering across the floor. And Lewis, in his attempt to “help,” manages to get icing on his nose and eyebrows.

“You’re supposed to decorate the cookies, not yourself,” you tease, laughing as you wipe a smear of icing off his cheek.

“I’m just setting the vibe,” he quips, leaning in to kiss you. Before his lips can meet yours, Lia interrupts with a loud, “Ewwww, Mommy and Daddy are kissing!”

You and Lewis laugh, pulling apart but not before he winks at you. “We’ll finish that later,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.

Finally, the cookies are ready to go into the oven. You let Leo and Lia take turns placing the tray in with Lewis supervising closely.

As the cookies bake, the smell of ginger and cinnamon fills the kitchen, making everyone’s mouth water. You’re wiping down the counter when Lia tugs on your sleeve.

“Mommy, can we make hot chocolate?” she asks sweetly, her flour-covered face tilted up at you.

“Of course we can,” you say, lifting her off the counter and setting her on the floor. “Let’s get the mugs.”

By the time the cookies are ready, the four of you are sitting at the table, sipping hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows. The cookies, though slightly misshapen, are delicious, and Leo takes great pride in pointing out which ones he decorated.

“This one’s mine,” he says, holding up a star-shaped cookie covered in lopsided icing. “And that one’s Lia’s.”

“It’s so pretty,” Lia says, clapping her hands. “Just like me!”

Lewis bursts out laughing. “You’re not wrong, princess.”

As the evening winds down, you survey the mess in the kitchen: flour on the counters, sprinkles on the floor, and sticky fingerprints everywhere. But the sound of your children’s laughter and the sight of their frosting-smeared faces make it all worth it.

“We’re definitely doing this again next year,” Lewis says, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Absolutely,” you agree, leaning into him.

The kids, now on a sugar high, start a game of tag around the table, their giggles echoing through the house.

Charles

The twins are perched on either side of the kitchen island, their little hands eager to dive into the pile of cookie cutters and bowls of colorful icing. Jules, ever the perfectionist, carefully lines up the cutters, his brow furrowed in concentration. Alessandro, on the other hand, is already elbow-deep in the flour, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Papa, is it like this?" Jules asks, holding up a perfectly shaped gingerbread man. Charles leans over, his green eyes sparkling with pride. "C'est parfait, Jules! You’re a natural."

You’re busy rolling out another sheet of dough when Alessandro lets out a frustrated huff. "Mine broke!" he exclaims, holding up a decapitated gingerbread man. Tears threaten to spill as he glares at the dough.

Before you or Charles can intervene, Jules slides his own gingerbread man over to his twin. "Here, Ale. You can have mine. I’ll make another one," he says softly, his tone filled with understanding.

The gesture melts your heart. Charles places a hand on your back, his expression a mix of pride and tenderness as he watches his sons. "They’re good boys," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Alessandro sniffs, accepting the cookie with a shy smile. "Thanks, Jules. You’re the best brother."

The rest of the baking session goes smoothly, with Alessandro taking his time to mimic Jules’ careful technique. The boys work together to decorate their cookies, laughing as they sneak tastes of icing and sprinkles. Charles manages to snap a few candid photos, capturing the flour-streaked faces and genuine smiles that light up the room.

When the cookies are finally done, the twins proudly present their creations to you and Charles. "Look, Mama! Papa!" they say in unison, holding up their plates of colorful gingerbread men.

"Magnificent!" Charles declares, pulling the boys into a bear hug. "You two are master bakers."

You smile, wrapping your arms around your little family, your heart has never felt fuller.

Carlos

The kitchen is a whirlwind of chaos and laughter as your three little ones dive into the gingerbread-making process. Ruby, your five-year-old, takes charge immediately, carefully measuring out ingredients with her tongue poking out in concentration. Marco, who is four, is more interested in sneaking tastes of the dough, while Roman, your three-year-old, is determined to use every single cookie cutter at once.

"Mama, can I do the sprinkles now?" Ruby asks, holding up a shaker of red and green sprinkles. Before you can answer, Marco bumps into her, causing the shaker to topple over and coat the counter in a glittering mess.

"Marco!" Ruby scolds, her lower lip trembling as she surveys the ruined sprinkles.

"Sorry!" Marco says quickly, his big brown eyes wide with guilt. Roman, sensing the tension, toddles over to Ruby and wraps his little arms around her waist. "Don’t be sad, Ruby. We help," he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Marco nods earnestly, grabbing a dishcloth. "I’ll clean it up, Ruby!"

You exchange a look with Carlos, who is watching the scene unfold with a soft smile. "Our little team," he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

With Ruby’s spirits lifted, the three kids work together to fix the mess. Marco carefully wipes up the spilled sprinkles while Roman hands Ruby a new shaker. "Here, Ruby. You do it better," he says, his tiny voice full of sincerity.

Carlos crouches down to help Ruby and Marco roll out the dough again, his hands guiding theirs as they press the cutters into the soft surface. Roman, meanwhile, has discovered the joy of throwing flour into the air, creating a fine white mist that settles over everyone.

"Roman!" Carlos exclaims, laughing as he tries to stop the little boy. But Roman is too quick, and soon even Carlos’ dark hair is dusted with flour.

By the time the cookies are finally baked and decorated, the kitchen looks like a tornado has passed through. But as you sit on the floor with Carlos and the kids, nibbling on warm gingerbread and sharing stories, the mess feels like a small price to pay for such a perfect family moment.

Max

The kitchen feels extra cozy as little Mia, your three-year-old daughter, toddles up to the counter on her step stool. She clutches a rolling pin almost as big as her, her tiny tongue peeking out in concentration.

"Dada, I’m making a big cookie!" Mia announces, pressing down on the dough with all her strength. Max chuckles, standing beside her. "A big cookie for a big girl, right?"

You’re sifting flour when Mia suddenly sneezes. A puff of flour rises into the air, landing on her nose and cheeks. Her eyes go wide in surprise before she bursts into a fit of giggles.

"Dada! I’m white!" she exclaims, pointing to her face. Max grins and taps her nose with his finger, adding another smudge of flour. "Now you look like a snowman!"

"Mama, I’m a snowman!" Mia declares, holding out her arms for you to see. You laugh, wiping your hands on a towel before leaning in to kiss her floury cheek. "The cutest snowman I’ve ever seen."

As Mia works on her giant cookie, Max decides to get creative. He scoops a bit of icing and dabs it on your nose, earning a playful glare from you. "Max!"

"What? It’s Christmas spirit!" he says innocently, though his mischievous grin gives him away.

Before long, the kitchen turns into a playful battlefield. Mia joins in, flinging tiny handfuls of flour at both you and Max. Her giggles echo through the room as Max lifts her up, spinning her around to evade your “retaliation” with a handful of sprinkles.

When the cookies are finally in the oven, the three of you are covered head to toe in flour, sprinkles, and icing. Mia sits on Max’s lap at the kitchen table, munching on a leftover piece of dough. "Dada, can we eat the cookies now?" she asks, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Soon, angel," Max says, brushing a strand of flour-dusted hair out of her face. "First, they have to bake."

As you all wait, you take a moment to snap a photo of your messy but happy little family. The kitchen might need serious cleaning, but the memories made within its walls are priceless. Once the cookies are out of the oven, cooled, and decorated with Mia’s enthusiastic smears of icing and an overload of sprinkles, she proudly holds up her "big cookie."

"Look, Mama! Dada! My cookie is so pretty!" she beams, her little chest puffed out with pride.

"It’s the best cookie I’ve ever seen," Max says earnestly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. You nod in agreement, wrapping an arm around both of them.

"Absolutely. This one’s going in the family hall of fame," you tease, already planning to snap another picture. The three of you sit down to enjoy the sweet treats together, your hearts full despite the flour-coated chaos surrounding you.

Lando

The kitchen is a whirlwind of flour, sugar, and laughter as you and Lando attempt to make gingerbread cookies with your four-year-old daughter, Celeste. Standing on her little stool by the counter, she’s already covered in flour from head to toe, her tiny hands eagerly grabbing at the cookie cutters. Lando leans close to her, his face alight with a mixture of amusement and pure adoration.

“Alright, baby,” Lando says, handing her a star-shaped cutter. “Press it down nice and hard, just like this.” He demonstrates with a gingerbread man cutter, and Celeste mimics him with all the determination of a toddler on a mission.

“I did it!” she announces proudly, holding up her slightly lopsided star. Her big green eyes shine as she turns to you for approval.

“That’s perfect, baby girl,” you say, brushing a bit of flour off her nose. “You’re a natural baker.”

Celeste beams, and Lando’s grin widens as he grabs another piece of dough. “She takes after me,” he teases, earning an eye roll from you. “What can I say? Talent runs in the family.”

“Oh, does it?” you reply, arching a brow as you sprinkle a little flour onto his cheek. Lando gasps dramatically, grabbing a handful of flour and tossing it into the air like confetti. Celeste squeals with laughter, clapping her hands and sending a puff of flour everywhere.

“Lando!” you scold, though you’re laughing too.

“What? She started it,” he says, pointing at Celeste, who giggles even harder.

When the cookies are finally in the oven, the three of you sit at the table with bowls of icing and sprinkles. Lando takes one look at the little tray of cookies and shakes his head. “I think these might be the most... abstract gingerbread cookies ever made.”

Celeste holds up a cookie she’s decorated with three blobs of icing and a pile of red sprinkles. “It’s a snowman!” she says proudly.

Lando’s face softens, and he nods. “The best snowman I’ve ever seen,” he says, leaning over to kiss her flour-dusted cheek.

You watch as Celeste happily eats her cookie, her tiny teeth nibbling away at the edges. Lando’s eyes never leave her, his expression so full of love it makes your heart ache. “She’s perfect,” he murmurs, reaching over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

As Celeste finishes her cookie, Lando scoops her up into his arms, spinning her around until she’s giggling uncontrollably. He plants kisses all over her face, making her squeal and squirm. “Daddy, stop! It tickles!”

“Never!” Lando declares, holding her close and laughing along with her.

By the end of the evening, the kitchen is a complete mess, but you wouldn’t trade the chaos for anything. With Celeste snuggled up between you and Lando on the couch, her tiny hand clutching a gingerbread star, you feel like the luckiest family in the world.

Oscar

The kitchen is calm but buzzing with a quiet excitement as your twins, four-year-old Odessa and Ocean, stand on their step stools by the counter. Odessa’s brows are furrowed in deep concentration as she carefully presses a gingerbread man cutter into the rolled-out dough. Ocean, on the other hand, is humming a Christmas tune, sprinkling flour on her side of the counter with as much flair as possible.

"Mommy, look! Mine has arms this time!" Odessa says proudly, holding up her perfectly shaped cookie. You smile and nod, brushing a bit of flour from her cheek.

"Great job, honeybun! You’re getting really good at this."

Oscar, standing nearby with a mixing bowl in hand, chuckles softly. "'s precision is unmatched," he says, ruffling Odessa’s dark brown curls before turning to Ocean. "And Ocean, are you making snow angels or cookies?"

Ocean giggles, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Both!" she declares, throwing a puff of flour into the air. It lands on her hair, turning her into a mini snow queen.

Oscar shakes his head, amused, and places the bowl down to help. "Alright, let’s focus on the cookies before we lose the rest of the flour," he says, guiding Ocean’s tiny hands to press a star cutter into the dough.

"Daddy, do you like stars or trees better?" Ocean asks, glancing up at him.

Oscar pretends to think for a moment. "Hmm, I think I like stars better because they remind me of you and Odessa—my two brightest stars."

Odessa rolls her eyes in good-natured embarrassment. "Papa, that’s so cheesy."

You laugh, nudging Odessa gently. "Sometimes cheesy is good, honey."

As the cookies bake in the oven, the four of you sit at the table, readying bowls of icing and sprinkles for decorating. Odessa picks up a piping bag, her little hands steady as she carefully outlines her gingerbread man’s shirt. Ocean, meanwhile, goes for an avant-garde approach, covering her cookie with every color of icing she can reach.

"Ocean, your gingerbread man looks like a rainbow exploded on him," Odessa comments, tilting her head as she examines her work.

"It’s called art," Ocean replies with a dramatic flip of her flour-dusted hair.

Oscar hides a grin behind his hand, leaning over to whisper to you. "She’s got your sass."

You laugh softly, watching your little ones pour their hearts into their creations. When the cookies are finally finished, Odessa presents her gingerbread man with a proud grin. "Look, Daddy, it’s you!"

Oscar inspects the cookie’s neat icing tie and buttoned shirt, his eyes crinkling with delight. "Wow, Odessa. You’ve made me look very handsome."

"And this one’s Mommy!" Ocean chimes in, holding up a colorful cookie that’s practically drowning in sprinkles.

You gasp playfully. "Ocean, I’ve never looked better."

The evening ends with all four of you sitting on the couch, enjoying your gingerbread creations and a Christmas movie playing softly in the background. Odessa leans against Oscar’s side, and Ocean cuddles in your lap, both happily munching on their cookies. As the glow of the Christmas tree lights flickers across the room, you catch Oscar’s eye. He smiles at you, the warmth in his gaze saying everything words can’t.

The kitchen may be clean now, the flour swept away and the cookie cutters put back in their drawers, but the memory of this perfect family moment will linger long after the last crumb is gone.

Sebastian

The kitchen is lively with chatter as Sebastian stands at the counter, helping your children, Tommy, Jamie, and Ambria, shape gingerbread cookies. Jamie, determined to make the perfect reindeer, furrows his brows in concentration while Ambria giggles, sprinkling flour onto the table—and accidentally onto Sebastian’s hair.

"Ambria," Sebastian says in mock seriousness, brushing flour off his curls, "are you trying to turn me into a snowman?"

Ambria bursts into laughter. "You’d make the best snowman, Papa!" she declares, tossing another puff of flour into the air. Jamie snickers, but his focus remains on his dough.

"Alright, alright," you interject, smiling as you place a tray of freshly shaped cookies onto the counter. "Let’s save some flour for the actual baking, shall we?"

Sebastian grins at you, his green eyes sparkling. "They’re creative, what can I say?"

The oven hums as the first batch of cookies bakes, filling the air with the warm, spiced scent of gingerbread. Jamie and Ambria lean against the counter, eagerly watching the timer count down.

"Papa," Jamie says, glancing up at Sebastian, "why do we always make gingerbread cookies at Christmas?"

Sebastian kneels to Jamie’s level, his hands resting on his son’s flour-dusted shoulders. "Because it’s a tradition," he explains gently. "It’s something we do together as a family, so that every Christmas, we can remember these moments."

Ambria tilts her head thoughtfully. "Like a memory we can eat?"

Sebastian chuckles, pulling her into a hug. "Exactly, my little philosopher."

When the cookies are done, the decorating begins. Ambria meticulously decorates each cookie with colorful icing and sprinkles, while Jamie opts for a simpler approach, carefully outlining each one. Sebastian joins in, creating a gingerbread version of each family member.

"This one’s Mama," he says, holding up a cookie with icing hair that matches yours. "Beautiful, just like the real thing."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Seb."

Later, as the cookies cool, the four of you sit around the Christmas tree with mugs of hot chocolate, the lights casting a soft glow around the room. Ambria snuggles into Sebastian’s side, her head resting on his shoulder, while Jamie leans against your arm, holding a gingerbread cookie shaped like a snowman.

"These are the best cookies we’ve ever made," Ambria declares, her voice sleepy but content.

Sebastian smiles, pressing a kiss to her hair. "That’s because we made them together," he says softly, his gaze meeting yours.

In that moment, surrounded by warmth, laughter, and the scent of gingerbread, you realize that these simple traditions, messy, flour-filled, and full of love, are what make the holidays truly magical.

Jenson

Your home is filled with the chaos and warmth only a family of seven can create. The kitchen is a whirlwind of activity as your five children—eleven-year-old Orion, nine-year-old Brandon, eight-year-old Killian, four-year-old Isabella, and one-year-old Luna—all take their positions around the counter. Jenson stands at the center, his sleeves rolled up and a mischievous grin on his face, ready to lead the troops.

“Alright, everyone,” Jenson announces, clapping his hands. “We’re making gingerbread cookies. Team Button, are you ready?”

“Yes!” Orion and Brandon shout, already reaching for the flour and rolling pins. Killian grabs a handful of cookie cutters, examining them with the precision of a race engineer. Isabella bounces on her stool, her excitement contagious as she claps her flour-dusted hands. Luna, perched safely in her highchair, babbles happily, smacking her little fists against the tray.

You laugh, standing back for a moment to watch the organized chaos unfold. “This is either going to be amazing or a complete disaster,” you say, crossing your arms as you lean against the counter.

Jenson winks at you. “It’ll be both,” he replies confidently.

Orion, the eldest and self-appointed leader of the kids, takes charge of measuring the ingredients. “Dad, do we really need this much cinnamon?” he asks, holding up the spice jar.

Jenson pretends to think deeply. “Hmm, cinnamon makes everything better, so maybe add just a little more.”

Brandon nudges Orion with a smirk. “He just wants an excuse to eat more cookies.”

Killian, meanwhile, has commandeered the cookie cutters and is lining them up in a perfect row. “We need a reindeer, a star, and a Christmas tree,” he declares. “And maybe a race car, if we can make one.”

“A race car?” Jenson grins, his eyes lighting up. “That’s my boy.”

Isabella, not to be outdone, grabs a rolling pin and starts flattening the dough with all her might. “I’m making the biggest cookie ever!” she announces, her tiny hands working with determination. You step in to help guide her efforts, laughing as she sticks her tongue out in concentration.

As the dough begins to take shape, Luna decides she’s had enough of just watching. She smacks her tray again, this time sending a puff of flour into the air.

“Luna wants to help too,” you say, lifting her out of the highchair and handing her a soft piece of dough to squish in her tiny fists. She giggles, smearing it across her cheeks like war paint.

“She’s starting her own cookie war,” Jenson jokes, snapping a picture on his phone.

Once the cookies are cut and placed on baking sheets, the decorating begins. Orion and Brandon focus on intricate designs, their competitive streaks coming out as they try to outdo each other. Killian, ever the perfectionist, takes his time with each cookie, ensuring every sprinkle is in its rightful place. Isabella opts for a more abstract approach, piling on as much icing and candy as possible. Luna, of course, eats more sprinkles than she applies, her little face sticky with sugar.

“Look at this one,” Jenson says, holding up a gingerbread man with a green icing bow tie. “This is Uncle Lewis. What do you think?”

The kids burst into laughter. “He needs sunglasses!” Orion suggests, grabbing black icing to add the finishing touch.

When the cookies are finally done and cooling on the racks, the kitchen looks like a snowstorm of flour and sugar has hit it. Jenson surveys the mess with a chuckle. “Well, we might need a pit crew to clean this up.”

“I’ll help, Dad,” Brandon volunteers, grabbing a dishcloth.

“Me too!” Killian chimes in, his perfectionist tendencies extending to tidying up.

As the cleaning begins, you notice Isabella carefully placing her cookies on a plate. “These are for Santa,” she explains, her voice serious. “He needs the best ones.”

“And these are for us,” Orion says, holding up a tray. “Because we’re the best cookie makers in the world.”

Jenson wraps an arm around you, pulling you close as you watch your children’s teamwork and laughter. “We did good, didn’t we?” he murmurs.

You nod, leaning into him. “Yeah, we really did.”

That night, after the kids are tucked into bed, you and Jenson sit by the Christmas tree, sharing a plate of gingerbread cookies and a quiet moment together. The chaos of the day lingers in the best way, filling your heart with warmth and love.

“Same time next year?” Jenson asks, a playful glint in his eye.

You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. “Definitely.”

𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽! ❥☽ @ham1lton @ietss @animeandf1lover @nelly187 @heartsfromtaeyong @bloodyymaryyy @nor-4 @zacian117 @mel164 @uhhvictoria @hadidsworld @zabwlky1999 @sya-skies @lillysbigwilly @avengers-assemble123456 @santanasaintmendes @km-23mr @hookhausenschips @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ronpho @minekarina @aeongism @Formula1-motogpfa @slagclarens @aleexvqa @f1updates4you @booksandflowrs @chaostudee @winkev1 @strawblueberrys @blakesbearblog @cel-b @perfumejamal @aykxz98 @pandora-08 @teti-menchon0604 @bxtosa @fadingcloudballoon-blog @whatevenisthisxxxxx @anamiad00msday @luula @jimcarreyfann42 @oliviah-25 @bbwzrld @goldenroutledge @unkownmystery_22 @sophienorris18-blog @flowerpetalk @paucubarsisimp @its-elias-world @magixpracticality @poppyflower-22 @pear-1206

© 23victoria 2023-24 I all rights reserved. do not republish, steal repost, modify, translate or claim my work as your own

[princessbrunette]

˚˖𓍢ִ🐰໋✧˚.🎀୨୧ ⋅˚₊

let’s go back to my roots. let’s talk about girly, prissy, spoiled bunny!reader with rafe.

you’re untouchable, kook royalty just for your attachment to the cameron’s but you don’t even care about all of that. all you care about, is rafes time money and attention.

he loves you a lot, but more so — he puts up with your shit. whilst you don’t have much of an attitude, soft in all corners of your life, you can still manage to be a nightmare. you clutter his sink with your makeup and skincare, decidedly a maximalist when it came to your self care and beautification rituals. he plucks a clump of mink eyelashes from the side of the sink, something he nearly mistook for a spider and sets it aside— only calling out a “jesus chr — bun, told you to clear out your shit. my bathroom looks like fuckin’ sephora. in here, now.” before he hears the soft padding of your feet come tottering along, happy to do as your told.

if that’s not making him huff and puff — it’ll surely be the outfits, moreso scraps of fabric you parade around in. expensive, according to his black card, for items of clothing that cover so little — and he can’t say you don’t get your moneys worth, toddling around in strappy powder pink dresses that leave nothing to the imagination or white mini skirts that cling to the fold of the bottom of your ass cheeks, giving not only the chumps at the country club a good look — but his closest friends too. his life had become a sequence of tugging down your hem, manhandling you to be decent. “you—y-you think i need my fuckin’ friends getting an eyeful of your pussy each time you move? are we gonna have to have another talk about what’s appropriate, bunny girl? huh? or maybe the belt will help you learn a valuable lesson. fuck.” he sulks, stomping around after his threat. you’re clung to his bicep with a dazed smile only five minutes later because his mean treatment usually flew through one bedazzled ear and came out the other. soft and dopey as ever.

back to him ‘putting up with you’, there’s a ton of reasons why that is. like aforementioned, he does love you a lot. you’re his little prized possession, his trophy. you were soft in all the ways that mattered and understanding, always listening when no one else would, even if he was admittedly in the wrong. that, and you really did fuck like a bunny rabbit.

you had a libido that was constantly set to high, all hours of the day. you were a chronic pillow humper when rafe wasn’t available to sate you, the man often times walking in to find you teary eyed with a white lacy thong binding your spread knees, pulled down just enough to grind your messy, glossy pussy against the fluffed white pillow from his side of the bed. because really, you were a chronic rafe humper— but you were well behaved enough to know that sometimes he had to handle business and didn’t have the time to feed your greedy cunt.

you’d grown accustom to taking him in any position too, whether it was in doggy style — waving your plush ass in the air, pointing that fluffy pink bunny-tail butt plug straight at him as you mewl into expensive pillows, or you’re crouched on his lap on the couch, feet planted either side of him, a high pitched whimper punched out of you each time you slam your hips back down on his cock, mushroom tip thumping your cervix. you said you liked the pain, liked when it bruised, liked when you could still feel him the next day when you missed him. reminded you of how grateful you are to have a boyfriend who dicks you good.

you had a little obsession that was serving as a problem though— having to give you plenty of ‘sit down talks’ when he talks to you real slow like you’re stupid because you keep begging him to breed you. it seemed no amount of “sweetheart, i’on know how many times i have to say this to get it through that head, but you are too young for a baby. i—i gotta get my shit together first, alright? promised you as many babies as you want after i secure tannyhill did i not? i…i really need your patience… okay?” would stop you from bouncing on his cock with a feverish and determined look in your eye, or locking your legs around his waist when he’s about to nut— babbling tearfully as you beg “please daddy, please gimme a baby. please want — want your babies!”

you’re lucky he was so much stronger than you, often wrestling you down to straddle your face and aim his cock at your mouth before he blew his load, gritting out a spiteful “well you’re gonna have to fuckin’ swallow them ‘til the time comes. fuck.” through gritted teeth as you mewl miserably (but lap it up nonetheless)

you gave him trouble, but nothing he couldn’t handle. he wouldn’t trade his spoiled bunny girl for the world.

˚˖𓍢ִ🐰໋✧˚.🎀୨୧ ⋅˚₊

[luvaaikoo]

𝘣𝘧 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘶𝘱, nicholas alexander chavez

pairing - nicholas chavez & latina!reader (but anyone can read)

nicholas in his youtube era

ᥫ᭡

nicholas couldn't help but shake his head, a light smile growing on his face as his girlfriend pretended to kiss her camera lens.

"hi my loves," she started, sitting back down on her couch, "today im filming with my boyfriend nicholas."

nicholas shyly waved at the camera, his face graced with a grin. "i'm nick."

the girl sitting next to him smiled herself, bringing her hand up to softly rub the bottom of his chin. "and i'm letting him do my makeup."

he pretended to make a nervous face as he looked down at his girlfriend's coffee table. she had laid out every brush and every product that she owned (which was a lot) and it was kind of intimidating. the girl let out a small giggle, her brows furrowing slightly. "what?"

"you just got a lot of stuff goin' on here beba," he chuckled, picking up one of her beauty blenders and tossing it up in the air.

she caught it in her own hands before placing it back down on the table. "had to give you options," she turned to look at him with a dimply smile, "couldn't make it too easy for you."

nicholas rolled his eyes before reaching over to grab one of her black cloth headbands.

"you be wearing these in the morning," he chuckled, shifting his body to sit facing her. the girl nodded her head, allowing him to push her hair back with the headband, the tiniest baby hairs poking out onto her forehead. he'd watched her get ready one too many times, almost knowing her little routine by heart. he covered her face in her facial moisturizer and serum, then coated her lips with the medicated lip balm she used every morning and night.

he pulled his face back to look at her. her skin was so glassy and her plush lips were glossy. leaning forward he muttered, "pretty girl," before planting a soft baby kiss on her lips, not wanting to mess up any product.

rubbing her lips together as he pulled away, the girl looked up at him. "so what're you gonna do next?" she asked softly.

nicholas blew a puff of air out from his lips, looking at the products laid out on the table as he thought for a second.

"normally you use this one," he said, picking up a half empty bottle of estée lauder foundation. "right?" his girlfriend stood silent, knowing she wasn't supposed to give him any inclinations. instead, she just shrugged her shoulders slightly, making nicholas roll his eyes once again.

he leaned down to pick up a brush, one that was not for foundation at all. his girl cringed as he dumped the product onto her fluffiest powder brush, and he stopped abruptly. "whaattt?"

she scrunched her face up, "i can't say anythinggg."

nick chuckled boyishly, sighing while swiping the brush down her soft cheeks and across her nose, "you're killing me."

he continued onto a messy attempt at contouring before moving on to pick up her bronzer.

"you always say this is your favorite part so i gotta do it justice," he half smirked, scooting up to get closer to his girlfriend. almost comically, he brushed on the bronzer onto her forehead and cheeks with a slow, feather-like pressure.

"you don't gotta be careful baby," the girl said, "it's not gonna show if you barely press down."

"just don't wanna hurt you," he muttered jokingly, finishing up his application.

he poked her nose with a blush brush, leaving the tip of it a light shade of baby pink, and proceeded to spread blush across the apples of her cheeks. he thought she looked cute like that.

"pick one," he told her in a gentle tone, a small smile creeping onto his face. he motioned his head toward her collection of lip glosses, lip sticks, lip liners, and lip oils. reaching down, she grabbed hold of a soft pink lip gloss that was coconut scented.

"you like this one," she handed the gloss over to him.

nicholas gently grabbed hold of her chin, holding her steady as he applied it onto her. his gaze lingered low as his eyes focused on her lips. how plump her bottom lip pouted out. how soft they looked. how pretty they looked now that they were all shiny.

noticing this, she puckered her lips out a little, silently asking him for a kiss.

he obliged of course, planting a baby kiss onto her lips to not mess up her makeup.

"i did good?" he asked her in a quiet tone, again gripping her face softly. he guided her face with his hand, moving it around to look at it from all different types of angles to mess with her.

she nodded, a small laugh leaving her mouth. "yeah, i love it."

fin.

[thedemonofcat]

Geralt knows the marriage is necessary to ratify the treaty, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.

It’s not that he’s against marriage in general or has anything against his new husband—Julian seems lovely. And that’s the real issue isn’t it? This lovely man has been pressured into a marriage with a witcher. Even though Geralt was accepted as a warlord, people still considered witchers more beast than man.

His new husband is probably terrified or disgusted with him.

At the very least, Geralt knows the other man is nervous. He can smell it in his scent, hear it in his heartbeat.

When they enter the wedding suite, Geralt says, “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Pardon?”

“We don’t have to do anything. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Out of all possible reactions to his offer, Geralt hadn’t expected anger.

Julian seethes, saying, “Are you FUCKING kidding me?!? Do you know how fucking long it took to get into these clothes? How long it took them to paint my face? It takes HOURS to look this divine, and do I get any appreciation? No! The least you could do is tell me I’m pretty and fuck me like you mean it!”

Geralt blinked, completely stunned. He stared at Julian—no, Jaskier—as the man planted his hands on his hips and glared at him with enough fire to melt silver. For a long, awkward moment, Geralt could only process one thing: Jaskier did look divine.

His doublet, an elaborate creation in deep blue and gold hues, shimmered in the candlelight. His makeup—a touch of gold on his eyelids and the faintest hint of rouge on his cheeks—made him seem otherworldly, like some naughty fey prince. And his lips, painted the colour of ripe cherries, were currently pursed in absolute fury.

“You—” Geralt started, then faltered. His voice sounded rougher than he intended, so he cleared his throat. “You look—very nice?”

Jaskier groaned and threw his head back like a man the universe had deeply wronged. “Very nice? Very nice?! I didn’t spend all afternoon enduring the indignities of corsetry and the horrors of powder puff brushes to be called very nice.”

“I—uh—apologize?” Geralt mumbled

“Oh, don’t apologize, you big lummox!” Jaskier snapped, stepping closer and pointing an accusatory finger at Geralt’s chest. “I don’t want your apologies. I want your appreciation. I want you to look at me and see more than just the treaty we signed this morning. I want you to see me, the absolute vision of beauty that I am, and understand that I deserve at least a modicum of effort!”

Geralt blinked again, utterly lost. “I don’t… know what to say.”

Jaskier sighed dramatically and threw himself onto the edge of the bed, arms splayed wide. “Say, ‘Julian, you are the most enchanting creature I have ever seen in my long, miserable life.’ Say, ‘Julian, your beauty eclipses the stars.’ Say, ‘Julian, I would crawl through fire just to kiss your perfect lips.’ Is that so hard?”

[sweethoneyrose83]

Murder Drones Recipe Ideas

1. Nori-Byte Bites

Ingredients: Sushi rice, nori (seaweed), avocado, imitation crab, sesame seeds, soy sauce

Inspiration: These mini sushi bites are designed to resemble small, compact "bytes" of data or power packs that Murder Drones might consume. The nori wraps give them a dark, sleek look.

Presentation: Shape into perfect squares or cubes for a robotic, mechanical feel. Top with small sesame seeds to resemble tiny data points or circuits.

2. Blackout Burgers

Ingredients: Black brioche buns, beef patties (or plant-based patties), cheddar cheese, grilled onions, lettuce, tomato, spicy aioli

Inspiration: A sleek, dark burger to mimic the ominous atmosphere of the Murder Drones universe.

Presentation: Serve with a side of fries shaped into jagged "energy" strips, and top the burger with a glowing-red ketchup swirl or spicy sauce to resemble glowing drone eyes.

3. Nano-Wire Noodles

Ingredients: Squid ink pasta, garlic, olive oil, chili flakes, shrimp or tofu

Inspiration: These dark, tangled noodles resemble high-tech cables or wires, giving a mechanical yet sleek vibe.

Presentation: Plate in a swirling pattern, and garnish with red chili flakes to resemble scattered debris from drone battles.

4. Plasma Punch

Ingredients: Blue curaçao, lemonade, sparkling water, edible glitter

Inspiration: A futuristic, glowing blue drink to resemble the plasma energy drones might use to power themselves.

Presentation: Serve in a clear glass with glowing ice cubes (LED-embedded ice cubes for an extra cool effect) and a sprinkling of edible glitter to give it a radiant, tech-like shine.

5. Techno Tarts

Ingredients: Puff pastry, dark chocolate, red raspberry filling, powdered sugar

Inspiration: These tart-like pastries resemble hard, metallic exteriors with dark, sinister cores, perfect for a Murder Drone-themed treat.

Presentation: Cut the pastries into geometric shapes like triangles or hexagons, drizzling with raspberry sauce for a blood-like appearance. Dust lightly with powdered sugar to create a contrast between dark and light.

6. Circuit Board Cookies

Ingredients: Black cocoa sugar cookies, green royal icing, edible silver pearls

Inspiration: Decorate these cookies to resemble circuit boards or robotic components.

Presentation: Use a piping bag to create intricate green icing patterns mimicking circuits, adding silver pearls as connectors or "nodes" on the board.

7. "Oil and Gears" Spaghetti

Ingredients: Squid ink pasta (for that oily, dark look), ground beef or plant-based meat, black olives, and diced sun-dried tomatoes.

Instructions:

Cook squid ink pasta to give a "mechanical oil" effect.

Sauté ground beef or plant-based meat with garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, and olives for a savory, rich sauce.

Serve the pasta with the sauce and garnish with shaved parmesan resembling "metal shavings."

8. "Blood Battery" Smoothie

Ingredients: Mixed berries (strawberries, raspberries, blueberries), coconut milk, and chia seeds.

Instructions:

Blend berries and coconut milk into a deep red smoothie that looks like a "battery fluid" but tastes delicious.

Add chia seeds for texture, mimicking the look of tiny bits of circuitry.

9. "Broken Drone" Nachos

Ingredients: Black tortilla chips, queso, shredded chicken or beef, jalapeños, and avocado.

Instructions:

Scatter black tortilla chips on a baking sheet like "broken drone parts."

Layer with queso, shredded chicken, and jalapeños, and bake until melted and crispy.

Add chunks of avocado to represent the "core systems."

10. "Circuit Board" Pizza

Ingredients: Flatbread, pesto, mozzarella, black olives, cherry tomatoes, and basil.

Instructions:

Spread pesto on the flatbread as the "circuit board."

Arrange mozzarella slices to look like "wiring" and use olives and tomatoes as "buttons" or "nodes."

Bake until cheese is bubbly and garnish with basil leaves for extra "green circuits."

11. "Metallic Heart" Chocolate Truffles

Ingredients: Dark chocolate, heavy cream, and edible metallic luster dust.

Instructions:

Make classic chocolate truffles by melting dark chocolate and mixing with cream to form the ganache.

Shape into hearts and coat with edible metallic luster dust for a shiny, "robotic heart" look.

12. "Battery Acid" Lemonade

Ingredients: Lemon juice, blue curacao, club soda, and ice.

Instructions:

Mix lemon juice and blue curacao for a sour yet strikingly electric blue drink.

Add club soda for some fizz, and serve over ice in clear glasses to resemble "battery acid."

13. "Rust and Decay" Brownies

Ingredients: Dark chocolate brownie mix, cocoa powder, and red food coloring.

Instructions:

Bake brownies using dark chocolate mix.

Add red food coloring to some cocoa powder and sprinkle over the top of the cooled brownies to create the appearance of "rusty decay."

14. Drone Eye Cake Pops

Ingredients:

Cake mix (flavor of your choice)

White chocolate coating

Red candy melts

Candy eyes

Black gel icing

Instructions:

Bake the cake and crumble it into fine crumbs.

Mix the crumbs with frosting to form dough and shape into small balls.

Dip the cake balls in melted white chocolate and let them set.

Drizzle red candy melts to create a "bloody" effect and add candy eyes.

Use black gel icing to add details.

Inspiration: These represent the "eyes" of the drones, with the red candy melt resembling their bloodthirsty tendencies.

15. Oil Spill Ice Cream Sundae

Ingredients:

Chocolate ice cream

Oreo crumbs

Black syrup (chocolate or black food coloring)

Silver sprinkles

Instructions:

Scoop chocolate ice cream into bowls.

Top with crushed Oreo crumbs for a crunchy, "oil spill" effect.

Drizzle black syrup to make it look like spilled oil.

Sprinkle with silver sprinkles for a robotic touch.

Inspiration: A dark and delicious treat inspired by the idea of oil spills and machinery gone wrong in the Murder Drones universe.

16. Blood Orange Sparkling Punch

Ingredients:

4 cups of blood orange juice

1 cup cranberry juice

2 cups sparkling water

Fresh rosemary for garnish

Instructions:

Mix the blood orange juice and cranberry juice.

Add the sparkling water to give it a bubbly effect.

Garnish with fresh rosemary for an eerie, metallic touch.

Inspiration: The punch represents the "oil" or "fuel" that robots might run on, with the blood orange juice symbolizing the dark, ominous mood of the Murder Drones world.

[psychedelic-charm]

Murder Drones Recipe Ideas

1. Nori-Byte Bites

Ingredients: Sushi rice, nori (seaweed), avocado, imitation crab, sesame seeds, soy sauce

Inspiration: These mini sushi bites are designed to resemble small, compact "bytes" of data or power packs that Murder Drones might consume. The nori wraps give them a dark, sleek look.

Presentation: Shape into perfect squares or cubes for a robotic, mechanical feel. Top with small sesame seeds to resemble tiny data points or circuits.

2. Blackout Burgers

Ingredients: Black brioche buns, beef patties (or plant-based patties), cheddar cheese, grilled onions, lettuce, tomato, spicy aioli

Inspiration: A sleek, dark burger to mimic the ominous atmosphere of the Murder Drones universe.

Presentation: Serve with a side of fries shaped into jagged "energy" strips, and top the burger with a glowing-red ketchup swirl or spicy sauce to resemble glowing drone eyes.

3. Nano-Wire Noodles

Ingredients: Squid ink pasta, garlic, olive oil, chili flakes, shrimp or tofu

Inspiration: These dark, tangled noodles resemble high-tech cables or wires, giving a mechanical yet sleek vibe.

Presentation: Plate in a swirling pattern, and garnish with red chili flakes to resemble scattered debris from drone battles.

4. Plasma Punch

Ingredients: Blue curaçao, lemonade, sparkling water, edible glitter

Inspiration: A futuristic, glowing blue drink to resemble the plasma energy drones might use to power themselves.

Presentation: Serve in a clear glass with glowing ice cubes (LED-embedded ice cubes for an extra cool effect) and a sprinkling of edible glitter to give it a radiant, tech-like shine.

5. Techno Tarts

Ingredients: Puff pastry, dark chocolate, red raspberry filling, powdered sugar

Inspiration: These tart-like pastries resemble hard, metallic exteriors with dark, sinister cores, perfect for a Murder Drone-themed treat.

Presentation: Cut the pastries into geometric shapes like triangles or hexagons, drizzling with raspberry sauce for a blood-like appearance. Dust lightly with powdered sugar to create a contrast between dark and light.

6. Circuit Board Cookies

Ingredients: Black cocoa sugar cookies, green royal icing, edible silver pearls

Inspiration: Decorate these cookies to resemble circuit boards or robotic components.

Presentation: Use a piping bag to create intricate green icing patterns mimicking circuits, adding silver pearls as connectors or "nodes" on the board.

7. "Oil and Gears" Spaghetti

Ingredients: Squid ink pasta (for that oily, dark look), ground beef or plant-based meat, black olives, and diced sun-dried tomatoes.

Instructions:

Cook squid ink pasta to give a "mechanical oil" effect.

Sauté ground beef or plant-based meat with garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, and olives for a savory, rich sauce.

Serve the pasta with the sauce and garnish with shaved parmesan resembling "metal shavings."

8. "Blood Battery" Smoothie

Ingredients: Mixed berries (strawberries, raspberries, blueberries), coconut milk, and chia seeds.

Instructions:

Blend berries and coconut milk into a deep red smoothie that looks like a "battery fluid" but tastes delicious.

Add chia seeds for texture, mimicking the look of tiny bits of circuitry.

9. "Broken Drone" Nachos

Ingredients: Black tortilla chips, queso, shredded chicken or beef, jalapeños, and avocado.

Instructions:

Scatter black tortilla chips on a baking sheet like "broken drone parts."

Layer with queso, shredded chicken, and jalapeños, and bake until melted and crispy.

Add chunks of avocado to represent the "core systems."

10. "Circuit Board" Pizza

Ingredients: Flatbread, pesto, mozzarella, black olives, cherry tomatoes, and basil.

Instructions:

Spread pesto on the flatbread as the "circuit board."

Arrange mozzarella slices to look like "wiring" and use olives and tomatoes as "buttons" or "nodes."

Bake until cheese is bubbly and garnish with basil leaves for extra "green circuits."

11. "Metallic Heart" Chocolate Truffles

Ingredients: Dark chocolate, heavy cream, and edible metallic luster dust.

Instructions:

Make classic chocolate truffles by melting dark chocolate and mixing with cream to form the ganache.

Shape into hearts and coat with edible metallic luster dust for a shiny, "robotic heart" look.

12. "Battery Acid" Lemonade

Ingredients: Lemon juice, blue curacao, club soda, and ice.

Instructions:

Mix lemon juice and blue curacao for a sour yet strikingly electric blue drink.

Add club soda for some fizz, and serve over ice in clear glasses to resemble "battery acid."

13. "Rust and Decay" Brownies

Ingredients: Dark chocolate brownie mix, cocoa powder, and red food coloring.

Instructions:

Bake brownies using dark chocolate mix.

Add red food coloring to some cocoa powder and sprinkle over the top of the cooled brownies to create the appearance of "rusty decay."

14. Drone Eye Cake Pops

Ingredients:

Cake mix (flavor of your choice)

White chocolate coating

Red candy melts

Candy eyes

Black gel icing

Instructions:

Bake the cake and crumble it into fine crumbs.

Mix the crumbs with frosting to form dough and shape into small balls.

Dip the cake balls in melted white chocolate and let them set.

Drizzle red candy melts to create a "bloody" effect and add candy eyes.

Use black gel icing to add details.

Inspiration: These represent the "eyes" of the drones, with the red candy melt resembling their bloodthirsty tendencies.

15. Oil Spill Ice Cream Sundae

Ingredients:

Chocolate ice cream

Oreo crumbs

Black syrup (chocolate or black food coloring)

Silver sprinkles

Instructions:

Scoop chocolate ice cream into bowls.

Top with crushed Oreo crumbs for a crunchy, "oil spill" effect.

Drizzle black syrup to make it look like spilled oil.

Sprinkle with silver sprinkles for a robotic touch.

Inspiration: A dark and delicious treat inspired by the idea of oil spills and machinery gone wrong in the Murder Drones universe.

16. Blood Orange Sparkling Punch

Ingredients:

4 cups of blood orange juice

1 cup cranberry juice

2 cups sparkling water

Fresh rosemary for garnish

Instructions:

Mix the blood orange juice and cranberry juice.

Add the sparkling water to give it a bubbly effect.

Garnish with fresh rosemary for an eerie, metallic touch.

Inspiration: The punch represents the "oil" or "fuel" that robots might run on, with the blood orange juice symbolizing the dark, ominous mood of the Murder Drones world.

[ghouljams]

The Price of Fire (chapter 2) Rating: M Tags: John Price x f!OC(Lio/Witch), fae!Price, historic setting, magic, debts, witch oc, 3rd Person POV, slow burn, curses Summary: Something in the wind is drawing Lio to the forest, the man in the woods is still cursed it seems.

<-prev part

Master List

Yule comes and goes, the year wheel turns over. The moon is held low on the horizon, the sun’s rays reaching steadily out from behind the crest of the earth, chasing the moon off her watchful path. Lio walks through her garden with a short handled broom, and dust the fresh powder off her plants. She stops in front of her roses and crouches down, scooping snow off and pressing her gloved finger against the dried thorns. She hums thoughtfully before moving to the next plant. Certain herbs weather the winter well, but that doesn’t mean they’re always usable. She supposes there’s plenty in her dried stores, but if she can get them fresh, why wouldn’t she?

Something’s been tugging at Lio since the moon was high. She’s felt restless, on edge, her eyes darting over her shoulder to check that she hasn’t welcomed any unexpected spirits into her home. The chill in the air feels like the turn of a corner more than the turn of the year. It should be getting warmer, but the frost is as thick and white as it’s ever been. Parsley, oregano, rosemary, she plucks the withered green from beneath the snow as she counts her blessings. Lio pauses by one of the fence posts denoting the edge of her garden. A barrier between her and the forest’s residents. Dusting off the top reveals the heavy iron nail that’s been driven into the center. She checks it with careful fingers, her bare skin sticking to the bite of cold iron.

It hasn’t rusted yet, that’s good. She’ll want to replace it before spring though, which means a trip into town to see the blacksmith. Lio glances towards the forest, somehow the dark trees feel less foreboding than the thought of town. At least she knows the danger that lurks in the forest. The fae, at least, have rules that they must abide by. Humans are unpredictable. The people in town are kind enough, but their stares follow her even to her dreams. Of course they’re happy to seek her out when something ails them, but when she raises a hand in greeting around common folk they all turn away. They used to be kinder. Perhaps winter is chilling more than just fingers this year.

Another check over her bundle of herbs, counting stems and leaves as she walks back towards her door. Her fingers are having trouble circling the greenery, and there are spots of ice on some of the leaves, but it should work. She’ll get started on some fire charms, then she’ll have something to trade for the nails. Her eyes dart to the forest as she hurries inside, dart out the window as she works sawdust into sap, mix herbs and wax, shaping her charm into a brick that can be broken into pieces. She places the bricks to dry beside the fire, coaxing the element to hold itself in the runes she’d pressed to the surface. Another glance out the window. 

It’s so dark even as the sun rises. She doesn't like it. This feeling of missing something gnaws at her. An unseen threat perhaps, but even when she brushes the veil from her eyes she can’t find what she's supposed to be looking at.

The sun is high in the sky when Lio finally ventures out to the forest’s edge. She tugs her glove from her left hand with her teeth, and fishes a weight from her pocket. A brightly polished pendulum on a thin chain sits warm in her palm, her own magic wrapping itself around the tool. She slips her middle finger into the ring on the opposite end and holds her hand out to the darkness. With a single quick motion Lio flips her hand over and lets the weight drop towards the ground only to be caught by its chain. The pendulum rests perfectly still beneath her palm. Waiting. The same as she is.

The air is crisp and dead, her breath puffs in front of her as she stares at the space between trees. It feels right, she’s been drawn to the edge by this imagined pull, but no closer. The weighted pendant begins its path, swinging in small circles, a hunting dog sniffing for the rabbit’s trail. The ring on her finger moves with it, accommodating the changing weight until the pendulum stops dead, the chain shivering with the tension, like something grabbed it to hold taught. 

Lio tips her head to study it, and glances where it directs. There’s a twisting in the trees, a path changing shape to whatever is walking it. The forest parts, and pulls itself back like curtains, revealing a tall horned figure. With a flick of her wrist the pendulum is pulled back up into her waiting palm, and deposited back into her pocket.

“Price,” She smiles, tugging her glove back on, “I was just about to put the kettle on.”

The darkness seems to fall away for him. He holds a tobacco stick between his fingers, the air around him thick with smoke. That must have been what was obscuring her sight. Wonder when he picked up the habit. It suits him, in a strange way. She can smell something resinous and warm underneath the smoke that curls like fingers around him. It must help take the edge off his curse. Which means it must not have been solved by the salts she sent along last time. Something stronger this time then.

Lio turns back towards her cottage, assured that Price will follow. If only because he must. 

There’s a soft crunch of snow behind her, and the gentle wafting of his smoke curling through her hair. The magic of it is interesting, building up and off of Price’s own magic as it cards through her curls, attempting to twist itself in between strands of hair. That campfire smell is gone, replaced by the tobacco and resin that sloughs off the stick between his fingers. She almost misses the natural smoke of burning wood. The comfort of a fire has been replaced by a more focused smoke that lights up against her wards warningly. She holds the door for him, eager to get this done with so her wards stop itching at her. 

It’s best to talk business over tea though. Hospitality is important when dealing with the fae, and Lio can’t think of a worse fae to get on the bad side of. Not that she knows many, but there’s something about Price, a confidence that betrays power rather than a lack of it. He carries himself like he’s owed nothing less than everything he can pull a debt for. Best to keep the debt he thinks she owes him small. 

With a huff of effort Lio settles the heavy kettle over her fire and goes about making tea, her mind already whirling with potential cures. 

If the sachet only gave Price a few spare weeks of warmth then it must not have been reaching deep enough. The method of delivery must have been wrong. If it went a more internal route, then perhaps it would stand a better chance of tackling the problem at its source. She’d thought warming the whole body would do, but something more focused on the heart might do the job better.

“You’re quiet,” Lio mumbles, glancing over her shoulder at the man in her house. Just because she's thinking doesn’t mean she can neglect her conversational duties.

Price smiles, a tight lipped thing that barely reaches his eyes. There’s something charming in the grimness of it. He’s in the same chair he took last time. A creature of habit. She stores the information away, and finds herself smiling back.

“Waiting on the tea.” Price offers. 

Lio works the smile off her face. The fire is warm when she extends her hand towards it, stripping her glove off a second time to take some of the heat her hearth offers. She’ll give it to Price with the cup, lift some of the ice off his chest.

“You’ll want something strong I suppose.”

“Strongest you’ve got.”

“Oh no,” She laughs, “No, I don’t think that’s necessary.” 

She’ll give him something stronger, but the strongest she’s got? There’s no way his case is that severe. Besides, it’s still hard to know how fae magic will react to her own. It always feels so much different, more wild, than the magic Lio learned from her mother. Untrained, fluid, it exists within emotion rather than empirical laws. It feels like trying to hold a waterfall in her fist because she’s always been able to grip fabric like that. 

Lio’s magic is made by her, but for the fae? Magic that creates the creature, rather than a creature creating magic? It’s completely alien, like treating another species. Which, she supposes is true. It isn’t like the fair folk are eager to seek out witches to help her learn. Her experience with the fae is limited to this singular data point. She's flying blind, trying to rely on tricks that have taken her this far without actually knowing what will work.

A tonic might do the trick. Something to warm him from the inside, easily digested and stronger than a bath. If the salts were meant to work over a longer period the tonic would have to work in a single swallow. She closes her fingers around the warmth of the fire, feeling it sink into the bones of her hand. Warm the heart in one go, maybe two, that was the ticket. She’d keep an eye on Price to be sure it didn’t burn through his blood too quickly, but then she could send him on his way, and hope he never bothered her again.

“How are you with alcohol?” Lio asks. She casts a glance over her shoulder, watching Price spread his legs wide, his hips shifting on the chair as he leans back. The gentle motion, a single rock of his hips towards the sky as he makes himself comfortable, makes her cheeks warm. No, that must be the fire, the magical warmth now circling through her blood. 

“What kind?”

“The unpalatable kind.” 

Price hums, and somehow she can feel the smile behind it. Lio can feel his eyes on her, the way they trace over her face with something like amusement. She wonders if he can tell her inexperience just through observation or if she's hiding it well. Her magic swirls in the air, weighed down by the smoke he exhales and the smile on his lips. 

“A tonic might do the trick,” She reasons aloud for him, “something internal.” Another hum from Price. Agreement maybe. “I’ll start on it after the tea is poured.”

“You’re the witch.”

Agreement then. She nods. Her mind already pulls herbs from the shelves, sorting through properties and combinations as the kettle boils. She has to wave off the dried bundles that attempt to float closer as she thinks, tugging at their holds on the rafters and rattling their stems in annoyance. She focuses her mind on the tea leaves that seem to hesitate near the back, and coaxes the poor scared jar forward to tip its contents into the cups that drift from her cupboard. The dried leaves settle politely at the bottom and wait for their blanket of honey. Lio doesn’t have the heart to tell them it’s out of season. 

Lio pulls the boiling water off the fire and carefully pours it into the prepared cups. It takes minutes for the water to turn, the warmth soaking color and fragrance from the leaves at the bottom, but she doesn’t wait that long. The cups are taken over to her sitting area and she's careful to skim her fingers against Price’s as she hands him his cup, pushing warmth into his skin. 

His eyes close as it flows through him, the chill of his skin giving way to something closer to lukewarm. She smiles when he opens them again, and turns with her own cup to start her work.

The witch stretches to pull herbs from where they hang on the ceiling beams, plucking leaves before going to the jars that line her kitchen shelves. She pulls flowers from the jars, inspecting each petal as she carefully pulls them from their center. She measures out her ingredients on a brass scale, pinching more or less from each side with a sort of arbitrary measurement that Price can’t follow. Then a pour of red liquid, sparkling like rubies, into a jar and roots dropped in to soak.

She's sort of… pretty, Price thinks. Her eyes shine when she works, clear, and unencumbered by the usual veil that clouds human sight. Brown, with green cutting through the side of one iris like the first stalk of daffodil after the winter snow melts. Old enough to have more to worry about than tending to strangers, but there’s no sign of a husband, no pitter patter of children. A witch alone at the edge of the forest.

He wonders if anyone else has noticed, if any of the men in the nearby village have been too corrupted by the church’s new thinking to notice the pretty spark of fire that lives less than a day’s travel from them. What was it he’d read in that idiotic book? “Inclining the minds of men to inordinate passion?”

His eyes trace over the curve of her waist, the gentle rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the tuck of her fingers as she twists her copper hair up. Pretty, but he wouldn’t call it enough to inspire “inordinate passion.”

Price shakes his head, watches the fire instead. Witches are good for one thing: power. There’s no need to look at them too long. Still, this witch paid him a kindness. One he can still feel the warmth of tingling in the tips of his fingers. A witch that takes the edge off his curse with as little as a fire and some tea, and a small brush of her fingers against his is one to watch for sure. 

No, he chastises his own hunger. His eyes stray to watch the expansion of her ribs, his ears strain to hear the patter of her heart. It’s easy magic, a spark, a transference, nothing more.

The more annoying part is what such a thing means between you. This debt is starting to outpace the agreed upon favor. Price can feel the weight of it, the seesaw of power turning over. He wonders if the witch can feel it too, if her kindness holds barbs meant to trap him. What favors could she call on if the balance of power tipped too greatly in her favor? He doesn’t know her well enough to predict her wants. He hopes he doesn’t have to, humans are so fickle with their desires, but does he want to?

She’d sounded sure of herself, more sure than with the salts. It’s enough to assure him. But enough to keep him in debt?

She hums to herself as she grinds herbs in a stone mortar. The sound is soft, but it fills the house. Price rests his head against his fist, pulling heat from the steaming teacup. He’s not sure. There is something interesting about her. For a human to have so much raw potential is rare, rarer still to see them cultivate it. He almost feels bad wondering how she’s managed to avoid being eaten this long. Just the thought of having her power makes his mouth water. He’s sure she’d be sweet on his tongue, as soft on the palate as the brush of her fingers had been.

His teeth itch to sink into her skin, to feel the salt of her sweat on his tongue. He has to remind himself she's more useful alive. After all, a witch is better suited to removing curses than any faerie. Especially when they’re the ones that cursed him.

Hearts are only as good as the witch he’s pulling them from, and humans have always been too keen to sacrifice themselves for the group. 

He can still remember the bite of tainted blood constricting his throat.

Lio presses her hand tight against the top of the bottle she’d been brewing her tincture in. She holds the top as she swirls the contents, mixing the finely ground herbs and resins as her magic pours in an extra dose of warmth from her palm. The seal is air tight, letting her tip the bottle upside-down to inspect its contents. The whirlpool that churns the mix, finding itself unable to drain through her skin, grows hot in anger. The alcohol flashes a bright red before the ingredients swirling within it ignite with liquid smoke and cool it down to a bloody crimson.

She's quite proud of this one. Tipping her hand over to let it flow thickly back to the bottom of the bottle. Lio turns from her work to let Price know his cure is finished, and finds him staring. The blue of his eyes grown dark, like staring down into the depths of a lake whose ice is starting to crack. There’s a heat, a hatred, there that burns through her like fear. It catches in her throat and holds her where she stands. 

He blinks, shakes his head, and when his eyes open again it’s gone. The same ice blue his eyes always seem to be, unshakeable in their chill, takes the warming lake’s place. 

She brushes it off. 

She has to.

Her steps grow more confident as she approaches him, she even smiles when holding the bottle out to him. Silently, Lio notes the dusting of dark hair over his knuckles as he wraps his fingers around the offered bottle, and feels the pop of the seal against her skin coming loose as he pulls the potion towards him. There isn’t a thought to the way his eyes linger when she raises her palm to her lips, her tongue darting out to clean the wetness from her skin. Price’s eyes go to his own work as he raises the bottle to his mouth, sampling her work just the same.

Supervision is essential here. Lio watches carefully as he tips the bottle up and tips his head back, draining the concoction easily. The bob of his Adam’s apple feels proof positive that at least he’s actually swallowing all of it. That and the sweeping flush of red through his veins, a throb of conflicting magic that makes his shoulders tense, his teeth barred as he leans forward and clenches his fingers around the glass bottle. His eyes are ringed with gold circles, wild magic that spins around and around his iris as his body adjusts to the foreign magic.

She wonders if it hurts, wonders if she should hope it does. Surely any good person should hope it hurts a man like him, someone that lives on what he can take from others, but she doesn’t.

Lio holds his face instead. Watches the bulge of his veins, the shaking of his hands, feels the curl of smoke on each hissed exhale that he gives her. The gold spins faster, leaching into the blue, brightening it like lightning flashes. He holds her stare like a lifeline.

Both of them waiting to see if she’ll kill him.

She holds him like that until the golden circles stop spinning, until his eyes drop closed with relief, and the smoke he exhales heavily ripe with the tannins of damp wood. She's as relieved as he is, and makes a mental note to add this experiment to her grimoire before sending him on his way.

“It’ll stick this time.” Lio assures him, pressing her palm to his chest. She can feel the pump of blood unimpeded by frost. Even his skin is warmer, tinged pink from the fire flowing through his veins.

“If it doesn’t,” He smiles, “I know where to find you.”

She hopes it doesn’t come to that. Her own confidence must be bolstered by this little experiment, because she waves off his words with a smile. She won’t be seeing him again, she's sure of it.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t lock her door behind him.

Lio tugs the leather bound grimoire from its spot on her shelf, thumb through the pages to find a blank one and record the ingredients she’d used. Part inventory, part recipe book, part experiment log. She sketches out the bottle, the herbs used, and makes a note at the bottom. A witch must always be an empiricist at heart, and who knows maybe there are other fae running into the same curse hers is.

Even if there aren’t, she supposes it’s useful information to have.

Like blood transfusions, it seems magic must be of a similar ilk to stop rejection, though fae seem to have a greater tolerance for magical contamination. Their bodies must be able to process it faster, or at least are able to balance for the foreign magic.

Or, perhaps cross magical contamination isn’t as deadly as I first thought.

divider by @/saradika

[justiceforanders]

A Recipe for Disaster

Part of the "Wings and Blades" Lucanis x Rook Stories

Pairing: Lucanis x Rook (she/her)

Rating: G

Words: 1.3k

Available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61026115

Summary: Lucanis attempts to teach Rook how to bake the hazelnut torte. "Attempts" is the keyword.

A Recipe for Disaster is a story written for @meowzilla93, as part of my "Wings and Blades" series exploring the romance between Lucanis and different Rooks.

The Lighthouse kitchen was a wreck. Flour dusted every surface like a fresh snowfall, and smudges of apricot preserves streaked the wooden table. The sink overflowed with bowls, spatulas, and one forlorn whisk leaned precariously over the edge. It was a battlefield of culinary chaos, and at the center stood Delphine de Riva, cheeks dusted with flour, triumphantly holding a mixing bowl in one hand and her dagger in the other.

“Do not move,” she declared, pointing the dagger at Lucanis Dellamorte, who was crouched behind the dining table, clutching a half-empty bag of sugar like it was his most prized possession.

Lucanis peered over the counter, his brown eyes crinkling with amusement. A streak of batter clung to his moustache. “Rook, if I recall correctly, I’m not the one who started this war.”

“You threw the flour first!” Del accused, though the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her delight.

“You were aiming for my head with the eggs. What was I supposed to do?” He stood and sat on the edge of the table, feigning innocence, the sugar still firmly in his grasp.

Del planted the bowl down with a flourish, sending a puff of flour into the air. She sheathed her dagger with casual precision and crossed her arms. “If you wanted me to take you seriously, you wouldn’t have that batter moustache.”

Lucanis wiped at his face, smearing the batter further before realizing his mistake. He gave her a mock glare, and she burst into laughter so loud it filled the entire kitchen. Lucanis’ eyes softened immediately at the sound, his fondness for the other Crow clear as day.

“Fine,” Lucanis sighed dramatically, setting the sugar down. He stepped around the mess toward Del, his boots crunching against what might have been eggshells at some point. “You’ve won,” he added, a small smile on his lips. “Do your worst.”

Del tilted her head, pretending to ponder, her short grey bob bouncing with the movement. “Oh, I’ll do my worst,” she said, reaching for the chocolate icing she’d been attempting to make for the dessert. Before Lucanis could react, she swiped a generous dollop of it onto her fingers and smudged it across his cheek.

Lucanis froze, blinking. Then, slowly, a wicked grin spread across his face. “Oh, amor. You shouldn’t have done that.”

The next few seconds were a blur. Lucanis lunged for the frosting, and Del ducked under his arm with the grace of an assassin, darting to the other side of the table. She grabbed the bag of flour, brandishing it like a weapon.

“One step closer and I’ll…”

She never finished the threat.

Lucanis, faster than she expected, grabbed a handful of frosting and leaped across the table to smear it across her arm.

Del gasped in mock outrage, then hurled the bag of flour at him. It burst open mid-throw, raining down on them like a cloud. When the dust settled, they were both covered in white, their hair powdered, their dark clothes barely visible.

Lucanis coughed, shaking his head like a wet mabari. “You are impossible,” he said, his voice laced with laughter.

“And you’re terrible at dodging. You sure you can handle being the First Talon?” Del shot back with a giggle, wiping her face with the back of her hand, though it only smeared the mess further, mixing with her heavy makeup.

For a moment, they stood there, catching their breath amidst the wreckage of their baking attempt. Del leaned back against the table, blue eyes shining with mirth as she looked at Lucanis. His frame, now thoroughly dusted in flour, still carried that undeniable charm. Even covered in icing and chaos, he managed to look like he belonged on a recruitment poster for the Crows.

“What are we even making?” Del asked finally, gesturing to the disaster around them.

“You wanted to learn how to make the hazelnut torte, no?” Lucanis replied, straightening up and attempting to brush off some of the flour. “At least, that’s what it was supposed to be before you declared war on your First Talon.”

Del snorted, reaching for a damp cloth to wipe her hands. “You started it when you wouldn’t let me mix the batter.”

“You were eating half of it!” he countered, though there was no heat in his words.

“And you weren’t?” she shot back, raising an eyebrow.

Lucanis didn’t deny it. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “Alright, Rook. Let’s finish this before the others come in and decide we’re unfit to use the kitchen ever again. We can’t have Harding taking over our kitchen rotations. Truce?”

Del gave him a mock suspicious look but finally nodded. “Truce. But if you throw anything else at me, I swear I’ll…”

“Relax, Rook.” He reached past her, grabbing a clean bowl. Their hands brushed, and for a brief moment, the playful energy between them shifted. Del’s heart skipped a beat as Lucanis’ fingers lingered just a second too long against hers.

Clearing her throat, she stepped back. “Right. Let’s bake this... Whatever this mess is.”

They worked together, surprisingly well despite the mess. Del handled the frosting while Lucanis focused on finishing the batter. Their banter continued, light and easy, though every so often their eyes met, and the horrors of the world outside the Lighthouse seemed to fade.

Finally, the torte was assembled, though it looked nothing like the one Lucanis had made for Del when they’d decided to give this whole dating thing a try. Still… It was better than anything Del could’ve made on her own.

She slid it onto a plate with a flourish. “Not bad for two assassins who’ve probably spent more time stabbing people than baking.”

Lucanis chuckled, pouring two cups of black coffee and setting them on the table. “Not bad at all. Though, I think you might have used salt instead of sugar for the cake.”

Del’s eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

He smirked. “Only one way to find out.”

She took a tentative bite. Immediately, her nose scrunched. “It’s definitely salt.”

Lucanis burst into laughter, and despite herself, Del joined in, the sound echoing through the messy kitchen.

As they sat at the table sipping their coffee, the torte abandoned, Lucanis glanced at Del, his expression softening. In the dim firelight of the kitchen, surrounded by the chaos they had created, she looked like a masterpiece.

“You know,” he said, his voice quiet, “I think I’ll remember this disaster more fondly than any flawless mission we’ve ever pulled off.”

Del looked up, startled by the tenderness in his tone. Her blue eyes searched his face for a moment before a soft smile curved her lips. “Careful, Lucanis. If you keep saying things like that, I might think you enjoy my company.”

“I do,” he replied simply, the sincerity in his voice making her heart stumble.

Del blinked, her smile growing a little wider. “Well, you’re alright too,” she teased, though the warmth in her tone betrayed her affection. She nudged the abandoned torte in the center of the table with a finger. “Even if you’re a terrible teacher.”

Lucanis chuckled, reaching out to place his hand over hers. “And you, Rook, are a terrible student.” His fingers squeezed hers gently. “But I wouldn’t trade this mess for anything.”

Del glanced at their joined hands, warmth creeping into her cheeks. The playfulness of their earlier battle still lingered in the air, but now it was underpinned with something softer – something unspoken but deeply felt. She tilted her head and quirked a brow. “Not even for a proper hazelnut torte?”

“Not even for that,” Lucanis said, leaning back in his chair with an easy grin.

[morethansalad]

Savory Pumpkin Tart (Vegan)

[xyfanficarchive]

self ship fic that is way too long. jimmy picks a fight with my dad.

It didn’t take much convincing to get Jim to leave, when I finally broke and asked.

Dad could be a real asshole. Jimmy, too, could be a real asshole. Put two assholes together, and what do you get? Two ways about it; either they get on like a house on fire, or like a match to gasoline. They were different flavours of asshole, so this was the latter. Jimmy was the spark inching ever closer to my dad’s powder keg temper.

I didn’t even want to come over. I hadn’t even told my parents about my relationship. I didn’t talk to them except for when it was completely necessary. But we ran into them, it wasn’t even a special outing or a date or anything, caught completely fucking unaware at the fucking grocery store and, oh how they insisted we come for dinner that very evening. Their scrutiny crawling over us, over him like a worm. I knew exactly what it looked like; some aging creepy piece of shit 13 years my senior, unshaven and stinking of cigarettes, had his filthy paws on their precious fresh-faced beautiful young daughter. Maybe it was even true.

But I could never just say no to them. No. The famed complete sentence. No. No! En. Oh. I tried to slip out of their grasp, giving excuses, encouraging them to loosen their vice grip without ever daring to defy them so with that two letter word. But I could see it in Jimmy’s face, a glint in his eye that filled me with dread; my dad’s interrogation lamp gaze was a challenge to his ego.

Serpent smile, he opened his stupid mouth. “We’re free tonight. I would love to come for dinner. I’ve been dying to meet you two, I’ve heard so much about you.” Dripping venomous emphasis off the last words, sweet in the way antifreeze was sweet, or lead. Deadly. My parents were to drink it, but I was the one who would be poisoned.

Bastard!!! BASTARD MOTHERFUCKER!!! BASTARD PIECE OF SHIT MOTHERFUCKER!!!!

“Don’t sweat it, dollface,” he said in the car after I had asked him what the fuck he was thinking, lighting the cigarette between his teeth. “I wanna see this show in action. Anyways, you were the one who told me that they only let loose on you when there’s no witnesses around, right? So they should be on their best behaviour.”

“Yeah, but you’re not a stranger or a family friend who’s gonna see what’s really behind their facade of being good parents and threaten their image. They don’t respect you like that. You’re the wolf preying on their precious little lamb. You’ve just put yourself on the hot seat… And I’m gonna get burned.”

“I’ve been on the hot seat my whole life. I can handle it. I won’t let you get burned, I promise,” he exhaled a puff of smoke and leaned over to me in the passenger seat, planting a wet tobacco-smelling kiss on my cheek. I turned to him. “Trust me? That guy looked at me like I was shit on the bottom of his shoe, but I bet I can get him to like me, then he’ll feel like a fucking idiot for passing judgement so fast. We can find some common ground. You said he was only 42, right? He’s only six years older than me, we’re practically the same age at this point in life.”

He was grinning, but I grimaced. “Do you even know how much worse that makes it?”

And when, sitting at that dinner table, my dad proved to be quite hardened in his preconceptions, Jimmy all but abandoned his goal of getting my dad to like him, but not his goal of making him feel stupid. Now, it was a battle of wits, two men who were equally absorbed with themselves and their image, Jimmy playing shit disturber against my dad’s steely father-with-a-shotgun stay-away-from-my-daughter mask. (It was always embarrassing. I knew how much of a shit disturbing clown he was himself, beneath it all.)

Forget cutting the tension with a knife. The tension was so thick you could drown in it, struggling sluggishly as the tension displaced the air in your lungs. But part of me felt vindicated hearing Jimmy duke it out with my dad, who had always left me tongue tied, twisted around, frozen, silent. There was nothing he could say to Jim that Jim didn’t have some kind of response or retort to.

I didn’t remember most of it. In listening so intently, so ready to jump in and defuse the situation, I didn’t really hear any words at all. Until I heard the dangerous low edge in my dad’s tone, zipped back into reality with frightening clarity from where I was staring at my empty plate. Looked between my mom, my dad, and Jimmy beside me, back to my dad, where he was in a staring contest with my boyfriend, rage burning behind his eyes. The kind of rage where he threatened to kill someone, and he never escalated it that far, but I wouldn’t put it past Jimmy to provoke him to throwing fists, and trying to murder him in earnest.

I tugged at the sleeve of Jimmy’s shirt (the nicest he had, which still wasn’t particularly nice,) though he didn’t break eye contact with my dad. “Jim… I think it’s time we left…” I said, low and hushed. He was the first to break away, he turned to me and his eyes softened ever so slightly.

“You know, sweetheart, I think you’re right,” he said, and stood up, I followed a little too eagerly and rattled the table with my thighs.

“Yeah, you better get this stale cigarette smelling fuckin’ bum out of my house,” my mom chimed in. I still flinched, though the insult wasn’t directed at me.

“It was lovely to meet you, too,” Jimmy retorted coldly, and I clung to his arm as we retreated to the door.

I laced my boots up fast and loose in the doorway, and turned to find Jimmy already had his jacket and shoes on, a cigarette preemptively dangling from his lips, and to my surprise, he was holding my jacket out by the shoulders like a gentleman, awaiting me to slip my arms in so we could go. He had never done that before. We opened the door to a frigid, snowy, dark night.

“I had better not ever fucking see you again,” said my dad, looming in the doorway as I made my way down the steps.

“Don’t worry. I’m in no rush to come back anytime soon,” Jimmy retorted, casually as ever, and lit his cigarette.

“I mean it. Worthless fuckin’ junky criminal looking loser.”

Jimmy turned back to challenge him further even as I protested. “For the record, I’m eight years clean, and I’ve been straight and narrow since I got out of prison four years ago,” he was glib, relishing the way he disturbed and angered my dad with his honesty, knowing full well that he hadn’t known anything about his past before slinging that insult.

“Come on, Jimmy-”

My dad advanced out the door, slip on sneakers contrasting with his slacks and dress shirt.

“You have no fucking business being anywhere near my daughter, do you understand, you piece of shit? You fucking predator, fucking around with girls almost 15 years younger than you. You’re worthless. You’re fucking scum,” he spat.

Jimmy’s eyebrows twisted up a pain-filled expression, he clutched at his chest, putting on a show. “I’m so wounded,” he broke up into false laughter, then fell flat. “Maybe try an insult that I haven’t heard since I was six years old.” He took a long drag off his smoke. I climbed back up the steps, tugged at his sleeve again.

“Fucking stop, Jim-”

My dad opened his mouth to speak, but Jimmy cut him off right after his inhale: “And anyways, your daughter pursued me. She chased me.” He jabbed his finger back at me for emphasis, took another drag, and I flushed with embarrassment. “So riddle me this, Daddy,” his eyes narrowed, “you were supposed to be the one who showed her how love is supposed to look, weren’t you? So if you were her model for how men are supposed to love, and she was the one who wanted me, the piece of shit scumbag,” Jimmy tilted his head, laying the patronization on thick, “then what exactly does that say about you?”

I was shocked. Looking at him in slack jawed awe, and then to my dad, blazing white hot with fury for a beat before he reeled his fist back and threw a punch with full force, and I shrieked in abject terror heart racing like it was struggling to break out from behind my sternum. But Jimmy was fast, swung out of the way with ease, his cigarette flying and landing somewhere in the snow as he raised his fists in defence. I scrambled back down the stairs as they arced around each other, as my mom appeared in the doorway, shouting my dad’s name: “That’s enough!!”

“Jim, Jesus Christ, let’s just fucking go!” I pleaded from below as my mom moved to stop my dad.

“That’s enough! I mean it, right now! I can’t have you going to fucking prison, too!”

“I’ll fucking go to prison, I don’t give a fuck!”

But there was a break in the tension, in their posture, and Jimmy grabbed hold of the opportunity to follow me down the stairs. I turned to leave while he was still approaching, hurrying up the walkway to the streets, and he caught up, arm around my shoulder to usher me hastily to the car.

“Don’t ever show your fucking face here again! I’ll punch your fucking lights out! I’ll fucking kill you, do you hear me?! You’re lucky I didn’t bash your fucking skull in!” I heard my dad call out from the landing, as Jimmy unlocked the car, as I opened the door and slipped inside. Now in the car’s protective shell, I broke out sobbing, fastening my seatbelt before I put my head in my hands, feeling the car start, feeling Jimmy pull out of the street parking in a rush, cursing. And we were on our way. And I kept crying.

“Hey, stop that… Stop it, okay?” He said after some time, and I knew there was an attempt at softness and comfort in his voice. But all I could see was my dad’s face, the madness and blind fury, the motion of his punch, all I could hear was his voice screaming “I’ll fucking kill you, do you hear me?!” and I wept uncontrollably into my palms.

“Aw, shit…” He muttered beside me, and said nothing more, turned the radio on low volume and kept driving.

It was only a short while until we stopped. I looked up through teary eyes and smudged makeup, still weeping, to find we were in an empty parking lot blanketed with white.

“Hey…” Jimmy said, and I turned my head thinking ‘why?’ as the tears kept coming. Why do all of that? I knew this whole affair was a terrible idea from the beginning. “Shit,” he said, shifted into park, opened the door and got out. He crossed over around the front to the passenger side, and opened my door, a flood of cold air engulfing me. “C’mon,” he said, and held out his hand. “Come here,” he compelled, gesturing for me to take his hand, and I unbuckled, getting out slowly and weakly.

He pulled me into his arms, held me close, tight to him. He was warm, and I was engulfed in his smell. The pressure of his arms crushing me into his body was a beautiful relief. I wrapped my arms around him, clutching him tight, buried my face into the warmth underneath the open edge of his jacket, and cried more, shoulders heaving with every whine and gasp.

My dad’s anger terrified me. But for a moment, I was also terrified that he would kill Jimmy, kill him for real, threats I had heard only on petrifying occasion through my childhood made reality at last, and I would have to watch, powerless to stop it.

But now I was safe, and he was safe. It was silent. The echoes in my head escaped slowly, and died muted against the snow as Jimmy shushed me above my head, as I heard his steady breath in his chest. My cries calmed as he reassured me: “He’s no good, y’know? He’s no good…”